A Week in Paris (35 page)

Twilight –
l’heure bleue
– wasn’t that what they called it in Paris? Fay could see why. It was like a change of scene when the light of day dimmed and the colours of the sky segued into night. As she walked out of the hotel on her way to meet Adam, a woman was pulling down the shutter of the gift shop opposite with a long pole. Next door, a café-owner was stacking tables and chairs to be carried inside. Outside the fruit shop, a girl in navy overalls swept the pavement with long, weary strokes.

If daytime Paris was furling her wings like the starlings roosting in the trees of Place de la Madeleine, her nightlife was about to spread its gaudy plumage. A necklace of coloured lights now fringed the awning of the tourist café on the square, where a waiter was chalking names of the specials on a slate. The Art Nouveau lanterns by the Métro glowed with tender mistiness as Fay hurried down the steps.

When she emerged from the station in Montmarte, Adam was waiting, a solitary figure dressed in a dark suit, leaning on a railing and staring up in contemplation at the dome of the church of Sacré-Coeur, which dominated the indigo sky like a giant vanilla ice cream.

‘Hello, Adam,’ she called, and saw his expression of wistfulness change to a delighted grin. He returned her greeting and kissed her cheek.

‘You look nice.’ His quick eye appraised her – and she was glad she’d worn her mother’s gold stole to go with the black cocktail dress. The look, completed by court shoes and long gloves (borrowed from Sandra), not only complemented his, but felt right for the mood of the evening. The indigo velvet sky, the strings of tiny lights in the trees, the bright chatter of the crowds . . . tonight the air was charged with excitement.

It seemed natural, the way she slipped her arm in his and he squeezed it gently. ‘I’ve booked a table at a little place I know not far away. The scallops there have to be tasted to be believed.’

‘Lead me to them,’ said Fay, who’d never eaten a scallop. They crossed a square where a few artists were still offering to draw portraits of tourists and set off down a winding street lined with ancient, misshapen buildings – shops and restaurants mostly – with intriguing dark alleys branching off on either side.

‘I’m sorry about the short notice,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t needed tonight, after all. You aren’t in trouble, are you, for letting the others down?’

‘No, it didn’t seem to matter,’ she replied. Dinner tonight had been at one of the other hotels, and was expected to be a quiet affair. Sandra had promised to convey her apologies, though she herself was planning to leave immediately after the meal to meet her amour at a nightclub. ‘What were you expecting to have to do?’

‘Oh, there was a meeting I thought I’d have to go to, but in the end it was all right.’ She sensed by his tone that he didn’t wish to speak about it, so while thinking it strange she didn’t pursue the matter.

Anyway, now they’d come to a cheerful-looking restaurant, its frontage lit by a trail of coloured electric bulbs. There were tables on the street and much decorative greenery. Inside, a bosomy woman in a close-fitting lace dress showed them to a pretty corner near the window where there was a round table set with white linen, sparkling silver and glass and a spray of pink blossom in a vase.

The scallops were indeed delicious, served with a buttery sauce, and the pale wine, which was drier than Fay was used to, slipped down delightfully. She wondered how something so cold could make you feel warm. When they’d finished, the waiter bore away their plates and brought lamb fragrant with garlic and so tender it fell from the bone.

Fay found herself opening up to Adam, and he listened with serious concentration, nodding occasionally, or taking a sip of wine as she related all that Mme Ramond had told her about her mother, and how she’d protected Fay. She spoke with a catch in her voice as she described her father’s death. The shock and sympathy showed naked in Adam’s face, and when she faltered he reached out and caught her hand.

After she’d finished speaking they were silent for a moment, then, ‘That’s awful,’ he managed to whisper.

‘But I know who she is now – Madame Ramond, I mean. Adam, she’s been hiding it from me all this time, deliberately, and I’m so confused. I think she must have done something she’s ashamed of. I – I don’t know what the truth is.’

‘Hey, slow down,’ he said. ‘What do you mean, you know who she is? I thought she was a friend of your mother’s.’

‘Yes, but I didn’t know exactly who.’ And she explained about Sister Thérèse, who’d known her mother from the moment she arrived in Paris, who had seen her dedication to her music, and watched as she’d fallen in love and married and had Fay. All the things that Thérèse would never do, shielded as she was from such matters in the confines of the convent.

‘And then this letter arrived from my mother.’ She unclipped her handbag and drew out the envelope. As she did so, she glimpsed the hurried script and remembered the rawness of the words. Should she show this letter to a stranger? Her mother might not like it. But Adam wasn’t a stranger to Fay. Not any more. She felt close to him, as though they’d known each other for years. Yes, she wanted him to see it. She unfolded the single page and passed it over.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, seeing her hesitation, and she nodded, so he took it.

Was it really possible to feel like this about someone you’d met so few times? Fay asked herself. Then she remembered the story of her parents – and knew that it was. Kitty and Eugene had known almost instantly that they were meant for one another. The question was, did Adam feel the same about her?

All this she thought as she watched him read the letter, his forehead creasing. She ate and felt better simply for having shared her burden.

‘How very puzzling,’ Adam said, returning the letter to her. ‘You seem to be caught in the middle of all this. What do you think you’ll do?’

She thought about her argument with herself earlier. ‘What I want to do is to hear Madame Ramond out. I’ve begun to remember more things, Adam.’ And as she said this, she knew it was true. She remembered Sister Thérèse now, her pleasant dimpled face, the sigh of her habit as she moved. When Fay had visited the convent she’d recalled the tramping of boots on the stairs, her fear as the Gestapo had searched the building.

But there were things she did not recall. Of her father’s death, nothing. Her mind simply refused to engage with it, though when she thought about it now it conjured a faint feeling of terror, like the fleeing coat-tails of an evil dream.

‘It’s as though I’ve been handed pieces of a jigsaw,’ she told Adam. ‘But there are still some missing. And there’s a great area of sky where I can’t see where to put the pieces I’ve already got. Madame Ramond must have some of the missing pieces and my mother may have others, but I’m the one who has to fit them together and make sense of them.’ She glanced at her mother’s letter, lying on the table. ‘Or decide whether they belong to the puzzle at all. It’s my picture, you see. The picture of my life. I
have
to understand it.’

‘How will you know what is true,’ Adam asked, ‘if there are conflicting accounts? Who is telling the truth? You see, it’s not just you. We all have to face this. People have different versions of what happens. Everyone is sure that theirs is the right one. Take the episode I told you about when I rescued my sister from drowning. My mother insists that she was nearby, and that she rushed over to help pull Tina out, but I don’t recall her being there at all. Did my five-year-old self remember more clearly than she did, or did I distort such an event to put myself at the centre of it?’

‘That’s strange, but you’re right, of course,’ Fay said quietly. ‘I don’t know how I shall determine what is the truth, but I’ll try to get as close to it as I can.’

Adam nodded. ‘I understand.’

‘Madame Ramond gave me something.’ Again, Fay reached for her handbag. This time she withdrew the photograph of herself with her father. Once again she gazed at it, appreciating how safe and comforted she must have felt with him, how fondly he held her. She passed it across to Adam, who examined it, his face softening.

‘You look very like him in some ways,’ he said, glancing up at her. ‘It’s your expression. You both have the same smile.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. He couldn’t have said anything that she’d wanted to hear more.

They finished their lamb in companionable silence and ordered sorbet, which arrived in tall scalloped glasses and which they ate with long spoons.

The restaurant was filling up now, the air swirling with the smell of food, with smoke and conversation. From somewhere near the back wafted the sounds of jazz piano. Adam lit a cigarette. Each was lost in their own thoughts, but in a way that seemed natural, not because they couldn’t think of anything to say to one another.

The waiter came with coffee. ‘I’m looking forward to your concert,’ Adam said, stirring sugar into his. ‘It’s a programme of Russian music, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, you’ll enjoy it, I think. Colin seems most worried about the Tchaikovsky. He’s unkind enough to say we sound hysterical rather than ecstatic in one of the movements.’

‘Relief at reaching it, perhaps?’

‘Not at all, it’s a lovely piece.’

‘It’s helpful to know for my review. I shall watch you all for signs of hysteria.’

‘Adam, don’t! I shouldn’t have pointed it out. I’m glad you’re coming though.’

‘It’s my job. And anyway, there’s a much more important reason.’ And now when she met his eyes it was hard to look away.

‘I wish I could see you tomorrow,’ he said, ‘but I think I’ll be tied up most of the day.’

‘Working?’ she asked, trying to mask her disappointment. They didn’t have much time left together.

‘Not really.’ He took a final draw on his cigarette, then took a while stubbing it out in the ashtray. ‘There’s to be a military parade tomorrow down the Champs-Élysées.’

‘Sandra heard about that on the radio. It’s to do with the President awarding medals, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, to mark some wartime anniversary.’

‘And you’ll be reporting on it.’

‘I want to go down and see what’s happening. I have a feeling there might be some sort of trouble.’

‘Trouble?’

‘Nothing major, I assure you. It’s just these things can become a focus for . . . well, discontent.’

‘What do you mean? Will it be dangerous?’

‘Not for me.’ He was looking round now, as though he thought someone might be eavesdropping. ‘I’m worried about some friends of mine, that’s all.’

‘Oh.’ Things were starting to become clear in her mind. ‘Is this something to do with the meetings you’ve been going to?’ but now the woman in the lace dress had arrived with their bill and he didn’t hear her.

After he’d paid, Adam leaned back, smiling at her. ‘There’s a nightclub nearby where they have rather good bands. I don’t suppose you fancy going on there?’ He appeared to have forgotten their previous conversation.

She shouldn’t be back too late, but she didn’t want the evening to end. ‘Why not?’ she said.

They walked out together into the night, holding hands, down a street busy with milling, laughing people. Cars and scooters were forced to edge past cautiously. After a few hundred yards Adam showed her down a steep flight of stone steps and they entered a cellar with black-painted walls and a small stage drenched in gold light. Here a piano and a saxophone and a voluptuous singer wove together melancholy love songs that melted the heart. Adam bought drinks and they stood together listening. Several couples were slow-dancing and after a while Adam leaned across and spoke in her ear: ‘I haven’t had much practice since that school trip, but will you have a go?’

‘I’ll risk it,’ Fay replied, smiling. He held her close to dance, and she felt the warmth of his breath in her ear as they swayed to and fro in time to the music. She shut her eyes and gave herself up to the moment, the music flowing through her and Adam’s cheek brushing hers.

It was getting on for midnight when they emerged into the cool air. Adam tucked her arm in his and they ambled together somewhat aimlessly back the way they’d originally come. The streets were quieter now and some of the restaurants and cafés were starting to close for the night. Others, clearly prepared for the long haul, were still busy with customers.

‘I suppose I shouldn’t be too late,’ Fay said, in an unconvincing tone.

‘I’ll find you a taxi, shall I?’

‘Mmm, or you could walk me to the Métro. Will there still be trains?’

‘For another hour at least.’

‘What about you? You live nearby, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ll be passing the end of my street.’

She turned to him. ‘I’d love to see it,’ she said, on impulse. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, that is.’ She stopped, worried that she’d crossed some line. It was just she hated the thought that she would leave Paris soon and wouldn’t have seen where he lived.

‘Would you really?’ he asked, his eyes searching hers. ‘I don’t mind at all, but you really mustn’t expect anything glamorous.’

‘I won’t if you’d rather not,’ she said gently, biting her lower lip. ‘It’s only so . . . I can imagine you being there. When I think of you.’

‘When you think of me. I like that.’ And when he smiled she felt elated.

‘Here we are.’ They turned down a dimly lit street where the sounds of nightlife receded, and buildings of several storeys rose on either side. Here and there a light showed at an upstairs window, which helped to illuminate the uneven pavement. Beyond a row of shuttered shops, Adam stopped and unlocked an unassuming-looking door. Inside was a tiny lobby where he pushed a button and a linoleum-covered staircase was revealed in the sepia glow from a naked pendant light.

‘I’m afraid it’s at the top,’ he said, and started to climb.

‘How many floors?’ she gasped after the sixth flight brought them to a third landing.

‘I’m on the next. Not far now.’

Outside a door on the top floor, as he twisted the key in the lock, the landing light snapped off. ‘Damn,’ he said, out of the darkness, and she giggled, but he got the door open.