Nightingale (3 page)

But she drew back, weight on her heels, arms crossed in front of her boyish flat chest.

“Please. You can’t do this.”

“Watch me.” She uncrossed her arms. “Get out of my way.”

He couldn’t win this.

“Let me get my coat.”

Chapter 5

Yves was just wrapping up his forty-minute performance with
Mills on the River
when he noticed a gray-clad figure advancing to the side of the stage. He cast a quick glance and recognized the insignia on the oberst’s uniform. He looked away,
concentrated on his last few lines, unwilling to be perturbed by von Starck’s appearance in the Chez Martine, and then, of course, had to sing two more as the audience kept calling him back.

Back in his dressing room, Yves lingered, hoping the German would grow bored or perhaps distracted by the rest of the evening’s entertainment. No such luck.

A polite, correct knock, timed not unlike Beethoven’s famous ta-ta-ta-TA interrupted his washing. Blindly, he took a fresh towel and pressed it to his face, then opened the door.

“Yes?” he asked the advancing boot heels.

“Good evening,
Monsieur
Lacroix.”

Yves glanced over the top of his towel at von Starck, who took his peaked cap off and pushed it under his arm. The short, dark hair with the silver temples looked distinguished enough to belong to anybody but an officer of the enemy, and the blue eyes regarded him with nothing short of warmth—a warmth that translated itself by whatever treacherous process into Yves’s body.

“Good evening, Oberst. Do you mind if I continue changing?”

For a moment, the officer lost a beat, maybe not sure how to respond.

“No, please do go ahead.” The oberst turned around and busied himself, studying the collection of postcards and autographs covering the wall. A few were even of really famous people, like Grock,
the king of clowns.

Yves kept an eye on the German in the mirror and pulled the tight shirt over his head, then quickly washed the sweat off. “I hadn’t expected to see you so soon.”

The oberst half-turned, clearly not used to talking to somebody without facing them, and his blue eyes strafed Yves’s naked torso before he straightened and turned away. “But you did expect me.”

“Yes, I did. After the way our conversation over at
Madame
Julia’s had been going.”

“You’re correct, of course.” The oberst reached out, his hand gloved in black leather, smoothing one postcard that had begun to curl with age. Nothing short of a heated iron would straighten the paper again, but the gesture looked so deliberate that Yves thought the oberst was probably not a brutal, thoughtless man.

“But you missed my show.” Yves took a fresh shirt from his bag, slipped into it, and began to button it up.

“For which I’m inconsolable, but I had to work longer today.”

“What are you working on?”

“I work at Army Headquarters.” The oberst half-craned his neck again. “If you would like to wear the appropriate attire, I could make use of the reservation at Maxim’s that my aide has arranged.”

Maxim’s
.
The oberst was playing for high stakes. Most Parisian tarts would have jumped at the invitation—and then jumped straight into bed afterward to pay their part of the exorbitant bill. “I’d have to go home and change properly,” Yves said, eyeing the German’s perfectly pressed uniform.

The oberst turned smartly and moved as if to open the door for Yves, but Yves laughed the attempt off and slipped through first. “Where else do you want to go?”

Von Starck put his peaked cap back on. “There’s the Palace, or a restaurant that would not inconvenience you with its expected level of formal dress, albeit, I have to admit, I’m not prepared . . . I don’t know which serves good food outside the establishments recommended by colleagues.”

“If it doesn’t have to be Maxim’s . . .”

Von Starck shook his head. “At this stage, I’d be happy just to eat something.”

Yves peered at him, struck by the admission of human weakness. If the officer had really worked up until now, he was quite possibly running on a breath of fumes. “I know just the place.”

He noticed that he was being herded toward a black limousine. Of course, an oberst would have a car. And a driver, because a young soldier stood next to it, a flick of his wrist indicated he had been smoking. The driver opened the car and closed the doors behind them, then slid behind the wheel.

“What are the directions?” Von Starck asked.

Yves gave him the address, and von Starck indicated to the driver to take them there.

At the restaurant, barely more than a brasserie, two menus existed. One was the official, post-ration-card menu; the other was handed only to customers who knew the owner or those who could clearly afford the eye-watering expense of black-market goods. Anybody with a German officer in tow would never get to see the ration-card menu.

“The duck stew is to die for,” Yves said when they settled at a table at the back of the restaurant. He didn’t want to be seen by too many people, and most definitely not by acquaintances that might be happening by.

“I’ll try that, then.” Von Starck put the menu down and seemed to relax a bit—no mean feat, as stiff and correct as he was.

When the waiter appeared, they both went with the stew along with the red house wine. Yves glanced around the tables, noticing a few opera types at the far end, but no other Germans. This place was tucked away in a side street, a bit out of the way even though the Paris Opéra was just minutes away on foot.

Yes, while von Starck was on his own—the driver had stayed with the car—he didn’t seem to mind. Maybe it was pure confidence, or the man really didn’t expect anything bad to happen to him when he moved by himself among natives. The
other
soldier hadn’t been so lucky.

“This is a charming place,” von Starck said. “Do you come here often?”

“Less often these days. I used to meet my mother here every now and then after performances.”

Von Starck plucked a slice of baguette from the basket between them. “I’m half curious and half anxious to ask about her.”

“Why?”

“The last time I asked about one of your acquaintances was embarrassing for us both.”

Charles Gutman.

He’s a Jew.

“No. It’s nothing like that,” Yves spluttered, aware he was apologizing for having embarrassed the oberst. God help him. “She retired to the countryside when I was drafted. She owns a house there.”

“You served.” Von Starck studied him over the rim of his wine glass. “I never before realized how difficult it is to talk about anything if you’re French and I’m German.”

And your jackboots trample all over my city.

Yves stared into his glass. “Yes, there isn’t much common ground.”

Von Starck’s lips twitched. “‘Common ground’ is an interesting way to put it. But you’re right. Albeit I’d expect my countrymen to struggle more . . . unarmed with the language and ignorant of France’s rich culture.”

“As if language is a weapon.”

Von Starck measured him for a long moment. “It is not?”

Yves turned his gaze away. “I’m just an entertainer. A cabaret singer. All I’m doing is making people laugh, and maybe cry if they are too drunk, but I’m not much of a philosopher. You’d have to ask somebody else.”

“I’d assume your friend Maurice Lefèvre eviscerates a man if the mood strikes him.”

“He does.” Yves laughed. “You got him in one.”

“That is what I envy. The lightness. The way French can be like silk. And turn into barbed wire immediately.” Yves’ gaze fell to the oberst’s hands. On those big hands, fine white scars stood out even in the dim light.

“You served in the first war.”

“I did.” Von Starck flattened his hands on the table, looking like he was about to push away and leave, but the motion never made it to his torso. “I wasn’t much older than you are now, a young lieutenant in the trenches.”

“And?” Yves said, his breath shallow.

“It turned me into a man.” Despite those words that would doubtlessly please his masters and generals, there was more to it. “More precisely, it turned me into the man I’m now. I went on to study art history, as if the images the war has given me can be replaced with what an artist puts on a canvas. Replacing my inner landscapes with those of somebody else.” Von Starck fell silent when the waiter appeared with the duck meat steaming in its earthenware pots, surrounded by potatoes and other vegetables.

“Where did you learn French?”

“Switzerland.” Von Starck took a piece of the duck and chewed, swallowed, and looked right at Yves. “This is unbelievable.”

“It’s just simple peasant cooking.” Yves enjoyed watching the officer eat with obvious relish. Yves forced himself to chew slowly and savor the food, though the meat offered no resistance. He poured von Starck more wine, delighted that the man seemed less stiff now that they were practically alone—or at least anonymous among the other patrons of the brasserie.

Less conqueror and conquered, and more two men sharing a meal and a bottle of red. Yves smiled with the madness of it all.

Chapter 6

“You scrub up nicely.” Maurice stepped close and corrected Yves’s collar. He smelled of smoke and perfume, an infernal combination as Yves was already busy gulping down acid that his stomach kept pressing up. “But you do look a bit green.”

“I’m scared.”

“All good entertainers are scared before a performance.”

Yves swallowed and prayed to anything out there—including Apollo and the Muses—that he wouldn’t lose control over his stomach while onstage. He was not a beginner. And while the Palace crowd was notorious for being critical, he doubted they’d throw champagne bottles at him. They shouldn’t. Maybe. Damn Maurice.

“I can’t go out there. Seriously, I can’t.”

“You will go, or I’ll have you dragged. I’m sure you can make it look like part of your comedy routine.”

That upset his stomach even more. And von Starck would be there, too. He wished he had no other ambition in his life than to sing in bars for a few francs. He could handle sixty or even a hundred half-drunks. Hell, even two hundred drunks were preferable to the Palace’s
champagne laughter, the full orchestra and dozens of crystal chandeliers. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Knock yourself out, my boy.”

Yves rushed to the washbasin, where he fell to his knees in front of a metal bucket, stomach heaving. Dry cramps hurt his throat and every muscle down to his churning guts, and he thought he might just make it through without, but. A rush of saliva filled his mouth, and he knew that was it. In that moment, he was grateful for every bite of solid food he hadn’t had in the last few days, because everything else—every sip of wine, water, soup—went that way. And what a disaster that was: his voice would be cracking now and hoarse, and the audience would definitely notice.

He felt hands on his hair while he was heaving, finally only spitting green-tinged saliva. He sat down next to the bucket and closed his eyes when Maurice wiped his face with a towel.

“Feeling better?”

“Ask me again in an hour.” Yves groaned and took the towel, wiping across his forehead. “Distract me.”

Maurice pushed the bucket to the side, crouching next to him. “So, how is von Starck?”

“My best guess is ‘lonely’.”

“Of course.” Maurice winked. “And in bed?”

Yves’s stomach clenched, but this sick feeling was different from the first one. “I . . . uh . . . don’t know.”

“Sleeping through it, are you?” Maurice winked. “Don’t be shy.”

Only Maurice could make him feel like a failure because he’d been acquainted with an enemy officer for three weeks and nothing untoward had happened. As if it was somehow expected or even natural.

He could have feigned ignorance, but not with Maurice. Any claim that he’d never thought von Starck’s tastes ran
that way
would be mocked mercilessly and probably repeated to any other homosexual in Paris, each and every one of them seemed on speaking—or
not
speaking—terms with Maurice.

“He’s never . . . shown interest.”

Maurice laughed. “Oh, really? How often has he picked you up after a performance?”

Ten times. Eleven-ish. “We have a bit of a habit to go to dinner.”

“Maxim’s, too? Where the other German officers are taking their French mistresses?”

“Twice.” Dear God, how had he ended up in this situation?

“And you’ve never asked him up for a coffee?”

“And let the whole house know? Of course not!”

“He’s a patient one, von Starck. A proper courtship.” Maurice flattened his hand against his tuxedo-clad chest. “How old-fashioned. That is
so
romantic. Power, money, a noble title,
and
manners. I envy you.”

“Well, just because you would have been on your knees in front of him in a side alley on the first day . . .”

“Never waste time you can use better,” Maurice boomed. “Stop playing coy. The man wants you, but he’s not pushing. He waits for a sign.”

“Well, he can keep waiting,” Yves murmured. “I’m not some harlot who falls into bed with the next best scrap of German uniform. If I want that kind of thing, you’ve shown me how to get it.”

Maurice sobered. “Did I mention he has the ear of the German ambassador?
Doktor
Abetz can shut us down in a heartbeat if he feels like it. Their Francophilia only goes so far, and, to be perfectly honest with you,
mon cher
, by the looks of it, we can use any powerful patron we can get. You should think about it. He is not just interested in your voice, so give that man a hand—”

“It’s not a
hand
he wants.” Yves took a handful of water and washed the last of the sweat away, then washed out his mouth. His stomach felt fragile, but the worst was clearly over. “Can you get me a drink? Just to settle my stomach?”

Maurice went to the door and ordered somebody outside to bring him brandy. Less than a minute later, he returned and offered Yves a snifter, placing a hand on his shoulder. “He’s not repugnant. Good manners. Generous. His dress sense is not his fault.”

“I know.” Yves downed the alcohol in one big gulp and met Maurice’s eyes in the mirror, then studied his own reflection. He looked pale and his hair was all over the place, too long and wavy to be just combed back. His sister had tamed the same mop of hair by cutting it very short, but on him, it just seemed to defy any attempt to manage it.

Édith. How could he on one hand creep out with her and help her deposit the “Voice of the Latin Quarter”—just so she’d be done and home faster and because that was what brothers did—and on the other hand begin a carnal relationship with the enemy?

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Maurice?”

“You know I know everybody. Some people might run into difficulties with the Germans.”

And wasn’t that the truth. There were several nightclubs that had very quickly changed their names and owners, forgetting any Jewish association once the repainted signs had dried. While the Germans seemed happy enough to ignore the obvious quick fix, chances were that once the mood took them, a crackdown would follow. Having an oberst in his pocket (well, his pants) might save lives.

“Yves, please. Think about it. You might even enjoy it. Don’t be such a prude.”

“I’m
not
a prude. I’m just not a hustler.”

Maurice sighed theatrically. “Oh well. I see how it is. What do you want in return?”

Yves didn’t know where it came from, the thought swam up like some monstrous sea creature and once he’d spotted its shape, it was impossible to shake off. “I want the same deal you had with Charles Gutman.”

“Top billing at the Licorne?”

“Only here. At the Palace. For starters.” Yves turned and stared at Maurice, suddenly disgusted. He knew he’d forgive him eventually, his wheedling and indiscretion and, most of all, the fact that nothing was holy to him—not art, and certainly not artists. Or emotions.

“Can I simply add you to the top slot or do you want me to give my current star the boot?”

“I’m happy to share,” Yves said.

Maurice’s smile was predatory. “That’s good to hear. I’ll set up the contract. Now go out there and
entertain
the Germans.”

Impossible to misunderstand
that
tone. Yves took his top hat and cane, glad that he didn’t wear any makeup for this show, as that would have been long ruined.

He stepped onto the stage, began with a few of his most reliable jokes, and launched into
Three Francs,
a new song that had come together over the last few days, involving a handful of anecdotes about how three francs made a difference. A boy trying to impress his girl but lacking the money to buy her presents, a beggar receiving money that meant she could eat, a man stabbed to death for the contents of his pockets. It was one of his more melancholy songs, but he delivered it with a shrugging, “what can you do?” irony that even elicited a few laughs. His voice was giving him trouble, but when he apologized to the audience, claiming a recent cold, they received it warmly. He had their attention and goodwill now, and with the warmth and faint haze of brandy settling his stomach, he ran through his jokes, firing them off one by one, feeling the wash of approval and affection from the audience in return.

Making them laugh at their tables filled him with a silent, long-burning joy that ran deeper than any surface mirth. In shows like these he loved his audience, from the old to the young, the fat to the thin, women, men, and anything in between, even the Germans, who, as always, sat at the front tables.

He spotted von Starck among them and gave him a wink when their eyes met before he launched into the next song.

They were soft and pliable in his hands. Responded as planned, as hoped, and better than that, lapping up what he gave them, carrying him high on approval and that magical understanding that made a good evening perfect. He launched into
Don’t Be Angry
, the song of a ne’er-do-well promising his sister he’d change and get back on the straight and narrow, his pleadings patently giving away that he was hopeless, a liar and a cheater. Still, Yves ensured his delivery made the audience understand he possessed a good heart.

Among the Germans, only a few laughed—those who understood French, and who sat at von Starck’s table—but even the others seemed to like the music and Yves’s theatrics well enough.

When he tried to finish, they called him back for an encore, but his voice was gone, and he only cracked a few more jokes before finally making his escape back to the dressing room.

He was light-headed with triumph, grinning like a fool, and still terrified, but only in retrospect. Thank God, he’d be rid of this fear for at least fifteen, sixteen hours. His mother had told him it would never really vanish, but yes, the big houses and big audiences made it much worse. How she’d managed to sing in the Paris Opéra was beyond him, a mystery of endurance.

He was just closing the buttons of a fresh shirt when somebody knocked on the door. He lit a cigarette and opened. Von Starck.

“Please do come in.” Yves waited for the man to step through, then measured him with a sweeping glance. “What, no roses?”

Von Starck straightened. “I’m duly chastised. I was not aware you would want . . .”

Yves felt sorry for him and placed a hand against the man’s chest. “I was joking.”

Unease settled between them, and Yves could have kicked himself. He wasn’t good at flirting, certainly not with the staid German who could never quite tell levity from something meant in all seriousness.

He was a great flirt onstage but mostly because he never had to pay up. The stage world was a different realm with different rules. He was the master up there, lord of a world made from the audience’s imagination. But the magic faltered once he’d stepped down and became plain old Yves.

“Where would you like to go?”

The driver took them back to the brasserie near the opera house, and after a quiet meal, Yves asked to go for a walk.

The wide boulevard eventually led toward the Tuileries, but Yves swerved away from them and headed toward the Louvre, past the palatial museum, and to the bank of the Seine. He smoked in silence, aware of von Starck’s company and the driver who followed them just far enough to still make them out. He inhaled the smoke deeply, glad for every moment that old habit bought him.

“You seem very thoughtful,” von Starck eventually offered.

He could laugh it off, deny it all, say anything to throw the German off the scent. But that wouldn’t yield any results. He shrugged, hands buried in his coat pockets, wondering what they might look like to the few cyclists passing them on the way home just before curfew.

He stopped and leaned his arms on the stone railing, glancing out to the river and, further away, Île de la Cité and the Pont Neuf. He didn’t know how to voice the words that had to be spoken. He didn’t even have a song for this. Von Starck drew closer, gazing into the distance, and then rested his arm across Yves’s shoulders.

“I don’t like seeing you sad,” the German said in that low, soft voice of his, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a wistful smile. The weight across Yves’s shoulders was reassuring, paternal, protective, and he found himself leaning into the touch. Maybe he didn’t actually have to say anything.

“I’m not sad.” Yves looked at the man’s face.

Von Starck turned to meet Yves’s gaze fully. The arm on Yves’s shoulders shifted, slid down a bit, a comforting pressure in the middle of his back. “Then maybe share your thoughts with me.”

“You’d think me . . . abnormal. Decadent.”

Von Starck now smiled. “I doubt that very much.”

Understanding, acceptance, attraction, all so clearly laid out in the officer’s face. Liking him was easy enough, even in that infernal uniform of his. Yves glanced around, but there were no witnesses, all lights were dimmed. He took von Starck’s free hand and pressed it with both of his. “There just seems to be no privacy in this city.”

Von Starck nodded and let his arm slide down further. “What do you suggest?”