I set aside the comb. āGrandfather, did she plan to give up her art? When Mother was born?ā
He swept up the spilled tea leaves onto his palm. āShe was painting up until the day the baby came. She wouldnāt have stopped even if Iād asked her. And I never would have. Her passion for art, it awed me.ā He brushed his hands over the wastebasket. āItās like yours. You glow with it, Patricia Clare.ā
āI still donāt feel Iāve accomplished it all.ā
He poured out the water. āYou have the years your grandmother didnāt. You have the talent and the stubbornness and the compassion to accomplish even more. Iām honored to have been part of your journey.ā
I left the pile of hairpins on the end table and crossed to where he stood by the kitchen table. āIām happy I didnāt have to do it alone.ā
āYou never have to, you know.ā He wiped out a mug. āBe alone.ā
I inhaled. Those who love us donāt ask us to mask our true selves.
I almost walked straight past him.
His hair was longer than heād ever worn it and he had a mustache now, like a Frenchman. He slouched at a cafĆ© table, nursing a cup, collar turned up against the morning chill. In his short jacket, soft scarf, felt cap, and indifferent expression, he looked like any Parisian.
But, despite his almost casual pose, I noticed an alertness to his spine. The watchfulness of a soldier. I slowed and, as I drew close, I knew him.
Itās the little things that give us away sometimes. The way Papa always pulled on his beard when he was worried. The way Maman pinched inside my wrist when she wanted me to pay attention. The way Clare touched my face. For the man sitting at the cafĆ© table, it was the way he tossed his roll back and forth between each hand.
It was a small movement, one that only confidence could bring. He always did it with bread rolls. Tossed it once, twice, three times, before he broke it open to eat. It looked almost like he was palming a tennis ball.
I stood out on the pavement I donāt know how long before he noticed my stare. He started, ducked his head, dropped a handful of change and stood. I didnāt think he recognized me, but I pushed against a shop window, out of the way.
He slipped past with a battered brown suitcase in hand. Not his usual stride, but an almost furtive skulk. He shouldnāt be in Paris; I wondered why he was. The peace talks might have begun, but Europe was far from peaceful. Germany hadnāt been invited. Bauer had no reason to be here. If the Parisians on the Rue du Louvre knew a German walked in their midst, someone who couldāve held a gun on their husbands and sons during the war, they wouldnāt let him pass. Cries of āBocheā would echo to the Seine and back.
But I didnāt tell them. Call it curiosity, call it fear, call it the desire to look him in the eye before spitting in his face. Pressed against the window, I held my breath until he passed. Iād dropped the violets, and Bauer trod straight over them.
He continued down the Rue du Louvre, but still I stood, motionless. Sweat pooled at the back of my neck. I could follow. I could confront him like in the scene that always played in my mind, the one where I didnāt trust him as I had last time. The one where Chaffre lived. Or I could let him slip away and I could go back to Clare and wait for the nightmares to pass. Across the street an automobile started with a growl that made me jump and cover my head. Everything was suddenly louder. The glass behind my back rattled. It was only after a woman stopped with a āMonsieur, are you well?ā that I lifted my head.
āMonsieur?ā she asked again.
I waved away her hand and shook my head in reply. The street was bright, too bright, too crowded. Where had he gone? My memories of him were in moonlight. Then I spotted his light hair, high above the crowd, and I knew I couldnāt go home.
I followed him. I walked close to the buildings, head down. The stealthy march came back to me. That advance against an enemy. My hands itched to be holding a rifle, so I pushed them into my pockets. Still, they twitched on an imaginary trigger.
I donāt know how far he walked, but I recognized the building when he stopped. It was Liliās, a whore he used to visit. Heād sometimes bring girls there, when he had no place else to go with them. Very likely, I thought, girls who were alone in the city. Though he tried, Clare had said.
I waited there, watching the building, as the shadows lengthened. I took the ficelle from inside my jacket and ate it in the doorway across the street. Through the upstairs window, I caught movement. I brushed crumbs off my hands and settled in. He shouldnāt be long.
At the end of the day, that was when weād prepare for an attack. Weād be checking our weapons, tightening our laces, saying one last prayer. Then weād head out, creeping from shadow to shadow, tracking an enemy we couldnāt yet see. This time I had mine right in my sights. I felt more at home in this dimming dusk than I had in the bright light of morning. Evening was when I was used to prowling.
But Lili came out of the building by herself, dressed in pearls and silk. Though I waited until I heard another clock chime, Bauer didnāt reappear. He was staying the night.
I paced to the end of the street. I counted the hours. The night deepened and the streetlamps flickered. Lili returned with a gentleman, then the building went tight and dark. At one point I slumped in the doorway across the street in that soldierās half doze. I thought of the nightmares I used to have, half expecting them to return. But the source of all my nightmares, he was right across the street.
I wasnāt prepared for an ambush, yet I was afraid to leave my post for supplies. In this battle, there was no reserve. Iād tracked him all day, but I didnāt have anything beyond the fruit and cheese in my bag. Iād almost forgotten it in my relentless advance. I took out an orange, peeled it, and, suddenly, in the scent of the peel, remembered. Fruit, cheese, bread, chestnuts. The little breakfast Iād meant to surprise Clare with.
And now it was nearly a day later and Iād left her alone in the apartment, waiting for me. Probably, now, thinking I wasnāt coming back.
I almost turned around right then and there. Walked back to the apartment. Walked to the studio on the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. Found her and promised to never leave again. But down the street, the front door of Liliās opened and Stefan Bauer stood silhouetted in the doorway with his suitcase.
It wasnāt only me who had been hurt. It wasnāt onlyāI felt for the little lead MadonnaāChaffre. Even before someone handed Bauer a gun, he threatened. He tried, Clare had said. I shouldered my bag. He tried. Her words in my head, I followed.
Just before dawn, the streets were empty. It wasnāt as easy to hide the fact that I was tailing him, and as my footsteps echoed, his quickened. He was too smart to turn and look over his shoulder, but he ducked through alleys and around buildings. I didnāt lose him. I knew Paris as well as he did.
When his footsteps slowed, near the Gare du Nord, I should have, too. He lunged from a corner shadow, the flash of a knife in his fist. I dodged, catching myself on the side of a building. My mask clattered to the ground.
āWhy are you following me?ā he said in French.
I picked up the mask and stepped into the light. āRetribution.ā
āHow did youāā he began, before correcting to: āYou are mistaken.ā
āI know you.ā I held it up to my face. I watched his drain of color. āAnd you know me.ā
āCrĆ©pet,ā he said, and I knew I hadnāt mistaken him. He cleared his throat. āDidnāt think Iād see you again.ā
āDidnāt think I was alive, did you?ā
āIt was war. I didnāt know what to think.ā He shifted his suitcase from one hand to the other. āDidnāt know if Iād be alive one moment to the next, did I?ā
āNeither did Michel Chaffre.ā
āWho?ā he asked, and then, āOh.ā
I had years of vitriol, of blame and censure. I wanted to ask him why. Why me, why Chaffre, why anything that took him from a life in France to a life against France. But I lowered my mask again. āThis is what you gave me.ā I bared my face and I said, āThis was my souvenir.ā
His eyes traveled up along my scar, along the pits and grooves, along the puckered skin. Finally he said, āCrĆ©pet, I didnāt meanā¦ā Exposed in that moment of honesty, in that almost-apology, he turned away. When he turned back, it was with his cocky smile. āYou mean to make a battle out of everything?ā
āWhat?ā I had to ask.
āThe war is over now. And yet you canāt move on. You are still looking for a grand adversaire.ā
āYouāre wrong. I did.ā And, if it wasnāt true before that moment, it was now. āYou left me for dead, but I came back to life.ā
He shrugged, but took a step backwards.
āAnd do you know who else moved on?ā I slipped the mask in my bag. āClare.ā
He squinted. Either he didnāt remember her or wanted me to think so. āOh, the frƤulein?ā he asked dismissively. āShe had nothing to move on from.ā
āBetrayal doesnāt only exist in war.ā I slipped my bag from my shoulder. āSometimes it comes from a trusted companion on a train or in a whoreās house.ā
He flinched and I knew Iād guessed right.