by Mj Roë
“It would be our pleasure if you would be our guests for dinner. Maria is a very good cook. If she is making an Italian specialty, we are all in for a treat.”
Anna and Mark smiled and nodded at each other. Of course, they would stay, she said.
Jean-Paul placed a log on the fire. It sputtered and crackled. “The Beaujolais Nouveau has just arrived,” he told Guy de Noailles. “We bought a case of it today.”
“Magnifique. We’ll have it with our dinner. I hope it’s good this year,” Guy said.
With that, the chauffeur and the housekeeper left the room. Pots and pans clanged; dishes and silverware rattled. Maria would sing arias in Italian to the chopping of vegetables all the rest of the afternoon. In an hour, the entire house would be filled with the delicious aroma of chicken and mushrooms and tomatoes stewing in herbs.
Anna excused herself and found le cabinet. The small space was painted a deep emerald green, and it had a black-and-white checkerboard tiled floor. A dozen gold-framed engravings of scenes of rural France filled the wall. Anna looked at herself in the beveled, heart-shaped, black-framed mirror. She couldn’t help feeling that her grandfather had led her to Guy de Noailles, that maybe he was with her now.
When she returned to the study, Puccini was snuggled in Mark’s lap, asleep. Mark stroked the little dog’s ear.
“This dog,” he said, “even looks like an Italian composer. Look at that shaggy hair.” It was true. The dog had not been given the typical coif of the Parisian poodle.
Soft snores came from the chair by the fire. Guy de Noailles too had fallen asleep.
Anna went over to look at the photos on the round table. There was something about the picture of the members of the Résistance movement in the barn-like structure that intrigued her.
The old man coughed in his sleep and awakened.
“Were they all French?” she asked him, pointing to the photo.
He shifted drowsily in his chair and sat up, clearing his throat.
“Technically, yes. Two of them were Corsican.”
“Two? Which two?” She studied the photo carefully.
“The two with the berets. The one in front, and the other toward the back. You can’t see him very well.”
Something told Anna not to let this go. After all, Stu Ellis had also known a Corsican during the war. Maybe Guy de Noailles could provide the clue she so desperately needed.
“Do you have any other photos of the Corsicans?”
Mark was watching her.
“Just one,” Guy said. “It’s toward the back of the table. The small one in color over there to the right, with the dark frame.”
Anna picked it up. There were two men in the photo. They were posed on a hilltop overlooking the sea. The scenery was very beautiful. The older man in a beret appeared to be the same one who was in the group photo. Both of the men were suntanned. They had white shirts open at the collar and scarves tied around their necks. The older man had put his arm over the shoulder of the younger, who had a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth. Neither smiled, but they didn’t look unhappy.
“Is this the same man as in the other photo?”
“Yes. But it’s several years later. He was with his son in Corsica.”
Anna looked at it closely. The son’s face was unmistakable. She grabbed her purse and took out a photo. “Look at this, Mark. Do you think this is the same person?” She sat down beside him and held the photo side by side with the framed photo from the table.
“I found this in one of my grandparents’ albums.” She pointed to the girl in the photo. “That’s my mother when she was about seventeen. There were no names written in the album and nothing on the back of the photo. I just have a feeling that the young man in this photo was my father.”
Guy de Noailles looked at them curiously, not understanding.
Mark studied both photos carefully. After a few minutes, he said, “I believe they are the same person, Anna. In fact, I’m sure they are. There are too many similarities: the black curly hair, the mole under his eye, the cleft in the chin, the way he holds his head.”
She held her breath. “Monsieur,” she said to Guy de Noailles. “What are the names of the father and son in this photo? Do you remember?”
“But of course, my dear. Diamanté is my good friend. Loupré-Tigre is his last name. His son was his namesake. Why would that be important to you?”
CHAPTER 22
Anna didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She hugged Mark. “That’s the name my grandfather gave me, but he could only remember the first name and something about a wolf or tiger or something.”
Guy de Noailles was watching her patiently.
“Monsieur,” she said, “from what my grandfather told me just before he died, the young man in this photo of yours is my father.” She handed him the photo from her grandparents’ album and told him as briefly as she could the story her grandfather had related on his deathbed.
He put on his reading spectacles and studied the two photos closely. Then he took off his spectacles and looked at her face. His eyes narrowed.
“Diamanté Loupré-Tigre has been my friend for over fifty years. We met as members of the Résistance during the last years of the war and have visited each other frequently. I have never heard Diamanté speak of a grandchild, Mademoiselle. He would have told me.”
“Do you know when this photo was taken?”
“Yes. Diamanté brought it when he visited me after his son’s death. He had a duplicate of it that he kept always tucked inside his beret. It was the last time he saw his son.”
“Then it could have been taken after Diamanté fils had been in California for training. He was possibly never aware of my mother’s pregnancy,” Anna said more or less to herself than to anyone in the room. The two men were silent, watching her.
“Monsieur….”
Holding up his hand, the old man stopped her from speaking. The tone of his voice softened.
“I believe it is time for you to call me Guy. We do not need to be so formal now. My friend Diamanté is like a brother to me. He would be most amazed at this story. I am sorry that he is not here to hear it. If he is indeed your grandfather…”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Non. The last I heard from him was in August. He was on his way to Paris. There was something important going on. He was asking for my son-in-law’s phone number in Rouen. That’s all he could tell me. I have not heard from him since.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Non, again. He has been known to disappear from time to time. Mostly, it’s that he goes back to Corsica. But I have become worried as Christmas approaches. We always contact each other during the holidays.”
“Tell me about Diamanté.” Anna wanted to learn everything she could about her Corsican grandfather. At that point, Mark leaned over to her.
“Guess it’s time to leave you two alone. I’m going out for a walk. Get some fresh air. I’d like to see what that town square looks like lit up at night.”
She nodded and watched him put on his jacket and gloves. He opened the front door, giving her a quick, reassuring look as he closed it behind him.
“He’s a nice young man,” Guy said.
“Tell me about Diamanté,” Anna repeated her request.
“His full name is Diamanté Soudain Loupré-Tigre,” he began. Guy de Noailles knew Diamanté’s story well. “During the war, we all called him le loup, the wolf, because of the way he would follow you with his piercing eyes. He’s tough, that one, and he has weathered a lot of storms. He is the type of man who never stands by to let events take their course, and he is not afraid of death.” He paused and took a sip of tea.
“But I must go back to the beginning, Anna. Diamanté was born in Castagglione, on the east coast of the island of Corsica. He is younger than I am, by more than a decade. He must be almost seventy-five by now. He left Corsica at around the age of fifteen and became a metallurgical worker outside M
arseilles. When the war started, he must have been about eighteen. From the very beginning, he helped organize resistance to the occupation. He operated out of the unoccupied zone in the south. Northern France was in the occupied zone. It was virtually impossible for fliers shot down over the Channel or over Normandy to escape via the coast. As the Résistance activities became more critical to the war effort, a group was formed in Rouen—Les Amis Clandestins, they called themselves. Les Amis worked tirelessly to rescue people who were in danger. They sent the ‘evaders,’ as we called the rescued fliers like your grandfather, to Diamanté by train. He hid them until the network could supply them with civilian clothes and money and then escorted them to the railway station. The escape line was an elaborate route that took the ‘evaders’ eventually out of France, sometimes via air, sometimes via boat. Sometimes they were hidden in monasteries for months while false papers were made out. They were taught how to ‘behave’ and given cover stories to rehearse if they were caught. It was an incredible effort.
“The original name for the Résistance was the maquis. It was coined in Corsica after the name for the dense hillside undergrowth that covers the lowlands. There were about two hundred members of the maquis in northern France. We fought to the death and were prepared to cut our own wrists to avoid capture and torture that could wring from us information fatal to our fellows.
“Diamanté and I participated together in both escape lines until he was captured. He never talked much about the experience. I only got un bon morceau, a tidbit, every so often as a clue.” He cleared his throat and fingered the top of his walking stick. “The story I know to be true about when he was captured was that the enemy set out to break him. Enraged at his obstinacy, they threatened to shoot him on the spot. When that didn’t work, they locked him in a dark hut with a corpse, then, finally, threw him in a prison. His health was not good for years as a result of the severe beatings he endured during the interrogations. He still bears a scar on his head where he was struck by a rifle butt. Finally, he managed to flee from a hospital where he had been placed under surveillance after attempting suicide. As the war progressed, he assisted in thousands of escapes from France. He should have been one of France’s most decorated Résistance heroes, but he went back to Corsica after the war was over. I think he didn’t want the notoriety. Quand même, he is still well-respected,” he hesitated, “among those who remember, for his courage.”
“What did he do after he went back to Corsica when the war was over?”
“Ah, now there’s a love story for you, Anna. He didn’t go back to Castagglione, but to the other side of the island, to the capital, Ajaccio. That’s where he met Clotilde. She was a pretty one. Dark hair, eyes like yours. Diamanté would have married her the day he met her, he was so much love-struck. As it was, the Corsican ways prevailed, and they had to wait. He set out to learn the restaurant business, and he worked hard to prove himself to her family. Finally, the marriage was granted, and they were very happy. She died several years ago. I don’t recall when, but it was a year or so after their son was killed. They were both heartbroken. He was a handsome young man, their only child.”
Guy eased himself out of his chair and went over to the fireplace. He stood for a long time, staring into the fire. He looked up at the photos on the mantel, took the one of his and Marguerite’s wedding in his hands and fondled it for a moment, then put it down. He turned around and looked at Anna. His eyes were moist.
“I’m sorry. I was just remembering my Marguerite.” He sighed. “Ah, those were such good times back then after the war was over. The country was in ruins, but we had hope and each other. Eventually things got better, and we were busy with the day-to-day work of living. Time goes by fast. Suddenly, you are white-haired like me and…” He didn’t finish the sentence. His voice just trailed off.
“Does Diamanté have any relatives?”
“As far as I know, Diamanté is all alone now. He had a brother, Ferdinand, who lived in Paris. He participated in the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans, or Snipers and Partisans, in the Paris region. That was the group that organized the uprising against the occupiers the week before the liberation of Paris in August 1944. He is no longer living. His wife still lives in Paris, as far as I know.”
“Does Diamanté still live in Corsica?”
“Non. He moved again to the south of France a few years ago. His health improved considerably. Recently, he has occupied himself with his own restaurant. I visited him once after he first bought the place. It’s in a very quaint village, even quainter than Obernai, about twenty kilometers from Nice. The village had just three hotels, two restos, a single boulangerie, and a chocolaterie in a convent when I visited. I don’t know if it has grown since. Probably not. His plan was to name the resto ‘Ajaccio,’ but it didn’t have a sign yet when I visited. He specializes in Corsican cuisine, which has a highly distinctive flavor because of the herbs, olive oil, and spices. The food is very rustic—roasted meats, cooked-down stews, and thick soups with white beans. He uses the same herbs in his restaurant that grow in the maquis: thyme, marjoram, basil, fennel, and rosemary. Ah, such aromas in that restaurant. And such flavor in the food. And he serves Corsican wines.” He put his fingers to his lips. “But I digress.” His thick, white eyebrows knit together in worry. “I tried to call him several times recently. He hasn’t been seen or heard from since August. Three months is a long time for him to be away without letting someone know where he is.”
CHAPTER 23
Guy was just finishing Diamanté’s story when Mark opened the front door. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and his down jacket glistened with drops of rain.
“Ah, Marco!” Maria was at the dining room door. “Come taste the cacciatora for me. I need true Italian taster.”
Mark’s face gleamed. “Sì, signora. Be delighted.” He hung his jacket on a coat rack in the foyer, winked at Anna, and followed Maria obediently into the kitchen.
Five minutes later, the summons came from Maria in the dining room.
“Attenzione! Le dîner, it is served.”
Anna and Mark took seats at one end of the table. Puccini settled in beneath Maria’s chair at the other.
“Jean-Paul and Maria have been my family for so many years that we always dine together,” Guy explained.
They opened the year’s new wine, and Guy tasted it, swirling it in his mouth approvingly. “Berries,” he remarked. “It tastes like berries this year.”
Anna explained to Mark. “Beaujolais Nouveau is released every year on the third Thursday of November. There are signs in all the restaurants which announce its arrival. Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivé! Then the favorite pastime is to determine what it tastes like. This year, I guess, its taste is like berries.”
Mark took a sip. “It does taste like berries. Very light.” They all seemed to understand that Mark liked the wine, and they beamed at his approval.
“Buono appetit,” Maria said as she served the first course, an Italian meatball soup. As they ate, Maria went on to Mark in English about all the American movies she had seen. He politely acknowledged them, at one point leaning over to Anna and whispering that he had no idea whether some of the titles even existed or not. Maria seemed to mix English with French and Italian in such a way as to make the movie titles seem entirely unidentifiable.
They finished the soup, and Maria got up to go into the kitchen. She returned with a huge platter of ravioli. Next came the pièce de résistance: the main course chicken cacciatore served with roasted potatoes and crusty, homemade bread.
“This is so good,” Anna remarked, giggling as Mark surreptitiously slipped a tidbit of bread under the table to Puccini.
Salad followed, French style because, as Maria explained, Guy always insisted, and then the dessert, a luscious cannoli.
Over coffee, translation ceased. Mark caught a word here and there, but he was mostly the spectator watching fascinating human dynamics. Jean-Paul, too, was silent, sitting with his finge
rtips together, nodding his bald head occasionally, smiling. Guy reminisced about how he had come to hire Jean-Paul and Maria, how Nathalie had been such a darling child, how they had all doted over her.
Anna remembered something that Guy had said during the afternoon. “You said your son-in-law is in Rouen? Is that where Nathalie went to live after she was married?”
“Yes. She was only a young girl when the war ended, but my son-in-law had seen her. He came back for her about five years later. They were married in 1952. I was not so thrilled about his crusty temperament, but he owned a restaurant, so I forgave him. She was very much in love with him.”
Anna recalled a photo she had seen on the mantel. “Did they have a child? There is a baby in the photo on the mantel.”
“Yes, a little boy. We all called him Charlie. Nathalie would bring him every summer to visit me in Strasbourg. Have you ever seen the astronomical clock in the cathedral, Anna?”
Odd question, Anna thought. Does everyone obsess about that clock in Strasbourg?
“It’s quite amazing.” The old man went on eagerly before Anna could reply to his question. “The clock is seven stories tall. In the center is the perpetual calendar, to the right the solar and lunar equations. Above the perpetual calendar pass the seven divinities standing for the seven days of the week. On Sunday, Apollo appears with his sun horses. On Monday, it’s Diana with her stag. On Tuesday, Mars with his war horse. On Wednesday, Mercure with his lynxes. On Thursday, Jupiter and his eagle. On Friday, Venus with her pigeons, and on Saturday, Saturn devouring a child.” He went on, with a twinkle in his eye, remembering the whole scene in minute detail.
Maria filled his cup and rolled her eyes at Jean-Paul. They had heard the story a thousand times. It was time to clear the dishes.
Not noticing their departure, Guy took a sip of the coffee and continued on as if in a trance, as if the spectacle were right there in front of him.