Authors: Vic Robbie
‘
W
e’re not like them
.’ Ronnie pursed her lips as she said it. She uttered the word ‘them’ with contempt as she grasped the steering wheel as though it might run away from her and swerved the little car around dogs and cows and assorted fauna wandering on the road.
‘Who?’ he replied, concerned by the animals’ apparent disregard for life.
‘The Germans, the Nazis.’
‘Really?’ He shook his head not knowing what he was thinking as the tiredness from the flights was beginning to overwhelm him.
‘You’re probably thinking it.’
He smiled and shook his head and immediately regretted it as a deep-seated pain throbbed somewhere behind his eyes.
‘We’re still French, no matter what the Vichy government in France says. I’m half French, half Martinican. My father was French, from Lille, a
béké.’
She laughed at Ben’s questioning look. ‘White, and my mother’s an islander.’ He let her voice run over him like cool water. ‘My father went back to fight the Germans and was reported missing in action.’ She faltered. ‘Believe me, we’ve no love for the Germans.’
‘I can understand.’
‘And the Vichy?’ She asked the question for him. ‘They’re no better; they’re traitors to the Republic.’
‘Perhaps Petain and his people thought they were doing the right thing by trying to save a part of France?’
‘Pah,’ she snorted. ‘Then why do they behave like Nazis?’ She broke off to curse a recalcitrant dog. ‘You can see what’s happening in France is now happening here. Admiral Robert is surrounded by his Vichy lapdogs, and there are Nazis here who are deciding what we can do, what we can say. Our people fear and hate them.’
‘Does the Resistance operate here?’
‘Why do you ask?’ She flashed him a worried look.
He thought she was delicate, almost fragile, although strong like a wire that would bend but never snap.
‘They’re still fighting in France.’
‘Perhaps, I don’t know.’ And her slim shoulders dropped. ‘The navy and army here are following Robert’s orders although deep down I know they’re crying. They don’t want to do this, but they’re trained to follow orders no matter what. What we need is for the British or your Americans to invade the island and return it to the Free French.’
She rubbed the back of her hand across her lips as though she realised she’d said too much to a stranger.
‘Pardon, if I talk from the heart. If informers heard me, I’d be taken away and beaten by the secret police and imprisoned. Or perhaps worse.’
He put a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.’
She turned with a smile. ‘I believe I can trust you, Mr Peters.’ And for a second she appraised his face. She liked his wavy black hair brushed back from a strong forehead and his eyes sparkling with amusement and his easy smile. More important, it was the open and honest countenance of someone who was comfortable in his own skin, even if he did have a secret.
‘What you see is what you get.’
‘Really?’
They drove on and silence fell between them as though they shouldn’t confide in each other having just met. And he was grateful. All he wanted to do now was to have a drink and collapse on a bed in a darkened room and sleep until he rid himself of the continual drone and constant swaying of aeroplanes.
He wondered if he had fallen asleep because he was suddenly aware of entering a courtyard and drawing up to the doors of a hotel and a bellboy rushing out to welcome them. At the same time, a young Martinican woman was leaving the building and two European men in lightweight white suits accosted her.
Ronnie put a hand on his arm, stopping him from getting out of the car. ‘Don’t, they’re Nazis. You don’t want to get involved.’
The woman tried to walk around the Nazis, but they moved over to block her path.
‘Please let me pass,’ she pleaded, alarm in her eyes. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘You must come with us, fräulein
,
to answer questions,’ one of the men said and grasped her by the elbow while the other snatched her handbag.
She pulled up her arm and attempted to turn away, but the other man wrapped an arm around her neck and dragged her to the ground.
When threatened, the human response is to fight or flee and he’d found to his cost on several occasions the former was perhaps not the right strategy. Back in New York when he was working in Wall Street, he used to delight in walking Manhattan from Central Park to Battery Park whenever he had the time, drinking in the sights and sounds of a great city. One night he came upon a reveller paying his cabbie outside a bar. Just as the man opened his wallet and removed some notes, a thief ran between them, snatching the open wallet and money before disappearing into the night.
‘Don’t chase him,’ the cabbie warned the reveller. ‘It’s not safe.’
Ben did and after running down various dark alleyways and just when he was gaining the thief stopped and turned to face him. ‘Whadya want, man?’
Before he could answer, two of the thief’s friends emerged from the shadows and helped themselves to his wallet, and he ended up in hospital for a week. When he recounted the tale to friends, their response was unsympathetic. ‘What did you do that for, you daft bastard?’
He pushed away Ronnie’s restraining hand and climbed out of the car. ‘Hey, you, stop it.’
Startled, the men seemed surprised that someone had the audacity to confront them. The smaller one took a step towards him and reached for his belt, putting up his other hand as if attempting to stop traffic. ‘Halt.’ Ben kept going and stepped into him and hit him on the side of his head with his walking stick. As he was falling, the Nazi pulled a Luger from a holster, but the force of hitting the ground caused it to bounce out of his grasp and skid across the courtyard. Ronnie bent down and retrieved the gun, hiding it behind her back.
The other Nazi lunged at him but tripped over the girl’s outstretched legs and Ben stamped on his hand.
The Nazis regained their feet, glaring at him as if he were a gatecrasher at a party and they were unsure how to handle him, just as two burly porters ran down the steps from the hotel and stood beside him. Outnumbered, the Nazis glanced at each other and with a sneer clicked their heels and walked away, shouting at the girl ‘We’ll be back for you.’
He turned with a smile to Ronnie, who was inspecting the Luger. ‘Is this a typical Martinican welcome?’
‘We can provide any excitement you want here.’ She laughed, but she turned grave and there was fear in her eyes. ‘You’re brave, Mr Peters, but you shouldn’t have done that. You’re a marked man now.’
B
en told
Ronnie he would see her the next morning and checked in. He would take a shower and throw himself onto his bed and sleep uninterrupted until he awoke naturally. After an hour or so, he was still awake. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t drift into unconsciousness as his mind did somersaults working out all the possible permutations as to how things might unfold on the island. He cursed himself for making his task more difficult. Smee had wanted him to fade into the background, but that would be impossible after his run-in with the Nazis. After tossing and turning for another hour, he decided to go downstairs, check out his surroundings and find a drink.
The hotel seemed to be relatively quiet and he soon found his way out onto a terrace overlooking the Bay of Fort-de-France. The terrace bar was deserted apart from a woman sitting at a table and reading a book, and she didn’t look up as he entered. A waiter in a white jacket and red pants greeted him laconically and ushered him to a table next to the woman. The seats were wicker as were the tables, with glass inserts, and he chose one so he had a view of the water and could watch the boats crossing the bay. From having been in a dire need of sleep a couple of hours previously, he now found himself alert as though he’d been jabbed with a cattle prod.
He ordered a Scotch on the rocks with some water on the side, placed his notebook of lined, yellow paper on the table before him and removed a pencil from a leather wallet. He’d had his first book published. A small run by an even smaller London publisher, hardly Hemingway, but it was a start. And he saw this mission as possible fodder for a second book. He would jot down his first impressions of the island just as Hemingway might have done. It was Hemingway who had changed his life, or rather a combination of the author and Amy Ralston. While working in Wall Street, he’d been dating her and it was she who introduced him to the fantastical world of fiction and the great Ernest Hemingway. He had already been sounded out by his bosses to act as their liaison at the Banque de France in Paris which he declined at first, citing smelly cigarettes and the unspeakable things the French did to their food. Reading Hemingway changed all that. Immersing yourself in one of his books was like walking into a Paris café with an attractive mademoiselle who, as all Frenchwomen, knew exactly what you were thinking and liked it. The waiter came out with a generous malt with only a few large rocks and a jug of water. He smelled the whisky first, tasted it neat letting the liquid first swill around his mouth, and added a small amount of water. As he was going through his ritual, the woman at the next table asked for another ‘
Pernod, s’il vous plait
.’
He started writing and it reminded him of Hemingway sitting in a café in Paris where he wasn’t known and wouldn’t be disturbed by passing acquaintances and becoming so immersed in his writing that all sights and sounds in the café faded into the background. When he got to the end of the passage he was writing, he was surprised to see he’d almost finished his drink and he ordered another and scanned the bar. The woman sat side on to him so he saw only her profile and briefly he thought he knew her or had seen her somewhere before. But he couldn’t be sure because her long, black hair hung down obscuring much of her face. Her book lay flat on the table top along with her glass, a pack of Passing Clouds and a gold lighter. He attempted to shift his position to get a better view and, although he had made no sound, she suddenly sat bolt upright and looked out to the Caribbean Sea. As she did, her elbow caught her book and it fell to the floor and landed at his feet. Embarrassed, she glanced at him. ‘
Pardon
,’ she apologised in a Parisian accent.
Taken off guard by her beauty, he caught his breath. She had brushed her hair away from her face and it shone and tumbled like a waterfall of black silk over her shoulders. It was her striking violet blue eyes with a naked stare that almost hypnotised him so that he felt he was being drawn in. They were the most honest eyes he’d ever seen, so completely without artifice it was like looking right into her soul. Her full lips smiled almost imperceptibly. Where did he know her from? Was she a mysterious wraith who drifted through his dreams? He searched his memory, but it had no substance like a breath of wind and he shook his head to regain his senses before bending down to pick up the book.
He glanced at the cover before handing it over. ‘Ah, Hemingway’s
The Sun Also Rises.
I admire your taste,’ he said in French.
‘You like his writing?’
‘Very much, I lived in Paris for a time and frequented a lot of the places he writes about in his books. It was almost like a tour guide to the city.’
‘
Merci
,
m’sieu
,’ she smiled and her eyes crinkled at the edges as she opened the book on the table and found her place. ‘I like your accent.’
Again there was a memory, sparked by an inflexion in her voice.
‘I’m sorry; I’m an American. My French isn’t so good.’
‘Not at all,’ she smiled again and went back to her book.
The waiter returned with his Scotch and Ben, seeing he hadn’t brought the woman’s drink, enquired. ‘Perhaps the lady would care for another Pernod?’
‘
Oui, merci
,’ she said, smiling sweetly at the waiter.
He went back to his notebook and was writing well when he sensed she had stopped reading and had pushed her book away from her on the table. ‘It’s no use,’ she said and glanced over at him.
‘Sorry?’
‘Oh,
pardon
, I was thinking out loud.’ She pulled at her hair.
‘Isn’t the book going well?’ he asked.
‘No. It’s not that.’ She swivelled in her seat so she was almost facing him and he could see the curve of her breasts and her hips. ‘It’s just I’m reading about Paris and all the places I know so well and it makes me homesick.’
Something about her reminded him of Alena, but he forced the image out of his mind. He knew he had to accept Alena was lost to him and it was unlikely he would ever see her again.
‘Have you been here long?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps too long.’
‘Don’t you like the island?’
‘No, it’s not that.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘Some of the people are not…’ Her voice trailed away and he jumped in.
‘I think I understand.’
‘Do you? You’ve only just arrived. The poor people here are slaves in their own country. They don’t have enough to eat, they have no freedom, and even if they mention the name of General de Gaulle they can be imprisoned. The secret police have instilled a Gestapo mentality whereby everyone is encouraged to inform on their neighbours.’ She glanced around her. ‘The waiter here could be an informer, so be careful what you say.’
He looked behind him, now feeling ill at ease.
She waved a hand, chuckling. ‘Sorry, I’ve not been here long, although it has been some time since I’ve been to Paris. I want to go back right now although it’s… impossible.’ And she pouted like a child. ‘Typical of me, I always want what I can’t have.’
He almost said aloud he couldn’t imagine anyone refusing her anything. ‘When I can’t have something, it makes me want it more,’ he agreed and felt himself colouring. Her words sparked memories of his small apartment on the fourth floor of an old building on the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It wasn’t grand by any means. The attraction was its closeness to where Hemingway first lived in Paris. There was a bistro in the Place de la Contrescarpe nearby where he knew the writer ate and where he would often sit writing at a table, and when the writing was going well he’d reward himself with a cognac.
‘Are you a writer, too?’ she asked, pointing to his notebook and watching him over her drink.
He felt frustration welling up inside but stopped himself. Was he a writer or was it only in Smee’s imagination? ‘In a way,’ he said.
‘Would I have heard of you?’
‘No,’ he smiled and offered his hand. ‘I’m Ben, Ben Peters.’
‘Ben Peters,’ she said his name softly and seemed to roll it around her mouth as if tasting it. ‘Natalie.’ She took his hand with a half-smile. ‘Baudin,’ she added almost as an afterthought.
The receptionist bustled into the bar. ‘Mr Peters, a parcel has been delivered for you.’
‘Could you please send it up to my room,’ he said, not wanting anything to interrupt him as she was still holding his hand
‘Are you staying here in the hotel?’ he asked.
‘No, no, Ben. I often meet friends here for a drink, but this particular friend has let me down.’ She looked at her watch and raised an eyebrow.
He hoped it wasn’t a male friend she’d been waiting for.
‘I think I’d better be going.’
‘Would you care for another drink before you go, Natalie?’
‘That would be lovely but no,
merci
, I really must be going.’ And again she held out her hand.
‘I enjoyed meeting you, Natalie,’ he said, not wanting to relinquish her hand that despite the heat was cool and soft. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet again?’
‘I’m sure we will, Ben, it’s a small island.’ She rose to her feet with a smile and smoothed out her dress and, after a moment’s hesitation, swept off, her hair bouncing around her shoulders. And her scent lingered in the air.