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GILBERT
BATIGNOLLES, PARIS, 1942
The hand-painted sign for the new restaurant, opening in a week’s time, sparkled in the late-summer sun. Luberon.
Fourteen-year-old Gilbert Géroux was sweeping the front step when he overheard two older women whispering loudly. One was tall and thin with dark hair and a sour expression, the other had a wispy cap of mouse-coloured hair and her expression was equally bleak.
It looked like they had just come back from the market, with their string bags, which were woefully slim. Before the Occupation, their bags would have been full of all manner of things from the rich pantry that was France. Cheese from Normandy, tomatoes from Brittany, olives from Provence. Today, even from this distance, through the gaps in the string, Gilbert could see they were sparse, tired pickings, a thin bunch of carrots, a turnip and a potato, most likely wizened and with plenty of eyes.
He could hear them talking as he continued to sweep. Their voices becoming loud, like they meant him to overhear.
‘They say she had special dispensation,’ said the tall one. ‘To turn it into a restaurant.’
The one with the wispy hair grunted. ‘Yes, everyone else is starving, their businesses going under and she’s opening up – it’s little wonder how she achieved that.’
The tall one sniffed. ‘Shameful, shameful. And the fact that she’s going to serve provincial fare, here, it’s like a double insult.’ Then she laughed at her own dig.
‘What do you mean, provincial fare?’ asked her companion.
‘Heard it from my neighbour, Madame Da Barra, apparently she told Madame Da Barra herself. Bold as brass, she was, when Madame Da Barra asked about it. Wants to only serve “wholesome, country fare”, she said. Like that slop they serve in rural Provence – just stews and such mostly. Luberon,’ she scoffed, dripping scorn. ‘Here? I ask you.’
‘Oh,’ said the shorter woman. ‘I can just imagine how much those sauerkraut and potato boys will love that.’
‘Oh yes. She should have just saved herself the trouble and called it The Happy Collaborator.’
The two laughed, and then finally walked on.
Gilbert shook his head, his fists balling at his sides, then threw his broom onto the floor, making his mind up that he was going to go there and give those two clucking hens a piece of his mind – Marianne had only opened the restaurant for their own good! How dare they turn their noses up at the simple country fare – it meant fuller bellies at cheaper prices, any idiot should see that. What was wrong with a good stew anyway? It made sense! Like they could all afford meat and seafood now?
Besides, Marianne’s plan had worked – shortly after she was given permission to open, she had managed to negotiate better deals and prices for the locals as well as a very favourable rate for produce.
Yes, technically, it was a ‘collaboration’ but a full belly was nothing to scoff at in these times, and as Marianne herself had pointed out a full belly meant you lived to carry on the fight – starvation and rebellion was a war waged only on oneself.
As he stepped into the street to give them a talking to, a paint-splattered hand moved to encircle his wrist. He whipped around to find Marianne behind him.
Her long blonde hair was tied up in a blue-and-yellow silk scarf and she was wearing a pair of navy overalls, yet somehow, she still managed to look beautiful. Her lips were cherry red. She’d told him that she would only start giving up when there was no more lipstick to be had. Though she’d winked when she said it. She wasn’t winking now, but gazing at him curiously with those intense delphinium blue eyes.
She gave him a smile, and a dimple appeared at the corner. The only thing that showed on her face that she had overheard what those women had said was a slight blush creeping on her cheeks and neck.
‘It’s not worth it, Gilbert. We need them to come around, and you can’t force that.’
‘But how can they “come around” if they don’t understand?’ he said with a frown. His freckles disappeared as his face turned red in annoyance.
‘The locals will come around, just give it time. Something like this,’ she said, pointing to the building behind her, ‘a restaurant that is being opened with the help of the Germans, well, it’s not an easy thing for them to just accept overnight. Their pride is one of the only things they have left. We need to acknowledge that and try to show them we’re actually on their side. Our job is to win their trust, slowly. We need patience,’ she said, with a wink.
Despite his intentions, he felt himself giving in to her smile. Besides, what she said made sense. He didn’t know how she could remain so calm, and rational; his anger was like a living thing, so close beneath his skin.
While so many Parisians looked tired, seeming to carry the weight of the war on their shoulders, walking with leaden feet, tired of the rations, the curfews, the occupied forces, and the daily indignity of it all, Marianne Blanchet seemed to step lightly. To smile, frequently. He couldn’t quite figure out why it was different with her, but perhaps as everyone else seemed to have almost given up hope, she seemed full of it. And it was infectious – he couldn’t help wanting to be around it. Like a flower turned to the sun.
He had probably fallen in love with her after the first ten minutes of meeting her, and it had only got worse the longer he knew her.
She looked at him with concern. ‘You look tired, Gilbert. Your eyes have big circles underneath them – when was the last time you took a break?’
He shrugged, then gave her a crooked smile. ‘When was the last time you did?’
Her grin widened. ‘Touché. Tell you what – help me paint the last two skirting boards, and then we’ll have some coffee and maybe even an early day? Sound good?’
‘If you want.’
