The Secret Agent

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  ‘Maybe she is waiting for all of us,’ Valter replied.

  Sylvie’s scalp prickled. She could probably fend off one man, but not four. She hid her revulsion and gave him a smile, hoping it was just bravado. He straightened up and looked pleased with himself. Men were men, it appeared, whatever nationality they were.

  Without replying, she opened the door fully and stepped inside.

  Mirabelle had seen better days inside as well as out. The room went on further back than Sylvie had expected from the outside. Small circular tables were set for couples or groups in front of both sides of the door and throughout the room. Most were occupied. A raised stage area ran along the left side of the room. The bar covered the back-right-side wall. Between them was an arch covered with a pair of burgundy velvet curtains.

  Besides the stage was a piano where a dark-haired man in a black dinner jacket sat with his back to the door. He was currently playing something almost like jazz, with a languid rhythm that made Sylvie’s fingers begin to drum against the side of her leg. His lean frame moved sinuously from side to side as his fingers worked along the keyboard. As Sylvie watched, he reached up and caught the lit cigarette that was tucked behind one ear, took a quick drag and put it back without losing his rhythm. Though he was only half facing the audience, Sylvie was sure he must be aware that all eyes were on him.

  The club was dimly lit and the air was hazy with smoke. The intense odour of French cigarettes made Sylvie blink. Colognes and perfumes added another layer, and beneath that were the smells of warm bodies and alcohol.

  It was sleazy and exciting.

  The Germans had followed Sylvie inside and stood in the doorway, letting the cool air in. One of them clapped his hands and whistled loudly, a piercing sound that cut through the buzz of conversations harshly. The pianist stopped playing and glanced over his shoulder. He caught Sylvie’s eye, and she smiled instinctively. He remained stone-faced, shrugged and resumed playing, clearly dismissing her. Conversations resumed and the patrons went back to flirting or listening to the music.

  From between the curtains, a middle-aged man appeared, wearing shirtsleeves and a waistcoat. He walked across the floor with a smile.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen, mademoiselle. Is it a table for five?’

  ‘Well, fräulein,’ asked Valter, raising his eyebrows towards Sylvie. ‘Is it our night of fortune?’

  ‘Not tonight, gentlemen.’ Sylvie smiled with an air of regret she did not really feel and turned back to the waiter. ‘I am here to speak to the proprietor, on business.’

  ‘Business?’ The waiter narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you want?’

  Sylvie was aware of the four Germans behind her who were undoubtedly listening to the conversation. She was making a complete mess of things. Any second now she expected to feel hands on her arms, dragging her away on suspicion of being a spy.

  ‘I am a dancer. I wanted to ask him if he needs any girls to work here,’ she said. ‘I’m trying all the clubs in Nantes. If you don’t, do you know anywhere that might have an opening?’

  Behind her, the Germans made enthusiastic noises of encouragement. The waiter pursed his lips. Sylvie was dimly aware that the pianist had finished the song and had begun another, languid and quiet. Everyone in the club would be listening in to the conversation.

  ‘I am Monsieur Julien,’ the man said eventually. ‘I own this club. It is me you need to speak to.’

  Sylvie blushed. She had been convinced from his attire that he was staff, not management. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.’

  Monsieur Julien scrutinised her and seemed to come to a decision.

  ‘Let me attend my customers, then we can talk. Adele, see to these gentlemen, please.’ He snapped his fingers and a young, very pale blonde woman dressed in green silk came from behind the curtain. Adele paused to look Sylvie up and down then led the party of Germans away to an empty table, leaving Sylvie alone with Monsieur Julien.

  ‘Well, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘You have made quite an entrance. Do you have a name?’

  ‘Sylvie Duchene.’ It felt good to be reverting to her old name.

  He sucked his teeth. ‘I do need another dancer. My best girl got herself in the family way and left. But why should I employ you without credentials? Where have you been dancing?’

  Sylvie hesitated before answering, gathering her thoughts. ‘In Angoulême. The theatre was hit in the bombing raid two weeks ago. Fortunately, no one was performing at the time, but the troupe was disbanded as there was nowhere for us to perform.’

  ‘Let her dance, Herr Julien!’

  They both turned to the voice that had hollered from the back of the room. The Germans who had followed Sylvie inside were seated at a table now with a bottle of wine. They raised their glasses and cheered. Monsieur Julien crossed his arms and looked at Sylvie, assessing her. She wasn’t sure if the intervention had done her any favours, or quite the opposite.

  ‘I am quite particular in who I employ. You might not have all the skills I require.’

  He was right to be wary. Sylvie knew he was sympathetic to the Resistance, but she should have been introduced by Marcel, not appear alone. He was risking a lot by allowing a SOE agent to come within his walls, and Sylvie could not openly admit to the existence of the organisation. Not when surrounded by Germans.

  ‘Please,’ she begged, feeling desperation well inside her. ‘This wasn’t how I planned to ask.’

  She looked into Monsieur Julien’s eyes and was met with scrutiny in return. They looked like they belonged in an older face, dark and sharp. He glanced down at the suitcase at Sylvie’s feet then looked her up and down, taking in the sensible lace-up shoes and woollen skirt beneath her bottle-green coat.

  ‘Do you have clothes you can wear to dance?’ he asked after what felt like forever.

  ‘Most of my costumes were destroyed, but I have one good dress and my shoes,’ Sylvie answered. She had no idea what it must have taken to obtain them, but in the suitcase Marianne had given her there was a dress that would be perfect stage outfit along with a second dress, a skirt and two blouses for day to day wear. SOE prepared their agents well.

  ‘Good.’ Monsieur Julien drew Sylvie towards the back of the room, slipping his arm into hers, and leaned close. ‘You have a trial for one week. If anyone else arrives who I think is better, you will have to leave. Is that understood?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Sylvie let out a breath of relief.

  ‘Céline,’ Monsieur Julien called out sharply. A few moments later another pretty blonde woman stuck her head out from between the curtains. ‘We might have found a new dancer.’

  The woman raised an eyebrow in Sylvie’s direction.

  ‘You can put your things behind the curtain for now,’ Monsieur Julien said. ‘Watch tonight. Speak to the girls when they’re not onstage and see if you can learn some steps. Tomorrow afternoon, come here. You can perform with them, and I’ll decide then if you are suitable.’

  Sylvie held out her hand. ‘Thank you, monsieur, you won’t regret this.’

  He gave her another level stare. ‘Make sure I don’t or, I can tell you, Mademoiselle Duchene, I won’t be the only one who does.’

  Tossing that veiled threat over his shoulder, he walked back behind the curtain, leaving Sylvie standing alone. She put her suitcase behind the velvet drapes and then sat on one of the stools beside the bar. She ordered a small glass of the cheapest wine and sipped it slowly as she watched Adele and two other women performing and tried to learn some of the routines. After the dancers left the stage to enthusiastic applause, the blonde woman Monsieur Julien had called Céline sashayed onto the stage.

  Dressed in a silk floor-length gown with a beaded fur draped around her neck, she would have been striking in any case, but above her elegant costume she was stunningly beautiful with blonde curls and wide eyes. She sang in a sultry, throaty voice that left Sylvie reeling with envy. Dancing was one thing, but she had never been able to sing. Céline held th
e room as she performed, coming into the light or receding into the darkness; Sylvie knew without looking that every pair of eyes in the room were on Céline. She finished the performance leaning against the piano and looking into the eyes of the pianist with seductive intensity. He held her gaze, rising to his feet as he played. The effect was electric. Sylvie wondered if they might be sleeping together.

  After the three songs had finished, Céline joined Sylvie at the bar. Sylvia congratulated her, which Céline accepted with a gracious shrug of the shoulders that suggested she was well used to such compliments and knew her talent. Now there was no one performing, and the bar was buzzing with conversation and gramophone music. Two wide-rimmed glasses appeared in front of the women. Sylvie looked at the bartender in surprise.

  ‘I didn’t order these.’ She glanced at Céline who had already picked up her crystal glass and was sipping the cocktail.

  ‘It was the officers at the table in the corner,’ the bartender answered.

  Sylvie swivelled on her stool and looked across to the four Germans she had come in with. Seeing her looking, they raised their own glasses.

  ‘I can’t accept this.’ Sylvie pushed the glass away from her, shaking her head towards the men. They looked disappointed.

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ Céline said. ‘It’s only a drink, and a free one at that.’

  ‘But what is the real price?’ Sylvie asked.

  Céline dimpled and smiled. She lifted her glass towards the Germans, then took another sip. ‘Probably none. But ask yourself, what would be the cost of refusing it? You’re new in town, aren’t you? Don’t make enemies on your first evening.’

  ‘They are the enemy,’ Sylvie pointed out.

  Céline drummed her long fingernails on the top of the bar. ‘Of course they are, but these particular men have done nothing to you, so why antagonise them? We all have to accept what has happened and do our best to make the best of it.’

  Sylvie considered the singer’s words. France was full of collaborators who had, if not welcomed the occupation, done little to oppose it to it. She wondered if Céline was one of them. Or perhaps she spoke sense, and it would be foolish to cause a scene and bring attention to herself. She picked up the glass and raised it to her lips, smiling at the Germans over the rim. This was met with their approval. They shouted a loud toast in German and went back to talking among themselves.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ Céline asked.

  ‘Nowhere yet,’ Sylvie replied. ‘I hoped an old friend of my mother’s might put me up for a night or two, but when I went to her address, the whole street was rubble. I suppose I’ll try to find a hotel.’

  She glanced at the stage, wondering if she might resort to sleeping on the bare wood wrapped in her overcoat. The pianist was in the process of arranging sheets of music and caught her eye. He gave her a measured look that made the roots of Sylvie’s hair stand up on end.

  He was very handsome, with intense blue eyes and dark hair parted to the left. It was grown long to flip over his forehead and almost cover his right eye. Sylvie’s cheeks began to grow warm at being subjected to such open appraisal. He took the cigarette from behind his ear and put it to his lips, taking a long drag before stubbing it out on the ashtray balanced on top of the piano. He never took his eyes from Sylvie. When Sylvie kept her face perfectly immobile, he curled his lips slightly and carried on rearranging the pages as if she was beneath his notice.

  ‘There is a room in my building,’ Céline said. ‘It’s quite a walk from here, but it’s away from most of the places the army are quartered and probably not near enough to anything worthwhile that the Allies might try to bomb. Come home with me tonight, and I’ll speak to Madame Giraud and see what she says. The previous girl left a few weeks ago and it has been sitting empty.’ She tipped back her glass and smiled at Sylvie. ‘I have to go sing again. Stay here, and if any more drinks come that you don’t want save them for me.’

  She glided across the floor, hips moving in a sultry fashion as if inviting the whistles and cheers that inevitably followed. She paused and spoke to the pianist, placing both hands on the top of the piano and leaning over. He scowled and muttered something, which caused her to laugh. She seemed unperturbed and, in fact, playfully swatted him across his arm with the fringe on her stole. From the body language, Sylvie was even more convinced that they were lovers or had been in the past.

  Chapter Five

  Céline’s apartment was above an épicerie in the middle of a row of tall houses. While Céline discussed whether Sylvie could have the room with her landlady, Madam Giraud, Sylvie looked around. This had probably been a thriving and well-to-do neighbourhood once, but now the shopfronts told the story of a city under the yoke of occupation. The charcuterie next door barely contained enough meat to fill one, let alone two, of the double-fronted windows, and Giraud et fils fruit-and-vegetable shop itself looked sorely empty. The hat shop, with gilt Art Deco lettering advertising its wares, on the other side was boarded up. The words Juden hier and a six-pointed star painted across the door and windows was a sickening explanation of why the business was no longer open. Sylvie had seen the same words and symbol repeatedly since she had arrived in France, and it chilled her to the bone to think of the owners being rounded up and taken to work camps simply on the basis of their faith.

  ‘I don’t know. Can I trust her?’ Madame Giraud eyed Sylvie coldly.

  The woman was bound to be worried. Who would want to risk letting a stranger into her house? Sylvie could be an informer. But it seemed Madame Giraud’s concerns were more financial rather than for her safety because she added, ‘The last one ran off without paying what she owed.’

  ‘I can pay now,’ Sylvie said. ‘I can give you a month’s rent in advance.’

  Madam Giraud’s eyes lit, and Sylvie was warmly ushered up to a small room on the third floor. Apparently, any reservations Madame Giraud might have had about inviting a stranger into her home were quashed by the prospect of regular and available rent money.

  Like many buildings of its type, the ground floor was given over to the épicerie and storerooms. The first-floor was occupied by Madame Giraud, though there was no evidence of the son whose name was painted above the door. Céline, who turned out to be a great niece of Madame Giraud, occupied the large room on the top floor, leaving Sylvie a tiny room in the attic. At one end, it held a cast-iron bedframe and mattress, and a dressing table, closed off by a threadbare curtain. The other end of the room contained a table and a wooden chair. A single ringed oil stove was just big enough to heat a pan of water or milk.

  It was a far cry from the bedroom at Sylvie’s father’s house and reminded her unpleasantly of the years she had spent at boarding school, sharing a dormitory with nine other girls. Nevertheless, it would certainly suffice until she managed to make contact with someone from the network.

  The room contained no windows but had a skylight set at an angle in the roof. She opened it as wide as she could, then went to the tiny bathroom opposite Céline’s room. She could hear her new friend humming one of the songs she had sung.

  All things considered, Sylvie decided, as she climbed into the narrow bed that night, it could be a lot worse.

  She slept deeply and longer than she could remember. Her travels from the landing site to Nantes had taken their toll, and the first night in a bed in a room to herself lulled Sylvie into a state of relaxation. The safe houses had been welcoming but had not felt particularly safe – the irony not escaping her – being temporary and shared. Other bodies had occupied the mattresses hidden in corners and attics. The mornings had started early, with Sylvie ushered furtively out and on her way. This room felt safer than all of them. A home, rather than a house. ‘A room of one’s own’, as Virginia Woolf had written; words that had struck Sylvie with such poignancy as she had moved into her father’s house, and then into the boarding house at the school he had rapidly sent her off to.

  Even as she was returning to consciousness, stretc
hing out in the shaft of sunlight that slipped through the open skylight, she was making plans to stay.

  Later, when she broached the subject with her new landlady, Madame Giraud readily agreed to Sylvie staying indefinitely and at a price that was not too eye-wateringly extortionate. She softened the blow by promising to throw in breakfast each morning and handed Sylvie a bread roll.

  ‘I know what you girls are like,’ she said agreeably. ‘Céline is always out all night and coming in at odd hours, then sleeping late.’

  Sylvie chewed the small roll and sipped a cup of bitter coffee. It was not much of a bargain but would at least save her having to hunt for food herself. Madam Giraud’s clock struck nine. Sylvie looked at it in surprise. She really had slept in much longer than she had expected. She would have to hurry if she hoped to make it across town for her first attempt at the rendezvous point at ten.

  As she was returning to her room, Céline’s door opened a crack and the singer peeked out. Céline looked very tired but smiled. ‘What are you doing up so early?’ she asked.

  ‘I planned to take a walk into town and look around,’ Sylvie answered. ‘I didn’t have much time to see it yesterday.’

  She felt a quick burst of anxiety in case Céline offered to accompany her, but Céline yawned and stretched. She was wearing a red nightgown made from some silky fabric that clung to her, highlighting the few curves of her slender frame to great effect. Nightgowns like the one Céline wore were made for wearing with lovers, not for sleeping alone, and Sylvie wondered who the fortunate man was who got to see it. Since the day of her mock interrogation, Sylvie had not been able to rid herself of the memory of the interrogator’s fingers creeping up her bare thigh beneath her nightgown. Now she always wore pyjamas to sleep in and had no worries that a lover would ever see them.