SEVEN

As the apartment door opened, the fragrance of roasting meat and the sound of good-natured conversation greeted Duchene. He had expected admonishments from Marienne – he was forty-five minutes late – but she smiled and kissed his cheeks.

One glance at her told him he was underdressed. She wore a blue evening dress with large accordion pleats and embroidered straps; it was new and, Duchene assumed, the latest fashion. Her dark lipstick accentuated her fair skin, which had never had a summer hue, even in childhood.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she said, taking his coat.

Duchene opened his valise and brought out a bottle of cognac. He gave it to her as she guided him down the short corridor to the open-plan living and dining room. While her back was turned, he slipped a novel from his bag: Alain-Fournier’s Le Grand Meaulnes. He quickly scanned her shelves for its spine; if it was already there, he’d brought something by Raymond Chandler. Satisfied that she didn’t have it, he placed it onto the bookshelf in the corridor for her to discover – a recommendation, a secret, a surprise, a kindness.

She glanced back at him, and he nodded to her as he passed through the sliding doors towards the three people gathered around the dinner table. Their laughter quieted as he approached, and a young Luftwaffe officer leapt to his feet. He was tall with a tight blond haircut and the trimmed pencil moustache of an airman. ‘Good evening, Monsieur Duchene, I’m Maximilian, Max,’ he said in raw French and thrust a hand at Duchene. His grip was firm but moist. He’s nervous.

Another German, dressed in an elaborate tunic complete with ornamental braids and piping, sat beside Camille. Duchene didn’t recognise the uniform: army but not infantry. A medical officer, perhaps? Regardless, it was clear he was very senior and, from the Hindenburg Cross on his lapel, had served in the Great War.

All this finery magnified Duchene’s sense of inadequacy – he was wearing his best suit, but it was worn around the cuffs and frayed at the pockets. If he’d been given a sense of the formality of the evening, he could have arranged something better through Lucien.

‘Monsieur Duchene,’ the senior officer said, remaining seated as he gestured towards Duchene. ‘Come and join me at the far end of the table, where it would seem we elders have been relegated.’ His French was impeccable. Unlike Max, he glided through his sentences without hesitation. His German accent was so slight, he could have easily passed for Swiss.

‘This is Major Faber,’ Marienne said.

‘Thomas, please,’ said Faber as he poured wine into Duchene’s empty glass.

‘Auguste,’ Duchene replied, sitting beside him.

‘Best to keep us old military men together.’

‘Marienne was just telling the major how you served in the last war,’ Camille said, as Marienne disappeared into the kitchen.

‘It feels like a lifetime ago.’

‘Doesn’t it,’ said Faber. ‘Which is a blessing. There’s much from that time I’d rather forget. What rank?’

‘Sergeant.’

‘An enlisted man. Very good. And promoted to a leader.’

‘Not really, just the last man left who could do the job.’

‘Yes, a terrible war. I won’t disagree with you there.’

Duchene couldn’t imagine the distinction between a terrible war and some other kind. Perhaps Faber was referring to his being on the losing side.

‘But you are both here now,’ Max said. ‘Ready to enjoy this fine meal of both German and French food. It’s the way of the future.’

Although Faber smiled, Duchene could see his eyes had hardened. He raised his wineglass. ‘Now that we are all here, a toast perhaps? To the meal that Mademoiselle Duchene has spent so much time preparing. A beauty, an intellectual, a wonderful cook. To your health!’

Glasses chimed. Marienne swept back into the kitchen.

Duchene found himself assessing Faber. Although they were about the same age, nearing fifty, Duchene was very aware that to the casual observer, he would have appeared the older of the two. The major was a testament to the Teutonic emphasis on robust living and physical health. His blond hair was slicked back from a receding hairline freckled from days spent in the sun. His hook nose was unmarred by drinking, and his strong frame was still firm and without a spilling gut.

None of this was made any easier by Duchene’s growing sense that Faber was the focus of everyone’s attention, the motivator of their desire to be both erudite and entertaining.

‘I hear you speak excellent German,’ Faber said to Duchene as Max struggled to describe to Camille the summer house his family owned.

Perhaps Faber was looking for a compliment on his French. ‘I do my best,’ Duchene replied.

‘Anything else?’

‘English.’

‘Ah yes, I’ve caught that affliction too. Although, very useful in this war. I do enjoy being back here in Paris and speaking the language, walking the streets. I was disappointed by what you did with the Louvre, but I dare say the Führer would have shipped it all back to Berlin. Probably better that your government had it removed. That’s sedition, I know, but there you have it. I’d like this city to remain as it is. Too beautiful to bomb. Too much history and culture to let it burn. You must at least give us that.’

‘I can do that. You didn’t bomb us.’

‘No. But the English … Well, that can’t be said for them. I heard about your school. So much for your allies, eh?’

Duchene carefully set his wineglass back on the table.

‘You don’t like my directness?’ Faber asked.

I don’t like anything about you.

‘It’s not something I like to discuss.’

‘I apologise. I forget how important decorum is in Paris. Max warned me. As you’ve already seen, he says far too much. How are you with Latin? As a linguist, I take it you share a passion for the classical world?’

‘A little. I’m a modernist, really.’

‘Oh, dear. That won’t do. You’ve read Ovid?’

‘None.’

‘Homer?’

‘No.’

‘This is a major setback. I’d hoped we would find a kinship there.’ Faber held out his left hand. He wore a ring with a small cameo; on a lapis-blue background was the ivory profile of a Roman centurion. ‘I bought this here, when I visited with the delegation in thirty-seven. A street vendor was selling a pair of them. I had to have them both. In Rome, a man needed to fight before he could vote, before he could assume a role in determining the future of his civilisation. There’s an honest simplicity to that, don’t you think? You must sacrifice something of yourself for the state before determining its future. That’s the problem with Jewish Bolshevism – every man is equal, regardless of service or status. But how can we be? You must earn your right to participate, because to be given it for nothing makes it worthless.’

Faber was testing him, that much was clear. Duchene paused while he considered his response. ‘I don’t think I understand the world any more now than I did before I fought in a war. If anything, it makes less sense.’

‘Ha!’ Faber clapped him on the back. ‘Well, that’s the challenge of having lived and travelled. The more you see, the more you realise how little you know. But the essence of men, this never changes. Is this uncertainty why you left the army? A sergeant’s salary would have been difficult to turn away from.’

‘I didn’t have the passion for it.’

‘So you turned to teaching … I suppose it’s an admirable profession?’

Marienne came back to the room holding a large roast ready to be carved. Beside this she placed a kaiserfleisch tartiflette and mushroom tournedos. She held out the handle of a carving knife to the older German. ‘Major Faber, would you like to do the honours?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t. Monsieur Duchene should do it. He is the guest of honour, after all.’

He was? To what end? Perhaps it was no accident that Lucien had brought him to the Rue de Castellane that morning.

‘Come now,’ Faber said, taking the knife from Marienne and passing it to him, ‘you’re among friends. We won’t judge your skill.’

Among friends … He felt conspicuous. Complicit. Held captive by Faber’s social decorum.

Duchene did his best to bring a casual smile to his face. There were a great many Germans in the city, whom he had learnt to tolerate while he kept his head down and survived. Now he found himself considering if he should actively offend one. He had the knife in his hand and a German officer a few inches away.

Duchene carved the roast, and Faber beamed from ear to ear. Once everyone had been served, Duchene took his seat.

‘You say a Frenchman produced this kaiserfleisch?’ Max asked as he raised more tartiflette to his mouth.

‘From Guillaume’s,’ replied Marienne.

‘Amazing.’

‘A master charcutier,’ Camille said. ‘Accepts only a few apprentices on the agreement they’ll never work anywhere else in Paris once they learn the secrets to his technique.’

‘The skill of the French as cooks was never in doubt,’ said Faber.

‘Or as romantics,’ Max said in German, gripping Marienne by the hand. ‘Which brings me to an announcement.’

Duchene’s stomach clenched.

‘Marienne and I are engaged. Monsieur Duchene, you must forgive me for not asking your permission first. I had meant to do so at the start of the evening, before everyone had arrived. But it seems that the moment is now. I wanted the major here too – as close to family as I have in this foreign land.’

‘I understood only a little of that,’ Camille said in French. ‘Is this word verlobt what I think it is?’

‘Yes,’ said Marienne. ‘We’re engaged.’

‘Congratulations,’ Camille said as she hugged Marienne and kissed her cheek.

‘Yes, wonderful news,’ Faber said, standing to reach for Max’s hand before kissing Marienne. ‘Takes me back to when I first proposed to my wife.’

Duchene gripped the sides of the table as he pulled himself up. His mind was numb with disappointment. Disappointment with France, that it could let itself be taken by enemies who would ingratiate themselves to his daughter. Disappointment with Marienne, that she had fallen – not so much for a German, but for a man who was so far from her equal, this grinning imbecile in a uniform. But most of all, disappointment with himself, that he hadn’t done more to guide Marienne, to fight for a larger role in her life. If he had done that, she might have confided in him about Max’s plans, and he could have counselled her otherwise.

‘A toast, then you must tell us how you met,’ Faber said.

‘I’ll fill our glasses,’ Camille said, and distributed them from the sideboard. As she poured the Hennessy, she looked at Duchene, a subtle narrowing of her eyes. In less than a second, she had turned away and was filling Faber’s glass.

Their glasses charged, Faber gestured towards Duchene. ‘Please. I spoke at my daughter’s engagement and her wedding, and whenever my wife would let me. Please, from the father of the bride-to-be.’

Duchene felt as if he was looking at the smiling faces from a great distance rather than mere centimetres. Marienne was watching him with a slight frown, her hand gripping her glass too tightly. There was a pinching below his eyes as he forced his lips into a smile. ‘A happy day. To my remarkable daughter and this young man whom I hope to one day know better. Cheers!’

‘Prost!’ shouted Max before downing the cognac.

‘A remarkable find in a city of scarcity,’ Faber said, examining the amber liquid.

‘It was a gift,’ said Duchene.

‘Recently?’

Duchene stared at Faber. He refused to let an expression pass across his face.

‘No need to fear. I’ve heard about your good deeds, about how you assisted the Verniers. An impressive feat, finding a child in the midst of a war. My congratulations to you.’ Faber held up his glass to Duchene.

‘It comes as no surprise to anyone here that we Germans haven’t had the warmest welcome in Paris,’ Max announced to the room in German. ‘I understand. I would feel the same if France had come to Germany. I think of Napoleon marching into Berlin, when he paid his respects to Frederick the Great. We should act with honour, even in war.’

‘We don’t need to get into that now, Max,’ said Faber. ‘Tell us the story of how you met – and in that terrible French of yours, so Madame here can appreciate it.’ He nodded in the direction of Camille.

‘This is part of the story,’ Max said, switching to French. ‘I come to Paris, and I am ignored. A woman loses the umbrella from her hand. I chase it down the street. Bring it back. I am ignored. I ask for directions. Parisians don’t know where anything is. I ask again, more slowly. They shrug. Perhaps they have forgotten their French too?’

Marienne laughed.

Max continued, ‘I can see what is happening. I am not alone. The Luftwaffe all agree. But one day, I am in the Métro, and we are boarding the train. I drop a parcel in the rush. I think it will be crushed. But it is lifted from the ground and passed to me. A woman says in German, “Is this yours?” Not any woman. A beautiful woman with a smile and fire in her eyes – my angel of the Métro. Everyone is looking at us. I say back to her in French, “Thank you.” And then in German, “Let me buy you a coffee. Let me return the favour.” She doesn’t say yes. She says, “Of course,” as though it the most natural thing to do. She is brave, and she is, as Monsieur here says, “remarkable”.’

Marienne beamed and placed both hands on Max’s face as she drew him forward to kiss her. Duchene looked down at the table.

‘I’m happy to be called “remarkable”, but I am tired from cooking for all of you.’ Marienne smiled. ‘Enough of your stories. Go and get the tart,’ she said playfully, pushing Max out of his chair.

‘Of course,’ he said as he left the room.

Almost immediately, Marienne leant close to Camille and started to talk to her. They laughed and whispered, and Duchene turned his head so that he didn’t hear anything he might otherwise regret. This brought him back to face Faber, who was picking the cognac up from the table and pouring them both another round.

‘Of course, it’s an awful idea,’ he said in hushed tones to Duchene.

‘It is?’

‘Come now. Don’t pretend you don’t know it too. What is to happen here? What is their next step to be? We’re at war. He’ll be recalled soon. She’ll be without his protection. Or worse, the Americans will get here, and we’ll have no choice but to shell the city to drive them out. He’s Wehrmacht – if he’s recalled, she won’t get to go with him. That’s just the way it is.’

Another moment of frankness. Duchene was unsure if Faber was trying to test him or draw him into a compromise.

‘On that we agree.’ Duchene took a slow sip from the glass. The cognac no longer caused him to wince. He wondered how much he’d drunk in the past two days. ‘She says he has a powerful family?’

‘Max? Yes. If we weren’t at war, they could probably do what they want. His father is an old friend, a captain of industry. But while we’re at war, it’s the captains, majors and generals who make the decisions. And right now, it’s everyone reporting for duty – no excuses. Bolshevik dogs harassing us in the east. Americans fucking with us in the west.’

Duchene remained silent.

‘Oh, you think we’re not in this together? How are you not “one of us”, Monsieur Duchene? I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but our countries are no longer enemies. You yourself recently saved the child of German supporters. Yesterday, you drove around the countryside with papers signed by none other than von Choltitz’s personal secretary. You’re very squarely and firmly rooted in soil owned by Germans, metaphorically and physically.’

‘I did that for the child.’

‘Seems a long way to go for a stranger’s child. To take such risks for – what do your insurgents call them? Collaborators.’

‘I did it for the child. Not for the parents. Not for collaborators.’

‘Rubbish. You did it for yourself. For your own advantage.’

Duchene picked up his drink and sipped; he could feel his resentment growing. There was little point in arguing his defence, but this did not lessen the insult. ‘I’m uncertain what you want from me, Major Faber.’

‘Well, there’s some truth to that. I do want something from you. But I’m afraid I’m not asking you to do it.’

‘And if I don’t?’

Faber glanced at Marienne. ‘As you say. A remarkable woman.’

Duchene sipped the liquor. Let the heat of it push back his anger. ‘Go on.’

‘Oh, now, Monsieur, I must say that for the first time tonight you have surprised me. I was certain you would protest. A father’s indignation, his protective instincts … but this. Cold and without passion. Impressive.’

Hardly. But I’ve heard it all before. Four hours ago.

‘What is it that you are going to tell me to do?’

‘To find someone, of course. This is what you do, no?’

‘That would seem to be the case.’

‘I need you to find a missing soldier. Lieutenant Christian Kloke, 2nd Panzer Division.’

‘Desertion?’

‘I think not. He was one of my best field commanders. He enjoyed the job. And there’s no sign of assassination – no body to be found. Which surely is the point of an insurgent attack, to demonstrate non-compliance through violence. It makes very little sense.’

‘Does he have a hotel room, an apartment? Has someone checked his belongings?’

‘They have. But perhaps you should look for yourself. He kept a room in Montmartre. Nothing has been touched. He didn’t report in yesterday, and no one has seen him since Friday night.’

‘Might I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’

‘Why me? Why not your military police? The French police?’

‘You joke. French police? I should hand this to the Feldjägerkorps, our chained dogs. But they are under orders to shoot deserters. And I’d rather Kloke was not executed, even if he is a coward. Like Max, I’m a friend to his parents. And like Max’s parents, they’re influential. It wouldn’t look good if their son was executed while I was in the same city. I’d prefer to keep it all off the record, for you to find him and for me to convince him to return to battle. Germans should be killing the enemy, not one another. But that isn’t the biggest problem with the military police.’

‘And that is?’

‘Whatever Kloke’s reason for disappearing, German soldiers are going to struggle to find him quickly. You heard Max, your city is not open to us. But to a Frenchman who excels in finding the missing, someone who’s not hated by the locals … It makes perfect sense.’

‘Is that why you came here tonight?’

Faber shrugged. ‘A home-cooked meal, the company of beautiful women … there are many incentives. But yes, to drag myself away from the company of Germans to sit in the house of a French whore, I’d need to have a very specific goal – you.’

Duchene gripped the glass, making his hand ache.

Faber unbuttoned the front of his tunic and reached into his breast pocket. He handed Duchene a folded piece of paper. ‘You are now authorised to be out after curfew. Find Kloke, and be quick about it. You have –’

‘– two days.’

‘Yes. Exactly. I’m glad you sense the urgency. Anything else you need to know before you begin?’

‘No,’ Duchene replied.

‘Good.’

Faber’s expression changed in an instant from the blank certainty of a killer to the smile of a long-term host, just as Max emerged from the kitchen with a tarte Tatin in his hands. Plum. That hanged farmer, the stench of his death, had followed Duchene to the city.