April In Paris, 1921

by Tessa Lunney

  But the phone went dead. The room was so still that I could hear my heart beat its unsteady rhythm. I had got what I wanted, but I wasn’t quite sure at what price. It seemed too easy – I delivered the mole and then Fox delivered proof of Tom’s innocence? That wasn’t how Fox worked. There had to be something more.

  I stared at the receiver. This was not a public telephone and I should not use it to make a call. Especially not a trunk call to London, that would be too cheeky. Rude, even.

  At the Colonial in Soho, the barman yelled over the drinkers for Bertie Browne.

  ‘Hello?’ Bertie yelled into the phone. I could just see him squinting with concentration, trying not to ogle the barman.

  ‘Bertie, darling.’

  ‘Kiki! How did you know I’d be here?’

  ‘Because I’m thinking of you, so you must be thinking of me.’

  ‘Oh, Kiki, I am! It’s so dull here without you.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound it.’

  ‘Just sound and fury, darling.’

  ‘Then catch the early train to Paris.’

  ‘Done. I’ll bring whisky.’

  ‘Good. It’ll go with my gossip.’

  ‘Meet me Gare du Nord, darling one. I’m . . . I’ll be there.’

  18

  Wabash Blues

  I WAS WOKEN BY A KNOCK at the door, a brief call of ‘Mademoiselle? Telegramme!’ and the handle rattling as the telegram boy tried to open the door. I checked my little wristwatch – nine o’clock. Far too early for a party girl, and the telegram boy knew it.

  ‘Do you do this on purpose?’ I asked as I unlocked the door. I’d picked up a satin kimono dressing gown at a flea market, and it slipped from my shoulders as I jiggled the temperamental lock. ‘Do you deliver to me first so that you can glimpse me in my negligee?’

  He blushed.

  ‘Here’s your tip.’

  His eyes widened at my generosity.

  ‘Always deliver to me first, any time of the day or night. If you can’t find me here, leave a message at Café du Dôme or Café Rotonde. Understood?’

  He nodded, his big brown eyes wide and excited in his sallow, skinny face. I guessed that he was about twelve, although it was almost impossible to tell – he had a cigarette behind his ear, even as his childish body ran bandy-legged down the stairs.

  I splashed my face and perched in my favourite spot on the windowsill. My bare legs dangled and sparrows darted here and there near my geranium pots. Three telegrams; I liked being a wanted woman.

  The first was from Bertie:

  ON BLUE TRAIN HEADED FOR YELLOW HAIR RED LIPS PINK CHAMPAGNE KIKI ETA 1500 FIRST STOP THE RITZ

  I could hear the corks popping already. I tingled in all the right places. Harry was good for my mind, Maisie was good for my heart, but Bertie was good for my body. He’d provide food, dancing and some good old-fashioned bedroom acrobatics. I would be able to relax tonight.

  The second was from Tom. I paused, breathed deeply, tried to steady my heartbeat – but even my pause gave me pause. Would this always be the way, would I always need to steady myself before I even so much as read his name? I hoped not; I hoped so. I sighed and reached for a cigarette. I had the telegram now; that was enough to think about.

  HAVE LEAVE SO PARIS ETA TOMORROW PM TOO MUCH TO SAY HERE SO MAKE ME A WILLOW CABIN BUTTON I AM COMING

  ‘Willow cabin’ indeed; I told my heart to behave so I could focus on the rest. Too much to say? About Germany? Had he had word from one of Fox’s emissaries? Was he thinking of something else entirely? I hoped so; I hoped not. I watched the sparrows fluff themselves and gossip around the flowers. The sounds of the morning rose up from the street, hawker calls, horse traffic and car horns. He’d be here tomorrow night. Bertie and Tom would be here together. I never liked to mix my men, it seemed boastful and gauche. Thankfully Bertie would arrive first; he would be merely amused by Tom, but Tom would be devastated if I stayed at the Ritz, especially as he was calling for willow cabins. Could I have my cake and eat it too? That depended on the cake, I supposed. Luckily, there was no way that Bertie would envy Tom sleeping in my garret. The only way Bertie would sleep on the floor was if he passed out drunk.

  The third telegram had no sender. It held only one sentence:

  DARKLING I LISTEN

  Not even a stop. Of course not: he never stopped, Fox would never let up. Was I supposed to be his ‘darkling’ now, his darling in the dark, his darling of darkness? He listened to me . . . when, in the small hours? Unseen, unnoticed? He knew that I noticed the newspaper boys who followed me around the streets. So what was he listening for? His soft voice on the telephone came back to me, his surprise at love, but I couldn’t tell if these reactions were truthful or yet another way to play games. I needed to see his face to properly understand him, to see how he moved his body, how he looked at me—

  I needed nothing of the sort. I ripped up the telegram and cast the torn pieces into the street.

  Too many thoughts, too many men, not enough hours with my head on the pillow. I needed more sleep. I used my war training – to sleep anywhere, anytime, whatever provocation – climbed into bed, put a scarf over my eyes and was asleep within seconds.

  I HAD ARRANGED to meet Violet in the morning, though I knew that her morning and my morning would be about the same – midday. When I’d left her last night she’d been downing her fourth cocktail and following the waiters for food. If I turned up with some croissants I’d probably get a hero’s welcome, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to butter her up or put her under pressure.

  The sky threatened rain, spitting and dribbling as I pulled on my most jealous-lover-friendly clothes. No open backs or low necklines today, but a dark blue-grey blouse with a white lace collar, cut tight to the body to show curves without showing flesh. It was a soft cotton–wool blend with darts from the bust to the hips. I wore grey trousers that I’d copied from Bertie, wide-legged and cuffed. My shoes laced up like a schoolgirl’s and my coat was thick and navy, double-breasted in a military style. I looked mannish and modern, like nobody that Fern or Pablo or even Tom would look at twice. A little captain’s hat kept my hair away from the rain. Madame Petit clapped her hands with delight at my outfit as I drank my coffee from the bar. The baker at the boulangerie looked twice, but in Montparnasse he was getting used to all sorts of sights – men holding hands, jazz musicians and lady artists, a Japanese man in a ballgown – a woman in trousers was no longer noteworthy here.

  Violet was staying on the Right Bank, in the midst of the bankers and Americans. A Protestant church was tucked in between a café and a hat shop, and men in suits hurried up and down the street. Unlike when the sun shone, today all the pedestrians looked at the ground, head forward, intent on their warm office and hot cup of tea. Except for my follower, of course: a newspaper boy, with violent red hair, who turned up on every other corner but wouldn’t let me buy a paper from him. I listened to his calls instead, but there were no Brownshirts in the headlines today. The river shivered, its grey surface flecked and pocked. I had no umbrella but turned up my collar like a sailor and kept the croissants dry inside my coat.

  ‘Violet.’

  She looked cross as she answered the door. ‘It’s the maid’s day off.’

  ‘I brought croissants.’ I held up the bag.

  A pale smile crossed her face. ‘You’re a sport.’ She kissed me on both cheeks and left the door for me to close.

  Violet’s cousin must have escaped early in the Revolution, as her apartment, while not sumptuous, was a good deal better than the ones I’d seen in Montparnasse. It had no fancy wallpaper or brocade curtains, but the ceilings were high and the white walls reflected light – where you could see the walls, that is, as most of them were covered in bookshelves. On the bookshelves were not only books in Russian, French, English and German, but also dozens of vases, statues, boxes and other knick-knacks. The floors were plain polished wood, covered with exotic rugs held in place by enormous brown leather armchai
rs. I had the feeling that Violet’s cousin didn’t escape the Revolution so much as the overblown sumptuousness of a life at court. There were no servants or silk curtains, no crystal chandeliers; this apartment paraded only its wealth of experience and intellect. I picked up an African mask that sat prominently on the nearest shelf to the door.

  ‘Katya travels a lot,’ Violet said with a shrug. ‘She and Dot bring back treasures from all the countries they visit.’

  ‘Dot?’

  ‘Her companion. Another English cousin of Katya’s, but one so distant you need a telescope to see the connection. I think . . . is she also very distantly related to the royal family? I can’t remember.’

  She plonked herself down in one of the armchairs and lit a cigarette. She wore black, of course, a long slim skirt and a long cashmere jumper that was belted at her waist, a jet snake pinned high on her breast. Her foot in its elegant black brogue, with its slightly too-high heel, twitched and she covered her eyes with her free hand.

  ‘Rough night?’ I asked.

  She huffed a laugh and inhaled. ‘Great night. Rough morning.’

  ‘Point me to the kitchen and I’ll brew some coffee.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’ll have to brew the coffee – their little coffee pot is Italian, a gift from some artist, made by his artisan uncle on a lonely hillside overlooking the Adriatic, blessed thrice by the priest under a full moon – or something or other.’ She heaved herself up with a sigh. ‘Anyway, they showed me four times how to use it to make sure I used it correctly. If it was damaged under my watch . . . well, there would be a necessary trip to a certain artisan uncle and I’m not sure if my poor Italian is up to grovelling.’ Violet threw these lines over her shoulder as she clipped her way to a little galley kitchen.

  ‘You speak Italian?’

  ‘I learnt a few phrases from a flirtatious guard in the war. It’s not bad, but not to be trusted in polite society.’

  I was beginning to like her, her cigarette dangling from her lips as she washed the pot and ground the coffee beans. She was even thinner than me, her wrist bone like a dome at the end of her arm, her movements jerky and quick. I stood at the door of the kitchenette, a thin sliver of apartment that was just about big enough to prepare coffee and eggs but not much else. A high window at the other end framed Violet in light.

  She put the pot on to boil and turned to me, scrutinising me through her veil of smoke. I smiled my best smile and she snorted.

  ‘Yes, you’re very charming, Kiki. I can see why Ferny had a thing for you.’

  ‘What, after one night?’

  ‘Oh yes. He spoke of you often after you left, asked everyone he knew about you, went to the Café Rotonde on several occasions in the hope of seeing you.’ She stubbed out her cigarette in a saucer; there was a slight strain in her voice. ‘He even created a little scrapbook about you – one of his dossiers, as I call them . . .’ She trailed off as she stared at the stern, concerned look on my face. She remembered our chat from last night and the penny dropped. From the way her mouth hung more and more agape, that penny dropped a long way down. ‘My God . . . they really are dossiers, aren’t they?’

  ‘They? He creates dossiers on lots of women?’

  ‘Yes . . . or at least, he tells me about the women. Taunts me, if I’m honest. With relish. He can be . . .’

  ‘Cruel?’

  ‘Hmph.’ Violet looked around the room, avoiding the implications of that word, before she turned back to me.

  ‘Might he have dossiers on men as well?’

  ‘I never go into his study. I went in once and – well, I was suitably punished.’ The coffee started to whistle and boil. ‘It’s just at the end of the corridor.’ She turned off the pot and poured us both little cups of steaming, strong black liquid. Black gold, it was so delicious. I murmured in appreciation.

  ‘Indeed. We’re fortified now, Miss Button. We can violate his private lair.’

  ‘Well, he’s already violated my privacy. I’m just retrieving what’s mine.’

  She sighed, but in relief or apprehension, I couldn’t tell.

  The corridor was short. There was one large bedroom to the right, and on the left was the bathroom and then a small study. Violet opened the door to a room barely big enough to hold the desk, chair and chock-a-block bookshelves that threatened to overwhelm it. A thick curtain made it very dark; I yanked it open and the light revealed piles of scrapbooks, notebooks and newspapers. Ferny appeared to have forgotten some of his training, as the messy room violated Fox’s rules about neat work and leaving nothing behind. Books were opened, pencil shavings were in the overfull ashtrays, newspapers were out of order in piles by the chair, thick translation dictionaries held other scraps of scribbled paper. In the centre of the table was a pile of lined notebooks, very like the army-issue books we used in the war. I opened one but it held only nonsense.

  ‘It’s written in code.’

  ‘Why?’ Violet was barely breathing behind me, her question just a whispery wisp. I looked at her and raised my eyebrows, but she only looked scared and confused.

  ‘I assume so that people like me can’t read it.’

  She began to realise the full implications of this – that he had something to hide, that he was a spy – and she looked like she might crumble. In fact, her hands shook as she went to light a cigarette.

  ‘Don’t.’ She looked up as I spoke. ‘He’ll smell the smoke and know we’ve been in here.’

  She dropped her hand slowly. I’d deal with her revelations, and the spilling of secrets this often entailed, in a minute. I needed my dossier first.

  I flipped open the next book. It held a similar code. I studied it for a moment, grabbed a piece of paper and pencil and started to transcribe. I swapped every pair of letters, just as Fox had taught me, a simple kindergarten code that could be remembered under duress. My guess was right and the sentences emerged. This notebook was on his meeting with the Communist cell, with Luc and Marie and Hausmann featuring prominently. I flicked through the notebooks, looking for one about ‘ikik ubttno’, as my name would be written.

  ‘Are you sure he had a dossier on me, Violet?’

  ‘He joked about it . . . that’s as sure as I can be.’ She stood still in the middle of the room, as though by moving even an inch she would shatter what remained of her life. I needed to take advantage of her shock as quickly as possible. The drawers of the desk were locked and nothing was hidden under the desktop or chair bottom. There were no other notebooks around. Either it didn’t exist or he had it with him, in which case I was in trouble.

  ‘Let’s get some more coffee and eat those croissants,’ I said softly. Violet nodded and turned to go. Just as I was leaving, a book caught my eye – The Complete Poetical Works of John Keats. There was not a single poem contained in its pages. It was a notebook and a quick flick revealed that it was full of times and dates, full of ‘ikik’ and ‘ubttno’. The code, the poems, the nickname, all confirmed that Fern was a Fox acolyte. He cannot see what flowers are at his feet – if he was blind before, he wasn’t any longer. Though I doubt he suspected just what his particular flower, Violet, was capable of. Or was Violet not a flower but a fly?

  I slipped the book into my pocket as I followed Violet to the armchairs. If she didn’t know I’d stolen it, she might be protected. She dragged hard on her cigarette, sucking in her cheeks so that she didn’t just look thin, she looked skeletal, tiny in the chair. I ripped open the bag of pastries, poured her more coffee and pushed the food and coffee towards her.

  ‘What is all that stuff?’ she croaked.

  ‘Information, I assume. Research.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I was hoping you might tell me that.’

  She looked anguished. She knew why but couldn’t bear to admit it, not even to herself. I’d have to play Dr Freud to persuade that information out of her subconscious and into the light. I just hoped that Ferny wasn’t coming home any time soon.

  ‘How long have yo
u known Ferny?’

  ‘Oh, years.’ Violet waved the smoke from her face as she picked up her cup. ‘Our families know each other. Our fathers were in the same year at Eton, his elder brother boarded with my younger brother – oh yes, there’s about eight years between us, not that you’d know it, he looks much older than me. The war did that, to all the boys who came back.’

  ‘When did he become your lover?’

  ‘Lover! We’re not lovers.’ She snorted.

  ‘But you live together.’

  ‘A lover is a man you’re intimate with, correct? With whom you share passionate trysts? You know the kind – I know the kind – and Ferny is not of that kind.’ She inhaled as violently as one could with a tiny tube of flaming paper. ‘But I let him into my bed about a year ago. It was fun, at first. At the very first. But then we moved to Paris.’

  ‘Not the city of love?’

  ‘Ha! Hardly. I was last here with Peter – my fiancé – my late fiancé . . .’ She sighed and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘We were here in 1915. He had two days’ leave from the front and we spent it strolling the cafés . . . After Peter’s death, I never wanted to return to Paris, but Ferny insisted. Said it would be good for me, would lay my ghosts to rest, all that sort of thing. I remember watching the moonlight splash over his skin as he told me these tender lies, the scars on his back like a map to redemption.’ She shrugged. ‘Of course, when we got here he started going off on his jaunts, collecting notes, neglecting me.’

  ‘That must have hurt.’

  ‘Oh yes, I suppose . . . It’s been hard to care about anything since that little telegram in 1916 . . . but I came here to be with him and then was left alone, or else instructed – no, ordered! – to do this, fetch that, butter up this or that French duke or Spanish artist or Russian dancer while he flirted with every blonde this side of the Rhine.’

  ‘Did you gather information for him?’

  ‘No!’ Violet looked at me sharply and frowned. ‘But by gather information, you mean . . .’

  ‘I mean, you butter up those people, then tell Ferny what they said, how they behaved.’