Read Online April in Paris by Michael Wallner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Wallner
Ads: Link
smiles of two ladies who were walking arm in arm. I didn’t take the customary route; instead, I approached rue Jacob obliquely, in a series of loops. The hotel signs seemed like a promise. I was in possession of something better: the key to Hirschbiegel’s apartment. I carried it in the lining of my suit coat.
I reached the Lubinsky by way of a side street and stepped onto the terrace, acting as though the reflecting facade of the barbershop across the way held no fascination for me whatsoever. My heart was pounding as I sat down. Although I knew Chantal 70 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
didn’t work in the shop on Wednesdays, I tried to make her out through the storefront window. In my imagination, she was about to notice me, too, and come walking out the door. Any minute now.
The terrace was crowded. People were talking about the cease-fire; the Wehrmacht was observing it, they said, but not the SS.
The night before, one of the fancy windows in the Hôtel Louis XV had been shot to pieces. I didn’t drink coffee; I ordered pastis instead, thinning the oily liquid with water. The taste reminded me of childhood visits to the dentist. I drank pastis for Chantal.
I had to become more French in everything; I wanted to please her, to make her laugh, to give her proof of my generosity. My thoughts wandered over her body. My hand remembered her waist, the resilience of her muscles. I had smelled her hair; what did her mouth taste like? Her back was straight, her legs strong.
Throughout these reflections, my eyes kept searching up and down the street. Whenever I saw a green dress approaching, I squinted; the woman was never Chantal. After ordering a second glass, I went inside the café and looked in every room, every corner. At the end of an hour, I paid and left. I crossed the street on unsteady legs. Inside the shop, the barber was cutting a girl’s hair.
The only other person in the dimly lighted room was the old man with the newspaper.
Two women came toward me. One said, “They don’t send twelve-year-olds to prison camp.” The other wouldn’t be consoled. “Michel’s fourteen,” she said.
They saw my reflection in a shop window. I turned aside and sniffed my rose. At that moment, I spotted Chantal on the other A P R I L I N PA R I S . 71
side of the street, in the Lubinsky. She really had come; she’d taken our date seriously! I waved to her and started to walk back across the street. A military vehicle rattled past, hiding her from my sight for a few seconds. As though she hadn’t noticed me, Chantal slipped between tables and left the café again. I called her name; she didn’t turn around. I thought I’d catch up with her in a few strides, but she was faster. Whenever I tried to get closer to her, she picked up the pace; if I fell back, she went slower, too. I started running, determined to put an end to this incomprehensible game. Chantal turned into a narrow side street. It was a while before I caught sight of her again. After a series of such inexplicable maneuvers, we were getting closer to rue de Gaspard, without having exchanged a single word. She pushed open the door in the gate and went in. Before it closed again, I stepped through as well, ran past the junk dealer’s place, and saw Chantal disappear into the bookshop. Why had she led me here?
I reached the big rock and looked up at the entrance. Inside, Joffo was waiting on two sergeants who were buying picture postcards. I waited with mounting curiosity until the soldiers left the shop, and then I went in.
The bookseller was standing at the counter in the rear of the shop, arranging books into two stacks. No trace of Chantal. I set off the shop bell and wished him good evening. As I moved toward him, Joffo stepped to one side. For a moment, I lost sight of him. When I got to the counter, I cast a glance into the stockroom behind it, where I figured Chantal was.
Someone grabbed me and forced my arms behind my back.
Strong hands held me
I reached the Lubinsky by way of a side street and stepped onto the terrace, acting as though the reflecting facade of the barbershop across the way held no fascination for me whatsoever. My heart was pounding as I sat down. Although I knew Chantal 70 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
didn’t work in the shop on Wednesdays, I tried to make her out through the storefront window. In my imagination, she was about to notice me, too, and come walking out the door. Any minute now.
The terrace was crowded. People were talking about the cease-fire; the Wehrmacht was observing it, they said, but not the SS.
The night before, one of the fancy windows in the Hôtel Louis XV had been shot to pieces. I didn’t drink coffee; I ordered pastis instead, thinning the oily liquid with water. The taste reminded me of childhood visits to the dentist. I drank pastis for Chantal.
I had to become more French in everything; I wanted to please her, to make her laugh, to give her proof of my generosity. My thoughts wandered over her body. My hand remembered her waist, the resilience of her muscles. I had smelled her hair; what did her mouth taste like? Her back was straight, her legs strong.
Throughout these reflections, my eyes kept searching up and down the street. Whenever I saw a green dress approaching, I squinted; the woman was never Chantal. After ordering a second glass, I went inside the café and looked in every room, every corner. At the end of an hour, I paid and left. I crossed the street on unsteady legs. Inside the shop, the barber was cutting a girl’s hair.
The only other person in the dimly lighted room was the old man with the newspaper.
Two women came toward me. One said, “They don’t send twelve-year-olds to prison camp.” The other wouldn’t be consoled. “Michel’s fourteen,” she said.
They saw my reflection in a shop window. I turned aside and sniffed my rose. At that moment, I spotted Chantal on the other A P R I L I N PA R I S . 71
side of the street, in the Lubinsky. She really had come; she’d taken our date seriously! I waved to her and started to walk back across the street. A military vehicle rattled past, hiding her from my sight for a few seconds. As though she hadn’t noticed me, Chantal slipped between tables and left the café again. I called her name; she didn’t turn around. I thought I’d catch up with her in a few strides, but she was faster. Whenever I tried to get closer to her, she picked up the pace; if I fell back, she went slower, too. I started running, determined to put an end to this incomprehensible game. Chantal turned into a narrow side street. It was a while before I caught sight of her again. After a series of such inexplicable maneuvers, we were getting closer to rue de Gaspard, without having exchanged a single word. She pushed open the door in the gate and went in. Before it closed again, I stepped through as well, ran past the junk dealer’s place, and saw Chantal disappear into the bookshop. Why had she led me here?
I reached the big rock and looked up at the entrance. Inside, Joffo was waiting on two sergeants who were buying picture postcards. I waited with mounting curiosity until the soldiers left the shop, and then I went in.
The bookseller was standing at the counter in the rear of the shop, arranging books into two stacks. No trace of Chantal. I set off the shop bell and wished him good evening. As I moved toward him, Joffo stepped to one side. For a moment, I lost sight of him. When I got to the counter, I cast a glance into the stockroom behind it, where I figured Chantal was.
Someone grabbed me and forced my arms behind my back.
Strong hands held me
Similar Books
