by Ariel Lawhon
“What on earth are you doing?” the dispatcher shouts.
“Putting on my armor.”
And suddenly I am calm. Collected. I feel like myself once again. I doubt our dispatcher will sign up to drop any more women into war zones, because he looks positively apoplectic as I stand, slide the lipstick and compact back into my purse, smack my lips, and then tuck the purse into my coveralls and belt my coat.
“Hey, Tex, has anyone ever refused to jump?” I ask.
Try as he might, he cannot hide his grin. “Just one guy. Sat down and buckled himself back in as soon as the hatch opened. Didn’t say a word to us the entire flight home.”
“Figures.” I step toward the aperture, attach my rip cord to the drop line, and check it just as Hubert did. “Thanks for the ride.”
The drop zone is in view once more. God knows where Hubert is down there, so I stand at the edge of the aperture and try to summon my courage. It is not normal to throw oneself from hurtling pieces of machinery. It goes against mankind’s most basic instinct to survive. But I have trained for this—have known it was coming—for months. Besides, my husband is down there, somewhere, and I cannot get to him unless I leap. In the end that is where I find my fortitude, the thought of Henri, waiting for me. And now there is no time left for hesitation, so I give the dispatcher a nod, take a long breath through my nose, and remember what our instructor said: elbows in, legs together. Then I step out of the plane and into the dead of night.
This is nothing like jumping from a balloon. The Liberator is gone with one last angry roar, and I am greeted not by silence, as before, but by a cacophonous whoosh of air. The ground hurtles toward me and my rip cord catches on the drop line. There is a violent jerk followed by a rib-crushing tug, and I huff out a strangled breath as the straps of my parachute pack snap tight across my chest. My legs swing out in front of me like those of a dangling marionette. Then I surge upward for a split second as the oblong silver parachute flares out, slowing my descent. Only then am I engulfed by total silence, but I have no time to appreciate it because the treetops are less than fifty feet away. I plunge toward a thick copse of trees, their dark, bare, scraggly branches reaching toward me like the hands of gathered skeletons. I pull, hard, on my right steering line and my legs swing away as the parachute turns, but I’m dropping too fast to avoid the trees altogether. The left corner of my chute catches on the farthest limb of a giant oak—as though it has plucked me from the sky with the tip of its bony finger—and I am yanked tighter into my harness. The sound I make is neither intelligible nor ladylike. And then I am swinging eight feet above the forest floor, trying to catch my breath, trying to find my bearings, as my lines untwist and I rotate in a lazy circle. North. South. East. West. Impossible to determine at this time of night. I force myself to wait, to dangle quietly beneath the tree. I can make this drop to the ground if I’m careful, so I yank the metal loop on my straps. Nothing. I try again. Gah! The release mechanism is locked. I have no more success on the next three tries, so I’m hanging there, trying to figure out how I’ll reach the knife strapped to my garter belt—hidden beneath coat, jumpsuit, and slacks—when I see the red glow of a burning cigarette in the shadows directly beneath me. Once I catch my breath, I can smell the tangy scent of burning tobacco. I hear two heavy footsteps as someone moves forward.
“I hope all the trees in France bear such beautiful fruit this year,” says a deep, male voice in French.
The weapons of warfare are different for women. Rarely do we have the luxury of bullets and bombs. Our tools are benign. Silk stockings and red lipstick. Laughter. Cunning. The ability to curse in foreign languages and make eye contact without trembling. But the most effective weapon by far, I believe, is charm.
So I laugh at him, then reply easily in his own language. “Enough of that French bullshit. Cut me down.”
I am grateful beyond words to hear him return the laughter. “Hubert warned me about your tongue.”
“Did he?”
“Oui. He said it was harsh enough to strip paint.”
He’s found Hubert then. Friend, not foe. Or so I hope. One can’t ever really be sure these days. The Frenchman is roughly my height, very handsome, and quite thin. Though that could be due to the Occupation Diet and not a genetic disposition. Regardless, he shimmies up the tree in a pair of worn slacks and a collared shirt, then out onto the branch above me with a small knife clenched between his teeth. Nothing about the way he’s dressed or how he moves gives any hint of his identity. He could be a German sympathizer about to slit my throat, for all I know.
“Ready?” he asks, setting the knife against the rope attached to my release mechanism.
“Yes.”
Three quick saws and I drop to the ground with bent knees. My boots sink into the thick mulch that covers the forest floor, but I am unharmed. The Frenchman is still up in the tree, tugging at my chute, while I slip out of my harness, hat, coat, and coveralls. He finally pulls it free and lets it float to the ground. I am cold, I can see my breath curling into the air before me, but I refuse to shiver or put on my coat.
“Do you have a shovel?” I ask, staring up at him.
He looks at me as though I’ve asked for an engagement ring. “Why?”
“To bury the chute.” I hold up the harness I’ve just shed. “And this.”
He drops smoothly to the ground beside me, folds his knife, tucks it into his pocket, then takes his sweet time lighting another cigarette. “We aren’t going to bury it.”
“I was given strict instructions—”
“Fabric this soft? This sheer?” He gives me one of those looks his countrymen are famous for and caresses my parachute. “You’ll want it later. Trust me.”
I suppose I could try to yank the giant sheet of nylon from his hands, but it would only make noise and we haven’t exactly been quiet thus far. I watch him fold it instead. Only once it has been tucked under his arm does this strange little Frenchman finally take the time to study me. He looks me over, from red lips to shoulder-length black hair; from expensive coat—now folded and draped over one arm—to the Louis Vuitton purse dangling in the crook of an elbow. He moves on to the buttons that run down the front of my blouse, then to my slacks, his gaze finally lingering on my feet.
Then his gaze returns to my eyes. “How did you, of all people, come to be here?”
I offer him my very best smile. The one meant to disarm, because I am not yet fully convinced that Hubert isn’t somewhere on the other side of the hedgerow with his throat cut and this man part of the Milice.
“Now, that,” I say, “is a very long story.”
Nancy Grace Augusta Wake
Eight Years Earlier
THE PONT ROYAL, PARIS
1936
The French are better at day drinking. Likely because they’ve had more practice, but I’m determined to learn. It’s a good thing Stephanie is already waiting for me at the Pont Royal. I can see her on the terrace at our usual table, arm draped over the ornate railing, a long-stemmed goblet held between two slim fingers.
I rush across the street and into the bar only to find it crowded with the usual clientele: packs of tweed-suited Gallimards. The Pont Royal is best known for catering to the editors who work at Éditions Gallimard and journalists from all the daily papers. It’s an excellent place to make connections and a better place to eavesdrop. Not yet three o’clock in the afternoon and every single one of these men is halfway through a glass of cognac, ashtrays spilling over. They all sport the sloppy smiles of men who have knocked off work early to talk shop away from the office. I weave my way through the tables, pushing through clouds of cigar smoke, and out onto the terrace.
There is an empty goblet on the table, along with the one in Stephanie’s hand, and I marvel that she has already gone through a round of cocktails in the thirty minutes it’s taken me to walk from my little flat o
n rue Sainte-Anne.
“Sorry I’m late.” I drop into my chair and balance a large handbag on my lap. I look around the terrace, noting that, for once, she has not delivered on a promise. “Where is he?” I ask.
“On his way.”
Stephanie leans across the table to brush a light kiss against each of my cheeks. Born in Paris to Yugoslavian parents, she is both quintessentially French and curiously exotic. Although married to a Spaniard, she maintains her maiden name. This is a point of honor for her, a Rubicon that shall not be crossed, a stake driven so far in the ground that it can never be uprooted. Naturally, I take great joy in provoking her.
“Bonjour, Madame Gonzales.”
Stephanie raises the goblet to her lips. It’s filled with amber liquid, and a curl of sugared lemon peel dangles from the rim. She glares at me while taking a calculated sip, then spits out her maiden name, along with a lemon seed. “Marsic.”
Only then do I notice that she is drinking an Earthquake, far and away her preferred cocktail, and a potent one at that. Clearly, I have catching up to do.
The terrace is packed, and I crane my neck, searching for the waiter. It isn’t until I wave him down that I notice half the men sitting around us are staring at Stephanie. No surprise there. She is undoubtedly beautiful, but in the Slavic way, with almond-shaped blue eyes the color of hydrangeas, and wavy blond hair. But it’s her smile that she charms them with. Poor fools. She’ll have them picking up our entire tab by the time we leave.
“I cannot believe you had this much liquor on an empty stomach,” I say, envious. I’m a two-pot screamer myself, helplessly sloshed after the second drink.
“I was nervous.”
“I have known you for three years and never once have I seen you nervous about anything.”
“Not for myself.” She rolls her eyes. “For you. For the interview. It is important, non? And besides, you were late.”
I nod meaningfully toward my handbag. “I would have been here sooner, but I fell madly in love on the way over and decided that I had to have it at once.” The purchase was very spontaneous, très Parisien, and I am both shocked at myself and flush with excitement. “Regardless, you’re the only person I know who calms rattled nerves with an Earthquake.”
“This drink is a balm to the soul,” she says, running the pad of one finger along the curled lemon peel on the rim of her glass. “That stupid English name doesn’t do it justice. Say it in French. With proper pronunciation.”
I wouldn’t know a lick of French if not for Stephanie. Nor would I know how to wear a scarf, smoke a Gitane, drink cognac, or wear red lipstick. She is my tutor in the pursuit of becoming a Parisienne, and I am her devoted student.
“Fine. Tremblement de Terre.” I can hear the slight twang in my voice, the Australian accent I’ve worked so hard to hide, but it’s passable. A stranger on the street would understand what I’ve said.
“Much better, ma petite.” Stephanie claps her hands as though I’m a child in need of encouragement. “You are coming along nicely.”
“I’m learning the key is not to bother with all those bloody feminine and masculine rules of yours—all the le this and la that—it just gives me the shits.”
I wait patiently for her to laugh or reply, but she is transfixed by something on my lap. “Nancy,” she says, “why is your handbag moving on its own?”
“Oh!”
“Please tell me that is not a dog,” she says as I lift the tiny, wire-haired terrier from my purse. His ears are pointed, his hair is white, his eyes are black, and his tongue is pink. He bears a startling resemblance to a cartoon. Or a coin purse.
“His name is Picon,” I say, setting one hand to my heart, “and I believe he will be the great love of my life.”
The little dog licks my wrist as though to confirm the sentiment.
Stephanie is aghast. “Why was he in your purse?”
“Because he wouldn’t fit in my pocket.”
“What I mean to say is, why have you brought him with you?”
“Well, he’s hungry, for one thing. And I couldn’t very well leave him at home. Besides, I only bought him half an hour ago.” I lift the ball of puffy white hair—hardly bigger than my hand—and nuzzle him into the crook of my neck. “I had the strangest sensation while crossing over the rue de Rivoli a little while ago, as though someone was watching me. I turned and there he was, in the window of that little shop between the cobbler and the chocolatier—you know, where the street dips down and the puddles collect after every rain? It was love at first sight. He feels it too. I can see it in his eyes.”
“Put it down. It’s going to pisse on you.”
“Picon would never!”
“Picon?” Stephanie says. “As in the aperitif?”
“Exactly so. And one day I will get him a wife and I will name her Grenadine and they will live happily all of their days.”
Stephanie presses her lips together, trying not to laugh, so I do it for her. My laughter has always been sudden and combustible and loud. She shakes her head at the sound. Stephanie takes my laugh quite personally, as though I invented it to threaten her own staggering appeal. Yes, she’s married—to a man we call Count Gonzales, though none of us actually know his first name—but it only makes her more attractive somehow. Unattainable. Men hardly look at me when she’s in the room. So I won’t apologize for any advantage I can get.
“What?”
“It’s not fair, you know, that laugh of yours. I’d give anything for it. And see! It’s already earned you an admirer.” She motions behind me with a tilt of her chin and there’s a brief flash of something in her eyes—mischief, or jealousy, perhaps—but it’s gone before I can identify it.
At first, I think she means one of those ridiculous, uptight Gallimards, so I turn to stare him down. But instead of an angry editor I find a handsome man with a crooked smile. He’s sitting at the far end of the terrace, at a table by himself, wineglass in hand, and he is staring at me.
“Oh, good grief, don’t look. Have I taught you nothing?”
But it’s too late. This curious man has seen me. So I tip my head to the side, brazenly meeting his gaze.
“That is Henri Fiocca,” Stephanie says, “the most notorious heartbreaker in all of France.”
“Not just Paris? But all of France? That’s quite an accomplishment.” I laugh again, louder, and his eyes tighten with curiosity. “He’s too pretty to be a journalist,” I say, turning back to Stephanie.
“He’s not.”
“What then? A model? An actor? Minor royalty like your husband?”
“He’s an industrialist.”
I scratch Picon between the ears. “Which could mean anything from canned goods to the opium trade.”
“He’s in shipbuilding.”
“Sounds boring.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is lucrative.”
“And you know this how?”
“He does business with the Count. And I hear stories.” This is how she always refers to her husband—the Count—never by his actual name. With pride yes, but never intimacy.
“Mr. Fiocca is very beautiful.”
“Oui. But he is trouble.”
In all the time I’ve known Stephanie she has never warned me off a man, and I find this quite suspicious. I’m about to ask what she means when the waiter finally arrives at our table.
“Qu’est-ce-que je peux vous servir?”
It takes a moment, but I answer in somewhat broken French, “Vin rouge et une…ah…planche de charcuterie.” I give Stephanie a questioning glance to make sure I’ve gotten my order correct. She nods, pleased with her tutelage.
“Anything else?” the waiter asks, in English now, to accommodate my broken French. He grins at Stephanie. “Madame?”
“A friend will be joi
ning us soon,” Stephanie says, motioning to the empty seat beside her. “He will have a glass of Château Barthès Rosé.” She smiles at the waiter and I fear he will drop to one knee and propose on the spot. The poor man stumbles away in a daze.
“How did you find him?” I ask. “Every journalist in the city has been looking for him since Milo ran that picture. Hell, how did you even learn his name?”
Two weeks ago, my editor at Hearst published a photograph of an unknown man on his knees, face turned to the sky, bleeding onto the cobblestones of Vienna’s Old Square. The headline screamed: Terror in Vienna! And every journalist in the city has been scrambling for an exclusive ever since. Stephanie claims to have acquired it for me.
She shrugs. “The Count has connections.”
It answers nothing, and I am about to press her but—damn him—our waiter is back, in record time, stepping between us. He holds a tray in one hand and makes a show of arranging everything on the table before offering a small bow and disappearing.
The delicate scent of fresh bread, fine cheese, and cured meat wafts up from the table. This is a thing, I have found, that is present only in France. The food smells different here. It is pervasive. And it makes me wonder if I’ve ever truly smelled my food before. Little Picon, who has been still and quiet in the crook of my arm, begins to squirm and whine, so I pluck a small piece of shaved ham from the platter and feed it to him with my fingers.
