The Cafe Girl

by Ian Loome

  Giraud had that dazed look on his face once again. 'She is certainly something, isn't she?'

  'If you would like, I can go over and find out if she is seeing anyone at the present time,' the elderly editor offered.

  'No! No, that's fine,' Giraud said. 'I have thought about it and have something particular in mind.' It was a complete lie, of course; he had no idea what to say to the girl, and rather feared his brain, lips and vocal chords would all freeze simultaneously should the opportunity arise. There was all the more reason, then, to wait until the right moment.

  A young man entered the cafe through the patio gate. He was tall, with blonde hair and the broad shoulders of a laborer. He closed the gate behind him, took another step, then stood there with his hands grasping the corners of his trouser pockets, self-conscious that only one couple was there, making him the center of attention.

  He began to approach the cafe proper; but before he'd taken three steps, Isabelle emerged from the interior with a tray containing two slices of cake and coffee. She strode perfunctorily towards the customers, as if the man wasn't even there. He said something to her as she served the couple, and she muttered something back, but did not deign to even turn her head.

  He took her forcefully by the upper arm but she pulled away, wagging a finger at him and lecturing him. Giraud wished he could hear what she was saying; was this a friend or a lover or a family member? She was obviously angry with him, really letting him have it and he was becoming impatient with her.

  They bickered for a few moments; she turned her back to him and crossed her arms self-protectively. Then she looked over her shoulder and said something that must have cut the man to the quick, as his posture slumped, along with his head. He turned to face the street then walked out the way he had entered.

  He strode up the street muttering, eventually walking up the hill and away from the cul-de-sac. Giraud and Levesque watched him until he disappeared. 'Whatever that was,' Levesque said, 'it did not go well for him.'

  'Do you recognize him at all?' Giraud asked.

  'He is familiar to me, yes,' Levesque replied.

  'A party member?' Giraud asked.

  Levesque looked at him suspiciously. 'Giraud, we have pleasant talks here, yes?'

  'Of course, Anton. It is often a highlight of my day.'

  'Then do not ask me questions you know I cannot answer,' he said. 'While I wear my own political affiliations openly and proudly, that is a factor of age and my family name.'

  Giraud needed no further explanation. As a prominent communist, Levesque was willing to face censure and arrest to further his beliefs; that he did not want to expose the young man to the same spoke well of him ... but it also spoke volumes about the young man, Giraud thought.

  'Have I ever breached your confidence before?' Giraud proposed. 'I simply wondered about his relationship with Isabelle; that is all.'

  'I am surprised you have graduated to a first-name basis,' Levesque said somewhat mockingly. 'Given that you have yet to formally introduce yourself...'

  Giraud ignored him. 'Even if they do have some sort of romantic attachment,' he found himself saying, 'it is clear that she is angry with him, unwilling to talk.'

  'And you believe you may turn this situation to your advantage?' Levesque asked. 'There you go, thinking like a policeman again.'

  'If the tactic fits...'

  'She is not a suspect in an investigation, Giraud,' Levesque admonished. 'Do not scheme. Do not plot. Just be honest and talk to her.'

  Giraud knew that Levesque was right. But he was terrified. Ever a realist, he had long since pragmatically abandoned meeting a 'soul mate', or significant other who so touched him that he could devote himself to her. He was forty, and the best years for love and romance had long passed, now just a string of uninspiring memories and wistful thoughts of what might have been. He still had dreams of something grand, a timeless connection with someone, of the right girl, of kissing her on the viewing deck of the Eiffel Tower, the city lit below them.

  It was nearly one o'clock in the afternoon. Giraud had been coming to the park for a few weeks, and though he'd found a muse of sorts, he had yet to begin his magnum opus, the literary inspiration that he knew lay just beneath the surface. He had shifted his focus, from vulgate romance to something more contemporary. Perhaps… socially conscious poetry? Unmetered verse? He was paralyzed by the thought he may not do her beauty justice.

  But on most days, he conceded to himself, this lack of productivity did not bother him. It was enough to feel elevated by her mere presence, even from afar; and when he spied her and was brought back to the present, he felt a flutter in his stomach, like a breath of joy crying for freedom.

  Levesque leaned across him slightly to see what Giraud had scribbled in his notebook. 'Hmmm. There doesn't seem to be much there. What are you working on, anyway? I thought you'd said you were writing a poem.'

  Giraud self-consciously flipped the pad shut. 'It is no concern of yours, Anton.' Then he caught his own tone and apologized. 'I apologize, that was rude. It's just a very personal thing, deciding how to express myself.'

  'For sure, my friend, absolutely. '

  At the cafe, the couple had risen to leave, after first placing some francs on the table to cover the bill. They left the patio and walked towards the hilly roads out of the cul-de-sac. A few moments later, the door to the cafe opened and Isabelle walked over to their table to clean up.

  'You know you are quite correct, Giraud,' Levesque said. 'She is absolutely lovely. But I rather suspect from that earlier display that she and the large boy -- Jean-Max is his name, I think -- I rather suspect they have a relationship.'

  That would be most unfortunate, Giraud thought; but he'd already considered it a possibility. 'I wonder what they were arguing about,' he said aloud, though he'd meant to keep it in.

  'What do you mean?' Levesque asked. 'It could be just about anything.'

  'What could possibly be so important to two so young? They are both, what... twenty-five at most? They have years to work things out for the better.'

  Levesque squinted and peered at him through a narrowed, puzzled gaze, as if Giraud's grasp of the obvious was sorely lacking. 'In times such as these, you need to ask that question?'

  Before he could answer, they were interrupted by the arrival of Hubert Rousseau. 'And what has you hot under the collar, Anton?' he asked as he strode up to them.

  Levesque gestured to the bench and he joined them. 'My young friend here sometimes seems blissfully unware that there is a war on. He wonders why people might be a little short with one another.'

  Once again, his tone had a slightly mocking sting to it, a rebuke that reminded Giraud he was politically opposed to Levesque, even if they shared a friendship. The newspaper editor did not think much of the Nazis, or of anyone who would work with them.

  'This war will be over sooner rather than later, mark my words,' Giraud said. 'They are young. They are in an occupied city, where there is no fighting going on. Is it the war that pressures them and others like them, Anton, or is it their politics?'

  'Excuse me?' he said, taken aback.

  'I've lost track of what we're talking about,' Rousseau said.

  'A young couple, at the cafe,' Levesque said. 'The boy is a young communist sympathizer, like many his age, and so Giraud has it in his head that perhaps there is a growing ideological rift between the boy and the waitress. Doubtless, he sees it as exploitable. I believe he is misreading the situation, and that she very likely shares her young friend's contempt for both capitalists and fascists. You must remember, Giraud, that until very recent history, we cut the heads off of aristocrats and dictators. Their tension, their profound irritation, is shared by many in Paris. After all, we share this bondage, do we not? We are all Parisians, are we not? We are Frenchmen, first and foremost, not Nazis. Is this not so?'

  Giraud didn't like the tone of that, either, as if his sense of superiority lent some privilege when it came to decorum. 'N
ow just you watch yourself, Anton! You go too far. This is my home, every bit as much as yours. We share that, yes. But we do not share your belief that there is only one way forward, or that everyone must acquiesce to your Marxist drivel.'

  Rousseau scowled at the editor. 'He is right, Anton, that is rude and unfair. Has Giraud suggested any such thing, or are you merely once again assuming that every policeman in Paris is one step removed from beating their neighbors with truncheons?'

  Levesque looked a little embarrassed, Giraud thought.

  'Of course, of course, ' Levesque said. 'My apologies, Giraud. But you must understand: I made a promise to Patrice, my son, that I would fight the scourge of fascism, and prevent what happened to Spain taking place in our beloved France, and I very much intend on carrying through with that promise. I meant nothing towards you personally.'

  'Do not mistake my willingness to skirt the rationing system for profit as a lack of moral fiber,' the officer said. 'There are always difficult decisions in war, but I would not allow a... fascination with this woman to affect my duties.'

  'I am sure this is true,' Levesque said. 'You must remember that I worry about young people such as these, these artists and bohemians and political radicals; these purveyors of tension and challenge. They are the soul of France, you see, but they are not afforded the protections of those with old family connections and old family money.'

  Rousseau smiled at him. 'We know how you feel about inequality,' he said. 'But Giraud is just pondering the splendor of love, not attempting to round up all of the communists.'

  'If we were, Anton,' Giraud said, 'don't you think we'd be knocking on your door first and foremost?'

  And as soon as he'd said it, they all paused in awkward silence, realizing how intimidating it had sounded.

  'My apologies, I didn't mean it like...'

  'I know,' Levesque said. 'You are simply making a point, and in doing so, helping to make my point for me. Young people such as these? They require a soft hand to guide them, and will never stand for being shoved in someone else's direction. That's something the Nazis haven't learned yet.'

  As they talked, Isabelle walked out of the cafe and onto the patio. She had her coat on and purse over her arm.

  'Perhaps she is done for the day,' Levesque said. 'She left around this time on Monday, also.'

  She exited the patio and stopped briefly on the sidewalk to look both ways. For just the briefest of moments, Giraud thought she was looking right at him, and her shy smile appeared once more. Then she turned to her right and followed the curb around to the hilly Rue Chapdelaine, disappearing from sight after a few seconds.

  And so, Giraud thought, some answers: she has a relationship, but it appears rocky, tense. She is strong-willed, not easily manipulated or bullied by a man. She is fierce when accosted, yet at the same time, she is professional, courteous. If she has a sense of humor and taste in music, he told himself, I may have to marry this woman. If I can muster up the required will to even speak with her, of course.

  14...

  Back at his office, Giraud should have been concentrating on the next quarter's budget for the station. Instead, he sat behind his desk with his door closed and replayed the scene involving the boy and the girl over and over. He wondered if it had been serious, or merely the tensions that arise in any relationship. Perhaps they weren't lovers at all, but siblings or long-time friends.

  Wishful thinking, he told himself. Prepare for the worst, and enjoy the best on those rare occasions that it makes an appearance.

  There was a knock on his office door, the familiar, unconfident tap of Constable Mombourquette. 'Enter!' Giraud said.

  Mombourquette opened the door but just looked in. 'Boss...'

  'Come in, Mombourquette, don't just stand there.'

  He entered and closed the door behind him. 'Boss, there's a lady here to see you, a Madame Distin. She said you'll know what it's about.'

  Distin? The name struck him immediately, but not the person. He tried to put a face to it.

  The woman at his apartment. Older, with a missing husband and daughter who'd been arrested.

  And a dead son.

  It would be awkward and tense. Chances were high that once again he would have to turn her away.

  'Does she know for certain that I am here?' Giraud asked. There was nothing to be gained from sentimentality, he told himself, from becoming involved in this woman's drama, induced as it was by her family's choices and the Nazis' brutality. He could change nothing, affect nothing except, perhaps, the imposition of hope, likely false.

  'I believe she was already here when you returned, deputy divisional superintendent...'

  'So there's no avoiding her.'

  'I could send her away...'

  'No! No, it's a sensitive matter. I will speak with her.'

  'Yes, deputy divisional superintendent. I thought I would also mention that we continue to work on a safe house location for the Laszlo cell...'

  'Yes, yes,' Giraud said. Regular work could wait for another time, he thought. Raiding political dissidents was far, far down on the priority list. 'Just send her in, okay?'

  'Okay boss.' Mombourquette backed obsequiously from the room. 'She'll be right in.'

  Giraud had felt it in his bones the first time he'd met her, the nervous energy that emanates from someone with a purpose, and the tension that accompanies it when that purpose is one of life or death. She wasn't going to give up on her husband, which meant she wouldn't stop asking them questions, probably until the Nazis took away her ability to do so.

  He wondered if there was any point in warning her again. Probably not.

  The door opened again and Madame Distin entered. She wore a floral print dress and canvas open-toed high heels. She had a lot of makeup on, Giraud noticed immediately, and the smell of lilac perfume filled the room. She held her small clutch purse ahead of her daintily, as if worried that any loud noise might shake her conviction.

  'Madame, please...' he rose and gestured to the seat across the desk.

  'I will not keep you long, chief constable,' she said. 'I thought perhaps after our conversation you might have thought about our situation...'

  'I have.'

  'And I thought I might once again entreat upon you to offer assistance...'

  At least she did not beat around the bush. 'As I said, Madame, I can only make general inquiries...'

  'I was not able to offer you much the last time we talked, but I brought along some extra pieces of jewelry today...'

  She withdrew a knotted handkerchief from her pocket and opened it. Then she removed a pearl necklace and a diamond ring. 'These are my most treasured family keepsakes. They are both worth many tens of thousands of francs. They are nearly the entirety of our remaining wealth as a family. They are yours, if you will return my husband to me.'

  She placed the open handkerchief on the desk. Giraud looked at the jewelry. In peaceful times, perhaps, he would not have even considered such a crude action, to take a woman's last valuable possession. But it was a war; everyone needed to make a living, to find ways to supply the basics. And these were not run-of-the-mill heirlooms. The diamond was pear-cut and the size of the end of his thumb. The pearls were flawless, a string of at least three dozen. He looked at the stone and the pearls and his pupils widened; his breath felt slightly short. He found himself biting his lower lip in excitement.

  And, anxiety. It was not that he did not want to accept her offer; it was more than generous. The problem lay in the follow up. Even if he had the intestinal fortitude to approach Obergruppenfuhrer Werner Best about a single insignificant businessman's arrest, there was all likelihood he would not even be able to gain an appointment. And if he did and Best felt his time had been wasted, it would probably be the last mistake Giraud would ever make.

  He needed to delay, think of a way to keep her involved and interested, without promising anything. 'And your daughter-in-law? You expect her released also?'

  'That... that
is another matter,' she said. Madame Distin looked for the briefest of moments as if she might cry before frowning and furrowing her brow, pushing the thought down deep so that its sting could not reach her. 'I... I do not believe that she told my son of her Jewish heritage, you see, and perhaps if ...'

  'If she had, he might still be alive,' Giraud said. Perhaps if he asked for one of the pieces upfront, he could at the very least...

  'It's true, of course,' she said. 'And yet, I also love her, and know her to be a good and kind soul. She was a teacher before the war, you know. And she is a wonderful mother.'

  The diamond was very large. Very large, indeed, Giraud thought.

  He picked it up and turned it around in his fingers, watching the light play through its facets, illuminating each flat surface like a blazing sun. An item such as that? Even at terrible black market rates it would buy almost anything he needed.

  Marguerite watched him but did not intercede, the gems making their own silent, salacious sales pitch. 'She did not consider herself Jewish but she must have known. Can you blame her, when the Germans seem to be blaming Jews and Freemasons for everything from the war to the weather? But... if she had simply worn the star, they would have let her be. They would have left her alone.' Her eyes wandered slightly as she became caught up in the memory of her late son and her daughter-in-law together. 'I love her like a daughter, but I know they will not release her. And so I ask about my husband, for realism and no other reason, monsieur.'

  Mon Dieu, life was becoming a moral quandary. He put the ring back down. What if he took the items but failed? All of that risk would be for nothing. And he would have to lay down serious bribe money, tens of thousands of francs, to get the information and action required. That is, if it could even be done.

  He picked up the pearl necklace and felt the silky smooth veneer of each tiny orb as they passed between his fingers. 'Flawless,' he said aloud.

  'It once belonged to Catherine the Great,' Madame Distin said. 'Go on: Take it.'

  He could hear the edge of desperation in her voice. Surely, no matter what happened, offering her some hope was better than nothing at all, he told himself. Even if he had to extract himself from the matter at some point for safety's sake, he could make inquiries. He had better German contacts than most and spoke better German than most -- an important factor given how alarmingly few German officers seemed able to handle French.