Chapter Six #3
“A contender, certainly. I would want to do some research on whether better facilities could be found elsewhere, but Marseille could well be the best option.” If they actually gave him a say, he’d run it by Zelie, see what would be most beneficial for Alliance.
The gentlemen exchanged a look, some silent communication passing between them that had Marcel’s shoulders going tight. They were making a decision, here and now. With nothing but glances between them. A good sign or a bad? Was he approved so quickly or dismissed so easily?
They all looked to Von Eberstein then, who gave a broad grin and a nod.
Nicholy held out a hand. “Consider the position yours, Monsieur Laurent. Take a week to deliver us a plan in writing, detailing your preference of headquarters and why, a proposed tour schedule, how many pieces you’d like in the orchestra, when auditions should begin, and a budget.
We hope to get this up and going for the summer, so time is of the essence. ”
Thank you, Lord. He didn’t have to fake his smile as he reached to shake Nicholy’s hand and then stood to do the same with the others—even if clasping the SS officer’s gave him a chill.
“Thank you all for your faith in me.” His gaze settled on Von Eberstein’s.
“Ought I to take into consideration your whereabouts, Sturmbannführer, when I’m proposing locations? ”
“No, no. I travel all throughout France in pursuit of my actual duties—music is but my hobby. The noble, to offset the necessary. I can be wherever you need me, whenever you need me.” He stood, smoothing the creases from his trousers, and smiled as if his ability to be anywhere was a boon and not terrifying. “We’ll simply set up regular meetings.”
A few more details were ironed out, and then Marcel and Grigoryan left, the Armenian chuckling and slapping a hand to Marcel’s back as soon as they were out of sight in the corridor.
“What did I tell you, mon ami? You were the obvious choice.” He glanced back over his shoulders, brows drawn.
Voice pianissimo, he said, “I admit to being surprised by our special guest. I had no idea he’d be here.
Good thing he’s a fan of yours too, no?”
Marcel’s throat felt dry just thinking about that part. “Thank you for your help, monsieur.”
“I did little aside from securing your freedom.”
As if that was little. Grinning, Marcel shook his head. “Where are we going now?”
“I’ve secured us rooms at a smaller hotel across town that hasn’t been completely overrun by government offices and ministries. Would you like to go there now?”
After hours on the train, in a car, and then sitting at that table, retiring to a hotel room was the last thing he wanted to do. Marcel shook his head. “I think I’d rather explore a bit, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” As they reached the lobby, Grigoryan gave him the name and address of their hotel and bid him adieu. Marcel headed outside, down the street, and set his feet toward the little bistro he’d discovered on his last trip to Vichy, before the war.
The place was crowded, thanks to it being the lunch hour, but the smell of food wasn’t what got his attention.
The piano, an old brown number that had, as of three years ago, been well tuned, still stood proud and inviting against the back wall.
And like the last time he’d been in here, no one sat at it.
His gaze moved around the room, searching for the proprietor. He didn’t see the old gent anywhere, but his attention snagged on a middle-aged man who was exchanging words with a waiter. He had a look of authority.
Marcel wove his way through the crowd, waiting a step away until the man turned from the waiter. He had a smile ready for him. “Excuse me, monsieur. Are you the proprietor?”
The fellow had a weary look about his eyes, a gruff set to his mouth. “I am.”
Marcel motioned toward the piano. “Would you mind if I played for a bit?” In his usual haunts in Paris, he didn’t have to ask anymore. But he didn’t want to assume an unfamiliar place in a resort town didn’t have a musician scheduled to arrive any moment.
The man glanced at the piano then turned a dubious gaze back on Marcel. “I suppose you can try. Though if I receive any complaints, I’ll have to ask you to stop. And don’t get any ideas about getting paid by me or putting out a hat for tips.”
Though his lips twitched, Marcel inclined his head. “I understand completely, monsieur. And you’ll notice I don’t even have a hat with me. Thank you.”
Smile blooming full, he strode to the instrument and pulled out the bench. Settled his fingers on the keys. Let his mind wander to which song would most soothe him today.
Dust met his fingertips—proof that no musician had been hired to play regularly for the crowd, unlike last time. He could only hope the piano hadn’t lost its tune as well as its player to the war.
Chopin would do. His Nocturne No. 21 in C Minor. Marcel set his fingers to the opening notes, drew in a long breath, and launched into the song.
He let his eyes slide closed and the music sweep him away. He played through that nocturne and then moved into another of his favorites with barely a pause between them.
He took a longer pause after the end of Op. 9 No. 2 in E-flat Major to consider what would suit him next—raucous applause made him jump. He’d forgotten for a moment that there were others in the room.
But while he was accustomed to applause, this was too raucous for a few sweet Chopin pieces.
He turned on his stool, somehow not in the least surprised to see three grinning faces leading the whooping and clapping, all bearing a striking resemblance to each other—and to him.
Marcel grinned back and stood. “And the triplets have found me again.”