‘Good?’ Bertrand asked.
‘Very. What’s the occasion?’
Bertrand turned to the side table and switched on the radio, setting the volume low – the muffled voices became ghostly echoes.
‘Tell me about your day,’ Bertrand began.
Michel shrugged. ‘There isn’t much to say. I’m out of a job.’
‘Monsieur Abramowski…?
‘He left. Left a note – said he had to go. I don’t blame him. If what everyone is saying is true, he was not safe here.’
‘But he paid you, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Everything he owes you?’
‘Almost.’
‘Ha! See? I told you he would con you.’
‘He took care of me. He gave me a job.’
‘I know.’
‘You are just bitter because he took your money at cards.’
‘One time, Michel! And I knew he was cheating.’
Bertrand turned to the radio once more and nudged up the volume.
The newsreader’s crackly voice permeated the apartment, his abrasive tones – urgent and authoritative – cutting through the rough airways, almost all the other stations having faded to white noise.
‘Today, on the seventh day of June 1940, we can confirm that the German forces are nearing our capital. The government insist— Fight— Those who can, must leave— The German army have defeated our troops to the east—’
Bertrand fiddled with the radio, trying to tune it, but was met with more static.
He stood and ventured to the dark mahogany drinks cabinet only unlocked at Christmas, returning with two glasses filled to the brim with an amber liquid. ‘Brandy,’ Bertrand said. ‘It’s good for the nerves. At least, that was what my mother said.’
Michel drank deeply as Bertrand reached over and turned the dial until the radio fell silent once more.
‘It’s happening?’ Michel asked, almost to himself.
‘It’s over. They are coming.’
Michel drank the rest of his brandy and Bertrand stood, collected the cut-glass decanter, and emptied more of the numbing liquid into Michel’s glass.
Michel held his glass to the light and looked into the brandy; his head already felt muffled. ‘What would Maman say if she were here?’
‘She’d say leave.’ Bertrand sat back into the beige sofa. Its stuffing was escaping through a small hole and he pulled at it as he spoke.
‘Would she? But where would I go?’
Bertrand shrugged. ‘What does it matter? All that matters is that we are not here when they come.’
‘But others will stay – Arnoud, Madame Odette. I should stay too.’
‘And where will you work?’
Michel shrugged.
‘The Boche will not want a Frenchman looking after their horses. And even if they did, I would not permit you to help them.’
‘Do you have a cigarette?’
‘Here. Take one.’
Michel lit the cigarette and drew deeply, watching the smoke rise above him, curling all the way to the ceiling. ‘There are cobwebs up there, Bertrand. You need to dust better.’
Bertrand looked up and laughed. Soon, Michel joined in.
‘You see, we are no good, Michel. Here we sit in a place that any moment will be swarming with German pests, and we laugh about my poor housekeeping. We surely wouldn’t last long here.’
‘So, what do you propose we do?’ Michel allowed Bertrand to refill his brandy once more.
‘We leave.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘And where shall we go?’ Michel asked, a smile at his lips, feeling the alcohol numb his brain. It was like the games he used to play when he was little.
‘Away, Michel, just away. You cannot stay here because there will be nothing here for you. Soon, there will be nothing here for any of us. They will take our jobs, our homes. They will take whatever they want.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
Bertrand leaned over and scuffed the back of Michel’s head. ‘Is there anything in that brain of yours? Anything? You think it will all be the same as before? You weren’t here the first time; no food, no jobs. So many dead, so many wounded. It will be the same again. You heard the bombs fall – you saw the fires.’
Michel rubbed the back of his head.
‘Checking if anything has fallen out, hey? Perhaps there’s some common sense you can put back in.’
‘Arnoud says he won’t leave.’
‘Arnoud is stupid.’
‘He’s sending Estelle away to her grandparents.’
‘Ah! Arnoud is a smart man. He’d be smarter if he went with her, though. She still has eyes for you?’
Michel shrugged.
‘Come now, don’t be bashful. You like her too. I’ve seen the way you look at her.’
‘She’s too young.’
‘Ah, yes. True. You prefer the mademoiselles at Odette’s café. The ones with long legs and expensive tastes. No wonder you have no money!’
‘They weren’t all like that. There was Juliette, and Vivienne.’
‘And where are they now?’
‘I don’t know.’ Michel grinned then took a sip of his brandy.
‘See! What a charmer. He says, “I don’t know.” You know – you got tired of them, bored. Of course you did. If I had looked like you at your age, I would get bored quickly too.’
‘It’s not like that. Not all the time.’
‘My thoughts are getting jumbled with your nonsense. What was I saying? Yes, we leave. Tomorrow. And there’s no more argument about it.’
‘So where will we go?’
‘Your grand-mère, is she alive still?’
‘Dead. Her neighbour, Monsieur Dubois, wrote to me and told me. That was… what, three years ago? I told you.’
‘I am old. My memory is failing.’
‘You are sixty.’
‘And that is old.’
‘Where did she live?’
‘Saint-Émilion.’
‘Ah, yes. I remember now. That should do well enough.’
‘For what?’
‘For us. To go there.’
‘But she’s dead.’
‘But you know people there, no? This Monsieur Dubois. You spent summers there as a boy. I’m sure they can help us now.’
‘Bertrand, you’re drunk.’
‘I am as sober as I am in the mornings. That’s all I can say.’ He grinned.
‘Saint-Émilion…’ Michel mused. ‘You really think we should go?’
‘Michel, the city is emptying faster than my brandy bottle. We have heard the rumble of guns, the bombs that dropped. Does this not scare you?’
‘I am scared, but I’m scared to leave too. This is my home.’
‘And mine. And thousands of people’s homes. We can come back. When it is over.’
‘You think it will be over one day?’
‘Who knows? All I can say is, for now, let us go on a new adventure. The two of us together. That way you will not be scared to leave.’
‘I need to sleep.’
‘It’s you who are drunk.’
‘A little. I need to sleep.’ Michel stood and felt the room spin. He wanted to tell Bertrand that he wasn’t going anywhere, but his tongue felt too big for his mouth and wasps had moved into his brain – all he could hear was their constant, irritable buzzing.
‘Go now.’ Bertrand guided Michel across to his apartment.
Michel spotted his bag on the floor and picked it up. ‘I have ham,’ he said with a grin.
‘Good. Eat your ham, pack a few things, and I will see you tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow…’
‘Better to leave as soon as we can. Let’s not dither any longer.’
Michel nodded, his brain still sluggishly processing the warnings from the radio, from his friends, and from the fear on everyone’s faces.
He managed to push the key into the lock and open
the door just as Bertrand’s own door sealed shut. He dropped his bag into the middle of the room; a room which was living area, bedroom and kitchen together. He opened his bag and took the ham and mutton from it. Heating up a small frying pan on one of the two gas burners, he cooked them whilst humming a tune his mother would sing when she used to make dinner.
As he prepared his food, he looked around his apartment – a lone chair sat by the window and a single bed with rumpled sheets was pushed against the far wall; a few books were scattered on the floor and a threadbare green rug lay at the end of the bed. It had not always looked like this; when his mother was alive it had been cosier, with more furniture, rugs, vases full of flowers and thick curtains at the windows. But all that was gone, sold first to pay for her funeral and then to pay off Michel’s occasional gambling debts over the years.
The ham sizzled in the pan and spattered Michel’s hand with hot fat, but he barely winced. He turned off the blue flame, and slid the ham and mutton onto a chipped cream plate, then sat with his meal on his scruffy pale blue chair and ate, looking out at the street he had known since he was a child. He could not imagine that his life could ever really be any different.
Two
Au Revoir, Paris
Michel heard the knocking; his brain felt as though it were smacking into the side of his skull with each pound. He opened his eyes, his lids heavier than usual, and moved his neck which was sore and stiff. It was then that he realised he had fallen asleep on his chair, the empty plate from his dinner smashed at his feet.
‘Michel, for goodness’ sake!’ Bertrand’s voice came from behind the front door.
Michel gingerly walked to the door and opened it, revealing an angry Bertrand, a travelling case and violin on the mat beside him. ‘Are you ready?’
‘For what?’ Michel said, his dry lips smacking as he spoke.
‘We. Are. Leaving,’ Bertrand said slowly. ‘The. Germans. Are. Coming.’
Suddenly Michel remembered the night before, the warning from Bertrand, the crackly radio presenter, and the brandy. ‘I can’t go,’ he said, and put a hand to his head as if by doing so it would stop the incessant thud. ‘What time is it?’
‘Two o’clock. I let you sleep whilst I chatted to Mathis from next door. He is going to Bordeaux but couldn’t fit us in his car. He says everyone is trying the trains.’ Bertrand pushed his way into the apartment, grabbed Michel’s knapsack and stuffed clothes into it. ‘Where’s your book?’
‘They’re over there.’ Michel waved Bertrand towards the stack of books that littered the floor and sat back into the comforting embrace of his chair.
‘The book, Michel! The one I gave you as a boy!’
‘Over there.’ Michel waved him again in the general direction of the floor. He could hear Bertrand mumbling and swearing under his breath, then silence. After a while, there was more noise and something else; a smell that lifted Michel slightly.
‘Coffee,’ Bertrand said. ‘Madame Odette was not happy with me, but you need her coffee, no other will do the trick. I had to pay off my debts to get this so you’d better drink it all.’
Michel opened his eyes, not realising that he had closed them again. ‘Was I asleep?’ he asked, taking the coffee from Bertrand and sipping it slowly.
‘Yes, whilst I packed. Here,’ Bertrand threw his bag at his feet, ‘you are ready to go.’
‘Are you sure we should, Bertrand, really sure?’
‘Look out there. Go on, look.’ Bertrand pointed to the window.
Michel peered out onto the street, the daylight brightening even the dullest greys of the buildings so that he had to shield his eyes a little. It was a few seconds before he realised what Bertrand meant, and then he saw. His neighbours were not just walking down the street, going to the shop or exercising their dogs; they were scurrying like small animals, bags on their backs, suitcases under each arm as they packed up their cars or bicycles. Other cars had arrived – family members – who helped tuck children into the back seats and more suitcases on top.
‘You see?’ Bertrand asked.
Michel nodded and drank his coffee in silence.
Michel and Monsieur Bertrand left their tiny apartment block at four o’clock in the afternoon. Bertrand carried his violin in its worn, battered black case, and a compact leather suitcase with brass clasps. Michel carried his small woven knapsack, which still smelled of horses from the stables – inside there were a few changes of clothes, an apple, a photograph of his mother, and the tatty copy of Le Lotus Bleu by Hergé, a children’s book which Bertrand had gifted him years ago. He had checked his cupboards and his drawers, and felt a pang that there was little else worth taking with him.
His coat was too thick for this time of year, a dirty green coarse wool that weighed him down in the early summer heat, but Bertrand had insisted he wear it. It was his only coat, a big clumsy affair, and which he had no recollection of buying or being given.
Bertrand walked ahead, seemingly knowing exactly where they should run away to. Michel looked over his shoulder every few steps, watching as the already small apartment block became even smaller. Then they turned a corner and it had disappeared. I will be home again, I will. The Germans will not come; Bertrand is surely mistaken… Yet Michel noticed that Bertrand did not turn to take a last look at the home he had lived in his whole life.
Scores of people hurried along the pavements carrying suitcases; children were stuffed into pushchairs alongside bags, ornaments, a pet cat or dog; plates, cups and saucers were piled into old carts along with anything else that could fit. One old man carried his wiry grey terrier in his arms and nothing else, as if the dog was the only thing in his life worth saving. Michel watched as small children staggered behind their parents, half dragging sheet-wrapped bundles. Fathers had coats stuffed under their armpits, their hands clasping heavy, bulging cases, their faces red and sweating, whilst their wives shuffled along, wearing as many dresses as they could, their abundant necklaces and jewelled earrings catching the sunlight.
The sun welcomed the growing crowds with its sultry arms, causing them to sweat and grumble. Michel felt as though he were melting inside his coat, and stopped to remove it and tie it around his waist. He wiped his forehead and face, disturbing the dust that covered it, which was being churned up by the cars in their getaway.
He and Bertrand fell in behind the slow-moving traffic, side by side, their arms touching. Michel could hear the late afternoon chorus of sparrows as they swirled around the berried bushes of a nearby park, whilst pigeons, fat and sullen, pecked on the ground at rubbish and rotten fruit bursting from its skin.
Suddenly the procession stopped, and everyone looked to the sky as the distant hum of artillery fire peppered the air. ‘It’s getting louder,’ Michel said.
‘It’s getting closer,’ Bertrand remarked, and lit a cigarette.
Michel looked past the Eiffel Tower, as if he would be able to see the soldiers fighting there.
‘It’s all right,’ Monsieur Bertrand said. ‘There’s time. We’ve time.’
They turned a corner and the boulevard was choked with cars, buses and trucks. Michel watched as an old woman was helped onto a milk truck, her bag thrown in behind her, whilst wealthier families packed their cars so full that their belongings obscured every window.
‘How much further?’ Michel asked.
‘Not far. Not far.’
At the next corner, Bertrand needed to stop. He opened his suitcase and took from it a silver flask, engraved with his initials. He drank deeply and offered it to Michel, who sniffed the thick burnt aroma of whisky and drank too whilst the clogged procession of vehicles moved past them. He handed the flask back to Bertrand and sat on a low stone wall, holding his small bag to his chest.
‘Have you seen what I packed for you?’ Bertrand asked.
‘I did.’
‘I made sure it was in there.’
‘I know. Thank you.’
‘Le Lotus Bleu. Such a delightful
book. The adventurer Tintin and his travels to Shanghai. Why do you like it so much, Michel? I have given you so many books over the years, yet this is the one you love the most.’
‘It helped me,’ Michel said. ‘You know it did. My stutter. I couldn’t say words properly before this book, but I did as you told me and read it to the horses to practise; bit by bit, my voice became clearer.’
‘No. No.’ Bertrand drank once more from the flask and handed it to Michel. ‘What did it mean to you? What was it in this book that made you want to keep reading it over and over again?’
Michel drank again, welcoming the alcohol to ease his hangover from the night before, and watched as a mother and father walked past, their son and daughter following a few steps behind. The mother’s eyes were red and puffy, the father squinting at the road ahead, his jaw clenched, dark stubble visible on his cheeks and chin. The daughter was crying as she scurried after her parents, yet the little boy was skipping, dragging his wooden toy duck on a string behind him and trying not to step on the cracks in the pavement. He waved at Michel, who waved back and watched the boy move out of sight.
‘It felt like an adventure,’ Michel finally answered.
‘Adventures are good.’
‘You have had so many.’
‘I have had none,’ Bertrand said. ‘This is my first one.’
‘But you always said you had travelled far, seen the world?’
‘I did. With my wife. We read about it all in books. Every day, a book each. Then we would tell each other about it, as if we had visited those places – London with its Palace and Big Ben, or the mosques of Constantinople, or the deserts and tombs of Egypt. I saw it all with her. Then she died, and I was left in Paris. So there were no more adventures for me.’
Michel thought of all the trinkets, the rich rugs and paintings in Bertrand’s apartment that had seemed so exotic. ‘But the—’
‘From the markets. We made our adventures feel as real as we could. My marriage was my biggest one.’
‘Except this one.’
‘Yes. Except this one.’ Bertrand put the flask back into his case. ‘Allez! Let’s go.’ He stood.
The Ringmaster's Daughter: A beautiful and heartbreaking World War 2 love story Page 2
