The Paris Affair

18 Julia

18

Julia

July, 2002 – Paris

Julia slept badly. The argument with Daniel went round and round in her head and she awoke in her room at Le Meurice feeling tired.

She opened the window and breathed in the cool morning air. She leaned on the windowsill, remembering that night when she and Daniel had broken into the open-air swimming pool in Bonn. ‘I’ll go in if you do,’ he’d said. The water had been cold, but the first touch of his skin was warm. He’d swum closer and closer until there was almost no water between them. Then Kat and the others had turned up, and Daniel had drifted away.

Now, Julia shivered and closed the window. Her relationship with Daniel was littered with broken moments like these. Despite wanting to do her best for Christoph, Julia feared there was no way to mend the cracks between her and Daniel.

The sumptuous breakfast room at Le Meurice was flooded with light and decorated with ornate gilded mirrors and low-hung chandeliers. Soothing music played. Wealthy tourists discussed the coming day’s excursions, and business travellers ate alone and read the newspapers. Julia ordered a black coffee and eggs. Christoph wanted only toast.

‘I didn’t sleep well,’ he said. ‘I was remembering the awful things I witnessed in Paris.’

Julia got out her notebook ready to jot down his recollections. ‘What kind of things?’

‘Le Vel’ d’Hiv, as we called it,’ he said, his voice heavy. ‘The French police, on the orders of the Germans, used the velodrome by the river to round up Jews, and one day, during that terrible week, I was nearby. I’d never heard such terrible cries of human suffering.’

Julia frowned. ‘I remember learning about that in history. Thousands were held in that sweltering place, then sent by train to be murdered in concentration camps. It’s sickening.’

‘It is,’ Christoph said, his eyes filled with pain. ‘While I was in Paris, getting to know Sylvie, millions of Jews were being sent to their deaths. The shame of that will haunt me for ever.’

‘What else do you remember?’ she asked, pouring coffee from the heavy silver pot. It was interesting to learn about this part of Christoph’s life. She’d only known him as her piano mentor. She tried to imagine him when he was young, an enemy soldier in Paris, with all the atrocities going on around him, but it was hard to equate this with the mild-mannered old man in front of her.

‘More than I expected,’ Christoph said. ‘Maybe it’s because we’re here, in Paris, or because of the delicious Schweinsohren you made. I remember that after Sylvie made the Schweinsohren for Otto I escorted her back to her boarding house to get her things.’ He sighed. ‘I made such a fool of myself trying to convince her I knew that it was wrong, the German occupation of Paris.’

Julia wondered what Sylvie had made of this. Christoph had obviously been sensitive about his position in Paris, but it wouldn’t have detracted from the fact that he was a German soldier, working for the Kommandant in a city where he didn’t belong.

A tall man in whites came over to the table. He was grey-haired with friendly crinkles around his eyes.

‘ Pardon ,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘I hope you don’t mind me interrupting. Claude rang me yesterday. I’m Pierre Dupont. Head chef at Le Meurice.’

‘Ah yes, Claude mentioned you,’ Julia said. ‘This is Christoph.’

‘The man who is reliving his past,’ Pierre said. ‘My father was head chef here during the war. You might remember him. Jean Dupont.’

Christoph looked perplexed.

‘Jean.’ His gaze drifted off into the distance. ‘I don’t think I do. I’m sorry.’

‘It was so long ago,’ Julia said.

Pierre nodded. ‘Of course. You might not recall him, but my father always spoke highly of you. He claimed you were the only decent German he’d met during the war.’

Christoph’s eyes widened. ‘Really? He said that. How extraordinary. I wonder what I did to deserve that accolade.’

Pierre shrugged. ‘ Lieutenant Baumann , he’d say, a special man. If I asked why, he’d tell me that keeping secrets had kept him alive during the war and he wasn’t about to start blabbing now. Not even to his own son.’ He frowned. ‘He was interrogated and imprisoned, you see. He was accused of some plot here at the hotel. It scarred him for life.’

Christoph laid down his napkin. ‘Did your father ever mention a woman called Sylvie? She was a chef in his kitchen.’

‘Sylvie?’ He thought for a moment. ‘I’m afraid not. She’s the woman who wrote the recipe book, is that right? That’s what Claude told me. Such a fascinating story.’

‘She was so sad that day,’ Christoph said.

‘Which day?’ Julia said.

‘When we walked back from the boarding house. I carried a box of her things. She was like a painting in the rain. All the colours had run out of her.’

Pierre sighed. ‘That is what it meant to be French and suffer the occupation,’ he said. ‘My father described how the life went out of the city.’

‘I felt so helpless,’ Christoph said. ‘I wanted to make her smile.’

‘Well, you must have done something right,’ Julia said. She took the recipe book out of her bag. ‘Look, the next recipe is potage fontanges. She writes: How strange to talk about future dreams in the middle of a war, and to C, of all people. The notes make the music. The vegetables make this soup. Both conjure memories. ’

‘Potage fontanges was my father’s recipe,’ Pierre said with a delighted smile. ‘She must have learned it from him. I know it off by heart. I’ll teach you it,’ he said to Julia. ‘I insist.’

‘That would be marvellous, thank you,’ she said.

‘But you must source the ingredients yourself,’ Pierre said. ‘My father always maintained that the vegetables must be chosen by the cook.’

‘Oh,’ Julia said, ‘of course. I’ll find a supermarket and get everything we need.’

Pierre frowned and wagged his finger in mock consternation. ‘ Non ,’ he said. ‘You need to visit Marché Maubert by boulevard Saint-Germain. They sell fresh vegetables from all the best farms around Paris.’ He smiled at Christoph. ‘Now, I must get back to the kitchens. It’s been a pleasure to meet you both.’

Julia put the recipe book back in her bag. This was incredible. She’d be cooking in the same kitchen where Sylvie had worked. She looked up and saw Daniel striding over.

‘Who was that?’ Daniel said to Christoph.

‘The head chef. He’s going to teach Julia an old recipe for vegetable soup,’ Christoph said.

‘How come?’

‘It seems Julia has an admirer at the patisserie, and he got in touch with Pierre,’ Christoph said.

‘An admirer?’ Daniel glanced at Julia.

‘Claude was just being kind, that’s all,’ she said, her cheeks reddening.

Daniel opened the menu. ‘I see.’ He glanced at Julia, and then Christoph. ‘So, is this cookery lesson from the head chef all part of helping to heal Julia’s hands?’

Julia looked down at her plate, preferring to let Christoph answer.

‘Of course, and hopefully it’s having a good effect,’ he said.

‘I’m just puzzled. Where are all these recipes coming from? There doesn’t seem to be any plan or pattern to what Julia makes.’ Daniel eyed them both. ‘Unless there’s something I’m missing.’

Julia felt his stare on her. She brushed some crumbs off the tablecloth. ‘There’s no real plan,’ she said, trying to keep her voice light.

‘So it’s just a lucky coincidence that the head chef of Le Meurice is so willing to help?’ Daniel said, his brow creased.

Julia and Christoph exchanged a furtive glance. Julia felt caught in the middle. She couldn’t say anything. This was Christoph’s secret to tell, not hers.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Christoph said firmly. ‘But if you want to help, Julia needs to buy some ingredients from Marché Maubert, and you’d be the ideal person to go with her.’

Julia’s stomach contracted. ‘No, it’s fine, I’m sure I can find it.’

She’d much rather go alone. The thought of being in Daniel’s company without Christoph there as a buffer was unthinkable. But Christoph seemed intent on forcing them together.

‘You might find it useful, Daniel. If you’re serious about farming, it’ll give you a feel for what happens at the point of sale. Unless, of course, you’re not that serious about farming after all …’

‘You know I’m serious,’ Daniel said. ‘I’ve worked at farms in every country I’ve been to.’

‘All the more reason to go and help Julia then.’ Christoph folded his napkin.

Father and son stared at each other, neither willing to back down.

Daniel sighed. ‘Fine, I’ll take her.’

It took a ridiculous amount of time to decide what to wear to the market. Julia tried on many different outfits. In the end, she opted for jeans and a white shirt. Her nerves were worse than before she went on stage. Why was she so petrified of being alone with Daniel? She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Get a grip. It’s only Daniel.

He was waiting by the hotel reception desk, his expression unreadable.

‘You don’t have to come,’ she said.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Try telling that to my father. He seems to want to get rid of me.’

‘No, he doesn’t. I’ll be fine on my own, honestly.’ That wasn’t quite true, but she’d do her best. How hard could it be to pick out vegetables?

‘I’m sure we can be civil to each other for a couple of hours,’ Daniel said with a wry smile.

Julia met his eyes and swallowed. She wasn’t so sure. But if he could be sensible about it, then so could she.

The little square was full of stalls laid out in rows, with striped awnings and sides. Vendors called out their wares in sing-song voices, and customers haggled over prices. Several women had gathered by one of the charcuterie stalls and were discussing the merits of the produce on offer, the occasional cackle of laughter rising into the air.

‘Do you have a list?’ Daniel said.

‘Yes, it’s in here somewhere.’ She fished it out of her bag. The sooner they got the shopping done, the sooner they could go back to the hotel. ‘I suppose it’s just a case of finding the vegetables.’

He smiled at her, apparently amused by what she’d said. ‘It’s not that simple. You need to consider the smell, the texture, how long ago it was picked, what sort of soil it was grown in.’

‘And you’re the expert on this?’ She squinted in the sunshine.

‘Actually, yes I am.’

To Julia’s surprise, it turned out that Daniel really did know what he was doing. He took the list and systematically made his way around the market.

Julia watched as he picked up vegetables, held them, smelled them, and defied the haughty gaze of the stall-holders to return them if they weren’t good enough. He was knowledgeable about the best type of onions and which potatoes would hold their firmness in a soup. He even managed to find chervil and sorrel – two items that she had no idea how to identify. Soon, all the ingredients had been gathered.

‘Let me get you a coffee to say thank you,’ Julia said impulsively. ‘I’d never have managed that without your help.’

She found a table outside a café and bought them each a coffee and pain au chocolat. The warm pastry flaked over her jeans as she bit into it. She brushed it off and glanced at Daniel, suddenly curious.

‘Where did you learn all that?’ she asked, gesturing to the market.

Daniel stretched out his legs under the table. ‘All over the place. Big prairie farms in America, a dairy farm in Italy, fruit farms just outside Bonn, and one year, harvesting olives in Greece. I used to help sell the produce too.’

‘But you grew up in a city. How come you have this passion for farming?

Daniel sighed. ‘Oma’s farm. The first time I went, I didn’t want to go. I must have been six or seven years old. Things were very tense at home between Mama and Papa. Maybe they wanted me out of the way, or perhaps I was too much of a handful for the whole summer holidays. Anyway, Papa dropped me off and stayed the night before heading back to Bonn, and I was left with Oma.’

‘What was she like?’

Daniel smiled, ‘Sharp as a pin, despite her age, and physically fit from being outdoors. She didn’t dwell on my homesickness. She simply took me out to the vegetable garden and told me about each plant, and then marched me out into the fields to learn about the cows. Before long, I was filling up the watering can and weeding between the potatoes and getting up at 5 a.m. to milk the cows.’

Daniel gazed up at the sky. Julia sensed these memories were precious to him.

‘I just remember such a feeling of calm,’ he continued. ‘The warm earth on my fingers, the scent of the leaves, the birds singing. I was left to my own thoughts. Oma didn’t need me like Mama did. I didn’t have to try to work out her moods. We worked alongside each other, and that’s where I learned to love farming.’

‘Have you ever tried growing your own vegetables?’

‘Of course, don’t you remember?’ Daniel caught her eye and she blushed.

Of course she remembered. He’d taken her to the allotment he tended for an old neighbour. She remembered his arms wrapped around her as they sat on the bench, bees buzzing on the sweet williams, the scent of honeysuckle and the taste of him on her lips. It had been a few days before the recital.

‘It was a beautiful place,’ she said.

Daniel smiled. ‘The most peaceful place in Bonn.’

At least it had been until Daniel asked her to go on holiday with him after the recital and she’d said no. Her career was only just taking off, she couldn’t just up and leave. He hadn’t understood why the piano was so important to her. She looked at him now, and wondered if he still felt that way.

‘Why do you like farming so much?’ Julia asked, hoping to steer the conversation to more neutral territory. ‘It seems like hard work: always going over the same patch again and again.’

Daniel shrugged. ‘It’s a bit like practising the piano, I imagine. All the hard work is worth it when the plants grow and you harvest the fruit and vegetables. It’s the same with the cows, taking care of them year after year in return for milk and meat.’

‘If you buy your family’s old farm, are you intending to stay put?’ Julia asked.

Daniel eyed her with a sceptical smile. ‘Are you asking because you’re interested or because Papa wants to know?’

‘Because I’m interested. I don’t talk to Christoph about you.’ She glanced at the market square, conscious that this wasn’t quite true. ‘I just wondered if you really want to settle down and live there. You’re not exactly renowned for your ability to stay in one place.’

Daniel leaned his elbows on the table. ‘Some of the happiest times of my life were spent at that farm. Helping to bring in the hay, felling trees in the wood, harvesting the orchard.’ He smiled. ‘It probably sounds strange, but I’ve reached the point where I don’t want to keep travelling. I want my own place. Land that’s mine. Somewhere that means something.’ He paused and glanced at her. ‘A home.’

It sounded idyllic. Julia wasn’t sure she’d ever felt like that about a place. The house had felt hollow after her dad had gone. The emptiness came with her even when she moved out, following her to her rooms at college and each hotel room while on tour. Even her own flat couldn’t really be called home. One day, she dreamed of having somewhere to put all her books and music, perhaps even a grand piano. But she couldn’t imagine it happening.

‘Those are good reasons for wanting the farm,’ she said. ‘You should tell Christoph, explain it to him too.’

‘I did try the other day, but he was too preoccupied to take it in.’ He smiled. ‘You know, it’s ironic to hear you, the touring pianist, asking me about settling down.’

‘Yes, well,’ Julia said, glancing at her hands. ‘I’m not a touring pianist right now, am I?’

Daniel rubbed his temples. ‘I’m so sorry, I forgot that you’ve got your own worries.’

He reached over and touched her arm. The weight of his hand sent heat coursing through her veins. She looked up. Something in his eyes seemed to reach out to her. Only that morning, she’d remembered the night swim, and the startling sensation of his proximity in the water. Now, she felt it again across the table.

‘Whenever I heard you play,’ he continued, ‘it eclipsed everything else. You have such a talent. It’s awful to see you like this.’

‘The trouble is, I don’t know who I am without the piano,’ she said helplessly.

‘I wish I could help you remember,’ Daniel said.

His compassion was too much. Julia couldn’t bear his kindness, nor the warmth of his hand. She slid her arm out from under his touch, trying not to notice the hurt look on his face as she moved away.

She stood and gathered up the bags. ‘Come on, I think we’ve got everything. Pierre will be waiting for me.’

Daniel’s eyes settled on her. For a moment she thought he was going to revisit the subject of the piano. But he got up, seeming to think better of it.

‘All right, let’s make a move,’ he said. He reached over and gently took the shopping bags from her. ‘Let me at least carry these, and give your hands a rest.’

Julia stared around the pristine kitchen. Everything looked so sleek and modern now, but here, in this very space, Sylvie would have made the potage fontanges all those years ago. Pierre held Sylvie’s recipe book open, his finger marking the page. He peered at the writing.

‘ Regarde ici ,’ he said. ‘She’s scribbled something. JD might be a hard taskmaster, but he knows how to combine vegetables. Don’t always go for the obvious choice, he says. ’ Pierre looked up at Julia and smiled. ‘JD must stand for Jean Dupont, my father. He taught me the same thing. How strange that he never mentioned her.’ He gave the book back. ‘ Allez , let’s get started.’

In Pierre’s hands, the knife moved in a blur until all the vegetable were chopped into neat pieces.

‘That’s incredible,’ Julia said.

Pierre shrugged. ‘Well, I couldn’t play a piano concerto, so I guess we all have our talents. Now, that needs a couple of hours to simmer,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we make some rolls to go with it?’

Later, under Pierre’s guidance, Julia mixed butter into a smooth cream, then beat in some egg yolks and crème fra?che. She tipped the mixture into a soup tureen and then poured the hot soup over it.

‘ Voilà , it’s all done,’ Pierre said.

Julia carried the tureen into the dining room, where Christoph was waiting. An image from the market stole into her mind. Daniel holding a lettuce, peeling back the leaves, one by one, to check the freshness. There had been such gentleness in his hands. Recalling the gesture, it made her breath catch. The tureen wobbled on the tray. She put out her hand to steady it. Of all the things to remember from this day, how strange that she should remember that.