Chapter Eight #2
Marcel didn’t have to prompt the others to clap at the end of this one. In fact, Vivi let out a whistle that had him laughing. He stood. “I ought to accuse you of lying, Monsieur Faye. Just for fun indeed.”
René blushed. And grinned. And shrugged. “It is for fun. I’ve never auditioned for anything before.”
“Good—if you had, someone else would have snapped you up already.” Marcel motioned to the sheet music sitting face down on the piano.
“That is to test your sight-reading abilities, but I daresay you won’t find it too much of a challenge, given the Ravel.
” He hoped not, anyway. If it turned out that the boy could only play so well by ear and couldn’t read a note .
. . but Nicholy never would have let that happen.
And indeed, René set the music on the stand, gave it a glance, and launched directly into it. Marcel had chosen an obscure piece on purpose, to all but guarantee no one would know it.
René clearly hadn’t looked at the note on tempo—he was playing it far too quickly—but he had no trouble with the notes or rhythms, even so. And it was only a single sheet, so he finished it in no time.
“Well.” Marcel glanced down the line at the others, but they were all nodding. “Looks like we have ourselves a lead pianist. Welcome to the orchestra, Monsieur Faye.”
“Really?” René stood, a dazed look on his face. “I’m in? Don’t you need to . . . to deliberate or something?”
Marcel moved toward the stage as he had before, leaning on the edge.
“In most cases, yes. But you’re the last audition, and this particular decision was easy.
And not,” he added, noting the doubt in the boy’s eyes, “because of your uncle. I was fully prepared to explain to him why I had to turn you down—before you played Ravel’s Scarbo section so beautifully.
You are by far the best pianist we’ve seen. ”
Vivi stood too. “We’re arranging lodging for all the boys, and there will be a few days of appointments as we get everyone’s travel passes. Are you staying somewhere in town for a few days, I hope?”
“Yes, madam . . . oiselle?” In the dim lights in the auditorium, the boy clearly couldn’t get a gauge on Vivi’s age. Her voice said one thing, her clothes and hair another.
She gave a full-throated laugh that bespoke more years smoking than René had been alive.
For that matter, probably more than Marcel had been.
“Sweetheart, I’m old enough to be your grand-maman.
But you’re sweet and polite, so you can call me whatever you like.
” She held out her clipboard. “Write down your hotel here, mon chou. We’ll be in touch with details on when to report and where and all the other things your mère will want to know before she lets you go.
In fact, is she here? I’ll talk to her.” Vivi started for the stairs.
“Oh, she’s . . . at the hotel,” René admitted on a sigh. “I convinced her to let me come here on my own, but not all the way to Marseille alone.”
Marcel remembered that too. “Only a few of the musicians have come by themselves—the older ones. Most are underage, so we’ll need to speak with your parents anyway. It’s good your mother is here.”
Emile’s door opened again, snagging Marcel’s attention. Had Vivi gone out it? No, she was still climbing the stairs. The clack of wooden-soled shoes was too light to be his cousin though. Perhaps René’s mother had come after all.
Or perhaps not. Zelie stepped out of the curtains with a little wave that really shouldn’t have made his heart stutter in his chest. He nodded a hello.
René turned, smiled. “Bonjour, Madame Bellerose. I didn’t know you were in Marseille.” He turned back to Marcel. “She and Monsieur Loustaunau-Lacau ran a rehabilitation center until recently in Vichy, the Pension Welcome. They helped my brother. Gave him purpose again.”
Marcel’s gaze flew to Zelie. He’d already learned that the “rehabilitation center” was what they’d claimed to be running in the old manor house they’d just abandoned.
They had had some activities meant to help soldiers adapt to life in a country that had surrendered, but it had mostly been a cover for recruitment for Alliance. Was René’s brother one of her agents?
She gave a small nod. “Good to see you again, René. Were you auditioning?”
“Spectacularly.” Marcel vaulted up on the stage. Vivi reached Zelie’s side and paused to press a kiss to her cheek. Allard and Simon were both making their way to the stage too, but via the stairs.
Simon waved his clipboard. “I’ll leave this here for you, Marcel.”
“Thank you, monsieur.”
René drifted toward Zelie—perhaps because she was a familiar face. Or perhaps because people always seemed to drift toward her. Emile and Gustave both were, and Marcel couldn’t blame them for it. He was too.
“I got in!” the boy exclaimed to Zelie, grin so wide it threatened to split his face. “Can you believe it?”
She laughed and reached out to pat his arm. “Having heard you before, I absolutely do. Congratulations. Your family will be so proud.”
Allard had paused at the curtains but now, as Marcel approached, held out his clipboard as well. “I’m fighting a migraine,” the man said quietly. “Is it all right if I leave you and Vivi to make the decisions? If you need a tiebreaking vote, I’ll be happy to help tomorrow, but . . .”
Marcel frowned. Allard did indeed look pale, with shadows under his eyes and lines around his mouth. “Of course. Go, rest. Feel better. We’ll review your notes along with Simon’s as we decide.”
“I need to get back to the hotel and tell my mother.” René, still grinning, spun to shake Marcel’s hand and then darted out as well.
Once the door had closed behind him, leaving only Zelie, Vivi, Marcel, and his cousins on the stage, Emile arched his brows. “His brother’s one of ours?”
Zelie nodded. “His parents are sympathetic too, though not active. I imagine René leans our direction as well.”
“Most boys that age will.” Vivi reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, though a glare from Marcel had her putting them back again with a sheepish grin.
They’d already discussed keeping the building smoke-free—it didn’t play nicely with the lungs of wind players—but habit often overwhelmed her agreement.
She pointed toward his cousins. “Don’t you go recruiting our musicians for your Maquis. ”
His cousins both laughed and raised their hands, all innocence. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Emile said.
“We’ll clean up a few of the rejects, that’s all.” Gustave snatched Marcel’s clipboard from his hand. “You didn’t want that big fellow, did you? The one that played the what’s-it—the oversized clarinet?”
“Bassoon.” Marcel snatched it back. “And we haven’t decided yet. Wait your turn.”
Zelie shook her head, amusement in her eyes. “I thought I’d invite you all to our new headquarters. We’ve finally got everything set up—just in time, too.”
Marcel motioned them all into the wings and toward the door, flipping the stage lights off with their oversized heavy-duty toggle switches. Darkness fell with a clank, clank, clank. “In time for what?”
Zelie had stepped into the still-lit hallway, letting the others go ahead of her.
Which meant her look of uncertainty was directed at him alone.
“The promised man from MI6 should be arriving tonight, along with some supplies. Most especially, a new radio. He’ll train our operators on it and on anything else we need to know. ”
Emile and Gustave stopped and whirled around. “Airdrop tonight? Need us?”
“Assuming the weather stays clear, yes. Both the agent and the supplies will be parachuting in. We’ll need men on the ground to meet him and help transport whatever he brings.
” She sounded firm as she gave his cousins that new assignment, but the moment they faced forward again and rounded the corner, her inhale spoke of something far less certain.
Marcel pulled the stage doors closed. “This is good, right? New equipment?”
“Yes, but . . .” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Navarre isn’t here to welcome him, as he’ll be expecting. And I’m not ready to tell him that I’m the second in command, POZ 55.”