The Girl in the Blue Beret - Bobbie Ann Mason [69]
THEY FINISHED THE MEAL chatting about other subjects. She wanted to know about California and New York, and he told her about flying 707s cross-country. She ordered coffee and chocolate cake, but he declined.
“Coffee is for mornings,” he said. “It’s the insomniac’s enemy.”
“Nonsense. One cannot conclude a good meal without some coffee. And of course some cheese or a sweet.” Her mouth turned up in a crooked half smile.
“I’ll pass,” he said. But he caught her smile and peered into her eyes.
Walking from the Métro at Alésia, rounding the corner past the dark hulk of the church, he thought about how her skin had glowed, how she laughed as she broke the little tails of the shellfish. Before they said au revoir, she had invited him to dinner at her apartment, in a week, and he had said yes. She offered to look for some old photographs of her father. He would have said yes even if she had said photographs of her ex-husband.
THE NEXT MORNING, a cloudy Saturday, Marshall telephoned Nicolas.
“Can that be true?” Nicolas said. “He has disappeared? Something odd is going on. She told me he was in Provence.”
“She said her father’s family had lived in Montreuil, so maybe that’s a clue. I’m looking at a map. Maybe I could find the other business he owns. Maybe he’s there.”
“I checked on that and found nothing.”
“I can’t connect the guy she described to the Robert I remember,” Marshall said. “And where is he?”
Marshall had the map spread on the bed, tracing his finger from the Saint-Mandé Métro stop to the zoo. “There’s intrigue here, Nicolas! Maybe he’s one of those guys who thinks the war is still going on, and he’s gone underground. Pardon me, I’ve been reading too many French mystery novels.”
Nicolas laughed. “Maybe you should get on the Métro, Marshall, to seek him underground. Or the sewers of Paris, perhaps.”
“That reminds me—what was the station I left from to go south, toward Spain?”
“The Gare d’Austerlitz. The trains go south.”
“I don’t think I’ve been there since the war.”
“That’s where you would have departed with your guide, who could have been Lebeau. And, Marshall, you must know—it is the station where they sent the Jews out.”
“Isn’t Germany north?”
“They were sent to internment camps in France first.”
“I see.”
“Maybe you don’t. The French interned them.”
He paused. Marshall didn’t know what to say.
Nicolas said, “Don’t worry, Marshall. I will make some more inquiries, hoping to hear things Bourgogne. I will busy myself.”
“I appreciate your help, Nicolas. Here I am in Paris, an old guy on the loose. Sometimes I feel pretty mixed up.”
“Don’t worry, Marshall. You have friends here. One day, perhaps, you will be content. Don’t forget my parents are expecting you here again in Chauny for a grand Sunday at their table. Maman will invite you.”
“I haven’t forgotten. Merci, Nicolas. Au revoir!”
29.
A LETTER FROM AL GRAINGER WAS THE ONLY MAIL IN THE BOX. Marshall was relieved to hear from him finally. Grainger, always the straggler.
Dear Marshall,
I was on vacation in Branson when your letter came. I was bowled over. Long time no see! 1963, was it? I’m sorry to hear about Loretta. She was the life of the party, I remember! Always saying something cute. Well, that’s a heartbreaker, and now you’re retired. Two big things at once, I guess you’re thinking. But I know you, Marshall. You’ll grin and bear it, keep a stiff upper lip. God never gives us more than we can bear. We know that from experience, don’t we?
Whew. The account of your trip back to the final resting place of our old machine filled me up. Not to mention the resting place of our pilot. And I keep thinking about Hootie. That Hootie was a stitch. That was about the worst thing I took with me into captivity—the sight of that funny, twisted kid laying on the ground. He looked so peaceful! I was sure he was dead. And I tell you I was scared seeing him like that, with all those people rushing at us. They got me off to somebody’s house, and there was a doctor, but my shoulder was so bad they had to take me to the