While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  “I’m not hungry. Can’t we stay longer—please?”

  “No. It’s lunchtime.”

  “Please.”

  “Don’t beg, Sam.”

  When they wander back up the beach, Charlotte has a towel ready for Sam, which she puts around his shoulders, pulling him onto her lap and kissing him on the top of his head. “Was it cold?”

  “No. It’s real warm. Are you gonna come in?” Sam turns to look up at her.

  “After lunch.” Charlotte takes out a flask, pouring cups of homemade lemonade, clouds of pulp floating to the surface. She passes Jean-Luc his favorite sandwich—ham and tomato—and Sam his: peanut butter and jelly.

  “Can we go camping next weekend?” Sam’s face shines with eagerness.

  “There’s an idea. Where were you thinking of?”

  “France.”

  Jean-Luc nearly chokes on his lemonade. “France? But that’s the other side of the world.”

  “What made you think of that all of a sudden?” Charlotte asks.

  “Mrs. Armstrong said we should talk to our gran’parents and ask them what it was like when they were small, then we gotta write about it. Mine are in France. Right?”

  Jean-Luc bites into his sandwich, looking out to sea.

  “Yes,” Charlotte replies. “But it’s a long ways away. I could tell you what it was like for your grandparents, growing up in France.” She places her hand on Sam’s knee. Jean-Luc knows she’s trying to placate him.

  “Can’t I write and ask them?”

  “No, Sam. They’re too old.” She removes her hand, scratching her right shoulder.

  Jean-Luc recognizes the gesture; it’s what she does when she’s feeling awkward or playing for time.

  “Too old to write?” Sam insists.

  “Yes.” She turns around, fumbling in the cooler.

  “But why do they never come to see us? All my friends have grandparents, and it’s like I don’t have any.”

  “Sam,” Jean-Luc says, “remember how we told you the war in France was hard on everyone. We managed to escape with you, but the people who stayed, like your grandparents, they don’t like looking back. They want to forget.”

  “What? Forget us?”

  Jean-Luc exchanges a look with Charlotte. “No, not us, but they were sad when we left.” He pauses. “Maybe we’ll see them again one day. Planes are very expensive, you know.”

  “Okay.” Sam nibbles the crust off his sandwich.

  Jean-Luc turns around to look at Charlotte. She’s hunched over the cool box, her dark, silky hair loosely tied back with a purple silk scarf. He’s worried that the conversation is upsetting her.

  “What else have you got in there, honey?” he asks.

  She pulls out a brown paper bag and passes it to him, but doesn’t meet his eye. The atmosphere lies thick and heavy. So much unsaid.

  Then Sam breaks it. “Are they cookies?”

  Jean-Luc opens the bag. “Yes, your favorite. Chocolate chip.”

  “Swell!” Sam reaches out his hand to take one.

  Thank God for chocolate chip cookies, Jean-Luc thinks ironically.

  Later when Sam has gone off to dig holes in the sand, Charlotte and Jean-Luc stretch out on the picnic rug. Jean-Luc turns onto his side, resting his head on his hand, gazing down at her.

  A silence falls on them, and he wonders if she will broach the subject first. He looks at her loosely tied hair falling to the side. He likes the way she always carries scarves with her, draping them around her neck or wrapping her hair in them, sometimes tying one around her waist. She has style. Originality. It’s what attracted him to her in the first place. Never one to blend into the background, however hard she might try.

  “Jean-Luc.”

  “Yes?” He can feel it coming.

  “Sam is asking questions again. All his friends have family—grandparents, uncles, aunts, all that. But he has none.”

  “He has us.” Jean-Luc runs his finger over her cheek, tracing its curve. “We’ll just have to make sure we’re enough.” He wishes once again that they could have given Sam some siblings. A big happy family would have helped Charlotte cope with her homesickness, would have helped her to feel more settled, but it just didn’t happen. They even went to the doctor; he said it was certainly the deprivation Charlotte suffered during the occupation that made her periods stop, but he couldn’t say why they never came back. He wanted to run some tests, but Charlotte refused, saying they should just make the most of what they had. Jean-Luc didn’t like to insist; the subject felt fraught and fragile, so he dropped it.

  When their bodies can’t take any more heat and they’re too tired to swim, they pack up and leave the beach. They pass a street sweeper in blue overalls leaning on a large broom, the bristles nestling a collection of the day’s used fun—ice-cream wrappers, cigarette butts, and broken cardboard boxes. He doesn’t appear to be in a hurry to get on with the job.

  “Weather’s ’bout to change.” He points up at the fleecy clouds moving in. “Might be in for a storm.”

  With their eyes they follow the line of his finger, looking up at the clouds gathering momentum. They hurry away to their car. The prominent hood and smooth lines of the dark blue Nash 600 always bring a sense of pride to Jean-Luc. He never imagined owning such a beautiful car, but here in America, anything is possible. He puts the key in the ignition and immediately the music comes on.

  “How much is that doggie in the window?”

  They join in with the lyrics as they pull out.

  That evening, the warm air clings to them. A heavy stillness hangs from the leaves, which have ceased to flutter, and the cat lies stretched out, belly exposed, under the shade of the weeping willow. Jean-Luc and Sam are on the front porch, languidly rocking on the swinging seat, trying to catch a little breeze. Charlotte brings cold lemonade in tall glasses, ice cubes clinking. Jean-Luc takes an ice cube and holds it against the back of his neck. It quickly turns to water, trickling down his back, providing only a moment’s respite from the California summer heat.

  Sounds of The Ed Sullivan Show drift over from the open windows of the neighbor’s house.

  Jean-Luc looks up at the sky. “I wish this storm would hurry up and break.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Santa Cruz, July 4, 1953

  CHARLOTTE

  I wake too early, anxiety niggling at my subconscious. Obligations for the day swim into my mind. The Caleys are having a barbecue today to celebrate America winning its independence. I’ve never enjoyed the Fourth of July. It reminds me that this isn’t really my home, that American history isn’t my history. I guess I’m just feeling homesick. There are days when I do. Sometimes I think I was torn from my home before I was old enough to know what it really meant. It doesn’t mean I’m not happy here. How could I not be? The people are friendly, you can buy anything you need, and the quality of life is good. It’s just that there’s a yearning in my heart sometimes, for home, for my family, for my country.

  There’s also something about the institutionalized need to celebrate that disturbs me. Maybe it’s the pressure to be so damned happy. Big wide smiles all around, burgers and ice cream, Coca-Cola and beer in abundance from noon till after dark. It’s exhausting, but no one is allowed to go home before the grand finale of fireworks. That wouldn’t be patriotic.

  I suppose it reminds me of Bastille Day on July 14. It makes me remember how far I am from home. I can’t help wondering how Maman and Papa will celebrate. Maybe they’ll go to Champ de Mars and watch the fireworks light up the Eiffel Tower, or maybe they’ll wander along the banks of the Seine. I’d love to go back and visit them, but Jean-Luc isn’t keen. “This is our home now, Charlotte. Our life is here,” he says. “We have everything. Forget the past.”

  Sometimes I think of telling him that my “everything” might not be the same as his, but I know it will only end in a pointless argument, and I hate confrontation. The past isn’t as easy to forget as that; you can’t j
ust shove it into a corner and pretend it’s not there. It’s always there, a shadow wherever I go, reminding me of what we did.

  I look over at the empty space in the bed next to me. He woke even earlier than me today. When I wander into the kitchen, he’s at the table, reading the paper, a large cup of coffee in his hand. I know it will be milky, like a kiddie’s version of the real thing—bigger and blander. For some reason, this riles me. Why can’t he drink proper black coffee, like a real adult?

  “Jean-Luc, I don’t want to go to the Caleys’ today.”

  He looks up, eyes widening in surprise “What’s the matter?”

  “I just don’t feel like it.”

  “But we always go. Sam loves it.”

  “Well, you take him then. I’m not going. I’m not even sure I like them.”

  “What do you mean?” His voice takes on a sharp edge. “They’ve been nothing but friendly to us.”

  “Josh is creepy.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Charlotte. We should go.”

  I glance out the window. “I’m too tired.”

  He sighs loudly. “I’ll take Sam then. What shall I tell them?”

  “That I hate the Fourth of July, all that eating and drinking. Why don’t we ever celebrate Bastille Day?”

  “Why would we? We’re not in France.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Exactly what, Charlotte?”

  Maybe I need a coffee. I pick up the coffeepot, then put it back down. Coffee will only aggravate me. In truth, I don’t know what I want. Maybe a glass of water will cool me down. I turn on the tap, but I don’t stop when the glass is full, letting the water flow over my hand. I stare at it, mesmerized, as I soak up its coolness.

  I feel Jean-Luc next to me. He reaches over to turn the tap off, then takes the glass out of my hand. “Charlotte, please, what’s the matter?”

  “I guess I’m just feeling homesick.”

  I hear the breath leave his lungs, and I wish I hadn’t said anything. He’ll never understand. Turning my back on him, I walk out onto the porch, slumping onto the swing seat. Of course, I should be more constructive. There are the prospectuses for various translation courses that I’ve been meaning to go through. If I got trained and had a job, I might feel more settled, like Jean-Luc with his job at the station. He found it so easy to adapt to American ways: drinking beer with the guys, playing baseball with the kids, eating burgers with ketchup, and all with such damned relish. I would have liked to continue with my studies at one of the universities. I know they have courses on French literature, but the universities here are expensive, and it’s true, I can read on my own.

  He’s come out to the porch now. I wish he’d just leave me alone.

  “Charlotte,” he starts. My heart sinks even lower. I don’t need him to be oh so reasonable, and I don’t want his opinion. I already know it. “You know I’d like to go back too,” he continues. “One day, when we’ve saved up enough money and the war is further behind us, we could go for a visit. Go and see your parents. Mine too.”

  My fingers fidget with the edge of the cushion. I don’t want this conversation—it always just goes around in circles. A wave of pity suddenly washes over me. He can’t help it. He’s just being practical—sensible and practical, like he’s always been.

  “Doesn’t it bother you?” I pause, wondering why I can’t help antagonizing him this morning. I must have slept badly. “Doesn’t it bother you that Sam doesn’t have the same culture as us?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we’re French, and he’s never even seen France. He doesn’t speak the language. Don’t you worry sometimes that home for him is here?”

  “No, I don’t. His home is with us, and that’s all that matters.”

  I try to believe him, but I can’t help feeling that something’s missing; that we’ve missed something vital.

  “I wish we’d spoken French to him when we came here. At least then we could have taken him back one day, and he’d have felt more at home. I wanted to read him the French classics in French!”

  “Charlotte, we’ve been through this before. We needed to integrate and we had to learn the language too. If we’d carried on in French, we’d have set ourselves apart, become the little French family who escaped the war. We had to put that behind us, make a fresh start. You know what people are like. They’d have thought we were proud and stuck-up.”

  “I know, I know, but it just seems like a high price to pay. To lose one’s culture. Sometimes it makes me feel so… I don’t know—just homesick.”

  Jean-Luc pulls on his earlobe. “Maybe it was easier for me. I don’t think I was so attached to France. In fact, I was happy to throw off my culture, my nationality. It felt liberating.”

  “But what about your family? Your parents?”

  “They’re happy for me.” He pauses. “You’re my family now.” Reaching forward, he puts his arm around my neck. “You’re all I need. You and Sam.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Santa Cruz, July 10, 1953

  JEAN-LUC

  Seagulls screech, and the powerful California sun pierces the curtains. Jean-Luc can feel the real world calling to him as he struggles to pull himself up through layers of sleep. Caught in that space between dreaming and waking, he’d like to slip back into the dream. It’s the same dream that’s been haunting him recently, the one that always leaves him feeling hollow inside, as though he’s in the wrong place, living someone else’s life, and he wants to know how it will end. There’s a baby crying and a woman holding out her arms, waiting. Then he realizes it’s his own mother, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, her smile warm. She looks beautiful. She turns to speak to him, and that’s when he wakes. He wishes he could stay in the dream to hear what she’s going to say.

  The early-morning sun sends slants of light across the room. He’d prefer to have shutters on the windows; he’s sure the bright sun here isn’t helping his sleep. He always wakes too early, but can never catch up on his tiredness. Still, there’s no point lying there worrying. He may as well get up.

  It’s only six, but he puts the coffee on and starts on last night’s dishes. He’s running the tap when he hears a car winding its way up their street.

  He leans forward, his forehead touching the glass as he follows the car with his eyes. It’s getting nearer, slowing down. He can see it clearly now. It’s blue and white. Taking a deep breath, he steps back, away from the window, trying to calm his breathing. A police car? At six o’clock in the morning? A shiver starts in the back of his neck, then shoots over his head. He hears the car drawing to a stop and somehow he knows it’s parked behind the oak tree. He stands to the side of the window, peeking, waiting to see who’s in the car.

  Two officers emerge from the front. Then he recognizes Bradley’s stocky frame as he unfolds himself from the back seat.

  Charlotte and Sam are still sleeping. He would hate them to be woken up like this, so he leaves the kitchen and goes to the hall, unlocking the front door, opening it a fraction. Waiting.

  The officers are looking at their watches. One of them shrugs, then they separate to let Bradley take his place in the middle as they walk down the garden path toward him.

  His heart thumping in his ears, he opens the door farther, showing them he’s there before they have a chance to ring the bell.

  The three men look surprised to be facing him so suddenly.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bow-Champ.” Bradley looks at him from under bushy eyebrows.

  “Hello.” Jean-Luc holds his breath.

  “We’d like you to come into the station for further questioning.”

  Jean-Luc reaches out for the door, gripping it for support. The breath he’s been holding comes back, thudding in his ears. “Why?”

  Suddenly they’re inside. The shorter officer closes the front door behind them. Jean-Luc steps back. They’re in his house now. How could he have let t
his happen?

  “Mr. Bow-Champ, this isn’t the right place to talk. You need to come to the station.”

  Jean-Luc turns away from them, looking at the staircase, thinking of Charlotte and Sam sleeping. He turns around to face the men. “Do you mind waiting outside? I don’t want my family to be disturbed.”

  The taller officer opens the front door and they back out. “Ten minutes.”

  Turning back to the staircase, Jean-Luc grips the banisters, pulling himself up one stair at a time. What do they know? His heart beats faster as he imagines what they might have discovered.

  When he enters the bedroom, he sees that Charlotte is still fast asleep, a soft hiss coming from her mouth. He doesn’t want to wake her. There’s still a chance he can sort it out. He thinks of leaving her a note, but he doesn’t know what he could tell her. Turning away, he pulls on yesterday’s pants, throws on yesterday’s shirt, but doesn’t bother with a tie.

  Without a word, he follows the policemen out to their car. He sees the curtains twitch at Marge’s kitchen window. Has she been watching?

  Fifteen minutes later, they pull up in front of the police station. They take the stairs, then walk down a long corridor, past empty cells and into a small room containing a gray table and four plastic chairs.

  “Sit down.” The short officer removes a cigarette pack from his breast pocket, takes one out and throws the pack over to his partner. They light up. The tall one sits down, flicking ash into an aluminum ashtray. The other flicks his onto the floor.

  “Hey, come on, Jack. Think of the cleaning lady.”

  “Just keeping her in a job, man.”

  Jean-Luc watches them exhaling clouds of smoke. They’re taking their time, as though they’re enjoying it.

  “Why am I here?” He’s done his best to comply, to stay calm, but now he needs to know.

  Bradley finally sits down, his hands on his knees as he leans forward, facing him. “Were you aware that someone has been searching for you for the last nine years?”