Dupré pulled from a bag a bottle of Château Mireille Bordeaux and a box of cigars. He faced Claire with a frown. “You stupid girl, take off Madame Austerlitz’s coat before you ruin it. You were to get it mended, not wear it. She will have you blistered.” He turned to the officer. “My neighbor’s employee is not too hard to look at, but worthless. We have a delivery for Madame Austerlitz, wife of Kommandant Austerlitz, but I find I have brought more than was ordered. It would be inconvenient for me to go back to the shop. I am late because of this woman’s laziness. Perhaps you could help?”
The policeman nodded to his partner, who grabbed the offering and pushed Dupré back with the other hand. He made a show of reading
Épicerie Dupré
printed on Georges’ apron pocket, then glared at Claire. “I don’t like you.” He tapped a thick finger next to his eye. “I will be watching.” He turned on his heel and the men walked away.
“Remove that stupid coat and carry something.” Dupré took a bag from her hands and hurried down the sidewalk.
Georges paused as he passed Claire. “Come on!”
Claire tore the coat off, stuffed it in a bag and followed. Another block and they turned onto rue Balzac. Claire waited in front of a courtly four-story building while Georges and Dupré went inside. Shivering, she stared up at the white-shuttered windows and tried to calm her heartbeat. A moment later, the door opened and the men returned, empty-handed.
The jerk of Dupré’s head brought Claire in line behind them. They walked single file down a narrow side street, until they spilled onto rue du Colisée. Dupré shook his head at Claire when she turned toward the flower shop and started to pull the keys from her pocket.
“Not yet. Come with us first.” Dupré said.
She glanced longingly back at her balcony above the flower shop as she followed Dupré inside Épicerie Dupré. He told Georges to mind the register and led her to a small room in back.
His office was austere. A plank bench. A wooden chair with a worn cushion behind a small desk. A small framed photo of a smiling woman and dark-haired baby hung on the wall over his desk. Dupré motioned toward the bench. He stared at Claire over his glasses, his lips a compressed line.
“
Merci
, Monsieur, for your help.” Claire perched on the bench and forced a smile on a face that was still numb.
“No!” His thin face twisted into a deep scowl. He turned to pace the small office. “No thanks for me. Madame Palain has said you show great promise. Thank her.”
Claire wasn’t sure how to respond. It was one of the nicest things she’d ever heard, but he delivered it like an accusation.
“She has put trust in you. If you were to betray that by bringing attention to her, that would be—” Dupré snapped his mouth shut.
Claire began to protest, but the argument died, unspoken. She fingered the coat on her lap.
“I know you have a problem,” he said. “I would suggest you either fix it or be gone when that
flic
comes looking for you.”
“Problem? I—” Claire jerked upright. How the hell did he know her papers were not good?
“I know Georges sneaks food to you. Food that you cannot buy without a ration card. I am not stupid. It is Madame’s kindness to allow you to work.” A woman’s voice rose outside. The rumble of a man’s voice joined her. Customers. Dupré sighed and stood. “Fix your problem. Or go.”
C
laire locked the shop door behind her and climbed the stairs on wooden legs. Her room, the tiny bed with iron railings, the dresser with chipped paint. The clouded mirror and the photo of her garden tucked in the corner. She had nearly lost it all. She still could.
Claire shoved the sable in her closet. Taking a deep breath, she faced the window. Across the street, the grocer considered her a worm. And, for the sake of Madame Palain, had saved her life. Over the rooftops, the Eiffel Tower stood in the distance, sunlight peeping through dark grey lattice. The beauty was astounding; it tugged at her heart.
Claire heard the shop door click open.
“Bonjour, Claire,” Madame called up the stairs. “I have designs for the Ritz.”
A slip of paper sat in Claire’s trash, waiting to be burned. It wasn’t about Laurent or Odette. It wasn’t even about the cane. Claire was a part of La Vie en Fleurs now. Her new life was worth the risk. Wordlessly, she descended the stairs to the phone and dialed. “Yes,” she said and hung up.
D
ays passed. Claire heard nothing. Her nerves started to fray. Then one morning, a week later, she opened the doors at nine o’clock and found Odette waiting outside. Claire made an excuse to Madame, slipped on her coat and joined Odette.
The women walked for blocks before a word was spoken. Pleasantries seemed absurd and the truth, too dangerous to be said aloud. They took a left on boulevard Malesherbes.
“It is a good day to walk,” Odette said.
Claire nodded. A chill in the air, but at least the sun was out. “We going far?”
“Un peu,”
Odette said. A little. She flashed Claire a smile. “But perhaps we will take the Métro back, no?”
Claire grinned back at Odette. Freedom, at least a form of it, would be hers in the form of a little slip of paper.
“Have you been to the ninth arrondissement yet? Have you seen Cimetière de Montmartre?” Odette asked.
A cemetery? “Not at the top of my list, Odette.”
“We will be near there. Not a place for us to see today, but you should visit.”
“You French and your dead people.”
Odette chuckled. “History surrounds us. You cannot open your eyes, not in Paris, and see something that wasn’t touched by someone long gone.” She took a sideways glance at Claire. “You, maybe, run from your ghosts. Here, they live among us.”
Claire buried her gloved hands deep in her pockets. Odette had no idea how many ghosts trailed behind Claire.
C
laire began to tire by the time they turned down rue Jean-Baptiste Pigalle. The buildings were old, sculpted grey stone, like any other neighborhood. But the flavor was dark and the neighborhood seemed to be sleeping off a long night. Unshaven men in tattered clothes leaned against doorways.
She peered into a darkened bar; the odor of stale cigarettes and sour wine wafted out. “Interesting place.”
“Not much farther.” Odette held her eyes firmly on the sidewalk in front of her.
Claire sighed. It reminded her of Fifty-Second Street in New York. A lifetime ago, before she was Claire Harris Stone, she’d spent many evenings at the Three Deuces, Kelly’s Stable or the Spotlight. That was where she had first heard Billie Holliday. She could still feel the tug of the singer’s forlorn voice in her chest.
This place, Le Renard Noir, might have been a jazz club once; she’d heard they had been big in Montmarte before the war. Not anymore. The Nazis had proclaimed jazz to be degenerate Negro-Jewish music and banned it.
They entered the faded lobby of an apartment building. Odette led her up one flight of stairs and down a narrow hallway to an odd-shaped door at the end. She knocked on the door hard once, paused, then rapped three more times.
“Yes?” a muffled voice asked.
“It’s Danielle,” Odette said, her voice low.
Claire looked over at her questioningly.
“Here, I’m Danielle,” she said, under her breath.
The door creaked and opened. A teenage boy peeked out, bundled in heavy layers, the faintest line of fuzz across his upper lip. He peered up and down the empty hallway, opened the door wide and gestured them in.
The room was more of a janitor’s supply closet than an apartment. Stacks of doorknobs, buckets and empty cans lined the walls. An unmade cot was tucked in one corner, a workbench piled with pipes and machinery in the other.
He glanced over at Claire. “This is her?” he asked Odette.
Odette nodded. “You have what you need?”
“Oui.”
He grabbed a camera from the bench and snapped photos of Claire posing against a drab white wall. “Three hours.”
Odette turned to Claire. “We’ll come back.” She poked her head out the door, then stepped out.
Claire followed; she glanced over her shoulder at the boy, now hunched over equipment at his workbench. He didn’t look up.
“Danielle?” Claire asked as they stepped out onto the street.
Odette glanced at her watch. “There is a place we can wait.” She read the frustration in Claire’s face. “I will explain there.”
They walked side by side back down the street. Claire peered into the windows of the shops and side passages while Odette kept her eyes ahead. Cabarets, bars, cafés. Cold-looking prostitutes loitered on side streets and followed them with their eyes.
“In here.” Odette entered the church on the end of the block.
Claire stepped over an entryway into soft dimness. Burning candles and incense, wood, stone and age mixed together to form a musty smell Claire found oddly soothing. The ceiling rose in Gothic arches. A saint with sword brandished and monster wrapped around his legs adorned a high stained-glass window that radiated deep ocean blue, moss green and butter yellow. With her head bowed, Odette sat on a wooden chair.
Claire slid next to her, staring up at the ceiling. “Are we meeting someone here?”
“No. But it isn’t wise to be the only women waiting on the street that aren’t prostitutes.”
“Oh. I see. Where are we?”
“L’Eglise Saint-Michel.”
“Famous place?”
“Not really. Saint Michel was a dragon slayer. A popular man during times of war.” Odette stared down at her hands folded in her lap. “I don’t go to church, not anymore. But this place, I like, when I am here.”
Claire nodded. The frayed fabric, the scuffed wood and the grooves worn in the floor from centuries of feet gave the place a melancholy dignity.
They watched a woman walk past them down the aisle holding a too-thin young boy. He clung to her arms, his dark eyes rimmed with sickness. The door closed behind them before Claire and Odette spoke again.
Odette looked up at the altar, her face thoughtful. “Gerard, my son, turned nine this summer. He is too much like his father to be a good boy. But he is right for the times. It is hard for the good boys to survive.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“Perhaps.” Odette heard the shortness in her own voice and shrugged lightly. “When I work, like today, I’m Danielle. It’s too dangerous for me, with a family, not to hide my true name. As Danielle, if I were caught, the trail would end with me.”
Claire thought of the old man in the street. If Odette were caught . . .
Odette turned to Claire, her face serious. “Normally, you wouldn’t know who I really am. It is a risk. You’re a risk, Claire.”
Claire held Odette’s gaze for as long as she could. “You came to me.”
“Yes. We came to you because we need to know what you see. You’re making a commitment to us. Perhaps to save your skin or your position. But you have a responsibility now, much greater than just to yourself.” Her eyes squinted as she stared at Claire, as if she might be able to see inside. “And we seem to believe in you.”
The door opened behind them. A man bundled in rags walked down the aisle toward the altar.
“Who’s we? Laurent?” Claire remembered how he’d tried to speak with her as she left the party. She felt warmed by his concern, by his unexpected confidence.
“You have made an impression.” Odette rose and walked toward the candles.
Claire watched Odette drop a coin into a wooden box. She lit a stubby white candle and set it in among many on the altar. Her expression was pinched, her head bowed. Odette had her own ghosts.
Claire looked away. Her gaze paused on the wall across from the stained-glass window. The light through the window painted soft swatches of blue, green and yellow onto the stone like an Impressionist painting. She marveled. So much beauty and evil stirred up in the same bucket.
A
s the afternoon shadows lengthened, they traced their way back to the apartment. After three knocks, the boy let them inside. He slipped the identification card in Claire’s hands. As always, her eyes were drawn to the photo first. The shot was good, she had to admit. Not too good as to arouse suspicion, it wouldn’t make the cover of
Harper’s
, but she did look tempting as well as somewhat French. Her hair was nearly to her shoulders, a lock curled over her eye. Red lipstick kept her lips full. Her eyes skimmed over to the text.
Nom: BADEAU. Prénom: CLAIRE.
Nationalité: AMÉRICAINE.
Adresse: 44, RUE DU MONTPARNASSE, PARIS.
The card was stamped, dated May, signed at the bottom, and worn as if from months of wear.
“This is me? Claire Badeau?”
Odette nodded. “American, married to a Frenchman, Henri Badeau. This way, no one will question why you are in Paris.”
“Is Henri a real person?”
“Yes. A writer. His family was from Toulouse.”
“Handsome?”
“He was. He was called to the front last November. He died in June. You are a widow, Claire.” Odette cleared her throat. “You met in Paris, fell instantly in love, were married, and then he was gone.” She looked to the boy. “The license?”
He riffled through papers on the desk and handed Claire a slip.
Odette spoke as Claire glanced over the paper. “Your marriage was recorded here, in your
livret de famille
, given to you by the official at city hall. Your name, your true name, is buried deep in the files there, impossible to find. Memorize the date, your home address. Make up the details.” She looked over to the boy. “Well done. As always.”
He hid a smile; his thin chest puffed out beneath layers of fabric.
“You’d better get back to school before they miss you.” Odette pointed to a textbook half-buried under a jacket. “Don’t forget your science book.”