The Seven Turns of the Snail's Shell: A Novel

by Mj Roë

  “One of the people in the office gave me the name and address of an inn that supposedly has a great restaurant not far from Obernai. He said to try the regional dish…how did he pronounce it? Chou-croute. It’s supposed to be an Alsatian specialty. He said it’s sauerkraut with sausages and ham.”

  Anna made a face. “I don’t much like chou-croute. By the way, your French is improving. You said that almost perfectly.”

  “You’re good for me, Anna.” He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. “I’m even starting to like France.”

  Obernai was picturesque, even in winter. The town was filled with old stone and half-timbered houses, corbelled constructions, most with balconies and bow windows. Ancient wrought-iron signs hung from the buildings.

  Anna drove into a central square that was dominated by an ochre-colored building with a carved stone balcony and blue mansard roof.

  “That must be the town hall.” She pointed to the building. “The Michelin Guide I bought said it goes back to the fourteenth century.” The marketplace in front of the building was filled with Saturday shoppers, despite the cold weather. A sign in both French and German advertised the Christmas market in the town center starting on December first and running until the twenty-fourth.

  “Let’s find a place to park and take a stretch,” Mark suggested. “I really need to get out of this car. Besides, we’re within walking distance of the address we’re looking for.”

  Anna steered the car down a side street and pulled alongside the curb. There were snow flurries in the air as they got out and walked down the narrow, cobbled street. Anna was silent, thinking about whether Guy de Noailles would be home, and if so, how she would introduce herself. It hadn’t occurred to her up to then that he might not understand why she was there or who she was. She almost turned and walked back to the car.

  “I really like this town,” Mark interrupted her thoughts. “It looks like it’s half French and half German, which I guess it is, huh?” He pointed to the leafless skeletons of deciduous trees along the promenade. “They’re pretty, those trees, even without the leaves.” He looked at her, sensing that she was having second thoughts. “How are you going to know this guy?”

  “I don’t know.” A blast of wind blew snowflakes into her face. She shivered and pulled the faux-fur collar of her coat around her neck and chin. “What if he thinks I’m some kind of nut? I…I…”

  Mark put his arm around her. “He won’t think you’re wacky. Besides, if it turns out to be a dead end, we will have had this trip to the country and our chou-croute.” He kissed her. “Plus all this kissing I’m so good at.”

  She smiled. He was right. Maybe she had set her expectations too high.

  They rounded the corner. The smoky scent of wood-burning fires filled the air of the quiet street. In front of them was a two-story white stone house with the characteristic half timbers of Alsace. Newly fallen snow layered the pitched roof.

  “That’s our address,” said Mark.

  Anna studied the house’s details. The brown-shuttered window frames were painted white. Empty wooden window boxes awaited flowers in the spring. Red-checked curtains were visible inside. From the corner of the house at the second-story level hung an object from an intricate, filigree-decorated, wrought-iron bar.

  “What do you think that is hanging on that rod? Looks like a bread board with a hole in the middle and a fork and knife crossed inside the hole.”

  “Probably an old sign for a shopkeeper who lived here at one point. Maybe he owned a bakery or a restaurant. That’s how they identified addresses long ago.”

  They walked up to the heavy, wooden front door. Anna took the knocker in her hand. She looked at Mark. His hazel eyes stared into hers. He nodded his support.

  “Okay, here goes.” She looked at the Christmas card from long ago, which she held tightly in her hand. “This will be my introduction.”

  The sound of the knocker resonated on the wooden door. They waited a few minutes. No response. A car passed in the street.

  “Doesn’t seem to be anyone home.” Anna sighed.

  Mark encouraged her. “Try knocking again. He’s old. Maybe he’s a bit deaf.”

  She knocked twice this time. They waited for what seemed like an eternity. Then they saw one of the curtains move in the window on the floor above. An old man’s face peered down at them. Anna held up the card. He didn’t move. She smiled. He didn’t react. Then he backed away from the window. The curtain closed.

  “Oh, what’s the use? Let’s go, Mark. He doesn’t trust us. He’s not coming to the door.”

  “Maybe you could leave your card and that Christmas card with a note by his door. You know, so he could contact you, if he wanted to.”

  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

  She pulled off her black leather gloves and took one of her business cards and a notepad and pen from her bag. As she started to scribble a note, there was a click. The door opened slowly, with a slight groan, as if reluctant to be budged in the cold.

  A small, white-haired man with a handlebar mustache peered at them.

  “Bonjour,” he greeted them hesitantly. “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez, Mademoiselle? Monsieur?” He looked from one to the other.

  Anna gathered her confidence. “Bonjour, Monsieur. Monsieur de Noailles?” The octogenarian nodded. Anna smiled and apologized in French for the disruption. Then she introduced herself and Mark to him. The old man’s handshake was polite and quick. There was an awkward silence until Anna held out the Christmas card for him to see up close. He put on a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses and took it from her. He paused a moment to study the front, then he opened it. His eyes lit up. He looked up at her and then down at the card again, fingering it carefully.

  “But where did you get this, Mademoiselle?” he asked her.

  “My grandfather was Stu Ellis. An American, from California,” she explained. “Did you possibly know him? Maybe from the war? He was a flier. I found the card in his things after he passed away recently.”

  He looked at her and at Mark. “I think this is going to be a long conversation.” He stood aside and opened the creaky door wider. “You must come in, Mademoiselle. Monsieur, too. It is cold outside. We will all freeze.”

  Mark looked confused, not having understood a word.

  “He wants us to come in. I think he recognized my grandfather’s name, Mark.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Guy de Noailles was a small, thin man dressed neatly in brown wool trousers, a navy blue flannel shirt, and a well-worn, camel-colored sweater with dark brown, suede-patched elbows. He walked with a slight limp, but, for an octogenarian, he was very limber.

  He took their coats and led Anna and Mark to a large study just off the foyer. Anna stood for a minute, warming her hands in front of the glowing fire in the fireplace. The room was cozy and inviting. A giant Persian rug covered most of the wooden floor. A painting above the fireplace depicted the great cathedral of Strasbourg with its single spire. On the mantel were silver frames with photos. One wall was lined with bookcases filled with books. A round table in the corner held more framed photos.

  Guy de Noailles was soft-spoken, and he had an endearingly polite way about him. He motioned for them to sit on the sofa, then settled himself in a chair by the fireplace. He propped his silver-topped walking stick against the arm and looked at Anna.

  “You say Stu Ellis was your grandfather?”

  Anna was relieved that his accent in French was easy to understand, and she liked him immediately.

  “Oui, Monsieur. He and my grandmother were in a horrible automobile accident very recently.” Her voice caught in her throat. “Neither of them survived.”

  “I am very sorry to hear that. He was a good man. During the war, we saved many American fliers who were shot down over our country. I keep the photos as a reminder.” The old man waved his hand in the direction of the round table in the corner. Fingering the Christmas card, he said, “This was sent fro
m Strasbourg a long time ago. How did you know where to find me?”

  “My friend here.” She nodded in Mark’s direction. “There is someone he has been working with in Strasbourg who knows you.” She leaned over to Mark. “What was the name of the man in Strasbourg who knows Monsieur de Noailles?”

  “Forestier. Claude Forestier. I think that’s how you pronounce it.” Mark winked and shot her a grin.

  “Ah, I know him. I was a banker in Strasbourg for a long time. Claude and I had many clients in common.” Noailles nodded his head and twirled the ends of his white mustache between his thumb and index finger. “How is the fellow?”

  Mark was staring at him blankly. Anna realized that he hadn’t understood that the question in French had been directed at him.

  “He said they had many clients in common. He wants to know how this Forestier is.”

  Mark cocked his head to one side and grinned.

  “You will have to tone this down in translation. Forestier is feisty. He was the most opinionated, obstinate, dictatorial SOB that I have worked with in a long time. But,” he added, “I have to admit that he is getting results with our case.”

  When she had translated Mark’s comments, almost verbatim, there was a chortle from deep in the old man’s throat, and he said with a twinkle in his eye, “Pas beaucoup changé, alors, mon vieux collègue.”

  “He said he’s not much changed, then.” She and Mark laughed.

  “Would you like some tea? My housekeeper is out for the afternoon, but I think I can manage.” Guy de Noailles got up slowly and disappeared into the back of the house. They could hear water running from the tap and then china rattling.

  Anna stood and walked over to the mantel to have a closer look at the collection of family photos. She studied a large, black-and-white photo of a young couple in wedding clothes posed in front of a town hall. Anna guessed that the thin, dark-haired young bridegroom was Guy de Noailles, though, with the exception of a pair of distinctly close-knit eyebrows, the resemblance to the man they had just met was barely visible. There were other photos of the same couple, a year or two later with a little girl between them. The rest of the framed photos appeared to be of the little girl, apparently their daughter, as she grew to adulthood. Then there was a photo of her in a wedding gown. And another of her holding a baby. The last photo on the mantel was in color. It was of an older Guy de Noailles, probably in his fifties, graying and thicker through the middle, holding the hand of a small boy in front of the Strasbourg Cathedral. The photographer had apparently tried to get in the whole cathedral, so the faces of the two were barely visible. Life’s itinerary, Anna thought.

  She moved over to the table. Here, the photos were different, much older, all black-and-white.

  Mark was standing over them. “I am fascinated by old war photos,” he said. “Look at the uniforms and the faces. Is your grandfather in any of them?”

  Anna studied the photos closely. There was one of a large group, not so much posing but standing around in a wooded area waiting for something. They all were looking up. She pointed to a light-haired young man in the back row.

  “That man looks a good deal like him. There is a similarity to my grandfather’s earlier photos, anyway, but it’s too blurry to make out. Wish I had a magnifying glass.”

  Another photo caught her attention. The inhabitants of this one were male, all certainly French. They appeared to be congregating in a wooden, barn-like structure. A thin, dark haired man of about thirty-five with closely knit eyebrows was seated prominently on a wine barrel. He wore a World War II—era, wide pin-striped suit and a dark aviator’s scarf around his neck. His gaze was deadly serious, his eyes black and piercing. He held a torch in one hand. The other hand was on his knee. Anna pointed to the image.

  “This has to be Monsieur de Noailles. Look at those eyebrows, Mark.”

  The group varied in age, some not yet twenty, others much older. None of them were smiling. They were scattered about the room and appeared to be assembled for a meeting of some sort. Most wore similar wide pin-striped suits with or without white shirts and neckties and heavy overcoats. The exception in dress was one man who wore a heavy jacket and pants. His boots were splattered with mud. A dark beret was perched low over his forehead. Another man, barely visible in the back of the group by the door, also wore similar dress and a beret.

  As they were studying the photo, Guy de Noailles returned with the tea tray and set it on a table.

  “Ah, I see you have found the Résistance a fascination. That’s quite a group, don’t you think? Can you pick me out? It was a long time ago.”

  Anna looked at his piercing black eyes and the thick, white, knitted eyebrows. “He wants to know if we can pick him out, Mark.” They pointed in unison to the figure seated on the wine barrel.

  The old man smiled. He nodded in Mark’s direction.

  “I was about the age of your friend here when that photo was taken. We were scared that night. The Gestapo was very near. It was toward the end of the war, and we were waiting for the Americans. It was the last time that we were all together. Only a few of us are still alive.” He heaved a huge sigh.

  “Where were you born, Monsieur?” Anna asked. “You don’t have an Alsatian accent. You sound like you might be from Normandy.”

  “Très bien, Mademoiselle. I am Norman, actually.” He poured the tea from the antique teapot into matching china cups, set the cups on their saucers, and handed them to Anna and Mark. Despite his age, his hands were as steady as theirs.

  “When I was a young man,” he said, “I left the farm in Normandy where I had grown up. I eagerly went off to the war, but I was wounded in the leg and ended up in a hospital in Italy. My leg was so badly mangled that I was no longer any use as a soldier, so I was sent home to France. The war was at its worse for us then. I married my dear wife, and we settled here in Alsace. I joined the Résistance. It was very dangerous, but it was a way that I could still fight the Boche.”

  Anna took a sip of the tea. It tasted of orange and cinnamon.

  “It tastes good. Merci.” She took another sip and pointed to the bride in the wedding photo on the mantel. “Is that your wife, Nathalie?”

  The old man looked up, confused. “Nathalie?” Then he nodded his head.

  “Oh, oh…understood. That is my wedding photo, oui, but my wife’s name was Marguerite. She died very young. Our daughter’s name was Nathalie.”

  “So that explains the card. You signed it from you and your daughter.”

  “Oui, Mademoiselle. I raised her alone. There were just the two of us after my wife died.”

  “Where is your daughter now?”

  The hurt eyes met hers. Anna was immediately sorry she had asked such an intimate question. She knew the French to be very private people, and she had stepped over the line.

  “Oh, Monsieur, forgive me for prying. I don’t know you very well. I didn’t mean to…”

  “Non, non, Mademoiselle,” he interrupted. “No need to apologize. It’s, it’s just that my daughter Nathalie died two years ago.” He broke off and rubbed the tip of his nose with a gnarled index finger.

  CHAPTER 21

  A door opened at the back of the house, and voices could be heard. A fluffy, ginger-colored little dog scurried into the room and jumped into the old man’s lap.

  “This is Puccini,” Guy de Noailles explained to Anna and Mark. “He is my housekeeper’s poodle. Ah, Jean-Paul. Viens.” He beckoned for a short, stocky man, nearly as old as he, to come into the room. “This is Jean-Paul, my chauffeur. He and his wife, Maria, have been with me for a very long time. They are my family. They helped me raise Nathalie.”

  The chauffeur, dressed entirely in black, took off his cap and shyly shook their hands. From the kitchen came a horrified scream and a crash.

  “Mamma mia! Merda! Santa Patata vergine!”

  “That is Maria. Not to worry. She’s just discovered that I was in her kitchen making tea.” The old man’s eyes twinkled
. “Maria, come meet our guests.”

  Mark leaned over with mischief in his eyes and whispered to Anna, “If I’m not mistaken, I think she just said ‘Holy virgin potato’ in Italian.” They both laughed.

  Into the room came a round little woman in a fury, with wisps of wiry, graying hair spewing from under a heavy, woolen hat. She still had her coat on. Seeing Anna and Mark, she stopped in the doorway and put her hands on her ample hips.

  “Maria, my apologies. I made my guests tea this afternoon. This is Anna…and her friend Mark. They are Americans. I knew Anna’s grandfather in the war.”

  Maria studied Mark. He was almost a third again as tall as she. Puccini ran back and forth and around them all, wagging his tail. He stopped in front of Mark and sat down.

  “Mark and dogs have an affaire de coeur, a love affair,” explained Anna, laughing. She directed the next remark to Puccini. “He is Italian, also.”

  With that, Maria’s eyes widened.

  “Italiano? Américain?”

  Mark understood that one. “American, sì, signora, but my name is Zennelli.”

  “Ah, sì! I know that name Zennelli.” She spoke in English with a heavy Italian lilt. “I learn some English from American films. I love American films! That name Zennelli famous. You actor?”

  “No, but my family is active in film. I am a lawyer.”

  This time Anna was translating into French.

  Maria was in a total state of happiness. She took off her hat and coat and threw them onto a chair, all the time muttering something about being so honored to meet someone from a famous American film family. Then she went over and shook Mark’s hand, giving it several pumps, and kissed Anna on both cheeks like they were old friends.

  “Allora, you must stay for cena. I make a special pollo alla cacciatora for Marco here.” She had christened Mark with the Italian version of his name. Then she caught herself and turned to her employer. “Monsieur?”

  Guy de Noailles understood her request. He simply needed to make the formal invitation.