The Girl from Vichy

by Andie Newton

  Gérard smeared the last bit of butter he had onto his potatoes. ‘That will be us someday, Adèle.’ He licked the butter from his spoon with his fat tongue. ‘Eating dinner. Husband and wife.’

  ‘I told you I don’t want anything black at my wedding, Gérard. Remember? I said. ‘Thank you for the dress and dinner, but you know where I stand.’

  He laughed, showing his open mouth, chewing up the last of his steak.

  I looked at Charlotte from afar, eating her dinner. I hadn’t seen Henri since before the convent. He seemed older, with a moustache and a tailored suit and cold eyes. The longer I watched them the more it felt like I was intruding.

  Gérard tapped his watch. ‘It’s getting late,’ he said. ‘I should take you home.’

  ‘No—’ I said, and then swallowed. ‘I mean. Why rush?’ I motioned to my plate and the half-eaten steak. ‘I’m not finished.’

  The last thing I wanted was for Gérard to come back out to the estate, poke around inside, or to see Luc. I had to think of a way to keep him away, but if he thought I didn’t want him there, he’d just come by every day.

  ‘You know you almost gave Mama a heart attack,’ I said, and he chuckled, sitting back, feeling his belly.

  ‘I did,’ he said. ‘Didn’t I?’

  I nodded. ‘You really did, Gérard,’ I said, and then shook my head.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ I said.

  He sat forward, elbows on the table. ‘Tell me.’

  I took a deep breath, thinking of Marguerite and my training; codes weren’t going to help me through this one. I took a drink of water. ‘It’s this, you see… Mama has never liked you,’ I said. ‘Well she did, the boy you used—’

  ‘Enough of that.’ He pointed his finger at me, and I shrugged.

  ‘It was no wonder she planted all those thoughts about the nunnery into my head—’

  ‘It was Pauline’s idea?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she mentions it again tonight,’ I said, and I let the thought hang in the air, looking into his eyes, hoping to God he’d realize that he needed to stay away from the chateau.

  ‘She’s a miserable old woman.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘When is Albert moving back?’

  ‘The regime keeps him busy all day in the city. It’s just easier for him to stay at the wine bar, so maybe not for a while.’

  I held my breath. Please… please… please…

  He nodded, folding up his napkin, taking one last swipe of his mouth. ‘I don’t want to see your mother again,’ he said. ‘Not until Albert moves back and knocks some sense into her.’

  I smiled. ‘Oh?’ I said, but I wanted to fall to the floor and thank God he’d agreed. ‘But how will I get home?’ I waited for him to notice the obvious choice.

  He motioned to Charlotte and Henri. ‘They can take you.’ He looked at his watch again, tapping it. ‘I’m working tonight.’

  ‘At this hour?’ I said, but when he looked at me, pausing, I realized that meant he was off to arrest someone.

  He tossed back the last swig of wine in his glass, but instead of rushing out, he sighed. ‘I’m glad you’re back, Adèle,’ he said, and it was in the same voice he had used earlier at the dress shop, sincere, which sent a chill up my spine.

  He stood up and kissed my cheek just as I swallowed a hunk of steak. ‘This courting business might be fun after all,’ he said, but then whispered. ‘Make sure you hold the bag up when you leave.’

  He left me at the table eating the rest of my steak alone. Charlotte and Henri had yet to notice I was there, and that was fine with me. The last thing I wanted was for Charlotte to know I’d seen them looking like they didn’t know each other.

  I slipped out of the restaurant and walked home. After two hours in shoes not meant for walking with old blisters bursting open, and holding that damn dress bag, I finally made it home to the estate. The chateau was dark, and so was the barrel cellar.

  ‘I wouldn’t go in there,’ Mama said from the patio, and I dropped the bag at my feet.

  ‘Is he gone?’ I said, and she shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but it was enough excitement for one day, don’t you think?’

  ‘Did you tell him?’ I said, swallowing dryly. ‘That it was Gérard?’

  ‘He knows it was a visitor. That’s all. The police,’ she said, and I understood that she didn’t tell him anything more.

  I walked into the kitchen, and Mama walked upstairs to her bedroom. ‘Now that you’re home, I’m going to bed,’ she said, but then turned back to kiss both my cheeks.

  I sat at the kitchen table where Mama had lit a candle and smoked a few of her cigarettes. I hoped Luc would come inside, but why would he after the fright he’d had? I closed my eyes, only to open them back up, fatigued, and blurry, remembering the Germans, the scare, and Gérard.

  I walked to the window, slumped against the sill, and looked at the barrel cellar, wanting so badly to go and see him. But Mama was right. There had been too much excitement for one day. ‘Luc,’ I breathed, staring into the night, remembering our kiss.

  *

  The following morning, the door to the barrel cellar was closed. Luc was gone. Mama said he came and went; she never knew when he’d show up. His smell lingered where his body had brushed up against mine and under my sleeve where he touched me. But like a mark that fades over time, Luc’s scent got weaker and weaker as the days passed until I couldn’t smell him at all on my clothes.

  Though, the image of his face—his eyes when they looked into mine like a clear pond—stayed with me.

  16

  Papa and Gérard walked straight toward me. I had only just walked up to Hotel du Parc with Gérard’s lunch hanging from my arm. I pulled the lapels of my wool coat tightly across my chest, eyeing them, a late autumn breeze swirling crinkled leaves around my ankles. The last time I saw Gérard and Papa talking just by themselves was the day I found out about my marriage plans. The sight of them so close together didn’t sit right with me, despite the understanding I had with Gérard.

  ‘Hallo,’ I said as Papa kissed my cheeks. ‘Ça va?’

  Gérard smiled, leaning in to get his kisses after Papa.

  ‘Adèle,’ Papa said. ‘Would you mind helping Charlotte at her boutique during the week? You won’t be able to visit Gérard at lunchtime any longer, but we had a talk and it is all right.’

  ‘What?’ I was pleasantly surprised.

  ‘Her husband left for Paris again, business for the government.’ Papa smiled. ‘And he’ll be gone for a few months. As much as it pains me to take you away from Gérard during the lunch hour, I worry about Charlotte working alone in that boutique he bought her.’

  ‘Because of the stillbirth?’ I said.

  Papa’s eyes narrowed. I know I shouldn’t have said it out loud and in front of Gérard. A woman’s inability to carry a child might run in the family. God forbid if he entertained such thoughts. ‘I know I’m next door, but it’s not the same—she’d never ask me for help.’

  Gérard’s teeth bulged from his lips. ‘What’s the name of the shop?’ He chuckled, but I wasn’t sure why.

  ‘It’s a boutique,’ I said, ‘for expecting mothers.’

  Gérard just smiled.

  I turned to Papa. ‘Of course, I’ll help Charlotte.’

  ‘Thank you, ma chérie—’

  Gérard elbowed his way between us. ‘This actually works for me too, Adèle.’

  ‘It does?’ I said.

  ‘As it turns out, I’d like to start seeing you in the evenings. There’s a soirée tonight at Antoine’s brasserie and I need a date—important people, that sort of thing—maybe spending some real time with the police will rub off on you.’

  ‘An evening date?’ I smiled to hide my worry, imagining what it will be like spending a whole evening with him, when it’s dark. ‘How nice.’

  ‘Wear a formal gown, but not too glitzy—don’t want you looking like
a prostitute. I’ll send a car for you—and don’t say anything unless talked to first…’

  As Gérard rambled on about what I should and shouldn’t do at the soirée, I caught a glimpse of what Papa had already noticed: a tired old woman sitting on the kerb in the courtyard across the street from the Hotel du Parc. Behind her was a Morris Column adorned with posters of Pétain’s face instead of the nightclub advertisements it had been built for. She sat with her legs open, bent at the knee. Her dirty hands picked at the patches of skin visible through the holes in her woolly stockings—the only garments she had on under her skirt.

  Gérard was in the middle of telling me about the jewellery I should wear when he turned around to see what had caught our attention. A loose crowd gathered around her, some clapping, others admiring. I was drawn toward them, stepping into the street, but Gérard pulled me back. ‘No, Adèle!’ He motioned to the soldiers standing guard at the Hotel du Parc to take care of her, but she wouldn’t move, even after one of them kicked her.

  The crowd chanted and clapped in her favour, which only upset Gérard more, looking this way and that, down streets and through trees, for somewhere to take her. He snapped his fingers, yelling at the two soldiers. ‘There!’ he said, pointing toward the cemetery.

  I hooked Papa’s arm. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked, but his eyes were as fixed as mine on the woman, trying to figure it all out. That’s when I reached for Gérard’s arm. ‘Don’t hurt her,’ I said, and he glared. ‘She’s just an old woman.’

  ‘She’s a résistant!’ Gérard pulled his arm angrily away. ‘And if you knew anything, you’d keep your mouth shut.’ He ran across the street to help the guards with the woman.

  She took tube of lipstick from her pocket and was able to scribble the word ‘women’ on her forehead before the soldiers picked her up and carried her away. ‘Women of the Nation,’ someone cried out, and a whip of wind spun her white hair up in all different directions.

  Papa and I stood for a good while stunned, not speaking, watching the crowd slowly break up as the woman disappeared into the cemetery with Gérard and the soldiers. ‘Let’s go, ma chérie,’ he finally said, relighting a cigar from his pocket. ‘It’s cold.’

  We walked around the corner and past the flower cart that sold flowers from tins. I took a daisy from the bucket, looking back at the kerb where the woman had sat. Brown leaves tumbled over the cobblestones.

  ‘Just one, mademoiselle?’ the old woman said.

  She asked again when I didn’t answer, and I finally pulled my eyes away, blinking, coming to. ‘Just one,’ I said, but with Papa there I wouldn’t dare write a coded message. I handed her a coin. ‘For a soirée. Tonight.’

  The woman looked a little surprised I’d told her my message instead of writing it down. I nodded once.

  Papa and I walked away arm-in-arm to keep warm. Not far from Charlotte’s boutique, Papa stopped, eyes closing. ‘Ma chérie,’ he breathed, ‘why did you have to mention the stillbirth?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It slipped out.’ He looked beaten for having to say the word himself. ‘Have you been to the grave?’

  ‘Once,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve asked to go. I want to, but Charlotte won’t take me or Mama either.’

  Papa took a deep breath. ‘I’m sure she’ll take you when she’s ready. You know how Charlotte is.’ He patted my hand. ‘Give her some time.’

  *

  Charlotte’s boutique smelled like flowers, the pungent kind that normally gave me a headache.

  ‘Where did you get lilies?’ There was something special about Oriental lilies, something god-awful special, and these, these were the worst I’d smelled yet.

  Charlotte positioned her blue vase stuffed full of lilies and what looked like a handful of purple weeds in the centre of an oak commode. She smiled pleasantly at them until she saw me with my nose wrinkled. ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t say anything. I just asked you where you got them. It’s near winter, after all.’

  ‘I saw your nose turn up.’ Charlotte’s gaze returned to the flowers and she fiddled with the stems. ‘If you don’t like them just say so.’

  My nose tingled, warning a sneeze, but somehow, I was able to hold it in.

  ‘Henri sent them moments after he left for Paris. He loves me. Don’t you think? I mean, he bought this boutique for me, and he sends flowers all the time. A man who sends a woman flowers… Well, he just has to love me, right?’

  Charlotte had dressers set up against the walls, which made the place look like a nursery, an inviting scene for an expectant mother, with lace-bottomed knickers and oversized brassieres folded inside the drawers. Aside from all the clothes, the furniture alone in her shop was worth a fortune; I could only imagine how much her husband paid for it all.

  ‘He loves you. Why would you question such a thing?’ I said, but I’d seen them eating at La Table, and suddenly felt very uncomfortable talking about their marriage.

  Charlotte’s fingers shook arranging the flowers, and I began to understand why Papa wanted me to look after her—she’d become a bag of nerves. I noticed it more so when she looked out the window, as if expecting someone but wasn’t, rubbing her shaking hands. After a long while I realized she’d had no customers come in. I wondered out loud how she was going to stay in business, which she didn’t like.

  ‘There’s a lag in business right now, as you can see. But things will improve soon.’

  ‘Because our men are in a German munitions factory.’ I smoothed a pair of silk stockings out on the table, flattening them with my hand. ‘Prison, if we can be honest with ourselves. A woman can’t be having babies with no men around.’

  ‘Not all the men, Adèle,’ she said, folding the stockings I had touched. ‘As you know with Gérard, the Vichy police is chock-full of desirable men. You’re very lucky he’s giving you a second chance. I know a lot of women who would love to be in your shoes.’

  I raised my eyebrows at the stockings, nudging her to talk about the clothes rather than Gérard, and she switched to the things in her boutique, where she stored the extras and how to display the lacy items on the counter, fanning them just right to showcase the intricate details in the patterns. She asked me to fold something, and I did it her way with a pair of lacy, knee-length pantaloons, but I couldn’t keep the ends from dangling off the edge so I crisscrossed them to make them fit.

  Charlotte shooed me away. ‘You are doing it all wrong—it’s a wonder you’re even my sister—really, Adèle, the way you handle such delicate things.’ She placed the garment on the counter, running her fingers over the ruffles until the fabric looked fluffy, but in the end the pantaloons didn’t look any better than the way I had them. ‘The display alone is a work of art. There has to be thought put into it, and done just right.’

  I snatched them out from under her hands, smiling, holding them in the air just out of her reach. Charlotte had an irritated little smile on her face that gave way to laughter. ‘Give me those.’ She was grinning now, getting ready to chase me around the table for them.

  ‘Come and get them,’ I said, dangling them in the air.

  She darted one way, and then the other, circling around the table until she caught the pantaloons and me, tickling me in the ribs. Her face got very close to the flowers, and she caught a good whiff, grimacing from the stench I knew was emanating from them.

  ‘Smell something?’ I said, hands on my hips. She can’t deny it now, I thought.

  ‘God, I know they stink,’ she finally admitted, closing her eyes briefly, ‘I know they do—like an old woman’s cologne. But my husband gave them to me. He couldn’t have known how bad they smell. Could he have? It’s the thought that counts,’ she said, rubbing her shaking hands. ‘Right?’

  ‘Of course—he didn’t know.’ I sneezed into my sleeve, and we both laughed, Charlotte a little louder than me. ‘Is it all right if I move them near the door? You don’t think I’m offending my husband if
I do?’

  ‘God, no! Please move them.’

  Papa had left his store to help Charlotte replace her rickety office door with a new one, lifting the dreadful thing off its hinges and carrying it away for scrap. He stood against the wall, the door in his hands, smiling at us. ‘Just hearing my girls, seeing you together… Feels good.’

  I looked at Charlotte, and she looked at me. We both knew the separation was hard on them both. Though, I wasn’t going to mention Mama, thinking it would be too upsetting for Papa if our conversation turned into a political spat. I turned away, but Charlotte piped up.

  ‘Mama knows where you are if she wants to apologize.’

  I gasped. ‘Apologize?’ I said. ‘Charlotte, for what?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Girls… girls,’ Papa pleaded. ‘What’s happened between your mother and I shouldn’t burden you two. Don’t worry yourself with our problems.’

  Charlotte glared at me and I at her for bringing the whole thing up. ‘Sorry, Papa,’ Charlotte said. ‘We’ll stop.’

  ‘What has gotten into you?’ I said behind Papa’s back. ‘Bringing Mama up to Papa like that?’

  Charlotte shushed me. ‘We’re not talking about it, remember?’

  ‘There’s something else,’ I said, and she looked at me, surprised I’d kept talking. ‘I want to pay my respects to your—’

  She grabbed my wrist, squeezing forcefully. ‘Not. Now.’

  ‘Ow,’ I said, pulling away.

  The door flew open and we all looked. There in the doorway, with a furry fox muff wrapped around her big head, was Blanche Delacroix, hard inflection on the “croix”. The last time I saw her we were washing hair together at Salon Fleur.

  She waved a limp-wristed greeting from the front of the boutique.

  ‘A customer,’ Charlotte said, latching on to my arm. ‘Blanche!’

  Blanche was a real know-it-all, and we’d been known to bump heads in the past. Her penchant for rumours was unprecedented, even in the hair business. She took the muff off her head and ruffled her pressed hair back to life before touching the maternity brassieres in one of the dressers.