The Cafe Girl

by Ian Loome

  A moment later, the teller returned, still smiling. 'The withdrawal is fine, Deputy Giraud; given the sum and the source, you understand that we had to double check...'

  'Of course,' he said, smiling as winningly as possible. He didn't visit the bank very often, but on the off chance that they remembered him, he wanted the memory to be positive. One day, he recognized, he might have to empty the account and get out of town.

  A half-hour later, he found himself in the central courtyard of a private home in the Fourteenth, near the Observatory in the south of the city. Like so many across the country, the home and courtyard were constructed from stone, and had stood for centuries, ivy slowly spreading. There were at least a dozen people attending the black market auction, which was an attempt by one of the city's smugglers to get out of the trade with his skin intact and a wallet-full of francs.

  On an upfront table there were two cases of wine, a horse saddle of the finest leather craftsmanship, several cans of pre-ground coffee, and an array of weapons, mostly German. Giraud's eyebrows rose when he saw the two stick grenades at the end of the display.

  'Let's hope today goes better, eh?' a voice behind him said. It was Henri Filbert, his warehouse-owning associate. '

  'You've got that right,' said Giraud. 'That was as close as I ever want to be to a German firing squad.'

  'How did they know...?'

  'They set up the buy through my contact's nephew, I believe. It could have been any one of us they tried to pinch.'

  'But you managed to get away okay.' Giraud wondered if Henri was skeptical about his credentials, perhaps frightened he had been caught and was working for the law.

  'Like I said, just barely. I found a sewer hatch in a building next to the deal location. But they had us trapped in a corner otherwise.'

  'You know the baker is dead, right? They shot him right there in the courtyard.'

  Giraud hadn't heard it. 'You're sure?'

  'We checked around.'

  'Damn.'

  The burly crook looked nonplussed. 'Eh... he knew the risks. We all do. This isn't kindergarten. Speaking of which: you have something for me?'

  Giraud nodded and reached into his breast pocket before handing Henri an envelope. 'It's all there, but feel free to...'

  Henri was already counting the money, trying to flick through the edges of the bills without attracting attention.

  At the front table, the auctioneer was asking for quiet. He was perhaps fifty, with grey-black hair and a moustache, a florid pink face. 'Okay, we all know why we're here. We've got a few items that someone wishes to dispense with, no questions asked. We're going to start with the two cases of Bordeaux from the scarce 1933 crop, a decent bit of plonk but nothing that should break the budget. Twenty-four bottles, and we'll start the bids at fifty francs for each bottle.

  It was a steal. In the inflationary war economy, black market butter was going for five hundred francs a kilo, even though a pack of American cigarettes was just fifty. A pound of rice was sixty francs, a pound of chocolate three hundred. There was no scale to any of it. But fifty francs per bottle? Giraud's arm shot up. 'Two thousand for the entire lot,' he said.

  Groans and grumbling circled through the small crowd but no one challenged his bid. 'Sold! To the man with the tweed coat for two thousand.'

  Giraud began moving through the group to complete his purchase.

  'For shame!' someone nearby said. 'Every bottle?'

  'Zut alors! Leave some for the rest of us!' another man yelled.

  Giraud paid the auctioneer then moved the case of wine to the ground behind the auction table. 'I can leave this here for the rest of the auction?' he asked.

  The auctioneer nodded. Giraud walked back to his spot in the crowd next to Henri, amid a chorus of boos.

  'They don't seem to like you very much,' Henri said. 'It might be perceived that that was selfish.’

  Giraud shrugged. 'Like you said... this isn't kindergarten, although I must say your lack of sentiment for Boucher certainly is more deserving of scorn than my selfish shopping.'

  Henri eyed him sullenly. 'You think so? My reaction is honest. Tell me: what was Boucher's first name?' He waited as a silent moment passed. 'No? How about his wife's name? His children? What, you mean you didn't really care for him at all? Pttph! You are a fraud, Giraud. I may be ruthless, but at least I am honest. And is it not more moral to be an honest cook than a dishonest policeman?

  Giraud stared at him stonily. He was not accustomed being talked down to and forced himself to curb the welling anger he felt. 'But not so dishonest that you'll stop taking my money. And no more of this 'extra ten percent' bullshit from now on, if that's how you feel about things.'

  Henri frowned and licked his lip slightly. He was old enough to recognize his strengths, and to know he needed a shrewd man like Giraud on his side. 'Hey... boss, I went a little too far, that's all. Okay?'

  Giraud nodded but kept studying the larger thug. 'Pick up my wine from behind the auction table and carry it to my car. Then we'll be square for all the shit you just spouted.'

  His bicycle was insufficient to the task, but he had permission from Herveaux to take his car home with him, purely for work purposes, of course. It wasn't really about the weight of the wine, having Henri carry it. It was just important to establish a hierarchy, a pecking order. Henri had to remember who paid the bills. And it wasn't like Giraud was entirely unsympathetic; he understood the crowd's displeasure; after all, good wine was becoming increasingly rare. But business was business; the wine would not only fetch him a nice profit, he had enough that he could spare a bottle or two for some important contacts. Sometimes in Paris, getting business done meant greasing the right wheels.

  25...

  The German officer held the bottle in his left hand and studied the label. In the dim light of his office, surrounded by walls of books, he turned the bottle slightly, as if meditating upon its shape might afford him some insight into its taste and vintage.

  Oberleutnant Friederich Wulf was one of the few Nazis whom Giraud had met who actually seemed to have retained some humility. He was also a favorite of Obergruppenfuhrer Werner Best, and perhaps a route for his associate Corp. Gunter Obst to discuss the matter of Bernard Distin's location.

  After a couple of seconds, he looked up from the bottle and said, 'Is it any good? I'm not much on wine.'

  'It is very good, one of our best recent years. You'd mentioned that you preferred red over white, so I thought a nice Bordeaux...'

  'You spoil me, Giraud,' the young Nazi said. 'And yet you never ask me for anything. If I were a more suspicious sort I might see tones of espionage in our strange relationship, but that does not appear to be the case, either.'

  Giraud appeared irritated, quite deliberately. 'Is it not enough that a German and a Frenchman can just like each other and be friends anymore? I had German friends before the war. I don't see what's changed on that front.'

  The officer motioned for him to simmer down. 'Of course, of course, Giraud... I meant nothing by it. I tell you what: I expect a care package from my mother this week, and she has promised to include both schnapps and some excellent chocolate...'

  Giraud nodded gently. 'I would very much enjoy a piece of good chocolate,' he said, once again disingenuous. He told himself the German deserved no honesty, even if he was tolerable. 'Oh...I almost forgot...' He reached inside his jacket. 'I have an extra packet of American cigarettes that I thought you might enjoy. Camels.'

  The German took them gratefully. 'Thank you. I shall save them for when my new supply of Lucky Strikes runs out.'

  That was a surprise. Giraud had assumed he was Wulf's sole supplier. 'New supply?'

  'Yes, just a few days ago.'

  'Of American cigarettes?'

  'Hmmm? Yes, Luckys and Chesterfields.'

  The fools. Henri and Jacques had done exactly what they had agreed would not happen and sold their stock to German officers. 'I was under the impression that your commander h
ere is cracking down on black market cigarettes.'

  'Yes, I believe so.'

  'So it might be best if he doesn't see you carrying them.'

  'Oh...' The Nazi apparently hadn't thought of that. 'I suppose that's a good point. He might begin to ask questions...'

  'And then things become more difficult for everyone,' Giraud explained.

  'I shall keep it in mind,' Wulff said. 'We wouldn't want the only man with access to decent goods to get into trouble now, would we?'

  26...

  After meeting with Wulff, Giraud had gone once again to the Park for a late afternoon lunch. He'd told himself that he would, for the first time, introduce himself to Isabelle. Doubtless she had noticed his presence in the park, as the cul-de-sac was nearly deserted on most days. But she'd never expressed concern or discomfort. Perhaps she assumed he was merely a people watcher, surveying the cafe's sparse foot traffic, rather than an gracelessly amorous middle-aged man.

  On most days, she served perhaps a dozen patrons, if that. Giraud wondered how they were able to stay in business. But the same was true of many cafes and restaurants, most of whom had no special access to food or drink, and who offered little more than base rations, sparse-but-ingenious soups and whatever ratatouille they could scrape together from whatever vegetables were available.

  So, in short order, it became clear to those who wiled away their lunch hour in the cul-de-sac just which patrons were regulars and who was there to catch a bus. Giraud had chatted a few times with the piano player, tipped his hat to the elderly couple who came home each night to the apartments across the way, and even given a smiling wave or two to the old woman who sat with her husband at the rear of the cafe. But he was not a naturally genial man, and given the easier option of simply speaking with those who came to him -- Levesque, Hubert Rousseau, the boy -- he chose to remain affixed to the park bench.

  Today though, would be different, he promised himself. When her workday was over, he would wait until she had put on her shawl and gathered her bag, as she did every day, and then would walk over and introduce himself. Just before four o'clock, her usual time to leave, Giraud got up and stretched, awkwardly, then scanned the cul-de-sac to see if anyone else was watching. He strolled across the road and over to the section of fence beside the piano player. He nodded to the man, who was playing Chopin quietly. The piano player nodded back then went back to concentrating on his song.

  Giraud felt awkward and exposed. He had not been able to decide on the proper greeting when she emerged but felt confident that something would come to him. He had considered options, tested lines on his bathroom reflection.

  He grasped his hands together, then after a few moments realized that looked nervous, and so thrust them into his trouser pockets. But that probably looked indolent, he thought, like he had nothing better to do with his time. He crossed his arms, then considered that maybe that made him look defensive. How does one stand, relaxed, when one is not actually relaxed? Lean on the rail? Stride around in a circle, whistling? It all felt forced.

  'You look uncomfortable, monsieur,' the piano player said.

  Giraud turned to clarify that he was feeling just fine; but before he could speak, he saw her walk out of the cafe, her handbag over her right forearm and a grocery sack over her left shoulder, identical to those carried by the regular migration of city folk to the country for an afternoon of foraging. She walked down the slender path from the cafe's front door to its gate, and halfway along saw Giraud watching her; she looked down slightly, averting her eyes as if self-conscious, and a tiny smile crept across her lips. She opened the gate.

  'Bonjour monsieur,' she said as she walked past.

  There had been lists, plans, practice. He hadn't been sure of what he would say. But he had assumed he would be able to say something. Instead, Giraud watched her pass. She rounded the corner to the left side of the cafe and began climbing the hill towards the stop. She briefly glanced over her shoulder towards the cafe; Giraud wondered if she was looking at him.

  'Very smooth, monsieur,' the piano player said dryly. 'If you would take some helpful advice, she is probably going to the number two bus stop. Perhaps if you go now you can catch up before she climbs aboard and the moment passes.'

  Giraud nodded quickly rather than answer, still a little stunned that she had been so near and that she had talked to him, and that she had done so while looking perfect. Maybe the man was right; certainly, following her and attempting to greet her was preferable to standing in the street with his mouth hanging open.

  He closed his mouth. Then Giraud turned and headed after her.

  'He who hesitates is lost,' the piano player remarked.

  Giraud checked his watch. It was four-twenty-nine. If the four-thirty was on time, he'd have to hustle to catch up. He quickened his pace, striding up the hill without breaking into a run, which would look desperate. The stop was just past the top of the hill about a hundred yards from the cul-de-sac. As he crested the hilltop he could see the bus, the familiar forest-green bottom half, the off-white roof that curved down to the back window. He saw her climb aboard and there were only a half-dozen people behind her.

  He quickened his pace to a walking jog. Another two aboard and it was thirty yards away. Giraud began to jog. The last passenger climbed aboard, stepping up onto the small platform ahead of the door, using the pole for support.

  'Wait!' Giraud yelled. He ran, not hesitating to worry about making a bad impression. The bus began to pull slowly away from the curb and he sprinted, not certain why, but sure he would miss an opportunity if he missed that bus. It was away from the curb and picking up speed. Giraud was just a few feet behind unable to quite....

  He pushed hard, jumped for the step and the pole, holding on for dear life as the bus's momentum fought to throw him clear. He shuffled both feet into the platform and pushed the open button to the folding doors.

  At the conductor's seat, the little man in the blue uniform and flat-top hat looked at him with a mixture of fatigue and distaste. 'Ten francs, monsieur,' he said.

  It was still the cheapest way to travel around Paris, even if there were only a handful of regular routes. Fuel shortages and the constant breaking down of those vehicles converted to methane or coal meant that when one could get a ride, one took it, and did not complain. And so the bus was crowded, every seat filled and standing room only on the aisle between them, a row of gaunt faces, people putting on their Sunday best to at offer a brave front to their cousins in the country.

  Giraud stood at the back of the aisle and tried to peek around people. Sure enough, she was sitting in the third row from the front, on the aisle, her sack on her lap. Her face was blank, as if a million miles away, and he wondered how onerous it was for her to trek out of town every week for the scraps that farm folk had left, or that hadn't been seized by the Germans.

  The bus trundled along, occasionally stopping for passengers. While some obviously knew each other or made friends easily, Isabelle did not speak to the large woman in the seat next to her and was quiet throughout, deep in thought. Giraud felt his nerves rise and tingle uncomfortably; what would he say once they arrived at her destination? It had been impulsive to jump on the bus, he realized, without some explanation other than that he was following her. He could claim he was going to see the farmers for fresh vegetables, but where was his sack? Had it been a working day, he would have been in uniform and could have claimed official business. Instead, he knew, he would be forced to lie convincingly, immediately starting any conversation with her off on a terrible footing.

  When they reached Belleville, most of the passengers disembarked as he'd expected and switched to the number eleven. But Isabelle did not. Instead, she stayed aboard as the number two shifted south towards Pere-Lachaise and Place de la Nation, skirting the eastern edge of the city. Giraud used the brief stop to move to a seat on the opposite side of the bus, three rows back. Unless she craned her neck or turned suddenly, she was unlikely to see him.
r />   What was she up to? It could have been just about anything, Giraud understood. She could have family in the south of the city, or want to switch to the number one, which led out to Chateau de Vincennes, the old thirteenth-century fortress of French kings.

  The latter seemed unlikely. Although the brief attempt at resisting the German occupation had been based out of offices there, the old castle had since been turned into a barracks for more than two hundred German soldiers, and its dungeons held prisoners being transferred to various work camps just outside the city. It was one of the least hospitable places near Paris; and at the height of a war, that was saying something.

  At Place de La Nation, she confirmed his second suspicion. He turned his head as she passed along the aisle while leaving the bus. He followed her as she crossed the large public park, surrounded by the empty multi-lane traffic circle that had once teemed with vehicles. On the other side, she waited alone to board the number one, heading towards the fortress.

  It was one of the emptiest buses Giraud had seen for the entirety of the war. At the front, a pair of German soldiers who probably didn't need transit at all kept each other chuckling. Across the aisle and a few rows back, a large woman sat with two grocery bags. Isabelle sat a row back on the bus's right side. Giraud sat on the back seat, realizing that when she finally rose to leave, he would have to get off the bus first via the back step, or risk being recognized.

  It carried them east, away from the noise of the city. The fortress towered in the foreground as the bus chugged along the bumpy, distressed concrete. At least the other passenger had bags as well, he told himself, which suggested there was a food source somewhere on the route.

  The bus pulled over to the side of the road just outside the Vincennes Forest, at the site of an abandoned inn, its thatched roof bearing holes, its windows boarded. Realizing both women were rising to leave, Giraud quickly got up, hitting the door button as the bus rolled to a stop. He scampered down the platform steps, and before either woman had climbed off, made his way to the adjacent woods.