The Lavender Keeper (23 page)

She checked herself in the small mirror, pinched her cheeks and made sure her eyebrows were perfectly groomed. In these days of sobriety, she had to make the most of her features without make-up. One of the older ladies in Montmartre village had given her some dried rose petals, suggesting she crush them and mix them with a little glycerine to make a sort of lipstick. Lisette now dabbed a little of the pink paste onto her lips with a handkerchief. She looked at herself critically, touching the bounce of a gleaming curl, washed as best as she could with a homemade soap. She cast a prayer of thanks to
her parents for her high cheekbones, heart-shaped face, clear complexion. She’d never studied herself so critically before. Tonight, however, it was her looks as much as her language skills and ability to charm that would count.

Finally satisfied, she pulled on her heavy coat, ensured her ID papers were in her handbag, dabbed on some lavender scent and reached for her gloves.

Lisette Forester, now Forestier, with her sights firmly set on a ritzy café in St Germain, set out with purpose and the faint scent of lavender perfuming her thoughts.

Kilian smiled broadly. ‘Herr Eichel, it’s good to see you again.’ He extended a hand as the banker stood to greet him. ‘Have I kept you?’ He hated to be late.

‘Not at all,’ the older man said, shaking Kilian’s hand before gesturing to the seat opposite. ‘My driver made much better time than I’d imagined she would.’ A friendly grin stretched across his features. ‘Call me Walter, by the way. I’m glad we’ve had this chance to meet again.’

Kilian pulled off his gloves and coat. It was stuffy inside the large café after the brisk night air. ‘As am I. It’s cool but a magnificent evening, isn’t it? Perfect for walking.’ He looked around at the crowded space that was known for its scholarly and artistic patrons.

‘You walked here? I’m impressed. I thought all of you uniformed men liked your drivers and cars.’

Kilian sighed. ‘I must admit that being behind a desk is a most unhappy place for me.’

Eichel smiled. ‘What will you have?’ The waiter had appeared.

‘Cognac. Bring some food too. Something to graze on, or the cognac will go straight to my head.’

‘Of course, Colonel,’ the waiter said, recognising Kilian’s uniform. ‘And for you, sir?’

‘I’ll have the same,’ Walter replied.

Kilian watched the waiter disappear into the crowd. ‘It’s certainly a busy watering hole.’

‘Been here before?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve been meaning to. I’m told it’s one of the places to be seen.’

Walter shrugged, casting a glance around the thriving establishment. On a street corner in the elegant sixth arrondissement, it was said to be the best café in Paris. ‘It is, but I suspect that’s the very reason you’ve probably stayed away.’

Kilian gave him a wry look; it seemed Eichel already had his measure.

‘You should come in the morning,’ Eichel continued. ‘It’s peaceful, just a few writers debating philosophy or working off hangovers, and even the wintry sun smiles here nice and early.’ He waved a hand at the nearby church. ‘And St Germain des Prés looks lovely in the morning light. It dates back to the sixth century, you know.’

‘Les Deux Magots? What does this name mean?’ Kilian wondered as the waiter returned with balloon glasses of cognac.

Walter turned and pointed. ‘Those two statues on the central pillar are traditional Chinese merchants.
Deux Magots
– it came from a play of the same name last century when this place was a drapery, I gather. Now it’s the haunt of academics,
philosophers, artists and particularly writers,’ he said, ‘a place where us Germans can feel intellectual … pretend we haven’t been imbecilic enough to wage war on the rest of the world.’

Kilian gave a burst of laughter. He raised his glass. ‘What are we drinking to?’

‘How about to the survival of artists through these dark times?’ Walter replied. ‘Ever seen the work of the Spaniard, Picasso? Curious and haunting, always provocative. He’s here all the time. Likes that table over there.’

Kilian clinked glasses with him. ‘To art and all things beautiful.’

The food arrived and so began some small talk about the progress of the war, of business in troubled times, and ultimately of Hitler’s disastrous decision to take Germany into Russia, where men were dying daily in the tens of thousands.

‘The Russians don’t need bullets,’ Kilian was saying, ‘the weather and starvation is doing the work for the Soviets. Besides, the real threat is not the east – it’s in the south. The Americans already have North Africa. If they take Italy, it will open a new front and the British and the Americans can strike us right where we’re exposed.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not the only one who thinks this, of course.’ He couldn’t say more without crossing an invisible line. ‘I feel so pointless in the scheme of things.’

‘One can only wonder whose toes you stepped on to land yourself such a curious desk job.’ If anything, Walter sounded impressed.

‘Highest possible, I’m afraid,’ Kilian admitted. They shared a comfortable chuckle and sat back to sip their cognacs. The café had become even more crowded but Kilian liked its atmosphere. He glanced beyond the windows to the terrace,
where lesser mortals braved the cool evening to enjoy their drinks on the pavement. His attention was caught by a young woman standing near the door, peering in as though searching for someone. He watched her absently, admiring her sweet heart-shaped face, pinches of colour at her cheeks from the cold; he was surprised when her gaze fell on their table and she reacted as if she knew Walter.

‘Walter, are you expecting company?’

‘No. Why do you ask?’

Kilian blinked. ‘Well, a vision has just glided in and seems to be looking your way.’ He stared over Walter’s shoulder at the approaching woman, who became more beautiful the closer she came.

Eichel swung around, frowning. ‘I can’t imagine … Oh, wait – yes, it’s Lisette, my goddaughter.’ He waved her over. ‘Her parents and I were very good friends; they are both sadly deceased. She’s been doing some work for me these last couple of months while she settles herself in Paris.’

Kilian watched the young woman pull off her headscarf to reveal glossy, shoulder-length raven hair; she shook it carelessly as she weaved her way through the crowd. She had a dazzling smile, with dimples, no less, and what eyes! Now that Kilian could see them clearly he realised they were an incredible blue, like that child actress he’d seen on posters for a film about a dog called Lassie. He couldn’t think of a more beautiful colouring. He was even more enchanted when, ignoring him and full of gushing excuses and kisses, she allowed Eichel to help her off with her coat. Kilian couldn’t help but notice how her silk blouse tightened across her breasts – just for a moment – as she stretched to shrug off the heavy garment. He was staring, lost in a bubble
of pure eroticism before he realised Walter was making introductions.

He immediately stood to his full height, towering over the newcomer as she offered her hand. ‘
Enchanté, mademoiselle
.’ He kissed her hand.

Her smile was as warming as his cognac. ‘Forgive me for interrupting you, Colonel,’ she offered in flawless German. ‘I thought I saw Walter sitting here and had to say hello.’

‘Indeed,’ Walter said, pulling out what must have been the one spare chair in the whole café. ‘Were you passing?’

‘No, I’m supposed to be meeting a friend, but …’ She shrugged. ‘He doesn’t appear to be here.’

‘Then you must let us claim you for ourselves,’ Kilian offered. ‘At least until your friend arrives.’

‘I don’t think I should interrupt—’

‘Please,’ Kilian insisted. ‘It would be a delight. Walter, we had nothing specific to discuss, did we?’

‘Not at all.’ He turned to Lisette. ‘The colonel is quite new to Paris so I thought I should make him feel welcome. This is purely social.’

‘Mademoiselle Forestier, can we offer you an aperitif?’ Kilian asked.

He noticed how she glanced at her benefactor, almost as though seeking his permission. He found her deference charming. Walter gave a small nod. Bravo! The evening had brightened considerably; he was tired of talking about Hitler, the price of gold, the winter in Russia.

‘May I suggest a calvados?’ he offered.

Her eyes widened. ‘Do you know, I’ve always wanted to try one.’

‘And you never have?’

She gave a slightly embarrassed shrug. ‘I’m not very worldly, Colonel Kilian.’

‘Well, we must work on that,’ he replied. ‘I personally believe that very few French drinks, including your heralded champagne, can match the singular joy of a fresh calvados in the summer served over ice. Except perhaps the dark beauty of a calvados aged maybe four, even six years, in a barrel, served at room temperature on a frosty evening in Paris.’ He had held her gaze intimately, and it was worth it to see her break into a dazzling laugh.

‘Colonel Kilian, you make a drink sound like poetry.’

‘Calvados is art,’ he said, raising his forefinger for the waiter.

‘A glass of Boulard for the
mademoiselle
.’ He spoke in German.

‘
Merci
,’ Lisette said to the waiter with a polite smile, then turned to him with a much wider one. ‘Thank you. What a treat,’ she continued in German.

‘Walter, how is that you have a flawlessly bilingual girl working for you and I can’t find anyone who knows her German even vaguely as well as her French?’

Walter shrugged amiably. He was leaning back watching, enjoying his cognac.

‘Mademoiselle Forestier, how about coming and working for me?’ Kilian quipped. ‘I shall pay you double whatever your godfather does.’

‘Oh, but I am very expensive, sir,’ she remarked in the same light-hearted tone.

Kilian wondered whether this bright young thing was flirting with him. He did hope so. Her drink arrived.

‘Swirl it around the bowl,’ he advised.

While she watched the amber, syrupy apple brandy move like liquid gold around the glass, Kilian regarded her. Eichel’s goddaughter was gorgeous; he imagined she must be mid-twenties, almost half his age. She was lean and angular, just how he liked a woman, so her clothes hung off her shoulders like a mannequin.

‘
Santé
,’ she said, seemingly unaware of his appraisal as she lifted her glass to each of her companions. ‘Thank you for keeping me company.’

‘It doesn’t look as if your friend is coming,’ Walter remarked. ‘It’s nearly seven-thirty. What time were you supposed to meet?’

‘Seven,’ Lisette said. ‘And I was late.’

‘Then it is his loss,’ Kilian said. ‘If he arrives now, I would feel obliged to punch him on the nose.’

This amused Lisette. Her response made Kilian realise that it had been too long since he’d enjoyed a woman’s happy laughter.

They picked at snacks and talked about the opera, about Montmartre, about rationing and about life in Strasbourg before the war. Kilian told them a little about his family and made them laugh at his ‘near misses’, as he termed the times he’d almost married. He was impressed at how Lisette remained quietly captivated. By nine p.m. promises had been made between the men to go to a musical recital together, more than a couple of cognacs had been consumed, and Walter had begun to look at his watch.

‘Well, I must get home. My housekeeper will have left some food and I dare not miss it in these days of rationing. Do you need a lift, Lisette?’ Eichel said, after draining the last of his glass.

‘That’s very kind of you, but I think I’ll walk. I’ve been inside all day.’

He shook his head. ‘Curfew – you’ll never make it by eleven.’

‘I walk fast. It will clear my head of the effects of my delicious calvados … Thank you both so much once again for your kindness.’

Eichel didn’t look convinced by Lisette’s explanation. Kilian took his chance.

‘Walter, with your permission, I don’t mind seeing Mademoiselle Forestier back to Montmartre. No one will dare question her; at least with me she is safe.’

He’d meant it sincerely but the innuendo was there. Walter laughed and Lisette had the grace to blush.

Kilian turned to Lisette. ‘May I walk you back to your flat?’

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

‘Well,’ Walter began, hauling his bulk into a standing position. ‘This has been most enjoyable. Good night, my dear,’ he said, kissing Lisette lightly on both cheeks. ‘I’m sure I’ll see you at the bank tomorrow. Kilian, good to see you again.’ The two men shook hands.

‘Please, I shall see to the bill,’ Kilian said, pulling out some notes. When Eichel began to protest, he made a tutting sound. Walker thanked him again and made his way out.

‘Well, Mademoiselle Forestier, shall we take some night air?’

She smiled, and allowed him to help her with her coat. He gazed approvingly at her slim shoulders, and when he unintentionally brushed her skin with his hand, he felt a thrill pulse through him. He was as giddy as a teenager. He shook
his head behind Lisette as he watched her tuck the last strands of hair into her scarf, and wondered if his self-imposed solitary lifestyle for the past few years had begun to work against him.

She turned and he was nearly caught staring wistfully at her. He smiled just in time and was able to offer an arm to lead her through the café, whose population had drastically thinned out as everyone made tracks to beat the curfew. Only men in uniform were in no rush.

The fresh air hit him like a slap and he was glad of the glow of cognac in his belly. He yawned. ‘Forgive me,
mademoiselle
.’

‘A big day?’ she asked.

‘Yes, lots of paper shuffling around my desk and no navigator. I am a man of action, not one who likes signing his name.’

‘You should get your secretary to forge it, then,’ she said with a giggle before shivering visibly in the cold.

He hesitated. ‘Let me call for my driver.’

She gave a soft, utterly delightful noise of protest. ‘No, Colonel, please. I’m fine, and truly, I do prefer to walk. After the winter we’ve had, this is nothing. Besides, Paris is beautiful at night, especially when it’s so quiet like this.’

He smiled. ‘I suppose you’ve never had the opportunity to walk Paris when it’s truly deserted.’

She shook her head.

‘I do it all the time. I pretend the city is mine.’

‘What a dream.’

‘Then, let us walk slowly and very soon there will be no one on the streets but you and I.’

‘Oh, how romantic!’ she murmured to herself, and once again he was charmed by this breath of fresh air that had breezed into his life.

‘Please, call me Markus,’ he instructed warmly and held out an arm, which she readily linked hers through. ‘Do you have a favourite route?’

‘Through the gardens, via the Louvre, up past Madeleine, Galeries Lafayette and up the hill to Montmartre. And please do call me Lisette.’

‘Quite a long way around, then, Lisette.’

‘If Paris is mine tonight, I want to take my time to enjoy her.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, and led her towards the river. He sighed inwardly, imagining they must look like a pair of lovers heading deeper into the mist. If only it were true.

Lisette hadn’t been prepared to enjoy Markus Kilian; in fact, for all of the preparation since she’d first been briefed about her curious mission, she’d hated him in her mind. It was the only way. She’d already known he was well bred, but she’d been disarmed by his charm and handsome looks. She’d anticipated a more stereotypical heel-clicking, tightly wound officer, lacking in humour; someone who bragged of his soldiering achievements. Instead, here was a charismatic man who enjoyed music, talking about favourite films with the glee of a teenager, and yet described brandy in the lofty tones of an art critic. He liked women – of that she had no doubt – so London’s mission was spot on; Kilian had been aware of her for every second of her presence. She’d seen him notice her through the café windows and he’d barely taken his eyes off her until she’d promised to join them. She’d made sure she’d shown off her attributes to their best effect and it had worked. Kilian had fallen for all her carefully orchestrated flirtations.