Parisian Promises (21 page)

Slowly at first, and then in a semi-coherent gush, Monica recounted the cave abduction, Jean-Michel's browbeating and physical abuse, the surreal drive in the Loire, and the accidental explosion that killed Rémy.

Lola ordered two more drinks, stalling for time. She could barely believe her ears

“My first instinct,” she said slowly, “is to leave you right here and get as far away from you as possible. That's some serious shit you're telling me.”

“Should I go to the embassy or the police?” Monica's face was pale.

“Babe, I grew up in Echo Park, and we never, ever go to the police. That's a sure way to get thrown in jail, especially when you're innocent. I'm not sure whether the French fuzz are the same or not. Let me think.”

They sat in silence for so long that it began to dawn on Monica how serious her problems really were. She began to cry, attracting looks from other tables. Lola stood up, jolted into action.

“Okay, if we're gonna cry a river, then let's at least walk along the Seine. Up, let's go.”

Arm in arm, they walked along the quai. The moon peeked from one cluster of clouds to the next, and melodies escaped from apartment windows.

“Damn, Paris is romantic, even when you're sad and confused,” Lola observed. “I thought by now I'd be dining at the Ritz one night and eating
canard à la presse
at the Tour d'Argent the next with the most handsome of men.”

“Did La Belle Otero eat at those restaurants?”

“What difference would it make?” Lola said wistfully. She looked down at the Seine and let the forlorn words flow from her sad heart into the murky waters. “I put too much faith in her life story––and in Paris. I thought I would somehow develop my talents here––or else my wit would be recognized and I'd be the toast of the town.” She leaned over the water and watched a tear drop into the Seine. As if on cue, a lone accordionist on the opposite quai started playing a heart-wrenching melody that made Lola jump into action.

“Enough of the shadows and clouds and sad melodies. We're not going to say anything to anyone about any car you did
not
drive. Hell, you don't know how to drive a stick shift, but at least you had enough sense to wipe all your prints from the nonexistent car.” Lola chortled at her own nonsensical summary of events. “You were with me the last two days, and that is that.”

They walked briskly along the quai and made a right turn on rue Dauphine, heading for St. Germain des Prés and the lively commotion of university students. “I just have to make one phone call to my cousins in L.A. How many one-franc coins do you have?”

Monica stood outside the pay phone but she couldn't help overhearing Lola's conversation with her cousins.

“Yeah, I got it,” Lola said. “Keep my mouth shut and tell Monica to get back home. Yeah, and that too.”

Just before she hung up, Lola gave one of her loudest Echo Park whistles into the receiver, and laughed.

“What was that all about?” Monica asked when Lola stepped from the booth.

“My cousins have been evading the law for ages. I trust their advice.”

“And the whistle?”

“I've told you before. They taught me how to whistle so I could tell them when there was danger. They always said my whistle was their lucky charm.”

Monica didn't have the heart to tell Lola about Jean-Michel's chilling three-note whistle that petrified and hypnotized her into actions she would prefer to forget. His initial whistle in the middle of the night made her wait in agony at his cold and deserted apartment, never asking anyone for help opening the door. Then, at Les Charmilles, he had stunned her with his surprise-attack whistle that had whetted her sexual appetite in shameful ways.

She had dishonored Christophe and put him in danger, and she yearned to ask his forgiveness. She was desperate to profess her love for him, to feel his benevolence once more. Monica looked up at the moonlit sky that highlighted the bell tower of the church of St. Germain de Prés, and she vowed that if given one more chance, she would convert her shame into heartfelt gratitude for Christophe's virtues.

 

I
f you weren't expecting me, then I'll leave,” Jean-Michel said to the concierge, who was flitting wildly about her apartment, clearly stunned to see him sitting there on her sagging sofa.

She removed her overcoat and hung it on the lone rusty hook behind her door. Under the glare of Jean-Michel's gaze, she tried to tidy up the kitchen counter and make the room look more presentable. But the chipped tiles and permanent stains attested to an undeniable truth: she'd thrown in the towel on a clean and orderly life eons ago. In broad daylight, everything about the concierge's appearance and abode looked dingy, as lifeless and dull as the liver she'd just purchased at the butcher shop.

Of course, she knew this. Her entire life had been one of unremarkable drabness, gray and rough like the Mansard roofs of Paris––that is, until the arrival of the birdcage, with its magenta orchids and shimmering turquoise hummingbird, sent by her secret admirer. She had to pinch herself, seeing her spellbinding prince here tonight, sitting with a cocksure slouch and inviting her to feel young and reckless again.

Jean-Michel pointed to the impressive bulge between his legs. “I couldn't wait outside, could I? Come.” He whistled and commanded her as though she were one of the many dogs in his childhood home. “Show me those expert moves that only a seasoned milkmaid can perform.”

A sour taste rose in the concierge's throat, as offensive as curdled milk, but she approached him anyway and performed the acts he requested. During her hand and mouth maneuvers she feasted her eyes not on Jean-Michel's handsome face, but on the hummingbird's vacuous stare. Although she'd always been thick and clumsy, she felt a kindred spirit with dainty birds, and dreamt of their exotic places of origin. When the surprise bird cage arrived, she knew her prince-in-shining armor saw beyond her mundane life, and wanted to lift her up to heavenly heights.

After she completed her base acts on Jean-Michel, the concierge cleared her throat and rinsed her mouth in the sink. She spat out the last vestige of her hard-to-swallow disillusionment. She had never been light as a feather, but always the slow-gaited gopher running errands for others. And Jean-Michel was no prince––of that she was certain.

“Do you know if Madame Caron de Pichet is alone?” Jean-Michel asked, fastening his belt.

“How should I know?” She could barely look at him. “I was at the butcher shop.”

“Well, then, you'd better run up and see if she is free to see me. And let me know if her American boarders are there. I'll wait right here.”

Madame Caron de Pichet asked the concierge to help her clean up her salon, but the only answer was the concierge's heavy footsteps stomping down the steps. The concierge had no interest in helping Madame: she was eager to get back to her apartment to see what else was in the valise that Jean-Michel had placed next to her sofa. Despite the awful taste in her mouth, she was feeling hopeful––hopeful of discovering a new trinket purchased just for her.

Madame turned off the lights, locked-up Fifi, and lit the candles in her salon. She wanted to open the door the minute she heard Jean-Michel, but she remembered that men like a bit of a chase. She counted until one hundred, and then she opened the door.

“Oh, my, I wasn't expecting you so soon.” She smiled coyly.

Jean-Michel greeted her with a formal bow. “Madame, we must continue with the interview about your involvement in the
Résistance
. People will clamor to read about your escapades. Shall we continue, lovely lady?”

He extended his arm in a gallant movement from decades gone by, and she rested her knobby left hand on his right forearm. They sashayed into dusky gloom of the salon together.

“Last time you entertained me with your unrivaled charm, but today we will remain on point and finish our interview.” He frowned at her. “No hanky-panky.”

“
Oui, d'accord
, let's proceed,” she said, lowering herself as gracefully as possible onto the divan. “I do have numerous examples of my service to my country. There was a time when––”

“Please, Madame, let me ask the questions. But first I must set up my tape recorder.”

He opened up a large briefcase and extracted a small recorder.

“My, that's a tiny recorder. What else do you have in the briefcase? A gift to show your appreciation of my…my storytelling?” Madame hoped she wasn't hinting too obviously about payment for services rendered. Her coquettish requests had always worked in the past. Whether it was a German officer or a titled viscount from the Loire Valley, they'd all appreciated her services and the charm with which she performed them. Men would be so enthralled by her deftness that, soon after their sexual encounter, they'd blurt out all sorts of information about themselves. In particular, all her targets loved to brag about their accomplishments, their daily challenges, and their demanding wives.

Madame used to lie naked alongside her conquests and pretend to sympathize with them, but while her eyes glistened with understanding and her lips stretched in a compassionate smile, she was silently memorizing specific locations and numbers of troops, or changes in routing of arms. Or she was committing to memory the name of the Vicomtesse Challant de la Guerche, whose retaliation her husband feared––to the tune of hundreds of thousands of francs, paid to Madame Caron de Pichet to keep secret his shady involvement with the Vichy government. He valued his status as a landed noble whose lineage had been beyond reproach, that is, until his affiliation with certain collaborators.

“Oh, don't let's speak about such matters,” Jean-Michel said, dismissing her not-so-veiled request. “Let me take you back to Paris during the Vichy Régime. How did you react to the emphasis placed on women as the
femme au foyer
?”

Madame shrugged. “It was just another paternalistic attitude from the regime. They wanted to remind women that motherhood and submissiveness were a sacred duty for us.”

“So was this why you jumped into helping in the
Résistance
?”

“Surely you didn't mean to ask me such a shallow question?” Madame huffed. “I joined the
Résistance
because my country was overrun with German soldiers. We stood in lines to get one measly slice of cheese, while the Germans were shipping kilos and kilos of French cheese to feed their own children. My husband was in a labor camp, and I never saw him again. I was deeply anti-Fascist. I had no choice but to act with courage.”

“Courage, indeed. I understand that many women published underground newspapers, acted as couriers for documents and arms, and even carried dynamite to be used for sabotage. Is this correct?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“But you did not perform any of these high-risk clandestine functions, did you?”

Madame felt jittery, grasping the frayed upholstered arms of her divan to steady herself. “My, you do ask some difficult questions, don't you? Why don't you sit here next to me, and let me calm you down a bit?”

“In good time, Madame.”

“Please call me Marcelle, dear boy.”

“Okay, Marcelle. Why is it that I have not been able to find a single document with your name as a known
Résistance
fighter?”

“Obviously, our work was clandestine.” Madame was very uncomfortable with this line of questioning.

“Brilliant retort. But why is it that I can give you dozens and dozens of names of women
Résistance
fighters, but your own name is not among them? Here, you tell me if you've ever heard of Francine Escande?”

Madame nodded.

“How about Yvonne Dumont?”

“She was a member of the Communist Party and she was involved in politics before the war,” Madame answered.

“I suppose I could read the whole list of names, and never find yours, right?”

Madame stood up so abruptly she felt dizzy. “But what is your point? The women you mention and many more are those whose roles have been documented in history books. I am an unknown
Résistance
fighter, and that is why I thought you wanted to interview me.”

Madame sat down and hung her head, trying to calm her pounding heart.

“I did find a mention of a certain Marcelle who used to make the rounds with the German officers, and received payment for her services. That wasn't you by any chance, was it?”

All Madame could say was, “I always provided my underground
Résistance
liaisons with all the valuable information I extracted from the Germans, believe me!”

“And the only person who can vouch for your dedication as a
Résistance
fighter is old Serge from Les Charmilles, is that right?”

“Alas, all the others are dead.” The weight of her seventy years pressed down on Madame, and she lost any sensual interest in the young man attacking her with such indelicate questions.

Instead of hearing a sympathetic reply, all Madame heard was a loud clap calling her to attention.

“Alright now! We don't want to get sentimental and start feeling sorry for ourselves, do we, Marcelle?” Jean-Michel demanded like a drill sergeant. He did not allow her to answer. “Of course not! You're a young tiger inside a
very
mature yet perky body, aren't you?”

Again he did not give her time to answer, and he pretended not to witness her stream of tears. “Never mind, you're just experiencing a momentary lapse into the down-in-the-dumps of old age and its next door neighbor—death,” he laughed. “But wouldn't you love to feel vibrant, alive, and in love again?” He approached her from the back of the divan and massaged her shoulders. Then he slipped the tattered cashmere sweater down her shoulder and kissed her
crêpe
-paper neck.

“Ahhh,” Madame moaned and nodded.

“Close your eyes and allow me to escort you back to your days as an alluring
Résistance
fighter.”

Madame closed her eyes, keeping her hand on the spot Jean-Michel had just kissed. He lifted her sweater and licked her desiccated breasts. “I bet those German officers told these little breasts all sorts of secrets. And I bet that all the
Résistance
fighters didn't want to know how fearful you were when you extracted valuable information from the Germans, all the time scared out of your pants that they would realize your true intentions. Why, you're still shaking now thinking of all the risks you took, aren't you?”

Jean-Michel caressed her with languorous motions, and Madame sighed and moaned, her eyes shut in fear of seeing his creaseless Adonis face mocking her. She didn't care if he was genuine or not: she was so very old and so very tired of her now-meager days. She was tired of being ignored; of dying without leaving a trace that once she had been daring and darling.

Years ago her salon had been the scene of witty repartee, not to mention the consumption of vast amounts of caviar and authentic aged Armagnac. But her salon, her apartment, had never been her property in title. No one knew that the prior owner of the
hôtel particulier
had only stipulated in his will that Madame could have use of the apartment for the duration of her life. Because she had lived for so long in the building, and acted as its imperious owner, everyone assumed it to be true. Madame had not managed her money well, and at the rate she was going now, she would die out on the street begging for a
sou
with Fifi starving to death next to her.

Madame had heard hundreds of propositions from men, and she knew that one was forthcoming from Jean-Michel. And she was correct.

“Marcelle, you gave your all to France, to the
Résistance
, and whatever you received in financial recompense for the secrets you withdrew from your enemies is now virtually gone. You're a proud woman, but my dear, your lack of means is evident.” He stuck his finger through the moth hole in her cashmere sweater and wiggled it against her skin. “Isn't it time that you take a bit of the limelight? Isn't the political climate now as Fascist as ever? Why else would young people be marching in the streets to demand changes? You've been too preoccupied with survival to understand that we are fighting a type of revolution against oppression, against neo-Fascism, and you could again play an important role––”