Parisian Promises Page 19

  A sour taste rose in the concierge’s throat, as offensive as curdled milk, but she approached him anyway and performed the acts he requested. During her hand and mouth maneuvers she feasted her eyes not on Jean-Michel’s handsome face, but on the hummingbird’s vacuous stare. Although she’d always been thick and clumsy, she felt a kindred spirit with dainty birds, and dreamt of their exotic places of origin. When the surprise bird cage arrived, she knew her prince-in-shining armor saw beyond her mundane life, and wanted to lift her up to heavenly heights.

  After she completed her base acts on Jean-Michel, the concierge cleared her throat and rinsed her mouth in the sink. She spat out the last vestige of her hard-to-swallow disillusionment. She had never been light as a feather, but always the slow-gaited gopher running errands for others. And Jean-Michel was no prince––of that she was certain.

  “Do you know if Madame Caron de Pichet is alone?” Jean-Michel asked, fastening his belt.

  “How should I know?” She could barely look at him. “I was at the butcher shop.”

  “Well, then, you’d better run up and see if she is free to see me. And let me know if her American boarders are there. I’ll wait right here.”

  Madame Caron de Pichet asked the concierge to help her clean up her salon, but the only answer was the concierge’s heavy footsteps stomping down the steps. The concierge had no interest in helping Madame: she was eager to get back to her apartment to see what else was in the valise that Jean-Michel had placed next to her sofa. Despite the awful taste in her mouth, she was feeling hopeful––hopeful of discovering a new trinket purchased just for her.

  Madame turned off the lights, locked-up Fifi, and lit the candles in her salon. She wanted to open the door the minute she heard Jean-Michel, but she remembered that men like a bit of a chase. She counted until one hundred, and then she opened the door.

  “Oh, my, I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” She smiled coyly.

  Jean-Michel greeted her with a formal bow. “Madame, we must continue with the interview about your involvement in the Résistance. People will clamor to read about your escapades. Shall we continue, lovely lady?”

  He extended his arm in a gallant movement from decades gone by, and she rested her knobby left hand on his right forearm. They sashayed into dusky gloom of the salon together.

  “Last time you entertained me with your unrivaled charm, but today we will remain on point and finish our interview.” He frowned at her. “No hanky-panky.”

  “Oui, d’accord, let’s proceed,” she said, lowering herself as gracefully as possible onto the divan. “I do have numerous examples of my service to my country. There was a time when––”

  “Please, Madame, let me ask the questions. But first I must set up my tape recorder.”

  He opened up a large briefcase and extracted a small recorder.

  “My, that’s a tiny recorder. What else do you have in the briefcase? A gift to show your appreciation of my…my storytelling?” Madame hoped she wasn’t hinting too obviously about payment for services rendered. Her coquettish requests had always worked in the past. Whether it was a German officer or a titled viscount from the Loire Valley, they’d all appreciated her services and the charm with which she performed them. Men would be so enthralled by her deftness that, soon after their sexual encounter, they’d blurt out all sorts of information about themselves. In particular, all her targets loved to brag about their accomplishments, their daily challenges, and their demanding wives.

  Madame used to lie naked alongside her conquests and pretend to sympathize with them, but while her eyes glistened with understanding and her lips stretched in a compassionate smile, she was silently memorizing specific locations and numbers of troops, or changes in routing of arms. Or she was committing to memory the name of the Vicomtesse Challant de la Guerche, whose retaliation her husband feared––to the tune of hundreds of thousands of francs, paid to Madame Caron de Pichet to keep secret his shady involvement with the Vichy government. He valued his status as a landed noble whose lineage had been beyond reproach, that is, until his affiliation with certain collaborators.

  “Oh, don’t let’s speak about such matters,” Jean-Michel said, dismissing her not-so-veiled request. “Let me take you back to Paris during the Vichy Régime. How did you react to the emphasis placed on women as the femme au foyer?”

  Madame shrugged. “It was just another paternalistic attitude from the regime. They wanted to remind women that motherhood and submissiveness were a sacred duty for us.”

  “So was this why you jumped into helping in the Résistance?”

  “Surely you didn’t mean to ask me such a shallow question?” Madame huffed. “I joined the Résistance because my country was overrun with German soldiers. We stood in lines to get one measly slice of cheese, while the Germans were shipping kilos and kilos of French cheese to feed their own children. My husband was in a labor camp, and I never saw him again. I was deeply anti-Fascist. I had no choice but to act with courage.”

  “Courage, indeed. I understand that many women published underground newspapers, acted as couriers for documents and arms, and even carried dynamite to be used for sabotage. Is this correct?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “But you did not perform any of these high-risk clandestine functions, did you?”

  Madame felt jittery, grasping the frayed upholstered arms of her divan to steady herself. “My, you do ask some difficult questions, don’t you? Why don’t you sit here next to me, and let me calm you down a bit?”

  “In good time, Madame.”

  “Please call me Marcelle, dear boy.”

  “Okay, Marcelle. Why is it that I have not been able to find a single document with your name as a known Résistance fighter?”

  “Obviously, our work was clandestine.” Madame was very uncomfortable with this line of questioning.

  “Brilliant retort. But why is it that I can give you dozens and dozens of names of women Résistance fighters, but your own name is not among them? Here, you tell me if you’ve ever heard of Francine Escande?”

  Madame nodded.

  “How about Yvonne Dumont?”

  “She was a member of the Communist Party and she was involved in politics before the war,” Madame answered.

  “I suppose I could read the whole list of names, and never find yours, right?”

  Madame stood up so abruptly she felt dizzy. “But what is your point? The women you mention and many more are those whose roles have been documented in history books. I am an unknown Résistance fighter, and that is why I thought you wanted to interview me.”

  Madame sat down and hung her head, trying to calm her pounding heart.

  “I did find a mention of a certain Marcelle who used to make the rounds with the German officers, and received payment for her services. That wasn’t you by any chance, was it?”

  All Madame could say was, “I always provided my underground Résistance liaisons with all the valuable information I extracted from the Germans, believe me!”

  “And the only person who can vouch for your dedication as a Résistance fighter is old Serge from Les Charmilles, is that right?”

  “Alas, all the others are dead.” The weight of her seventy years pressed down on Madame, and she lost any sensual interest in the young man attacking her with such indelicate questions.

  Instead of hearing a sympathetic reply, all Madame heard was a loud clap calling her to attention.

  “Alright now! We don’t want to get sentimental and start feeling sorry for ourselves, do we, Marcelle?” Jean-Michel demanded like a drill sergeant. He did not allow her to answer. “Of course not! You’re a young tiger inside a very mature yet perky body, aren’t you?”

  Again he did not give her time to answer, and he pretended not to witness her stream of tears. “Never mind, you’re just experiencing a momentary lapse into the down-in-the-dumps of old age and its next door neighbor—death,” he laughed. “But wouldn’t you love to feel vibrant
, alive, and in love again?” He approached her from the back of the divan and massaged her shoulders. Then he slipped the tattered cashmere sweater down her shoulder and kissed her crêpe-paper neck.

  “Ahhh,” Madame moaned and nodded.

  “Close your eyes and allow me to escort you back to your days as an alluring Résistance fighter.”

  Madame closed her eyes, keeping her hand on the spot Jean-Michel had just kissed. He lifted her sweater and licked her desiccated breasts. “I bet those German officers told these little breasts all sorts of secrets. And I bet that all the Résistance fighters didn’t want to know how fearful you were when you extracted valuable information from the Germans, all the time scared out of your pants that they would realize your true intentions. Why, you’re still shaking now thinking of all the risks you took, aren’t you?”

  Jean-Michel caressed her with languorous motions, and Madame sighed and moaned, her eyes shut in fear of seeing his creaseless Adonis face mocking her. She didn’t care if he was genuine or not: she was so very old and so very tired of her now-meager days. She was tired of being ignored; of dying without leaving a trace that once she had been daring and darling.

  Years ago her salon had been the scene of witty repartee, not to mention the consumption of vast amounts of caviar and authentic aged Armagnac. But her salon, her apartment, had never been her property in title. No one knew that the prior owner of the hôtel particulier had only stipulated in his will that Madame could have use of the apartment for the duration of her life. Because she had lived for so long in the building, and acted as its imperious owner, everyone assumed it to be true. Madame had not managed her money well, and at the rate she was going now, she would die out on the street begging for a sou with Fifi starving to death next to her.

  Madame had heard hundreds of propositions from men, and she knew that one was forthcoming from Jean-Michel. And she was correct.

  “Marcelle, you gave your all to France, to the Résistance, and whatever you received in financial recompense for the secrets you withdrew from your enemies is now virtually gone. You’re a proud woman, but my dear, your lack of means is evident.” He stuck his finger through the moth hole in her cashmere sweater and wiggled it against her skin. “Isn’t it time that you take a bit of the limelight? Isn’t the political climate now as Fascist as ever? Why else would young people be marching in the streets to demand changes? You’ve been too preoccupied with survival to understand that we are fighting a type of revolution against oppression, against neo-Fascism, and you could again play an important role––”

  “Dear boy, I am too old to do anything!”

  “I’m talking about nourishment for your soul. The ambrosia that will rejuvenate you. You do recall how ambrosia erased the years from Penelope’s face and she regained the youthfulness that drove her suitors mad with passion, don’t you?” Jean-Michel knew that Madame would be flattered by his allusions to the ancient Greeks.

  “It’s been ages since I discussed Homer with any cultured person. Since you’ve met my concierge, you know what a dimwit she is. And if you ever meet my American students, why they are, how shall I put it?” Madame paused for effect. “Well, they’re provincial and small-minded. And these are the people I’m reduced to these days.”

  “Then you agree that by elevating your level of involvement with what is transpiring in Paris today, you would be resisting the narrow-mindedness and domination of the Fascists?”

  Madame’s stomach growled with hunger. “As I said earlier, I’m just too old to be back in the game. I can barely make it up and down the stairs once or twice a week. If that surly concierge didn’t bring me food, I’d starve.” She tugged at the waist of her skirt to show the extra two inches of fabric that hung on her bony body.

  Jean-Michel tickled her waistline. “Keep your eyes closed,” he said, and he pulled something out of the large briefcase. “You can open your eyes now, Marcelle.”

  “O là là, c’est incroyable!” Madame cooed. “I can’t believe it. A Chanel outfit from this season’s line!”

  “But that is not all, my unsung heroine.” He pulled out a pair of Chanel two-toned shoes. Madame pulled off her old shoes and flung them across the salon. Bits of old cardboard flew out of the left shoe and the worn-down heel of the right shoe dropped off when it hit the floor.

  Madame laughed madly and walked into her bedroom to change into her new outfit. “I’ll be back when I am all put together again,” she sang out.

  “I’m sure you’ll look fetching. Shall we go out to dinner?”

  “Oh, yes.” Madame looked over her shoulder and blew him a kiss.

  “And I can count on you to lead our maquis, our own guerilla group?”

  “A woman has never led a maquis, certainly not during the German occupation!”

  Jean-Michel swooped-up Madame in his arms and kissed her passionately. “It’s never too late. It’s your turn to be in the history books, Marcelle.”

  Madame bobbed her head like a woodpecker, though she’d lost track of what she had just agreed to do. Perhaps it was going out to dinner with Jean-Michel; perhaps it was helping him with some sort of modern-day Résistance activity. Perhaps she had simply agreed to help him relax in her inimitable fashion, and that is why he just paid her with this dazzling Chanel outfit. Madame guffawed at her own confusion, and closed the door to her bedroom.

  For an instant, Jean-Michel felt satisfied that he had made the old lady happy. This is what it must mean to make one’s grandmother laugh and act silly, he thought. Unlike other filthy rich families in Latin America, his large family preferred to send its excess offspring to Swiss boarding schools, primarily to get them out of the way, and also to make them more European. They had succeeded wildly with Jean-Michel. Because of his absence from his family since the age of eleven, with only sporadic visits home, he had not developed emotional ties to any member of his family––certainly not to any grandmother––and he had not bonded with anyone in Europe, either.

  This momentary glee at observing Madame’s giddiness soon subsided, replaced by an urge to witness his own creation and execution of a revolutionary act from the vantage point of Madame’s spacious apartment. This time all of Europe would know about Jean-Michel’s exploits, and no one would associate his past failures with his current, spectacular success. His ragtag rich-boy squad had failed in their debut detonation, and Rémy was the victim of his own carelessness. But Monica’s disappearance and clean getaway rankled him more than anything. He had already bragged about the effectiveness of his California Girl Mind Control Method to other revolutionary squads, and they had dismissed him. “Actions speak louder than words,” they’d told him. “We’ll wait until we see a favorable demonstration of your method.”

  Jean-Michel stood by the window and felt compelled to jump-start his mission. He wanted to observe Monica as she delivered a package a half-block away into the hands of the wrong people, and he would enjoy watching as those wrong people destroyed her. Madame’s apartment would be the ideal place to observe the action, and then to hunker down while the rest of Europe wondered about the genius behind this latest plot.

  Ever since the explosion at the wine cellar and the fiasco with Bertrand’s remaining body part, Jean-Michel had avoided returning to his deceased great-uncles’ empty apartments. Although he was fairly certain that Charles or Xavier would never come looking for him there, he didn’t want to take any chances. He had sneaked into the icy rooms once or twice to remove necessary items, such as the hummingbird he sent to the concierge, but now he had his prized possessions poised for action. He’d always been a lone wolf, and now he was staking and marking his new territory: Madame’s apartment would be his lair.

  While Madame dressed, Jean-Michel hid other items from his briefcase in the commodious upper shelves of her dusty library. He pushed aside a section of her leather-bound tomes, and placed his valuables behind them. No one would climb all the stairs to ask an addled, poor old lady any questions.

/>   Jean-Michel made himself at home, his feet up on Madame’s shabby divan, and studied the uniformity of the buildings across the street, all conforming to Haussmann’s dictatorial architectural plan. He judged that the symmetry and geometric unity were still relevant, and found the second-floor balconies elaborate. But the fifth floors, with their line of undecorated windows, seemed dull. This was perfect, as far as Jen-Michel was concerned, hiding out in Madame’s own fifth-floor apartment. From this anonymous perch, he would observe Monica as she struggled. He had come up with a foolproof way to lure his California Girl into finishing her task––and into ending her namby-pamby life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Heart Bleeds

  When Serge caught Christophe pounding the floor of the pool house at Les Charmilles, disgusted and despondent over a man-size muddy footprint on the area rug like a permanent indictment of Monica’s infidelity, he tried to console him by lying.

  “I’m sorry for having stepped on the rug with my muddy shoes,” Serge apologized.

  “Don’t lie to me!” Christophe shouted. He stayed kneeling on the ground, inspecting the dried mud footprint. It was proof that some man had been in the pool house with Monica a day ago, the same night she had acted in such a distant way, rejecting Christophe’s sexual overtures. Yet, looking into her eyes that evening, he had detected trepidation; a cloudy apprehension that had just become crystal clear to him when he saw the remains of the dirty footprint. Some man, an intruder, a menace, had possessed the audacity come into his house and frighten or lure Monica away from him. Christophe had been preoccupied with matters of the grape harvest, and he’d allowed Monica to leave early the following morning. This was the decision––one he now regretted––that was prodding him into action.

  “Let me clean up my mess,” Serge insisted.