Code Name Hélène

by Ariel Lawhon

  Henri stands, then kisses me lightly on my forehead. “If you will excuse us for a moment.”

  I watch them weave their way through the tables toward the front door, marveling that a man’s gait is something that can be inherited, for the two men walk exactly the same. Once they are out of earshot I turn back to Marceline.

  “Whose idea was this? Yours? Or his?”

  She looks at me down the straight line of her nose. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “How about we make a pact? No lies. And no feigned stupidity?”

  Her mouth curls into a feral smile. “I do not make pacts with foreigners.”

  “So, your idea, then? Okay. Seems risky. Why bother?”

  Marceline takes a moment to reassess the situation. I’m not going to play by the typical rules, and once she makes peace with this fact she leans across the table, her expression that of a jilted lover. “Because Henri is mine.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Not anymore.”

  She dismisses me with a flick of her wrist. “You’re nothing but a distraction. A fling. Henri will come back to me. He always does. Unlike you, he knows his place.”

  I would like to toss the rest of my brandy in her face, but I take a sip instead. “His place? I take it you mean with a Frenchwoman?”

  “With this Frenchwoman.”

  “And he gets no say in this?”

  She snorts. “Henri will do what his father tells him.”

  “I suspect you are quite wrong about that. Otherwise he wouldn’t be standing out in the cold scolding his father for bringing you tonight.”

  If I were ice, Marceline would melt me. If I were fire, she would squelch me. As it stands, I am flesh and bone and she is powerless to do a thing about my presence—in this restaurant or in Henri’s life.

  We are throwing daggers at each other with our eyes when Henri and his father return to the table. Henri settles into his seat and slides his hand up my thigh until he finds my slip, then plays with the lace edge. “Forgive our rudeness,” he says. “Just a bit of business that needed to be addressed.”

  Old Man Fiocca looks at Henri, then at me. “I’ve not yet heard how you met my son.”

  “Here in Marseille, at Le Bar de la Marine. A mutual friend introduced us.”

  “What friend?” he asks.

  “A very private one.” I will not bring Stephanie into this. I think Henri’s father would like her very much. But she wouldn’t like being hounded by him. Nor would Count Gonzales.

  “Funny. He never mentioned this.”

  Henri takes a sip of his brandy. “You can ask Marceline. She was there. I suspect the entire evening made quite an impression on her.”

  For all their apparent similarities, Henri is made of sterner stuff than his father. He stares at Old Man Fiocca, daring him to continue. And we all sit there in that silence, waiting to see who will speak first, when the waiter arrives, once more, to take our orders for dinner.

  “Coq au vin,” I say without even looking at the menu.

  This must have been what Marceline wanted, because she looks at me as though I am a physical manifestation of the black plague. “Ratatouille,” she snaps.

  Old Man Fiocca tersely gives his order. “Boeuf bourguignon.”

  The waiter looks at Henri. “And you, monsieur?”

  “Sole meunière.”

  I like to think that Henri will stab his father with the bones of that fish.

  “I am curious about one more thing,” Old Man Fiocca says.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “What exactly do you see in my son?”

  “Oh, that is quite simple.” There is only a finger of brandy left in my glass and I swallow it in one smooth gulp. I haven’t even touched my champagne but I’ll break the fingers of anyone who tries to stop me from drinking that next. “Your son is a gentleman and a gentle man. Whereas you, sir, are an arse.”

  * * *

  Henri

  “Come, ma chère,” Henri says. “I think it is time you learned to drink.”

  “I’m not thirsty,” she snaps, yanking her arm away.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  They stand on the sidewalk outside Verdun’s and she has her back to the window. Little clouds of frozen air drift from her nostrils in angry puffs. But the streetlamps are on and they bathe her face in golden light, making even her fury look angelic. Henri can see his father and Marceline inside the restaurant, at the table where they left them, glaring. He returns the hostile stare until they turn back to their dessert. The January air has an edge tonight—unseasonably cold—and Nancy belts her coat tighter around her waist. Her hands are shaking in anger and he can’t blame her. He brought this disaster on himself.

  “What did you mean, then?” she asks.

  “You’ve got thimble guts.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a lightweight, love. One drink and you go under. It will never do. My father did it on purpose.”

  “Why?”

  “To get you talking. To make you angry.”

  “Well, it worked.”

  “Perhaps. But it didn’t have the intended effect. You’re still here.” He watches her sway slightly on her feet. “I’d hate to see it happen again, though. By him or anyone else.”

  “How long has it been since you and Marceline were lovers?”

  “Ah. I see the two of you had a talk as well.” He traces her jaw with the tip of one finger. “Many years. I ended it.”

  “But you were with her the night we met.”

  He nods. “I was bored and lonely and she wore me down. But I don’t regret being there. I wouldn’t have met you otherwise.”

  “Good answer. But you’re going to have to work harder than that to smooth this over.”

  He laughs. “I’m trying. Now will you come with me? Please?”

  Henri offers his arm, and, after a moment, Nancy accepts, tucking her fingers inside the bend of his elbow.

  “Where are we going?” she asks.

  “To my favorite bar. First, I will sober you up. And then I will try to get you astonishingly drunk. Your job is to thwart me.”

  “Sounds like a boxing match with my liver.”

  “It’s a game, actually.”

  “And if I succeed?”

  He winks. “Then I will take you straight up to your room and let you have your way with me.”

  “Up?”

  Henri gives her a mischievous grin. “Ah, ma chère, this bar is located quite conveniently inside your hotel.”

  Marseille is a city offended by the mere suggestion of winter. She was built to be enjoyed at dusk during the height of summer, wineglass in hand, freckles bright from a day in the sun; not hustled through on a cold January night. And yet, there is still an irrefutable charm clinging to her cobblestones and dormant vines. She is an Old World city, boasting good bones and expensive taste. Age has refined her, Henri thinks, and her stately buildings do not crack or crumble. Below them is the harbor, ships tucked in for the night, and above them the Basilica of Notre-Dame de la Garde, lit up like a beacon on the hill. Streetlamps and shop windows bathe the city in amber light. It bounces off the water and the old stone walls. Everything is blue and gold. Regal. The night air stings his eyes as they walk toward the Vieux Port, huddled close for warmth, but Henri turns his face to the sky and sees that it, too, is magnificent. Black velvet and white diamonds. His mind drifts toward the landscape of Nancy’s body and he almost misses his turn onto the Canebière, distracted by thoughts of black velvet and white diamonds lying across her collarbone.

  Soon the four grand caryatids at the entrance of the Hôtel du Louvre et Paix are before them and he guides her across the street and toward the doors. As he does every time he step
s inside the hotel, Henri marvels at the intricacy of the sculptures. Each holds an animal in her marble hands—a sphinx, an elephant, a dromedary, and a fish. He’s always thought they are a portent of something—good or evil—but he doesn’t know what. Tonight, he’s hoping for good.

  Henri situates them at the bar instead of the more popular and brightly lit lobby. There are stumpy candles set at intervals along its length, giving the room a warmth the lobby chandeliers cannot rival. He inches his stool closer to Nancy so that their thighs touch and he drops his hand to her knee, squeezing it once with affection.

  “First rule of drinking,” Henri says, “is mind your temperature.”

  Nancy tilts her chin to the side in question. He wants to run his finger along her jaw but resists, focusing on the task at hand instead.

  “It’s a bad combination, drinking too much and being too warm. You’ll go right to sleep. Open a window or take off your coat, but mind your temperature at all times.”

  “I’m beginning to suspect you’re just trying to get my clothes off, Fiocca,” she says, but shrugs out of her coat and drapes it across the back of the chair anyway.

  “That comes later, ma chère”—he winks—“assuming you win this little game of ours.”

  After a moment, the barman comes to take their order. “Antoine,” Henri says, “this is Noncee.”

  Antoine is too handsome for his own good. Trouble is, he knows it. Thankfully he is also short. And at least three decades older than Nancy. He takes her offered hand and turns it over gently, kissing her palm. “Any friend of Henri’s is a friend of mine. You are most welcome to anything in this establishment.”

  The way he says the word anything makes it clear that he includes himself in the offer.

  “As you can see,” Henri continues with a scowl, “Antoine is Corsican and therefore a complete reprobate.”

  “You insult me!” he says, still stroking Nancy’s hand seductively.

  “I tell the truth.” Henri shakes his head. Corsicans.

  “I see that you two are well acquainted.” Nancy glances between them with suspicion. “I assume Henri brings all his women here?”

  “You are the first that I’ve met, mademoiselle.”

  She laughs. “You have your barman well trained, Fiocca.”

  He’s affronted by her use of his last name. The second time tonight. At least she’s dropped the Mister. She uses it only when trying to put emotional distance between them.

  “You persist in your poor opinion of me. I have brought no other women here.”

  Antoine releases her hand with a sigh of faux reluctance. “And what will you be drinking tonight?”

  “First, ice water,” Henri says, “and then two fingers of cognac each. We’ll take…” He thinks for moment. “Gautier. Leave us the bottle.”

  Antoine limps away and begins to scoop hard nuggets of ice into two tumblers. He once told Henri that there is still shrapnel in his left thigh from the Great War. But he also told him that it was an injury sustained while vigorously exercising in a Milanese brothel. Henri has made peace with the fact that the story of Antoine’s limp may never be known. But he sees Nancy eyeing the barman curiously and wouldn’t be surprised if she wrestles the truth out of him one day.

  He expects her to say something about the limp, but instead she asks, “An entire bottle of brandy?”

  “Don’t worry. I doubt we’ll get through the whole thing.”

  “So why ask for it?”

  “We’ll be here awhile and there’s no need to make him shuffle back and forth.”

  She smiles at him. “You do surprise me sometimes, Fiocca. Here I thought you were jealous of the man.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Well, your barman is quite handsome. And you got that pinched look around your eyes when he kissed my hand—”

  “He practically licked your hand—”

  “—the one you get sometimes. It’s charming, really.” She brushes one warm finger against his lower lip.

  Henri is surprised to find heat creeping into his cheeks. It’s been years—decades, maybe—since a woman made him blush. He is pleased that she is pleased. So he shrugs. “I like the old salaud.”

  As if summoned, Antoine sets the water in front of them and is off again to locate the Gautier in his vast brandy collection.

  Henri leans close to give Nancy instructions on this game they’ll be playing. “Drink the water steadily, in several long gulps. It will cool you down and shake the cobwebs from your brain. Once you stop slurring we’ll move on to the brandy.”

  “I am not slurring!”

  He winks. “Au contraire, your tongue has been moving quite slow for the last hour.” She sticks her tongue out at this and he laughs. “Get your mind on the game, ma chère, not the victory.”

  “You have no idea where my mind is.”

  “Quite happily frolicking about the gutter, I’d say.”

  Nancy doesn’t even attempt to deny it. She’s been staring at his mouth since they left the restaurant.

  “Drink up,” he orders, and for once, she complies. After a moment he adds, “The second rule of drinking is don’t cross streams. I know we’ve already had a bit of champagne, but we’ll be sticking with brandy for the rest of the night.”

  “And the third rule?” she asks.

  “How do you know there’s a third?”

  “You always do things in threes.”

  “A very astute observation, for a tipsy woman.”

  “I’m not tipsy.”

  “Not anymore. The water is working, isn’t it?”

  Nancy nods.

  “Told you so. And that brings us to our third rule—”

  “I knew it—”

  “Stay hydrated. For every glass of brandy, drink a tumbler of water. Water will dilute the alcohol in your bloodstream. And it will send you to the bathroom frequently. Both are vital when you’re learning to build up your tolerance. There are other rules, but we’ll stick with those three for now.”

  “Just out of curiosity, why go with brandy?”

  “Apart from wine, it’s the most commonly imbibed liquid in France. And it’s mostly what you drank at dinner. Besides, you’re more likely to be offered brandy than anything else.”

  “So?”

  “So…no man trying to take advantage of you is going to pour wine down your throat. Brandy is cheaper and works faster.”

  “And what if a woman wants to take advantage of you, Fiocca?”

  “Oh, that’s easy.”

  Nancy leans close enough to brush her cheek against his as she whispers in his ear, “Tell me how.”

  He swallows, hard. “You’re doing it right now.”

  Henri grabs Nancy’s hand when she moves it to his thigh and sets it back on her lap. He pats her fingers to lessen the sting. “Focus, ma chère. This is important.”

  One of the things Henri loves most about this woman is that she is not naturally inclined to do as she’s told. But she must sense his determination, so she applies herself to the task. Henri wonders if this is how she approached the world at sixteen, alone and hungry for adventure, because she goes from shameless flirting to intense focus faster than he can register. Then, they begin to drink.

  * * *

  *

  Two hours later Henri pays Antoine and helps Nancy to her feet. “That’s enough for one night, ma fille qui rit.”

  Nancy looks up at him with glassy, adoring eyes. It’s the same look she gave him the night he left her alone in bed, and it’s quickly becoming one of his favorite expressions. It is both innocent and imploring.

  “Did I lose?” she asks.

  “Non. It was a draw.”

  “Liar. You’re perfectly upright and I ca
n barely stand.”

  He laughs and nuzzles the top of her head with his chin. “Patience, ma chère, it takes time. I’ve been punishing my liver for years.”

  The truth is she did quite well. Purposeful drinking and social drinking are different, and she applied herself with verve.

  They consumed half the bottle of Gautier between them, taking it neat and in steady intervals. She’s wobbling a bit as they head to the elevator and her tongue is heavy on the vowels, but she would be on the floor already without his rules. To be fair, Henri isn’t faring much better. His vision is fuzzy around the edges and he feels as though the room is spinning.

  “Does this mean I won’t be able to have my way with you tonight?” she asks.

  Henri laughs long and hard as the elevator rises to the top floor. He pulls her against him and rests his chin on top of her head. “I doubt you’ll be awake long enough to get to the fun part.”

  “Try me,” she says.

  * * *

  MARSEILLE

  Hôtel du Louvre et Paix

  I can feel Henri begin to haul himself in, like he always does, pausing just short of any serious sexual advance. He doesn’t pull away or stop touching me, it’s simply a palpable restraint. A force of will shimmering in the air between us.

  “Mon Dieu, I love this sweater,” Henri says, rubbing his nose along the ridge of my collarbone. His hands slide up my rib cage, thumbs stopping just below the swell of my breasts. He buries his face in my neck. Nuzzles. Inhales. “And your perfume.”

  “I’m not wearing perfume. But I did think you might like the sweater.”

  “Tell me where you bought it and I will get you five more. One in every color.” His voice is a rumble against my skin, his tongue a whisper in the dip of my clavicle.

  We are on the couch in the sitting room of my suite, addled from brandy and exhaustion, and I think it wouldn’t be hard to tear down these defenses of his. An invitation, perhaps. A strategic shift in my body below his. But Henri prefers me direct and to the point.

  “Will you stay the night?” I ask.

  He stretches out on his side and pulls me close so that we are facing each other. I can feel his eyelashes against my face. He kisses me, gentle at first and then deep. His left hand trails down my side. Over my ribs, into the dip of my waist, across the swell of my backside, and down the back of my thigh. He crooks his hand behind my knee and brings my stocking-covered leg over the top of his. He plays with my slip. My garter. For one delicious moment I think that I’ve gotten my way.