by Jan Harvey
‘Well, she isn’t short of money, that’s for certain.’ Madame F. huffed.
‘And she chose to open a bordello of her own?’ Claudette asked.
‘She saw the Germans invading and a whole new opportunity arising. She is as sharp as they come, a real head for business.’ Jacques was sitting back in his chair, eyes settling on the fire once more.
‘In every way,’ said Claudette. ‘I’m squeezed into the previous maid’s shoes as proof.’
‘Just ask for new shoes if you need them,’ said Jacques, irritated by the interruption of his quiet afternoon. ‘She knows that a maid with bad feet is a bad maid.’
‘I’m going to buy a pair with my extra wages,’ said Claudette, picking up her darning mushroom again. ‘I am going out on Wednesday to buy them. Would you like to come with me Perrine?’ Perrine glanced across at Jacques and Madame F.
‘Oh, why not?’ said Madame F. ‘I’m going out too.’
‘And me,’ Marie added as she entered the kitchen wiping her hands.
Jacques grunted. ‘It’s for your own safety that you’re not allowed out, you all know that,’ he said. He looked from one woman to another, knowing that opposing them wasn’t going to work. ‘Just take care, all of you.’
Paris was autumnal and somehow even more beautiful as the plane trees turned russet on the streets and the mulberry bushes in the Tuileries were bright as new gold. Perrine walked alongside Claudette swinging her handbag. The day was mellow, round, expectant with possibilities. Claudette hugged the parcel containing her new shoes to her chest.
‘I’m in love,’ said Perrine brightly, she span around. ‘I have a beau.’
‘What? Who? When? Tell me.’
‘He’s one of our soldiers, we met before the invasion. They’ve sent him to a work camp, but we have been writing to each other. He writes beautiful letters, Françoise, just beautiful. It’s strange because I love him more each time he writes, yet I can’t hear his voice or see him. I love the way he thinks, how he writes about everything, what he confides in me.’
Claudette found herself thinking, not of Yves, but of Keber. His eyes, his kiss. Two Nazis walked past, their grey uniforms severe and out of place in a park full of melodious colours. ‘I’m glad for you,’ she told Perrine with honesty. ‘I hope he comes back to you and you are married and have six beautiful children.’
‘Seven,’ said Perrine. ‘At least seven!’ and she laughed. Claudette giggled. She had an almost overwhelming desire to tell Perrine about Keber, to share him, to tell her friend how she had never met anyone like him, what he did to her soul. She was about to ask the name of Perrine’s beau when she saw her expression cloud over.
‘Well, who would have thought it?’ It was Keber. He was standing in front of Claudette, his eyes focussed on her and completely ignoring Perrine. Claudette could not speak. ‘What a beautiful day.’ He kept his gaze fixed on her and she found herself silenced by his presence.
‘Yes.’ It was all she could say. Claudette knew that Perrine was stunned to see her talk to a German. Her friend was staring with eyes wide, and her jaw dropped open. She looked from Keber to Claudette and back again.
‘Please leave us, I need to talk to this lady,’ he said, without giving her even a glance. His irritation at her presence was very clear. Perrine didn’t know what to do, she looked to Claudette for guidance.
‘It’s all right, Perrine, I’ll be fine.’ Keber turned and walked towards the stippled shade of the mulberry bushes. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ said Claudette.
‘Are you sure? Will you be all right? Should I fetch Jacques?’
‘No, it’s fine, but don’t tell anyone, please,’ said Claudette urgently. ‘And please would you take my parcel back for me?’ Perrine left, casting a very obvious glance over her shoulder, as Claudette turned and walked away towards the trees.
He was waiting, his back against a tree, foot resting against it. She stood in front of him feeling a power in herself that she had never yet felt, the power that comes with being wanted, desired.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Hello,’ she replied.
‘You do know that if I weren’t a decent man I would tell you to take your clothes off here and I would have sex with you on the grass?’ Claudette flushed. ‘What? You work in a whorehouse and have never heard anyone speak like that? I find it hard to believe.’
‘I’ve heard worse than that,’ she replied evenly. ‘But I’ve never had such a thing said to me.’
‘And not by a German?’
‘No.’
‘I could if I had a mind to, make you do it. We are, after all, an occupying force.’ She did not rise to the bait, she despised him speaking like that. Instead she moved forward and kissed him, taking the advantage. He did not move, did not give any quarter. She stepped back, looking up at his face.
‘Hussy,’ he said with a smile that made his face light up.
He took hold of her and placed his mouth over hers, his tongue urgent and strong. He turned her round, pinning her against the tree and then his hands were cupping her breasts. She had no means of escape, but she possessed no desire to try. He kissed down her neck, running his hands over her hips. Claudette could see the railings of the park over his shoulder, the dim shadows of people passing by unseeing, unknowing that she was here with this man in the Tuileries Gardens, in the heart of Paris. He pressed his hand into her groin and the feeling exploded within her, the release of everything, fear, pressure, worry, loneliness, Yves. The blood in her ears roared.
‘I want you,’ he said, his French edged with Germanic hardness. ‘And, I will have you.’ He bit her ear lobe, sucking on it. Her head became light, dizzy, then he turned and without a word, left her. She was breathing short ragged breaths, her body feeling as though it was drowning in its own passion. He was walking through the park, away from her, as if absolutely nothing had happened.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Matt lent over me, head resting on one hand, the fingers of the other tracing a line between my breasts. I was gazing at him, the beauty of his face and the depth of colour in those brown eyes. I lifted my head and kissed him slowly, and for a long time.
‘Time for work,’ he said as he pulled away at last. ‘Work first, play later.’
The day wore on slowly, me carrying out my role, he being the consummate professional as ever, but sometimes in between shots or when I passed by him, he would smile and it was infectious. At one point during the afternoon, Clemence nudged Yan and I felt stupidly shy, and at the same time, immensely proud of myself for having such an amazing man in my life. Hat would have been over the moon for me and, whilst I could have texted or mailed her, it meant so much to me I wanted to tell her in person.
The next day, Thursday, we walked through Paris. Along the Rue de Rivoli, through Les Halles, with people sunbathing and children playing on the bald grass. We saw a Modernist exhibition in the Pompidou, having queued in the sun for an insane length of time. Matt nipped off and bought us both freezing cold, expensive bottles of water. All I cared about was being with him and nothing else.
We visited Delacroix’s house and stared intently at the beauty of his stone etchings and I kissed Matt on the bench in the garden outside his atelier. We watched a Japanese mother and daughter take pictures of each other. They wore sun hats and neat, designer clothes, which looked freshly pressed. Behind us was a high wall and there was a peacock in the garden, mewing and listening for a reply, but nothing came. He was alone.
Out of the blue my mind conjured up a memory of Freddy. We were sitting in the gardens of the big house in the village (they were open for charity), sharing a bench and waiting for Hat to return with ice cream. There were two peacocks strutting about, a male and female, with the self-importance common to all of them. Freddy turned to me and said: ‘They really think they’re it
, don’t they? I wonder what they taste like?’ He had folded his arms across his old tweed jacket and licked his lips with a gleam in his wicked eye. The sense of grief from this long forgotten reminiscence was almost overwhelming and I found myself welling up.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, sorry, I just remembered Freddy. It’s so easy to forget he’s no longer here when you’re in a completely different place.’
Matt brushed the back of my hand with his forefinger.
‘You thought the world of him, didn’t you?’
‘I did, as did Hat and Jon, we all did.’
‘And, lest we forget, the Puritans and the old soak in Ledbury!’
I laughed and ran my finger along his. ‘We need to have questions ready for Daniel. I need to know what happened, I feel that I owe him for all the precious times we spent together. I want to find out why Freddy’s past is so muddy and sort it out for him. I don’t know, I feel as if it is my last gift to him.’
‘And the murder,’ said Matt, he said ‘murder’ in a Scottish accent.
‘And the murder,’ I mimicked like a minor bird. ‘It won’t be anything worth writing home about. I bet it was an accident and she was just unlucky.’
‘Madeleine March.’ He said running the name over his tongue. ‘Have you Googled?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Library?’
‘Who goes to a library any more?’
‘Well, we ought to,’ Matt replied firmly. ‘It’s next door-but-one to the barber’s shop, did you know?’
‘I do, I have lived there considerably longer than you.’
His smirk was boyish. ‘Let’s think about Daniel and know what we’re going to ask him,’ he said, brushing a stray hair away from my cheek. ‘It would appear that Bertie was a great one for lighting the fires of burning questions, but she had no answers.’
‘I know, she actually seemed to know nothing but the headlines. I think we –’
‘Cuse me.’ It was the Japanese mother. ‘You take picture?’ She was nodding and pointing towards her daughter who sat expectantly on the curved bench in the middle of the garden. She held the camera out to me with both hands. I took it from her and, while the lady sat next to her daughter I took the photograph. Matt, the pro, was watching me with a smile on his face. They both nodded several times to say thank you as I handed back their camera.
We left Delacroix’s walled garden in peace and quiet with only the occasional lonesome call from the peacock on the other side of the wall, to break the silence.
Chapter Thirty
Perrine was not talking to Claudette. She used only perfunctory sentences and relayed orders. Nothing more than that passed her lips. When Claudette had returned from the park that Wednesday evening a month ago, Perrine had pushed her against the wall, jamming the parcel of shoes into her chest.
‘It’s one thing having the whores do it with the Boches, but you! They’re the ones who have my boyfriend locked up. They took Anna away and they cleared whole streets of her people. I would have thought you had higher standards.’ Claudette knew she could not defend herself.
‘What have you done to upset Perrine?’ asked Jacques days later.
‘Nothing,’ she replied as she checked that the damsons for her jam were not boiling too quickly.
‘Well, whatever it is, make it up to her, you never know when she might be useful, I mean with what she knows. And we need information on the one called Keber. He comes three times a week, afternoons or late evenings. You know who I’m talking about, the tall blond officer, silver epaulettes?’
‘I know, I’ve seen him,’ replied Claudette. She had no idea Keber came in during the afternoon as well as evenings.
‘Well, he’s a rising star for the Boches, he knows a hell of a lot. By the way, that scribbled map you found,’ Claudette nodded, ‘really useful. I asked why and my contact wouldn’t tell me, but the message I was to pass on was to say well done.’ Claudette felt something akin to pride that at last this whole thing, which she still felt very uncertain about, had borne fruit.
It was Saturday and November was chilly, seeping its dank wetness into the house. Claudette was bone-tired. It had been a long day. Once the Germans arrived at ten thirty the house became alive. There was singing, jazz in the bar, the salon humming with laughter and conversation. As she climbed the stairs with stiff legs she reached floor four where she could hear sounds from different levels; sharp shouts, moaning, giggling, the sounds of sex. She was about to start on the next step when she saw leather riding boots standing in front of the lift shaft on floor five. She crept up, treading a little further, knowing exactly who it was. There was a rush inside her, a dissolving of rational thought. The boots turned and went back through the double doors.
She half ran up the stairs, adrenaline coursing through her, past the doors and began to mount the stairs to the attic, slowing down with each step. As she reached half way she heard the doors open. She took a sharp intake of breath and waited, willing him to sense her presence. Opening the door to the corridor, she listened again; it was silent, Marie had gone to bed half an hour before her.
As she walked along the worn lino it squeaked under her flat shoes. She laid a hand on the door handle but didn’t turn it. She stopped as she heard his boots echoing along the corridor behind her. She turned and saw him coming towards her.
‘Go inside,’ he said, his voice flat, unremarkable. She opened the door and he followed her in, calmly with no secrecy. He looked around the room, the small single bed, the framed tapestry, her rosary over the back of the old chair. His lip almost formed a sneer. He stood against the door and finally levelled his eyes on her.
‘Take off your hat, let your hair down,’ he ordered. He spoke at normal pitch, unafraid of being heard by Marie or anyone else. She unpinned her hair and let it fall, placing the lace hat on her chair. ‘And the blouse, take it off.’ Claudette felt the tremulous sense of desire clutch at the very base of her stomach.
‘And the skirt,’ he nodded at it. ‘Slowly.’ She undid it and it fell to the floor. She was wearing Nannette’s bra.
‘Take it off.’ His eyes were impassive until they fell on her breasts. There was a lust in them, the like of which she could never have dreamed. ‘Come here.’ He said the words in German, as if he had forgotten to speak French. She walked towards him and he encircled her with his arms. Her bare chest was smooth against the roughness of his jacket. It felt good, her nipples hardened. She searched for his mouth, nuzzling his chin. He kissed her deeply, passionately.
‘Tomorrow, I will be in Madame Odile’s Private Room. You will be there. I don’t make love in a room like this, not for anyone.’ His voice was toneless, expressionless, at odds with his eyes. She could feel the strength of him under his jacket. The power of his presence engulfed her.
‘But I’m not sure if…’
‘Be there at three.’
Chapter Thirty One
Matt was watching me dress. I was fastening my bra and he was watching with wide, excited eyes. ‘You have beautiful boobs,’ he said.
‘Thank you, kind sir.’ I replied. ‘I bet you’re thinking to yourself “why did I order separate rooms let alone separate floors?”’
He cocked his head to one side. ‘What you on about?’
‘Well, if we’d had next door rooms you could have nipped next door for your stuff more easily.’
‘That would have been rather presumptuous of me, don’t you think?’ he said as he threw back the covers, revealing his lovely body. He was heading for the bathroom.
‘Well, different rooms is one thing, but different floors?’
He stopped and turned towards me. ‘Oh that! Christ no. That’s for Cherry. She’s seventeen. She has one hell of an over protective father and he’s a big bloke. I always make sure I’m on separate
floors so that he can’t ever complain I’m after her.’
I had to laugh. ‘Wimp!’
‘No, I mean like really big, huge, with big, no, massive muscles.’
‘That’s rich coming from you, Popeye.’
Matt came over to me and grabbed my face playfully.
‘Do as you’re told, Olive, or I’ll…’
‘What, get Cherry’s dad on to me?’
‘Yeah, so watch it.’
He wrapped himself in the towelling robe and headed once more for the bathroom. ‘I’m going to have a shower and if you’re not in there with me in two seconds, I’ll force feed you spinach.’
Chapter Thirty Two
The next day Claudette faked period pain. She told Madame F. that she wasn’t well and would have to lie down. ‘Poor you,’ said the cook with sympathy. ‘I used to get it badly, couldn’t stand up sometimes. You go and have a nice lie down.’
It was three o’clock when she entered the Private Room. It was dark, womb-like, the lights on the lowest setting. The door opened and he was inside. He locked it behind him and sat down on the nearest sofa. Claudette, who hadn’t slept all night for thinking of him, stood in the corner of the room. He stared at her, watching her intently.
‘Take off your clothes,’ he ordered as he leaned back to watch, hands behind his head. With great clarity she saw him sitting behind a desk or out in the streets barking orders at soldiers or terrified civilians. She felt a shiver of apprehension and took a deep breath.
‘No,’ she said squarely meeting his eye, ‘you can take them off me.’
His lips had a wicked curl to them. ‘Fine then, you seem to be in charge, come to me and tell me how you want it done.’ He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down on top of him. Putting his arm around her he kissed her face eagerly. His lips pressed into hers, his tongue exploring the soft folds of her mouth. Then he led her to the day bed and laid her down on it, undoing her blouse deftly with quick, experienced fingers.
