‘No.’
‘A city. Paris, Marseille?’
‘Paris.’
Suddenly, Isabelle’s face softened. ‘Paris is my love. I should have married it and not this brute. Come. Come in, Michel. I’ll get you some wine.’
‘And me?’ Lucien asked.
‘You have had quite enough.’
Michel followed Isabelle into a warm kitchen, where pots and pans bubbled on the stove and the back door was open to let the last of the day’s air seep inside as the sun began its lazy descent.
‘Sit, sit,’ Isabelle demanded, indicating a chair at the wooden kitchen table.
‘You see? They are here again! Causing havoc!’ Lucien appeared in the kitchen, blood-red wine spilt down his shirt, a bottle in one hand, cork in the other, and the twin cats, pebble-coloured, swarming around his ankles. ‘They did it on purpose.’
Isabelle looked at her husband, tutted under her breath, then turned to Michel. ‘Wine? Yes? Lucien, pour him some wine. I am making dinner – just chicken, vegetables, nothing like your food in Paris. Tell me. What is it like there now, with everything?’
‘With everything?’ Michel asked.
‘Take this.’ Lucien handed Michel a glass of deep red. ‘We’ll try the white with dinner. But I want you to taste this. See how good it is compared to the café.’
Michel sipped. ‘Wonderful.’
‘Cherries? Strawberries? What do you taste?’
Michel drank again, sniffed the wine. ‘Strawberries.’
‘Very good, very good.’ Lucien sat across from him, satisfied with his guest’s palate.
‘Hush now, Lucien. Michel wants to tell me about Paris. Is it true what they say? That the Germans are everywhere now? Taking what they want, even the women and children?’ Isabelle asked, one hand on her heart.
‘No, no, Madame. Not yet – they were not there when I left. They were coming, of course, but I don’t know what they will do when they arrive.’
‘I do,’ Lucien said, and poured more of the red from a dense green bottle into Michel’s glass.
‘Ignore him. He went to war once – once! And he thinks it will be the same.’
‘It will be worse,’ Lucien said. ‘If we are to believe what has already happened, what is happening – it will be worse. They target people now; Jews, gypsies, the Poles, the educated, the dark-skinned – anyone they decide isn’t German, just like that.’ Lucien snapped his fingers.
‘I had heard—’ Michel began.
‘Quiet, now. Both of you. Lucien, get the white. Michel, eat this before we begin; you look pale.’ Isabelle placed a warm bread roll in front of Michel with a knob of crumbly cheese.
‘You’ll see,’ Lucien said, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed the last of his wine in one gulp, then stood and placed his coarse hands flat on the table. ‘You think I know nothing, but it is the opposite – I know too much.’
Isabelle took the seat that Lucien had vacated. ‘Go and find the white,’ she repeated, her voice quieter.
‘Is he right?’ she asked Michel.
‘I don’t know. I hope he isn’t.’ Michel thought of Bertrand, of Madame Odette.
‘I went to Paris twice, you know. The galleries, the cafés, the restaurants – I was in love, Michel. Tell me they will not ruin it? Will it be German now? All their names – those strange names that are harsh on the tongue. Not civilised, not good enough for Paris.’
‘I don’t think anyone would dare ruin Paris,’ Michel replied. ‘It is Paris. It will always be Paris.’
The answer calmed Isabelle, who returned to stirring pans on the stovetop and checking the roasting chicken in the oven.
‘White!’ Lucien pronounced, and sat down again, placing the bottle in the middle of the table.
Michel sipped more slowly now and watched as Lucien drank one, then two glasses.
‘Careful now, Lucien,’ Isabelle warned as she placed the hot food between them.
Michel ate as quickly as Lucien drank, wiping the chicken juice from his chin with the cream napkin that Isabelle handed him. As his stomach filled, his fork slowed, and Isabelle noticed.
‘Tell me more about yourself, Michel. Where are you going?’
‘None of our business.’ Lucien grinned at her.
Isabelle leaned back in her chair, taking a small glass of wine for herself. A contented look passed over her face that smoothed the lines on her brow. ‘Tell me more of Paris then.’
‘There is not much to tell, Madame. I worked as a horse trainer and then I had to leave. Just like most of Paris have, or will have by now, unless of course they thought they should stay…’
‘I dare say no one would choose to stay.’ Isabelle shuddered and pulled her cardigan closer to her.
‘Not everyone has somewhere to go,’ Lucien offered. ‘Where would we go, if they come here?’
‘They won’t come here. Why would they? What do we have that they would want?’
‘They want whatever they can get their hands on. My wine. You know I have started to hoard my wine, my best bottles? Hidden them here and there so if they come, they won’t find them!’ Lucien laughed.
‘Indeed, he has hidden them. Hidden them so well, in fact, that he cannot remember where half of them are!’ Isabelle lightly cuffed the back of Lucien’s head.
‘How will you get to Saint-Émilion? The nearest train station is in the next town, but I think you may have to go back to Paris to get the connection.’ Lucien lit a pipe and sucked until the fragrant tobacco burned slowly.
‘I can’t go back. The stations were full of people trying to get away; packed like animals. I was lucky – a friend helped me to stow away.’
‘A stowaway? Ha! I love it. Just like I used to dream of doing as a child,’ Lucien said. ‘When I was bad, which was often, I would pretend to run away. Had a stick with my little handkerchief tied on the end, filled with a toy and a piece of bread. I had the idea to jump on a train and go somewhere new – see wild animals, explore jungles.’
‘A train wouldn’t get you to the depths of Africa!’ Isabelle laughed.
‘I didn’t know that then. It was a sense of adventure; that outside this little village there was a magical world just waiting for me.’
‘Did you ever succeed on your quest?’ Michel asked.
‘Never. I once got close to the train tracks and I waited for an hour or so, but nothing came, and I got bored and went home. Papa hadn’t even noticed I had gone!’
‘There were wild animals on the train I hid on.’ Michel leaned forward, as did Lucien and Isabelle. ‘I heard a roar – a lion. There were all sorts of people on there too – a giant, a dwarf, a monkey!’
‘A monkey! Oh my!’ Isabelle exclaimed.
‘He was a tiny monkey; stuck his tongue out at me as I walked past him.’ Michel stuck his own tongue out at the pair, who fell about laughing.
‘You are joking, of course,’ Lucien said.
‘Not at all. Hand on heart, I am telling you the absolute truth. It was a circus troupe – they even had a bearded woman!’
‘Ha! They should employ you, my dear.’ Lucien stroked Isabelle’s chin where a few grey and white hairs stuck out.