Code Name Hélène

by Ariel Lawhon

  “Ficetole,” he says.

  “Nancy Wake.”

  He kisses the back of my hand. “Mademoiselle.”

  “Ficetole is the tram conductor here in Marseille. We have known one another for…how many years is it now?” Henri says.

  “Fifteen.”

  “His wife is the best cook in the city. And his daughters the prettiest.”

  I have no idea whether Henri is telling the truth, but it is clear from the way that Ficetole is beaming that he certainly believes this to be true. It makes me love him all the more. He smiles as though his daughters have just been declared the most beautiful in the entire world. I wonder whether they got his eyes, and if so, which color? Perhaps both? And would that be alarming or enchanting in the face of a little girl? I hope to find out one day.

  “Thank you as well,” I tell Henri, reaching up on my tiptoes to plant a kiss firmly on his lips. “What should I name her?”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he says, then offers me a sheepish grin. “Keeping her a secret was unbearable. I could hardly wait for you to arrive last week. That train takes fifty forevers to get here. You should probably just move here and put me out of my misery.”

  He is looking at me pointedly and I suspect he’s trying to determine whether I noticed that last comment. I ignore him. There is a name I thought of once and I lift her up and turn her about to determine if it fits. It does.

  “Her name is Grenadine,” I say.

  Ficetole slides off the bench and looks up at me. I am startled, once again, to realize how short he is. Just over five feet. But he gives me a grin and a nod. “I must be getting back to work,” he says. He sets a gentle kiss right on the end of her nose. “You be good for your new mistress…Grenadine.”

  We say our good-byes, then watch Ficetole meander down the path, whistling as he goes.

  “What a delightfully strange little man,” I say.

  “He likes you.”

  “How on earth could you tell?”

  “He let you have her. He does not hand over his daughters’ dogs to people he does not like. I’ve known the man for fifteen years and I still had to convince him to sell me one. He interviewed me. Asked about my intentions and how I planned to provide for her. Where she would live and what she would eat. Felt as though I was asking for his blessing to marry one of his daughters. I damned near broke into a sweat.”

  I drop to the bench and curl Grenadine into the crook of my arm. I hope Picon loves his new friend—wife? lover?—as much as I do already. And I’m not stupid. I know what Henri’s doing. How he’s trying to win me over. But I don’t mind. All is fair in love and war after all.

  “Thank you,” I say, again, but this time it’s a whisper and I’m rather overcome.

  Henri settles onto the bench beside me. Drapes one arm over my shoulder. Leans close and whispers, “I would buy you this entire city if only to see the look you have in your eyes right now.”

  “I don’t need the city, Henri. I have you. And Picon.”

  “And Grenadine,” he adds. “You have her now as well.”

  I excel at stopping errant thoughts. I can trap them and discard them as though disposing of a spider that has wandered onto my pillow. Errant thoughts are dangerous. They can give way to hope. And hope can upheave your entire life if it’s left alone long enough to put down roots. Errant thoughts can make you unreasonable and sappy. But for one startling moment it occurs to me that this is what it must feel like to have a real family. My father left us when I was two. All five of my siblings are many years older than I am. My mother did well just to keep us all alive. And I left home while still a child. So, family has always been an odd and loose term for me. But this feels right. It feels good. And the thought is so pleasant—I am so hungry for it in fact—that I cannot discard it.

  “Yes,” I tell Henri.

  He knows what I mean. I’m certain of that because his eyes flash bright. But he is cautious. “Yes…what?”

  “I love you as well. And I will marry you.” I wait several long seconds to let him absorb my acceptance before adding, “On one condition.”

  Henri pulls away. I make him nervous when I say things like this.

  “Which is?”

  “That you let me choose my own wedding present.”

  His lip twitches into an amused grin. “Do I get any hints as to what you might want?”

  “Not yet.”

  He looks as though I’ve told him that I require a feather, or a bit of eggshell, in order to be his bride. This clearly makes no sense to him but he doesn’t care. Henri Fiocca heaves a great sigh of relief and reaches into his coat pocket to pull out the red velvet box.

  “You’ve been carrying that around all week?”

  He gives me a mischievous grin. “I never knew when you might accept. I wanted to be ready.” He taps the box. “May I?”

  And then I am undone, blinking furiously. I clear my throat. “Yes.”

  Henri opens the box and lifts an exquisite ring from the padding. It has a simple gold band and the center diamond looks to be almost three carats. It couldn’t be more elegant or perfect and my hand trembles as he slides it onto my finger.

  “Yes?” he asks, once more, just to make sure.

  A firm nod. “Yes.”

  He takes a deep breath. “You have your condition. Which I accept. But I have another request.”

  “Oh dear. I’m not sure I can take anything else.”

  Henri lifts my newly decorated hand to his lips and kisses the ring gently. He closes his eyes. “I hate being apart from you. Will you please move to Marseille?”

  PARIS

  Rue Sainte-Anne, 2nd Arrondissement

  “Are you moving in with Henri Fiocca?” Stephanie asks the moment I open the door to my flat. “I didn’t think you were the type.”

  I have been trying to contact her since I returned from Marseille, a week ago, but she and Count Gonzales have been in Spain, on holiday. I finally got through this morning and told her that I’d be taking Le Train Bleu to Marseilles today and would like to say good-bye before leaving Paris once and for all.

  “No.” I step back so she can enter. “I am not moving in with him. But I am moving to Marseille.”

  We hug. Exchange kisses on each cheek.

  “Where will you live, then?” she demands.

  “At the Hôtel du Louvre et Paix. Until I find us a flat.”

  “Us?”

  “Me,” I say, then grudgingly add, “and Henri.”

  “To live in together?”

  “Once we are married, yes.” I hold up my left hand and show her the ring that Henri placed there last week. I’d wanted to tell her in person. No letters. No phone calls.

  Stephanie grabs my hand and brings it close to her face to inspect the ring. She is smiling and crying at the same time. She is the only woman I’ve ever met who could make such conflicting emotions look beautiful.

  “Aren’t you happy for me?” I ask.

  She nods. “I am.”

  “But?”

  “I am sad for myself. You are leaving me.” She looks at me with those huge blue eyes and I see genuine sorrow in them. “You are the only friend I have.”

  “The Count—”

  “Is a man,” she interrupts. “It is not the same.”

  I cannot argue. The friendships of women are strange and wonderful. Fraught and irreplaceable. And yet I can’t apologize for moving away to marry the man I love. So instead I ask, “Will you come visit me?”

  “Of course.”

  “And I will return to Paris, often,” I promise.

  She thinks about this for a moment, weighing the likelihood of either happening, and tries a different tack. “What about your job?”

  “The one where I work hard, am paid litt
le, and get no credit?”

  It takes an effort but she manages to hide her smile. Even she knows this was a poor argument. “Oui. That one.”

  “I’ve submitted my final article and my resignation to Milo. I no longer have a job.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?” Stephanie asks.

  “If I’m being honest, it’s a relief. At this particular moment I don’t give a rat’s ass about independence or careers. I just want to be with Henri.”

  Of everything I’ve said, this makes the most sense to Stephanie. She wraps her arms around my neck, then kisses each of my cheeks again. “I did warn you about him.”

  We move to the small table beside the window and sit. The sun is out today, and it comes through the glass panes in bright, warm squares. Stephanie looks around my small kitchen and I know she sees only a handful of boxes packed and ready to ship to Marseille. My transient life has allowed me to collect so few possessions and I am ready to put down roots.

  After a moment Stephanie tips her head to the side and asks, “What will you do about your name?”

  “My name?”

  “Wake. You will keep it, yes?”

  She always has been a stickler about this, so I wade in carefully. “No. I plan to take his.”

  “You will give up your own identity?” Her mouth tightens into a straight line. “Not even Henri Fiocca is worth such a sacrifice.”

  “You are wrong. He is worth it. But honestly, it has nothing to do with identity. Or sacrifice. But it does have everything to do with loyalty.” Her eyes narrow, daring me to defend my position. “Why should I keep my father’s name? He abandoned my family when I was two. I’ve never seen him since and I owe him no loyalty.”

  She sniffs. “Then take your mother’s maiden name. Anything but a man’s.”

  I do laugh then. I can’t help it. “My mother’s maiden name was given to her by her father. All surnames are male names—”

  “Patriarchal—”

  “Fine. But if I have to pick a patriarch, I’ll pick the one I actually like.”

  “I do not agree with your decision. Or your logic,” she says, “but I do not wish to fight.” Stephanie rises from the chair beside my window and walks into the kitchen. She returns with two glasses and a bottle of Rémy Martin. “Once more, for old times?”

  “And for new beginnings.” I reach for the bottle and she surrenders it to me. Her eyes widen when she sees how much I pour into each glass.

  “Oh,” she says, proudly placing a hand over her heart. “She finally becomes a Parisienne, only to leave Paris.”

  * * *

  Henri

  July 1939

  “What do you mean you ‘took care of it’?” Nancy demands.

  She has her bare feet up on the balcony rail outside her suite in the Hôtel du Louvre et Paix—where she’s been living since he finally convinced her to move to Marseille. A half-smoked Gitane is in one hand and their marriage license, properly completed and legalized, sits in her lap. It’s clear that she’s been pulling at her hair for a good part of the day because it’s gone wild and she looks as though she’s been run over by a trolly. Her green eyes are blazing, her mouth set in defiance. But it’s the fact that her skirt has slid down her thigh, revealing her slip, that has captured Henri’s attention. If she notices, she doesn’t care. Nancy takes another angry puff of her cigarette and waits for him to answer.

  “What I mean,” Henri says, calmly, refilling her wineglass and turning his gaze back to her face, “is that I went to Town Hall and spoke with him. I took care of it.”

  “Why bother? He’s…he’s…” She drifts off, unable to find an appropriately horrible profanity. Nancy taps the ash from her cigarette in frustration.

  “I believe the insult you’re looking for is fils de pute, and that’s exactly what I called him, quite loudly in fact, when I told him off in the middle of Town Hall. More than one person stopped to stare.” Henri plucks Nancy’s cigarette from her pinched fingers and takes a draw. He grimaces. Smoking is the one filthy habit he never took to. It looks quite sexy on her, however, so he hands it back. He’s happy to watch. “Besides, ma chère, you’d just called off our engagement. It’s not like you left me any choice.”

  She pouts. “You know I wasn’t serious.”

  “You sounded serious on the phone.”

  “I was angry.”

  “As you had a right to be. That enculé”—he spits out the word as though it’s gristle from an overcooked steak—“was toying with you. He hates anyone not from Marseille.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this city is small and insular. Fiercely proud of its inhabitants. Suspicious of strangers. Besides, he’s a friend of Marceline’s. Has been in love with her for years, though I can’t imagine why. I’m certain that entire fiasco was a personal favor to her.”

  The look on Nancy’s face is akin to wonder. “What does that mean? That word you just used.”

  Henri clears his throat. “It’s very bad.”

  “Clearly. But also effective. That and the other one…fils…” She snaps her fingers, trying to remember. “Fils something or other.”

  He looks at his shoes. Studies the scuff marks on the toes. “Fils de pute.”

  “You’re embarrassed! Whatever for?”

  “It’s one thing to say these things to a man in the heat of an argument. It’s quite another to say them to my fiancée.”

  She grins wickedly. “Perhaps you should teach me to say them myself, so you don’t have to. That way the next time I apply for a marriage license I can deal with that man on my own.”

  He snorts. “There won’t be a next time! I intend to keep you all to myself until the very end of my life.”

  Nancy turns her face to the sun. “Have you read the papers today? The end of everything—not just our lives—might be coming. They’re saying war with Germany is inevitable.”

  Like most people in France, Henri and Nancy have shut their eyes to the inevitable. Every day the radios crackle with reports of German atrocities. The newspapers declare, in bold print, that peace talks are falling apart. Meanwhile, France sits at the edge of Europe, like a shiny, unclaimed prize. The sense of claustrophobia grows each day as Germany looms ever closer in the north, to the east Mussolini makes threats, to the west they are hemmed in by the Atlantic Ocean, and in the south the formidable Pyrenees separate France from Spain. The entire nation has nowhere to go. So they wait. They live and dance and kiss with the unspoken fear looming around them that this might not just be the last summer before the war, it could also be their last summer altogether.

  And yet, Nancy has moved to Marseille to be with him. She is here, and she is safe. They will be married soon. Henri clings to this. And he clings to her every chance that he gets. Henri thinks for a moment. He does not like how easily she was thwarted by the official at Town Hall. She is a foreigner living in Marseille. He loves his city but…it can be hard on outsiders. Nancy will be miserable if she’s always having to wait on him to rescue her. A vicious vocabulary could give her bargaining tools she wouldn’t have otherwise.

  “Okay,” he says, finally, “I’ll teach you to curse like a Frenchwoman.”

  “No.” She shakes the cigarette in his face. “Teach me to curse like a Frenchman.”

  “My own mother couldn’t do that!”

  “Do I look like your mother, Henri Fiocca?”

  The corner of his mouth lifts in a wanton grin. “Not in the least.”

  “Just as I thought.” She stubs out her Gitane. “Where do we start?”

  Henri checks his watch. “I have to be back at the office in twenty minutes. So, we’ll start with three—”

  “I want the bad ones,” she says. “The ones you just used to describe that man at Town Hall.”

  “O
kay. Two bad ones. And one mild. Just to ease my conscience.”

  “Poor Henri. The awful things your fiancée makes you do.”

  His gaze returns to her exposed slip and the length of thigh beyond it. He has to suppress the hungry moan that rises in his throat.

  “We’ll start with the most common word. Merde. It can be a noun or an exclamation. It just means ‘shit.’ ”

  “Merde,” she says. Nancy practices it a few times, getting used to the way the consonants roll off her tongue.

  Henri nods once she’s got the pronunciation right. “Now use it in a sentence.”

  She thinks for a moment. “That filthy piece of merde stole my car.”

  “Not bad. But it can also be used in other contexts besides an insult. As a consolation, for example. If I told you my father had just died, you would say…?”

  “Thank God.”

  He laughs. “Okay. Bad example. We’ll go with my mother. And that’s true. She died before I was twenty.”

  Nancy is appropriately appalled. “Oh merde. I’m sorry, Henri.”

  “Well done! But in that context you draw it out. Make it two syllables. MAIR-duh.”

  She mimics him perfectly and then, after a moment, when she’s certain he isn’t in fact upset about his mother, asks, “Next? What did you call that man—fils something or other?”

  “Fils de pute. It’s the equivalent of your ‘son of a bitch’ but more insulting. It literally means ‘son of a whore’ and is terribly vulgar. And therefore very effective. It’s the sort of thing men say when flinging the finger or grabbing their crotch. It’s an insult reserved specifically for people, not as a statement of irritation.”

  “So not the sort of thing you say unless you mean it?”

  “Exactly. Try it.”

  “That fils de pute at Town Hall was purposefully making my life miserable.”

  He beams. “Perfect!”

  She’s warming to this lesson. “Next!”

  Henri runs the pad of his thumb across her lips. “I don’t want to taint that pretty mouth of yours.”