The Cafe Girl

by Ian Loome

  'So it would seem, so it would seem,' Vaillancourt said. 'From the mud spray on your trouser cuff, I assume you cycled in from the city. You still live in the Tenth?'

  'Yes, near the Choisy-le-Roi workshop.'

  'It's good that we should talk.'

  'What's this about, anyway, Paul? You're being a little cryptic.'

  'I'm just wondering: a guy as connected as you in this town, you must have some idea who the black market players are.'

  Giraud had been expecting such a question, something easy and obvious, before Vaillancourt revealed what he was really up to. It was a sensible tactic, the kind of decision that made him an ideal fit for the division of internal security. They knew each well, long ago; being direct would get Vaillancourt nowhere, and they both knew it.

  'If it were so obvious, Paul, they would not be operators anymore, because we would arrest them. Does that not go without saying?'

  'Perhaps.' Vaillancourt took out a pack of Gauloises and knocked one out into his hand, then put it to his lips. Then he patted himself down, looking for matches. 'You have fire?'

  Giraud withdrew his gold Ronson lighter and lit his colleague's smoke. Vaillancourt took his wrist gently and studied the lighter for a moment. 'Nice. Pretty pricey on a copper's salary, Damien.'

  'A gift from my now-deceased aunt in Pau,' Giraud said.

  'Ah. An honest heirloom for an honest man, eh?'

  Was he being coy? Giraud wasn't sure. Vaillancourt had been his partner at the academy, briefly. He had never been a team player, or one of the boys. He was always fastidiously by-the-book, a stickler for moral rigidity.

  'A trinket from a woman I hardly knew,' Giraud said. 'But it serves its purpose.'

  'And what are you smoking these days? Still rolling your own?'

  Giraud withdrew his package of Gauloises cigarettes, identical to that of his associate, a Viking helmet in dark blue line on a lighter blue paper packet. 'Same as everyone. Or Gitanes, if they aren't sold out. Easier to get than the Turkish leaf; there's none of that around anymore, it seems. But you can always get these, and in maize paper, too.'

  'Hmm. I thought you might have gone in on the latest craze and be smoking some of those Lucky Strikes that are all over the city.'

  'Really? I did not think American cigarettes were allowed here anymore,' Giraud said. Two could play at that game. 'Oh... you mean on the black market?'

  'Yes, on the black market. I've been working with internal security, you see, keeping an eye on my fellow officers.'

  He smiled when he said it and his eyes twinkled, leaving Giraud with the impression Vaillancourt was quite proud of his role. 'Policing the police is a thankless task,' Giraud said. 'Even the Nazis seem to dislike your crew.'

  Vaillancourt shrugged. 'Of all the endorsements we may lack, that is the one I miss the least, let me assure you.'

  'Then why...?'

  'Why did I take on such a loathed role?' The Paris cop sniffed a little at the crispness of the evening air. From not far off, he could hear one of the factories venting steam in a low, rumbling whistle. 'I suppose, Damien, that I felt it had to be done.' The tone suggested he did not expect Giraud to entirely understand. 'I still have a thing about honesty, you see, and since the beginning of the war, ours is not the most honest of professions.

  'Was it ever?'

  'Probably, a long time ago.'

  'So now you mete out a little of the church morality?'

  'Good Lord, no. I'd never stoop that low.'

  'A blasphemous thing to say.'

  'An accurate thing to say. I dislike the leaders of the church for the same reason that I dislike the Nazis: because they practice deceit whenever it is advantageous. I don't mind if you try to govern me, just be honest about it, eh?'

  'I suppose...'

  'Isn't that what we all want, really? People are always in such a rush to pick a team to belong to, a side of the debate -- or to stick to one they've had faith in for years -- that they forget the most important lesson: it doesn't matter what side of the pyramid you attempt to climb, Giraud; when you get to the top it's the same nasty prick in charge every time.'

  Giraud didn't much like that talk. It sounded anti-capitalist. 'Maybe you have more in common with the Germans than you think,' he proffered. 'Or the communists, anyway.'

  'To some people, yes. But... I get ahead of myself, I'm sorry. In the end, working for IS isn't really about the bigger moral purpose. In the end, I suppose I just like to catch crooked policemen. As someone once said, it's a lousy job but someone has to do it.'

  'Really? The misbehavior of the odd policeman here or there is paramount in these times, is it?' Giraud could not help but offer sarcasm. It was not as if anyone in Paris expected complete honesty from anybody. It was the war.

  'More now than ever, my old friend,' Vaillancourt said. 'More now than ever. Weren't you the one who told me the biggest obstacle you faced in the Legion was that the men fighting next to you were often more indolent and disreputable than those you were trying to defeat?'

  'That is true, but...'

  'But such is life. Anyway, I must be off. It has been a pleasure speaking with you, old friend, but my wife has reheated pie for me and a bottle of very old Bordeaux.'

  'Don't let me keep you,' Giraud said. 'It was certainly interesting to see you again.'

  'Oh, do not fret, Damien,' Vaillancourt said. 'I plan to be around quite a bit. Saint Denis has always had issues, and it needs oversight more now than ever. And the Nazis want me here, it must be said.'

  'Oh? And why is that?'

  'They believe someone from the north -- perhaps even your little suburb -- is involved with smuggling. They think this person helped the resistance leader Laszlo Fontaine and his family escape the city. And they believe it had to be police or a turncoat with considerable authority. The only way they could get out of France is with proper transit documents, you see.'

  Giraud eyed him skeptically. 'You mean other than by boat along the thousands of miles of coastline, or by land through Switzerland? He is a former government agent, you know; a master of disguise, an accomplished tactician.'

  'It would have required smuggling himself, his wife Irma, his son and daughter all the way from Paris to the coast, and even further in the other direction to the Swiss border.'

  'He is an icon of the resistance. They would do it.'

  'They would try. They would probably fail,' Vaillancourt said. 'That is why the Nazis are so certain they flew out. And that is why they believe transit papers were supplied. And the kind of men who can obtain official Reich documents are the ones who obtain other things in short supply, such as cigarettes and chocolate.'

  Fontaine and his brood had disappeared two weeks earlier, just a day before the Nazis issued their arrest warrants. Some suspected the resistance in Paris had grown to the point where it was able to pass them from home to home until they could get out.

  Giraud doubted anyone would be so insane. 'The Nazis don't expect a Saint Denis policeman, surely? That's a creative way for them to keep an extra eye on the neighborhood, don't you think?'

  'Perhaps,' said Vaillancourt. 'I told my superiors going in that I had some... experience in the area. And it is the role they have given me, regardless of their real intent. Even if I must cycle all the way across Paris to visit, eh? At least it will get me into shape!'

  'There is that.' The Vaillancourt he remembered, the one who'd tried to turn him in for cheating on his promotions exam, was a tenacious man, a man who valued objectives.

  'Anyway, I must go. My wife is quite willing to crack open the wine before I get there and drink it all. Good night, deputy divisional superintendent. We will talk again soon.'

  And with that, Vaillancourt turned on his heel and headed down the sidewalk, towards the racks of locked bicycles.

  It was best not to be concerned with him, Giraud thought as he mounted the steps to his office. He had some paperwork to finish off; then he would head home for a nice quiet s
upper of rabbit stew and Cote du Rhone wine, followed by some light Italian opera.

  Surely , Giraud thought, there was nothing to worry about from Vaillancourt.

  Nothing at all.

  8....

  The following morning was Friday and Giraud's day off. He resolved to get Vaillancourt off of his mind and instead come up with a background story for his work of romantic poetry. He packed up a terrine de foie gras, some hunks of bread, a piece of cheese -- because there is no food or life without cheese -- an apple and some wine. After securing his basket to the rear of his bicycle, he pedaled across the district to his favorite new park.

  The sun was out, and the city seemed quieter than of late. He hadn't seen a single vehicle or German on the way there, and if not for the propaganda posters and the absence of exhaust fumes, it almost felt as if there was no war at all. Usually, he would have watched the faces of the people on the way there, tried to read between the tension lines. But he wanted nothing to spoil his sterling mood.

  When he arrived at the park, he placed his bicycle in its customary spot, leaning it against the back of the bench. Then he sat down, and attentively watched life around him unfold.

  An elderly woman with a headscarf, brown sweater and rough skirt strolled up the street, an empty basket on one arm. Her back was curved, hunched over, and she swayed side-to-side slightly as she took each step. A middle-aged man and woman, both in long coats, walked into the cafe; the piano player kept the music soft, a Gershwin piece. A horse and buggy clopped by.

  An hour passed. The place felt tranquil and placid but nothing was happening. Giraud found himself tapping his pencil restlessly.

  He needed a muse, a font of inspiration. He chewed on the corner of his upper lip, sipped coffee, even paced around the bench with his hands in his pockets, occasionally swinging his arms to loosen his shoulder muscles.

  What to write? He concentrated on the piano player who, in the absence of a large audience, had graduated to some inoffensive Chopin. He was an emotive man, his eyes often tightly shut and his body flowing forward and back with the music. Perhaps he had a story worth telling; he'd mentioned the Julliard and New York, but now he played at a cafe. Surely there was enough pathos there for conflict, something to hang a narrative upon...

  'You look perturbed, chief constable,' a voice from his left said. Giraud looked up.

  'Monsieur Levesque!' Giraud said. 'And what brings you to this quiet part of the neighborhood?'

  Anton Levesque was well-known throughout the city, at least to anyone who read newspapers. His face was lined with the crannies of experience and he was extremely short, with a Van Dyke beard, a waxed moustache and a top hat of middling height, which he wore above half glasses. The aging editor of a much-loved communist workers' newspaper, his suit was usually pinstriped and he wore cravat ties and spats, making him perhaps the fanciest of the prominent reds in the north of the city.

  'I live just a few blocks from here and the newspaper office is about the same distance in the other direction, so it is an idyllic spot to while away some time. You are quite a few minutes out of your way. You know, I have spotted you at church a few times as well. I should have said hello before now.'

  Giraud gestured to the other end of the bench. 'Please: won't you join me?' Giraud surveyed the scene again. 'As you say, monsieur, it is near both my work and home. I live in the tenth, you see; and a young friend thought it an ideally quiet place to relax.'

  Levesque nodded. 'You are not on the job today?'

  'My day off,' Giraud said. 'I've been hoping that the quiet and leisurely pace of this spot would help me relax and inspire a plot.'

  'Ah yes! Your note pad. I carry one too, of course...'

  'For your communist rantings. Yes, I am aware that your newspaper continues to be quite popular. Don't you think the Germans will shut you down before too long? What are they calling free speech again these days? A 'felony of opinion'?'

  Levesque smiled wryly. 'It's inevitable. But we march on for now and say what needs to be said.'

  'You are editorializing on the death of Henri Honoré d'Estienne d'Orves, I take it?'

  'Perhaps. The edition does not come out until Monday, deputy. Who knows how the community will respond by then...'

  The resistance organizer and spy was arrested in January and tried in May, but executed just a few days earlier, at the end of August. He was betrayed by an Austrian named Alfred Gaessler, and there was much debate amongst Parisian social circles over whether Gaessler had been a Nazi double agent in d'Orves' ring the entire time.

  'But surely it is the topic of the moment?'

  'It is,' he confirmed. 'But there many issues to cover. For example, there was the raid and arrest of the Jewess the other night. I'm sure you heard about...'

  Giraud shrugged. 'There are many such raids these days.'

  'This was particularly messy,' the newspaperman said. 'The husband, who is a non-Jew, intervened and was shot to death. His family and friends are very angry.'

  'As they should be.'

  'His mother, Madame Distin, say their personal belongings were not returned to them; they believe the Nazis looted them.'

  'Just guesswork on their part, I'm sure,' Giraud said.

  'I'm sure you'd have been told if the police at the scene had recovered any of the items, eh chief constable?'

  Did he know something? Was this one of those open discussions, whether they'd taken items from the dead man? One of those vitriolic conversations that turn to awkward silence whenever an officer of the law walks into the room? Giraud was uncertain. Perhaps his own guilt over the man's story was contributing to paranoia, he supposed.

  'Oh quite sure,' Giraud said. 'I have the distinct honor of handling the seizures account, as liaison to the SD. But I'm sure it's nothing for your newspaper to fret. Certainly nothing, I would say, when compared to the hanging of a resistance hero.'

  'Perhaps,' Levesque pondered. 'Perhaps. I do wonder, however, how long the Nazis will be able to contain antipathy now that they are in Russia, fighting our communist brothers, and now that they have begun to haul away dissidents to work in their factories. They are paying less attention in Paris, when they should be paying more.'

  'I suppose...' Giraud's attention had been drawn away from the conversation, snatched by a glimpse of someone, walking up the third high street, away from the park. Was it...

  'Giraud? Giraud!' Levesque realized he'd lost his associate's attention. 'I said it is already clear the Germans will only keep a token force in the city...'

  'Yes, yes,' Giraud said. 'Pardon me for interrupting, but you see that woman?'

  'Eh? What woman? What are you talking about, young man?'

  'On the Rue Boinod, heading uphill, away from here...'

  They both looked towards the street, but there was no sign of anyone.

  Levesque was prickly. 'I was engaged in our conversation, as were you, I believed...'

  'Yes, yes. My apologies. It's just that I've seen her twice now in two days... She must live in the neighborhood or something.'

  'Giraud, we're having a serious discussion. Perhaps you could curtail your skirt-chasing...'

  'Of course, of course,' the policeman said. 'My profound apologies for being so rude, Monsieur Levesque.' In deference to Levesque's age, Giraud automatically maintained his formal address. But he senses a strange familiarity in the man, a kindred spirit even if their politics were diametrically opposed.

  'Anyway, they will hang more spies. They will have to, as the resistance will continue to build for as long as there is a war,' Levesque said.

  'Which will not be long...'

  The editor looked unconvinced. 'So you say. So many say... And yet...'

  'What? The Germans have ably demonstrated so far that the only way to stand against their might is to be an island unto oneself. That is not the case for Russia,' Giraud postulated.

  'And yet... they will fight this war on many fronts, now. Against the English in the
west and Africa, against the Russians across thousands of miles of cold terrain...'

  Giraud considered the man's tone, his body language. Debating him might prove enjoyable, the policeman decided. 'You are just hopeful, Anton. Now that the Nazis have condemned communism, they are no longer an inconvenient ally but a threat to your beliefs, and so you assume they will fail.'

  'Perhaps. Or perhaps they are beginning to be stretched thin. When that happens, and resistance grows, it becomes that much more effective to punch holes in their veneer; to attack and shut down lines of supply; to separate troops from one another; to counter the propaganda that keeps some Frenchmen fearful, hiding in southern villages, waiting to be rescued by the English.'

  The editor was making the error in logic of assuming most people acquiesced to the notion of egalitarianism. But France had been a hierarchy for centuries, long before the masses had overthrown the ruling Catholic monarchs, Giraud knew. The right-wing aristocracy did not exist in isolation; it had cultural supporters, people who felt the Nazis may represent a return to older French values, to the days before the revolution, when the lowly knew their place.

  'There are a great many people who are not afraid of regime change, Anton,' he said. 'If their values are upheld and their taxes are not too high, what does the common man care? The Germans hate the English as well, after all. Aside from the curfew and the inconvenience of having to use the black market...'

  'Ah!' Levesque interrupted. 'There it is: The true rationale of a man in your position, one who benefits both from upholding the law and from breaking it.'

  'Excuse me?'

  'Your side trade is well-known to anyone with connections in this city, Giraud. And it is not my ideology being under attack with which I take issue. It is the unmitigated unfairness that the typical Frenchman must face every day. This is not a time to flaunt privilege, after all.'

  It hadn't been a direct attack but it was a rebuke of sorts. That could be both good and bad, Giraud knew, an accusation or just fair warning. 'Think of me what you will, Anton, but I simply do the best I can to get by in the middle of a war, the same as everyone,' he said. 'Do not assume that because I play the game better than most that I am any more eager than they to see it continue. We are all bound in this world to one thing, to one goal, which is to survive. Do not see me as any different.'