Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  The line went dead; Venetia burst into tears.

  ‘Mignonne, I want you to go home. Very, very much. While it is still possible. The railways are becoming very crowded, I want you and the children to be safe.’

  ‘Luc, it’s absurd. You sound like Venetia, I managed to speak to her today. They’re all fine, Giles was—’

  ‘Adele, I want you to go. I am telling you, as your husband, that you are to go. I am going to get some tickets today—’

  ‘Luc, no. Anyway, I’m sure it’s too late, I’d never get across the Channel.’

  ‘Not from Calais, no, you are right. But I could send you down to Bordeaux, there are still ships going from there.’

  ‘Luc, have you looked at the railway stations recently? It’s appalling, the battle every day for trains. Look, I’m happy here with you. I don’t want to go.’ She kissed him. ‘Don’t you understand? You should be pleased. Now stop fussing. It’s such a lovely day. I shall take the children to the park or the river, have a picnic. Try to come home early, and we can go out for a walk, all of us.’

  It was another perfect day. Paris was certainly very agreeable; there was far less traffic than usual, the roads were quiet.

  Adele took the children for their picnic in the Luxembourg Gardens, wandered about the quiet streets, did some shopping and then went home again. By half past five both children were tired, ready for bed; it didn’t look as if the walk en famille was likely to take place. Never mind; perhaps she and Luc would be able to go on their own. That would be even more of a treat. She would ask Mme André if she would come up, just for an hour.

  It was a Friday; a good night for a drink. Friday, 7 June.

  Luc was tired, very hot and extremely anxious. His life, always so orderly, had suddenly spun out of control. There was a very nasty war in Europe, the enemy was headed by a madman, and an anti-semitic madman at that, he had insufficient money, a wife who claimed she was pregnant, and a mistress with two children. Wherever he looked he was trapped. Whatever he did he was doomed.

  Work was a nightmare too; Paris might still be buying books, but the rest of France was most certainly not. Constantine’s profits were nonexistent, its income decimated. Staff had been warned of redundancies. Not the directors – yet. But it seemed possible that in the foreseeable future he wouldn’t even have a job.

  He sighed, pacing the office; he had done no work for days.

  If only, if only Adele had been less loyal, less courageous, had shown less of the damn British spirit. Then he could have got rid of her at least; she and the children would be safe, he could concentrate on Suzette and his problems with her.

  Pregnant: how could she have done that to him? He had no doubt that it had been deliberate, the oldest trap in the book. He wasn’t sure that he believed her, he was waiting for confirmation from the doctor. But if she was – he was a fool; an absolute fool.

  Well, it had to be settled soon; he couldn’t go on like this. Maybe he could order Adele home, assert his authority. But – she was right. It was too late. The scenes every day – at the Gare du Nord and the Gare de Lyon were frightful, people fighting over seats, tickets, places; there were stories of children being separated from their parents, of old people being hurt in the crush, of women giving birth on the pavements. Her chances of getting even to Bordeaux were very slight. Maybe when this particular panic was over, he would be able to send her down to Bordeaux. And it would be over, most sensible people thought that. But—

  Luc suddenly groaned aloud, put his head in his hands. It served him right; it all served him right. He was a fool and not only a fool, but an unpleasant one. He deserved all of it. He had seduced Adele quite ruthlessly – although he had always imagined she was more sophisticated, certainly would never have become pregnant. Or remained pregnant. He should have let her go to Switzerland that day, he regretted it now. But she had been so – beautiful. And so vulnerable. He had let himself believe he was truly in love with her. And then Suzette had always refused to have children, and the thought of a son – well, it had been irresistible.

  But – going back to Suzette, allowing her to seduce him like that: it had been the warmth, the comfort, that had really seduced him, of course, the pleasure of being at home again, in his own well-ordered apartment. With no children crying, no washing hanging all over the place. But – again, it was too late now. His phone rang; it was Suzette.

  ‘Chéri. Would you come for a visit? I am missing you, and Paris is a little empty, many of my friends have left, so stupid I think—’

  ‘Suzette, I don’t think so, no.’

  ‘But why not? What harm would it do? You can be back with – with her’ – Suzette always refered to Adele as her – ‘by nine. Just a glass of champagne. I have some perfectly chilled. Just right for this hot evening.’

  Luc hesitated; then the vision of the chilled champagne, the quiet, luxurious apartment, was too much for him.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but just for a glass.’

  It was guilt that did it; guilt, and a desire to get out of the building quickly. That made him set the terrible train of mishaps in motion, all beginning with the one, foolish, apparently harmless one, of leaving his briefcase behind.

  The children were asleep; fast asleep. Adele looked at the clock; only six. It could be an hour, maybe longer, before Luc was home; a waste of good child-free time.

  Suddenly she had an idea; she would go and meet him. He never left the office before seven on Friday these days, Guy Constantine had taken to having a drink with the senior staff, discussing the problems they all faced, reassuring them, stiffening their courage.

  She would go and meet him there, it would be fun, it was ages since she had experienced grown-up life. Besides, she liked Guy; he had always been very nice to her, even after she and Luc were living together, Luc was quite wrong about his disapproving. He might offer her a drink as well. That would be wonderful.

  Luc realised almost at once that he had left his briefcase behind: damn. He had to have it, he needed its contents for the weekend. He had a lot of work to do. He asked the taxi driver to go back and wait, ran up to his office, praying he wouldn’t meet anyone on the stairs.

  He didn’t; but as he was leaving his office again, the telephone rang. Better answer it, it might be Adele. Or even Suzette.

  It was neither; it was one of his authors, a neurotic novelist; had Luc liked his second draft? Which bits had he liked best? Did he think it was worth re-working the last chapter? By the time he escaped, the taxi driver was standing, shouting furiously at the concierge at the main door.

  ‘Sorry,’ Luc said, ‘sorry, I’m here now, let’s go.’

  Adele took the metro up to l’Opera. It was the quickest way, only a few stops. It was very hot but when she came up the evening air was sweet, cooling and golden. Lovely: just the night for an aperitif.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ the concierge was most apologetic. ‘Monsieur Lieberman has gone. About – oh, half an hour ago.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, well—’

  She felt absurdly dispirited, near to tears. ‘Was he – was he with Monsieur Constantine?’

  ‘No, Mademoiselle. Monsieur Constantine is still inside, would you like to see him?’

  ‘No, no, thank you. I just thought – never mind. You don’t – you don’t have any idea where Monsieur Lieberman is, do you? If he was just round the corner, I could maybe find him—’

  ‘No, Mademoiselle, not just around the corner, I’m afraid. He went in a taxi.’

  ‘A taxi! Must have been to see an author, then. Otherwise he wouldn’t run to such an extravagance.’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled at her, shook his head at the memory. ‘He made the taxi driver very angry, he had to come back and fetch something he had forgotten and was so long, the driver came in and started shouting at me, telling me to fetch him.’

  ‘Oh dear. Well—’

  ‘If it’s any help to you, Mam’selle, he was going to Passy.’

  ‘Pa
ssy!’ She hadn’t heard that, he hadn’t said it, of course he wasn’t going to Passy, it must be a mistake. ‘Are you – sure?’

  Anyway, there were other streets in Passy, other than the Rue Vineuse, it was quite a big area, probably that was where the writer lived.

  ‘I am quite sure. The driver told me so that I could telephone some of the offices, find out who had hired him. Rue Vineuse, Passy. Anyway, Monsieur Lieberman had come back by then. Mademoiselle, let me telephone Monsieur Constantine, he will be pleased to see you, I’m sure.’

  ‘No,’ said Adele, and she could hear her own voice, dull, quiet with shock, ‘no really, it’s all right. If – if Monsieur Lieberman comes back, don’t mention that I’ve been here. Please.’

  ‘Very well, Mademoiselle.’

  She got back at seven-thirty; she felt so tired she could hardly drag herself up the stairs. Perhaps it was all a dreadful mistake, perhaps he was home, perhaps she had simply missed him; but Mme André was waiting, smiling, in the apartment, telling her that both the chidren were still asleep, that neither had stirred.

  ‘Good. Thank you so much, Mme André.’

  ‘Are you all right, Mam’selle Adele? You look – very pale.’

  ‘I’m absoutely fine. Thank you. Yes, just a bit – hot.’

  She did feel hot: and cold, and sick and shaky and in a wild, terrible panic. So much explained, so much had become clear. Back with Suzette; no wonder he wanted her out of Paris. No wonder the sudden and complete change of heart. It was absolutely clear. Bastard! Bastard! And now, now she was trapped; she would never get home. And she could have gone, she could be safe by now, and her children too, they could go to Ashingham, like the last war, such a happy golden time it had been, all of them together, and little Jay too, and poor Billy and that stupid governess Barty had liked so much, and the poor men with their lost limbs and their shell-shock, that was how she felt, shell-shocked, she’d start shaking in a minute, she was shaking – she stopped, swallowed, took a deep breath. This was not helpful. Calm down, Adele, think. Think . . .

  Luc came home some time after nine: desperately apologetic, carrying a bottle of wine. He had been with an author: where, she asked. Oh, in Montmartre, he said, silly fool, fussing over his book, they were all the same, authors.

  She sat there, smiling, cool and controlled, saying what a shame, how tired he must be, no, it didn’t matter at all, dinner was easy, just a couple of steaks; later they went to bed and she even managed to kiss him – he didn’t seem to want to make love to her, thank God, he seldom did these days, and was that so surprising, now that he was back with Suzette.

  She got through the weekend somehow; she went out a lot, with the children, he seemed grateful, he had work to do, he said. She met a few friends, at the pavement cafés, talked to them casually about the people leaving Paris, everyone said the same thing, that it was madness, the roads were all jammed; a few told her, laughing, that if she was thinking of getting home to England, it would have to be from Bordeaux. Adele laughed and said she was thinking of no such thing.

  On Saturday night she and Luc went to the cinema, watched the newsreels of Hitler and Goering posturing about, listened to the reports of how they were making no progress, how they would never reach Paris, never conquer France.

  On Sunday she went to church, leaving him with the children; he was annoyed, but she insisted.

  ‘It’s not a lot to ask. I want to go.’

  ‘I thought you were going to convert to Judaism,’ he said, his eyes half amused.

  ‘Just now, I want to go to Notre-Dame.’

  ‘Notre-Dame! Why?’

  ‘Because it’s so beautiful,’ she said briefly.

  She lit a candle for herself and her children, and knelt and prayed for a long time. Only it wasn’t exactly prayer, it was a silent, solemn strengthening of her own will.

  On Monday morning, 10 June, it was unbelievably hot. Paris was very still; Adele felt for the first time a sense of fear, allowed the thought finally that things perhaps were not as they had all been told. Although more than half the shops and businesses were open as usual, there was a listlessness in the air that was almost palpable, and a sadness too, tears trembling beneath the surface. More and more people were leaving, she saw people embracing one another, waving farewell, heaping possessions into cars. But the radio reports were as reassuring as usual. The French line continued to hold, Paris was still perfectly safe. There seemed nothing more to worry about than there had been the previous day. Or the previous week.

  Well, she didn’t have time to panic or to think very much; she had far too much to do.

  She put the children in the pram, went to the bank very early, and took out all that she had in her own bank account. There was a very long queue; she had to wait almost an hour. Lucas became fractious and cried a lot; she didn’t try to stop him, thinking they might be allowed to move up in the queue. They weren’t. She had managed to bank most of her freelance earnings over the past two years: not a great deal, only a few hundred francs. But it would be enough. It would have to be enough.

  Luc had a car, a rather battered Citroën; it was parked in the street, its near side wheels on the pavement. He only used it on Sundays; when she had returned from Mass the day before, after lunch, she had asked if they could go for a drive.

  He had tried to dissuade her, saying it was too hot, but she had been insistent; ‘The roads are so clear, it will be fun. Just for a little spin. We could take a picnic. Please, Luc.’

  In reality, she had been making sure it started easily, that it was more or less in order. As they were loading up the car to go home again, she asked if she could drive.

  ‘I’m afraid I will have forgotten how. It’s months ago now.’

  He smiled at her, handed her the keys.

  ‘Of course. I seem to remember you were a rather good driver.’

  ‘I was,’ she said. She managed to slip the keys into her bag after locking it up.

  He didn’t use it to go to work, he would never notice.

  When they got back from the bank, she went to see Mme André.

  ‘I need your help, Madame. Will you care for the children for a couple of hours?’

  ‘But of course. Are you all right, Mam’selle?’

  ‘Perfectly. Just a bit tired. It’s the heat.’

  ‘I have just heard that the British have landed ten more divisions in France.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful! That is good news.’

  There were many such rumours that day; that the Americans had declared war, that the Germans had fallen into a great French trap and three panzer divisions had been decimated, that the German army was in retreat. All of them, combined with the official spokesman on the radio, in day-long broadcasts, reporting French victories, added up to the same thing: that Paris would be saved.

  Luc had a journalist friend, Henri Thierry, who worked for the French newspaper Le Figaro; he had had an idea for a book, and came in to see Luc at midday.

  ‘I’m going to need the work,’ he said to Luc casually, ‘no more journalism for a bit.’

  ‘Why’s that? Got the sack?’

  ‘No. Serious news, Luc. We were called into the Clock Room on the Quai d’Orsay this morning; no more Paris newspapers after today.’

  ‘God,’ said Luc, ‘what does that mean?’

  ‘I think we know. Apparently there was an off-the-record announcement that the Government was leaving for Tours, but I was late, didn’t hear that. I don’t believe that. They wouldn’t do it without some formal announcement.’

  ‘It might still come.’

  ‘Well it might.’ He grinned at Luc. ‘Don’t look so worried. So many rumours. Anyway, I’m going to be able to get on with my book in peace.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Luc.

  He felt very shaken.

  He managed to get through the meeting with Thierry and then looked at his watch. One o’clock. This really didn’t seem too good. Maybe he should go home. If Adele heard
the news, she would be worried. But – what good could he do? It really was too late to send her away now. And she was unlikely to hear it, it was not a rumour that would reach the markets where she shopped. Even so—

  Guy Constantine put his head round the door. ‘Got a few minutes? I’ve got something I’d like to discuss with you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Adele had about eight hours. Possibly more. Luc had said he might be late; she knew what that meant, unless she was very unlucky: he would be late. Even if he wasn’t, she had until seven.

  She moved the car as near the building as she could, went up to the apartment, pulled down a suitcase, and filled it with children’s clothes, napkins, some soft toys, a couple of blankets, an old cot mattress to put on the floor. Lucas could sleep on that, and it would help with the noise and vibration of the rattly Citroën.

  And then another suitcase, filled that with food: mostly tins, including some condensed milk. Remembering a tin opener. Some bottles of water and some fruit juice. Thank God Lucas was able to eat normal food now. She was just shutting that case when she saw two bottles of wine at the back of the cupboard: fine wine, Château Lafite Rothschild. Luc’s pride and joy, a present from a grateful author, he had been saving them for over a year. They would be a great deal more use to her. Also in the cupboard was a small Gaz camping stove; she pulled that out as well, and some matches.

  She took the cases down to the street, put them in the boot of the car. There was no room for anything else. She went to the market, bought three baguettes – no use getting more, they’d become bullets in days in this heat – and some fruit and hard cheese. Brie would be running all over the car by nightfall.