The Last Time I Saw Paris

by Lynn Sheene

  “Américaine, eh? Strange time to be out alone arranging my flowers, no?”

  Claire blushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. I just . . .”

  “There is no need to apologize. You have an eye, a touch for beauty.” The woman smiled gently, her large brown eyes taking in Claire’s bags and travel-worn clothing.

  Claire looked down at herself, achingly aware of the dust and creases. This woman, in a simple white shirt and charcoalcolored skirt, midnight blue scarf draping from her slender neck, projected an unmistakable quiet chic. Claire felt more self-conscious than she had in years. She swatted futilely at a spot of road oil staining her skirt and attempted to stand a little straighter.

  “But truly, on a day like this, one can do nothing better than enjoy a thing of beauty.” With a practiced eye, she pulled the freshest flower from the bucket and handed it to Claire. “C’est mon plaisir.”

  “Thank you.” Claire cupped the rose to her face and breathed in deeply.

  A teenage boy carrying an overloaded box stepped from the darkened grocer’s doorway across the street. His face was friendly, his smile open and simple, and a dark mop of hair framed his head. Though his arms flexed at the weight of the box, he carried it with ease. A loaf of bread and the neck of a wine bottle peeked out the open top. He offered Claire a shy “Bonjour” then whispered to the woman. She replied quietly.

  The boy picked his way through the masses of plants over to the table set amongst flower pails. He plucked out a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, a hunk of cheese and two ripe golden pears he set gently on a brown paper wrapper. Nodding shyly to both women, he mumbled, “Au revoir,” and hurried down the street.

  The woman watched him go. “Georges. He is a good boy. He is a touch slow in his mind or his father would have already lost him to this catastrophe.” She nodded toward the table. “It is the time of evening when I take a petit dinner. You will join me?”

  The florist hurried inside, rattled around behind the counter and returned with a pair of white porcelain plates, stemmed glasses, silverware and linen napkins on a worn silver tray. She placed a single white lily in a small silver vase in the center of the table. “C’est acceptable? I am Madame Palain. This is my establishment. Please. We will eat and speak of good things before I retire this evening.”

  Claire clasped the florist’s hand. Her grip was warm and strong, but softer than Claire had imagined. “I am Claire Harris. Thank you. I would love to join you.”

  Madame motioned Claire to a seat, then took her own. “Claire is a French name. Did you know? It means clear, like clarity.”

  Claire gratefully sank into the proffered chair then smoothed the napkin over her lap. “Clarity. Well, that’s fresh.”

  Madame cast an eye in her direction but said nothing as she expertly cut slices of cheese and fruit, and deposited them onto each plate.

  In spite of her hunger, Claire forced herself to tear off a piece of bread and yield it as daintily as the woman across from her. As her teeth sank into the soft center, she suppressed a moan. She realized she had closed her eyes, blinked open and found Madame watching her as she sipped at her wine. Claire blushed and turned her gaze to the flowers surrounding them.

  The florist surveyed the tin pails that nearly covered the brick walkway. “You look at the flowers. They are quite beautiful. Which are your favorites?”

  “How could I possibly choose?” Claire shrugged, her attention on the food hitting her stomach. Another glance at Madame and she realized it wasn’t a rhetorical question. The florist leaned forward in her seat, expression as serious as Claire could imagine on that pleasant face.

  Claire took a sip of wine and sat back in her chair. She thought back to the countless arrangements she had ordered or made for her parties in Manhattan. Flowers were what she was known for. Among other things. She grinned.

  Claire pointed to a pail of apricot-colored ranunculus, their tissue-thin petals packed tight on a slender green curving stem. “Those would look amazing in a golden vase, among golden candlesticks for a semiformal dinner party. For an all-white spring dinner among ladies, I would choose green wire baskets with white narcissus, purple pansies, hyacinth and green viburnum.”

  Madame nodded with pursed lips. “And?”

  Claire picked up the single rose she had sat on the table. “For a very special event, or just for me, this would be my choice.”

  “Accompanied by what else?”

  “Nothing else. I would mass them by the dozens in crystal vases.”

  Madame smiled approvingly. “Very restrained. Tasteful.” She nudged the remainder of the loaf toward Claire as an offering. “Though I would rethink the wire basket. That would be a disaster.” She took a sip of wine as if to wash away the disturbing thought.

  The simple dinner was what Claire needed, in nourishment as well as company. No personal words were exchanged, but it was clear Madame Palain had a level of sophistication that made Claire’s New York crowd seem like little girls playing dress up. It wasn’t any single thing, like the manner in which she held her fork or sipped her wine. The florist enchanted with her ease and polish. Being the center of her attention felt an honor. She challenged Claire to be clever in her thoughts, to pick through the jumble of words in her head to find the one that expressed perfectly what she meant to say.

  Night crept in without their assent. The women murmured over the crumbs of their dinner in near darkness, their only illumination the dim half-eaten moon. The light of the streetlamp above was covered in deep blue paint. “The war,” Madame explained with a frown.

  Sheer weariness finally forced Claire back to the reality of her situation. With real regret, she reached for her things. “Thank you for the lovely dinner, Madame. I’m afraid I must go.”

  “Of course,” Madame said, her tone unconvinced. She deftly emptied the table onto the silver tray and stood.

  Claire pushed herself to her feet and stared into the darkness. She was tired but couldn’t make herself walk away. “I’ve made you late. Perhaps I can help you clean up?”

  Madame nodded, the flicker of a warm smile. She turned to face the shop and instantly converted into a general. “All the flowers must be pulled in. Then we must cull them and freshen the water. I lost my delivery boy as well as my assistant to this ridiculous war, so I have many flowers left tonight. Then everything must be cleaned and swept for a fresh start in the morning.”

  A silent groan as Claire realized she was going to work off her dinner tab. She bent down to grab a bucket. The sweet scent of peonies brushed delightfully against her nose. She had nowhere else to go, after all.

  The women pulled, pushed and cleaned until the shop was in perfect order. Claire went through the motions in a daze, moving from one task to the next at Madame’s brisk request. Buckets of flowers were lined up in the back room, chilled by heavy brick walls and ice. The counters were wiped, the floors swept. Finally, Claire settled a stack of zinc pots against a wall. She straightened stiffly, her skirt displaying wet splotches and a smattering of shredded leaves.

  “Very good.” Madame pulled a key from under the counter. Her appearance remained spotless, her clothes still crisp and bun smoothly pinned. She flicked off the dim lamp. “You must remember, Madame Harris, elegance is in the details.”

  “Yes, Madame. I’ll remember.” Claire was so tired, she was nearly wobbling, but this was a woman who knew of what she spoke. Claire picked up her cases and followed her to the door.

  Madame waved Claire out and locked the shop behind them. Dropping the key in her small black purse, she gazed through the window at the flowers. “I can only offer you 150 francs a week. There is war coming, after all, and we must be practical.”

  Claire stared at the florist, her mouth open. A job offer to be a flower girl? Her snort turned into a sigh as she looked down at her clothes. She couldn’t very well sweep into Parisian high society in this state.

  “It is harder work than you may imagine,” Madame c
ontinued. “And I demand my employees work full days and they give complete attention to their tasks, whether creating grand arrangements for a ball at the Ritz or sweeping up the petals from the sidewalk.”

  “The Paris Ritz?”

  “Oui. And Le Meurice, Hôtel Emeraude, Hôtel de Crillon and the others. We are La Vie en Fleurs.” She extended a delicate finger toward the balcony over their heads. “The wage includes the use of the apartment upstairs. It is small, a sink but no real kitchen, and you must use the bathroom downstairs in the shop.”

  Claire stared up at the cheeky little balcony in the dim moonlight; ivy and blossoms threaded through iron railings. Her body ached to tuck in there for the night, to close her eyes to the scent of flowers wafting in through an open window.

  “It is not required you take the room. It is used for storage now.” The florist smoothed a stray hair back into her bun. “Fresh paint, scrubbing, and it could be quite agréable.”

  Claire turned to examine Madame. The woman obviously knew a few things about taste and seemed more than willing to impart them. What would it hurt to play with flowers for a few weeks? Get her Parisian feet wet. Get inside the Ritz. It was perfect—in a sense. “But what happens if the Germans do make it to Paris?”

  Madame Palain stiffened. “Will we have any less need for flowers? Any less need for beauty?” Her face and tone were icy. “I know what war does. I know its cost. But this is still Paris. This shop will survive. It always survives.”

  The florist’s indignation startled Claire. “Madame Palain, I didn’t—”

  “My assistant Natalie left when her father and brothers were called up from Lyon. Jon Pierre, my delivery boy, was called away to fight this week.” Madame pointed up at the sign. “You must understand, La Vie en Fleurs is one of the finest, most trusted flower shops in all of Paris. We have a duty to Paris, to France.” A breath was expelled from pursed lips and she shrugged. Madame had made her offer and wanted Claire to see it was all the same to her. “Eh bien, it’s late. I need to get home. If you’re not up to the task, then it would not benefit either of us.”

  “I would be truly grateful if I could work here,” Claire said, surprised at the genuine enthusiasm in her voice.

  “Bon.” The merest curve of a smile as Madame buttoned her coat.

  Gazing through the window at the tidy little shop, at the stone floor, the worn plaster walls, the rows upon rows of tin buckets that held cheery blossoms, Claire realized she actually did want to be a part of this place. She listened to Madame’s shoes click away down the dark sidewalk. The steps paused.

  “That will be your first task in the morning, after you help me prepare the shop to open. You must clear out the storage from your new room and find a place for it. Come along. You’ll stay with me tonight.” Without a further word or glance, the older woman started off down the sidewalk at a rapid clip.

  Claire didn’t trust herself to speak. She hurried to Madame’s side, struggling to keep pace. She looked back at the shop as they turned the corner. The curving lines of the awning and balcony were barely visible in the moonlight. The brass plaque on the wall read rue du Colisée. The whole damn shop would have fit in her ballroom on Fifth Avenue. But, somehow, it looked strangely like home.

  Over the next few days, following careful directions from Madame, Claire emptied out the bulk of the items stored in her new bedroom. It was small, as Madame promised, not much wider than the balcony itself and about twice as long. Just enough space for a single bed, which Claire uncovered from under a layer of boxes. A dresser Georges carried up the stairs balanced on his shoulder now stood against the wall by the door. A mirror, clouded with age, leaned against the wall. Beyond that, the room was empty, waiting.

  Claire had next to nothing, which was why it took her so long to unpack. Twenty pairs of shoes can exist in a jumbled pile. One pair must be thoughtfully placed. The cream-colored evening gown and silver heels from her hatbox and the sable were hung in the back of the closet.

  She pulled the silk bundle from her train case and laid it on the bed in front of her. Propped up on an elbow, she untied the ribbon and unrolled a thick jewelry roll. Diamonds sparkled in the faint light. With a finger, she nudged apart the Cartier necklace, matching earrings, and the few other baubles she’d taken from the safe. “Armies march, but diamonds conquer all,” she whispered with a grin. After some searching, her jewelry roll was tucked in an old newspaper and wedged behind the dresser’s top drawer.

  Finally, Claire pulled the garden photo from her case and slipped it into the edge of the mirror. Now that she was here, the image felt more real. As if she would turn a corner down the next street and this garden would be awaiting her.

  A clatter of tin buckets from below startled her from her reverie. The florist called up the stairs. “Madame Harris, êtes-vous prête?”

  Claire smiled and shook her head. Such a crazy world. But this was just for a few weeks and then Paris would be hers. The Nazis couldn’t have it. “Coming, Madame,” she said with an unexpected lightness as she hurried down the steps.

  52, rue du Colisée, Paris. June 3, 1940.

  Claire jerked awake as the darkness flared to bright white. A deafening boom shook the room. She wrenched free of her tangled sheets and fell from the small bed. She crawled to the window and peered into the darkness. Another flash, the balcony windows glowed scarlet, and rumbling thunder threw her to the floor. Now two red suns glowed in the distance.

  A string of explosions ripped the sky apart. Far off, crimson towers flared into the night sky, lighting the graceful lines of the blacked-out city like a fiery sunset. The stars were veiled by a murky grey blanket of dense smoke.

  The Germans were bombing Paris.

  She pulled herself to her feet and swung open the windows, arms hugged against her chest. An acrid breeze that smelled of cinders tugged at her thin cotton slip. Stepping outside on the small balcony, her gaze was trapped, unblinking, on the destruction in the distance. She listened for the Nazi planes that must be responsible, the dreaded Luftwaffe, but couldn’t make out the buzzing engines over the blood pounding in her ears.

  Another barrage and the balcony shuddered. Now several different parts of the city were ablaze. Claire cursed under her breath. Paris was for expiring, like Greta Garbo in Camille, in silk sheets, amongst flowers and despairing lovers. Damn well not for dying alone, blown to bits. Her knees buckled and she sank to the balcony floor.

  A blast, too large, too close, rattled her teeth. She leaned her head against the wrought-iron railing; the cool metal bit into her cheek. Figures crowded the street below, only their outlines visible. Their shouts sounded thin amid the baritone explosions as they scurried in all directions. Who did they run to?

  Laurent . . . She grabbed his name like a lifeline and scrambled to her feet. Running for the door, she grabbed a coat and slipped on her shoes. She half fell through the bedroom door and charged down the stairs, one hand in her coat sleeve, the other hugging the curved stone stairwell. Another explosion and the building shuddered. Claire caught her heel, landed hard and bumped down another two steps before she wedged sideways in the small passage.

  The walls reverberated around her. Her back was jammed against the cold stone wall, her coat bunched up against one shoulder and her feet pressed awkwardly against the opposite wall. A curse tore from her throat as she slammed the wall behind her with a fist. The world might be ending, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—crawl to Laurent. Not this way.

  Claire tasted blood and her lip stung fiercely. She glared into the darkness, wiping a hand over her mouth, the image of her mother’s cracked lips, clenched tight against food or water, burning in her mind. “You think I’m scared of you? You don’t know what bad dying looks like.” She pulled herself up the stairs and limped back to the balcony. She sat amongst the flowers and watched fires burn until the sun rose.

  There was a certain look. A tight half smile, a nearly imperceptible tilt of the shoulder. Sometimes words.
C’est la vie. That’s life. More often nothing was said. The weary eyes said it all. Claire recognized the look now. It was purely French. The way she read it, it meant, “Well, we survived that, so we may as well hold on. This is Paris, after all.” There had been many thats to be survived.

  She first saw that look the morning after the bombing. She learned from Madame the Nazis targeted the Renault and Citroën factories in the darkness and dropped thousands of bombs in southwest neighborhoods in Paris. Nearly a thousand dead. And yet at ten in the morning, a man came in to buy flowers for his wedding anniversary. Thirty years married, a day worth celebrating. He was almost apologetic as he picked out the bouquets. But the look, a shrug. This was Paris. Life goes on.

  A week later, June 11, and the air was thick with a heavy smoke that hung over the city like a shroud. The dingy sky smelled of dirty fires. No one wanted to think about what burned. Some said it marked the end of the world. Claire and Madame spent the day indoors reorganizing the back room, a wet rag stuffed into the crack between the front door and the floor.

  The next morning dawned and they found they still lived. A mother came in for a large order of flowers for a fête that night for her daughter’s fifteenth birthday. The harried woman rushed to pull together all the details, making up for lost time after shops closed the day before. The greatest inconvenience, however—the government had abandoned Paris two days previous. Many invitees were bureaucrats and their families—the departure played havoc with the party’s seating arrangements. “C’est vraiment terrible.” The look again. Her daughter was only this age once. What could one do? This was Paris.

  News got worse. The German army plowed through the last of the French troops to the north. The Nazis would be here any second. The Luftwaffe had bombed the heart of Rotterdam into the ground less than a month ago to guarantee a Dutch surrender. What might they do to Paris?

  Claire took her first paycheck and bought a thin summer dress. It was the deep blue of a clear evening sky and swished playfully around her hips. She sprang for a little felt pillbox hat, dark grey with a ribbon in matching blue. She wore it that Sunday when she walked alone around the Left Bank. The city was nearly deserted but enchanting still. She rested on a park bench near the foot of the Eiffel Tower, craning her head back to see the rise of the massive spires. A handsome Frenchman sat beside her, smoking a Gauloises and unabashedly drinking her with his eyes. He tried in vain to make conversation en français. Claire finally said au revoir and left him, as well as his implied offer for company of an intimate nature. She moved on to see the jardin des Tuileries then watched what must be all the city’s remaining children ride the painted ponies at the jardin du Carrousel. It was a beautiful Sunday. And this was Paris after all.