The Last Time I Saw Paris

by Lynn Sheene

  “What color are the roses?”

  Laurent tossed the photo onto the floor. He turned her to face him; his gaze consumed her. “This beauty deserves Paris. Come with me.”

  “Laurent—”

  “I don’t have riches, Claire, but I know people. I live like a king. Dinner at the Ritz, parties at Le Meurice. Champagne, fashion, art. The beauty of it all. You are unhappy here, but in Paris you would shine. My muse.”

  She allowed herself to be tempted until the long breath was gone. She led him toward the bed. “No.”

  He pushed her back onto the sheets. He kissed her knees and began moving his way toward her waist. “No? Why?” Because, she could have said, I am Claire Harris Stone and I worked too damn hard for this life to just walk away. Instead, she opened her legs and pulled him to her.

  The Clipper’s engines droned. Claire allowed herself one more glance down at the wisp of continent disappearing like a mirage. And this morning, nine months later, that glittering life was gone. And she wasn’t just walking, she was flying away.

  Lisbon, Portugal. May 10, 1940.

  The Yankee Clipper touched down in the waters of the Tagus River in the early afternoon and glided to Lisbon’s marine terminal gangplank. Claire handed her papers to the official waiting inside the terminal building, her attention drawn to the eerily quiet crowd of travelers that pressed toward the plane. Picking up her luggage, she pushed past somber faces toward the door and the lot outside.

  Outside the terminal, a woman sobbed into a lacy white kerchief next to a mound of luggage piled on the sidewalk. Her sweating taxi driver battled with a steamer case wedged in the car’s open trunk.

  “Could you direct me to the train station?” Claire said.

  The woman only shook her head, face buried in her kerchief.

  “What is it? What’s happening?” Claire asked.

  A loud crack and the case gave, thudding onto the street. The woman wailed.

  Grimacing, the driver straightened. “The Nazis. They attack.”

  Claire caught her breath. “Attacked who?”

  “The north. Far north. Not here.” He shrugged then motioned Claire toward his open taxi door. “I take you to the train. Estação de Santa Apolónia.”

  French/Spanish Border. May 11, 1940.

  The Sud Express rolled through the countryside, steel wheels stroking a rhythm against the track. Her second endless day on the train, Claire dozed as the sun sank behind the dense shadowed forest outside her window, her case gripped against her stomach.

  “Vive la France,” the man across from her muttered. She opened her eyes to a view of the darkening Atlantic. The train slowed as they descended into a small harbor town. Hendaye. A change of trains at this French border town, then Paris by morning.

  She pressed her hands against the glass, letting the evening chill seep into her palms as she gazed out. A mass of people crowded the platform and surged toward the train as it rolled into the station. A man in a dusty suit shouted and shoved at a French policeman who struggled to hold him back. Claire’s skin prickled as she exited the train and followed the line of passengers crossing over to the platform to the next waiting train.

  An official sat behind a table at the head of the line, his jacket unbuttoned, shirt collar loose. “Passport.” He stamped it without a glance. “Visa.” He paled as shouts grew behind her. He scribbled her name on the form, took her fingerprint, smudged, too fast, then waved her on. “Allez, Madame, allez!”

  Claire hurried onboard. She found a window seat in a crowded compartment and watched, mesmerized, as the police pushed the frantic crowd off the platform. The train jerked forward and accelerated away from the station. Shivering, Claire pulled her case close and flipped open the latch. Her fingers slid over a soft silk bundle to the cool celluloid of a photograph. She held the image up to the moonlight pouring through her window.

  A marble statue of a woman stood in razor-sharp focus. Covered in a patina of centuries, her serene stone face looked down at the threads of ivy that swathed her legs. An unseen sun traced sparkling patterns of light through heavy branches onto her stone skin and danced on the grass at her feet. Trellised roses tumbled down a stone wall behind her. The roses captured in film were light shades of grey but, but in her mind, Claire painted them palest pink. The curved arm of a stone bench in the edge of the photo invited rest.

  Claire felt the tightness flow out of her. The scene felt so familiar and yet so different from her life. The garden’s beauty filled up a person. It added something that wasn’t there before. She flipped the photo over, ran her fingers over Laurent’s address, written in curving print across the back. Clouds obscured the moon and the compartment faded to darkness. When you wake, you’ll be in Paris, Claire told herself, slipping the photo inside the case. She closed her eyes and let her body sag against the cushions.

  It was pitch dark when the train lurched into a station, wheels grinding to a stop. Claire woke confused, her arms asleep. The sign read Biarritz. The conductor hurried down the passageway shouting into each compartment. A man across from Claire protested toward the conductor’s disappearing back.

  “What is it?” Claire said.

  The man scowled and reached for his suitcase. “La guerre. War. We stop here.”

  The passengers around Claire grumbled, voices fearful, as they pulled their bags together and filed out of the compartment. Her body tensed as she joined the line emptying out onto an already full platform. The train pulled away, smoke boiling. She turned at the sound of a thud. A heavy wooden frame slammed shut over the ticket seller’s window.

  A gruff English voice shouted over the din. A white-haired man clambered up the steps to the platform, his stomach straining against the wood buttons on his rumpled white linen suit. He waved a ticket over his head. “Dear God, was that the Lisbon train?”

  “No. We were going to Paris,” Claire said.

  “I started in Paris two days ago. Got as far as Bayonne on the Sud Express. Then the damn frog army turned us off and left with our train. They said to catch the Lisbon-bound train again here. I rode a blasted bicycle. I can’t go any farther,” he said.

  It felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. She’d spent her last dollar on the train. “How am I supposed to get to Paris?”

  “You won’t be getting another chance from here. Try Bayonne. And hold tight to your ticket, miss, it’s worth gold.”

  The shutter rattled in the ticket seller’s window. Claire elbowed her way over and pounded on the wood. The shutters opened a crack, revealing squinting eyes.

  “How much to rent an automobile?” Claire asked.

  Bared teeth reflected in the moonlight. The man cackled, and the window slammed shut.

  Claire tried a large hotel facing the beach, with a grand portcullis and rows of balconies overlooking the water. The line at the front desk extended out the door. The place was full. Everywhere, she found, was full.

  She wandered aimlessly in the faint moonlight along the beach boardwalk. Exhausted, she finally dropped her bags and slumped against a low iron railing. Her eyes were on the white lines of waves nipping at light sand, but her tired thoughts whirled. How the hell was she going to get to Bayonne to catch the train?

  “Bonsoir, Madame.” A man approached, his thin neck jutting from the open collar of a dark suit. He faced her and asked a quiet question.

  Claire caught the last two words, le train.

  She jerked to her feet, smoothing her skirt. “The train to Paris? Yes. Is it coming?”

  His eyes flicked over her, his mouth tensed into a hard line. He jerked a knife from his coat pocket and held the point to her neck.

  “Votre billet, s’il vous plait.”

  Claire froze. Now that she did understand. Billet meant ticket. Her train ticket.

  Her heart skittered in her chest. She forced in a breath. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French,” she said, stalling.

  Surely someone was going to walk by, there we
re people camped out all over this town. But the sidewalk remained empty.

  “Votre billet de train!” he hissed.

  The moonlight sparked off the blade hovering inches from her throat. Desperation burned in his eyes, his gaunt stubbled cheeks were sharp shadows.

  Claire fumbled at the purse draped casually on the railing. Her trembling fingers were clumsy as she flicked open the clasp. Cursing, he jerked the bag from her hands. The knife point fell away from her neck as he clawed inside.

  “Fuyez, Américaine. Fuyez maintenant!” Ticket clenched in his hand, he flung her purse into the surf and rushed into the darkness.

  “My papers!” Claire swore, her eyes on the bag disappearing beneath an incoming wave. She slipped off her fur and ran into the surf. Stumbling in the wash, she spotted a light shape floating in the darkness. She snatched the dripping purse and staggered, drenched, toward the boardwalk.

  She collapsed onto an empty bench, her legs weak. Her body began to shake, more from emotion than the cold. Her throat throbbed as though the blade had cut it. She doubled over and vomited in the sand.

  Claire wiped her face with a salty wet hand and sucked in a deep breath. The knife had frightened her, but it was the despair in the thief’s eyes that chilled her. She remembered well the look from her first hungry days in New York among the bread lines. The man might once have been important. But tonight he had nothing to lose. And Claire did.

  She peeled the wet papers from her purse and used her skirt to press them dry. It was all here, except for the ticket. Worth gold, she thought with a sharp pang. There wasn’t money to buy another. She shivered as she stared at the waves. She’d been worried about getting to Bayonne. Now how the hell was she going to get to Paris?

  Claire spent the rest of the night curled up on a bench with her fur coat pulled tight around her. She slept fitfully, waking at every sound, her train case and purse clenched to her chest. She woke the next morning to the shrieking of gulls, chilled from the sea mist.

  A train passed her going north. Soldiers hung out of windows and leaned over the railings between cars. War, a cold voice whispered. She found the main road and pointed her face toward the rising sun. Bayonne, the sign read. What choice was there? She began to walk.

  At midday Claire rested on a low brick wall along the roadside, in the shadows of a line of elms. Her feet were raw from hours of walking, her stomach queasy from nerves and hunger. She watched a string of heavily loaded cars rumble past her toward the coast as she rubbed her cramping calves. She frowned at the new scuff along a grey heel. Sighing, she slipped the shoes into her hatbox. Skin grows back, but she didn’t know when she’d get another pair of custom crocodile pumps.

  She limped back onto the road and pointed her bare toes east, her eyes on the dirty pavement at her feet. She heard a curse and glanced up to see a man lumbering straight at her on a sagging bicycle. He cursed as the handlebar clipped the hatbox in her hand and the bike wobbled. The large suitcase strapped behind the bike seat hit her square in the stomach and knocked her off balance. Her luggage flying, Claire fell hard and rolled across the asphalt into the flow of traffic. Her eyes shut and her body tensed at the squeal of tires.

  She sneezed. Her eyes opened to see dust wafting around a tire vibrating inches from her face. She sat up and peered over the hood of a green convertible. A man in a rumpled blue suit clenched the steering wheel, his face white. The woman sitting next to him stared, her eyes wide. He leapt from the car. A torrent of words Claire couldn’t understand; the concern in his voice was clear. He pulled her to her feet and retrieved her bags and sable, dusting them off with shaking hands. The woman joined him. She phrased a question, speaking slowly, her soft face worried.

  Claire’s straining ears caught a single word. “Paris?” Her heart leapt. “Yes!”

  “Bon.” The man set her luggage into the backseat of the car, wedging them in between their large bags.

  “Pardon?” Claire warily eyed the distance between her and her bags.

  “You may join us to Paris. Our apology for le petit accident,” the woman said, her gaze on Claire’s scraped legs. “I am Adele Oberon. This is my husband, Martin.”

  “Oh. Well, then. I am Claire Harris. And thank you.”

  Accepting Martin’s guiding hand, Claire wedged her body into the small cushioned backseat in the slight gap between the luggage and the door. Her sore muscles relaxed as the little car accelerated on the rolling asphalt road. With one hand firmly securing her hat in the gusty backseat breeze, she let out a deep breath.

  Adele turned back to Claire. “Américaine?” Her forehead wrinkled at Claire’s nod. “Not a good time to find Paris, vraiment ?”

  “Well,” Claire said. “A good time to find an old friend.”

  Adele’s bright eyes were mystified. “But you know about the fighting, no?”

  Claire’s mouth dried up. “What do you mean?”

  “The Germans have broken through. In Belgium, in Holland, in Luxembourg. In the Ardennes in France. They push south toward Paris.”

  Claire bit back a curse. Damned Laurent and everyone claimed the Nazis couldn’t get past the French army. Not with the British backing them up. It was silly to try. That’s why this was called La drôle de guerre. The phony war.

  “But what about the French army?” Claire said.

  It took a moment for Adele to muster an answer. “Our soldiers are wounded, prisoners, scattered to the winds.” The woman pulled a photo from her purse. A father, mother and son grinned in front of a beach umbrella. She pointed at the boy and broke into rapid-fire French.

  Claire heard the warmth in Adele’s voice, saw her eyes mist over. The woman in the photo had a deep brunette bob, not Adele’s salt-and-pepper bun, but the same wide, dark eyes, the soft face, the slender frame. It had to be her. Martin, she realized, didn’t look much different. His hair was darker, but he wore the same thin mustache even then. The boy was about seven, Claire thought. His blazing smile highlighted a missing tooth.

  “Your son?”

  “Michele.” Her face twisted and she glanced at Martin.

  He didn’t take his eyes from the road but lightly stroked Adele’s shoulder.

  “A soldier. He was called in a month ago. To protect the border in the Ardennes.” Adele stared out at the passing road. “These people flee to the south. But Michele will come to Paris. He will come home. And we will be there waiting.”

  Martin gripped the wheel tighter.

  They traveled in silence for the next few hours. Progress slowed as the car maneuvered through clumps of weary people walking, bicycling and pulling carts. They finally pulled over and parked under the shade of tall elms out of sight from the road. Claire stretched as Adele rummaged through a wicker basket and Martin pulled the gasoline can from the trunk. A blanket was spread over a carpet of leaves. Adele put out plates, glasses, a bottle of wine. She unrolled a sandwich wrapped in white paper and deftly cut small finger-sized pieces.

  “Madame Harris?” Adele patted the blanket next to her and held out a plate.

  Legs folded beneath her on the blanket, Claire gratefully took a bite. Her teeth crunched through the bread’s thick crust. Inside a thick slice of soft cheese, a cut of herbed chicken, a slice of tomato. A sip of red wine to wash it down. The earthy flavors melted against her tongue. She breathed deep and smiled. Better than every spoonful of Russian caviar she’d served at her party three nights ago.

  Martin closed the hood and joined them. A quick meal and the little car pulled back onto the road, fighting its way upstream. Night descended and still they drove. Claire pulled her fur close, leaned back and stared at the stars until her eyes closed.

  The rising sun woke her. Claire squinted, rubbing at the stiffness in her neck. Martin had driven all night. The road had grown more crowded, rustic farmland gave way to great expanses of cultivated fields. A large château towered in the distance. They rested a moment next to a wooded stream and took quick walks into the trees befor
e splashing water on their tired faces and climbing back in the car.

  “How much farther to Paris?” Claire said.

  Adele looked at Martin then shrugged. “Not far, but . . .”

  They passed through a city. Orleans. The car slowed to a crawl, nudging through families with carts, pulling goats and horses, then urban travelers, stumbling along in wool suits and dragging suitcases or bursting out of cars filled to the roof with trunks.

  They crested a knoll. Beyond the rolling hills, tiny villages and steeples; in the far distance, a grey line of buildings interrupted the horizon. Claire knew instinctively it was Paris. Her breath caught in her throat.

  By midday they entered the outskirts. Heavy traffic in all directions snarled the small convertible. Martin slowed, then stopped. A concrete barrier had been erected across the road. Dust carts were locked together on each side. A line of policemen in blue uniforms stood behind the makeshift barricade, smoking cigarettes. Claire watched as Adele and Martin shared a look. This was Paris’s line of defense? Martin reversed the car; they turned off onto a side street.

  Claire’s attention was drawn to the Parisians themselves. Men in fine wool suits and ties, women in gloves and felt hats pulled, just so, over one eye. They had a certain walk; it reminded Claire of the models in New York. But their expressions were too hard, their pace too fast.

  The car scraped behind a newspaper stand and turned into an alley. Martin pulled the brake and switched off the ignition. They sat for a moment then slid out of the car.

  “Can you find your way from here?” Adele asked.

  “Of course.” Claire examined her suit, tried to smooth her rumpled skirt, wiped futilely at smudges of road dust and grime. Not the entrance she’d planned. She tried a smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  Adele pulled out a white starched kerchief from her purse. She slipped it to Claire, her expression kind. “You are a beautiful woman. He will be happy to see you.”