“Come out here, Chantal!” The weight of my own voice sent me staggering against a paper wall, which began to move. Dancing girls flitted past; some ran into me. Brief curses.
The sultan appeared before me. “Quittez la scène, les boches!” A muscular forearm crushed itself against the back of my neck, forcing me to bend down.
“Georges, t’es fou?” The girls, practically naked, grabbed the patriot from behind and pulled him back. The grip on my neck disappeared; the women gathered around me. “Tout va bien, monsieur. Vous vous amusez? On peut aider?”
I gasped for air. “Chantal!”
Whispering around me: “Qu’est-ce qu’il veut? Ça vous dit quelque chose, Chantal?” In the background, the tenor began the song about his Froufrou’s faithlessness. The girls swore. “Léonard a déjà commencé. Putain!” They left me standing there, threw on another bit of fabric as they ran, and bounded onto the stage.
At the end of the corridor, I reached a door. It hung askew, hinges squealing, and opened outward onto an inner courtyard, overgrown with ivy and lighted by the summer moon. Chimney-high walls on every side, and crouched in a corner, Chantal. I leaned against the door frame; she looked up. It took her several seconds to process the combination of my face and my uniform. Then she sprang to her feet, deeply shocked, quivering from head to toe. She had covered herself with a faded dressing gown. The summer breeze played with her hair.
“Chantal.” After all the opening lines I’d come up with, this was the only word that occurred to me. I started to go over to her. My boot heels made a sharp sound on the worn, shiny threshold. “I want to warn you.”
“Devil,” she said in a low voice, snatching together the lapels of her dressing gown. “You devil.”
“I’ve been looking for you, Chantal.” She tried to dash past me, but the courtyard was small, and I was able to spring to the side and catch her arm. She turned around, stepped close to me, and spit. The absinthe made me sluggish and strong. She didn’t get away.
“Chantal, listen to me!” I shouted. It came out in German.
“German pig! Let me go!”
She struck me in the face as hard as she could; the following blow landed very low on my abdomen. I staggered and crashed into the wall. In one bound, she was through the door. The old wood splintered as it slammed behind her. I followed, my elbows pressed against my belly.
“I have to warn you, Chantal!”
A door opposite me opened a crack. When the dwarf saw my uniform, he quickly drew back. Darkness in the corridor. My footsteps hammered the floor as I went after her. I followed her all through the backstage labyrinth at Turachevsky’s. Once, I saw the tail of her gown disappearing around a corner. Astonished performers jumped aside; cigarette-smoking girls in kimonos pressed themselves against the wall.
At last, the salon opened out in front of me. I stumbled over the edge of the carpet, lost my balance, and fell to the floor under the chandelier. The women on the sofas giggled. Madame entered. Before I could explain it all to her, a pair of boots appeared in front of me. As my eyes wandered upward, I recognized the second lieutenant’s face. He laughed his familiar bleating laugh. Behind him, the colonel interrupted his concentration on lighting his cigar to cast a surprised glance in my direction. I got to my feet quickly, unsteadily. The green fairy had flown away. I came to attention.
“Stand at ease,” the colonel growled. “We’re not on the drill field.” His face softened into a fleshy grin. “The kids are playing hide-and-seek in here,” he said. The second lieutenant giggled.
My eyes looked feverishly for Chantal. Innumerable doors, a curtain in front of a passageway. Steps leading somewhere.
His cigar successfully lighted, the colonel paid no more attention to me. He and his retinue disappeared into the bar. I stood under the chandelier and started feeling sick. Very slowly, exaggeratedly slowly, I pulled my forage cap out of my epaulet and put it on my head. Madame’s farewell sounded from far away. I stepped into the night air.
I’d made everything worse. Chantal’s suspicion was now a certainty: I was the enemy, the German pig. I could do nothing more for her. I set out at a half trot across the square. The green fairy had left behind a dark, burning sensation; I needed water. Back in my hotel room, I drank from the faucet greedily, like an ox. Bright moonlit night; dreamless sleep. I kept my boots on.
13
August was hot. The order of the day in rue des Saussaies granted shirtsleeve privileges. Leibold did not allow himself this convenience. Uniform jacket, belt buckle, Merit Cross snug against his throat. He gave the impression of someone who always felt cold.
“Today,” he said.
Days had passed since we’d last had a smoke together by the window. Down in the garden, the wilting grass was knee-high. No one did anything about it. I missed the one-armed gardener.
“Today, I have an appointment at the barber’s,” Leibold said with a thin smile. “We seem to be dealing with a pretty large cell.”
“The barbershop?” I considered the plane tree, whose leaves were turning red.
He nodded and said, “Rue Jacob.” I stared at the point in the window where the mullion crossed the transom. The cross dissolved in the sunlight. “Do you know this shop?”
I cleared my throat. “I’m sure I’ve passed it a time or two.”
He moved closer. “After this evening, it won’t exist anymore.”
I took the cigarette he offered. He waited until the first cloud of smoke had ascended above us before continuing. “The Gascon will be there. Turning out pamphlets, probably. We figure the machine’s in the cellar.”
“A night operation?” I asked.
“Not necessarily.” Leibold shook his head. “The Parisians have to see how far we’re willing to go.” He held his cigarette perpendicular to the floor, balancing the ash. “You’ll probably have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”
“I understand, Captain.”
“Are you feeling well?” His face came nearer.
“How do you mean?” I straightened my spine.
“Of late, you haven’t been all there, my friend. I’ve noticed it for a while now.”
I was startled. Inconspicuous, appropriate—that’s what I wanted to be. I didn’t want anyone focusing on me. “Hasn’t my performance been—”
“It’s not work-related,” he said, waving dismissively. Ashes fell on his sleeve. “Tell me, man to man: What’s eating you?”
“Nothing, Herr Leibold—that is, Captain.” I came to attention. “I’ll try harder from now on, sir.”
“You’re a hard fellow to figure out, Corporal,” the bald man said. “Can I help you in some way?” I could feel his sincerity, and I knew how dangerous such sympathy was. “Take the afternoon off.” Leibold threw down his cigarette and ground it out under his heel. No privilege, I thought. Normality. Distance. “Rest and relax,” he said. “Why not go swimming? It’ll probably be your last chance this year.” He wiped his skull with a white handkerchief. I clicked my heels together too late and watched the black uniform disappear at the end of the hall.
No sound from anywhere. The hotel appeared deserted. Nobody walking down the corridors, nobody making a phone call. Everyone was on duty somewhere else. Except me, there alone, lying on my bed and listening. Faint traffic noise. A single drip in the bathroom. I felt like the only living creature in the building. With every minute that I lost, the possibility of doing anything grew smaller. But my chances of survival increased. I had to make a decision; I had to act. I remained where I was—on my back. I shoved a pillow under my head and gazed at the shepherd girls. The curtain’s gray-green reminded me of Chantal’s eyes.
I sat up as though I had just awakened. Averting my eyes from the mirror, I opened the wardrobe and bent down to the cloth bag. I stayed like that for several seconds and then, finally, I seized the handle and swung the bag ont
o the bed. Then I turned slowly toward the wall. The calendar was hanging there; today’s date hadn’t been torn off yet. I’ll do it later tonight, I thought, after I get back. When I felt the material of my checkered suit between my fingers, everything stood still.
Nothing was different. The facade of the condemned building hung dangerously far out over the sidewalk. The coolness of the entryway welcomed me. I took off my uniform more carefully than usual and meticulously folded the shirt and the trousers. After cramming the shafts of my boots into the laundry bag, I took off my ID tags and weighed the little chain in my hand. With incomprehensible reverence, I slipped the tags back over my head and felt the metal on my chest. I quickly buttoned my civilian shirt up to my neck.
This evening, Monsieur Antoine was a self under duress. I was playing a role. I hurried through the streets, my eyes on the pavement. The way seemed longer than before. Suspicious silence on the Pont Royal. Why did the soldiers on the bridge stare at me? I didn’t take my usual route along the boulevard; instead, I sidled down narrow alleys and slipped through solitary passageways, approaching rue Jacob by detours.
The waiter at the Lubinsky invited me to have a seat. I didn’t slow down. Step by step, the café disappeared behind me. Two sergeants came around the corner; I hugged the wall and continued on. Finally, I reached the Jewish haberdasher’s shop. The barber’s windows glimmered just beyond it. Alert and apprehensive, I scouted around. Was the task force already lurking somewhere? Had Leibold sent assault troops or men in civilian clothes? Were they posted in the entryways of the neighboring buildings, their eyes fixed on the barbershop?
If I walk past the salon now, I thought, and reach the next corner and return to my field gray reality, it will be as if none of this ever happened. I’ll tear the page off the calendar, just as I do every day. But if I stop and open this door, I’ll have nothing in front of me and nothing behind me except the abyss.
The brass door handle. The tinkling of the shop bell.
“Bonjour, monsieur. You won’t have long to wait.”
As always, the old man was there, reading his newspaper. A customer sat in the broad-backed chair, her wet hair combed down over her face. Chantal stood at the cash register. At that moment, the sun disappeared behind an isolated cloud. The barber turned around.
No one said anything.
I began. In my very best French.
“Once upon a time, there was an animal. It had the head of a bear, but its hindquarters resembled a zebra’s. When people saw it from the front, they said, ‘That’s a bear.’ The people who observed the beast from behind declared it was a zebra. And because no one saw it from both the back and the front at once, a quarrel arose. The animal didn’t understand what the argument was about, because it experienced itself as a single whole.”
I spoke the last sentence in Chantal’s direction. Her eyes were dark with confusion. She braced herself with both hands on the cash drawer.
“What’s he talking about?” the barber hissed. “What does he want?”
During my tale, the customer had parted her hair like a curtain and looked at me in the mirror.
“Close your shop, monsieur,” I said to the barber. “Immediately would be best.”
“Are you mad?” He came closer to me.
“You have to leave.” I turned in the direction of the cashier’s desk. “You, too, Chantal.”
“What do you know about this?” the barber asked her fiercely.
“Nothing.” She didn’t move an inch.
Suddenly, and for the first time since I’d entered the shop, the old man lowered his newspaper. I could see white hair and glittering blue eyes. He looked me up and down.
“Are you the boche?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m the boche.”
Calmly, the old man rested his hands on his newspaper. “And you’re the zebra, and you’re also the bear?”
“Just so, monsieur.”
The old man turned to the barber. “Listen to him, Gustave.” As he said this, he folded the paper and stood up.
“Why should I, Papa?”
“Do it.” The old man took his hat from the hook, opened the door, and stepped out. He seemed to be checking the weather. Then, after lingering in the sun for a few moments, he finally began strolling down rue Jacob.
“Let’s go in the back.” Gustave pointed to a glass-bead curtain. “We’ll just be a second, madame,” he said, turning briefly to the customer, who watched in amazement as he withdrew.
I stepped through the strings of beads; Chantal was the last to enter. A tiny kitchen, a small round table. The barber pointed me to the only chair. Chantal leaned on the sink. The glass beads were still clicking.
After a brief silence, I said, “You’re waiting for the Gascon.”
The barber exchanged glances with Chantal. “Who?”
I described the man.
“We don’t know him.”
“I translated his interrogation,” I said. “They set him free. And now he’s led them to you. When is he coming?”
Despite the tense silence and their mutual consternation, I couldn’t help looking at Chantal. She was breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling.
“We’re not waiting for anybody,” the barber said, lying.
“At six-thirty,” said Chantal, interrupting him. He stared at her.
“Six-thirty,” I repeated, remembering the clocks striking six just after I crossed the bridge. “Then there’s hardly any time.”
I held my clenched fists between my knees and told my story as calmly as I could, addressing most of it to Chantal. The beaded curtain broke up the light coming into the room.
“That’s quite a tale you tell,” the barber said brusquely.
“Why are you doing this?” Chantal pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Those are your people.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “What good will it do if you all get arrested?”
Suddenly, the barber sprang to the little passageway and peeked out between the strings of beads. In the late-afternoon light, you could see the nose of an automobile that was pulling up in front of the shop window. A second car approached from the left. These vehicles weren’t marked in any way, but the locals knew them well.
Gustave whipped around. “This is a trap!” He stood very close to me.
I rose from my chair. “In that case, I wouldn’t have needed to say anything!”
The shop bell rang in the next room. The woman with wet hair hastily left the salon and ran past the uniformed men who were getting out of the cars. One of them checked her papers.
“Get out of here!” I hissed.
Chantal nodded to Gustave. Outside the door of the shop, the men were receiving orders from a sergeant. The barber started frantically shoving aside some boxes that concealed a low door.
“What will happen to you?” Chantal asked me as the barber unbolted the door.
“If they catch me, they’ll treat me the same as you.”
She struggled with herself for a second and then pointed into the unlighted passageway on the other side of the little door. I stooped. The barber hurried ahead of me. Chantal came last.
We went through a narrow corridor, then up some steps into a cellar. The barber opened a grille. I smelled wine and resinous wine barrels. We came to a storeroom. A ray of light fell from a shaft that opened in the courtyard above our heads. The barber led the way to a spiral staircase. Chantal gathered up her skirt so she’d be able to run better. We reached a corridor at ground level. “Attention!” A whispered cry came from the depths of a flat. Electric lightbulb, under it a silhouette. The barber stopped before entering an inner courtyard. I noticed some people on balconies, eyeing us curiously. Chantal caught up with us; I felt her breath on my back. A woman scolded her child. A radio: the German broadcast to France. More keys, then another pas
sage, and at its far end we could see the street. We had crossed the entire square block, from one side to the other. The barber headed for the archway.
Chantal called out, “Your jacket!”
He fumbled with buttons and flung the white smock away.
“Wait!” I peered outside. I knew their tactics. First came the uniforms, chasing the fox out of his lair. Behind them, men in civilian clothes lay in wait. I stuck my head out past the projecting brick facade. Red afternoon sun, street noise, normality. There was a car parked on the opposite side of the street, near it another one with its engine running, both French models. A man stood next to the first car and smoked a cigarette. Gray suit, inconspicuous tie. I narrowed my eyes. Despite the dusty day, his shoes were perfectly polished. I drew back.
“They’re outside,” I whispered. “Is there another way out?”
Chantal turned around and faced the courtyard. “The cellar,” she said. “But that means we have to go back.”
“No. We’ll run!” The barber dug his fists into his pockets.
“In these shoes?” Chantal said, pointing to her heels.
I looked at Gustave. “They’ve got people posted on every corner.”
Shouts, slamming doors. The moment had passed. Boots battered against an obstacle. The barber took two steps forward, two steps back, gnawing the backs of his hands. The first salvos of gunfire; a lock burst. Shouts of protest, German replies. Somewhere a child was crying.
Gustave moved closer to the light. “Let’s split up, then.”
Chantal nodded. “Good luck.”
He shot out of the dark entrance, darted sideways, and dashed away. The man with the polished shoes immediately jumped into the car. Dark suits appeared from every direction. I watched them run past the archway, just a few meters away from us. Startled pedestrians stopped walking. A shot. The street froze. A man threw himself to the pavement. More shots, now farther off. Chantal listened with a finger on her lips. Then no more sounds. Several long seconds passed. The street returned to its normal rhythm. The man on the pavement stood up and brushed off his pants. Someone honked at a bicycle rider, who rode past us, lurching from side to side. Two women pushed a cart.
April in Paris Page 8
