The streets of Paris wound their way around Michel Bonnet as he walked to his small apartment in the 14th arrondissement. The evening sun was reluctant to descend, and the early summer heat clogged the air along with exhaust fumes, dust and garbage. The Seine was a deep green, and Michel stood on the bridge of Pont Neuf, watching it snake its way out of the city.
Small boats sluggishly cut a path through the water, as if it had thickened to soup, and people ambled along embankments, unaware of their watcher from above.
On one such embankment stood a husband and wife with their small daughter at their heels. Michel watched as the father picked up the child and held her high to see the river and beyond. Suddenly, the child waved, and Michel waved back until the family were out of sight. Michel leaned against the stone of the bridge, still warm from the day’s heat, feeling the chill of the river reaching him from the depths beneath, as dragonflies hummed and skipped over the heavy water, cooling themselves.
The broad blue sky was streaked with thin clouds and held no promise of rain. Michel hitched his bag further up his shoulder and continued his journey home, every now and then wiping the sweat away from the back of his neck with his red handkerchief.
The warm winds stirred up the dust on the pavements into mini tornadoes that raced towards his shoes, encasing them with a thin layer of city soot, reminding Michel of summers spent in the countryside as a child, when he would chase the dust as it danced down tracks edged with neatly ploughed soil and tall sunflowers. The winds stirred something in Michel too; a feeling akin to when his maman died, which had changed everything so deeply and quickly that Michel had still not realised the full force of it. Michel whispered to the wind to take his love to his mother, to say hello, and that he missed her. Yet the wind whipped by Michel, capturing only a few of his words, so that he was left wondering just what it was his maman would hear.
The city should have been busier this time of year – when schoolchildren usually clogged the pavements with their chatter and glee to be free for the summer, and tourists sat politely at cafés sipping iced drinks – yet the city was as dead as if August had come early and its occupants had sought holidays away from the oppressive heat. Michel noticed that the bars usually frequented by many a rich gentleman were empty, the lone bartender left to wipe away imaginary watermarks from the mahogany bar. Maître d’s stood with waiters, talking, and shaking their heads at the lack of wealthy customers, whilst the awnings of red, blue and yellow fluttered relentlessly in the breeze above them.
The bombs that had fallen just four days earlier had sent a ripple of fear across the city and now shop windows were taped and boarded up, air raid shelters were being stocked with provisions, and all around there was quiet – too much quiet.
Sandbags had arrived quickly to shore up doorways, and every now and then the hum of a military aircraft would drone overhead, causing those left in Paris to turn their faces to the sky to see if it was all really about to happen – would the City of Light really be taken from them? Michel stopped now and watched as another plane flew low through the skies. Behind him, two waiters ceased polishing already clean glasses.
‘I hear they crossed the River Meuse in only one day,’ one waiter said.
‘They have webbed feet; it’s no wonder they crossed that quickly,’ the other answered.
‘Webbed feet?’
‘How can they be human and get here so quickly? Must be webbed feet.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘They say a school was hit, you know. They killed schoolchildren.’
‘They kill everyone. Children. Old people. Everyone. They don’t care.’
‘There’s still smoke in the sky from those buildings – almost like it can’t escape Paris.’
‘It can’t. We can’t either.’
Michel turned away from the expensive restaurants and towards home, where coffee shops were still busy as people huddled close to radios to listen to the latest news. Soon he turned down a small cobbled lane where shops and small cafés sat cramped together in harmony; the flowers from one hanging basket escaping and joining the next, tables and chairs so cluttered that you were not sure which café you were sitting at, yet no one cared. Men sat and drank thick tumblers of beer, and women wore red lipstick and drank house wine, all of them talking about the bombs, about the time they had left.
‘If I’m going to go, I’m going with a beer in my hand and a full stomach,’ one man shouted to the people at the tables.
A joyous cheer rose up. ‘Best get the drinks in then!’ another retorted.
Michel noticed a few familiar faces but continued on, before stopping outside Arnoud’s boucherie, where the carcasses of cows and pigs hung from weighty hooks in a window that had been taped and secured, and where two stray dogs sat outside, waiting patiently for Arnoud to give them their daily scraps.
Michel patted one of the dogs on the head, but the animal took no notice, his eyes transfixed on the meaty shell of a cow. ‘Ah, not long now,’ he told the dogs. ‘Almost closing. I’ll get mine first, then it will be your turn.’
‘Is that you, Michel?’ Arnoud’s roar sailed out to Michel from inside the shop.
Michel walked inside and pulled his money from his breast pocket; a thin roll, barely a weight at all.
‘Ah, bonjour. Has it been a month already?’ Arnoud asked.
‘Not quite, but I got paid today.’ Michel handed over a few francs to cover the cost of some mutton and a couple of slices of ham.
‘Is that all you can afford? That gypsy does not pay you enough.’
‘He is gone.’
‘I’m not surprised. I told you he would leave. Not one to stick around – you shouldn’t either.’
‘You said the same thing last month.’
‘And I’ll say it again. He treated you like an old blind woman; made you depend on him but left your purse almost empty. You have been taking care of those horses, training them, feeding them, and what does he pay you? A pittance, that’s all. And now look. He’s gone.’
Arnoud’s moustache twitched and he fell silent as the thick, shining blade sliced down into the ham, cutting it so thinly that Michel swore he could see through it. ‘And I’ll keep saying it until you come to your senses.’
Suddenly the back door flew open and Estelle, Arnoud’s teenage daughter, appeared, her perfect young skin flushed from racing downstairs.
‘Michel!’ she greeted him, barely hiding her breathlessness.
Michel saw Arnoud turn to look at his daughter, shake his head, then move to wrap up the ham in paper.
‘Estelle. How are you?’ Michel asked.
‘I’m fine, thank you. You know, as fine as I can be. Every day I must come back here to help my father, but I am fine.’
‘You torment me every day, when you are not at that art school,’ Arnoud said. ‘That one that costs me money, yet I see nothing in return.’
‘Oh, Papa,’ Estelle kissed Arnoud on the cheek, ‘one day it will.’
‘She’s right, Arnoud. You just have to be patient,’ Michel said.
‘See! Michel understands. And, Michel, I am patient. As patient as…’ Estelle trailed off as she gazed out of the shop’s large window. ‘As patient as those stray dogs!’ She laughed. ‘I will wait just like them to get what I want.’
Michel took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the back of his neck again.
‘Estelle, go and do something useful. For a seventeen-year-old girl you are always under my feet, like a small child!’
Estelle ignored Arnoud. ‘Did you walk home again, Michel? Is that why you are so hot? I can get you water.’
‘No, no, I’m fine.’ Michel tucked his handkerchief away. ‘It’s the weather, that’s all.’
‘You know, you shouldn’t have to walk all that way. It’s not safe. What if a bomb had dropped right on top of you?’
‘Estelle,’ Arnoud said wearily, ‘are you still here? I said, go and do something useful. Go and practise your art or help your mother prepare dinner – just, something.’
‘Did you see the planes, Michel? I sit and watch them. We were given a letter today at school, telling us that the Germans are getting closer to Paris every day – not just planes, but actual German men, with guns and tanks. Do you believe that, Michel? That they will come?’
‘I didn’t – I thought we could hold them off. But I think now we have no hope.’
‘Maman says they rape women. She says we should be thankful we are not Jewish.’
‘Estelle! Enough! Go and help your mother. Tell her to stop filling your head with rubbish.’
‘Yes, Papa.’ Estelle retreated, but just before she closed the door, Michel was sure she winked at him.
‘I’m sorry, Michel. A handful, as you can see.’
‘She’s just young,’ Michel said.
‘Yes. Young. Young and stupid. I worry for her.’ Arnoud looked deflated.
‘She’ll soon settle down.’
‘What, like one of your horses, you mean?’ Arnoud laughed. ‘I doubt it. She’s wild, like you. No good having two wild ones together. I need to find her a nice boring man, like a librarian!’
Michel laughed along with Arnoud, and the dogs, sensing something had changed, tried their luck and poked their noses into the shop.
‘Gah! Out! Not yet!’ Arnoud shouted at the dogs, who slowly backed away. He then began to take the scraps of meat, gristle and bones from the tray and gather them into two bowls. ‘They drive me crazy, these dogs, every day wanting food. They’re not even mine, and yet here I am feeding them when my customers are disappearing one by one.’
‘The cafés and restaurants are certainly quieter.’
‘People have come to their senses. Like you say, there is little hope – and you and I will be left here with the dogs and the scraps and my daughter who draws pictures.’
‘It’s really going to happen, isn’t it?’
‘It is certain.’
‘Will you leave?’
‘What? Leave all this?’ Arnoud spread his arms wide. ‘My business is mine. I’d like to see them take it from me.’ He lowered his arms then stroked his moustache. ‘The way I see it, they still need food, no matter what. Those Boche love meat, sausages. Fat and lazy, the lot of them. All this about them being tall and strong – that’s just now. Wait till they get here. You’ll see, eating meat and drinking beer soon enough. They’ll leave me be as long as I feed them.’
‘And Estelle?’
‘I’m packing her off to her grandparents. She doesn’t know it yet. Neither does the wife – she’s going too!’ He chuckled. ‘They are going this evening, down to the coast. They’ll be safe there. And I’ll be safe here.’
‘I hope you are right.’
‘But you, Michel – you should go. Trust me. They’ll bomb and blitz the place first – show us who our new boss is. You don’t want to be caught up in that, especially with no job. Nothing keeping you here. If I were you, I’d go.’
Michel waited as Arnoud finished wrapping up his mutton and ham, and handed them over.
‘Merci, Arnoud. I will see you soon.’
‘Ah, and maybe not, eh? Let’s see. If I do not see you again, enjoy the meat, and find yourself a wife? A nice quiet one, not like my Estelle!’
Michel chuckled and for the first time ever shook Arnoud’s hand. The man grasped Michel’s shoulder and held on for a moment.
‘Your mother would have been proud of you, Michel. Always an adventurer. Just like her.’
Michel nodded and left Arnoud, who having changed his mind, began filling the dogs’ bowls with some of his finest cuts of meat.
Michel stopped again at the corner of Rue Crocé-Spinelli where Odette’s café sat, the laughter and the chink of glasses reaching out to him, enticing him to come inside for one beer, one chat, one laugh, until he inevitably stumbled upstairs to his apartment in the early morning, his meagre wage packet emptied by a friend he would never see again.
This evening, the way the sun hit the peeling white paintwork of the apartment block, and how it ignored the rusting of the wrought-iron railings, extracting the crimson peonies and violet alliums of the early planted window boxes, made Michel feel as though he were returning home to much more than his sparse apartment.
Michel saw his neighbour, Monsieur Bertrand, sitting on his balcony writing his daily notes into his diary, the space awash with colour from his planters, and a pair of finches chattering and singing in their cage next to him. Michel knew that later this evening he would be sitting across from his friend, enjoying a rich glass of red, perhaps some warm bread and cheese, and together they would dissect their days, discuss a book or two, and perhaps reminisce about Michel’s mother or Bertrand’s late wife.
‘Michel!’ a high-pitched voice rang out.
Michel turned to see Odette herself, a curvaceous woman in a red wrap dress that made him think of a ripe apple. Her grey hair was escaping from its messy bun as if making a break from its owner.
‘You stopped out front but did not say hello? What is this about? Is it because that young lady from the other night did not come back?’
‘Madame Odette.’ Michel kissed both of her warm rouged cheeks, and caught the thick scent of flowery perfume combined with the potent glasses of wine she drank with her customers.
‘Come now Michel, come inside. There are far prettier girls than she. Why, there is a young lady at the bar right now, with long brown hair and a happy face. Surely you would like to meet her and buy her a glass of my finest cognac?’
Michel laughed. ‘Madame, you do keep a detailed calendar!’
‘I do?’ Odette lit a cigarette.
‘You always remember when I get paid.’
‘Oh! You have been paid?’ Odette patted a few stray hairs back into her bun. ‘Why, I had no idea! But now you have said so, come inside, see the lady.’
‘I have a prior engagement,’ he said with an air of importance, then looked up to Bertrand’s balcony.
Odette followed his gaze. ‘That old brute! Well, you tell him he owes me still for losing at cards, and he will not have his morning coffee tomorrow without payment.’
Michel smiled and watched as Odette huffily returned to the café, her large behind swaying importantly, yet he did notice that she threw one last glance at Bertrand before entering her lair.
He turned the key in the main door and climbed the small flight of stairs to his apartment. Before he could open his own front door, Monsieur Bertrand appeared.
‘Michel! I have been waiting. Come. Come in!’ Bertrand opened the door wide.
‘I won’t be long; I will just put this food away, have a wash—’
Bertrand cut him off with a shake of his head. ‘No. No. This is important, come!’ Bertrand then disappeared into his own apartment.
Michel followed and found Bertrand in the kitchen, fussing over uncorking a bottle of Burgundy. Then he turned to Michel and instructed him to sit in the living room. Michel chose his usual horsehair-stuffed crimson chair near the bay window. He felt himself relax into the chair’s deep embrace and leaned back to admire the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that surrounded him, the thick scarlet, blue and gold Persian rugs underfoot, and the photographs of Bertrand’s wife that adorned the walls and every available shelf. He coveted this apartment and wanted to be like Bertrand one day; well-read and travelled with bottles of the finest wines always in his kitchen.
Bertrand finally appeared and handed Michel a glass of the Burgundy – dense and aromatic. Michel did as Bertrand had taught him and sniffed the bouquet, which was woody and had a hint of chocolate, then took a sip, savouring the initial tang of alcohol followed by the notes of cherry on his tongue.
‘Good?’ Bertrand asked.
‘Very. What’s the occasion?’
Bertrand turned to the side table and switched on the radio, setting the volume low – the muffled voices became ghostly echoes.
‘Tell me about your day,’ Bertrand began.
Michel shrugged. ‘There isn’t much to say. I’m out of a job.’
‘Monsieur Abramowski…?
‘He left. Left a note – said he had to go. I don’t blame him. If what everyone is saying is true, he was not safe here.’
‘But he paid you, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Everything he owes you?’
‘Almost.’
‘Ha! See? I told you he would con you.’
‘He took care of me. He gave me a job.’
‘I know.’
‘You are just bitter because he took your money at cards.’
‘One time, Michel! And I knew he was cheating.’
Bertrand turned to the radio once more and nudged up the volume.
The newsreader’s crackly voice permeated the apartment, his abrasive tones – urgent and authoritative – cutting through the rough airways, almost all the other stations having faded to white noise.
‘Today, on the seventh day of June 1940, we can confirm that the German forces are nearing our capital. The government insist— Fight— Those who can, must leave— The German army have defeated our troops to the east—’
Bertrand fiddled with the radio, trying to tune it, but was met with more static.
He stood and ventured to the dark mahogany drinks cabinet only unlocked at Christmas, returning with two glasses filled to the brim with an amber liquid. ‘Brandy,’ Bertrand said. ‘It’s good for the nerves. At least, that was what my mother said.’
Michel drank deeply as Bertrand reached over and turned the dial until the radio fell silent once more.
‘It’s happening?’ Michel asked, almost to himself.
‘It’s over. They are coming.’
Michel drank the rest of his brandy and Bertrand stood, collected the cut-glass decanter, and emptied more of the numbing liquid into Michel’s glass.
Michel held his glass to the light and looked into the brandy; his head already felt muffled. ‘What would Maman say if she were here?’
‘She’d say leave.’ Bertrand sat back into the beige sofa. Its stuffing was escaping through a small hole and he pulled at it as he spoke.
‘Would she? But where would I go?’
Bertrand shrugged. ‘What does it matter? All that matters is that we are not here when they come.’
‘But others will stay – Arnoud, Madame Odette. I should stay too.’
‘And where will you work?’
Michel shrugged.
‘The Boche will not want a Frenchman looking after their horses. And even if they did, I would not permit you to help them.’
‘Do you have a cigarette?’
‘Here. Take one.’
Michel lit the cigarette and drew deeply, watching the smoke rise above him, curling all the way to the ceiling. ‘There are cobwebs up there, Bertrand. You need to dust better.’
Bertrand looked up and laughed. Soon, Michel joined in.
‘You see, we are no good, Michel. Here we sit in a place that any moment will be swarming with German pests, and we laugh about my poor housekeeping. We surely wouldn’t last long here.’
‘So, what do you propose we do?’ Michel allowed Bertrand to refill his brandy once more.
‘We leave.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘And where shall we go?’ Michel asked, a smile at his lips, feeling the alcohol numb his brain. It was like the games he used to play when he was little.
‘Away, Michel, just away. You cannot stay here because there will be nothing here for you. Soon, there will be nothing here for any of us. They will take our jobs, our homes. They will take whatever they want.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
Bertrand leaned over and scuffed the back of Michel’s head. ‘Is there anything in that brain of yours? Anything? You think it will all be the same as before? You weren’t here the first time; no food, no jobs. So many dead, so many wounded. It will be the same again. You heard the bombs fall – you saw the fires.’
Michel rubbed the back of his head.
‘Checking if anything has fallen out, hey? Perhaps there’s some common sense you can put back in.’
‘Arnoud says he won’t leave.’
‘Arnoud is stupid.’
‘He’s sending Estelle away to her grandparents.’
‘Ah! Arnoud is a smart man. He’d be smarter if he went with her, though. She still has eyes for you?’
Michel shrugged.
‘Come now, don’t be bashful. You like her too. I’ve seen the way you look at her.’
‘She’s too young.’
‘Ah, yes. True. You prefer the mademoiselles at Odette’s café. The ones with long legs and expensive tastes. No wonder you have no money!’
‘They weren’t all like that. There was Juliette, and Vivienne.’
‘And where are they now?’
‘I don’t know.’ Michel grinned then took a sip of his brandy.
‘See! What a charmer. He says, “I don’t know.” You know – you got tired of them, bored. Of course you did. If I had looked like you at your age, I would get bored quickly too.’
‘It’s not like that. Not all the time.’
‘My thoughts are getting jumbled with your nonsense. What was I saying? Yes, we leave. Tomorrow. And there’s no more argument about it.’
‘So where will we go?’
‘Your grand-mère, is she alive still?’
‘Dead. Her neighbour, Monsieur Dubois, wrote to me and told me. That was… what, three years ago? I told you.’
‘I am old. My memory is failing.’
‘You are sixty.’
‘And that is old.’
‘Where did she live?’
‘Saint-Émilion.’
‘Ah, yes. I remember now. That should do well enough.’
‘For what?’
‘For us. To go there.’
‘But she’s dead.’
‘But you know people there, no? This Monsieur Dubois. You spent summers there as a boy. I’m sure they can help us now.’
‘Bertrand, you’re drunk.’
‘I am as sober as I am in the mornings. That’s all I can say.’ He grinned.
‘Saint-Émilion…’ Michel mused. ‘You really think we should go?’
‘Michel, the city is emptying faster than my brandy bottle. We have heard the rumble of guns, the bombs that dropped. Does this not scare you?’
‘I am scared, but I’m scared to leave too. This is my home.’
‘And mine. And thousands of people’s homes. We can come back. When it is over.’
‘You think it will be over one day?’
‘Who knows? All I can say is, for now, let us go on a new adventure. The two of us together. That way you will not be scared to leave.’
‘I need to sleep.’
‘It’s you who are drunk.’
‘A little. I need to sleep.’ Michel stood and felt the room spin. He wanted to tell Bertrand that he wasn’t going anywhere, but his tongue felt too big for his mouth and wasps had moved into his brain – all he could hear was their constant, irritable buzzing.
‘Go now.’ Bertrand guided Michel across to his apartment.
Michel spotted his bag on the floor and picked it up. ‘I have ham,’ he said with a grin.
‘Good. Eat your ham, pack a few things, and I will see you tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow…’
‘Better to leave as soon as we can. Let’s not dither any longer.’
Michel nodded, his brain still sluggishly processing the warnings from the radio, from his friends, and from the fear on everyone’s faces.
He managed to push the key into the lock and open the door just as Bertrand’s own door sealed shut. He dropped his bag into the middle of the room; a room which was living area, bedroom and kitchen together. He opened his bag and took the ham and mutton from it. Heating up a small frying pan on one of the two gas burners, he cooked them whilst humming a tune his mother would sing when she used to make dinner.
As he prepared his food, he looked around his apartment – a lone chair sat by the window and a single bed with rumpled sheets was pushed against the far wall; a few books were scattered on the floor and a threadbare green rug lay at the end of the bed. It had not always looked like this; when his mother was alive it had been cosier, with more furniture, rugs, vases full of flowers and thick curtains at the windows. But all that was gone, sold first to pay for her funeral and then to pay off Michel’s occasional gambling debts over the years.
The ham sizzled in the pan and spattered Michel’s hand with hot fat, but he barely winced. He turned off the blue flame, and slid the ham and mutton onto a chipped cream plate, then sat with his meal on his scruffy pale blue chair and ate, looking out at the street he had known since he was a child. He could not imagine that his life could ever really be any different.
Michel heard the knocking; his brain felt as though it were smacking into the side of his skull with each pound. He opened his eyes, his lids heavier than usual, and moved his neck which was sore and stiff. It was then that he realised he had fallen asleep on his chair, the empty plate from his dinner smashed at his feet.
‘Michel, for goodness’ sake!’ Bertrand’s voice came from behind the front door.
Michel gingerly walked to the door and opened it, revealing an angry Bertrand, a travelling case and violin on the mat beside him. ‘Are you ready?’
‘For what?’ Michel said, his dry lips smacking as he spoke.
‘We. Are. Leaving,’ Bertrand said slowly. ‘The. Germans. Are. Coming.’
Suddenly Michel remembered the night before, the warning from Bertrand, the crackly radio presenter, and the brandy. ‘I can’t go,’ he said, and put a hand to his head as if by doing so it would stop the incessant thud. ‘What time is it?’
‘Two o’clock. I let you sleep whilst I chatted to Mathis from next door. He is going to Bordeaux but couldn’t fit us in his car. He says everyone is trying the trains.’ Bertrand pushed his way into the apartment, grabbed Michel’s knapsack and stuffed clothes into it. ‘Where’s your book?’
‘They’re over there.’ Michel waved Bertrand towards the stack of books that littered the floor and sat back into the comforting embrace of his chair.
‘The book, Michel! The one I gave you as a boy!’
‘Over there.’ Michel waved him again in the general direction of the floor. He could hear Bertrand mumbling and swearing under his breath, then silence. After a while, there was more noise and something else; a smell that lifted Michel slightly.
‘Coffee,’ Bertrand said. ‘Madame Odette was not happy with me, but you need her coffee, no other will do the trick. I had to pay off my debts to get this so you’d better drink it all.’
Michel opened his eyes, not realising that he had closed them again. ‘Was I asleep?’ he asked, taking the coffee from Bertrand and sipping it slowly.
‘Yes, whilst I packed. Here,’ Bertrand threw his bag at his feet, ‘you are ready to go.’
‘Are you sure we should, Bertrand, really sure?’
‘Look out there. Go on, look.’ Bertrand pointed to the window.
Michel peered out onto the street, the daylight brightening even the dullest greys of the buildings so that he had to shield his eyes a little. It was a few seconds before he realised what Bertrand meant, and then he saw. His neighbours were not just walking down the street, going to the shop or exercising their dogs; they were scurrying like small animals, bags on their backs, suitcases under each arm as they packed up their cars or bicycles. Other cars had arrived – family members – who helped tuck children into the back seats and more suitcases on top.
‘You see?’ Bertrand asked.
Michel nodded and drank his coffee in silence.
Michel and Monsieur Bertrand left their tiny apartment block at four o’clock in the afternoon. Bertrand carried his violin in its worn, battered black case, and a compact leather suitcase with brass clas. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
