The Cafe Girl

by Ian Loome

  He looked over at the bottle of wine he'd finished off after returning from the country. Then he looked at the bottle of sherry. Its fluid level seemed much lower than he remembered.

  Had he...?

  No. If he'd done anything while drunk, Giraud was certain he would at least remember some of it.

  But... there was that sense, that he was missing something, of something once known but now forgotten.

  Was it possible? Was it possible to do something terrible, and yet retain no knowledge of it beyond the barest hint?

  No. He did not believe it so, at least not in the case of Isabelle, whom he had secretly come to love. Giraud knew many of his actions were contemptible, selfish. He accepted that. But he had no desire to hurt her.

  His solution seemed obvious. He needed to convince her of his plan and given them both a fighting chance to start over, to begin anew in another country, with money in their pockets.

  Now all that was required was to find her.

  36...

  The Sorbonne was one of several schools that made up the University of Paris, and it held a cultural fascination for the bohemians, a place where they could feel free to discuss ideas that others considered repugnant or seditious.

  At least, it had been, before the war, and it continued to try to be.

  Like so many other schools in other countries, its concrete buildings were surrounded by businesses that catered to those with little-to-no money: coffee shops and bakeries, rooming houses, a few garment workshops for those who needed more income than panhandling and poetry could provide.

  Giraud had asked around the faculty of political science, which had become a shadow of its pre-war self, thanks to the fear of reprisal for non-conformist thought. They had directed him to a bakery called Pete's, where the students hung out and listened to jazz records provided by the owner, a black American named Artie. Pete, he would later learn, had been Artie's brother's name back in the U.S. and he had passed some years earlier.

  It was a long room that looked like it had been a factory flood at some point, with roller doors at the end for loading and unloading trucks. People sat and they stood, milling about, probably more than a hundred in total. There were round tables strewn over a sixty-by-thirty room, with a bar along one wall, and an elevated stage at the back. In the corner, a jukebox was playing Bix Beiderbecke, the clarinet cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke and the chatter of conversation.

  He walked among the tables, evaluating the faces he saw around him. A few glanced back suspiciously; his age marked him as an outsider, if not outright as the police. The closer to the back of the room that he ventured, the more sour the odor became. At the back tables, a handful of black men in white tuxedo jackets were lounging by the stage, smoking hand rolled 'gage' cigarettes, the marijuana ones that made them sleepy after a heavy night of playing jazz.

  There were no Germans to be seen which was uncommon for such a large public place. It was probably one of the reasons the kids liked it; the Germans would want to avoid any place owned by a schwarz -- black man -- even an American. Perhaps they feared catching talent and good humor, Giraud mused.

  He scanned the room again, looking for young women the same age as Isabelle; against the left wall, at a two-person table, a young woman was reading a textbook. Two more were on the table, both philosophy. Giraud ventured over. 'Excuse me, may I sit?' he asked

  She opened her mouth to say something but then appeared awkwardly stuck in mid thought.

  'I shall assume that is a yes,' he said. 'You are a student of philosophy?' He gestured towards the book and she nodded nervously in response. 'I hate to tell you this, but Heidegger's treatise is presumptive. It assume an unprovable original state of being that exists in a pre-scientifically studied reality, where it cannot be affected by mere interaction; then proposes studying incremental repetition of circumstance to prove that state... which is science. It is self-contradictory and, like most philosophy, tautological once one understand that the purpose of individual functions of biology are purely for survival, with no greater meaning. There is no 'true self', no answer to the question 'why are we here?'

  Her mouth dropped open. 'That... I cannot...' She was obviously offended.

  Giraud raised a hand. 'I absolutely do not wish to offend. Of course, I leave room for the metaphysical, and thus our Lord's Good Grace.'

  She had finally gathered her thoughts. 'Sir, I did not invite you to sit and mock my beliefs...'

  'And I do not. For example, many people now believe that those biological functions are matters of pure evolution, trial and error. I believe our Great Father endowed us with the tools needed to survive. But I do not go so far as to assume we have some grand, unseen purpose, some larger truth we must uncover.'

  'Perhaps you should leave,' she said.

  Giraud withdrew his badge and placed it on the table. 'Perhaps you should be more polite.'

  Her mouth dropped open once again. 'I... I am sorry,' she said quietly. 'I did not mean to seem rude.' In a time when offending the police could mean disappearing, her sudden change in tone spoke volumes. He had intended on intimidating her, annoying her, placing her in a position to speak sharply to him. It had worked.

  'And I do not wish to claim rank or status,' he said, putting the badge away. 'I merely need someone's help.'

  'I... I doubt there is anything...'

  'There is a girl who goes to school here, in political science, named Isabelle Gaspard. I need to find her. She may believe she is in trouble with the Germans, or with the police. Both may be true, but I can offer her help, you see.'

  'I don't know...'

  'Shhh. I don't care whether you claim to know her or not, whether you are truthful with me right now or not. You are a philosophy student, and at this school that means you are probably also a communist or a socialist, and so is she. I only care that the message gets to her. Tell her she can contact the policeman at the cafe at one o'clock on any day.'

  She shook her head slightly, as if somewhat dazed by the flood of information. 'Which cafe...? Where?'

  'She will know.' He reached into his side pocket and took out twenty francs, which he folded, then passed discretely across the table. 'For your trouble.'

  Her eyes flitted around the room to see if anyone was watching, before her hand quickly withdrew the money. Her gaze fell to her lap, embarrassed. 'Thank you,' she said.

  He rose and walked away. If the student grapevine were as established as he understood it to be, it would not take long for word to filter back to her. In the meantime, he planned to visit the shop and the pub near the safe house. Its occupants had to eat, after all, and that meant they had to buy food; and Isabelle was difficult to forget.

  37...

  The safe house was mere blocks from the cul-de-sac, and Giraud had two hours still until he needed to be at work. He would be expected to sign off on the prior month's deposits from cash seizures and August had required more dips into that fund than comfortable. He did not expect his accounts to be challenged, but it added to his existing tension.

  He looked at the building, then considered the flow of the block in each direction and the businesses that lay along each segment. Most had been shuttered since the occupation began, but there was a grocer's on the corner that served up weekly rations, and a bar across the street.

  She would certainly have gone to the grocer's, but so would literally thousands of others in North Paris, given its role and the limitations of the Nazi-enforced food ticket program. While he fancied her so beautiful that any person would remember her instantly, he was not so foolish as to assume he was correct.

  Would she even go to the bar? He looked at the front entry, an old oak door crested by a rounded top, almost medieval in appearance. Two dark windows, one on either side of the building. She worked all day as a waitress; he doubted she wanted to be in the same type of environment...

  Then he reconsidered. There were only four or five hours before curfew when she co
uld have gone there, and that would have been the period after work, when most people went home. She was young; she lived just across the way, and her communist friends did, too.

  He walked over and pushed the door open.

  The bar was thick with smoke, even though a cursory glance revealed no more than eight people in the large tavern-style room. Against the south wall was a square bar, the barman eyeing him sullenly. A radio on one of the shelves behind him was playing folk music.

  There was a waitress near the back of the room and he could hardly see her through the smoke, but she was a bigger woman. Even just her shape seemed somewhat familiar. He began walking that way.

  'Hey,' the barman said as he passed. 'Hey, you going to buy a drink or what? We don't allow loiterers.'

  He was big, fearless. Giraud approached the bar and reached into his pocket, taking out his badge to quickly show the man.

  'Yeah, so?'

  'So I'm looking for a girl. She may have been here semi-regularly.'

  He shrugged. 'I don't remember names or faces.'

  'You'd remember this one. She's very pretty, about twenty, short brown hair, large brown eyes, very deep, a thin nose that curves up just a little...'

  The barman smiled ruefully, but he shook his head and said, 'Doesn't sound like anyone familiar.' He did not even bother trying to hide the lie, Giraud thought.

  'Are you sure? She lived in the apartments across the road. Her name is Isabelle Gaspard.'

  The barman continued to smile. 'I’ve never heard of her. You: were you there when your friends raided the place a few days ago?'

  'I was.'

  On the shelf behind him, the radio had switched to the news. The announcer was recounting the ease with which Hitler's forces were rolling over Russia, controlling Africa and even landing invasion forces in England. The combined evil of the Freemason-controlled British government and its Communist overseers in Moscow would soon be crushed by National Socialism, it said, and the terror inflicted upon Europe by them would be avenged.

  The barman turned down the volume. 'If you were to believe what the censored news claims, there is no resistance movement in Paris, and Poland invaded itself. So tell me, Mr. Policeman, do you not feel somewhat guilty for arresting those young people?'

  'I have always found guilt to be a somewhat overrated emotion,' Giraud said. 'I accepted my job and the duties that came with it.'

  'That is not much of an answer,' the barman said. 'But I suppose that does not surprise me, either. Do you not consider it to be in somewhat poor taste for you to come into my bar and ask about this girl? I assume she is one of the people you were trying to arrest? Or are you looking for her to apologize, perhaps, and salve a guilty conscience?'

  Giraud was taken aback by his brashness. He had a business, something to lose. But the barman seemed indifferent. Perhaps he had been pushed to the point of incivility, Giraud reasoned. That was something he at least understood.

  'My reasons are my own,' Giraud said. 'But I will not waste your time any further, nor disturb your patrons. Good evening.' He turned to leave.

  'Deputy?' The voice to his left was familiar, deep for a woman.

  'Madame Distin,' he acknowledged. 'I admit to some surprise at seeing you here...' He had forgotten about her, about his pursuit of the diamond. Grander circumstances had conspired to amend his priorities.

  'I work here,' she said. She had a tray in one hand, a towel over her arm. 'Since the arrest of my husband and death of my son, my family's circumstances have been... somewhat reduced. Monsieur Carriere was nice enough to give me a job and room.'

  'What about your grand home?'

  'The Germans have occupied it.'

  'I am very sorry to hear that...'

  'Are you? I have not heard from you in the weeks since we spoke. I have longed for some word on my husband, Bernard, and whether he continues to survive. I left messages at your office all day but you did not return them...'

  'They moved my shift to the night time. I was not aware...'

  'You did not get one message? I find this hard to believe. You took my pearls, monsieur, my second-most valuable remaining possession. And then you did nothing.'

  'Madame, that is not the case, believe me. I continue to make many, many inquiries. But these things take time. It is sensitive. A sensitive matter.'

  She was studying him, looking for something unstated. Her pale blue eyes were watery but managed to lock upon his nonetheless, and he fought the urge to look suddenly away. His gaze flitted to her feet, the floorboards, the door in his peripheral vision.

  'Have you done anything?'

  'I have. I have made inquiries. I did warn you that this would be difficult...'

  'You did. But you have no news at all?'

  'Not yet. But you should not give up hope.'

  'Oh, I have nothing but, believe me...'

  'If you had any extra resources that could speed the investigation...'

  She gestured around. 'I work here now, monsieur. I have nothing more to give; the ring... it will stay in my family, no matter what. For my granddaughter...'

  'I see. It would be easier to, at the very least, locate him if...'

  'I know where he is.' She said it simply, without malice. 'I have known since shortly after I spoke with you. And yet your 'inquiries' did not even reveal this much? That he is in one of their camps?' He could see it then, the distrust in her eyes, her contempt for him. 'And I somehow convinced myself that you could have him released.'

  'I promised nothing. But my sympathies are with you.'

  'I do not believe a heart that runs as cold as yours understands the meaning of the term, monsieur,' she said calmly.

  'Now, madame, that is not fair, not fair at all. I have made calls, paid bribes...'

  'I am sure you have. But not for my husband, or you would at least stayed in touch.'

  'Don't lie to the woman, policeman,' the barman said. 'You discredit yourself.'

  'Madame, I have one good German contact, still. I have every intention...'

  'Of what? Prying my diamond ring from my dead hand?' she mocked. 'Probably. Admit it to yourself, monsieur, you are a ghoul, a monster who preys on the living in service of the damned.'

  The words struck Giraud deeply -- not because they hurt, because he rejected them immediately; but because they represented a lack of authority over her, an inability to sway her position, to placate. And that meant there was nothing he was going to learn there.

  'Madame, monsieur,' he said, giving each a curt, short bow, just a dip of his head, really. 'I must be about my duties. I shall contact you if I hear anything, Madame Distin.'

  'I shall be glad to see the back of you,' she said, as he walked away. 'I shall be glad to see the back of you and your Nazi friends, sympathizer.' She raised her voice. 'You hear that, everyone? The Nazis' pet policeman is going about his business.'

  It filled him with anger, despite his ongoing attempts to remain stoic, but he bottled it up, held it in. He wanted to turn around, draw his service revolver, shoot her dead where she stood and the barman with her. But there was nothing to be gained from it, and instead he controlled himself, marshalled his patience, and walked back out into the street, laughter echoing behind him.

  38....

  'I need to find her, Anton. I need to find her quickly.'

  There was a desperate tone to Giraud and there was no doubt that he was serious. Levesque seemed slightly taken aback by the vociferous request, which came as a surprise, given that he'd just sat down on the bench.

  He took the silver flask of Cognac from his breast pocket and offered it to the policeman. 'Here: I think you need this more than me right now.'

  Giraud accepted the vessel and knocked back a long swallow.

  'You look rough, like you didn't sleep,' Levesque suggested as he looked around the cul-de-sac for signs of life.

  'I spent the evening and well into the night combing North Paris for a single woman.'

  'The nigh
t? You mean people break the curfew? Surely you jest.'

  'It is not a laughing matter, Anton. If I do not find Isabelle Gaspard, Vaillancourt is going to tell the Germans he thinks I had something to do with her disappearing. And he also believes she is connected to the murder of the German soldier east of the city...'

  'It's not possible!' Levesque scoffed. 'This slip of a girl...?'

  'Of course, the entire idea is absurd. But he has already made up his mind about my character. To him, I am some sort of criminal mastermind...'

  Levesque laughed gently. 'Surely he has talked to you?'

  'Make fun if you will, but this is serious. There are many permutations to this, but suffice is to say, she is in great danger.'

  'I am well aware of that. My own inquiries continue to suggest she may already have been picked up by the SS.'

  The color drained from Giraud's face. 'What?'

  'They believe she was picked up. Even if she was not, she will be soon, as the Germans know about your raid. They know she was living in the house. They have their own intelligence, Giraud. If they find her, they will torture her into telling anything she knows about Laszlo Fontaine, as they believe he was being held at that safe house by the... what was the cell calling themselves? The 'Friends of Fabien', I believe?'

  'But that is not true!' Giraud exclaimed. 'I was there, Anton; she was staying there, yes. But there was no sign of Fontaine or his family.'

  'And you think the Nazis will believe that?'

  'Damn. Again, this is why it is essential I find her before they do.'

  'Better yet, you could use your existing contacts with the Germans to let them know they are incorrect. They won't believe her, but they might believe it from you, given your rank.'

  The idea caught Giraud off guard. There would be some risk, doubtless. Oberleutnant Wulff was an amiable enough chap, but he was still SS. Still, he'd been a faithful supplier of Wulff's various black market favorites, and the young officer probably wanted that to continue.