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She stared at the name in confusion. ‘Elodie Clairmont?’
‘Who the hell was Elodie Clairmont?’ echoed Antoine.
Sabine hadn’t told Monsieur Géroux about the passport. She knew she would, but she couldn’t find the words just yet.
On Saturday morning, Antoine was surprised that she still wanted to go to the BHVP historical library. ‘This just feels like a bit of a puzzle, and if I could find the other pieces, I don’t know, maybe there will be something there.’
‘Something like a clue or something she might have given away in the article?’ he asked.
She sighed. ‘I’m reaching, aren’t I? There’s probably nothing there.’
‘Not necessarily. Besides, she’s real for you now, that’s enough reason to go – I mean, even I want to read that article the Germans wrote about her.’
She nodded. ‘Me too.’
They took the metro to Saint-Paul and walked towards the beautiful Hôtel de Lamoignon, where the historical library was located. Housing more than a million documents on the history of Paris, dating back from antiquity to modern day, it included maps, photographs and countless donations over the years.
As a librarian, a part of her always got a thrill to visit, to be surrounded by such old books, but today it felt different. More momentous in a way.
The library was enormous, and beautiful. Sabine felt like she was walking inside living history. The staff were helpful, and suggested that they could use the reading room if they required. After a bit of digging, ten minutes later they found where they needed to start, in a large bound volume that was full of the German daily newspapers from that time, and another that held the weekly French editions. Sabine and Antoine brought the volumes to a large desk and sat down beneath the green lamps.
‘I’ll take the German ones,’ offered Antoine. ‘I did German in school.’
She nodded.
They got to work, at first exclaiming at almost every article, which seemed bent on showing a favourable slant on the Occupation – seeming to imply that the Nazis were single-handedly responsible for saving French culture.
‘They sure went out of their way to praise the French,’ said Sabine as Antoine read her an article in praise of French food production.
‘Haven’t you heard? Flattery will get you everywhere.’
‘Except with the French.’
They laughed.
There were articles on plays, concerts, nightclubs. ‘It’s like they were desperate to make it look as if everything was normal.’
‘Yep, as if the French hadn’t noticed they were in fact invaded by aliens.’
Sabine snorted.
An hour later, Antoine found the article they were looking for from 1942.
‘I think this is it!’ he cried.
Sabine leaned over and scanned the page, gasping aloud as she read the section Antoine’s index finger was pointing at.
‘Food like my grandmother used to make.’
‘Oh my God, it does look like you,’ he said, eyes wide.
Sabine gasped. He was right. The photograph was in full colour; it had been worth it just to come here and see that, she thought, as it showed a woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and painted lips parted in a soft smile. She was holding a whisk in one hand and a bowl in the other. It looked like she’d just been surprised.
Beneath the photograph the caption said, ‘Marianne Blanchet der Besitzer des neuen Restaurants in Batignolles, genannt Luberon.’
‘What does this say?’ she asked.
‘It says, she is the owner of the new restaurant in Paris, called Luberon.’
