Briefly, Vango closed his eyes, then opened them again. His gaze came to rest on the mysterious white plane. And there, beneath the machine, huddled up against the wheel, he saw someone.
He saw her, but his mind refused to recognize her.
And yet Ethel was staring at him with those piercing green eyes of hers.
The man with the submachine gun had one ear cocked. He was hoping to hear the lieutenant’s car approaching. His arms were growing weary under the weight of the weapon. He had never asked to be here, a thousand kilometers from home, wearing this uniform or wielding this piece of metal. Back in his hometown, he was a tailor. And yet he knew that he would open fire at the slightest movement. He would become the man who had killed the Englishman. Perhaps he would be granted leave before Easter.
Ethel let the terror inside her slowly subside. Before going to untie one of the horses from under the trees, she had entered the barn to check on her plane. She’d had no idea that by poking her head through the planks, she was crossing a holy line. Vango had been dead for six years, and yet here he was, sitting in the straw in front of her. Vango was dead, but his arms were around his knees. By poking her head into the hole in this boarding, she had found life again. And so she had crawled as far as the plane, where he had seen her, in turn.
In what amounted to barely a few seconds, a turbulent wave flowed between them: a surge of life, fears, memories, navigating a narrow path. It was as if they were part of the human tide that had formed the exodus in June 1940, along the main roads heading out of Paris, when the Germans came. But all this happened without a sound, without a cry, without a Klaxon blast, as if in a silent movie.
Being face-to-face turned Vango’s heart inside out. His life was right there watching him; his life was crouched down under the white wing of an airplane. Here was his true desire. Ethel had knocked at the door, on the eighth of August 1929, when she had walked into the kitchen of the Graf Zeppelin in the New York skies. Now, years later, he was finally opening that door for her. Ethel was also seized by a powerful energy. She could sense Vango’s world being turned upside down.
The soldier stood up. A car! He had just heard a car. As he lowered his weapon, he was struck by a log at the base of his neck. He collapsed.
The assailant was Ethel. The log rolled on the ground. The rumbling of the cars was drawing nearer.
Vango rushed toward Ethel but she had already jumped onto the horse. She pulled a knife out of her belt, cut the rope tethering the horse to the propeller, and held out her hand to Vango, who climbed up behind her. They left on horseback through the gap in the wall where the planks had been ripped out.
The car was armor plated and mounted with a machine gun that fired ammunition belts of fifty bullets. Three other cars followed. The first burst was intended for the horse, but it set the barn on fire. Shrieks of horror could be heard from old Labache, who had jumped out of one of the vehicles.
“My barn!”
Ethel was galloping toward the woods with Vango, his arms around her waist and his forehead pressed into the back of her neck. He could feel the drenched warmth of her body.
Fresh shots rang out. Thick hedges of brambles forced the cars to swerve. As for the horse, it was making straight for the rest of the herd, which was whinnying.
When they reached the forest edge, Vango mounted a second horse. Ethel had cut its rope, and she freed all the others with one chop of her knife. The soldiers were firing at random. The liberated horses reared up before veering joyously in all directions. They would never see the butcher’s hook.
Ethel glanced back toward the blazing roof of the barn in the distance, caving in over her plane. It was for the best. As the smoke rose upward toward the firmament, she was safe in the knowledge that her parents’ plane wouldn’t become enemy property. Her gaze met Vango’s, and an inexplicable feeling of joy seized the pair of them, despite so much fire and death in the air. The foamy flanks of their horses brushed against each other for an instant. Then they plunged into the forest. Around them, stray bullets pumped the white trunks of the trees full of lead. But not a single bullet had their name on it. The forest ramparts stopped their pursuers.
At nightfall, two horses galloping hard caught up with the train from Dreux to Paris. A young woman held on to the wounded man strapped behind her. The other rider, a few meters behind, was hunched over his horse. A little farther on, the train stopped in a countryside station, surrounded by a wall of steam. There were a few travelers on the platform, and the passengers leaned out the windows. The inspector saw three people climb on board: they were young and covered in dust, and one of them appeared to be in a very bad way.
He had fallen off a bridge into a precipice during a horse race in the hills. That was the official version. His horse, which had died on the spot, had softened his fall. The man had gotten away with broken legs. He and his sister were in such shock that they couldn’t speak about it. The third, who was more talkative, acted as their spokesperson. They needed to go to Paris, where the man would be treated at the Hôtel-Dieu Hospital. The train set off again.
For a long time, through the windows, Ethel, Paul, and Vango watched their horses galloping alongside the railway tracks.
The three passengers stared at one another, incredulous. They had found an empty compartment. Paul’s pain was numbed by his astonishment at being alive. Night had fallen. He fell asleep on the banquette.
The horses disappeared around a bend in the river.
Ethel and Vango were the only ones awake in the semidark. They breathed to the same rhythm, supported by the swaying of the train. Occasionally, they would see a lit-up window in the countryside flash past at high speed, and shadows would hover over their intertwined hair.
They didn’t know where they were anymore. Their skin was touching. When the train took a tight bend, they swung out at the same time, sliding all the way to the window. An acceleration on the rails was accompanied by a squealing noise that sounded like a cry.
And then there was nothing but the trees racing past and the kindness of the night.
Paris, La Belle Étoile restaurant, the next evening, December 31, 1942
They were thirteen at the table. But by counting Nina Bienvenue and her pianist as well, they made it fifteen to stave off bad luck. In any case, the atmosphere was less one of distrust than of festive spirit. There were no holds barred as far as the guests were concerned. The sound of their laughter could be heard throughout the Temple district. Downstairs, soldiers guarded the restaurant door.
As the night wore on, and they approached curfew hour, the streets were increasingly empty. The second floor of La Belle Étoile was the only place where the party was allowed to continue up to the threshold of the New Year.
The rest of the city had its eyes firmly on the clock. By eleven, everybody was supposed to be indoors. In some theaters, tickets had been sold with a room in the hotel opposite thrown in for good measure, to avoid the curfew. Bold youths planned to feast until very late. They carried a change of shirt with them in the knowledge that they might end up at the police station: the cheapest and most dangerous hostel in the capital. When a German was killed, it was often among these overnight detainees that lots were drawn for a victim to be shot in reprisal.
But for now, according to the clock at La Belle Étoile, it was only ten in the evening. Nina Bienvenue was singing, and only the pianist had his eyes glued to the keyboard. Everybody else was feasting their gaze on the singer.
The thirteenth guest had been added to the list a few hours earlier. He was a Frenchman in his fifties, very elegant, with a polka-dot tie: Max Grund’s personal doctor. He seemed on familiar terms with most of those attending the party. He raised his glass but didn’t drink. Accustomed to society life in Paris under German occupation, he knew Nina’s songs by heart. Indeed, she even went over to finish them on his knees.
But by far the greatest part of the celebration was being played out on people’s plates. The proprietor
, Casimir Fermini, who hadn’t flashed a single smile since the start of the evening, couldn’t help going upstairs with each new course to observe the mood around the great table. Voices petered out at the first spoonful of soup. Grund ordered the pianist to be quiet. All that could be heard was the clinking of porcelain and the sighs of delight.
And so Fermini passed the armed guards roaming the landing and headed back downstairs to report to the kitchen, which occupied part of the ground floor immediately below the dining room.
“They’re happy, chef,” he said, pushing the door open with his shoulder. “If you could only see them. It’s infuriating.”
Astoundingly, all that had gone into the soup was a few carrots, a bucket of pink turnips, a chicken leg for the stock, and two or three wild herbs.
“Chef, you’ve drawn tears from the Third Reich.”
And Fermini crossed the street to visit his more respectable clientele in the restaurant’s other dining room. There, the first seating had ended at half past nine, and the tables were filling up again.
Fermini apologized profusely for the noise from the New Year’s Eve fancy-dress party on the other side of the street.
At the back, seated at the small round table, was the lucky foreigner, Monsieur Costa, who had taken full advantage of his reservation. He had turned up at seven o’clock, having just spent two days in the deserted châteaus of the Loire, wine tasting. He had no intention of leaving, and Fermini gave him preferential treatment.
“You are my guest of honor!”
He got him to taste the wines he was opening for the neighboring tables. Monsieur Costa was in seventh heaven. He had just lost his fork in a buttery cabbage compote and was weeping with pleasure into his napkin.
Fermini remained attentive to each guest. He ran after the waiters, pointing out a customer who had been forgotten in a corner.
“And what about the young lady at the counter? She’s been waiting for an hour out in the cold. Pour her something nice and warm before she orders.”
On this particular evening, the young lady in question was called Ethel. She had just sat down with Vango. They had waited on the sidewalk at first. But at the darker end of the counter there was space for two diners, and so they had sat down.
Ethel knew that this would be no ordinary dinner. Vango had told her that he had to finish something, once and for all. He had even tried to discourage her from coming.
“Stay with your brother. I’ll join you at midnight, and we’ll set off.”
But she had laughed as if she didn’t understand what he was saying. She wasn’t going to leave him now. She wasn’t going to leave him now. She wasn’t going to leave him now.
She looked fresh and well dressed, despite having been drenched in airplane grease, silt, smoke, and horses’ sweat. Only the smell of brown earth lingered a little.
Ethel wasn’t allowed to speak. Her accent would have betrayed her. Not that she minded at all. She had lost the habit of speaking, along with so many other habits. She needed to start all over again.
Fifty meters away, in a black Citroën, Paul and Simon the bell ringer were waiting. Soon they would head south with Vango and Ethel. Simon was standing in for the chauffeur.
“Does it hurt?” whispered Simon.
Paul was lying on the backseat.
“I’m fine.”
He was lying through his teeth.
“You know that my wife gave birth to little Colette this morning?”
“Yes, you must be very proud.”
“That’s why the bishop has lent me the car,” Simon explained. “So I can visit her. You’re going to drop me off at La Bourboule, and I’ll explain everything to the monseigneur on my return. You must keep going all the way to Spain.”
“Please extend an invitation for the monseigneur to visit my home in Scotland, so that we can be pardoned. After the war.”
The street was dark and silent around them. The market shutters had been lowered.
Vango stared at Ethel. He hadn’t said a word. Indeed, they had barely spoken to each other since the previous day. They communicated via the strange and silent current that flowed between them: their reunion in the barn, their escape on horseback and then by train.
Reaching between them to set down a bowl in front of the young lady, Bartholomew could detect their magnetism. The waiter’s movements slowed as a result of the air, which seemed thicker here than elsewhere in the room. Perhaps this is how ghosts talk to one another? This night was the crossroads of so many desires, fears, and secrets.
Vango was thrown off balance by the restaurant owner’s friendliness. He had been expecting a collaborators’ den rather than the warmth of this establishment, with not a word of German on the menu slate. Over by the door, there was even an old English advertisement for boats crossing from England to Calais — Bienvenue, welcome — which couldn’t be innocent.
Vango had just tasted the piping-hot creamy soup Ethel had been served. Quickly, he pulled his lips away from the cup. The liquid had scalded him all the way to his heart. It was a heat that took him right back. The taste of rosemary . . . What was it about this soup?
Ethel held Vango’s hand. Her nails dug into his palm. Vango suddenly wanted to whisk her away with him, without waiting.
On the second floor opposite, Max Grund stood up. It took a while for everyone to fall quiet around him. Grund cleared his throat like a tenor.
Augustin Avignon felt ill at ease and couldn’t sit still. He was cross with Inspector Mouchet for taking so long to provide him with the list. Avignon had only received it the day before, at which point he had finally understood why he was invited: Viktor wanted to be remembered to him.
Avignon glanced at the two men at the other end of the table. Voloy Viktor and the Irishman shared the same smug smile, while their eyes smarted from the smoky room. Viktor was relishing being in Paris without needing to hide.
Voloy Viktor had succeeded in making a reality of Zefiro’s fiction: a colossal arms deal with Germany, invented several years earlier by the padre in an attempt to ensnare the arms dealer. The contract had just been signed. The Irishman, supremely confident since the airship had gone up in flames, was prepared to follow him blindly. Viktor would gladly have put flowers on Zefiro’s grave to thank him. After all, this was originally his idea! It was as if Viktor had killed him for a second time.
Grund stood there stiffly, his fingertips touching the tablecloth.
“Messieurs, this evening I shall address you in French.”
Viktor leaned into Cafarello’s ear to translate.
“In French, for the sake of a number of our friends around this table,” continued Grund, “and because the gratin I have just eaten also speaks to me in this language.”
Nina Bienvenue seized the opportunity to slip away for a moment. She signaled to the pianist and made her way down the spiral staircase.
“Among us this evening we have two gentlemen, I should say two friends, whom our führer has decorated with the Grand Cross of the Eagle, two gentlemen who, without seeking honors or the limelight . . .”
Nina Bienvenue glided between the armed guards waiting downstairs. She walked into the ladies’ room but immediately reappeared, accosting Fermini as he emerged from the kitchen.
“Monsieur, just now I left a lady’s item in a little box, but it’s not there anymore.”
“I’m not surprised, Mademoiselle Bienvenue. We clean these facilities after every visit.”
Casimir Fermini spoke drily. He knew about Nina’s reputation and had no time for her.
“I thought I was the only lady here. I do beg your pardon.”
She reached out and slowly pretended to remove a speck of dust from the patron’s tie. He tried to maintain his composure.
“You are indeed the only lady on the second floor. But there are kitchens just behind this door, and perhaps a lady worthy of availing herself of these facilities after you, with your permission.”
Nina Bienvenue
flashed a disarming smile, unshocked by the democracy of the ladies’ lavatory.
“Could you tell me where I might find my box?”
“In the cloakroom, behind the gentleman who is staring at your legs.”
Startled at being caught midstare, a German soldier promptly stood to attention. Fermini moved him off one of the checkered floor tiles, like a pawn on a chessboard. He opened a curtain.
There was indeed a small box next to a large leather suitcase.
“Doesn’t that case belong to you?” inquired Fermini as Nina picked up the small box.
“No, I use very little makeup. Thank you.”
She disappeared into the ladies’ room. The patron tried lifting the suitcase. It was full.
“Did one of your men arrive with this suitcase?” he asked, turning to face both soldiers.
They didn’t appear to understand. Fermini leaned over to open it, but the case was locked. He hesitated for a moment before closing the curtain and heading upstairs.
Grund raised his glass in the air.
“To the greatness of our industry, the might of our tanks, the radiance . . .”
Fermini sighed. This wasn’t the moment to talk about luggage. He went back downstairs, crossing paths with Nina Bienvenue, who now gave off a scent of frangipani.
“Perhaps it’s for a honeymoon,” she said. “Newlyweds always have a suitcase. You never know; someone might have a surprise in store for me!”
Fermini gritted his teeth. Nina, meanwhile, returned to the dining room to the sound of the applause for the end of Max Grund’s speech. The pianist played the first few notes of a song, and Nina Bienvenue broke into German, “From my head to my toes, I was made to love . . .”
At eleven o’clock, the metal shutter on the other side of the street was pulled down so that it was three-quarters closed. Fermini had come to an arrangement with Grund the day before. Despite the curfew, he wouldn’t send away any of his customers from the dining room opposite until the New Year’s Eve dinner on the second floor had finished. A small victory in exchange for such an invasion.
A Prince Without a Kingdom Page 33