Chapter Five
Five
Darkness had crept through the streets by the time Zelie and Marcel left the fourth friend of his they’d called on during their sixth day of gathering contacts.
Her notebooks were filling with names and descriptions, her mind swirling with possible ways to put them to work.
Grigoryan had been spot-on in his instincts about Marcel.
He himself was not only perfect for the position they had in mind, but he had real, genuine friends all through the Paris arts sector—like-minded friends who were proving eager to do whatever they could to help France shake free of German rule.
She tilted her head back to take in the night sky. All the streetlights were darkened with blue paper, all the windows had their curtains in place, but the moonlight turned the Seine into a ribbon of silver.
She’d noted it with fear, a year ago. That glowing river was a bull’s-eye for enemy aircraft, a road they could follow from the sky, straight to the heart of Paris.
But Paris still stood, no bombs having knocked the heart out of it. And she could tilt her head back and see the moon, the stars, like she’d never been able to do here while Paris lived up to its City of Lights nickname.
When had she last taken the time to look at the night sky?
Months ago. Usually she was bent over her desk, working on reports until she fell exhausted onto her narrow cot.
The last time she’d really enjoyed the night was when she was with Blaise and Elise and Maman.
Blaise had been learning about the solar system in school, and they’d gone outside with the telescope they’d found in the farmhouse attic to search for the planets.
She didn’t realize she’d drifted to a halt until Marcel touched a hand to her back to ease her out of the way of oncoming pedestrians. His head was tilted back too, his curls—tamer than they’d been but still charming—catching in the breeze. Perhaps his hat had been lost somewhere in the move.
“Look!” he pointed upward, his voice urgent enough that her heart leapt into her throat as her gaze flew skyward.
What did he see? Allied aircraft?
Then she caught the flash of light, there and gone, a streak of brilliance across the sky. Her breath tangled up, tied itself in knots. A shooting star. She and the children had watched for one for hours, to no avail. “Did you make a wish?”
“No.” Amusement saturated his tone. “But that’s all right. It’s enough, tonight, to see the wish. The hope.” He lowered his face, smiled at her.
That knotted breath whooshed back out. She’d known from all the posters of him that he was handsome as well as talented, with his roguish curls and square jaw, but it had been easy to forget at first, when exhaustion had hollowed him out.
And to keep herself from noticing as they hurried from one task to the next.
They wouldn’t be in Paris much longer though, and somehow, the thought of pushing him out into the work she’d been preparing him for made her aware of all the things she knew would work in his favor in Vichy next week.
The talent, of course. His easy way with people, the soft light in his eyes.
The way that, when he spoke to someone, he focused on them as if they were the only one in the room.
The green of his eyes, like hopeful spring leaves.
The curls that would fall onto his forehead when he bent over a piano’s keyboard. He’d charm absolutely everyone.
She mustered a smile. “Did you want to grab a bite at a restaurant or see what Grigoryan is serving tonight?”
He glanced around them, that smile turning into a grin. “I was thinking one more stop, at a little place I know. I’m hoping a friend of mine is there. It’s near. This way.”
She slipped her hand into the one he held out for her—their cover.
It was easier to avoid notice as a couple than standing a foot apart as strangers would, which they’d learned on day one.
Even so, she couldn’t help but note the long fingers, the broad, muscled palm.
This was a man who would have no trouble reaching an octave-plus-three.
She’d had to stretch her hands daily for a year to reach an octave, and it required making a straight line between pinky and thumb.
He led her around a corner and then through a papered-over glass door.
The scent of roasting meat and spices pummeled her as soon as they entered, taking her instantly back to another era, when she and Jacques had eaten out several times a week.
When they’d met other couples and spent a few hours laughing together, pretending all was well.
Pretending he wouldn’t go quiet and broody as soon as they left.
Pretending she wouldn’t be steeling herself for the inevitable question: Why can’t you be more like his wife? Content with what I give you?
She blinked, forced herself into the here and now. Marcel was scanning the restaurant, and given the turn of his lips, he’d found whoever he was looking for.
Juste ciel, he had a dimple. How had she not noticed that before?
“Come. Let’s harass him.” But he didn’t lead her toward one of the packed tables. Instead, they skirted the edge of the room.
Her shoulders relaxed with each step. She didn’t see a single German uniform in here. Not a huge surprise, when she considered where they were—well away from the tourist spots.
When they stopped, she saw the upright piano only as Marcel slid onto the bench. It was a far cry from the Bosendorfer—scratched, worn, its black paint flaking away along the edges. The ivories were discolored. But from the moment he set his fingers on them, that all fell away.
She recognized the iconic music—the Figaro aria, from The Barber of Seville.
The tune got an immediate response from the crowd.
Heads turned, chairs squeaked, a few people even stood to see who’d sat down.
She scanned the faces, half a smile on her lips.
No doubt this wasn’t the music they were accustomed to hearing when someone sat down at this old piano.
It seemed more like the sort of place that would cater to jazz or swing.
Her gaze caught on one particular man, who had turned in his seat with a ticking muscle in his jaw. He did not look happy.
He looked vaguely familiar though. The dark hair, swept back from his face and reaching to his collar . . . and a fashionable collar, at that. Had she met him somewhere along the line?
The woman who sat next to him went wide-eyed as she looked toward Marcel, then elbowed the man and whispered something in his ear.
He sprang to his feet, and his face went from irritation to relief to joy.
Then a soft smile overtook his lips, and he drew himself upright.
When he opened his mouth, it was right on cue.
A rich baritone spilled out in the opening vocals of the aria.
Opera singer—that’s why he looked vaguely familiar. That was Gabriel Proust, one of the most celebrated baritones of their generation. And, she suspected, the friend Marcel had been looking for.
Gabriel eased his way through the crowded tables as he sang, ending up at the side of the piano opposite hers.
He had an expressive face—not a surprise for an opera star of his caliber—and she nearly laughed aloud when Marcel skipped a section and improvised a bridge to the ending.
Gabriel’s panic flittered over his face, then dissolved into a grin as he caught on.
He jumped back in, arms gesticulating as they no doubt did on the stage, eyebrows dancing up and down with the words, and they brought the aria to a rousing close.
Applause erupted in the restaurant, people standing and whistling and shouting, “Encore!”
Marcel sent a grin to Gabriel. “Is Claire with you? We could do the Leonora-Luna duet from Il Trovatore.”
The singer’s face fell. “She left Paris before the invasion. Never came back.”
“I can sing that one.” Zelie heard the words come out of her mouth but couldn’t recall giving them permission to do so.
And wished, as both men looked at her, that she’d bitten her tongue.
Yes, she was a passable soprano, and yes, she’d once dreamed of taking the stage with musicians like these two, either as a pianist or a vocalist .
. . but that was a decade ago. What was she thinking?
Gabriel’s brows drew down. “Forgive me. I don’t believe we’ve met.” Code for, Are you going to make a fool of us?
Marcel grinned at her. “Why am I not surprised? Is there anything you can’t do, Zelie?”
“Too many things to count.” Remembering his words from the morning after they’d met, she returned the grin. “But if we’re counting the things I can, then . . . this is one of them. It was one of my audition pieces for the conservatory.”
“Well then.” He launched into the duet.
Gabriel started the piece, voice in the lower register of a baritone’s range, more bass, really.
Impressive. She watched him for a moment, the expressions on his face as dramatic as if he were truly playing the part on a stage.
Then she looked away to keep from being distracted.
Let the music fill her. Called forth the words she still sang now and then, but usually only when alone or with the children, out on a walk. They loved to hear her sing.
Her eyes slid closed so that she could imagine the landscape of her family’s home outside of Cannes instead of this Parisian restaurant. Crisp air instead of clouds of cigarette smoke. The scents of flowering trees and damp earth and sea salt instead of meat and spices. Little hands in hers.
The words spilled out when Marcel reached her cue, no hesitation. Soon Gabriel’s voice undergirded hers. It had been ages since she’d sung this with someone else—and never with anyone so talented. She opened her eyes again, satisfied that the lyrics didn’t abandon her.