April In Paris, 1921

by Tessa Lunney

  13

  La Belle Excentrique

  THE MORNING BELLS WOKE ME. It was my favourite way to wake – bells ringing from Église Notre-Dame-des-Champs down the road, then hearing the trucks and horses clatter on the cobbles, the newspaper boys and flower girls, the smells of bread and frying and old wine and cabbage floating up from the street. I would become aware of each sensation one by one as I stretched in my sheets, as I wound a robe around me, as I grabbed my cigarettes and a glass of water and sat with the sparrows at my windowsill. There she was, in front of me in her elegant workday attire – Paris. The sky was a delicate blue, not quite sunny and not quite warm, just flirting with summer. The sparrows swirled over the grey rooftops, with chimneys like sentries guarding the secrets in every studio, swooped from my toe-tips and down the hill, over the streets, loop-de-looped over the river to the Tour Eiffel until the little birds were part of the air itself. I thought I had lost her, but I was merely blind-tired. She was here, Paris, as she always had been.

  I never went to the Rotonde or the Dôme for breakfast. There would always be someone I knew there, and then breakfast would turn into lunch and there would be drinks, and before I could check my watch I’d be drunk in the afternoon and no good to anyone. I reserved champagne breakfasts for feasts and holidays. The start of the day was mine, to think and write and plan, to read the paper, to daydream, to stretch my legs and think of nothing at all. I went to the little café down the street, open to local workers who spoke of politics, and foreign writers who didn’t speak until the day’s work was done. It was called simply Petit’s, and petite Madame Petit, with her enormous bosom and tiny bun, greeted me with a kiss on each cheek. I always had the set breakfast menu with a large black coffee, which she set in front of me – sometimes with a smile and an aspirin, sometimes with just a wink. Today the aspirin came with a little pat on the shoulder and a face full of pity. I must have been carrying the previous four days under my eyes.

  I checked the newspapers lying on the counter; thank you, Goddess of Single Ladies, it was only Thursday, I hadn’t slept through my deadline. I wrote my gossip column over coffee and fresh baguette; the crust was crunchy, the coffee rich, the butter smooth and the apricot jam just the right mix of tart and sweet. Crunchy, rich, smooth, tart and sweet – inspiration for my column, to make those crusty aristocrats tastier in print than in the flesh. My column was due in Bertie’s London office this afternoon and I’d have to send it by telegram, or telephone, or some such expensive magic. I’d have to be more organised next week if I didn’t want to spend my entire income on getting the work to Bertie.

  ‘AH! BLONDE KIKI!’ The telegraphist at the local post office blushed beneath her rouge, making her face a very rosy pink. ‘I have a telegram for you.’ She held out the slip of paper and I flashed my widest smile. I could see the blush extend down her neck.

  It was from Tom. It was marked from Kattowitz in Silesia.

  BUTTON CALL ME 1800 AT HOTEL MONOPOL HAVE NEWS OF HAUSMANN

  No one else called me Button and it caught me every time. I could feel the telegrammist watching me and I was glad that I was not prone to blushing. I slipped the telegram into my purse and turned to her.

  ‘Cherie,’ I could never remember her name, ‘could you send this telegram to London urgently? “Bertie must call with column—”’

  ‘Do you need to use the telephone? You can use the one here.’ Her eyes almost sparkled.

  ‘Oh . . . yes! May I really?’

  ‘But of course! We all love you here, Kiki – I mean—’

  ‘Thank you.’ I placed my hand on hers. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘This way.’ She was so proud in her pink-cheeked fluster. I couldn’t help but admire her. She led me to the telephone in the back office. It was clearly meant only for the postmaster general – her crush must be deepening. She scurried back out to the queue at the telegram booth before I could thank her properly.

  ‘Reverse charges to The Star magazine in London, please.’

  After an agonising exchange, first with the switchboard and then with the secretary, I was finally put through to Bertie.

  ‘Browne.’

  ‘Browne, it’s Button.’

  ‘Kiki! Two calls in two days. You miss me enough to charge The Star for the pleasure?’

  ‘Ha! I’m late with my copy.’

  ‘You certainly are. Where is it?’

  ‘In my hand. Have you sharpened your shorthand?’

  ‘It’s as unreadable as the best of them. Fire away.’

  If he had been angry when I rang, he wasn’t by the time I finished. He laughed all the way through the column, adding flourishes here and there as I described the Duck Orange and the Sapphic Ambulance Corps reunion, as I skimmed over the hat party to describe the one aristocrat there.

  ‘I’ll have copy from the Russian exiles next. I’ll visit the teahouse as soon as I can. And I’ll make sure I post it in advance.’

  ‘Sounds good, Kiki. But the reverse charges are worth the argument I’ll have with the chief. He can’t fault the sales increase on the day your column comes out.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  ‘I would too, if you were here.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a drink with Teddy?’

  There was a long pause on the line.

  ‘I haven’t seen him in days.’

  PABLO’S HOUSEKEEPER, a grey-haired woman with a down-turned mouth, showed me in to his studio. He was engrossed in his set designs for the ballet. I watched him for ten minutes as he painted, on huge sheets of rough paper, the arches and architraves for the set, over and over, sweeping loops and swirled columns with only a hint of variation. He’d paint one sheet, then tear it off and lay it on the floor, before beginning an almost identical one in the thin, diluted paint he held in a jar. When he finally sighed and stepped back, I coughed to let him know I was there. His look of surprise became recognition became delight, his big-eyed expression moving rapidly through the changes. He strode up to me and kissed me on both cheeks and the lips.

  ‘Sweet Kangaroo.’

  ‘Hello, Pablo.’

  ‘Good to see you. Just at the right moment too. Shall we begin?’ It wasn’t a question, as he immediately turned the set designs to the wall and picked up his sketchbook. He just smiled at me as he guided me towards the seat on the dais. It was a warmer day today and he was dressed very simply, his rough white shirt brushed my arm, his leather slippers slip-slopped on the floor, his blue cotton trousers crackled with stiff old paint splatters. I wore the same shoes, stockings and underwear as I had previously; I’d even washed the camiknickers by hand to make sure they were clean enough for daytime viewing. I wore a simple navy shift over the top – so simple that I only had to use one movement to pull it over my head and be halfway to naked. He arranged his own chair and then arranged me on the dais in the leg-spread slump. He smiled but he didn’t see me. He seemed to look through me or past me, to see only the surface of my skin. He was entirely in his own head, my body a jumble of angles that he rearranged as he watched, checking the light and his pencil. He nodded and mumbled ‘Bon’ before he began to sketch furiously, a frown deepening on his face. He went through half-a-dozen pages of his sketchbook before he threw down the book and hunted through his studio.

  ‘Pablo? Is everything—’

  ‘Don’t move.’ It was almost a grunt, thrown over his shoulder as he flicked through canvases stacked against the wall. He found one with only a few stripes across it and half an eye in blue. He studied it for a moment, then cleared an easel of a display of his sketches to make room for the canvas. He rolled up his sleeves and arranged all the paints and brushes next to him, large brushes like those for a child, huge tubes of paint that were so covered in fingerprints that I couldn’t tell what colour they were. I suppose I didn’t need to, only he did, and he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. All I had to do was sit still.

  This was quite a different experience from the last time.
Then I was a guest he entertained as he drew. Now I was a model and he was the genius artist, and I had to do as I was told. There would be no point in worrying if I’d get to the Russian teahouse today or be able to call Tom at six o’clock. This was work and I simply had to wait for him to be done.

  I went into a kind of trance. The sun slanted through the studio window and I could see the dust swirl in its beam. Outside I could hear the paperboys begin their calls again with the afternoon news, updates from the morning, along with the rattle of cars and carriages, the old jostling with the new. The room smelt of paint, tobacco, coffee and turpentine, a heady mixture only slightly alleviated by the air from the window.

  I hadn’t planned on it, but there was time to think of all I had learnt so far. Ideas and facts chased each other through the sun-slant from the window. Pablo’s painting – a party of poor aristocrats – Russian exiles – German unrest – a mysterious Hausmann – Ferny in the war – the war, the war, and its eternal return. I focused on the slant of light to remember Fox’s message.

  In some melodious plot of beechen green, with shadows numberless, there is a mole. The mole quite forgets the weariness, the fever and the fret, where men sit and hear each other groan, where youth grows pale and dies. More than ever seems it rich to die, not for the warm South, but for the lands forlorn. Tender is the night and he cannot see what flowers are at his feet. His plaintive anthem fades, his high requiem becomes a sod. The murmurous haunt of flies treads him down. The faery lands are too forlorn and the word will toll him back from thee to my sole self.

  I had to find the mole. He cannot see what flowers are at his feet – the mole was blind to his pursuers. At least I hoped so, because if he wasn’t then no code, however nicely phrased, could protect me. He quite forgets the weariness, the fever and the fret – Fox often spoke those lines after a round of the wards, so it had to do with the war. This was a nice, obvious clue, which meant that it had to have another meaning. The mole forgets the war somehow – but who could? No, it must mean that the mole has forgotten something in the war, or something to do with the war. He’d certainly forgotten the consequences of betraying Fox. Or maybe he didn’t care – he was too attuned to his plaintive anthem and his high requiem. Why else would it seem rich to die now, more than then? But for the lands forlorn – Germany was forlorn, Fox had pretty much said so – but it was hardly a faery land. And again, I didn’t trust any clue that had only one meaning. Faery land, German fairy tales, Brothers Grimm – that all worked. But the message said lands, plural, so the lands were not only Germany but also . . . Austria? Russia? And how did the haunting murmur of flies fit in exactly? Were they some other Brownshirt supporters – what did Martin call them, fascists? How could they tread him down, how could their murmurs haunt him?

  My thoughts chased their tails and I had to shake myself out of it. The mole was a man. The extra clues from the songs meant I knew that the mission had to do with Germany and the war; this was confirmed by the photo of Ferny in uniform. Ferny was involved, that was certain – I was fairly sure that he was the mole and he couldn’t see me because he didn’t know that Fox had a female agent – but it was more than just something left over from the war. The photo was inscribed hungry generations tread thee down; ‘tread down’ had been used twice, so the murmurous haunt of flies was also the hungry generations – the mole was involved with something new and something en masse. This unrest in Germany perhaps? But why would Fern be in Paris if the unrest was in Germany?

  ‘Kangaroo,’ Pablo called me to attention, ‘ring the bell. We need coffee and sustenance.’

  I heartily agreed.

  But sustenance came in more than one form. Before the housekeeper had properly closed the door, Pablo strode towards me and bit my bum. I was stretching and moving, my limbs stiff from the long pose, and when I squeaked I thought I could see her roll her eyes. Pablo swigged a small cup of black coffee and took hold of me by my suspender belt.

  ‘This garment is very useful,’ he said, pulling me closer and kissing my neck. ‘I can manipulate you just like a puppet.’

  ‘Only because I let you,’ I said with a fierce nip on his ear. He drew his breath in sharply. ‘Never forget that.’

  His eyes lit up. He took the suspender belt and hauled me over his broad shoulder to carry me to the lounge. I squealed and fought, just like he wanted me to – but it was fun, all the way down.

  We were both sweaty and the breeze from the window was a caress. I sat and leant against the window frame, naked except for my shoes, stockings and suspender belt. Pablo laughed and collapsed on the lounge.

  ‘Giving the street an eyeful, Kangaroo?’

  ‘They’ve already had an earful. What more can I have to hide?’

  ‘You should hide nothing, lovely blonde one. Your lovemaking is a delight.’

  I smiled at him. I knew he meant it. There was something about this city, this life I was living, that meant I could let go and fully enjoy myself. Sex in the war was always furtive and flirted with death. Sex in Sydney was near bloody impossible with Aunt Constance hovering around my reputation. London with Bertie was better, but here I could be free. The city had seduced me and it was too easy to persuade others to surrender.

  ‘Is there still coffee?’

  ‘Bring it over, Kangaroo, and tell me how you’re getting on.’

  The coffee was completely cold but with enough sugar it was still drinkable. There was a plate with a variety of delicate biscuits, some golden and crumbly, some dark, some with pale crusts. I wrapped myself in one of the blankets from the dais and told him about the halting progress of my search.

  ‘Yes, the teahouse, very good. I know you can be discreet. But please hurry up. Olga sends angry letters and they interrupt my concentration,’ he said, and shoved another biscuit in his mouth.

  14

  Avalon

  THE SUN WAS SETTING as I left Pablo. It hadn’t rained for days and the sky was stained gold, bronze and blood above the rooftops. I wanted to sit and watch the sun die dramatically over the city. I wanted an evening at home, to read and think and plan. I wanted a simple meal of vegetable soup to soothe my stomach. I’d get none of it. Instead, I wandered. It was almost six o’clock and I had to find a telephone to call Tom.

  I found myself only two blocks from the Ritz. Their telephone was in a little room with a plush chair, pad and paper on a table. I flirted with the concierge, ‘accidentally’ showing my stocking tops, and he let me use the telephone for free. Five past six – it took an age to connect to Tom’s hotel, the French and the Germans refusing to understand each other. My skin felt sticky and my limbs felt heavy. Finally I heard a cough and a thank you in a voice I recognised. I forgot Pablo instantly. My body remembered only Tom’s breath.

  ‘Thomas Arthur.’

  ‘Hello, Tom-Tom.’

  ‘Button! Excellent. Listen, I’ve been reporting on this recent plebiscite in Silesia—’

  ‘To see if they’ll remain part of Germany or become part of Poland, yes?’

  ‘Yes. They voted remain, but there are rumours and rumblings in the streets.’

  ‘And what do they say?’

  ‘They say Hausmann.’

  ‘The mysterious Hausmann who nobody’s seen?’

  ‘I’ve seen him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Fair hair, skinny, tall, high-pitched laugh—’

  ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘No, he won’t meet us – or any reporter.’

  ‘What’s he doing there? Supporting the Polish against the German oppressor?’

  ‘No, the opposite—’

  ‘He’s supporting the government?’ He was supposed to be an anti-government agitator – why was he on the side of the Weimar government then?

  ‘Not that either. He’s been seen in the company of the Freikorps.’

  ‘The Brownshirts!’

  ‘The very same. I saw him come out of one of their meetings.’

  ‘What a
re the Brownshirts doing in Silesia?’

  ‘Causing rumours and rumblings in the streets,’ he sighed. ‘We’ll be here for a little while longer.’

  ‘How much longer?’

  ‘Too long.’

  There was a pause on the line. Could I bear to have him say what I felt, that I missed him, that it was too lonely without him? The concierge knocked at the door and I had to lean right into his bad-breath smile to beg for another minute.

  ‘Button, are you there?’

  ‘Tom-Tom, I have to go. I had to flirt with the Ritz concierge to use the telephone, but I’ll have to prostitute myself if I don’t hang up soon—’

  ‘When will we talk again?’

  ‘Come to Paris.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight.’ These calls were too expensive to be coy. ‘Your voice down the line is not enough.’

  I heard him exhale, although the line was so bad it could have just been static.

  ‘I can’t leave tonight—’

  ‘You know what I mean—’

  ‘Too well. Until soon, Button.’

  I walked around the lamplit streets trying to find the teahouse. At least, that’s what I told myself I was doing. I didn’t want to find the teahouse. I didn’t want to charm another stranger, to wrangle information from him, to make false promises and then scurry back to Pablo, to Fox, not even to Bertie – to any of the men who felt I owed them something. Five minutes on the telephone with Tom had been too hard. I walked around and around, not seeing any sign for tea or any notice in Cyrillic, looking at my shoes or the sky until I gave up. I needed company, proper company, real friendship where I could cry or laugh or just be silent. Where sex didn’t hang in the air, a permanent question that always, eventually, demanded an answer. Maisie would be with her husband at this hour, so I used my last bit of change to catch a taxi to Harry’s.