No Hearts, No Roses

by Colin Murray

  I stared out into the night and watched the crowd outside the Gaumont dwindle as a bus came and took most of them away. Then the cinema’s lights dimmed and the two middle-aged usherettes limped out, their varicose veins and corns troubling them, calling out their farewells to the portly manager as he locked up.

  All I was really seeing was my own morose reflection in the glass. I was fed up with my life and had been since I’d returned from the war. I turned back into the room.

  Robert was leaning back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. His men were spread about the room, their backs against the walls, smoking.

  ‘All right, Robert,’ I said. ‘I’m tired, and my head hurts. You’ve had more than enough time to think. If you’re going to shoot me, shoot me. If you’re not, it’s time to go.’

  He looked at me for a few seconds and then smiled. ‘You are quite right,’ he said. ‘I have done my thinking. Now I am waiting.’

  ‘For what?’ I said.

  ‘For my wife, of course,’ he said, standing up. ‘I imagine that, after her liaison with Maurice Chevalier, she will return here and be overjoyed to see me. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘How could anyone not be overjoyed to see you?’ I said. ‘I know that I am.’

  Robert beamed and spread his hands wide. ‘Emile, Henri, Patrice, what did I tell you about my old friend? I told you he is without fear; I told you he is honourable. But I didn’t tell that he is a humorist.’ He turned towards the door. He paused to pick up his hat and said, ‘Shoot him.’

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘Dead, comrade?’ Henri, the boxer, said. ‘You want us to shoot him dead?’ He sounded puzzled rather than bothered.

  Robert waited a beat and then turned back into the room. His timing was impeccable. It was a long enough pause to have me dripping with sweat and shaking with panic, but not quite long enough for things to go wrong.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ he said, barking it out exactly like the actor who played the murderer and thief in Les Enfants du paradis. ‘I am joking. I’m just showing Antoine that I, too, am still capable of joking.’

  But I wasn’t sweating. Or panicking. I’d seen him do this before. So, I rather think, had Emile and Patrice. Neither of whom had moved a muscle. Of course, the last time I’d seen him do it there had been no Marcel Herrand impersonation, it had been during the war, and the hapless victim had done rather more than sweat.

  ‘It’s still a good joke, Robert,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I must go and change my underpants.’

  As I should have expected, he completely – probably deliberately – missed the icy undertone I tried to inject into the comment and chose to recognize only a wry irony. He burst into a great peal of laughter. His was a baritone, manly laugh. ‘Ah, Antoine,’ he said, ‘you remember.’

  ‘I remember,’ I said, wondering if he was alluding to something else because Robert rarely did or said anything casually, and I also remembered sitting next to Ghislaine in a grand old cinema in Boulevard de la Madeleine for three hours almost exactly ten years before. It had been the last time I had seen her until her appearance in the French pub.

  Which may be why I remembered Les Enfants du paradis so well. Although the fact that it was the best film I’ve ever seen might have had something to do with it. I suspected that Robert was telling me that he knew about that rendezvous in the early summer of 1945 when I was on leave. As I recalled that day, I also vividly remembered the thin faces, the yellow, crooked teeth of the people milling about outside, the sharp bitter smell of tobacco and the harsh clump and clatter of the women’s wooden shoes on the boulevard as Ghislaine and I shook hands, kissed cheeks and said our goodbyes, and that had nothing to do with the quality of the film.

  Robert strode back into the centre of the room, tossing his hat back on to the table, and put his arm around my shoulders. ‘I have missed you, my old friend,’ he said, steering me towards the window. ‘And so has Ghislaine.’

  I couldn’t say that I’d missed her and not mention him, so I said nothing and stared out at the empty street.

  ‘And I miss the times we had,’ he continued, ‘fighting for a cause.’ He paused and his hand lifted and fell heavily on my shoulder. ‘I still do fight for a cause, of course, but it is not the same. Then, everything was so vivid. I think that perhaps the prospect of capture, imprisonment and death made me more aware of the sheer physical pleasure of being alive. Was it like that for you?’ I nodded, and he smiled and continued. ‘I relished every day. Now it’s dull meetings and shabby compromises, and I feel as if I am dying a slow death. If I didn’t have Ghislaine, I don’t think I could continue.’ He looked at me meaningfully.

  ‘Robert,’ I said, ‘I don’t become entangled with other men’s wives.’ Unless the man in question is dead.

  ‘How can I believe that?’ he said. ‘You and Ghislaine were “entangled” once.’

  ‘We were much younger then.’ I paused. ‘And she was no one’s wife.’

  He sighed deeply and stared into the gloomy room. After a long silence he spoke again, reflectively, quietly, almost as though he were speaking just for himself. ‘Strange times indeed. We were too late, you know. Even before we “found” that old truck and then “liberated” the necessary gasoline from the Americans, de Gaulle had outmanoeuvred Colonel Rol and the moment was lost. You know, de Gaulle’s fifis didn’t do much of the fighting in Paris. That was nearly all down to us.’ He paused, smiled ruefully and then his voice took on its usual resonance. ‘Even though we were too late, Paris was the place to be then, don’t you think?’ He paused again.

  I vaguely remembered that the Force Francaise Intérieure had been affectionately, or disparagingly, I wasn’t sure which, known as les fifis, but I’d never heard of Colonel Rol. It must have been a nom de guerre.

  ‘I wouldn’t have been anywhere else,’ Robert said. ‘There was the épuration, after all: the collabos, like your friend Jean, to be dealt with.’

  ‘Did you really meet him?’ I said.

  ‘Who knows?’ he said and shrugged. ‘I certainly met someone like him, and he didn’t deny it. Perhaps it was him.’

  I thought of the unfortunate collabos horizontales and an image of the beautiful Arletty as Garance, smiling serenely and telling the most irritating of the young men who was in love with her, the mime, that he was a little boy. I liked to think of her like that, serene and lovely, when she’d been making the film, rather than later, without her Luftwaffe lover and her suite at the Ritz, arrested and facing the icy and implacable ferocity of men like Robert. That September I’d even heard a hideous rumour that she’d had her breasts cut off, but it was probably only her hair. I hadn’t known who she was then. It wasn’t until the following year that I fell in love with her in the warm fug of the Madeleine Cinema.

  ‘I thought we were planning to celebrate the liberation,’ I said, ‘not join the revolution.’

  He shrugged. ‘You weren’t one of us. You were useful to us, but we couldn’t trust you.’

  I stared out of the window again, but I wasn’t really looking at the quiet street. All I could see was my reflection, shadowed and unreal, hovering against an impenetrable and disconcerting black background that seemed on the verge of swirling and sweeping inexorably forward and enveloping me completely. It was as if I were slowly drowning in a thick, peaty bog. I turned away from the window and leaned against the wall.

  Robert lit a cigarette and absent-mindedly offered the pack to me. I shook my head slowly, and he slipped it back into his jacket pocket. Of course, he was still smoking Gauloises, the cigarette of les poilus in the Great War, the cigarette of les maquis, la cigarette de l’homme fort. The strong, sharp, distinctive smell stung my nostrils as he breathed out. Drains, coffee, hot bread and burning tobacco – the delicious mix of olfactory delights that said Paris to me.

  The other men were all smoking too, and the atmosphere in my drab office was like the Embankment on a fog-engulfed November night. They were murmuring q
uietly together, a reassuring, male rumble.

  ‘You know what I remember most about Paris?’ I said.

  Robert gave me one of those expressive Gallic looks, inviting me to tell him without in any way suggesting interest. He was a remarkably good-looking man still. The deep creases that the last ten years had carved into his cheeks only emphasized the sharp planes of his face, and the lines around his eyes and mouth suggested that he was laughing all the time. The streaks of grey at his temples caught the light and suited him. If he carried a little more weight than he had in his prime – and the generous cut of his suit suggested that he did – it just meant that he now had more gravitas, even more presence.

  ‘It was the sound of the wooden shoes,’ I said, ‘clattering on the cobbles. Everyone seemed to be wearing wooden shoes. I thought for a while that it was something that Maman and Grand-père had neglected to tell me. That it was something so commonplace that it wasn’t worth mentioning. I’d been there five days before I understood that there was just no leather.’

  I paused, and Robert made no comment. He just shrugged very slightly, and his mouth turned down at the corners. It was a dismissive gesture. Whether he was dismissing the shortages and privations of war as unremarkable or commenting on my words I couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I must have been,’ I continued, ‘a very ignorant young man.’

  ‘Inexperienced, perhaps,’ he said, ‘and insular. But don’t underestimate your importance. You may not have been one of us, but you held us together, kept us all focused. You were brave and organized and certain. We needed that. Your –’ he thought for a few seconds, trying to find le mot juste – ‘toughness.’ He looked up at the ceiling.

  The word he had used was dureté, which surprised me a little. I’d never thought of myself in that way – hard, unyielding, cold-hearted even. I’d certainly been alone and nervous, and I knew I couldn’t reveal that. My attempts to disguise it may have led to me appearing to be aloof. But brave, organized, certain and tough? It sounded to me as if Robert were describing himself.

  He went on. ‘You English always surprise us, you know. What happens after the war? France, the nation of revolution, falters, but not the British! They elect a Socialist government. They sweep away much of the old régime bloodlessly in a very pragmatic English way.’ He sighed. ‘We French just procrastinate.’

  I wasn’t convinced that he understood as much as he thought he did about the English. ‘I think,’ I said, ‘that we all just remembered what happened to our fathers after the last lot – the homes for heroes that never materialized – and we voted for change. I know that’s what I did. I didn’t become a Socialist. And nor did anyone else I knew.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he said, ‘but it looked a little like it from the other side of la Manche.’ He paused and then beamed. ‘But perhaps now we have another little war to get our teeth into. You must have heard about our problems in North Africa.’

  I hadn’t and, in truth, I had little interest in listening to him lecture me on the post-war world, and I touched the swelling on the back of my head. The blood had dried, but it was very tender, and I decided I’d better do something about it.

  ‘Robert,’ I said, ‘I’m just going to clean up a little, see if I can’t take the sting out of this bump.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Emile can help you.’

  Emile looked up and nodded.

  ‘It’s not necessary,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to try to run away. I have no reason to.’

  He laughed. ‘My suspicious friend,’ he said and patted me on the arm. ‘I meant what I said. Emile has a little medical training, and he can help you.’

  And keep an eye on me at the same time, I thought as I walked through my bedroom to the scullery with Emile carefully shadowing me. I noticed three ex-army, khaki knapsacks standing neatly at ease by the bed, a worn but expensive brown-leather suitcase looking on impassively.

  It suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea how Robert and his little unit – I was sure that was how he thought of them – had travelled to Leyton.

  I winced as I pressed a grubby flannel, soaked in cold water, to the lump on the back of my head, and then sighed, recognizing that it rather looked as if I’d be playing host to an extra four guests for at least one night.

  As I’d suspected, the application of the cold compress and then witch hazel to my various bruises was a spectator sport as far as a bored Emile was concerned. He did, though, grunt his approval when I swallowed a couple of aspirin, so perhaps his medical training was not a complete fiction.

  It was late when Ghislaine and Jerry arrived back.

  I heard them when they were more than a hundred yards away. Church Road was enjoying its quiet midnight, and the sound of their soft conversation and the solid crunch of shoe on pavement carried. I guessed that they’d swayed swiftly through the black tunnels on the last, bright, sweaty train from the West End and had walked from the station.

  They whispered an excited and conspiratorial good night, and then Ghislaine clattered up the stairs and into the solid fug that filled my office.

  Her happy little smile froze when she saw Robert and then curdled into a sour, narrow-eyed scowl. Suddenly, I could see what she would look like as an old woman. The network of fine lines and wrinkles was already in place, waiting for the chance to turn her into a pinched-faced, bad-tempered harridan, the scourge of rambunctious boys. Thankfully, she relaxed, the lines faded, and she gave me a wan, apologetic nod.

  ‘Robert,’ she said, turning back to face him, ‘what a surprise. I didn’t know if you would even notice that I’d gone. You’ve been so busy lately.’ She looked around, smiling brightly again. ‘And you’ve brought some of your little friends along. How pleasant.’

  ‘One moment, Ghislaine,’ Robert said abruptly and turned to me. ‘Antoine, I don’t think that it’s necessary for you to remain here. Perhaps you have somewhere to go? To allow a husband and wife some privacy.’

  Ghislaine gave me an anxious look.

  ‘Of course, Robert,’ I said, ‘but I’d like your assurance that this privacy is for you to talk. I wouldn’t like to think of any accidents taking place.’

  He looked puzzled and then understanding washed across his face. He glanced questioningly at Ghislaine, but she refused to meet his eyes. He held his hands out expansively, palms up, and smiled his most sincere smile. ‘Antoine,’ he said, ‘I love my wife. I wouldn’t hurt her.’

  We stood in silence for a few seconds, then he took a step towards me.

  ‘I promise you,’ he said, ‘that Ghislaine is safe here with me.’

  I looked into his eyes and decided that he was telling the truth, and I nodded to him, smiled a little ‘chin up’ smile at Ghislaine and moved towards the door.

  Robert followed me. When we were on the landing he spoke. ‘It occurs to me that whatever you are involved in with those men earlier is not just going to disappear. I think they will be back.’

  ‘You’re right, Robert,’ I said. There was not enough light escaping from my office for me to see his face clearly, but he gripped my forearm in a reassuringly friendly way.

  ‘You may need some help with them,’ he said. ‘We will talk tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, but he had already let go of my arm. He turned back into my office and closed the door behind him.

  I stood on the landing. It was cool and refreshing after the closeness of my office. The stairway reeked of damp earth, old cooking and rotting wood, and there was always the faint, musty smell of small, scurrying rodents, but that was still better than the smoky air inside. I breathed deeply and felt my lungs respond with a phlegmy cough. I rubbed the smoke from my eyes and, perversely, now they had less reason, they started to water.

  I was afraid that Robert was looking for another war, and even a small one that wasn’t his would suit him. I knew I’d be grateful for his assistance, but I also knew him to be uncontrollable.

  The low, deep rumble of his voic
e leaked out from around the edges of the ill-fitting, damp-warped door in the same frustrating way that the dim, yellow light seeped through. There was not enough light to see by, and I couldn’t hear what was said. I could only hope that he was in a conciliatory mood, because I couldn’t see any way in which I could help Ghislaine if he wasn’t. But I knew I’d have no choice but to try. That was, after all, why she’d come to me. She had always assumed that I wasn’t afraid of him. I was no longer completely sure, but I’d always thought she was wrong about that.

  I walked slowly down the stairs, feeling my way in the darkness, listening intently but in vain for the slightest sound of a raised voice or a cry of pain. I owed Jerry an explanation or two. There was the damage to his ceiling. And there was Robert.

  I stood in the corridor for a few seconds, listening, and then knocked on the door to the shop.

  It took Jerry more than a minute to open it.

  I didn’t sleep well.

  Jerry’s old, lumpy chaise longue – a family heirloom, he said – was stiff and unyielding. Perhaps there’s something about inherited furniture that militates against comfort. Or perhaps it was just that my head was buzzing.

  Bernie always tells me that I worry a lot. That’s probably true but, sometimes, that’s because there’s a lot to worry about.

  I guess I must have dozed off a little before dawn, because I came to suddenly, disorientated and slightly alarmed, to the sound of Peggy Lee singing about it being a good day and Jerry thrusting a cup of tea under my nose.

  I couldn’t decide whether the choice of Peggy Lee was an ironic statement or not. Jerry looked so cheerful and full of beans that he probably meant it. And it was, after all, Good Friday.

  He really hadn’t taken on board what I’d told him about Robert and was far more concerned about his ceiling, which I’d promised to make good. To Grand-père’s dismay, my father hadn’t followed him into the Walthamstow film studio as a cinematographer, but had instead set himself up as a painter/decorator. I’d picked up enough from him to know how to replaster a small patch of ceiling. Although the patch wasn’t actually that small. It looked like I’d used a small mortar rather than a large handgun.