by Lynn Bushell
It’s when Renée sees its mouth that she knows this cat isn’t going anywhere. Its lips are drawn back on its teeth, its mouth half open. It’s not only dead but it’s been dead for some time. Renée prods it gently, but there isn’t any doubt about it. Did it crawl up to the top floor before dying, or did someone leave it there? She needs to make sure that there isn’t any message underneath it. But perhaps this is the message. Renée looks at it. She’s sorry that the cat’s been made to suffer. She hopes it was dead to start with and not killed just so that somebody could leave it on her landing.
She will have to take it downstairs to the dustbins in the yard. In half an hour Margo will be home. She goes into the flat and fetches half a dozen copies of Le Figaro piled up behind the kitchen door for throwing out. She wraps the cat in newssheet, cradling its head while she attempts to loop the paper round it. The scent coming from its mouth suggests it has already started rotting on the inside. Renée turns her head away.
‘How long has it been going on?’ No use now trying to pretend that everything is as it should be. She’d run into Margo on the stairs as she was carrying the cat down to the yard. The first thing Margo looked at was the bundle in her arms. ‘What’s that?’
‘It’s only rubbish,’ Renée was about to say, but she would have felt outraged on the cat’s behalf if she had said that. ‘It’s a dead cat.’
‘What’s it doing outside our apartment?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps it crawled up there to die.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Cats crawl off into corners or behind the furniture to die.’ She folded back the paper from its head. ‘It’s been dead ages.’
‘Maybe it was poisoned.’
‘Maybe it was left there purposely by somebody who knew you’d find it.’
Renée suddenly felt weary. Marguerite’s determined silence had begun to wear her down, but not as much as this continual insinuation that she’d somehow brought things on herself. ‘I don’t know who would do that.’
‘Don’t you?’ Marguerite’s eyes narrowed. ‘Think about it.’
‘I have thought about it.’
‘I suppose you think about it every Wednesday afternoon while you’re pretending to be helping your friend Gabi with her wedding preparations, or behaving like a normal daughter, visiting your mother.’
‘If you must know, I’ve been working somewhere else on Wednesday afternoons.’ It’s out before she can do anything about it. ‘I was having trouble finding my half of the rent and there aren’t many jobs that you can do one afternoon a week.’
‘And what is it, precisely, that you do?’
‘I help an artist in his studio.’
‘What help would you be to an artist?’
When she tells her, Renée has the feeling Marguerite already knows exactly what she does. She just wants Renée to condemn herself by saying it out loud.
‘How old is he?’
‘I don’t know. In his forties, I suppose.’
The look that Marguerite is giving her is pitiless. She brushes past her and goes on up to the next floor. Renée goes down to the yard and lays the cat as delicately as she can among the other detritus. She says a prayer for it before she puts the lid down. If the rubbish isn’t covered up, the foxes get at it.
In the apartment, Marguerite is sitting at the table with a pile of papers. Once they’ve eaten, she spreads out the documents again and reaches for her glasses.
‘Don’t you want to talk about it?’
‘What’s the point? You did it without asking me. Why would you bother taking my advice now?’
‘You’d have disapproved. That’s why I didn’t mention it.’
‘Of course I disapprove. If Mademoiselle Lefèvre knew how you were spending your half-days off from the perfume counter, you would lose your job. Then what?’
The dirty plates from dinner are still on the table. One of Margo’s papers lies next to the blob of gravy Renee had spilt to disguise the bloodstain on the cloth. She wonders whether she should move the plates into the sink and wipe the table down, but she’s afraid that Marguerite will think she isn’t listening to her if she does.
‘It isn’t me you’ve let down, Renée. It’s yourself. Well, and your family, of course. I can imagine how your brother would react.’
‘You won’t say anything to them?’ says Renée, tightly.
Margo fixes her. ‘You know what really hurts me, Renée? No, let’s say what really disappoints me, is the fact that you deceived me. I thought our relationship was based on trust.’
‘I would have told you in the end.’
‘It’s just as well, because as far as I’m concerned this is the end.’
There is a pause while Renée takes in what she’s just said. ‘You don’t mean it . . .’
‘There’s no point in our continuing to live together. It would be dishonest.’
‘No!’ Why does the thought of Marguerite abandoning her terrify her so? For two years, Marguerite’s dictated every move she makes. Becoming Pierre’s model is her one act of rebellion. At the start it carried no more weight than treating herself to a matinee or buying chocolates and then eating all of them at once.
‘Don’t go.’
‘It’s you who would be leaving, Renée.’ Marguerite gives her a faint smile
‘But I haven’t . . .’
‘Haven’t anywhere to go? Perhaps you should have thought of that.’
‘I didn’t think . . .’
‘Precisely.’ Marguerite sighs. ‘That’s the problem, isn’t it?’
If Renée cries in front of her, she knows that this will signal some new phase in their relationship, a phase in which whatever slender ground she held, has now been occupied.
‘I’m sorry if you think I let you down.’
‘I’ve told you, Renée, it’s yourself you’re letting down. You either give up working for this man or you start looking for a new apartment.’
‘Why? It’s not as if . . .’ She bites her lip.
‘It’s not as if what? Dead cats, letters telling you that you’re a trollop? What more does it take?’
‘It’s not as if what I’ve been doing is a sin or something.’
Marguerite gives her a long look. ‘You’re a wretched little liar, Renée, and if you’re not careful soon you’ll be a wretched little whore.’
‘I haven’t . . .’
She puts up her hand. ‘Don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear about it. I’m just telling you the way these things go. You might think it’s all right, but in six months’ time when this man’s had enough of you, you’ll end up opening your legs for one of those mille-feuilles you’ve always been so keen on.’
‘That’s a dreadful thing to say.’
‘Believe me, I know how the world works, Renée. You have no idea.’
It’s over. In the minutes afterwards, there is a lull – the sort that follows an explosion; then an echo. She’s not sure if it’s the echo of the silence or the echo of the noise preceding it. She hears a rumble in the distance that could be the sound of thunder. It expands into a roar; then suddenly the noise is all around her. It’s the guns, she thinks. They haven’t stopped. They promised, and they haven’t stopped. But as it grows, the rumble gradually transforms itself into the sound of voices cheering. People pour onto the streets. They’re waving flags and banners; soldiers throw their caps into the air; she sees a small boy shinny up a lamp post and pin streamers to the metal hood over the light. As he is sliding down again, his breeches snag against the rough edge of the metal stanchions and he lets go, hanging in the air a moment while the crowd gasps. Renée thrusts her way towards the edge. The shouting blends into what sounds to her ears like a keening dirge – the kind that cows make when their calves are taken from them. She keeps walking, but she feels hands pawing at her. Strangers throw their arms around her. They want her to join them; it’s a party nobody must be left out of. Renée isn’t certain what she feels. Then suddenly she knows.
She feels old.
B
He would like to close the windows, but without the draught of air the studio would be oppressive. They must be the only people left in Paris who aren’t on the streets. The Stars and Stripes are pinned onto the front of every shop in every quarter, hanging out of windows and taped to the front of cabs and trolleybuses. Music is erupting from a hundred different sources – violins, accordions, street vendors selling paper flags and ticker tape and, somewhere in the distance, the battalions marching from the Rond Point to la Concorde.
Renée gives a quick glance at the window. ‘They’ve begun the march past. Shall we go and look?’
‘I doubt we’d get within a mile of it.’
‘We’d hear it, though.’
‘But we can do that just as well from here.’ He takes the sketchbook from the worktop and begins to draw. They work for quarter of an hour and then Pierre puts down the crayon.
Renée shifts her weight onto the other leg. ‘Why have you stopped?’
‘You’re tense. Why don’t you take a break?’
She straightens up and presses one hand to her back. She has been waiting for the break to tell him that she isn’t coming to the studio again. That it should be today of all days, when the whole of Paris is out celebrating. Pierre will think she isn’t capable of making up her own mind, or that she is letting Margo bully her. He’ll tell her to stand up to her and Renée knows she can’t. She wanders over to the window and looks out over the street.
‘You’d better put your wrap on.’
‘Nobody can see me up here.’ They can hear the sound of the parade now. The whole building starts to tremble.
‘Let’s hope the enthusiasm isn’t premature. What better triumph for the Germans than a raid on Independence Day.’
‘We’ve managed to survive raids up till now.’ And so what if we didn’t? she thinks. Everything she looks at, everything she touches in the studio, she tells herself she’s touching for the last time. She will leave here when the session’s over and she won’t be coming back. The studio has been as much her home as the apartment in the rue des Peupliers. The room is littered with her personal possessions. She will leave them, she decides. She doesn’t want him to forget her. He will find another girl to pose for him, a girl who when she goes into the cubicle to take her clothes off for the first time will detect the faint scent of the previous incumbent.
When she goes back to the flat this evening, Marguerite will be there waiting for her. They’ll sit down to dinner. Marguerite will be solicitous; she won’t want to be seen to crow. I ought to hate her, Renée thinks, but she is fearful of the future Marguerite’s predicted for her. Life is merciless to girls who break the rules.
An engine roars and splutters overhead and there’s a sudden eerie silence as the crowd looks up into the sky to see if the bombardment has begun. But it turns out to be a Liberty Machine. The engine stutters and then fires as if at any moment it might cut out altogether. As the pilot swoops and dives over the crowd, it breaks into spontaneous applause and there are shouts of ‘Plus! Plus!’ Renée stares up at the sky.
‘For God’s sake, Renée. Come away and put on a kimono. Someone’s bound to see you.’ She comes back into the room and starts to pull her clothes on. ‘Are you getting dressed?’
‘I’m going down.’
He reaches for his jacket. ‘You can’t go down by yourself. All right; we’ll both go.’
Once they’re on the pavement they’re immediately swallowed up into the crowd. There’s no choice but to let themselves be swept along in the direction of the Champs Elysées. They can hear the tramp of marching feet. A mutilé de guerre, without legs, is careering round the square on wooden slats with wheels attached. He has a tray of paper flags. The boy is barely twenty. He’s lost everything but he’s still cheering. ‘I’m not finished yet,’ he says. ‘They haven’t seen the last of me.’
The band is followed by the march past. First in line are the Marines, still in their uniforms with battle stains and tin hats. Women rush out of the crowd, bombarding them with flowers. Some are tucking notes with their addresses in the pockets of the soldiers’ uniforms. It isn’t just the city that’s been liberated.
Renée catches sight of Roussel in his white suit. He is standing back, a cigarette in one hand, casually looking on as if what’s happening in front of him has no connection with him. From the way he’s leaning back against the wall, she sees that he’s already drunk. A woman steps out of the crowd towards him. She stands with her face up close to his and says something. He looks away. She puts her mouth up to his ear and Roussel snorts. He looks over her shoulder to where Renée’s standing. She’s not certain if he’s seen her.
On an impulse, Renée breaks away and hurls herself into the line. She flings her arms around the neck of a Marine and kisses him. The soldier laughs and whispers something. They walk on a few yards with their heads together.
Pierre looks on, stonily. She makes her way back through the crowd and stands beside him. ‘What’s the matter?’ she curls one hand round his arm and nuzzles up against him. When she looks back, she sees Roussel’s disappeared. The woman has, too.
‘Quieten down. You’re acting like a schoolgirl.’
‘It’s a celebration. Can’t we just be happy for an hour or two?’ The look he gives her isn’t one she’s seen before. ‘What are you thinking?’
Pierre looks away. ‘You should be celebrating with your own friends – people of your own age.’
Renée isn’t sure she has friends of her own age any more. ‘I’d rather be with you.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I just would.’
His mouth twitches. ‘What a funny little creature you are.’
‘What about you? Would you rather have been back in Saint-Germain with Marthe?’
‘Marthe won’t be celebrating. She was never for the war. She thinks it’s an abomination.’
‘Do you think all this is wrong, then?’
‘No, of course it isn’t. People have a right to celebrate. They’ve had enough of suffering. It’s harder for my generation. It’s not only that you’ve seen it all before; you know that you’ll be seeing it again.’
‘There couldn’t be another war.’
‘Let’s hope not.’
‘If it had gone on another year, my brother would have joined up.’
‘That sounds like another reason to be grateful that it ended when it did.’
‘Why not enjoy it, then?’
‘When you’re as old as I am, you’ll discover nothing makes much difference to the way you live. Provided I could still get hold of paint and canvas, I would have survived whichever side had won.’
‘But still you’re pleased it’s our side, aren’t you?’
‘I doubt either of us would be standing here now, had it gone the other way, so yes, I’m pleased it’s our side.’
By the time the soldiers have passed out of earshot, it’s late afternoon. The crowd breaks into factions and goes off in search of further entertainment. Every street is littered with small paper flags. Now the excitement’s over, Renée’s mood begins to darken. She’s already later than she said she’d be and she has not said anything to Pierre.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Pierre says.
‘So are you?’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘It was wonderful. I’m glad we came.’
‘Yes, so am I.’ He tucks her arm through his. She leans her head against his shoulder.
‘Let me take you out to dinner. Why not round the day off pleasantly?’ Her face lights up and then the light goes out of it again. ‘We could start with champagne at Maxim’s. How does that sound?’
‘That sounds lovely.’ She’s about to say she has to go, that Marguerite is waiting for her.
‘There’s no need to agonise.’ He laughs. ‘The choice is between dinner and an early night, that’s all.’
No, Renée thinks, that isn’t all.
She’s never been inside a restaurant as grand as this. It’s like a palace. Ornate mirrors with frames in the shape of trailing vines reflect her image everywhere she looks. The tables are divided by screens filled with stained-glass images of poppies, irises and dragonflies. The dark red ceiling and the red banquettes add to the hothouse atmosphere. The waiter leads them to a table at the back. He pulls a chair out for her. Renée sits. She looks around her.
Pierre shakes out his napkin and she does the same. ‘This room is famous. It’s been decorated in a style called Art Nouveau. In 1899 it was the setting for an opera called The Merry Widow.’
‘It was set in this room?’
‘In this very room. For pudding you can have a Crêpe Veuve Joyeuse if you want.’
She takes the printed card the waiter hands her, casting her eyes down the list of dishes. Most of them she’s never heard of.
‘Would you rather have meat or a fish dish?’
‘You choose.’
‘Well, then, let’s have both.’
‘All on the same plate?’
He hands back the menu. ‘One after the other might be nicer.’
Renée sees the waiter smirk. He brings a bucket to the table with a bottle of champagne. He grins at Renée as he eases out the cork and it explodes into the air and shoots into her lap. She gives a little shriek. He makes a big show of apologising, reaching for the cork and tossing it into the air before he pockets it. He pours a little of the champagne into Pierre’s glass and he tastes it. Renée wonders why the waiter doesn’t serve her first. She waits. Pierre nods and the waiter comes to her side of the table.
Pierre is watching her the way you’d watch a child to see how it responded to a new experience and maybe to decide how safe it would be to repeat it. He leans over, tapping Renée’s glass with his. She takes a sip. The bubbles stay a moment on her tongue and start to fizzle in her nostrils.
