‘Michel! I have been waiting. Come. Come in!’ Bertrand opened the door wide.
‘I won’t be long; I will just put this food away, have a wash—’
Bertrand cut him off with a shake of his head. ‘No. No. This is important, come!’ Bertrand then disappeared into his own apartment.
Michel followed and found Bertrand in the kitchen, fussing over uncorking a bottle of Burgundy. Then he turned to Michel and instructed him to sit in the living room. Michel chose his usual horsehair-stuffed crimson chair near the bay window. He felt himself relax into the chair’s deep embrace and leaned back to admire the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that surrounded him, the thick scarlet, blue and gold Persian rugs underfoot, and the photographs of Bertrand’s wife that adorned the walls and every available shelf. He coveted this apartment and wanted to be like Bertrand one day; well-read and travelled with bottles of the finest wines always in his kitchen.
Bertrand finally appeared and handed Michel a glass of the Burgundy – dense and aromatic. Michel did as Bertrand had taught him and sniffed the bouquet, which was woody and had a hint of chocolate, then took a sip, savouring the initial tang of alcohol followed by the notes of cherry on his tongue.
‘Good?’ Bertrand asked.
‘Very. What’s the occasion?’
Bertrand turned to the side table and switched on the radio, setting the volume low – the muffled voices became ghostly echoes.
‘Tell me about your day,’ Bertrand began.
Michel shrugged. ‘There isn’t much to say. I’m out of a job.’
‘Monsieur Abramowski…?
‘He left. Left a note – said he had to go. I don’t blame him. If what everyone is saying is true, he was not safe here.’
‘But he paid you, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Everything he owes you?’
‘Almost.’
‘Ha! See? I told you he would con you.’
‘He took care of me. He gave me a job.’
‘I know.’
‘You are just bitter because he took your money at cards.’
‘One time, Michel! And I knew he was cheating.’
Bertrand turned to the radio once more and nudged up the volume.
The newsreader’s crackly voice permeated the apartment, his abrasive tones – urgent and authoritative – cutting through the rough airways, almost all the other stations having faded to white noise.
‘Today, on the seventh day of June 1940, we can confirm that the German forces are nearing our capital. The government insist— Fight— Those who can, must leave— The German army have defeated our troops to the east—’
Bertrand fiddled with the radio, trying to tune it, but was met with more static.
He stood and ventured to the dark mahogany drinks cabinet only unlocked at Christmas, returning with two glasses filled to the brim with an amber liquid. ‘Brandy,’ Bertrand said. ‘It’s good for the nerves. At least, that was what my mother said.’
Michel drank deeply as Bertrand reached over and turned the dial until the radio fell silent once more.
‘It’s happening?’ Michel asked, almost to himself.
‘It’s over. They are coming.’
Michel drank the rest of his brandy and Bertrand stood, collected the cut-glass decanter, and emptied more of the numbing liquid into Michel’s glass.
Michel held his glass to the light and looked into the brandy; his head already felt muffled. ‘What would Maman say if she were here?’
‘She’d say leave.’ Bertrand sat back into the beige sofa. Its stuffing was escaping through a small hole and he pulled at it as he spoke.
‘Would she? But where would I go?’
Bertrand shrugged. ‘What does it matter? All that matters is that we are not here when they come.’
‘But others will stay – Arnoud, Madame Odette. I should stay too.’
‘And where will you work?’
Michel shrugged.
‘The Boche will not want a Frenchman looking after their horses. And even if they did, I would not permit you to help them.’
‘Do you have a cigarette?’
‘Here. Take one.’
Michel lit the cigarette and drew deeply, watching the smoke rise above him, curling all the way to the ceiling. ‘There are cobwebs up there, Bertrand. You need to dust better.’
Bertrand looked up and laughed. Soon, Michel joined in.
‘You see, we are no good, Michel. Here we sit in a place that any moment will be swarming with German pests, and we laugh about my poor housekeeping. We surely wouldn’t last long here.’
‘So, what do you propose we do?’ Michel allowed Bertrand to refill his brandy once more.
‘We leave.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘And where shall we go?’ Michel asked, a smile at his lips, feeling the alcohol numb his brain. It was like the games he used to play when he was little.
‘Away, Michel, just away. You cannot stay here because there will be nothing here for you. Soon, there will be nothing here for any of us. They will take our jobs, our homes. They will take whatever they want.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
Bertrand leaned over and scuffed the back of Michel’s head. ‘Is there anything in that brain of yours? Anything? You think it will all be the same as before? You weren’t here the first time; no food, no jobs. So many dead, so many wounded. It will be the same again. You heard the bombs fall – you saw the fires.’
Michel rubbed the back of his head.
‘Checking if anything has fallen out, hey? Perhaps there’s some common sense you can put back in.’
‘Arnoud says he won’t leave.’
‘Arnoud is stupid.’
‘He’s sending Estelle away to her grandparents.’
‘Ah! Arnoud is a smart man. He’d be smarter if he went with her, though. She still has eyes for you?’
Michel shrugged.
‘Come now, don’t be bashful. You like her too. I’ve seen the way you look at her.’
‘She’s too young.’
‘Ah, yes. True. You prefer the mademoiselles at Odette’s café. The ones with long legs and expensive tastes. No wonder you have no money!’
‘They weren’t all like that. There was Juliette, and Vivienne.’
‘And where are they now?’
‘I don’t know.’ Michel grinned then took a sip of his brandy.
‘See! What a charmer. He says, “I don’t know.” You know – you got tired of them, bored. Of course you did. If I had looked like you at your age, I would get bored quickly too.’
‘It’s not like that. Not all the time.’
‘My thoughts are getting jumbled with your nonsense. What was I saying? Yes, we leave. Tomorrow. And there’s no more argument about it.’
‘So where will we go?’
‘Your grand-mère, is she alive still?’
‘Dead. Her neighbour, Monsieur Dubois, wrote to me and told me. That was… what, three years ago? I told you.’
‘I am old. My memory is failing.’
‘You are sixty.’
‘And that is old.’
‘Where did she live?’