Le Temps des Cerises (23 page)

Eveline is very quiet. I think she
feels guilty, is very guilty, is beside herself
fears for the safety of Jacques. We can only hope he hasn't succumbed to the high altitudes or an enemy bullet. Send a prayer up for him, Maman, when you can and tell Molly I expect a perfect rendition of oh let me see, the ‘Moonlight Sonata' perhaps – a catchy little number if she hasn't heard of it – upon my return.

All my love now and forever,

Your son,

Laurie.

Laurie munched on a biscuit and stretched his legs out again beneath the dark woollen dressing gown. He wanted to take comfort in the fact that he was back in his own little rooms but even they seemed different to him now. Even his rooms were in disguise. His head was busy with thoughts of Eveline or more specifically with thoughts of Alphonse and Eveline. It was as if they'd flown away from him somewhere, like Jacques in his balloon, leaving him dull and earthbound. He ate a hunk of cheese, picking up the crumbs by pressing the tips of his fingers against them, his thin aquiline face serious and drawn. He wrote
Alphonse is well
as a postscript, then put his pen away, not knowing what else to say. The sun poured in through the porthole window, showing up, it seemed to him, the props of an empty stage: a solitary bookcase and bed, a solitary cobweb in one corner as big as the sail of a ship, a solitary mirror reflecting nothing but its own frame shimmering like gold dust, and a solitary character poorly drawn by an artist with hesitating and undecided fingers.

Part Three: Death, Life

Chapter twenty

Eveline looked at herself in the glass with approval. At first glance she might pass for a man, a rather effeminate young man certainly, with a slender figure and a delicate complexion but a man nonetheless. She swung her head from side to side, delighting in the shorn curls (she'd snipped them off herself) that framed her face like a little halo. She looked like some of the statues her father used to carve of cherubim and archangels and her head felt so light without the weight of the hair that she thought it might float off right through the ceiling and straight up to heaven like a miniature hot-air balloon. She smiled then, wishing Jacques could see her now, dressed up in a man's uniform. She had a feeling he'd be vastly amused by the whole spectacle – the little wretch. She was no longer angry with him for running away. She understood only too well his desire to break free, to escape; and she wished him Godspeed whenever she thought of him.

She tucked the brown woollen trousers into the high black boots and stuck her thumbs under the broad belt about her waist just as Maria at 21 Rue de Turbigo had done. She didn't look bad at all, she decided, quite dashing in fact! The trousers clung to her hips, moulding her soft, slender curves and she struck out her legs like a ballet dancer just for fun and the freedom of movement. She tilted her chin the way Alphonse did and posed with her hands on her hips, giggling to herself as she did it. All she needed was a pipe and a beard to pass muster in any men's club or regiment. And then her face turned serious for it was only now, in the full transformation of dress, that the endless possibilities opened up to her. She could go anywhere like this in disguise as a man, do anything, say anything, be anything she wanted. Not only was there freedom of movement, there was freedom of action, or so it seemed to her at that moment as she stared at the strange reflection in the glass. Herself yet not herself. It was like jumping into a different skin, and this new skin was no barrier to the outside world. This skin was a passport to it, to freedom, adventure, fun. It was the difference between a cocoon and a butterfly. No more being confined, muffled up, pretending deaf and dumbness. She could sing, shout, fly with the best of them, drink herself silly under the table if she felt so inclined, tread the boulevards at night with complete immunity, curse to the heavens without being frowned upon, grab life by the throat and take what she wanted from it without being seen as a whore or a witch. No more waiting for life to come to her. No more hanging around for Laurie to poke his nose out of a poetry book and remember her existence. No more hanging around for her father to poke his nose out of his coffin and demand to know the time or what was for dinner or whether the dreaded Madame Larousse had been after him again (as she had been many times since the ne'er to be forgotten Christmas dinner). No more hanging around for Alphonse to return from one of his so-called secret missions and regale her with selected details while she simpered at his feet like a lovesick puppy. This time she was ready for him. This time she was going with him.

The gentle rat-tat-tat of pebbles on the window heralded his arrival and she took one last look at herself in the mirror before striding over and staring out into the night. She could just about make out his shape tall and straight beside the front doorstep and she threw her handkerchief out of the window to signal she was on her way then scampered down the rickety stairs past her father who was moaning to himself in his coffin. Eveline's heart pounded with excitement in anticipation of Alphonse's reaction and when she opened the door to him he almost fell over backwards then recovered himself with remarkable aplomb, redeeming himself completely by uttering a long, low appreciative whistle.

‘Our very own modern-day Joan of Arc! I think it suits you, Miss Eveline.'

She smiled and invited him in for a cinnamon cake and coffee, thinking ruefully to herself that it wasn't as easy as all that to get over the role of little mother. She'd been baking away all afternoon, delighted to be back in the kitchen with an abundance of ingredients; and the whole house smelled temptingly of sweet and savoury snacks, biscuits and warm loaves. Madame Larousse had turned up at around tea time, sniffing her head off and Eveline had given her a tray of currant buns much to her father's disgust. She hadn't gone back to work yet for the pâtisserie had been blown up during the bombardment and was still in a state of disrepair. She hadn't even thought she'd missed it but truth to tell she'd spent several happy days experimenting with strange combinations of flavours, textures and scents; and had a million and one ideas to go back to work with. She had a feeling a new gastronomic wave was about to hit the streets – after the four-month deprivation in taste and sense – and she wanted to be in on the crest of it. She'd rolled liquorice plaits, filled buns with lemon and lavender, even tried a sugarless marzipan dough, though that had not been an unqualified success. And yet she'd found great comfort too, baking the old traditional recipes like gingerbread and Easter biscuits, her fingers and mind revelling again in the repetitive and the familiar. I can bake, she'd said to herself, and be a soldier at the same time!

Alphonse didn't seem to be able to take his eyes off her as she moved about, serving him up his coffee with a sprinkling of sugar and a dollop of fresh cream; and she didn't know whether it was because he knew she was sweetening him up for something or because she really did look too good to be true.

‘You've been busy,' he commented, sniffing almost as hard as Madame Larousse had done and she nodded in agreement. ‘I could open up my own pâtiserrie with all the baking I've done! How much should I charge for a tray of current buns? I gave one away to Madame Larousse this afternoon.'

‘That depends,' Alphonse replied cheekily, sipping his coffee with his eyes closed, ‘on how good they are!'

‘Oh, they're good,' Eveline replied, smiling at the closed eyes because everyone did that now, everyone drank real coffee again as if it was pure heaven. She wondered if it wasn't such a bad idea after all to open up her own little pâtisserie or even a café. All she had to do was get rid of her father's statues and coffin, sparkle the windows up a bit. She imagined her customers lining up with their eyes half closed to get a taste of her coffee and cake. She felt quite excited about the idea and chatted on merrily about it as she cut out a cinnamon cake for him. ‘I could call it Eveline's. Or maybe Renan's. I like the sound of Eveline's – it's a good name for a café… Papa could make some chairs and tables, maybe do a bit of waiting…well perhaps that isn't such a good idea…'

‘I have to go soon, Eveline,' Alphonse interrupted her, staring at the cake as if she'd laid some sort of trap for him or was trying to seduce him with it.

She took a gulp of scalding black coffee and almost yelled out with the pain of it. Why did he have this effect on her? Why did he still have such an effect on her? In his presence she became a jabbering lunatic, a silent wreck, a ball of frustration and resentment. They'd never spoken about the night they'd spent together at Laurie's though it lay there palpable between them, between the three of them if you included Laurie, as palpable as the cake he was guzzling now.

‘Is it good?' she demanded almost angrily.

‘It's good,' he admitted, wiping the crumbs off his beautifully sculpted lips with the back of a rough, workmanlike hand.

For her it had been a night of ecstasy and shame, excitement and betrayal and she wouldn't have taken it back for the world though she still didn't know what it might have cost her, where it was headed or what it meant to Alphonse. He came and went as he pleased, offering no explanations, no promises, no guarantees.

‘For all I know,' she blurted out now in spite of herself, ‘you really do have a mistress on the Champs Élysées, like they say you do.'

His brilliant blue eyes twinkled in amused astonishment. ‘Who says?'

‘Oh, people… well, do you?'

‘I have neither the time nor the inclination for a mistress,' he replied sternly, pushing the cup and plate away from him as if they were diseased. ‘And if you knew me at all, Eveline Renan, you would know that.'

‘That's the point I'm making,' she responded quickly. ‘I don't know you, don't know anything about you.'

Alphonse sighed. ‘Is this the moment when we have the conversation about how many children we shall have, whether we shall take a town house or a pile in the country, whether I can keep you in the style you're accustomed to. If so, we had better get your father in here, if we can lug him out of that godawful coffin.'

Eveline caught his eye and, much as she wanted to keep a straight face, couldn't refrain from laughing out loud. The thought of hauling her father out of his coffin for such a conversation was too amusing for words, but she wasn't going to let Alphonse off the hook as easily as all that; and she said in a teasing voice: ‘So you've had these conversations before then?'

‘No.' He stared at her seriously and his eyes were warm as they searched her face. ‘But many of my friends have and they say it is like speaking the last few words of freedom before the prison gates shut behind them.'

‘How can it be a prison,' Eveline enquired a little irritatedly, ‘if you're happy with what's there?'

‘It will always be a prison – if you catch so much of a glimpse of
another life behind the bars you will always think the grass is greener. You are just like me in that respect, Evie, whether you want to believe it or not.
'

Eveline looked down at the coffee cup in her hands, tracing the rim with her finger. It was true she had chosen freedom over security, had chosen Alphonse over Laurie as much for the way of life he represented as for his startling beauty. She wanted that way of life for herself, that freedom, that infinite possibility and now here she was, doing what Laurie had done to her, trying to change him, tame him, domesticate him, chain him to her. She realised now that if she wanted him she must take him as he was. He would come and go as he pleased, making no promises, giving no guarantees and nor, for that matter, would she.

‘When do we leave?' she asked then, raising her eyes to his and he looked a little surprised then pleased; and she was struck by the sincerity, the strength and calm of his face. ‘Well, you're dressed for the part. Can you ride a horse?'

‘Yes,' she lied and this time it was his turn to laugh out loud.

‘Save me from the Renans!' he chuckled, throwing up his hands. ‘One is a balloonist, the other sleeps in a coffin and the third is a magnificent horsewoman!'

To her astonishment he bade her stuff as much of the food she'd baked that afternoon as she could into the hessian sack he always kept in his pocket or about his shoulders; and she packed it deftly, tight as a drum, with layer upon layer of pastries, biscuits, cakes and iced buns (leaving one or two out for her father lest he wake hungry in the early hours) until it bulged out like a Christmas sack.

‘Are we feeding the five thousand?' she enquired as he tightened the top and threw it over his back; and he smiled and said: ‘More or less, the greedy beggars,' before kissing her in gratitude and pulling her out of the door behind him.

At first she thought she knew where they were going – they were heading for the Champ de Mars – but then as always he started criss-crossing down alleys, up side streets, taking short cuts over back gardens, through courtyards until her head was in a spin and she hadn't a clue where she was. She thought she knew the city like the back of her hand but now here he was magicking up a new one in its place. She didn't know this tree-lined avenue, these sunken houses, this strange little churchyard with the yawning graves. It was as if she'd stepped into someone else's dream and she rubbed her eyes, feeling a little foolish. Maybe it was just the night, the darkness that transformed everything for even Alphonse looked different – like a little hunchback with the hessian bag banging up and down on his shoulders. She caught a few whiffs of new bread and buns and wondered who the greedy beggars were. Surely not the horses! She didn't know much about horses – maybe they ate iced buns and marzipan dough as happily as grass but she didn't think so. She was about to ask Alphonse who the greedy beggars were when he suddenly pushed her into the graveyard behind a huge stone and put a finger to his lips. She hardly dared breathe as two men walked past, talking loudly in drunken voices and she felt Alphonse relax beside her, obviously relieved. He beckoned her on again and she crept close behind, not daring to make a sound or do anything that might give him cause to send her home again.