April in Paris (11 page)

The curtain’s gray-green reminded me of Chantal’s eyes.

I sat up as though I had just awakened. Averting my eyes from the mirror, I opened the wardrobe and bent down to the cloth bag. I stayed like that for several seconds and then, finally, I seized the handle and swung the bag onto the bed. Then I turned slowly toward the wall. The calendar was hanging there; today’s date hadn’t been torn off yet. I’ll do it later tonight, I thought, after I get back. When I felt the material of my checkered suit between my fingers, everything stood still.

Nothing was different. The facade of the condemned building hung dangerously far out over the sidewalk. The coolness of the A P R I L I N PA R I S . 99

entryway welcomed me. I took off my uniform more carefully than usual and meticulously folded the shirt and the trousers. After cramming the shafts of my boots into the laundry bag, I took off my ID tags and weighed the little chain in my hand. With incomprehensible reverence, I slipped the tags back over my head and felt the metal on my chest. I quickly buttoned my civilian shirt up to my neck.

This evening, Monsieur Antoine was a self under duress. I was playing a role. I hurried through the streets, my eyes on the pavement. The way seemed longer than before. Suspicious silence on the Pont Royal. Why did the soldiers on the bridge stare at me? I didn’t take my usual route along the boulevard; instead, I sidled down narrow alleys and slipped through solitary passageways, approaching rue Jacob by detours.

The waiter at the Lubinsky invited me to have a seat. I didn’t slow down. Step by step, the café disappeared behind me. Two sergeants came around the corner; I hugged the wall and continued on. Finally, I reached the Jewish haberdasher’s shop. The barber’s windows glimmered just beyond it. Alert and apprehensive, I scouted around. Was the task force already lurking somewhere?

Had Leibold sent assault troops or men in civilian clothes? Were they posted in the entryways of the neighboring buildings, their eyes fixed on the barbershop?

If I walk past the salon now, I thought, and reach the next corner and return to my field gray reality, it will be as if none of this ever happened. I’ll tear the page off the calendar, just as I do every day. But if I stop and open this door, I’ll have nothing in front of me and nothing behind me except the abyss.

100 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R

The brass door handle. The tinkling of the shop bell.

“
Bonjour, monsieur.
You won’t have long to wait.”

As always, the old man was there, reading his newspaper. A customer sat in the broad-backed chair, her wet hair combed down over her face. Chantal stood at the cash register. At that moment, the sun disappeared behind an isolated cloud. The barber turned around.

No one said anything.

I began. In my very best French.

“Once upon a time, there was an animal. It had the head of a bear, but its hindquarters resembled a zebra’s. When people saw it from the front, they said, ‘That’s a bear.’ The people who observed the beast from behind declared it was a zebra. And because no one saw it from both the back and the front at once, a quar-rel arose. The animal didn’t understand what the argument was about, because it experienced itself as a single whole.”

I spoke the last sentence in Chantal’s direction. Her eyes were dark with confusion. She braced herself with both hands on the cash drawer.

“What’s he talking about?” the barber hissed. “What does he want?”

During my tale, the customer had parted her hair like a curtain and looked at me in the mirror.

“Close your shop, monsieur,” I said to the barber. “Immediately would be best.”

“Are you mad?” He came closer to me.

“You have to leave.” I turned in the direction of the cashier’s desk. “You, too, Chantal.”

“What do
you
know about this?” the barber asked her fiercely.

A P R I L I N PA R I S . 101

“Nothing.” She didn’t move an inch.

Suddenly, and for the first time since I’d entered the shop, the old man lowered his newspaper. I could see white hair and glittering blue eyes. He looked me up and down.

“Are you the
boche
?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m the
boche.
”

Calmly, the old man rested his hands on his newspaper. “And you’re the zebra, and you’re also the bear?”

“Just so, monsieur.”

The old man turned to the barber. “Listen to him, Gustave.”

As he said this, he folded the paper and stood up.

“Why should I, Papa?”

“Do it.” The old man took his hat from the hook, opened the door, and stepped out. He seemed to be checking the weather.

Then, after lingering in the sun for a few moments, he finally began strolling down rue Jacob.

“Let’s go in the back.” Gustave pointed to a glass-bead curtain.

“We’ll just be a second, madame,” he said, turning briefly to the customer, who watched in amazement as he withdrew.

I stepped through the strings of beads; Chantal was the last to enter. A tiny kitchen, a small round table. The barber pointed me to the only chair. Chantal leaned on the sink. The glass beads were still clicking.

After a brief silence, I said, “You’re waiting for the Gascon.”

The barber exchanged glances with Chantal. “Who?”

I described the man.

“We don’t know him.”

“I translated his interrogation,” I said. “They set him free. And now he’s led them to you. When is he coming?”

102 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R

Despite the tense silence and their mutual consternation, I couldn’t help looking at Chantal. She was breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling.

“We’re not waiting for anybody,” the barber said, lying.

“At six-thirty,” said Chantal, interrupting him. He stared at her.

“Six-thirty,” I repeated, remembering the clocks striking six just after I crossed the bridge. “Then there’s hardly any time.”

I held my clenched fists between my knees and told my story as calmly as I could, addressing most of it to Chantal. The beaded curtain broke up the light coming into the room.

“That’s quite a tale you tell,” the barber said brusquely.

“Why are you doing this?” Chantal pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Those are your people.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “What good will it do if you all get arrested?”

Suddenly, the barber sprang to the little passageway and peeked out between the strings of beads. In the late-afternoon light, you could see the nose of an automobile that was pulling up in front of the shop window. A second car approached from the left. These vehicles weren’t marked in any way, but the locals knew them well.

Gustave whipped around. “This is a trap!” He stood very close to me.

I rose from my chair. “In that case, I wouldn’t have needed to say anything!”

The shop bell rang in the next room. The woman with wet hair hastily left the salon and ran past the uniformed men who were getting out of the cars. One of them checked her papers.

A P R I L I N PA R I S . 103

“Get out of here!” I hissed.

Chantal nodded to Gustave. Outside the door of the shop, the men were receiving orders from a sergeant. The barber started frantically shoving aside some boxes that concealed a low door.

“What will happen to you?” Chantal asked me as the barber unbolted the door.

“If they catch me, they’ll treat me the same as you.”

She struggled with herself for a second and then pointed into the unlighted passageway on the other side of the little door. I stooped. The barber hurried ahead of me. Chantal came last.

We went through a narrow corridor, then up some steps into a cellar. The barber opened a grille. I smelled wine and resinous wine barrels. We came to a storeroom. A ray of light fell from a shaft that opened in the courtyard above our heads. The barber led the way to a spiral staircase. Chantal gathered up her skirt so she’d be able to run better. We reached a corridor at ground level.

“Attention!”
A whispered cry came from the depths of a flat. Electric lightbulb, under it a silhouette. The barber stopped before entering an inner courtyard. I noticed some people on balconies, eyeing us curiously. Chantal caught up with us; I felt her breath on my back. A woman scolded her child. A radio: the German broad-cast to France. More keys, then another passage, and at its far end we could see the street. We had crossed the entire square block, from one side to the other. The barber headed for the archway.

Chantal called out, “Your jacket!”

He fumbled with buttons and flung the white smock away.

“Wait!” I peered outside. I knew their tactics. First came the uniforms, chasing the fox out of his lair. Behind them, men in 104 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R

civilian clothes lay in wait. I stuck my head out past the projecting brick facade. Red afternoon sun, street noise, normality.

There was a car parked on the opposite side of the street, near it another one with its engine running, both French models. A man stood next to the first car and smoked a cigarette. Gray suit, inconspicuous tie. I narrowed my eyes. Despite the dusty day, his shoes were perfectly polished. I drew back.

“They’re outside,” I whispered. “Is there another way out?”

Chantal turned around and faced the courtyard. “The cellar,”

she said. “But that means we have to go back.”

“No. We’ll run!” The barber dug his fists into his pockets.

“In these shoes?” Chantal said, pointing to her heels.

I looked at Gustave. “They’ve got people posted on every corner.”

Shouts, slamming doors. The moment had passed. Boots bat-tered against an obstacle. The barber took two steps forward, two steps back, gnawing the backs of his hands. The first salvos of gunfire; a lock burst. Shouts of protest, German replies. Somewhere a child was crying.

Gustave moved closer to the light. “Let’s split up, then.”

Chantal nodded. “Good luck.”

He shot out of the dark entrance, darted sideways, and dashed away. The man with the polished shoes immediately jumped into the car. Dark suits appeared from every direction. I watched them run past the archway, just a few meters away from us. Startled pedestrians stopped walking. A shot. The street froze. A man threw himself to the pavement. More shots, now farther off.

Chantal listened with a finger on her lips. Then no more sounds.

Several long seconds passed. The street returned to its normal A P R I L I N PA R I S . 105

rhythm. The man on the pavement stood up and brushed off his pants. Someone honked at a bicycle rider, who rode past us, lurching from side to side. Two women pushed a cart.

“Now what?” Chantal was very close to me.

Voices behind us. Turmoil. Booted steps on the metal bal-ustrades. We stood in the shadow of the projecting facade. Someone shouted from below in German, “We’ve got the printing press!”

“They’ve found your press,” I said, translating.

“What shall we do?” Her head was moving from side to side.

“Chantal?” Our eyes met.

“Yes?”

“Can you laugh?” I took her hand.

“Laugh?” She pulled it back.

“The whole thing is just a giant joke.”

A young man in a checkered suit stepped out of the archway.

Behind him came a pretty woman in a dress with blue stripes. She was laughing at the top of her voice. As he continued on, she caught his arm. He had to hold on to her, because she was doubled over with laughter.

“Arrête. Ça suffit,”
he said.

“Il a … il … il a jeté sa chaussure.”
She threw her head back, couldn’t contain herself, laughed so hard that the street was filled with the sound of it. People everywhere turned to look.

“Calme-toi. Ils regardent tous.”
The young man found her mer-riment distasteful.

“La chaussure! Il a jeté sa chaussure!”
She held her sides. Snot and spit dribbled down her chin.

He grabbed her by the waist.
“Oui, sa chaussure, j’ai compris.”

106 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R

The word sent her off into another cascade of laughter. Her reddish brown hair fell in her face.

He tried to make her walk on.
“Allons. Il est tard.”
He smiled at some passersby, imploring their understanding.

The strange couple passed a black automobile. Its occupants, two men wearing suits, had their windows rolled down. One of them stared after the two young people; the other was infected by the girl’s laughter. “They’re having fun,” he said.

An empty troop carrier was parked at the next corner. An SS

private leaned against the tailgate with his booted legs crossed and rolled himself a cigarette. “Sounds like the young lady’s swallowed some laughing gas,” he remarked with a smile.

The young man didn’t understand.
“Pardon, monsieur?”

The soldier spit out a few tobacco crumbs. “Pretty, but nuts,”

he said as the couple disappeared around a curve in the street.

Gradually, the laughter died down.

I walked faster. “Are they following us?” Chantal asked, turning around.

I stroked her hip. “Which way now?”

“Right.”

“That’ll take us back to rue Jacob.”

“Trust me.”

We reached rue de Seine. A black automobile came toward us, moving slowly, as though on the lookout. I recognized Leibold’s staff car only after it was too late. Chantal felt me hesitate. Inside the vehicle were two silhouettes, both wearing peaked caps.

I pulled Chantal close to me, turned her toward the street, and kissed her on the mouth. My hands slid over her shoulders and A P R I L I N PA R I S . 107

down her back. I grabbed the cheeks of her butt and held her tight. Have a look at that, I thought. Look at that behind! Chantal made a hissing sound.

The car was even with us, moving even more slowly. I lifted my head a little and saw Leibold’s face in the outside mirror. My mouth was pressed against Chantal’s lips as my eyes met the captain’s. But no sign of recognition entered his gaze. He merely observed the scene. A young man was kissing a young French girl.