As Lucien said his farewells, more cigarettes were offered, backs slapped, and Ritter insisted on picking up Lucien’s bill.
Duchene waited until they were moving back through the square before he spoke. ‘You’re too friendly with them.’
‘Hard to drum up business if you’re an arsehole.’
‘It looks bad to the rest of Paris.’
‘And yet they buy from me too. Everyone knows I’m a capitalist and not a sympathiser. And besides, talking to them lets me practise my German. Should come as no surprise that they’re all very keen we learn to speak it. I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘You are improving. But it’s not for the love of the language.’
‘Can you still say that you love it?’
‘Times have changed.’
‘Obviously. But the language hasn’t.’
‘The reason for my speaking it has.’
Lucien laughed. ‘Take heart, my friend, you have the best of both worlds. The Americans could be here any day now. We’re liberated if they win – and, if not, you’re in with the Germans and their accomplices. You can’t have forgotten yesterday’s success already?’
‘How can you be so glib? You’re tempting fate with the Germans.’
‘Some of my best customers.’
‘Lucien, I’m serious. Things are going to get more dangerous.’
‘What’s in the bag?’
Duchene passed it to him. ‘Before someone notices.’
‘Come on, who exchanges contraband in a public space? We would draw their attention if we slid off down an alley.’ Lucien felt the heft of the bag. ‘More than one bottle?’
‘Three. And a carton of cigarettes. I was paid more than I expected. I thought you should benefit too.’
‘You’re a terrible businessman – you missed an opportunity to profit.’
‘We should share the wealth we’re given.’
‘First the strike posters and now this. I didn’t expect this morning would be filled with so much Bolshevik subversion.’
At the Gothic tower in the centre of the square, Lucien stopped and took a black notebook out of his pocket. Considering the effort he put into his appearance, his faded and dog-eared notebook was a curiosity. With the attention of a bookkeeper, he turned the pages to find his place. The small letters were handwritten with the utmost precision, and the pages were ruled in red ink; it was clearly a ledger, with columns for incomings and outgoings. He held the book away from Duchene’s view and made a notation. With a theatrical flourish, he said, ‘Cognac – three bottles – Received – M. Duchene. What kind?’
‘Hennessy. XO.’
Lucien raised an eyebrow and amended the entry. ‘It’s a generous payment. You need to be careful your place isn’t robbed – those locks of yours aren’t very secure.’ He tucked the book back into the inside pocket of his jacket and picked up the bag. ‘Just a thought.’
‘Noted. Along with all the others.’
‘Excellent. Well then, payment received and gratefully accepted. I’m off to Madame Lyon, the pâtissière I mentioned. I’ve been promised a croissant from that butter I delivered in the small hours of the morning. If you come, I’m sure we can get you one too, before the greedy Germans buy them all.’
Duchene nodded and followed Lucien through the streets, waiting for him as he stopped to offer his compliments and chat to shopkeepers, and sometimes flirt with them. How much of this was business or whim was unclear, but it was enough to keep Duchene’s mind occupied while his memories of the bomb that hit the school were still fading. Not unlike the mist.
As expected, the patisserie on Rue de Castellane was crowded, mostly with Germans and those few Parisians who still had money. Lucien and Duchene huddled along a glass counter where the morning’s baked goods glistened. By the time they made it to the front of the line, Madame Lyon was waiting with a wry smile as she patted her apron straight. ‘Hello again, Lucien –’
‘I have to admit it’s not you I’m interested in at this moment, just how you can make me fat.’
‘Do you blame the winemaker for turning you into a drunk?’
‘That depends entirely on the quality of the wine. If it is good, like your croissants, then yes. You are culpable in every way, Madame Lyon. This is my friend, Monsieur Duchene.’
Duchene nodded back and smiled.
‘You’re the one who found the child.’
‘He is.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Duchene said.
‘It’s everything to his parents, and more than most would do.’
‘Surely assisting the finest patisserie in Paris is noble work too,’ said Lucien. ‘Just think of the pleasure I have brought families by ensuring your supply of butter.’
‘It’s not the same. And you belabour your point – it’s gauche. But, yes, Lucien, I have saved you two croissants.’
‘Excellent.’
‘And Monsieur Duchene, please take a blackberry tart as thanks.’
With a nod, he accepted the gift, then went outside to wait for Lucien, keen to move on from the attention of the queue.
They stopped at a bistro, where Lucien traded one of the croissants for café noir before thrusting the other into Duchene’s hand. Lucien removed his hat and they stood outside against a narrow bar top that ran along the edge of the restaurant’s window. The owner arrived and placed two small coffee cups before them. Duchene couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a pastry, and he felt obscene; it was hard to enjoy the rich treat in such lean times.
‘You’re notable, now,’ Lucien said as he chewed. ‘People are talking and asking questions. But it won’t last long. You should do a tour of all the shopkeepers this close to the Verniers – you’ll make a killing.’
‘That’s just one of the many ways we’re different.’
‘You should consider it food for a week, and that is a long time in this war. Could be other advantages, if you wanted to seek them out. Madame Lyon is a widow, you know.’ Lucien grinned, then suddenly his face fell.
Duchene turned to see a woman walking towards them. It took him a second to recognise her. Since he’d last seen her, she’d cut her hair with a fringe. Her blouse and skirt were noticeably new, and she was taller in two-tone heels. He and Lucien were not alone in watching her as she approached them, but she was unconcerned by the attention – yet another thing that had changed.
‘Lucien Martin … Dad.’
Lucien threw back what remained of his coffee and kissed her cheeks. ‘Mam’selle Duchene. A pleasure. You must call me – I have some nylon stockings still in the packet, range of deniers.’
‘I’ll call you to arrange a visit. And I’ll pick up a box of foreign cigarettes too, if you have any.’
‘You smoke?’ Duchene said.
‘It was inevitable. Don’t act so surprised. It’s an expensive time to start, but there you have it.’
‘Well,’ said Lucien, ‘don’t let me impose on this happy reunion. Marienne. Auguste. Adieu.’ Placing his hat back on his head, he scooped up his bag of cognac and strode off.
‘A quick exit,’ Marienne said.
‘He doesn’t like feeling uncomfortable.’
‘Who does?’
They watched as Lucien paused briefly to tip his hat to three women. He alone seemed to enjoy the moment, smiling and sauntering, as they kept walking, their faces set with a grim focus on two Luftwaffe officers crossing the road ahead.
‘It’s been a long time,’ Marienne said. ‘Camille told you I visited?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t call?’
‘It was late last night, and I left early this morning. I didn’t want to disturb.’
‘Well, you’re here now. Walk with me.’
Duchene followed her, half a step behind, as they went down the s
treet. The morning traffic was dispersing with the urgency of the workday. He passed another council worker, under close observation by German soldiers, removing strike posters from the bollards of an old bombsite. Marienne seemed to barely notice it, while Duchene couldn’t help but look.
She stopped at a bookstall, the vendor hovering nearby as she scanned the pile. Classics and newer works had been separated into groups, with many German editions strategically placed among them – not separate but integrated, an acknowledgement of the vision of a reconstructed France. Duchene wondered if the seller had a box hidden under the stall filled with American paperbacks, ready to adapt to the demands of the market.
Marienne picked up a translation of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and flipped through the first few pages. ‘I’ve finally read Joyce, by the way. Ulysses.’
‘In English?’
‘Of course.’
‘And?’
‘No. Too wordy. Too obscure.’
‘How about Hemingway?’
‘He’s too literal, with too much machismo. He lacks abstraction.’
‘I like his directness, stories told without embellishment. It’s clear he thinks about each word.’
Marienne placed the book back into the shelf and smiled at him. ‘Listen to us. Critics who can’t lift a pen, arguing about Americans and Irishmen.’
Duchene chuckled.
She gripped his fingers. ‘I worry that you’re not getting by.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not teaching. You have no wage.’
‘I help around the neighbourhood.’
‘Still looking for children?’
‘I am.’
‘You know you’re not responsible. For what happened. You don’t have to do penance.’
‘It’s something I can do, to help. The parents come to me. How can I say no?’
‘Do you find them all?’
‘Some.’
‘Better than none.’ She placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m not telling you not to do it. Just be safe, and don’t blame yourself.’
‘I’ll be fine. Honestly.’
A frown crossed her face, but she nodded.
‘And you? You haven’t gone back to Le Figaro?’
‘Since they returned to Paris? No. I’ve outgrown their politics. They may have stood up to German censorship, but their time in Vichy has changed their leaning.’
It wasn’t news. He had kept an eye on the paper, scanning for her by-line. She was an excellent writer, especially for her age, but he stifled his disappointment nonetheless.
‘I used to enjoy your articles.’
‘And I writing them. But freelance was hard word and I have the money. I’m fine. And besides, I don’t want to be the kind of journalist who gets published in Paris, not right now. Anyway, let me at least get you something for lunch.’
‘I have this,’ he said, holding up the makeshift box from the patisserie.
‘What is it?’
‘A tart.’
‘That’s hardly a meal. You know Guillaume’s?’
‘I’ve never been.’
Duchene placed his arm in his daughter’s as they resumed walking. He tried to enjoy the momentary peace between them, pushing his concerns to one side. This would be the third free meal he’d been given in the past twenty-four hours. Food paid for by others, offered to him as charity.
But the money isn’t hers. The money is the blood of French innocents – of young men – of would-be liberators.
The chime above the door to Guillaume’s was brief, its ring muffled by the many preserved meats that hung from the ceiling. These drooped so low and were so many in number that the shop had the atmosphere of a cave – they stifled the light, and the air was chilled to help with their preservation. But the smell of dried spices and herbs was enticing, and Duchene found himself regarding the hams and sausages as he speculated on which he might like to try.
The man he presumed to be Guillaume stood behind the counter serving a Generalleutnant who was delighting at the large selection of German-style sausages on offer. Once the meats were wrapped, however, his composure grew strict, and he stared grimly at Marienne and Duchene on his exit.
‘This place is very popular with the Germans,’ Marienne said as the Generalleutnant pulled the door closed behind him.
‘I can see why,’ Duchene said.
‘Mademoiselle Duchene, welcome,’ said Guillaume. He was tall and wiry, his grey hair slicked back from a bespectacled face. He was nothing like the cliché, being neither ruddy nor plump.
‘How are you, Monsieur?’ Marienne asked.
‘I get by. As we all must.’
‘We’re here to help you do that.’
‘You’re most welcome to. How can I assist?’
‘This is my father, Auguste, an aficionado of confit.’
‘A man after my own heart … Duck or goose?’
‘Duck,’ Duchene said.
‘Anything else?’ Guillaume asked.
Duchene retreated from the counter.
‘No,’ Marienne replied, surely sensing his discomfort. He was her father, not yet elderly but being bought for. Where had she inherited the behaviour of a modern woman? He’d always assumed she’d be a traditionalist, just to rebel against her mother.
‘And for Mademoiselle?’ Guillaume asked.
‘Two saucisson, one sec and one garlic, five slices of chicken galantine, and a pâté – what is good?’
‘I’ve been fortunate to get some apple brandy, and I can’t say where, but it did let me make up a terrine de campagne with thinly sliced apple, not diced.’
‘That sounds wonderful – enough for five. And also, some kaiserfleisch and two leberwurst.’
Duchene glanced at her.
‘Very good,’ said Guillaume. ‘Give me a moment.’ After gathering the meats, he worked with the slicer. He placed pieces of the galantine onto waxed paper and, with the precision of a tailor, removed a portion of the terrine from a larger, jellied block. The little finger on his right hand was missing, and Duchene found it hard to imagine any mishap given the skill with which he wielded a knife.
‘You are very well stocked,’ Duchene said to him.
‘I am. I am fortunate that I have patrons who are willing to pay. The Germans love their pork even more than we do, and their pursuit of wurst lets me keep our citizens in terrines and saucisson. It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to accept.’
‘Paris is a place of pragmatism,’ Marienne said.
‘Unless you’re a German or in the Resistance,’ said Duchene.
‘Well, that’s no one here,’ Marienne said, raising a conspiratorial eyebrow. ‘Unless you’re not telling us something, Guillaume?’
‘Oh, I have many secrets, but that’s not one of them,’ he replied as he finished wrapping.
Marienne paid and said her farewells. They stepped out from the charcuterie into a light rain, and she looked up, letting the drops fall on her face.
‘Leberwurst and kaiserfleisch?’ Duchene asked as he pulled his collar up against the chill.
‘Guillaume is the only charcutier this side of the Seine who sells it.’
‘It’s for him.’
‘Me too. I quite like it.’
‘Marienne, I’m worried for you.’
‘So that’s why you never visit?’ she said, handing him the package of confit.
‘I don’t come because I have to be cautious.’
‘Ah, so Max is the problem.’
‘Of course.’
‘But even before the Germans arrived, you didn’t visit me.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Not properly. You hid away. You didn’t have to deal with your loss alone. Your children.’
‘T
hey weren’t my children.’
‘That didn’t make it any less tragic.’
The memories of the bombing started to return. He shook his head.
‘This is not just a simple disagreement about your lover. You know the Americans are coming. It’s not a good time to be living with a German.’
‘Max has a plan. I trust him. If he leaves, I will go with him.’
‘Really? He’s twenty years old. In a war. What does he know?’
‘His family will keep us safe. He’s already been talking to them.’
Marienne was walking at a brisk pace. Duchene tried to keep up; he had no idea where she was going.
Looking for strudel, most likely.
‘You’re doing all this for a German?’
‘Yes. I thought you at least would appreciate that I honour my commitments.’
‘But why? It’s dangerous out there. Are you even certain you truly love him?’
Marienne stopped and looked up at him, her eyes a sharp blue like her mother’s, the curve of her brows dipping down. ‘Listen to yourself. “It’s dangerous out there.” It’s dangerous here. Where isn’t it dangerous? What I know is that I trust him, and I enjoy his company, and it makes me sad to think I would never see him again. So yes, I love him.’
Duchene sighed.
‘Meet him.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Come meet him tonight. I’ve invited Camille. You should come too.’
‘To dinner?’
‘I doubt you’ll see what I see in him, but at least you might get some answers to your questions.’
‘I –’
‘Come. Promise me.’
After returning the Vernier baby, he was already compromised. What difference could one dinner with a German make?
‘All right,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Papa.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘See you at seven.’
He watched her walk away through the rain, his mind running over their morning together. That’s when it occurred to him.
She ordered food for five.
She had always intended to invite him and had known he couldn’t refuse her. But he brought their number to four. There was another guest, someone she had avoided mentioning.
The Paris Collaborator Page 3
