The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [39]
Each note wove the crowd together into a living, feeling fabric. Claire felt it too, a stirring in her heart, a warmth pierced with sadness. A certain Parisian melancholy. A weariness to be shared. To be carried together.
Claire glanced over her shoulders. The crowd had doubled. A car idled at the curb. A man craned his head out the window, his eyes vacant as he strained to hear.
“Arrêtez,” a loud voice barked. Stop.
The crowd fell back on each side as a pair of French policemen pushed through. The two muscled men looked like prizefighters, holstered pistols belted over blue coats. The larger of the two turned to face the crowd. His nose had been busted against his face too many times; it was a divided lump plastered between his eyes.
“Enough,” he said, his voice like grinding metal. “Christmas is for good Christians. Good Frenchmen. Who respect our father, Maréchal Pétain. Who fight the filth of Jews, Communists, immigrants.” His mouth twisted as he looked over at the guitarist. “Gypsies.” He glared out at the crowd, hooked his thumbs into his belt.
Claire recognized the type. He was a bruiser who had gotten his big break in the new world order and was going to rub these rich bâtard noses in it. These were the worst. They came from the gutters to carry out the work the police didn’t have the stomach for.
“Play ‘Maréchal, nous voilà!’ ” he said.
Claire felt resentment ripple through the audience. Marshal, here we are, the song said. An anthem to Marshal Pétain, Chief of State of Vichy France. And whispered to be Hitler’s puppet.
Claire’s eyes were glued to the guitarist. His face still, he shifted his guitar, took a deep breath and strummed. After a few notes, his band joined him.
The policeman smacked his hands together and nodded at his partner. Around Claire, faces closed down, eyes became hooded. The woman at her side turned and hurried away. In ones and twos, the crowd dissipated into nothing.
Claire drifted across the street, lingered at the corner, not ready to face the inside of the flower shop. There were bits of Paris still. Real Paris. Her throat tightened. In this villainy, in this worn skirt, these calloused hands—somehow this place was her soul’s home. She hummed a bar of the melancholy song.
“Madame, vos papiers,” a gravely voice spit.
Claire turned. The officer who had stopped the song stood in front of her, his hand outstretched, palm up. Waiting for her papers. His partner waited, his thick lips turned down, thumbs stuck in his belt. “Now.” The officer reached for her arm.
Claire’s body went numb, her shaking fingers fumbled with the wallet in her pocket. She tried to smile at him but the grip on her arm disgusted her. Those hands had crushed or hauled off how many to their deaths? She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Monsieur l’agent?” a familiar voice spoke over her shoulder.
Monsieur Dupré, Georges father, stepped around Claire to face the officer. Georges trailed behind him, his face white. They both had arms full of bags, delivering an order to one of the apartments along the street.
Dupré’s slender body and stiff posture looked fragile next to the bull of a man. He turned to Claire, shoving his bags into her arms. It was the first time she had seen him out of the shop. Precisely barbered dark hair, thin glasses hooked over his ears, and a mustache turned down at the ends lent him a slightly disapproving air. Claire clutched at the bags with numb hands, trying to keep the groceries from hitting the ground.