Authors: Marcus Sedgwick
I had to look at myself, at my arms, to see the black wool of my suit in order to remind myself that I was not in uniform, that the war was over, and that this was
1951
, for the park looked just the same, or so I thought at first.
But, though I looked and looked, I could not see the bunkers in the park. They appeared to have been removed. Seven years had passed, my memory might have distorted things, but . . . no, I knew I was in the right place, at the side of the chateau and before the first avenue of trees.
The only thing different, as far as I could see, was a new little bandstand. I wandered towards it, trying to remember, and then I understood that what I was looking for
was
the bandstand; it had been built on top of the bunker, the entrance to which was now a small wooden door, firmly padlocked. A small window had been punched in the front side, right underneath where a bandleader would stand, and I crouched down on my hands and knees, trying to see inside.
I couldn’t. It was too dark, and the glass was grimy and mud-splashed, being so low to the ground.
A couple passed by me on bicycles, looking at me strangely, and I tried to give the air that this was something one did every day, but I stood nonetheless, and walked back towards the town.
I found a large and noisy brasserie and was pleased to get a table to one side, where I could observe both the cold square outside, and the diners in the restaurant.
And there it was that I saw him.
Chapter 6
Him.
I knew at once it was the man from the hole. He was turned in profile to me, sitting across a small table from a young woman, in her early twenties I guessed.
I remember that for a moment I questioned myself, told myself I was being fanciful, wanted to dream up this powerful coincidence in an attempt to destroy the ennui that pervaded me just as much as everyone else, but it was, unquestionably, him.
My first impulse was to run, but the waiter appeared in front of me. I looked up.
‘
Je peux manger quelque chose? C’est trop tard, peut-être . . . ?
’
‘
Pas du tout,
’ he said, and began setting out cutlery for me, placing a large card menu on the table. Adding in English, ‘In Paris, you can eat at any time.’
I looked across at the man again, and realised he had not seen me, and probably would not see me. I was fractionally behind him, and I could watch both him and the girl easily without drawing attention to myself. While I was glad I was not too close to them, I soon regretted not being able to hear what they were saying, although I could hear enough to know they were speaking in French, and fluently. I would most likely not have understood them even had I sat at their table.
The girl was striking. Not beautiful, but there was something about her. She had a slightly pointed nose, but it was fine and gave her an air of nobility. Her mouth was noticeably wide, but the most striking thing about her was her hair; long auburn ringlets hung beyond her shoulders, quite unlike the short French fashions.
Though I couldn’t hear what she was saying, she spoke in an animated way, using her hands a lot, something that again made her very different from the few women I knew in Cambridge. Her gestures were quick and vivacious; I could see she was at ease, thinking quickly, moving ahead with her thoughts. She wore a black blouse and a bright red skirt, and low black heels.
I looked from the girl back to her companion. He bent down to one side, brushing something off the hem of his trouser leg, and as he straightened again I was given the same view of his face I’d seen seven years before, three hundred yards away, in a hole in the ground.
It
was
him.
Those eyes, that dark brow, and yes, his hair was a little different, and he had grown a thin moustache, but it was him.
Who was he? What was he doing here, so close, as I put it in my head, to the scene of his crime?
He was dressed well, very well in fact, better than any other man in the place. He wore a dark grey wool suit with a waistcoat. Silver cufflinks gleamed when he reached to pour the girl another glass of wine. His shoes were expensive, spotlessly clean despite the weather.
I tried to judge his age, studied the small lines around his eyes, possibly a grey hair or two in the temples of his slick black hair, and guessed he might be ten years older than me, maybe less. His hands were somehow both elegant and strong; he appeared to be tall.
He was very different from the girl; where she was all movement, he was very still, and when he moved, he moved slowly and with great deliberation. He spoke deliberately too, with the occasional firm gesture of his hand, or just the flick of a fingertip, as if he did everything with great precision.
Then, without warning, he stood and walked right towards me. As before, I froze as he met my gaze, but then he looked right through me and walked on to the Gents, somewhere behind me.
I breathed again, realising he didn’t know who I was, which was confirmed to me when he returned from the lavatory without so much as a backward glance.
He rejoined the girl and they renewed their conversation. Their waiter served them coffee and I noticed the extra deference he paid to the man, and the girl by extension, going so far as to give a slight bow as he left them.
My food arrived. I ate almost nothing, but I must have drunk a little too much wine, because when they stood, having finished their coffee, and got ready to leave, I decided to follow them.
I called my waiter over quickly and left far too many francs as a tip in order to avoid waiting for change.
They were at the door, the man almost a full foot taller than her, and I loitered for a moment putting on my coat, giving them a slight head start, and then pushed out through the heavy doors into a light drizzle.
I hesitated again, feeling light-headed, then, pulling the collar of my raincoat up around my ears, I walked as casually as I could after them, keeping to the opposite side of the street.
I must have looked pretty stupid; it was a wet Thursday afternoon, Saint-Germain was empty save for them, and me, but they were too occupied with each other to pay any attention to whoever might be behind them, and anyway, I didn’t follow them for long.
In the very next street they stopped at a doorway, and the man pulled a key on a chain from his pocket. They disappeared inside, leaving me in the rain. I crossed the street to pass by the door, and saw there were several brass plaques fixed to the stone, and though I didn’t want to linger I had time to read a couple of them. They were professional nameplates.
Cabinet de Chirurgie
, read one.
Salon de Psychothérapie
, another.
I knew the kind of thing; a private address with one or more private physicians of various kinds and dubious qualities, no doubt helping rich women overcome an array of troubles during a course of expensive and frequently unexpectedly prolonged treatment.
London had the same addresses.
But which nameplate belonged to him?
I felt I’d paused too long at the door and I moved on, but not before one name caught my eye, just because it was more exotic than the rest. It read, quite simply:
Verovkin,
Salon des sciences de l’Orient ancien
.
I walked on to the end of the street, and then suddenly felt idiotic. What was I doing? Did I hope to find something, or prove something? I don’t know; I think I acted purely without thinking. My morning at the conference had been terrible, but that was far from my mind now, and I think I was acting upon impulse alone.
It was an impulse that had brought me back to Saint-Germain, a coincidence that had taken me to the very restaurant where he was eating, and an impulse that had led me to his door.
I stood under the porch of a doorway as the drizzle turned to rain, and just as I was wondering what to do next, the girl emerged from the door, halfway down the street.
She set off, away from me fortunately, and telling myself I might be able to discover more about him by approaching her, I followed.
Chapter 7
It was beginning to get dark as I followed the girl through Saint-Germain, trying to move slowly enough not to catch up with her, for she was not a fast walker.
She walked through the wet streets, and soon I realised where she was heading: the station, where she made her way on to the platform for Paris. Seeing this, I ducked into the ticket office and bought a single to the Gare Saint-Lazare.
There were few other people taking the train that afternoon; I tried to stand near enough to a man around my age that it might be thought we were travelling together. I congratulated myself on this little strategy, and briefly felt like a detective in an American movie, a gumshoe trailing a suspect, a thought that amused me, though the fantasy quickly paled as I grew colder and colder on the platform.
Finally, the train she’d been waiting for arrived. I dallied a little as she chose a carriage and just as the whistle blew I climbed in after her, walking down the corridor past the compartment she’d chosen, taking the next one for myself.
The sun set as the train rumbled slowly down from Saint-Germain and twisted towards Saint-Lazare, a journey much longer than it should have been. At each stop I left my compartment and walked slowly past hers. Finding her always in the same position, reading a book. She was very different now that she was alone; she seemed rolled tight into herself, unaware of anyone or anything around her.
I didn’t know if she would leave the train before the terminus, but she stayed on till the end. I allowed her ten seconds’ head start, then hopped down from the carriage, and saw I’d made a mistake. The station was crowded and she had vanished in the sea of people in front of me. For some reason this loss worried me, and I felt desperate not to let her go. Then, there she was, bobbing through the passengers heading for the station gates.
I pushed past people in an effort to catch up, got within a few feet of her, and kept it that way.
She walked more briskly than before, out of the station and up towards the Place de Clichy, after which she turned into a street within sight of a big cemetery. I had been thinking she would be heading home, but instead she went into a bar and sat down at a table by herself.
I hesitated, but knew I could not do so for long. Either I had to follow her in as if it had been my destination too, or walk on by.
I went in.
I chose to sit on a stool at the bar, and ordered a cognac; by that point I genuinely needed a drink, not just from the damp cold.
‘
Vous êtes en train de me suivre?
’
I didn’t hear her approach me, but I turned and there she was, looking confrontational, if not exactly angry.
I was too embarrassed to say anything at first, then blurted out a denial.
‘
Non, non, mademoiselle. Je—
’
That threw her somehow.
‘You’re English,’ she said.
I stood up.
‘Is my accent that bad?’
She nodded. ‘And your dress sense.’
I felt a slight easing of the situation, as if she felt having an Englishman follow her was better than if I’d been French. Perhaps she was just interested, her curiosity aroused. I decided to press ahead with the slight chance I saw.
I held out my hand.
‘Charles Jackson. Your English is very good.’
She looked at my hand for a moment, then took it and shook it lightly and briefly.
‘Or do you mean, not bad for an American? Marian Fisher.’
It was my turn to be thrown.
‘You’re American?’
‘Are all Brits this slow? So, are you going to answer my question, or not? Are you following me?’
I took a risk.
‘Yes. Yes, I was. I apologise.’
She didn’t seem to react.
‘Let me buy you a drink. Let me explain? I assure you I mean you no harm.’
She looked at me then for the longest time, during which, I suppose, my character was being assessed.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Cognac. Would you like to join me?’
She nodded at the little table she’d taken, and a minute later I carried two glasses of cognac over to her.
That was how I met Marian.
Chapter 8
I should say that I think I fell in love with Marian that first time we met. We became friends and she liked me, I believe, a lot; though I nearly ruined any chance at that first meeting by not being honest with her, something I learned she valued very highly.
We became friends, and for that I have to thank Hunter, my old family friend.
Hunter Wilson had been at school with my father, and they’d gone up to Cambridge at the same time. Hunter had eventually become a professor in the Faculty of English at Sidney Sussex, while my father had gone into property to make a fortune. Although he wasn’t actually family, trips to visit Hunter when I was a boy had made him feel like an uncle to me, all the more so as I had no real uncles, my mother and father both being only children.