Secrets and Showgirls

by Catherine McCullagh

  Others in the company had clearly not shared her prescience. Furrowed brows and furtive looks accompanied whispers that many of the performers were seeking to obtain forged identity papers. The enormous, hirsute Napoleon paid another visit to Madame Gloria’s kitchen and was asked his advice on the purchase of forged papers.

  The heavy brows knitted, the dark complexion paled and the allencompassing grin disappeared as Napoleon quizzed Madame Gloria anxiously.

  ‘Is it for Mademoiselle Crecy?’ Madame Gloria smiled gently, well aware of her hairy friend’s predilection for the vampish singer.

  ‘Non, non, Monsieur, Mademoiselle Crecy has not expressed such a need to me.’

  The huge jaw swung closed and some colour returned to the big man’s face. He thought for a moment and then shook his head slowly.

  ‘Madame, I can find you a guide to escort your friends into Zone NonO — for a price, of course — but forged papers are a serious business, know what I mean?’ His shaggy head hung heavily as if bowed by the weight of his consideration. ‘I can enquire for you Madame, but the penalties ... know what I mean?’ Again he shook his head. Madame Gloria patted his hand as she had become accustomed to doing, and thanked him for his advice.

  ‘Please don’t trouble yourself, Monsieur,’ she told him gently, cautious lest her supplier take fright and the black market luxuries on which she and her tenants now depended dry up. ‘I am sure we will find a way to help these friends.’ She turned slightly towards her salon, its door ajar, and behind which several of these ‘friends’ waited to hear Napoleon’s answer. The air of disappointment was almost tangible. Gloria paused a moment as the door of the salon closed quietly behind her, before turning back to her giant black marketeer.

  ‘Monsieur, I have a little surprise for you,’ she whispered. The giant stopped unpacking his supplies and regarded her curiously, a bemused look adorning his face.

  ‘Mademoiselle Crecy,’ murmured Gloria quietly, ‘has agreed to meet you here in my salon.’ The big man’s face lit up and his mouth opened into a cavernous grin.

  ‘Oh, Madame, I am so happy!’ he whispered excitedly. ‘When? When will I meet her?’

  ‘Can you come tomorrow or the next day? Not early, mind, Mademoiselle Crecy must have her beauty sleep.’

  ‘Of course, Madame, name the day and the time and I will be there.’ His swarthy face had assumed a ruddy glow and his eyes glistened with barely suppressed excitement.

  ‘Very well, shall we say tomorrow at two o’clock?’

  ‘Madame, I shall be here at two o’clock on the very dot.’ Napoleon opened his mouth and closed it again, his brows knitting momentarily as if he considered some weighty problem.

  ‘I would like to bring her a gift ... know what I mean? What do you think ... chocolate? Coffee?’

  ‘Perhaps a little lipstick if you could manage it, Monsieur ...’ Gloria felt almost fraudulent as she inserted Crecy’s wishes into the open mind of this would-be suitor.

  ‘Of course, I can find some lipstick, that will present no problem at all. Er ... what colour do you think, Madame?’

  ‘Definitely red, Monsieur, in fact, the redder the better.’ The enormous face broke into a satisfied beam as Napoleon packed his bartered goods away and prepared to make his departure.

  ‘Our little secret, Madame?’

  ‘Of course, Monsieur, you can trust me absolutely.’

  Chapter 13

  A certain uniqueness

  The threatened inspection of Le Prix by German soldiers checking identity papers materialised in late October. Monsieur Maurice, an habitual early riser, was tallying bar stocks with Madame Lucille one Friday morning when a thunderous banging on the gilded doors of the theatre sent him searching for Cabot the janitor. For once, Cabot, who never seemed to leave the building, was nowhere to be found. Maurice emerged from the gloom of the theatre into the garish light of the foyer to be confronted by a squad of German soldiers.

  ‘Papers!’ Monsieur Maurice extracted his papers from his waistcoat pocket and handed them politely to the burly Wehrmacht sergeant who appeared to be in charge. The sergeant peered at him from under a cavernous helmet and over the top of the wad of papers.

  ‘You are the manager, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’

  ‘Where are your staff?’

  ‘Monsieur, this is a cabaret, so my staff are not here until the night. They are home resting.’ The sergeant glowered. Clearly this was not the answer he sought.

  ‘I want to see the papers of every person who works here.’

  ‘Of course, Monsieur, I would be very happy to oblige. Shall I go and find them for you?’ The sergeant opened his mouth to agree but changed his mind. He eyed Maurice who, he suspected, might warn any aliens and undesirables that a search was on. No, he would catch these people unawares, then there would be no escape. He allowed a small smile to cross his broad face.

  ‘No, no, Monsieur,’ he replied slowly, suddenly good humoured and wagging his finger at Maurice playfully, ‘you just tell me where they live and I will call on them personally.’

  Now Maurice realised he had been trapped. His mind worked feverishly to summon an excuse as the sergeant waited patiently. It was no good; his mind refused to work and he cursed himself for his carelessness.

  ‘Of course, Monsieur, they live in the apartment directly behind Le Prix. If you would care to follow me, I will show you.’

  Monsieur Maurice was hit by a sudden despondency as if this would be his final walk in freedom. He had hoped to last longer, to perhaps help in some tiny way to rid his country of the invader, but he had instead failed in his primary duty in the first months of the occupation. He had failed to keep his people safe.

  The little party trudged down the alleyway at the back of Le Prix, the soldiers stamping in their heavy black boots and the sergeant tripping happily in anticipation of a juicy catch. This would please his lieutenant who tended to be very exacting and had refused him leave for the past two weeks. Already plans for a night of carousing were forming in his mind. Maurice trudged next to him, his head down and his attitude forlorn. He reeked of despondency. His mind continued to search for an escape, any escape that would see these soldiers leave and blight his world no further. The cheery front of Madame Gloria’s apartment boarding house rose to meet him, lines of potted plants on the steps and bright red curtains waving gaily in the fresh morning breeze. The innocent homeliness of Madame Gloria’s little abode only served to deepen Monsieur Maurice’s sense of betrayal. His people were like lambs and he was bringing the slaughterers to call. Maurice could have wept. The sergeant turned to him with a smile, stopping him in his tracks.

  ‘This is the place?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur,’ murmured Maurice from the depths of his misery. The sergeant beamed.

  ‘We will proceed from here, you need trouble yourself no further. You have been very helpful.’ Maurice felt gutted. But for thirty pieces of silver he could have been Judas Iscariot. He watched as the sergeant hammered on the door to be greeted by Madame Gloria’s silvery tones.

  ‘One moment please, I am on my way!’ Her brassy coiffed head appeared framed in the doorway and Maurice watched as surprise followed by alarm registered on her face.

  ‘Papers!’ bellowed the sergeant. Maurice tried vainly to move around the soldiers and speak to her. He gave up and called to her from the back.

  ‘Madame, they seek only to check the papers of your tenants.’ At the sound of his voice, the alarm disappeared from Madame Gloria’s face. This was not a healthy sign and Maurice realised with dismay that she was at least halfway through her morning bottle of champagne.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ she called gaily as if welcoming a visiting parish priest. ‘My papers are here in the kitchen ... can I offer you a glass —’ the rest of the conversation was lost to Maurice in the thunder of the soldiers’ boots and the harrumphing of the sergeant who was clearly unable to believe that this lady was intoxicated by nine o’clock
in the morning.

  Maurice followed the soldiers into the apartment, waiting anxiously outside Madame Gloria’s kitchen in case she needed assistance. But Madame Gloria was evidently capable of looking after herself. The soldiers emerged into the hallway, their impassive faces buried under their capacious helmets. The sergeant followed them a minute or so later wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Maurice smiled wanly. Madame Gloria’s offer of a glass of champagne had apparently been accepted and now contributed to the sergeant’s mounting good humour. Maurice swallowed the tiny morsel of hope that had offered itself as he climbed the stairs in the wake of the thundering jackboots. Madame Gloria was impeccably French, but the shady pasts of those who lived upstairs were a mystery to him and they were determined that this should remain so. As the sergeant hammered on the first door, Maurice’s heart leapt into his mouth. No answer. The soldiers kicked the door open and stood aside to allow their superior to enter. The sergeant paused outside the door and threw Maurice a knowing look edged with a triumphal glint. Maurice knew that whatever sins were discovered in that room would also be undeniably his. This was collective guilt in its purest form. Again he was pierced by the pang of regret that he had failed to protect his company.

  Having paused dramatically in the doorway, the sergeant now puffed his chest and swaggered into the room to be greeted by a woman’s scream and a shouted stream of voluble German. The soldiers reeled and backed away from the room, standing behind Maurice in their confusion as if he would somehow protect them from what lay within. A solid figure was ejected violently from the room and fell in a heap at Maurice’s feet. It was the sergeant. He lay, momentarily winded as the door opened again and his helmet landed with a thud on his generous belly. Maurice stood dumbfounded. He had no idea whose room this was, although he knew that a number of the showgirls boarded with Madame Gloria. The sergeant picked himself up, restored his helmet and straightened his uniform. Then, his face glowing crimson, he bellowed to his men and the little group thundered down the stairs, out the door and down the alleyway towards the Boulevard de Clichy.

  A little later, having calmed his nerves with a tiny cup of Madame Gloria’s black market coffee, Monsieur Maurice emerged into the daylight. For a moment he stood on the steps of the apartment boarding house recalling the deepening anxiety with which he had earlier approached the building, convinced that he was the architect of an impending tragedy — most likely his own. As he stood he heard the clatter of boots on the stairs behind him and turned to see a tall, handsome German officer, resplendent in his dress uniform, emerge from the staircase. The officer paused momentarily as he passed Maurice.

  ‘Good morning, Monsieur,’ he murmured politely, ‘a beautiful day despite the chill.’ He smiled and was gone, striding purposefully down the alleyway, a rather more poised echo of the sergeant’s squad and its hasty exit. Maurice smiled, almost dizzy with relief. He knew the company had been saved by the somewhat less savoury proclivities of one of his showgirls — of which, he reminded himself, he mutely disapproved. But the morning’s episode had reinforced in him the notion that leaving the girls to their proclivities was by far the best policy.

  Lily had woken in fright at the stamp of boots on the stairs and the hammering on the bedroom door further down the corridor from her. Fighting the urge to leap from her bedroom window and flee, she cautiously opened her door and peeped nervously through the crack. She was just in time to see the sergeant ejected violently and land at Monsieur Maurice’s feet, followed by his helmet, before making a hasty exit with his stamping squad at his heels. Lily had guessed immediately what had happened. It was only later, once the German officer had left, that she ventured out to the sitting area to smoke a cigarette and quiz her neighbours. Poppy joined her a moment later, plumping on the sofa, catching Lily’s eye and bursting into paroxysms of raucous laughter. Crecy emerged from his room wrapped in a padded oriental smoking jacket, silk pyjama pants and fluffy pink slippers. He drew languidly on a cigarette.

  ‘So,’ he pronounced, waiting for the two girls to recover their composure before directing a searching look at Poppy, ‘I see you have found someone appealing in the ranks of our newest patrons.’

  ‘Mmm, I have,’ replied Poppy, controlling her mirth and running her fingers through her strawberry blonde locks. ‘He’s very sweet ... his name’s Gunther.’

  ‘Ooh,’ responded Crecy with a shiver, ‘Gunther — what a manly name.’

  ‘Yes,’ retorted Poppy with added emphasis, ‘he is terribly manly.’ She threw Crecy a look that smacked of possessiveness before turning to Lily. ‘Quite apart from that, he could also be quite useful, he knows all sorts of people. And look what he gave me!’ She drew a small package from the depths of her substantial cleavage. ‘Chocolate!!’ chorused Crecy and Lily, their eyes widening and their faces melting as if they had confronted some vision from Heaven.

  ‘Oh Poppy,’ crooned Lily, ‘if he can get chocolate for you, imagine what else he could find!’

  ‘Butter,’ replied Poppy decidedly, ‘and real coffee. I’d do almost anything for a café au lait with a buttery brioche and a chocolate croissant.’

  ‘Roast beef,’ drooled Lily, her eyes now wearing a faraway look, ‘with potatoes, onions, carrots ... all in decent servings ... and fresh too.’

  ‘Caviar, mussels, oysters ... such divinely sensual creatures, don’t you think?’ murmured Crecy, running his tongue over deeply crimson lips.

  But the girls were not listening, transported instead to a time when the ever-present hunger pangs would be banished for good. Finally, Lily and Poppy looked at each other and sighed, begging a cigarette from Crecy to stifle their hunger, the frequent resort of the famished in occupied Paris.

  Crecy’s supply of cigarettes, chocolate and lipsticks had now become assured. Since his first meeting with Napoleon, the voluptuous singer had been showered with gifts of every description. Madame Gloria had worried herself to the point of illness that her supplier would discover the secret that lay beneath Crecy’s tantalising exterior and she would lose her only hope of supplementing the meagre rations available at the end of the interminable queues to those with valid ration cards. Many of Madame Gloria’s tenants did not possess ration cards and only she knew why. The clandestine hunt for forged papers had begun but, as yet, was showing no sign of success.

  Madame Gloria might have spared herself her night of anxiety over Napoleon’s meeting with Crecy. The hairy mechanic had arrived promptly at two o’clock on the day of the meeting, dressed in a deep black suit that could have graced an undertaker and which was obviously a legacy of his younger, more svelte days. The jacket was tightly buttoned and, Madame Gloria suspected, clearly meant to disguise the big man’s comfortable girth, while a bright orange striped tie added a touch of ostentation that seemed to bewilder its wearer. He clutched a fedora hat in one hand as he nervously adjusted his tie and tugged at a faded breast-pocket handkerchief that half-heartedly rebounded the striking colour of his tie. His hair was plastered to one side with what appeared to Madame Gloria to resemble tyre grease and he exuded cologne which struggled valiantly to overwhelm the customary smell of sweat. The besuited admirer grinned and looked anxious in turn, as Madame Gloria clapped her hands in delight.

  ‘Oh Monsieur, so handsome!’

  ‘Madame, I want to look my best for Mademoiselle Crecy ... is she here yet?’

  ‘Not yet, Monsieur, come and sit comfortably while I make a cup of coffee.’ So saying, Gloria led the bear-like black marketeer into her salon and left him to agonise over which lace-covered settee he should rumple with his large, untidy frame. As she returned to the kitchen she heard a distinctive clip-clop on the staircase.

  ‘Hellooo Glory,’ called Crecy in his husky, sing-song voice, ‘is that big, bad man here yet?’

  ‘Yes, dear, he’s waiting for you in the salon,’ and Gloria led Crecy into the neat little room where the expectant Napoleon perched uncomfortably on a floral sofa.

  ‘Ooh, what
a gorgeous man!’ exclaimed Crecy, jutting his bosom in Napoleon’s direction.

  ‘Mademoiselle Crecy ...’ Napoleon had risen to his feet and grasped his hat in one quivering hand where it flapped and fluttered like a captive bird. The swarthy mechanic was instantly tongue-tied and blushed furiously with embarrassment. But Crecy ignored the blushes and trotted to his side, taking his arm and plumping them both down on Madame’s Gloria’s most generous sofa.

  ‘I’ve been simply longing to meet you, dahling,’ chattered Crecy, ‘Glory tells me you’re so very clever ... especially at finding things.’ He winked at the blushing Napoleon and ploughed on, barely drawing breath. ‘You know, sometimes a gal needs a friend in this terrible world, and you’ve got “friend” written all over you, haven’t you, sweetie? Now, you simply must tell me all about yourself.’ Gloria left the little cups of black market coffee on the table along with some tiny cakes she had made with leftover bread minus the mould, some honey for which she had traded some of Monsieur Maurice’s cigars, a few raspberries and the last of Alain’s army chocolate ration. She closed the door and breathed a small sigh of relief. As long as Crecy ran the conversation, they were on relatively safe ground.

  An hour and a bottle of champagne later, the unlikely couple emerged, Crecy clutching Napoleon’s arm and pleading rehearsals.

  ‘Bye bye, pet, so luscious to have met you and thank you for my fabulous pressie. It’s just my colour.’ He flashed a gold-cased lipstick at Madame Gloria as he passed. ‘Glory, you really are a wonder ... what an adorable man ... so earthy and masculine. Bye bye, now!’ The heels clip-clopped towards the door as Crecy blew kisses over his shoulder at his new beau before disappearing up the stairs. Gloria turned to Napoleon who stood, clutching his hat and staring wistfully after the retreating vision. He sighed longingly and turned to Gloria.