The Lost Girl

by Carol Drinkwater

  It shook Kurtiz back to the present. Had she missed something? Had she not been paying sufficient attention? Had she appeared rude, dismissive, uninterested?

  ‘I am so sorry if –’

  ‘You seem to have a great deal on your mind. I wish I could help you. I feel a desire to. Some attraction I cannot define draws me to you.’

  Kurtiz apologized once more, profusely, for her lapses of concentration.

  ‘Please, don’t worry. I never stay up late.’

  It was eighteen minutes past nine. Kurtiz bade the elegant dowager bonne nuit and drew her book towards her.

  ‘It was a pleasure talking to you. Our encounter has unleashed a flood of memories, reminiscences. Most extraordinary. After so many years. I feel as though I have just spent a contented hour or two in the company of my long-lost love.’ She spoke effusively, arms gesticulating, hands upturned, wide. For all her warmth and compassion, she still had an air about her of the grand actress on stage.

  ‘Good to meet you, Madame …’

  ‘Courtenay. I live on this street, rue de Charonne, at number seventy-one, on the second floor. My name, Courtenay …’ she emphasized it and paused for effect ‘… is on the buzzer outside. If you are passing, please look me up. I am always grateful for a little company. It would be a pleasure. Bonsoir, Madame. I sincerely hope whatever is causing you such visible distress is resolved soon.’

  Kurtiz nodded her thanks. For one brief second she wanted to reach out to the kindly stranger, delay her departure, beg her to remain, to keep her company on this uncertain vigil. ‘It’s about my daughter …’ Unburden her heart. Instead, she kept silent, as she had grown used to doing, and watched as the woman shrugged on her fur coat, chivvied her less than enthusiastic dog and shouldered her way determinedly through the throng of young citizens enjoying their Friday night out. One young man kissed her twice on each cheek as she passed. Madame Courtenay accepted his gesture of admiration with a flutter of eyes and a gloved hand on the youth’s shoulder while inching her path onwards into the night.

  The bistro was full to bursting now and there was still no score in the football match. Kurtiz picked up her phone and typed out a message. Oliver, am in rue de Charonne. The bistro’s called L’Armagnac. Shall I wait here for you? Is Lizzie with you? PLEASE send news. Thanks. C U later. KZ

  A cry, a wail, a plea for a goal circulated thunderously round the place. Someone was rhythmically pounding the flats of his hands against the bar’s surface, slippery with spilled beer. The thumping, like a primeval drumbeat, surged round the room, inciting impatience. The mood no longer felt congenial and relaxed: a degree of raucous agitation was building. Husky male voices admonished the overhead screen for its lack of a score. A glass went spinning to the floor, lager flying horizontally, like flapping translucent wings, causing those close by to jump and squeal, then erupt into inebriated laughter.

  Kurtiz shivered. Restless, she glanced upwards: 9.17. Some disturbance appeared to have unsettled the play. The pace of the game was slowing. The footballers were looking from one to another with perplexed expressions. A lean black athlete in blue holding the ball at rest beneath his booted foot was glancing to and fro as though awaiting instructions. Play had drawn almost to a halt. No, all was back on track. The player released the ball, dribbled and kicked it to a team mate. Kurtiz was getting hungry, her stomach growling. She signalled to Jean-Claude to bring her a plate of charcuterie and a glass of red. The cold steak and frites, untouched by her erstwhile companion, stood forgotten on the neighbouring table. She was tempted to lean over and nick a chip.

  A howl, like that of a wolf at night, rose from the bar. She glanced at her watch: 9.21 p.m. The game had been interrupted again. She lifted her reading glasses from the table to take a better look.

  A handful of spectators were rising from their seats, jumping over them, gathering up their possessions, carrying their young, descending towards the pitch. Groups of confused people from every direction. The Friday-nighters, the party-goers, surrounding Kurtiz were calling, whistling, jeering. What was happening? Hundreds of people, children too, were congregating at the perimeters of the football pitch, looking about them, confused. Heads were lifted towards giant screens as though awaiting instructions from on high. Parents were hugging their frightened offspring tight against them, protectively, as though something diabolical was about to take place. It reminded Kurtiz of shots she had taken in war zones. Those numbed, stupefied expressions that spoke of shock, loss, death. Victims of desolation.

  But this was a friendly football match in Paris. What was going on?

  A mec at the bar gave a yell to Jean-Claude to switch off the canned music and turn up the sound on the TV. Something was amiss. Kurtiz glanced at her phone. Still no response from Oliver. Should she walk to the theatre and hang about outside? It was November. The day had been mild for the time of year but it would not be getting any warmer as the night closed in. Too nippy for hanging about in the dark. There would surely be an interval soon. Perhaps she could slip in and watch the second half of the show, unseen by Oliver or Lizzie. She would never find them in any case among the fifteen hundred strong concert-goers. It might be fun. How long since she had attended a rock concert? Donkey’s years.

  A plate of cold cuts landed on the cloth in front of her along with a glass of red. Jean-Claude was harassed and sweating. She nodded thanks and requested her bill, then delayed him to know if he had understood what had come to pass at the Stade de France. ‘Has there been an accident?’

  He shrugged. ‘They might be stopping the match, Madame. Or pausing it for some reason. We are trying to understand. Our President Hollande has been called away from the stadium.’ The waiter slid out of sight, obscured by coats, scarves and hands grasping drinks, his attention demanded elsewhere.

  Kurtiz glanced to the street. Night had fallen some while back and the city was in the grip of a deep, gloomy blanket of winter. She thought of the old actress shuffling up the street, cradling her loneliness, with only the dog to protect and entertain her. Should she have offered to accompany her, stroll along the street with her? No, it was better to keep her distance. Her own botched life was best not shared.

  Her bill arrived on a small white saucer. Along with it came a tiny boiled sweet. She pulled her purse from her bag and from it a twenty-euro note and another of five euros. She picked up a slice of saucisson, popped it into her mouth and chewed. She downed the wine in two swift gulps. This place was becoming frenetic. Her head was thumping. It was past nine thirty. She had expected news from Oliver by now. ‘Christ,’ she muttered, taking on board the possibility that something had gone wrong – no Lizzie - and he had started drinking. She should never have agreed to let him handle this on his own. He was irresponsible, didn’t she know that? Wasn’t that partially what all this mess was about? Easy. Take it easy. She was getting het up.

  The denouement of the night was moving inexorably towards her. And she was apprehensive about its outcome.

  She grabbed her bags. She’d get some fresh air, then decide where best to suggest to rendezvous with Oliver – a quieter place. She was feeling restless, uncomfortable in this bar. The crowd pressed against her as she negotiated and jostled a path to the door. Outside, ranks of diners and drinkers were smoking, cradling glasses or bottles, braving the cold for the sake of a cigarette, talking, laughing loudly. She slid through them and halted, poised at the edge of the pavement, looking to right and left. She took a step onto the street. Fresh air. From an overhead apartment, she caught the strains of Miles Davis, ‘Sketches of Spain’. Perennial Davis. Left, in the distance, some ten buildings along, she made out the shadowy silhouette of the old woman and her dog approaching another café, animated with a crowded candlelit terrace. The woman stopped and bent low to fuss over or chide her pet. She was a kind soul.

  As Kurtiz stood gazing to her left, contemplating her own solitariness and what a shambles this situation with Lizzie was and how the craved-for embrace o
f Alex was possibly just a few Métro stations away, a black car drew alongside the bistro Madame Courtenay had just been standing in front of, masking both woman and dog as it cruised by almost in slow motion. Then two things happened at once. The car came to a halt and Kurtiz gazed open-mouthed as the muzzle of an assault gun – two guns? – appeared from out of the car’s windows. A man, medium height, dressed from head to foot in black, stepped out of the car, cradling a pointed rifle. This was followed, seconds later, by a volley of bullets. Firing at close range with a velocity speed of somewhere in the region of 700 metres a second, the gunslinger was shooting to kill. Kalashnikovs were known to hit targets accurately at a far greater distance than that. Kurtiz had travelled through a sufficient number of hellholes to have witnessed at first hand the capability of those relentless bursts of fire. One out of five bullseyes at 800 metres. The car was stationary, and less than twenty metres from the restaurant. There were two guns.

  ‘Holy shit!’

  Bullets were perforating windows. Glass was shattering. People were screaming. Bodies were folding, falling. Cartridges were flying repeatedly, round after deafening round, the shallow flat cracks of a Kalashnikov, an AK-47 or AK-12. Behind her, the smokers’ chatter had been stunned to a cold silence.

  A hush descended all along the street until a newly loaded magazine released further rounds of cartridges, streaking from the barrel. Those deep dark sounds of assault guns. Kurtiz bent forward, an instinct for preservation, readying herself for action, as the bullets whistled, yawed and exploded, penetrating glass, metal, cement, flesh. Behind her, several of the smokers witnessing the carnage had hurled themselves back inside L’Armagnac, screaming at Jean-Claude to call for the police, for the emergency services, to lock the doors, bring down the metal shutters, create a shelter. Others had darted onto the street, hopping and skipping. Many were jabbering into their smartphones.

  ‘Keep back, for ferrrrck’s sake!’ someone, a young woman, bellowed drunkenly.

  Strident voices. Yelping, clamouring.

  Kurtiz began to lope in the direction of the slaughter. She hugged the buildings, bouncing her shoulders off walls as she advanced, keeping herself clear of the line of fire should one of the assailants turn his attention down the street and target his rear. Above her, windows were being unlocked, heads poking out. Three shoulder bags were slapping against her lower back, giving her kidneys a walloping. In a professional capacity, she wouldn’t be carrying so much darned stuff. As she ran, still hunched low, she was unbuckling her camera holder with the facility of one who knows what’s next. A professional instinct. She pulled out her Leica M9, raised it skilfully to eye level and began to record the scene.

  Smoke was rising from somewhere close by. Acridity permeated the shaken neighbourhood. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. No mercy, no let-up from the gunshots. These firearms were rigged to launch grenades. She knew that and prayed a grenade would not be the hoodlums’ parting shot. The black car was revving its engine. Impatient to be done, or gaining in excitement at the seeping lake of blood and bodies. Exhaust fumes added their poison. The killer swung himself into a back seat and the black saloon screeched its getaway even as its door was closing, leaving mayhem in its wake.

  Kurtiz rose to her full height and snapped, then snapped again, its skidding departure from its tail end, recording the make, model – a Seat – and number plate. Then she picked up speed, sprinting in great strides, her breath loud even to her deafened ears until she reached the terrace, candles spluttering, where diners had been eating al fresco. All was silent. No one was moving, no one crying, frozen, muted in shock, as though dead on their feet.

  A still life riddled with holes. Ravaged.

  ‘Oh, dear God.’ Kurtiz wanted, needed, with a visceral longing, to be hugging Lizzie, her precious girl, squeezing her hard, to feel her young frame safely tight against her own. She wanted to erase all that she was gazing upon, for none of this to be the reality.

  Food had spilled in what looked like clouds of vomit onto the wooden floorboards of the terrace. Wine bottles were leaking their contents, like another source of blood. Then, as though a switch had been flipped, a female diner in high heels started to scream and shout. Ear-splitting incomprehensibility. Incessant yells. Her shrill cries, a smoker’s rasp, sliced through the shock and paralysis.

  Bodies were supine or curled like overblown foetuses on the ground, higgledy-piggledy, some on top of others. Overturned tables, like great wooden shields, fretted by gunfire, hid bleeding, crouching figures who had taken cover there, thinking naively to protect themselves. At a large, round, still upright table, the celebrants were all at once crashing into and against one another as they attempted to lift from beneath their feet others who were no longer members of their party, merely felled, bullet-ridden corpses. Some were calling on their mobiles, begging, pleading for assistance. People began to flood the scene, from other bars, restaurants, from neighbouring blocks. They were hugging one another, weeping or staring without seeing. The seesaw whine of approaching sirens broke into the night like a second impending threat, a second attack, a further act of war.

  Kurtiz let her camera drop to her side and lifted her head, tilting it skywards, like a dog sniffing the night’s scents. Sirens everywhere, distant and close by, penetrating the darkness. Keening. As though the entire city was emitting a call, an affronted cry, a banshee wail for the still-warm dead. Tears of shock, of horror, spilled down her cheeks. Her entire body was shaking.

  Where was the old actress who had been making her way home from the bar? Had the assassins caught her or had she managed to walk on to safety? Kurtiz wiped her face with the back of her hand, sniffed, breathed deeply while casting about her, searching along the road and gutters for the fur coat and an ivory-haired dog.

  Marguerite and Charlie, Paris, March 1947

  Charles Gilliard was in a triumphant, reckless frame of mind. He would seek out that dainty young slip of a thing from the cinema and buy her a hearty dinner before she left town. She looked like she could use a square meal. Meat, potatoes and a farmer’s cheese. A slap-up affair with wine in a bottle, not the usual rough carafes he ordered for himself. A celebration was in order, and he wanted to share his exultation.

  Access to Madame Friedlander’s apartment had been painless, ‘a piece of cake’, as they would have said back home. He’d watched the old girl go out of the main entrance with a large woven shopping basket, and he had trailed discreetly behind her for a short distance to confirm that she was making her way to the local market, ensuring that she would be gone for some time, then round the back he’d jogged, up the stairs, two at a time, and he was inside the flat within the turn of a key. Charlie had found two big leather suitcases on the bed in the spare room. Clothes, bed linen, a ticking clock, hairbrushes, washbags, shoes, a stuffed jewellery box: everything was spilling out, erupting all over the lime-green quilt and floor. Her Highness was back for the duration: that was evident. A rare and lucky Jewess in the light of recent history. After Charlie had swiftly gathered together all that was his own, including, most essentially, his precious great bundles of francs, he had loitered a moment longer. ‘Merci beaucoup, Madame. I wish you good fortune and peace,’ he had said aloud. ‘And a long life.’

  He had replaced the spare set of keys he had found in the flat when he had first entered it. Back into the vase they’d dropped, so Madame would never suspect they had been used. And then he had walked away from the comfort he had called his own for the past four years. It was time to move on, although to where he hadn’t yet the faintest notion. He needed to secure a plan. What were his options? Back to England? No, that was out of the question. Once recognized and tried for desertion, he’d be imprisoned if not executed. East, towards Germany? No. Krauts were Krauts and he’d seen enough of them, lived in their oppressive shadow for too long. There wasn’t much to attract him in a westerly direction. Normandy, apple farms … He fancied an apple farm, would relish any farm of his own, l
and and growth, but just beyond lay the English Channel. Too perilous. South to Lyon then, and on to the Mediterranean coast, perhaps. A warmer climate. Land that had not been occupied by the Germans, or not until very late in the war, so the cities and towns were less in need of emotional refurbishment and the inhabitants might be less jittery. In other words, he’d find a warmer welcome and better work opportunities.

  Paris, November 2015

  Upstairs in the second floor flat at 71 rue de Charonne, the clock on the mantelpiece read five minutes to ten. Marguerite Courtenay was hanging up her mink in the cupboard by the front door. Somewhere behind her in the sitting room her dog was yapping, moving about in frenzied circles, impatient to go out.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Lola? You’ve had your walk and your pipi. Sssh, now, be a good girl. It’s time for bed.’

  The retired actress’s soothing hum had little effect on the unnerved animal, which, upright on its hind legs, began scratching and clawing at the legs of the furniture.

  ‘What is the matter with you?’

  Marguerite brushed down her dress, smoothing non-existent creases with the flat of her hand, then primped her wavy white hair. Satisfied, she pushed up her sleeves and made her way through to her modest kitchen to pour water into the Maltese’s bowl.

  As the tap was running, she grew aware of and confused by oscillations of noise, shouts and cries, the braying of sirens. The uproar was coming from outside. Congregating gangs of footballers or overexcited foreigners? She placed the steel water dish on the floor, ruffled the head of her best friend – ‘Calm down now’ – and wandered into the sitting room, gathering up a duster she had left on a side table as she passed. Forehead pressed against the window, she saw spinning lights, violet spills unspooling like threads of yarn. Police vehicles? There must have been a fight, although they were rare in this district where every creed and nationality lived alongside one another in peace, close-knit and supportive. Old Paris, tolerant. If there were fights, street brawls and punch-ups, they were usually the result of aggressive misunderstandings between drunken tourists. She pressed her nose to the window, peering hard, rubbed her clouds of breath off the glass with the cloth still in her right hand, and focused her attention across the street. Yes, police and fire service. Pyramids of shattered glass were winking beneath the headlights of the patrol cars. An astonishing assembly of ambulances too. Heavy-booted security men laden with munitions, some wearing visors, patrolled back and forth.