The French Promise

by Fiona McIntosh

  She smiled. ‘You talk about smells a lot, do you know that?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘The patisseries, the traffic smells, even the croque-monsieurs being cooked in cafés and all of that in the space of time it took to get Jenny back here.’

  It had seemed a safe enough subject to make small talk with a stranger, although in truth he hadn’t been aware of what he had said as she clearly had. Luc shrugged. ‘I’m a lavender farmer. My life is about aromatics.’

  ‘Truly? A lavender farmer.’ She looked astonished. ‘You do surprise me. By the way you were dressed I had you down for some sort of businessman.’

  ‘Well, you were fooled by my daughter. She refused to walk the streets with me dressed in … wait, how had she described it? Ah yes, the “tat” I’d packed. She took me shopping in London – Savile Row, no less. Fashion is like a drug to her. I’ve promised to take her to Chanel.’

  Jane raised her eyebrows. ‘No wonder you had to visit American Express!’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said archly. ‘But if I hadn’t we wouldn’t have met, so perhaps I owe Jenny that Chanel experience.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m wearing Ma Griffe by Carven.’

  ‘It’s exquisite,’ he said, and meant it. He inhaled again. ‘It somehow manages to combine the warmth of spice with the fresh coolness of dewy grass. Amazing.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m impressed by your olfactory sense!’

  ‘My one gift,’ he said with a light shrug.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure there’s more to you than that, Luc.’ She paused in hesitation. ‘Given what we’ve shared this morning with Jenny, will you tell me a little more about yourselves? I hope I can see her again before we all go our separate ways.’

  ‘I would very much like to see you again.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I mean, Jenny is already crazy about you. She definitely needs a woman around right now. In fact, I’m wondering how you’d feel about taking her to Chanel? I’m sure she’d prefer it. And while fashion bores me, I suspect it doesn’t bore you.’

  ‘I’d love to accompany her.’

  ‘Jane, are you an angel who has dropped in from heaven?’

  She laughed delightedly. ‘It’s good to feel useful. When would suit?’

  It was too perfect an opportunity. ‘How about Saturday? I have an appointment to keep and it would be ideal if Jenny had a nice day planned too.’

  Jane frowned, thought about this. ‘Saturday works. I was thinking of going to the ballet – have you heard about Rudolf Nureyev?’ Her eyes shone at the mention of the dancer. Luc shook his head slightly. ‘He’s dancing in Paris with Margot Fonteyn. I can’t miss it but I can shift when I see them. Okay then, consider Saturday a date.’

  He grinned, relieved that he could see Max Vogel alone. ‘I’ll tell you more about our life if you agree to do the same.’

  ‘You begin.’

  ‘I think we should order dessert too,’ he said. ‘This can’t be hurried.’

  And he loved how her smile immediately sparked in her dark eyes.

  ‘… So my baby brother and I went alone to Inverness, my father went to war and my mother went slightly mad as a result. Dad didn’t return from the Front. His body was never found,’ Jane said. ‘Although Nigel and I finally came back to London, Mum had already managed to get lost in her mind, I think. It was her coping mechanism.’ Jane shrugged. ‘I’d got used to playing the mothering role to Nigel so while I could have used some comforting myself, I was able to protect him from most of her bad days.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Very healthy, still at home but we have some live-in help now to take care of her daily needs – ablutions and meals. To be honest she’s really happy but nevertheless she has disappeared; there’s a stranger walking around in our mother’s form. Nigel and I could be anyone. She still talks about a man called Peter – that’s Dad – but doesn’t know why. She can sing all the words to “Amazing Grace” but doesn’t know what she ate for breakfast or the names of her grandchildren. It’s so terribly sad. She does, however, have fabulous recall for her own childhood so that’s where she lives, permanently as an eight or nine-year-old in the previous century.’

  ‘And Nigel?’

  ‘A banker – married, three children. His wife, Peggy, is pretty, a great mother and a lovely sister-in-law. He has all the right trappings. He lives in Chelsea. He’s a good father, good husband. We’re close.’ She sounded wistful. ‘With our parents effectively gone, it’s just the three of us and the children.’

  ‘And you? I can’t believe you’re single, Jane.’

  Her eyes dipped. ‘I wasn’t. Or rather I didn’t expect to be. I’m a divorcée.’ Her gaze suddenly blazed up at him. ‘Do you disapprove?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘In England divorce is still taboo.’

  ‘Taboo?’ he frowned. He’d never heard this word.

  ‘Er … frowned upon.’

  ‘Ah.’ He understood now and risked touching her hand. ‘I have always believed you have to walk in someone’s shoes before you can pass judgement.’

  She gave a small sigh of derision. ‘Not everyone is that far-sighted, Luc. I often tell strangers I’m a widow – it’s so much easier. My marriage lasted not quite four years.’ She glanced up again. ‘I can see the surprise in your eyes. But I can’t blame you. John was …’ She sighed out her breath slowly and seemed to deflate before him. ‘Well, he was a complex man with problems.’ She gave a sad smile now. ‘I left my mad mother to marry a mad husband. He was a danger to both of us.’

  ‘He hurt you?’

  She nodded. ‘I knew he couldn’t help it but I was the closest person to him and was the easiest target. He’s now getting the right help. I’m sure there are many women suffering the same and I can only feel sorry for men returning from war with these problems.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Shellshock is insidious. Did you ever experience any battle in your time as a Maquisard?’

  He nodded, forgetting himself momentarily. ‘You can be as tough as stone in your body but no one can prepare your mind for it. The battle noise is so intense and disorienting. People die around you – one moment vital, the next riddled with bullets or their body scattered.’ He noted her look of pain. ‘I’m sorry, that was brutal of me.’

  ‘No. I think we need to hear it so we can understand people like John more. It’s easy to label him as mad or dangerous but few of us other than fellow soldiers who’ve stood in battle and survived it can really appreciate the horror. He’s under the care of doctors now, so he can’t harm himself or anyone else.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She sniffed and nodded. ‘Sorry. You were so candid with me about your life – Lisette, your lost family – that I think I let myself say too much and indulge in a moment of pity then. You see I did love him and it’s hard to see him as a monster. His family tells me he left for war a gentle, generous man.’

  ‘How long since you separated?’

  ‘I was divorced in April but we parted the year prior.’ She shrugged. ‘This trip to the Continent was about me claiming back my life, I think. I wanted to feel free and independent again.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I guess I also wanted to run away from the mess of my life.’

  ‘Do you work?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not any more. John didn’t want a working wife, especially as he was born into a family of means. My family was not wealthy but we were comfortable and I had a very good education, did the whole English governess thing in France after the war for a couple of years, which is why my French is so solid. Then I came home and at twenty-two started building a career as a clothes designer. John’s family is in groceries. They’ve been understanding and have provided very generously for me. But maybe I will work again just to keep myself occupied.’ He watched her shoulders droop. ‘I was a late bloomer anyway, then I became too choosy and then the war hit. When John came along in 1958 I was over thirty. I couldn’t believe how
lucky I was to have found someone so special.’ She gave a pained smirk. ‘I thought by now I’d have begun a family but it wasn’t to be. Instead I’m thirty-eight, footloose in Paris, and I don’t believe I’ve ever been more sad.’ Jane straightened and finished her coffee. ‘And there you have it, Monsieur Ravens, a potted history of Jane Aplin and forgive me to have burdened you with it. It seems we’ve both got tragic stories. I’m really so very sorry about your wife and son. My heart hurts for you and Jenny. I promise to give her a fantastic day on Saturday.’

  ‘Have dinner with me, Jane,’ he said.

  She stared at him and he knew she wasn’t going to pretend to be surprised at the request, only by its urgency. There was a frisson between them that neither could deny but he hoped his eagerness didn’t intimidate her. He was certainly privately unnerved that the words had blurted from his mouth before he could filter them.

  Her pause was telling; she too was weighing up the complexities of the situation.

  ‘How about Sunday night?’ he offered before she could think of reasons to turn him down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  He had been reading the papers in the hotel lobby when the bellhop came strolling through, ringing gently. Luc looked up absently and was surprised to see his name on the small board that the bellhop carried.

  He raised his hand.

  The youngster nodded. ‘You have a phone call, Monsieur Ravens. You can take it on the lobby telephone over there, sir,’ he pointed.

  Luc frowned, wondering who it might be. He made his way to the small alcove. ‘This is Luc Ravens,’ he said into the receiver, glad that he could pronounce his name the French way without knowing he’d need to repeat it.

  ‘It’s Max.’

  He felt a gust of relief. ‘No problems?’

  ‘I took the precaution of arriving last night. Are you still fine for this morning? I don’t want to create any problems for you.’

  He appreciated the younger man’s care but his reply didn’t reflect that. ‘Everything you have to say opens up a world of problems for me.’

  There was a pause. ‘It’s information, Mr Ravens, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s what I do with that information, though, Max; isn’t that the point?’

  Again, hesitation. ‘If you would prefer not to—’

  ‘It’s too late to turn away from what you have to tell me.’

  ‘I’ll see you in half an hour, then. Thank you.’

  He sounded smart, polite and well-bred, Luc thought. My son is dead while my enemy’s son is trying to help me. He shook his head as he replaced the receiver. Nevertheless he was grateful for how his luck was running … seamlessly, too. He’d waved the girls off for their day together not long before and with Max Vogel arriving shortly he remained in the foyer in one of the armchairs to the side so he could watch all newcomers to the hotel.

  Luc had not dwelt on what to expect. It came as a heart-pounding shock when a tall young man with hair a delicate yellow wandered into the hotel and Luc could not blame his eyes for momentarily believing that Markus Kilian had just strolled in. There was no doubting this was the colonel’s son but more in the way he carried himself; his straight bearing, even the neat, round shape of his head that was undeniably Kilian. Vogel unwrapped his scarf to reveal his impeccable houndstooth-patterned Continental-style slim-cut sports coat with an open-necked plain sports shirt, and he scanned the foyer. Finally Luc stood, glad now of Jenny’s insistence on new clothes, and sauntered over to the young man.

  ‘Max?’

  He’d only seen him in profile and from a distance but as soon as Max swung around Luc was struck by that memorable arctic gaze, reincarnated in the son. He knew he was staring.

  ‘Yes – hello, Mr Ravens?’ Max said, filling the awkward silence. He held out a hand and Luc absently noted the shake was firm and confident, opening a box of memories that he’d thought was sealed.

  ‘Er, shall we have a drink?’ Luc stammered.

  He grinned. ‘Is it a bit early?’

  ‘It’s respectable.’ Luc noticed the bulging leather satchel. Vogel had come armed. ‘Through here. The Blue Bar is quiet at the moment.’ His visitor fell in step. ‘Your father had a thing for calvados. I heard him say once that it was never too early in the day for a tot.’

  Vogel sighed. ‘This is just the sort of detail I hoped to learn from you. Thank you. I know it may seem inconsequential but just to be given that tiny insight into him is special for me.’

  His English was flawless; Luc suspected his German would be too and he obviously couldn’t study in France without perfect French. Luc was impressed and glad he’d insisted they speak plenty of French at home. Jenny was handy in German too, which he and Lisette had also encouraged.

  They stepped into the bar, which was indeed extremely blue: carpet, lights, upholstery. Even the neon sign Le Bar Bleu shone in cool blue. Luc pointed to a booth. He remembered how Kilian’s romantic nature had shone through even in their few brief encounters; if he were a betting man he’d put money on the fact that the son was also a dreamer. He shifted into French. ‘What will you have?’

  ‘Er … Coca-Cola is fine.’

  He snorted. ‘Your father wouldn’t approve. Have a real drink, Vogel.’

  ‘Only if you’ll call me Max,’ he said, fixing Luc with a pale stare.

  ‘So … drink with me, Max,’ he said in answer.

  ‘I’ll have a calvados,’ he answered with a jaunty smile. ‘It’s surely too cold for beer?’ he added, a gentle dig at Luc’s adopted nationality.

  The drinks were ordered, Luc joining him with the same, and suddenly they were both staring into their glasses, swirling the thick apple brandy while feeling the ghosts of Lisette and Kilian circling around them in tandem.

  ‘I don’t know what this will mean to you but I was desolate on the day I opened your letter and read about your wife and son. Offering my condolences just doesn’t seem enough,’ Max said, and Luc was reminded of the intensity that Kilian had possessed.

  He nodded. ‘There are no adequate words of comfort, as perhaps you have discovered with your own recent loss. I appreciate your thought, though, and I should convey the same to you.’

  Luc hoped Max would not ask him any questions, continuing to wonder how many more times he’d have to relive the drowning. Each time he told it, it felt as though he was choking, swallowing water and killing off another little part of himself.

  Perhaps Max sensed it. ‘We should drink to something, Mr Ravens. I feel very privileged that you came and agreed to meet with me.’

  ‘Call me Luc. Let’s drink to redemption.’

  Max simply nodded. He seemed to understand. He held up his balloon and they clinked glasses.

  ‘It’s unnerving how intensely similar you are to your father,’ Luc couldn’t help but remark.

  Max shrugged. ‘My mother did say so but I guess I didn’t believe her. She had only one grainy photo of him – it was a group shot, so it was distant too. I could see a vague resemblance, but …’

  ‘It’s not vague,’ Luc assured. ‘You could be Kilian. Even the pitch of your voice is unnervingly similar.’

  ‘Really? I’m glad.’

  Luc felt suddenly sorry for him. ‘I didn’t know my father either,’ he said.

  Max’s gaze shot up from his brandy. ‘Oh?’

  Luc explained. He sensed he was doing more than just filling in background for Max.

  Kilian’s son looked enthralled and at one moment muttered, ‘It all makes sense now. That’s tragic your father died not knowing you were born,’ Max agreed. ‘But you had the love of a father through your Jewish family.’

  ‘I did. Jacob Bonet was the best father anyone could have.’

  ‘Will you tell me about him?’

  ‘Why?’

  Max shrugged. ‘I hope this doesn’t sound too crazy but I feel as though I am now connected to the Bonet family. I spent a long time following the path of your sisters—’ He stopped abrupt
ly. ‘Forgive me, that was insensitive.’

  Luc gave him a crooked glance. ‘It was a long time ago. The wound feels fresh at times but I’ve accepted that they were long dead by the time I discovered the fact. I owe you my thanks, not my sorrow, for uncovering the truth.’

  Max said nothing but his silence was easy. The more Luc studied him, the more he gradually found nuances that were not echoes of the Kilian he’d known. There was an eagerness to Max, whereas his father had been mostly reticent. Three beautiful women had walked by the window and while Luc had noticed them, the younger man showed no interest; his father would have looked and admired, he was sure, but Max also didn’t look at any of the passing men either, which was equally enlightening. It seemed Max was simply focused in that moment on Luc. Kilian had been very aware of his hypnotic charm. In Max Luc sensed no arrogance or vanity. It made him easy to like.

  He also found him easy to talk to; it turned out that Max was a skilled listener and he gradually eased Luc back into the hurts of long ago. He talked until both their brandy balloons sat empty before them and coffee was being delivered.

  Finally, with a self-conscious shrug, he finished. ‘That’s my life. Now you know everything.’

  ‘I feel privileged,’ Max repeated and Luc sensed his honesty. ‘But you don’t know everything I do. I’ve brought the information I promised.’

  Luc frowned. ‘What’s in this for you?’

  Max sat back, perplexed. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, why? Lisette, me … von Schleigel – that was all nearly two decades ago. How old are you?’

  ‘I’m nearly twenty-five.’

  ‘Right. You weren’t born when your father went to war. You were an infant when I knew him.’

  ‘So?’

  Luc raised his palms. ‘I just don’t see what your motivation is. Our past has nothing to do with you.’

  He watched Max sigh quietly. ‘All of you connect me to Kilian. I grew up believing that my mother could barely remember the man who fathered me. She never spoke about him. I stopped asking questions and got on with being happy to be my mother’s son; being a good grandson. Cancer took my mother but it left in her place a phantasm – my father – who is haunting me. Why didn’t she just leave me ignorant? Why insist as she drew her last breath to read aloud his final letter to her … the one she’d been clutching secretly for most of my life?’