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GILBERT
PARIS, 1987
Monsieur Géroux redid his tie for the third time, only to swear softly. It had been years since he’d worn one. Or his good suit. Was it too much? Should he just wear his familiar tweed jacket with the tan leather elbow patches?
He put on the suit. Then stared at himself in the mirror and sighed. He looked like an undertaker. Or like he was going to a funeral. Which, to be fair, was what he usually used the suit for nowadays. It used to be weddings.
Tapis watched him from the foot of the bed, burying his head in his paw and making a soft whining sound.
Monsieur Géroux sighed. ‘It’s awful,’ he agreed, taking off the suit and putting on his familiar navy chinos, white shirt and tweed jacket.
Tapis put his head to the side as if he were reconsidering his earlier statement.
‘Pah!’ said Monsieur Géroux. ‘This is what you get now.’ Then he bent down, slipped on his shoes and made to leave. ‘You staying or coming?’
The dog yawned.
‘Suit yourself.’
Outside the air was cool, but no longer cold. Summer was heading their way. He passed a flower shop, where the proprietor was just taking in the day’s specials. There were peonies, their blooms hot pink and large. Lisianthus, soft and delicate. And those old-fashioned pale pink roses his wife, Annie, used to love so much. He loved this time of the day in Paris. It felt so alive. People bustled past wearing their best clothes, the air full of perfume. It had been years since he’d had evening plans too.
Was it strange that after all that dread he’d felt at meeting someone from Marianne’s family, he felt relieved? Like he finally had someone to talk to about it all.
Still, they’d only cracked the surface. What he had to say wasn’t easy – to say or to hear. But it was like breaking a seal, now that he’d done it, he wanted, strangely, to keep going.
Sabine was waiting for him on a table spilling onto the pavement, sitting on a rattan chair facing the street. Her long, curly blonde hair was loose and she was dressed in a mid-length coral dress with a denim jacket and matching coral ballet flats.
He was struck once more at the resemblance between grandmother and granddaughter.
Here in the soft lights of the bistro, she looked even more like Marianne. It was like seeing a ghost. His hands trembled slightly and he grew awkward. For a moment, he felt again that earlier trepidation, that earlier dread. But it was gone as quickly as it had arrived. She stood up when she spotted him, reaching over and giving him a kiss on both cheeks. ‘How handsome you look, Monsieur Géroux.’
He found to his consternation that he was blushing.
‘I’ve ordered a glass of merlot – can I tempt you?’ she asked.
‘Please.’
He felt the need for a drink, that was certain.
She hailed a waiter and soon afterwards, he was sipping a glass of house wine. Something he would usually be too proud to do, fancying himself as something of a connoisseur. It wasn’t bad, to be fair. But it wasn’t exactly good either.
He worried that they wouldn’t have anything to say – or that they would be awkward together after the last time, when he’d spoken so much, and shown his vulnerable underbelly too quickly. But it was just like the last time, helped even more so by the bad good wine.
‘I went to see the restaurant,’ she confided, in lieu of any small talk.
He nodded, but curiously didn’t seem that surprised. ‘I doubt you can see much, though, the window glass is filthy.’ Though you could still see where someone long ago had scratched the words, collaborator andmurderer. In that strange order. He didn’t mention that, though.
‘No,’ she said, eyes wide. ‘I mean, really see it. I was given a key.’
Monsieur Géroux’s eyes bulged and he gasped. ‘You mean you actually went inside?’ He swallowed. ‘H-how was it?’
‘Cold, dusty. But I could see a little of what you were talking about – the way you described it. The paint is faded but you could see how pretty it must have been. I even found this line of daisy chalk drawings at the bottom of the wall.’
Monsieur Géroux paused as he took a sip of wine. ‘D-daisies?’
She nodded.
He frowned, then his eyes widened in amazement. ‘Oh my goodness, I think I recall that, actually. It was a little neighbour girl we knew. Lotte, her mother, was my mother’s dear friend, our neighbour, Fleur Lambert. She took some time to come around to the idea of a restaurant opening there, even one that would have very favourable rates for locals. In the beginning it was just the officers who attended. The French who came were often collaborators from elsewhere, invited by the Germans. The locals took some convincing to attend. Fleur was one of the first.’
