A Prince Without a Kingdom (43 page)

Sitting behind his typewriter, Casimir asked Bartholomew for a café crème. The waiter put down his duster and disappeared briefly before returning with a cup on a tray. Because of the restrictions, there wasn’t any real coffee, but the barley was roasted in-house and ground with three grains of pepper. The result was, if anything, superior to the coffee of old.

“Tell me, Bartholomew, how would you describe the ear of a young lady?”

“The ear?”

“At the end, you see, Marcel sits Rosalinde on his knees . . .”

He scrolled the paper in his typewriter back up in order to read the last few sentences. In his book, he had given himself the name of Marcel. He was telling the story of his restaurant as he had dreamed it.

“Listen:
‘
Sitting in the kitchen,
Marcel had her chignon in one eye. But with the other eye, he had a good view of the ear of his fiancée, which was like a . . .’
That’s the bit I’m not too sure about. Like a . . .”

“A flag?”

Casimir Fermini stared at his employee.

“Genius. Like a flag.”

“The idea just came to me,” Bartholomew admitted modestly.

“Now, in that case, I should introduce some wind a bit earlier; it’ll read more powerfully that way.
‘
Sitting in the kitchen, with the window open, Marcel had her chignon in one eye. The wind was blowing forcefully. But with the other eye, he had a good view of the ear of his fiancée, which was like a flag.’
Yes, that’s good. But I can do better.”

He hunched over his keyboard. A man knocked at the door.

“It’s beautiful,” said Bartholomew, who was already picturing his own name under the boss’s name on the title page of the book.

Outside, the man squashed his nose against the glass and peered in.

Bartholomew waved frantically.

“Look at that. He’s going to make a mess of my window!”

The waiter rushed over to the door and stuck his head outside.

“We’re closed until midday.”

“It’s about a reservation.”

“We don’t take reservations here, monsieur.”

The man spoke with a foreign accent.

“I’ve come from a long way away; I’m off to explore the countryside. I won’t be back until the evening of the thirty-first of December. I’m worried the restaurant might be full.”

“The restaurant is always full.”

Casimir Fermini stood up and went over to join them.

“Bartholomew, kindly treat this gentleman with due respect.”

The gentleman in question gave an embarrassed smile.

“Dear friend, you are very lucky. I’ve never taken a reservation before. Never, I swear on the memory of my aunt Régine. But today, I’m going to do so for the first time, because less than one minute ago I completed my life’s work: my first book.”

“Congratulations,” said the customer, who was visibly touched.

Bartholomew also seemed rather emotional. Casimir Fermini slid his right hand inside his suspenders, to the side. He was looking forward to stroking the ceremonial sword he would receive upon his investiture as a member of the French Academy.

“The Saucepans of Eternity,”
he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s the title.”

“Bravo,” said Bartholomew.

The customer was blushing. He had always admired French culture, its fashion, its literature, and its cuisine. And now here he was in Paris at last!

They shook hands.

“Follow Bartholomew; he’ll write your name on the slate.”

“My name is Costa.”

“You can have the little table at the back, where I work.”

“That would be an honor for me.”

“You’ll be very comfortable there, Monsieur Costa. There’s going to be a fancy-dress party in the dining rooms opposite. I hope they won’t make too much noise.”

The waiter escorted the customer to the door, then retraced his steps.

“A fancy-dress party?” whispered Bartholomew.

“It’s better for the restaurant’s reputation. We’ll say they’re wearing fancy dress.”

Unconvinced, Bartholomew headed off. Casimir Fermini pulled the page out of the typewriter. And, very softly, he read the last lines:
“ ‘Sitting in the kitchen, with the window open, Marcel had her chignon in his eye. The wind was blowing forcefully. But with the other eye, he had a good view of the ear of his fiancée, which was billowing like a flag. And the flapping noise joined with that of his own heart.’ ”

Lower down, the rest of the page would remain blank. He had finished his book.

Everland, Scotland, at the same time, December 27, 1942

Mary could finally hear Ethel’s car in the distance, the sound of its engine muffled by the thick mist.

She had been waiting anxiously since Christmas Eve. The Royal Air Force officers had telephoned the castle when they were looking for Ethel. They had informed Mary of Paul’s disappearance. She had managed to stay calm until they had hung up, at which point she had let out a long howl as she ran down the corridor.

That night, Mary went outside barefoot. Wearing a shawl that trailed behind her in the grass, she made her way over to a tree, to the grave of Ethel’s and Paul’s parents. Mary railed against them with all her might. She hurled everything she could find: sticks and frozen clods of earth. She said horrible things to them. They had abandoned their children and now they were going to reclaim them one by one. Then, weeping, she picked up her shawl and reinstated the bunch of flowers she had knocked over, before turning her back on them.

When she heard Ethel’s Railton, more than twenty-four hours later, she was asleep on a chair in the entrance hall. Mary headed out onto the steps. The car pulled up in front of her. Ethel switched off the engine but remained sitting behind the steering wheel. She stared at Mary, who nodded, to indicate that she had heard the news.

Ethel’s face was unrecognizable. It was ten o’clock in the morning but still fairly dark. She started up the engine again and drove off, not reappearing until the evening. All the staff stood in a line in the entrance hall. No sooner had Ethel kissed Mary than she shut herself in her parents’ room. The housekeeper opened the door in the middle of the night and scooped Ethel up off the sofa in front of the fire, which had gone out. She managed to carry the only surviving member of the B. H. family to her own bed.

The next day, when Mary brought her a cup of tea, Ethel was gone.

They searched for her all day. She had left her car behind. Peter the gardener and his son, Nicholas, combed the woods. Mary scoured the attics. That evening, when Nicholas returned to the castle, he had an announcement to make:

“The plane . . .”

“What plane?” asked Peter.

Nobody knew that Ethel’s plane even existed.

“The plane has disappeared.”

Later that night Mary noticed, open on the bed where Ethel had slept, a book that Paul had brought back from India for his sister years earlier. She read a few lines. The chapter was entitled “Jatinga.” It was about some species of birds that, in a valley in Jatinga, northern India, hurl themselves against trees and cliffs during some seasons, in order to die. The author concluded with the words: “How great must be their despair.”

Mary knelt against the bed and wept.

Outside, the moon was rising. Lily the doe trotted between the box hedges, keeping an eye on the darkened castle. Everland resembled a tree struck by lightning, bereft of what had kept it alive, with only the mournful hooting of an owl behind its hollow bark.

Paris, December 28, in the evening

The wind and rain were lashing against the towers of Notre Dame. The Cat found no one below the bell, but the fire was still alight. She tried to dry off her clothes in front of the flames, turning slowly like someone on a spit. Then she heard the wooden staircase creak, and Simon the bell ringer appeared. He was carrying a bundle of sticks covered in feathers, so he must have been foraging for firewood from the old birds’ nests under the cathedral roofs.

He saw the Cat and immediately tossed a few twigs onto the fire. Then he climbed up to retrieve an armful of fabric from the bottom of a suitcase. He had only met the Cat on one occasion, when she had shown up with Vango a little before Christmas.

“These are my wife’s clothes. Put them on.”

“No, thank you. I’m already drying out.”

“I can go downstairs if you’re embarrassed.”

“I’ll be fine. Where is he?”

“He said he’d be back.”

“Can I wait for him?”

“You can.”

Simon stoked the fire with some more nest remains.

In Caesar’s shutter at the Palais-Royal, the Cat had just dropped off the parcel from London brought over by Charlot. She had seen the boss for the first time. He had come out onto the balcony.

“Hello, Marie.”

“Are you Caesar?”

He held out some papers.

“I believe these belong to you. Mouchet told me that you were interested in the Atlas family.”

“I got the mail muddled up. Yours is in the shutter now. I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” the man replied. “I’d have liked to have been able to do something for those people. But it’s too late.”

Clearly, he had figured out the Atlases’ relationship to the Cat.

She gave him the map that traced the descent of the English airplane that had been hit. And, from the balcony shutter, he picked up the details about the New Year’s Eve party at La Belle Étoile.

He opened the packet in front of her and cast his eye over the guest list. When he had finished reading, she thought she saw him stagger for a moment.

“Do you need me?” asked the Cat.

“No. Good evening, Marie.”

The Cat felt as if she’d been living a secret life since she was born. She was used to it. She had nothing to lose. But him? She wondered how such an elegant man experienced his double life. Caesar looked like an important Parisian, the kind she saw when she climbed the fronts of buildings in the chic districts. There were bound to be ten guests waiting for him downstairs, feasting on oysters. None of them knew who he was. He had wandered away from the dining room to read his messages. But in spite of his sandalwood eau de cologne and his double-breasted silk jacket, Caesar would be gunned down within the hour were he to be unmasked.

He waved seriously at the Cat and left the balcony.

She headed off over the rooftops.

The Cat was watching the blaze of twigs beneath the bell at Notre Dame, as the smoke escaped via a metal pipe, which vibrated with the air currents. The bell ringer was feeling ashamed about the state of his den. When Clara was there, she made everything look more homey. He busied himself gathering up scraps of food onto a chopping board.

“Would you like an egg?” he asked. “I’ve found one.”

“No, thanks; I’ll be off soon. I just need to tell Vango something and then I’ll leave.”

“You’ve got time for an egg.”

“Really?”

“Vango told me it would take two or three days.”

The Cat leaped to her feet. “What?”

“He set off to find a friend in the provinces.”

“A friend?”

“Yes. He showed me the map. In the middle of a forest. I’m not sure what kind of friend he’s talking about. A weasel or a bear . . .”

“Whereabouts?”

“Near to Chartres. But he said he would be back in three days’ time at the latest. He’s expected at a New Year’s Eve party. I think he wants to take his bear to it.”

The Cat was furious. She had fallen into Vango’s trap. He had copied Charlot’s map before giving it to her, presumably with the aim of finding the pilot. She wished she hadn’t wrenched him away from his island.

Saint John was out of control.

Mornes Forest, northern France, December 30, 1942

It was at the forest edge: a pretty log cabin with hearts cut out of the shutters. A ribbon of smoke escaped from the chimney. Birds played in the snow on the roof. The entrance was via a door that was too low, next to a window with patterned curtains. But instead of seven dwarfs in the living room, there were seven strapping men in German uniform and, in front of them, a woman sitting on a stool with a glass of water in her hand.

The log cabin served as the German headquarters in the hunt for the pilot who had disappeared.

Madame Labache didn’t look much like Snow White. She was short and toothless, with two red braids wrapped around her mouse-gray face. Beneath her skirt, she wore boots with steel spurs. In her lap, she clung firmly to a brand-new handbag.

She lived a few kilometers away, in a tumbledown farmhouse that smelled of old kennels. Three years earlier, she had graciously rounded up the horses of all the owners who were leaving for the free zone. Madame Labache kept these horses by a barn and sold them, one by one, to a butcher in Dreux. The price doubled each year because meat was in such short supply.

A soldier stepped forward. He was interpreting for his superior.

“The woman can confirm that she heard the engine.”

The leader shouted back that this woman had been wasting their time for twenty minutes now. She had said she had an important revelation to make, had insisted on having a glass poured for her, had spent a long time rearranging her skirts, and had then proceeded to talk about her work, her barn, and the necessity of finding hay as quickly as possible.