Again, the old man clucked his tongue, but this time he ground the back of his false teeth. ‘No money.’ Sadly, he shook his head. ‘And what are you going to do about it?’
‘Me? What can I do?’
‘Stop squandering it in Fontainebleau.’
Muttering to himself, he led me into the house. ‘You’ll take a glass of marc, I suppose?’ Wine would not be strong enough.
‘Of course. Please … Georges, if there’s some way, I’ll repay you for all you’ve done.’
‘Why? What are we to you? It’s the times, madame.’
By some sort of osmosis, Tante Marie sensed not only that there was no more money but that they wouldn’t be paid what they were owed and that the land their cottage was on and the cottage, too, could well be in jeopardy.
She was taller than her husband and thinner, her plain, flowered housedress clinging to an angular sparseness. Once blonde and blue-eyed, and quite pretty some said, she was now iron-grey, hard-eyed, and tired most of the time, or so she would complain if given the least opportunity. ‘Jules hasn’t said this. It’s you who have done it.’
I shook my head but clung to Marie. ‘It’s simply that he doesn’t make enough money.’
Tante Marie was swift. ‘The taxes?’
They had already heard, of course, but I told them anyway. One couldn’t keep secrets, not from these people, not for long. They’d have factored in the income taxes, too, that Jules had probably not yet paid. Merde, even I hadn’t thought of those until now. What were we to do?
‘Your sister?’ asked the woman, pinning me down so that the marc, that rough wash of the barrel, dribbled over the chipped crystal Jules’s mother had thrown out ages ago. ‘Any fool could have seen that coming. Why didn’t you?’
I shrugged and clung to Marie.
‘Has he been gambling?’ accused the woman. ‘Have the two of them run off to Monte Carlo again?’
Again! I pleaded with them to tell me what they knew, though of course they wouldn’t, but Monte Carlo, the casino this past summer, that loan Jules had taken out at the bank, the taxes, too? ‘I’ll see that you’re paid your back wages. That’s the least I can do, but if you should care to come for a glass of wine or bowl of soup, you’re most welcome.’
The open road beckoned, and I tried to tell myself that the day was still beautiful, the air still clear and cool.
‘Maman, look!’
That dark forest-green Packard was parked in front of the house again, but of its owner there was no sign.
There’s a damp handkerchief crumpled in my fist. Dr. Laurier has stopped the car at the side of the road, but I’ve no recollection of her having done so. The dawn has broken. ‘Forgive me. It’s stupid of me to cry. Tommy …’
‘He was your lover, Lily. You have every right.’
‘He was my comrade-in-arms, damn you. I could have stopped it all, don’t you see? Me, I was to blame for everything.’
After a moment, I hear her say, ‘We can get something to eat in a little while. You’ve a phenomenal memory. Your ability to live in the past is truly remarkable. You make me feel as if I’m right there with you.’
‘I’ve had to use my memory. It’s fed me since the autumn of 1943, since when I was taken.’
‘By Dupuis.’
‘By him and some others, but mostly by the Obersturmführer Schiller of the SS, the lieutenant.’
‘Tell me about Tommy. I’d like to know more about him.’
I hear the car start up. I let my mind drift. I try to tell myself that Schiller’s no longer a problem, that he’s bound to have been killed or put in prison, that I’m finally going home and soon the nightmare will be over.
The last of the embers glowed in the fireplace. Tommy gave a contented sigh and eased a sleeping Marie-Christine off his lap and into my arms. I knew I was at a very dangerous point. I still couldn’t get over his dropping in. He’d been to Switzerland, was on his way to England. As we left the library, I let my mind drift back over the late afternoon. The bulky cable-knit sweater, baggy brown cords, and boots were still fixed in memory. He had been down at the end of the garden, eating an apple and examining the lay of the land with the curiosity and delight of a prospective buyer. In that broken, atrocious accent, he had said he hoped the intrusion wouldn’t inconvenience me, but my delight had all but overwhelmed me, and I had begun to wonder about him.
‘Marie, sleep well, my little one.’ Bending over her, I tucked the covers up, added another blanket, and left the door ajar in case she should waken in the night.
Tommy was in Jean-Guy’s room, standing by the bed, examining the model fighter aeroplane that hung by a length of string from the ceiling. In the half-light from the corridor, we were very close. He had raised two partridges just before we had found him that day. ‘Will you really take him hunting tomorrow?’ I softly asked. ‘He’s so excited, he’ll dream of it all night.’
‘He should. I did when my dad first promised to take me with him.’
‘And the permit? Will you break the law and cause me to lose my husband’s boyhood rifle?’
A single-shot Browning, a lovely gun and just the thing because it was so light and one couldn’t miss with only one shot.
Tommy grinned. I could see that he was just as excited by the prospect as Jean-Guy. ‘If we shoot at all, we’ll do it quietly.’
Softly closing the door, I led him back to the library. ‘Would you like another cognac?’ I asked, my voice uncertain. The embers had all but lost their glow. The need to be held by someone was so very strong in me. The need to feel the warmth of a lover’s arms if only for a night, made me silent and ashamed.
‘Another cognac,’ he said throwing more wood on the fire, and took the bottle from me and replenished our glasses. ‘Tell me about your husband?’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’ I shook my head and took a quick sip, but had it shown, my wanting to go to bed with him?
‘Is your passport French?’ he asked.
I was startled. ‘My passport …? Ah, no. I’ve never changed it. Being married to Jules, I’ve simply taken things for granted. No one here has asked. Why should they? I’m as French as any of them.’
This time, he sat in one of the chairs but leaned over to rest his elbows on his knees so as to be closer to the fire. ‘I assume you know, of course, why you haven’t been issued gas masks. Only those with French parents are getting them as of now. Surely, Jean-Guy has told you this. The school …’
A scraped knee, a torn shirt. Nothing said by my son, but his pride hurt by something I hadn’t even understood: a British mother.
I told him then that I’d wanted to take the children to England, but that Jules had said they were sending some things from the Louvre to be stored here.
Tommy nodded. ‘That was wise of him. I’m glad to hear of it.’
But would it help? I could see that he was thinking this over but was too conscious of my feelings to have said.
‘What did you do with the earrings?’ he asked.
‘Me? I put them back in the box where they’d come from.’
That led to a discussion of my father-in-law’s mistress, to reminders of the Lautrecs, and finally to my showing him the contents of that box.
For the longest time, he simply sat looking down at that jewellery, the firelight catching the intense interest over which I could have known nothing then.
At last, he fished out the tiara. ‘It’s paste,’ I heard myself saying. ‘A fake but obviously a very good one.’
Tommy set the box aside and ran a thumb over the emeralds-I’d have given anything to have known then what he did for a living, his reason for being here, for showing up at the oddest of times.
He chuckled and said, half in wonder, half in surprise, ‘A fake. Who would have guessed? Well, even if it is one, I’d still like to see it on you.’
What can I say about that gown I went to put on? I had three of them and chose the one I thought would suit best. It was sleeveless, with a V-neck, and of a dark brown, incredibly soft velvet. I parted my hair in the middle at the front and pinned it tightly back, wore those earrings, too, and sandals. Dieu merci, that gown still fit, for I’d not worn it in such a long, long time.