The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [43]
Adresse: 44, RUE DU MONTPARNASSE, PARIS.
The card was stamped, dated May, signed at the bottom, and worn as if from months of wear.
“This is me? Claire Badeau?”
Odette nodded. “American, married to a Frenchman, Henri Badeau. This way, no one will question why you are in Paris.”
“Is Henri a real person?”
“Yes. A writer. His family was from Toulouse.”
“Handsome?”
“He was. He was called to the front last November. He died in June. You are a widow, Claire.” Odette cleared her throat. “You met in Paris, fell instantly in love, were married, and then he was gone.” She looked to the boy. “The license?”
He riffled through papers on the desk and handed Claire a slip.
Odette spoke as Claire glanced over the paper. “Your marriage was recorded here, in your livret de famille, given to you by the official at city hall. Your name, your true name, is buried deep in the files there, impossible to find. Memorize the date, your home address. Make up the details.” She looked over to the boy. “Well done. As always.”
He hid a smile; his thin chest puffed out beneath layers of fabric.
“You’d better get back to school before they miss you.” Odette pointed to a textbook half-buried under a jacket. “Don’t forget your science book.”
He lifted his chin; his eyes shot a squinty glare. Already a proud artist, Claire thought. What made the Nazis think they could control this world?
Odette turned to Claire. “Shall we take the Métro?”
The humid warmth inside the Métro station on boulevard de Clichy hit Claire like a hot bath. She trailed Odette beneath flickering lights through the crowded entry, down the stairs and through the dingy white-tiled tunnel. The train arrived as they reached the open platform. They pressed into the boarding crowd and sank into hard seats facing the door.
Cars had been prohibited for months. The Métro was bursting at the seams. It didn’t run at all on the weekends. Protests over the loss of cars in the first months succumbed to grumbling as an early winter hit. Bitter cold overwhelmed a city reeling from fuel shortages. The only time many Parisians were warm was during their commute on the Métro. Young and old, rich and poor, they learned to put up with the ride.
Claire relaxed into the jostling as heat seeped into her core. She couldn’t remember when some part of her hadn’t been chilled. She breathed in deep. It smelled of cigarettes, oil, stale bodies and a faint whiff of perfume. It was about damn time.
They got off at Saint Lazare and walked down rue du Rocher. A couple of turns and they paused in front of a café. The faded sign read Café Raphael.
“A theater.” Odette tilted her head toward the building across the street.
“I see it,” Claire said.
“And next to the theater. A dentist.”
Claire squinted. A sign embellished with the drawing of a tooth was propped in the street-side window of the building next to the theater.
“Dr. Rousseau. That’s where you will drop your reports, in the mail slot to the left of the door. Always come a different way. Never at the same time. Write the name Danielle on the envelope. Sign it as Evelyn.”
“Evelyn?”
“That will be the name you use. Can you find your way back to the shop now?”
Claire nodded. “What about the address listed as my home?”
“A decoy,” Odette said. “Leave a note for Danielle here if you have news or need to see me. Otherwise, I will find you at the flower shop. You cannot tell Madame Palain about our arrangement.”
“I have a dead husband and new name, Odette.”
“I am confident you will think of something.” Odette turned to go, then looked back over her shoulder. A smile flitted over her face. “I am pleased you have decided to contribute.”
Claire sputtered. She argued with Odette’s retreating back. “I’m not. I am just noting a few things. That’s all. Reporting a party in the society pages.”
Odette crossed the street and disappeared into a side alley.
Claire twisted Russell’s wedding ring she wore on her right hand. When she considered selling the fur coat early this winter, Georges told her about a pawnshop not far from here. Badeau.