April in Paris (12 page)

Leibold’s eyes lingered on mine for what seemed an eternity.

Then they slid past. The car gradually pulled away down rue de Seine and disappeared behind a vegetable truck.

The street was full of people, standing in the shade and talking fast. Others hurried by. I kissed Chantal. We kissed each other. From a distance, a siren, the sound of marching boots, German words around the next corner. Noise slowly returned to the late-afternoon sidewalk.

Sheds and warehouses, awnings over entryways, daubs of paint on greasy chimneys. Red-wine drinkers, belching in an alley. We were walking into the stony bowels of Montmartre. In the shade on the north side, a vineyard, gas holders, long sheds.

Trains whizzed into the depths of the earth; clouds of industrial smoke billowed skyward. The horizon was hidden in a powdery haze.

We hadn’t spoken since those minutes in rue Jacob. The skirts of Chantal’s dress, pale blue stripes, swung out as she walked beside me. I tried to forget Leibold’s face.

She looked at me. “Why did you do it?”

They were sitting around here and there, drinking. Dozens of Luftwaffe personnel, fitted out with photographic equipment. A soldier fed the sparrows, looking around proudly whenever a bird picked up a crumb and flew away.

A P R I L I N PA R I S . 109

“They’re your own people,” Chantal said, pressing me for an answer.

“Yes.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t know why.”

Murmurs hung in the treetops. A violinist presented himself in the entrance of the restaurant and slid his fiddle under his chin. We passed a fountain on the way. I rolled up my shirtsleeves and drank. I wiped my hands on my shirt and stared at Chantal.

“They’re looking for your father, too,” I said. The sweaty tendon in her throat tempted me to touch her.

“He’s safe tonight.” She looked back involuntarily. “We’re going to meet tomorrow …” She stopped short.

I smiled. “Don’t say it. I’m the
boche.
”

“You’re the
boche,
” she repeated.

We reached the big terrace, the end of our climb up the Butte de Montmartre. The white marble mountain range of Sacré-

Coeur loomed above us. Hundreds of people were crowding the hill. At our feet, the city filled every corner of the visible world.

Two sergeants poked the air, shouting to each other the names of the buildings they recognized. One after another, Chantal and I laid our four hands on the railing. I could feel the reddening sun on the back of my neck.

“This flat,” Chantal said. “Does it really exist?”

I hadn’t thought about Hirschbiegel’s apartment in a long time. He himself had never mentioned it again. Cautiously, I patted my chest—and felt the little key. All those weeks, I’d carried the thing in my pocket, and now I pulled it out in disbelief. It had a silvered head etched with tiny curlicues.

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“It exists,” I said.

“The Jew’s flat in the second arrondissement.” Chantal kept her eyes on the view.

“Where is that?” I asked. She pointed downward.

Hirschbiegel had mentioned the address only once. I was con-vinced the name of the street had slipped my mind, but then, effortlessly, it appeared: Faillard. Without hesitation, I said,

“Number twelve, rue Faillard.”

Chantal nodded, turned away, and collided with a corporal, who apologized without leering.

We went down the eastern side of the hill. As I walked, I clutched the key. What if the flat were stuffed with German junk?

The Führer’s picture, German canned goods, postcards from Hei-delberg?

The street ended in rue Clignancourt. What had looked like an unending labyrinth from above turned out to be, with some effort, negotiable. We reached rue La Fayette; we plunged into the chaos of rue Saint-Denis. Chantal didn’t once ask for directions. Antoine accompanies the bookseller’s daughter to the lieutenant’s flat, I thought.

At the boundary of the second arrondissement, they’d set up a barricade, and they were driving the people out of the Métro and into the daylight. Close beside me, a man in a steel helmet was bellowing, “Out! Out!”

“Peut-être une bombe en cadeau,”
Chantal said with a smile.

She pressed on amid the indignant Parisians. The streets grew emptier. Now she walked faster and looked up a lot.

faillard was written on the venerable sign above our heads.

A P R I L I N PA R I S . 111

Nine, eleven—we crossed the street—number twelve. My eyes leapt to the entry bell; Chantal’s finger pressed it. I prayed to the god of concierges. Seconds crept by. A buzzing sound, and then the door opened a crack. Chantal thrust her hand inside. We slipped past the little booth before anyone could look out of it.

I climbed the stairs slowly, reading the doorplates in the dwin-dling light. Old French names. Where was Hirschbiegel’s proxy’s name?

Fourth floor, last chance. Would there be a lock the silver key would fit into? I was still on the top step when I read the gold nameplate: wasserlof. Relieved, I stepped to the door.

“What about your friend?” Chantal asked as I carefully pushed the key into the keyhole.

“He’s not here.” I stuck the key in too deep, pulled it back a little, wiggled it, concentrated all my feeling in my fingertips. The key wouldn’t turn. Chantal stood behind me, waiting. I licked the sweat off my upper lip. Changed hands. Leaned my forehead against the door. The teeth made contact, and there was some play in the lock, but nothing in it moved.

“Let me try.” Chantal gave me an energetic push to one side, wiped the oily key dry on my jacket, and effortlessly unlocked the door. It sprang inward, as though it had been under tension for a long time. The bottom of the door squealed against the floor; the floorboards had warped. Chantal gave me back the key and let me enter first.

Semidarkness. Two rooms, the bedroom facing the street. Furniture the likes of which I’d never seen. Everything looked
installed
, somehow. Dark wood, trunks, hinges. At first sight, there were no 112 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R

German emblems, nothing that could remind Chantal of the enemy. Old newspapers, all in French. In the kitchen, Russian tea.

“Does your friend go to sea?” She was standing in the middle of the bedroom. The evening sun shone through her dress.

I realized that the room was outfitted like a ship’s cabin. Everything made of teak and screwed down tight, as if the possibility of stormy seas in rue Faillard was not to be discounted. The furniture was nautical.

Steps from below. I stood still, but Chantal blithely went to the window. One floor down, a door was unlocked. The tenant left. Accordion music came from somewhere. The shutters were closed; Chantal opened one of them and let some air into the flat.

I stepped behind her; she turned around. Inch by inch, with downcast eyes, she sank onto my chest. Her forehead lay against my shoulder. With great care, I wrapped my arms around her.

Fabric brushed across fabric.

“What’s that?” She pressed her fingers against my back.

I remembered my ID tags. Name and number, Wehrmacht corporal.

“Nothing,” I said, stiffening.

“That was something.” She tried to find the spot again.

“It’s an amulet. A lucky charm.”

“Why do you wear it on your back?”

I disengaged myself from her. “I’m all sweaty,” I said, and left the room. Out in the hall, I had two doors to choose from. I opened the broom closet, closed it, went into the bathroom and shot the bolt.

Soap, toothpaste, talcum—all German brands. I ran the water.

A P R I L I N PA R I S . 113

Gathered the stuff together, opened the transom window, and threw everything into the air shaft. A tinkling sound came from far below. I couldn’t get my belt off; my buttons seemed too small. I slipped my shirt off nervously, removed the chain with the tags, and hid them in the laundry hamper. Then I washed myself. A silk bathrobe hung on the door.

“Antoine!” she called from outside.

“Yes?”

“What’s your real name?”

I pulled the robe on and tied the cord. “My name is Antoine!”

In the mirror, there was no longer anything German about me.

When I stepped out, Chantal was standing in the bedroom.

She bent over the mattress, which was firm and tightly packed; it probably came from the Reich. As she straightened up, she smiled at the robe. It was too short for me.

“Now I have to know,” she said. “Why did you do it?” I was silent. The cold silk gave me the shivers. “Perhaps”—her eyes grew scornful—“because you’re a Frenchman
at heart
?” She sat on the edge of the bed. “Or is it just that you don’t like the war?”

“War’s nothing special,” I replied gruffly. “There’s always war.”

“Then all that’s left is the French solution to the puzzle.” She seemed sad for a moment. “You did it for a woman.”

I looked away, toward the window. Outside, things were turning blue. I thought about Leibold. Maybe, at this very moment, he was lying on a bed like this, but his mattress was French and he sank into the middle of it, staring at a blanket like ours. He’d had bad luck today, but at some point the image of the kissing couple would return to his mind, and maybe he’d realize who it was he’d 114 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R

been looking at. If he thought about it long enough, he might even come to a conclusion. How much time did I have left?

I sat beside her, looked down through the opening in my bathrobe, and contemplated the folds of my skin. We held hands.

Hers were brown and sinewy. I couldn’t begin enjoying this situation, this intoxicating moment, right away.

“Where are you?” Chantal grabbed me by the hair.

Her shoulders; the blue ceiling. The evening had become heavy. I tried to get up again and close the shutters. She wouldn’t let me go.

I woke up suddenly during the night. Wanted to know why.

Melodies came to me, but not sung, only thought. Chantal’s leg lay across mine. Slowly, I stroked her thigh and her knee, contemplating her beautiful, relaxed body, her regular breathing. When she turned her head and her hair fell over her face, I gently pushed it aside. The next moment, she bounded from deep sleep into glassy wakefulness.

“Are they coming?” She drew away from me and sat up.

I tried to pull her back. She pressed her shoulder blades against the headboard. “What time is it?”

I gestured toward the window. Everything was still black outside; no gray shimmer yet.

“Chantal—”

“Yes?”

“I can’t remember this song.”

“Song?” She shook her head in the dark.

A P R I L I N PA R I S . 115

“A popular tune.”

“And how should I—”

I scooted closer to her. “If I don’t remember it, I won’t be able to go back to sleep.”

She slowly stroked my collarbone. “You’re the craziest
boche
they’ve ever sent here. So how does this song go?”

I hummed a few notes. “It’s about a girl. Someone loves her in April. In the summer, she’s alone again.”

Chantal nodded. “In April,” she repeated gravely.

I remembered some words:
“Avril prochain—je reviens.”
Deep, brief notes. “Do you know it?”

Chantal sang in her boyish voice. The result was a new, un-wieldy melody. I pulled the covers up and felt drowsiness returning. Chantal was wide-awake now. She began to caress me, refusing to let me fall asleep on her breast. She sniffed my armpits, my belly, and slid on top of me. The oval of her navel, a dark moon, danced up and down.

Chantal washed her underarms and her breasts. I sat on the lid of the toilet seat and smoked. The windows were open. It was so early, the city was still giving only isolated signs of life.

“Why do you work in Turachevsky’s?” I asked.

The hand with the washcloth slowed down. “Don’t go there anymore.” She turned her back to me again.

“Because of the money?” I felt the question pushing her away from me.

She bound up her hair and pinned it together on the nape of 116 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R

her neck. Covering her chest with her arms, she turned around.

“I don’t want you to see me there.”

“Like the other
boches
?”

“Right.”

I stood up. “This is the only place where we can meet.”

She gazed at me with tired, lascivious eyes.

“Tonight?” I asked.

“Maybe tonight.”

I threw the cigarette into the toilet. “What are you going to do now?”

“Look for Gustave. They didn’t get him—I can feel it.”

I contemplated the two of us in the mirror. She smoothed my shirt and hugged me. A horn sounded outside, in front of the building. We both flinched.

Chantal left first. “I’ll get here a little before eight and wait for you downstairs,” she said.

We didn’t kiss each other again. Confused, I stayed behind in the strange flat, amid the ship’s furniture. By the light of the rising sun, I removed the Wehrmacht emblem from my underpants.

I locked up carefully, kissing the key like an ally. On the way down the stairs, I considered whether I’d have enough time to take Monsieur Antoine’s laundry bag to the hotel before I went on duty.

Iput the bag under the desk. An SS corporal looked up briefly, then bent back over his lists. My table was the smallest and the farthest from the window. No one had called for me yet. I took my seat, reached for the transcripts of yesterday’s interrogations, and began translating them.

Half an hour later, Rieleck-Sostmann stepped out of Leibold’s office. I was hoping for a sign or a look that might indicate the barometer reading in there. Rieleck-Sostmann walked past me.

“He’s waiting,” she said to my back. When I turned around, she was already filing papers.

I gathered up notepad and pencils, knocked on the door, and entered. Leibold was on the telephone. I came to attention; he took his time. At last, he hung up.

“Feeling better today?” He fastened the topmost button of his uniform. “Did you go swimming?”

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