A War of Flowers (2014) (7 page)

‘More of an acquaintance. I modelled for her Fashion Bureau when I first came to Germany from London. My father’s English, you see, and I grew up there.’

‘You’re English?’

Surprise hardened his voice. His eyes held a flicker of suspicion at discovering she was not what he thought.

‘Half English, half German,’ she clarified. ‘My mother was born in Hamburg but she left for England at the age of twenty-two. She was a concert pianist. My father went to
Germany on holiday and fell in love with her when he saw her playing Brahms.’

‘What a romantic story.’

‘I suppose so,’ she replied. It wasn’t in fact. Though it had started well, her parents’ marriage had been far from happy ever after. Rows and silences had punctuated
their relationship for years as her father’s need to control clashed like a harsh bow against her mother’s highly strung nature.

‘What about you, Herr Brandt? Is your wife here?’

She sensed him stiffen.

‘A less romantic story, I’m afraid. My wife is no longer with me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You needn’t be. She’s certainly not. Gisela found the appeal of an instructor at the Grunewald Riding School an infinitely more exciting prospect than travelling the capitals
of Europe as the wife of a cultural attaché.’

He shrugged and smiled down at her, moving lightly, and swaying closely to the music. Clasped in his arms, Clara felt at once soothed, and at the same time intensely alive.

‘But you, Miss Clara Vine, agree with Chanel.’ His voice was a teasing murmur in her ear. ‘You’re a realist, like her. You think we should all put love firmly on one side
when duty calls.’

Clara laughed. ‘That’s hardly what I said!’

‘Don’t be ashamed, it’s an admirable thought. In these difficult times, duty must drive us. Though as Paris is the city of lovers, I don’t think you’d find it a
popular sentiment here.’

‘What I said was, there were times when duty is more important than love.’

He moved her round the floor with the lightest of touches. Was he aware that with every movement of his body, a current of heat ran through her, making the blood rush to her face? That he was
provoking in her the most unseemly tide of excitement? Clara guessed that he was and she looked away, hoping he didn’t see the blush suffuse her cheeks.

‘And,’ he whispered, ‘is this one of those times?’

Hamilton’s comment ran through her mind.
War could be just weeks away.

‘I suppose it is.’

‘Some might say people must seize their pleasures where they find them.
Carpe diem
.’

She looked up at him and tried to keep herself from smiling.

‘Some might. But at the moment my duty is to catch a train tomorrow for Berlin.’

‘Are you leaving Paris?’ He seemed dismayed. ‘Surely not. Stay a while, won’t you? There’s so much to see.’

‘I’d like to, but I can’t.’

‘It would be a crime to leave Paris without seeing the Louvre. You have to walk in the Left Bank and take coffee at the Dôme. Visit Fouquet’s on the Champs Elysées. See
the zoo at the Jardin des Plantes. There’s an ape there who can make a charcoal drawing as well as a human. Surely you couldn’t leave without seeing him?’

‘I’m sure I’ll come back sometime.’

The music finished and the couples began picking up their glasses and lighting cigarettes, but Brandt’s hand remained on the small of her back. Clara felt the pulse of his body against her
and could tell the dance had stirred him too.

‘I wonder . . .’ he began.

Clara glanced across the room to see Chanel watching them fixedly, a trace of irritation creasing her brow. She was holding a black and white package with intertwined double C, tied with a
lavish amount of black ribbon.

Swiftly, Clara detached herself.

‘Actually, I should leave now.’

‘So soon?’

‘I’m sorry. It’s been a long day and I’ve a bit of a headache.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘The Hotel Bellevue. It’s not far.’

‘Perhaps I could walk with you then?’

‘No. Really, thank you, Herr Brandt, but I’m quite all right. The fresh air will clear my head.’

He kept hold of her hand for a moment, as if unwilling to let her go, or unable to believe she was leaving, and she had to give a little tug before he freed her fingers from his grasp.

Chanel proffered the package with a little smile.

‘Tell Madame Goebbels this comes with my compliments. I’m flattered that she wants to try my No. 5. Please let her know that my perfume always tells a personal story, as well as a
public one, so although my perfume is popular, for every woman it is unique.’

Accepting the package, Clara clattered down the stairs and nodded as the reception manager in his long cut-away coat bowed solemnly to her, as she passed through the Ritz’s gilded
doors.

She walked swiftly to the north of the Place Vendôme, making her way westwards through the streets towards the fourth arrondissement. The mingled fragrance of garlic and roasting meat blew
across her path, and the cobbles beneath her feet, wet from a brief shower, were sequinned with light as she peered into courtyards behind high wrought-iron gates, past tall doors illuminated with
iron lanterns with elaborate stone scrolling above them.

The poignant refrain of
J’Attendrai
, the hit song of the moment, snaked up from a basement bar.

‘
J’attendrai, le jour et la nuit, j’attendrai toujours ton retour.
’

I will wait, every day and night, for your return. How perfectly Jean Sablon’s melancholy lilt suited the mood of the time, Clara thought. Waiting was what everyone was doing now. There
was a sense of time suspended and breath bated as Europe’s leaders, like invisible chess players, bided their next move.

In the deserted marketplace of Les Halles the cleaners were sweeping the vestiges of cabbage leaves and rotten fruit left over from the day’s trading and hosing down the
floor. Clara loved this louche aspect to Paris, the blast of petrol and urine from the Métro entrance and the slick of oil on the pavement that reminded you how closely earthiness and
glamour co-existed here. Huge wheels of cheese were being rolled onto a cart, the last traders were stacking boxes and a litter of dead chrysanthemums withered in a heap.

As she picked her way through the remnants of vegetation, a flock of starlings whirred balletically up into the glass and iron vault, and, turning to watch them, she noticed out of the corner of
her eye the figure of Max Brandt rounding the corner about two hundred yards behind her, his shadow under the streetlamp stalking boldly ahead of him. At once, a bubble of laughter rose in her
throat. Brandt was actually in pursuit of her! He was evidently a man who couldn’t take no for an answer. He couldn’t possibly have known that he was following a woman expertly versed
in the arts of evasion. She could lose him in an instant if she wanted. But did she want to?

Quickening her step, Clara wove through the streets, doubling back on herself, choosing side streets and alleys. A current of exhilaration spurred her on, as she walked away up the Rue
Quincampoix, and ducked into a tiny cul de sac containing a couple of shops and the back door of a bar. Easing herself into a doorway, she saw Brandt stride past, heard him hesitate, grunting with
frustration as he looked from right to left, wondering how she could have disappeared. The heat made her skin prickle with sweat and she shifted a little in the darkness, stifling a laugh.

Suddenly, behind her, a door swung open and a ribbon of noise billowed out. A man was emerging from the bar backwards, manoeuvring a crate of empty bottles towards her. A blade of light, as
sharp as any Gestapo lamp, sliced across Clara’s face and at that moment Brandt glanced down the alley and saw her.

He smiled, and she couldn’t help smiling too.

‘Fräulein Vine.’ He came slowly towards her, ambling now that he had his prey in his sights. ‘When you wanted to clear your head, I hadn’t imagined you intended to
walk halfway around the city.’

‘I enjoy a long walk.’

‘It is refreshing, isn’t it?’

He smiled and leant a hand on the wall beside her head, imprisoning her in the circle of his arms. Clara felt a familiar giddiness rise within her.

‘In fact, I have an even more refreshing idea. Why don’t you and I go for a cognac at my apartment?’

‘You forget. I need an early night.’

‘Of course. What if I promise not to detain you too long?’

His hand brushed lightly along her arm. An electric thrill ran the length of her body and her pulse quickened. Brandt was right; she did find him attractive and he knew it. Perhaps a man like
him assumed that women would fall at his feet. Or maybe he thought that an actress on her own in a foreign city for a single evening would be an easy target. He was not to know that Clara would not
dream of succumbing to the approaches of a Nazi bureaucrat. If indeed a bureaucrat was what he was. She thought again of Hamilton’s comment.
Steinbrecher says the Gestapo’s pretty
well entrenched in Paris now. Heydrich has an extensive network of informers in place.

‘I don’t think my boyfriend would like that very much.’

Brandt recoiled visibly and straightened up.

‘A boyfriend? You didn’t mention him. Is he here, or back in Berlin?’

‘He’s in Berlin.’

‘Of course. Is he an actor too? Perhaps I know him. Can I ask his name?’

Clara’s mind went blank. The only two men she had ever cared for – Ralph Sommers and Leo Quinn – were both English. In the heat of the moment, she conjured the first name that
entered her head and gave him a rank for good measure.

‘He’s not an actor. His name is Sturmbannführer Steinbrecher.’

It worked. The seductive nonchalance of Brandt’s face vanished and he placed his hands in his pockets. He lit a cigarette and inhaled, continuing to scrutinize her all the while.

‘Is that so? Well, if you won’t come to bed with me, Clara Vine, perhaps you’ll come to dinner?’

Clara wanted to. She had an urge so deep it surprised her. It had been a year since she had had a dinner date with a man. There were always actors, of course, at the studios, who would meet up
at one of the popular restaurants in town, the Einstein Café or Borchardt’s or Lutter und Wegner’s, but a dinner date, with a single man, who did not want to dissect his own film
career or fret about his future in the Reich Chamber of Culture, was a rarity. Yet now was not the time and besides . . . there was something about Brandt that felt not quite right. Clara had a
sixth sense that there was more to him than met the eye. Chanel’s salon was full of Nazi agents and she feared a trap.

‘I’d like to, Herr Brandt. Believe me, I would. But I leave at six in the morning and I don’t want to miss my train.’

‘It wouldn’t do to be stuck here in Paris, you mean?’

‘I mean I do genuinely need to get some sleep.’

‘Perhaps we’ll meet again in Berlin then.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Could I not tempt you to stay? Just a day? We could see the Mona Lisa, the only woman in Paris more inscrutable than you.’

She smiled.

‘The Tour d’Eiffel? Montmartre?’

She shook her head. ‘Maybe another time.’

‘What about the artistic ape in the zoo? The one who makes beautiful drawings?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Auf wiedersehen, then.’

Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips and kissed each knuckle in turn. The gesture caused a soft, melting sensation deep inside her, so that for a moment she longed to raise her own lips to
his mouth in response, but instead she steeled herself to keep her face down as Brandt lifted his hat to her and turned away.

Clara took the long way back to the Hotel Bellevue, almost losing track of time as she wandered the streets, deep in thought. Partly, she wanted to savour the last vestiges of
her time in Paris and partly, after the encounter with Max Brandt, she was too full of nervous energy to sleep. The moon hung over Paris like one of Chanel’s own pearls, its soft brilliance
blackening the sky around it. As she walked, Chanel’s remark sounded in her mind.
I think you, Mademoiselle Vine, are like me.
Was Chanel suggesting that Clara, like her, was cynical
and accustomed to using men for her own advantage? If so, then the accusation resonated uncomfortably. She had rejected an offer from the only man she had ever considered marrying, Leo Quinn, in
order to commit herself to her life as an agent in Berlin. The last man she felt anything for had advised her to forget him. Was she destined to become one of those single women who rattled from
affair to affair, finding nothing profound or lasting, searching for love the way an ageing actress searches for parts, sleeping with whichever handsome Nazi diplomat came her way? Or did Chanel
think a ‘realist’ meant forgetting your country and your loyalties and siding with whoever might be a winner?

And yet, she thought, perhaps you should take pleasure wherever you found it, in case it never came again. Sometimes you passed love like a blossoming tree, without properly noticing it,
hurrying on to a future where you imagined that it would be in endless supply, not realizing that you had already bypassed your entire chance of happiness.

Clara stopped, and gave herself a mental shake. Chanel was right about one thing. She was growing cynical about her chances of finding enduring love. But that didn’t mean she was not
prepared to defend everything else that she held dear.

When she got back there was a bouquet waiting for her at the reception desk. It was a lavish bunch of roses, papery white petals with a soft blush at their hearts. Clara closed
the door of her room behind her and removed the note that was tucked in the tissue paper.

Dinner in Berlin
.

That was all. She rested the petals for a moment against her cheek and inhaled their sharp fragrance. It was intense and delicate, with an edge of dew-drenched gardens and freshly cut grass.
Then she took the flowers over to the basin and stripped the petals methodically one by one, until a heap of bruised shapes littered the porcelain beneath. But there was no listening device inside.
Nothing suspicious at all. Just roses.