large and square with a sprinkling of crisp black hair. Lais turned back to her brandy, sipping it this time.
“So,” he said quietly, “the Germans are sticking in your throat too.” His voice was low with a faint regional intonation.
Lais nodded, sipping her drink without looking at him.
“You are a foreigner?”
She frowned. He was persistent. But then she needed company—all her friends had flown. “American,” she replied, “and French too.”
Leaning forward he topped up her glass from his personal bottle. “I am from Spain,” he said, “a Basque from Barcelona. Enrique García,” he bowed with a slightly mocking smile, “at your service.”
Lais stared at her drink. Was she ready for this kind of encounter on a day like today? A pick-up in a bar? She wondered how many men she had gone home with after some mad gay night that had ended here in Les Halles, injust such a bar as this? The brandy tasted bitter as it flowed down her aching throat and tears stung her eyes. Damn it, oh damn it, why did this war have to
spoil everything? Why did it have to spoil her life!
Her eyes met Enrique García’s knowing glance. Suddenly she recalled overhearing a snatch of conversation between her mother and Uncle Sebastião do Santos, her real father’s brother.
“She’s like
him
, Amelie,” he’d been saying to her. “You
know
that Roberto was two people—but you don’t know the whole story and you never will. Roberto loved you, but he kept his other life away from you. There were the temptations that Roberto never could resist—not with Diego leading him on.”
The door had slammed, leaving Lais still standing in the hall, her mouth open in shock and her heart pounding. The picture of her father that she had carried in her mind, cribbed from the old sepia photographs that curled at the edges, of Roberto, blond and open-faced, his blue eyes meeting the camera’s stare head-on, was shattered.
And she was like him
. What did it mean?
What was she?
What did it matter any more? They were probably all doomed now anyway. She pushed her empty glass towards Enrique García’s. “I’m Lais,” she said to him, “at your service.”
They finished his brandy while he talked. He was a lecturer in Economics at the Sorbonne, and a stringer for a Spanish newspaper contributing a weekly Paris column. He should have left weeks ago, but for some reason he’d hung on. There was a good story to be had and his paper—as well as others—would pay him well for it.
“So,” said Lais flatly, “you’re profiting from Paris’s downfall.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. But the world needs to knowwhat’s going on, what Paris really feels like in the throes of a defeat. People like me can fill that gap.”
The night was blue-black and filled with the strong odours of over-ripe fruit and rotting vegetables as they made their way back through the streets around the market to where she had left her car.
“A de Courmont,” Enrique said admiringly. “A wonderful car.”
Lais drove in silence back to the Ile St Louis, avoiding the main boulevards and ignoring the curfew, daring any German to stop her, but the streets were empty and none did.
Enrique’s low whistle took in the immaculate courtyard and the grey stone mansion admiringly. “You live here?” he asked, surprised.
“Like the car,” said Lais, slamming shut the door, “I’m a de Courmont.”
“Well, well,” said Enrique as he followed her up the steps, “how very useful.”
7
The bulky figure of the German commandant strode up the steps of the Hostellerie la Rose du Cap, pausing for a moment, silhouetted against the blue and gold of a calm Mediterranean evening. Leonie clutched Peach’s hand tighter in hers, her eyes meeting Leonore’s apprehensively. “I will deal with this,” she murmured, “you are not to speak to them unless addressed directly.”
“But Grand-mère …”
“It’s better this way,” whispered Leonie, “they’ll not
“So,” he said quietly, “the Germans are sticking in your throat too.” His voice was low with a faint regional intonation.
Lais nodded, sipping her drink without looking at him.
“You are a foreigner?”
She frowned. He was persistent. But then she needed company—all her friends had flown. “American,” she replied, “and French too.”
Leaning forward he topped up her glass from his personal bottle. “I am from Spain,” he said, “a Basque from Barcelona. Enrique García,” he bowed with a slightly mocking smile, “at your service.”
Lais stared at her drink. Was she ready for this kind of encounter on a day like today? A pick-up in a bar? She wondered how many men she had gone home with after some mad gay night that had ended here in Les Halles, injust such a bar as this? The brandy tasted bitter as it flowed down her aching throat and tears stung her eyes. Damn it, oh damn it, why did this war have to
spoil everything? Why did it have to spoil her life!
Her eyes met Enrique García’s knowing glance. Suddenly she recalled overhearing a snatch of conversation between her mother and Uncle Sebastião do Santos, her real father’s brother.
“She’s like
him
, Amelie,” he’d been saying to her. “You
know
that Roberto was two people—but you don’t know the whole story and you never will. Roberto loved you, but he kept his other life away from you. There were the temptations that Roberto never could resist—not with Diego leading him on.”
The door had slammed, leaving Lais still standing in the hall, her mouth open in shock and her heart pounding. The picture of her father that she had carried in her mind, cribbed from the old sepia photographs that curled at the edges, of Roberto, blond and open-faced, his blue eyes meeting the camera’s stare head-on, was shattered.
And she was like him
. What did it mean?
What was she?
What did it matter any more? They were probably all doomed now anyway. She pushed her empty glass towards Enrique García’s. “I’m Lais,” she said to him, “at your service.”
They finished his brandy while he talked. He was a lecturer in Economics at the Sorbonne, and a stringer for a Spanish newspaper contributing a weekly Paris column. He should have left weeks ago, but for some reason he’d hung on. There was a good story to be had and his paper—as well as others—would pay him well for it.
“So,” said Lais flatly, “you’re profiting from Paris’s downfall.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. But the world needs to knowwhat’s going on, what Paris really feels like in the throes of a defeat. People like me can fill that gap.”
The night was blue-black and filled with the strong odours of over-ripe fruit and rotting vegetables as they made their way back through the streets around the market to where she had left her car.
“A de Courmont,” Enrique said admiringly. “A wonderful car.”
Lais drove in silence back to the Ile St Louis, avoiding the main boulevards and ignoring the curfew, daring any German to stop her, but the streets were empty and none did.
Enrique’s low whistle took in the immaculate courtyard and the grey stone mansion admiringly. “You live here?” he asked, surprised.
“Like the car,” said Lais, slamming shut the door, “I’m a de Courmont.”
“Well, well,” said Enrique as he followed her up the steps, “how very useful.”
7
The bulky figure of the German commandant strode up the steps of the Hostellerie la Rose du Cap, pausing for a moment, silhouetted against the blue and gold of a calm Mediterranean evening. Leonie clutched Peach’s hand tighter in hers, her eyes meeting Leonore’s apprehensively. “I will deal with this,” she murmured, “you are not to speak to them unless addressed directly.”
“But Grand-mère …”
“It’s better this way,” whispered Leonie, “they’ll not
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