The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [95]
The boy led Claire and the girls to the edge of the clearing. They settled in the grass under the trees, the river a presence only by its low-pitched murmur. Claire reached into her bag and handed apples to Marta and Anna. Marta offered the boy, Luc, an apple, but he shook his head and lit a cigarette.
They ate a quiet meal. Claire’s gaze kept finding the shack, thinking of the paintings inside, the woman who painted them and the girl who just gave them up.
“She painted you beautifully,” Claire said.
Marta didn’t meet her eyes, she shrugged. “Mother denied she had a daughter until she was pregnant with Anna. The name of the painting was Girl Waiting.”
The pain in Marta’s voice was clear. “The man who arranged for us to meet Monsieur Grey did it for those paintings. That was the price for our freedom.”
Anna dragged an apple core through the leaves. “I miss Monsieur Grey. How will he find us here?”
“He won’t, Anna. He left us.” The words burst from Marta’s mouth, then she clamped her lips shut, looking away.
“No. That’s not true,” Claire said, louder than she intended.
Anna listened with round eyes. Marta looked up through her hair.
“Grey will find us.” She held the gaze of each girl. “He promised.”
“Good,” Anna said, as though it were settled, and tossed the core into the bushes.
Claire hugged her arms to her side and closed her eyes. She remembered the feel of Grey’s fingers on her cheek before he drove away. If only it were true.
As night fell, the father reappeared from the shack with a gas lantern in his hand. He and Jean led them, Luc trailing behind. They followed a winding trail through the trees, the smell and the sound of moving water intensifying at each bend.
The river still murmuring out of sight, the trees opened up onto a small canal the width of a truck. They stopped at a pile of debris and leaves at the canal edge. The men each grabbed a branch at the edge of the heap and lifted. A cover of matted branches and leaves came off in a single form, revealing a motorboat stacked high with wooden crates.
The men climbed aboard and started the engine, stoking it to a low rumble. The father reached for Marta, then Anna and Claire. A low whistle sounded in the distance. Luc pushed the boat off the side and leapt aboard. The engine caught and the boat slid down the small channel like a cork coming out of a bottle.
The Seine opened up in front of them. A tugboat chugged into view, smoke boiling out its long smokestack. As it approached, Claire saw the line of three barges trailing along behind it. The father steered the motorboat on an intersecting course. Jean watched the shore, rifle butt snugged tight against his shoulder. Even in the darkness, Claire felt exposed on the open water. She motioned for Marta to slide lower.
The boat maneuvered up next to the tugboat. Luc threw a line up and grabbed another line slung down. In a moment they were docked with the tug, the motor silenced, and the men climbed aboard.
Two crew members swung down to the motorboat and maneuvered the craft back to the first barge. With a practiced ease, a crew tied heavy lines around the crates and wrenched them aboard. Once the crates were stowed on the barge, the men motioned for Claire and the girls. A crate stacked on the top row was popped open with a crowbar. A crewman pointed to the opening with an apologetic shrug.
“Your passage, Mesdames,” he said.
A last look back at the open night sky and Claire went inside. Even with slits between the wooden slats, the crate was stuffy and smelled of burned diesel and old onions. Anna tried to yank free but Marta scolded with a stern voice and pulled her in.
The crewman handed Claire a small iron bar. “This crate will be unloaded on a dock. Wait until you hear a whistle, then free yourselves. The Quai Saint-Exupéry is on the other side of the warehouses and will take you into the heart of Paris.”
The small space rang with the percussion of driving nails as they were sealed inside. Claire’s ears echoed as she listened