MIdnight Diner 1: Jesus vs. Cthulhu

by Chris Mikesell

  Thick curtains obscured my view inside the restaurant, but a tiny blackboard hung in the window indicated “Ouvert ce soir,” assuring me they were indeed serving dinner.

  I opened the door into the quiet place and looked around. A couple whispered their conversation to my right, and a woman of a certain age to my left dined alone. We shook off the rain and hung our damp coats on the rack near the door. I took in Claire’s forest green silk suit and matching hat with great appreciation.

  The waiter led us to a table at the far end of the room. He pulled out a chair for Claire. I didn’t know if I had the moxie to continue the charade, so I immediately ordered a bottle of Bordeaux. Staring at the menu in silence, I didn’t really care about the food. The wine came, and after the waiter poured, I downed the first glass rather quickly. Although I craved a whiskey, neat, I’d play the continental gentleman. Besides, I’d been hitting the bottle a little too much since Aaron died.

  The waiter came to take our order.

  “I think I’ll have the coq au vin,” she said in perfect French.

  I’d have the same. “La même,” I growled. I lit a cigarette, but didn’t bother lighting one for her.

  She sipped her wine and looked at me. “So, what brings you to Paris?” “I’m a freelance journalist,” I said.

  “Fascinating! What type of story are you working on?”

  The worst story of my life. A story sure to have an unhappy ending. The sordid tale of a man who couldn’t have fallen for a worse woman than Claire Duncan.

  “Oh, the impending war,” I said, striving for nonchalance.

  Sadness crept into her eyes and everything about her darkened. “Do you think it will come very soon?” She looked down at her glass.

  “Any minute now, doll. Maybe tomorrow. Hitler’s biding his time.” “Perhaps. What do you think of Germany’s non-aggression pact with Russia?” “The air is thick with appeasements and gestures. Many gestures are meaningless. Then again, some hold hidden meanings,” I replied.

  I poured another glass of wine for myself and topped off hers.

  “Many Americans don’t want to become involved in Europe’s political troubles. As a Yank, what’s your opinion?” she asked.

  An innocent enough question. But this lady was no babe in a cradle. The bloody war talk had turned everything upside down. I started to descend into that familiar Irish melancholy. I had to be careful not to let it overtake me or I’d find myself on another all-night drunk, singing rebel songs in some Montparnasse dive.

  “Listen, sister,” I said. “If Hitler continues playing European conqueror, then it’s our obligation to stop him. After Europe, who’s next?”

  She stared past me with a faraway, wistful look. Silence hung in the air along with the cigarette smoke. The aroma of onions and herbs reminded my stomach that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  Claire got hold of herself with a little shake of the shoulders and took a sip of wine. She withdrew a Gitane from a slender silver case engraved with a C. I struck a match and held it out. She leaned toward me. Our eyes met as the flame caught. Mesmerized by her deep brown eyes, I almost burned myself on that damned match. I shook it out just in time.

  Blowing the smoke upward, she stared at the ceiling. When she came back to earth, she regarded me with furrowed brows. “Why do men do such horrible things?”

  “Power. Perhaps madness.”

  She looked me square in the eye. “Do you pray?” I felt the blood drain from my face.

  What’s this? Saint Claire emerging from beneath a swastika flag?

  “I do,” I answered with a nod.

  “So you believe in God. Then you must believe that evil exists as well?”

  I was acquainted with God, and I’d looked evil straight in the eyes in the last few months. It left me fighting the urge for the drink more often than not.

  “Evil abounds, especially of late,” I answered. “Who decides?” she asked.

  I stamped out my cigarette.

  “Who decides what is evil and what is good?” she asked. “God, of course.”

  She nodded and took a drink of wine.

  The food came. I ate my chicken. Delicious. I watched as she dove in and polished off most of hers. The healthy appetite contrasted with the slim figure. I liked that about her.

  “So Mr. Garrett, what do you want with me?”

  “Just the company of a beautiful woman, Miss Duncan.”

  “You’re very kind. Shall we dispense with the formalities? Please, call me

  Claire. And may I call you Michael?” I nodded. “All right, Claire.”

  I glanced at the empty wine bottle and signaled the waiter. He brought another. She smiled at me with her dark eyes as he poured the Bordeaux. I leaned back in my chair. It was growing warmer in the restaurant.

  “What do you think of Herr Hitler?” I inquired.

  “His demeanor seems silly beyond belief, but I think he is far worse than he looks. I have an Austrian friend. Her last letter was . . . unpleasant.”.

  “Unpleasant? A strangely civilized word for what happened in Austria, don’t you think?” I took a long swallow of wine. “After the Nazis invaded Prague and discovered my friend Aaron was a Jew, they tortured him and left him for dead. His brother Abraham wrote me after Aaron died a week later. Abraham begged me to tell the truth about the Nazis.”

  “And have you told the truth, Michael?”

  Her innocent look was quite brilliant. She actually batted her long eyelashes at me. As she raised the glass to her mouth, her luscious lips parted to take a sip of wine.

  I wanted run out of there and toss myself off the Pont Neuf Bridge. Then they’d have to send someone else to do the spying.

  “I do my part,” I managed.

  She gave an inscrutable nod and looked around the room. She spoke of literature, and prattled on about Hugo and Au sten. I barely heard anything, but nodded here and there. When she got around to Tolstoy, I loosened my tie a little. Too much wine and a fuzzy brain. Before I gave her a piece of my mind, or took her in my arms, I had to leave.

  “We’d better go,” I said. “I’ve some work to do.”

  She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and placed it on the table.

  Catching the waiter’s eye, I got up and reached into my pocket for my money. He brought the check and I paid him. Claire followed me to the coat rack. I helped her with her raincoat and shrugged on my trench. The coats were dry. I didn’t bother to glance at my watch. It hardly mattered how long we’d been there. Since the threat of war, time had been playing tricks. It seemed to slow down and speed up on its own accord, with no regard for the clock.

  When we exited Chez Jacques, the rain had stopped. We walked in silence, listening to our feet on dark, damp pavement and the sounds of Paris settling in for the night. The stillness of the night made it seem as if the city held its breath, and the darkness felt claustrophobic, yet intimate.

  She took my arm and snuggled close. I inhaled her perfume and sighed. When we reached her hotel, she faced me.

  “The days seem unreal, don’t you think? Everyone on edge. I hope I

  wasn’t too morose over dinner.” I shook my head.

  “I’m not one to make snap judgments, and I don’t know you well. But I

  like you very much, Michael Garrett,” she whispered, and looked up at me.

  I leaned down, and did what any half-drunk, miserable man in a city on the brink of war would do. I kissed her, long and deep.

  She held me tight. So I kissed her again. And again. Finally, to my great disappointment, she pulled away.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said, smoothing a lock of hair.

  I found my voice. “Will I see you tomorrow?” I sounded desperate and pathetic.

  “How about lunch at the Europa? Noon?” she asked. “I’ll be there.”

  I disappeared into the blackness. It was only a short walk to the bridge and the blessed relief of an early demise. But I
wasn’t the suicidal type. I’d rather find a place to drink away my troubles.

  I concluded that Claire Duncan must be an enchantress. I’d heard about women like her, who got into a man’s blood and drove him mad with desire. I never forgot the stories I heard in the pubs. After they’d polished off a few pints and had a few rounds of song, the lads grew quiet and whispered stories of fair colleens who bewitched them and disappeared, forever haunting their dreams. Long ago, I’d decided that I would fall in love with a real woman, a nice woman, who would stay by my side forever.

  Now I was half-mad about a smart, cheeky beauty. A traitor. A Nazi.

  Eejit. Idiot.

  I roamed until I found a café where I planted myself at the zinc bar. “Whiskey.”

  The burly bartender sporting a red beret poured the shot. When I indicated with a turn of my hand for him to leave the bottle, his eyes narrowed, so I placed a pile of bills on the bar. He gave a Gallic shrug and obliged. I sniffed and determined that he must have been cooking sausages earlier. The bartender moved on to the next patron, a man of indeterminate age, who drank red wine, while at his feet a little brown dog snored in time to music coming from a radio behind the bar. When I heard I Let a Song Go Out of My Hear t, I took it personally and poured myself another. I ran my hands along the smooth edge of the bar. It seemed like the only solid thing in my shaky world tonight.

  Perhaps I’d judged Claire too soon. The Nazis certainly brought out paranoia in people. Maybe she was all right. Maybe there was another explanation for her suspicious behavior. That thought warmed me a little. I took another drink to celebrate. After another, I had a plan. Tomorrow at lunch I’d blow my cover and ask Claire straight if she was working for the Nazis. To hell with Uncle Harry and the spy game. A journalist had no business dabbling in espionage. Weren’t there headstones somewhere in Europe proving that point?

  I finally left the bar, tight as an outgrown suit. I made only one wrong turn before locating my hotel. After two or three tries fitting the room key in the lock, I made it inside.

  “God save all here,” I said to the empty room.

  I felt my way to my desk and defiantly switched on the lamp. I looked down, out of habit. Sure enough, a yellow envelope lay on the floor. I placed it on the desk. I took off my trench and hung it on the hook on the back of the door. My jacket, I placed over a chair. I ran out of stalling tactics, so I sighed and lit a cigarette. I tore open the envelope, and unfolded the cable.

  Take care. Keep me informed of whereabouts daily when possible.

  I’d heard the radio report earlier and read the papers. The cable from London confirmed that Hitler couldn’t be stopped. He was ready to invade Poland. Czechoslovakia had already fallen. Now Poland, favorite target for the power-mad, would have its turn.

  But when? Tonight? Tomorrow?

  I dropped the cable on the desk and pulled the curtains aside. I stared out the window. Nothing but a scant light or two. Soon it would be dawn. What would the day bring? I hung my trousers and shirt in the closet, and turned on the radio. Chopin wafted out. I felt a twinge of sadness for the Poles. Stretching out on the bed, I stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow was 31

  August. My twenty-seventh birthday. I spent a few minutes asking God why He’d let me fall for a woman like Claire, and why He’d allowed the Nazis to get this far. I didn’t get an answer. Not a surprise. God had plenty to do these days.

  I AWOKE AND STARTED MY DAY as I’d ended it the night before, staring out the window in a half-hearted attempt to connect with humanity. Everything seemed the same, at least on my Paris street. My dreams had been filled with the whistling of bombs and the marching of boots.

  I picked up my watch from the nightstand. Almost ten. My head felt like those army boots from my dream had been marching through it. Rough as a bear’s arse, my da used to call it. I headed to Café Jazie and instructed Claude to keep the espresso coming. I waved away a croissant and asked for a newspaper instead.

  Invasion seemed inevitable. I sighed and threw the paper down. If France went to war, I’d probably stay in Paris, write some articles and maybe work on my book. I’d remove myself from gathering intelligence on Claire. I thought about our kisses last night, but it cheered me only momentarily.

  I looked at my watch. Eleven already. Might as well have a wee hair of the dog before Claire arrived.

  I walked over to the Café Europa, found a table near the window, and amused myself watching Parisians go about their business. Overnight, frowns had deepened and steps had grown hurried. Despite the pleas from the officials, French grand-mères who’d been through it before were probably hoarding food. This evening, the bon vivants would be out in force, celebrating the end of civilization. Maybe I’d join them and forget Claire and the Nazis for a few hours.

  Twelve-thirty. Where was she? Perhaps she’d been held up by a last minute phone call or a telegram from her German friends.

  Why was I torturing myself?

  I decided not to order another whiskey. I needed sobriety in order to confront her properly, although I wasn’t sure whether I’d go through it. Did I want to throw away my assignment and place myself in danger just to know the truth about her?

  Time passed too slowly. It was now one o’clock. I didn’t know her well enough to figure her for one of those fashionably late women, but she didn’t seem the type. So I stayed put for another thirty minutes, lining up my silverware into various shapes and making up stories about the people at the nearby tables. Finally, I got up. I described her to the captain and asked him to give her the message that I’d meet her at Hotel Le Clerc. Just in case, I wrote my own hotel name on my card and handed it to him along with a couple of francs.

  I walked over to her hotel and inquired at the desk.

  “Sorry, Monsieur, she checked out this morning. She left no forwarding address.”

  I turned away from the clerk and slipped out. I stood on the sidewalk wearing an idiot’s grin. So that’s that, you sad sack. She gave you the slip and you didn’t even see it coming. Too busy drowning in those dark eyes and kissing that mouth to realize she’d played you like a grand fiddle.

  “Happy birthday, you feckin’ eejit,” I said aloud. An old woman walked by, clutching a baguette. She gawked at me, then looked away, clutching the bread tighter.

  “Madame, I’ve been made a fool,” I said to her, and tipped my hat.

  AS I WANDERED THE STREETS, I noticed many Parisians had apparently decided to stay on holiday. Even the Louvre had closed and the tourists had vanished. I wandered until late afternoon and finally let my thirst get the better of me, so I headed over to Bar Louis near the foreign press offices. The place buzzed with reporters and journalists. I spotted Charlie Jones, a Brit I’d known forever, and waved at him. I found a place at the bar and ordered a whiskey. Charlie made his way over.

  “Well, if it isn’t Mick! What’s wrong, chap? You look like you’ve come down with something,” he said.

  I liked him, so I let him get away with calling me Mick.

  “Ah, I guess it’s Poland’s turn,” I muttered, hunched over three fingers of Jameson’s.

  “That’s the way it looks, old boy, sorry to say. I’m sure I’ll be recalled and sent to the front, once Britain declares war.” His words were mingled with sorrow, yet tinged with excitement. Another round or two, and old Charlie’d be in his cups.

  He moved closer and whispered in my ear, “There might be a story down at the Gare du Nord.”

  I stared. “What kind of story?”

  “Trains packed with soldiers quietly leaving Paris, foreigners arriving from Germany, perhaps Poland, maybe even Danzig.” He looked at me slyly and downed his scotch. “I’m going over there myself, lad. That is, as soon as I quench my thirst.”

  I perked up a bit. Despite being played for a fool in love, I still had a nose for a story. And it was beginning to itch.

  “Maybe I’ll head over there.” I slid off the barstool.

  “Attaboy, Mick.” He sa
luted me and downed another shot. If Charlie didn’t get out of there soon, he’d be pissed in an hour and crying over his lost story. Maybe I’d share if he promised to buy the next thousand rounds.

  I took a taxi over to the Gare du Nord. When I arrived at the station, controlled chaos greeted me. People glanced furtively around and avoided eye contact. Soldiers were everywhere. I leaned on a post and surveyed the scene. Surrounding me were hundreds of desperate souls looking for a way out, or a way in. A German family huddled next to me arguing about whether to go home to the fatherland or stay in France with relatives.

  “Stay here,” I advised them in German. They stopped speaking and stared at me. I didn’t care what anyone thought. It seemed like the end of the world. I strolled through the station, looking for the arrivals, especially the connections from Poland.

  Then I stopped in my tracks and backed up against a torn poster advertising travel to Marseilles. God had stepped in once again to torture me or to test me. I had a ridiculous thought that perhaps it was punishment for my sins. I looked up at the ceiling, half expecting a lightning bolt to descend from heaven at any moment.

  Claire Duncan stood in a corner apart from everyone else. She wore a fitted, very sober gray suit, and a matching hat. She leaned against a wall and watched the crowd with a sad little smile. Glancing at her watch, she sighed. She dropped her cigarette and ground it out. She bent down and picked up her leather valise and moved away.

  I followed her. I had a right to know why she stood me up, and where she was going. And if those kisses we’d shared had meant anything to her. Then I’d demand that she tell me for whom she was working. I’d report back to the Brits, gather my wits about me, and get my life back. I’d make sure no dame ever did this to me again.

  Claire stood on the platform waiting for her train, looking like a forlorn sparrow amid the masses of people surrounding her. I asked a harried porter about the destination of the train scheduled to depart from the platform.