All the Ways We Said Goodbye Read online

They spoke mostly in French, although only two of the Germans were really fluent—Von Sternburg and a plain, big-eared fellow with a face like a moon, whose name was Dannecker, and the two of them effortlessly provided the necessary translations. Daisy had worried that conversation would be awkward. What, after all, did one discuss with one’s German conquerors? The weather? The food? It was Von Sternburg who rose to the occasion, beginning with an observation about the upcoming performances of the Berlin Philharmonic at the Palais de Chaillot—the Beethoven symphonies, all nine of them—for which tickets were nearly unobtainable. They discussed music for a bit, poor Pierre making valiant attempts to keep up, and then opera (who had been to see Ariadne auf Naxos at the Comiqué, and what was the opinion?) and the imminent opening of the Breker exhibit until Grandmère’s wine had its loosening effect and they turned to gossip. Who was out, who was in, who was perhaps a little too brutal in his methods and who was not brutal enough. Who had made some unforgivable blunder and might be recalled to Berlin altogether. They talked as if Daisy weren’t even present. Von Sternburg, who had discussed the peculiar narrative structure of Ariadne auf Naxos with animation, now sat back in his chair, idled his wineglass in his hand, and observed the florid, talkative Pierre. Daisy caught the eye of the passing maid—Justine, the fishmonger’s daughter, who toiled in the Villon household four days a week in order to uphold the dignity of the family—and signaled her to pour the lieutenant colonel more wine.

  But Von Sternburg, when Justine appeared with the bottle, merely smiled at her, shook his head briefly, and passed his hand over the open mouth of the glass. Justine backed away and moved to the next guest, and Von Sternburg lifted his gaze to fasten on Daisy. There was no time to look away. She’d been caught, fair and square. She made a tight smile with one corner of her mouth and turned to the fellow on her left before she had to endure Von Sternburg’s answering smile. Without looking, she reached her shaking hand for her own wineglass and knocked it over in a spectacular red arc across the table. The voices stopped as if by thunderclap. Everyone turned to Daisy.

  “I—I beg your pardon,” she whispered. She pulled her napkin from her lap and started out of her chair to retrieve the fallen glass, to blot the mess.

  “Daisy!” snapped Pierre. “Sit down.” He gestured furiously for Justine, who darted forward with a dishcloth and sopped up what little wine hadn’t already soaked through the worn linen. Daisy sank back and reached, reflexively, for the wine that wasn’t there. Anything to keep her fingers busy. Anything not to look at the shocked faces around her.

  Pierre made a high, saw-edged, grating laugh. “My clumsy wife. You’d never know she was the granddaughter of a count!”

  The other men laughed along, while Daisy lowered her chin and watched the movements of Justine’s bony elbow. She felt their laughter, their hot, sloppy gazes on her skin. The smell of meat and grease turned the air rotten, turned her stomach so she thought she might retch. Justine lifted the edge of a plate to blot the tablecloth beneath.

  “The evening . . . the evening . . . ah, mon Dieu.” Pierre could hardly speak through his ragged laughter. “The evening we met, do you know what she did? She was taking coffee from the maid, and she dropped it—dropped the entire cup—right on her lap!” Another burst of laughter around the table.

  Justine straightened. “Here,” Daisy whispered, handing Justine her napkin. “Lay this on top. We’ll sprinkle it with bicarbonate later.”

  “And to think . . . listen!” Pierre was sputtering now, absolutely undone with success. He smacked his open palm on the table. “To think her mother—her mother!—was none other than the Demoiselle de Courcelles!”

  Another burst of merriment, an undertone inquiry from one of the men to another (Was ist die Demoiselle de Courcelles?) into which Von Sternburg’s voice—deep, sharp, devoid of amusement—inserted itself like a knife into a cake.

  “I hope she was not hurt?”

  The laughter died. Pierre wiped his eyes.

  “Sir? Herr—lieutenant colonel?”

  “Madame Villon. The coffee, was it not hot? I hope she wasn’t burned.”

  “Why—why—” Pierre looked helplessly at Daisy.

  “No,” she said. “Luckily I was still wearing my coat.”

  “I am relieved to hear it. These accidents will happen, even to so graceful and charming a woman as you, madame. You must think nothing of it.”

  There was a deep, shameful silence. Someone cleared his throat. One of the candles guttered, so that the shadows of the men made grotesque distortions on the wall and the smell of burning wax flowered briefly. Justine reappeared with a fresh napkin in her hand. Everyone turned except Pierre and Max von Sternburg, who both stared at Daisy, one fierce and one gentle. Poor Justine stopped in her tracks, framed by the doorway, and looked to Daisy with a panicked expression, as if Daisy could help, as if Daisy could somehow repair this broken object that had once been a dinner party.

  Daisy thought desperately, What would Grandmère do?

  Of course, Grandmère would call for dessert.

  So Daisy straightened her back against the chair and spoke in her most dignified voice, wobbling only a little: “Justine, will you please clear the table for dessert?”

  After dinner, there was thin, watery coffee in the salon. The Germans gathered in a cluster near the window and spoke in their native tongue, to which Pierre grinned and nodded frantically as if he understood every word. All except Max von Sternburg, who approached Daisy in her chair and settled himself at the corner of the adjacent sofa, cradling his cup and saucer with one hand.

  “Madame Villon,” he said, “I wish to compliment you on the meal this evening. The lamb was exquisite.”

  “No, it was not. I am afraid the meat was not especially fresh.”

  “In these times, one is lucky to obtain meat at all.”

  “Lucky? I don’t think luck has anything to do with it.”

  He sipped his coffee, taking his time, as if considering what to say. Daisy did the same. Neither had yet mentioned their meeting in the lobby of the Ritz earlier this afternoon, as if it had not existed, or was somehow beyond the pale of polite conversation. The memory hunched between them now, all the grizzlier for not having been acknowledged. Daisy squinted across the room at the back of Pierre’s head, and then at the worn curtains, the flocked, old-fashioned wallpaper that had needed replacing eight years ago, when they had first married and moved into the apartment, after a brief honeymoon in Brittany. But then Daisy became pregnant with Madeleine, and Olivier had followed a year and a half later, and the Nazis arrived after that, and who had time to think of new wallpaper? To say nothing of the money for new wallpaper. Pierre had married her in high expectation of Grandmère’s largesse, and now that Daisy thought about it—and she did think about it, often—that was when the trouble began, the tempers and the sneering. When Grandmère had made clear that this largesse did not extend to people who disappointed her, and that Pierre Villon—self-evidently, irrevocably—belonged to this unhappy tribe.

  Von Sternburg set his cup in the saucer. “Your grandmother. Is she well?”

  “My grandmother?”

  “You were on your way to visit her this afternoon, isn’t it so?”

  “Yes,” Daisy said.

  There was a terrible beat or two of silence. They both sipped coffee. Von Sternburg said, in a voice that seemed strained, even anxious, “And your mother?”

  “My mother? What do you mean?”

  “Your—your husband called her . . . the Demoiselle de Courcelles. Is this true? You’re her daughter?”

  “You’ve heard of her?”

  Von Sternburg had finished his coffee. He reached forward and set the cup and saucer on the sofa table, and Daisy was surprised to see that his hand shook, that the china rattled a little as he consigned it safely to the wooden surface.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve heard of her.”

  “How remarkable. I wouldn’t have imagined she had a f
ollowing in your country. Unless to vilify her, perhaps?”

  “On the contrary. A woman of such courage is always admired, whether friend or foe.” Von Sternburg covered his knee with his hand and rubbed the edge of the patella with a broad, sturdy thumb. “But perhaps it’s not so easy to be the daughter of such a paragon?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “One always feels a certain . . . a certain urge, I suppose, to emulate one’s parents. To follow in their footsteps.”

  Daisy’s jaw began to ache. The muscles of her face and her neck, her fingers around the delicate saucer, had clenched almost into paralysis. She forced her teeth apart in order to speak. “I—I didn’t really know my mother. She died when I was just turned three. The influenza.”

  Across the room, the men laughed at some joke. Pierre cast Daisy a sharp, curious stare, even as he laughed along.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, madame,” said Von Sternburg, very softly. “And your father?”

  “Killed at Verdun.” Daisy set down her cup and signaled to Justine, who had just entered the room with a tray. “If you’ll excuse me, lieutenant colonel, I must help Justine.”

  As soon as the coffee was cleared, Pierre invited the officers into his study. For brandy and cigarettes, he said, winking one slow eyelid. With his hand he made a signal to Daisy that indicated she should disappear, into the kitchen or someplace, it didn’t matter where. There was a general bustle of limbs rearranging, of bodies rising from chairs. Daisy turned obediently to leave.

  “I’m afraid I must demur, Monsieur Villon,” said Von Sternburg. “I have a very early meeting tomorrow morning.”

  “Of course, lieutenant colonel, of course,” said Pierre. “Gentlemen, you’ll excuse me—”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. Madame Villon will see me out. Won’t you, madame?”

  Pierre turned to Daisy and frowned. Bemusement or disapproval, she wasn’t sure. She pressed her lips together. The salon was quite dim, only a single lamp lit, in order to save electricity. Was it only a trick of the darkness that the faces around her seemed so menacing? As if she were surrounded by a pack of wolves.

  “Of course,” she said. “This way, lieutenant colonel.”

  Von Sternburg followed her into the hallway and into the foyer. Because it was May, he hadn’t brought a coat. He lifted his gloves from the tray on the commode and tugged them over his fingers before he turned to Daisy, who held his stiff officer’s cap, and said solemnly, “Thank you, madame. It has been a great pleasure to spend the evening in your company.”

  Daisy held out the cap. “It was nothing.”

  Von Sternburg placed the cap on his head and drew the brim low on his brow. The ugly scar on the side of his face fell into shadow, so he seemed a degree less forbidding. He took her hand and kissed it, just as he had upon his arrival, and said, in a voice almost too low to be heard, “If you have need of anything, madame, anything at all, I hope you will not hesitate to find me.”

  Daisy withdrew her hand. “I can’t imagine the necessity. Good evening to you, sir.”

  He stood another second or two, quite rigid, studying her expression as if he meant to continue the conversation, wanted to discover some common ground between them. But not for nothing had Daisy endured eight years of marriage to Pierre Villon. She schooled her features into impassivity, a complete absence of intent, of personhood. She refused to acknowledge the earnest blue of his eyes, or the stern cut of his features beneath the brim of his hat, or the curve of his mouth that seemed to be pleading with her. To all these things she returned nothing, not the slightest sign of recognition, not even her own breath.

  He closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “Good night, Madame Villon,” he said, and spun in an exact semicircle, opened the door, and left the apartment.

  When the door clicked shut, Daisy let out all the air in her lungs. Her shoulders slumped. She put out one hand and leaned against the wooden panel, panting as if she’d just run a mile, as if she’d just dashed across Paris, all the way across France itself. Her pulse thudded in her neck.

  “Madame?”

  Daisy wheeled around. Justine stood a few meters away, holding her hat in her hands. She stared cautiously at the quick movements of Daisy’s chest.

  “I’ve finished the dishes. Is there anything else?”

  “No thank you, Justine. I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Yes, madame.”

  But Justine didn’t move, and Daisy realized she was waiting for her wages. She hurried into the salon and unlocked the desk, where she kept her precious store of francs. When she returned to the foyer, Justine was adjusting her hat before the mirror. She was a short, sturdy, dark-haired girl, the kind who might have been stout if it weren’t for the war and its shortages.

  “Here you are, Justine. Good night. Give my greetings to your parents.”

  Justine counted the coins and put them in the pocket of her jacket. “Yes, madame.”

  This time, when the door closed, Daisy didn’t hesitate. She took off her shoes and padded down the hallway to the study, the door of which was closed and probably locked, though she didn’t try the handle. Instead she leaned the side of her head carefully against the hairline crack between door and frame. A low mutter of voices came to her, muffled by wood. She closed her eyes, so that every ounce of her concentration might pour through that little gap and gather up noise, gather up syllables and connect them into words, connect the words into sentences.

  But the voices remained too low and too muffled. Daisy could distinguish only the smell of cigarettes, the clink of glasses, the occasional creaking of wood as somebody shifted his feet or his seat on a chair.

  At last she stepped away and moved down the hall to the kitchen. Justine had left everything tidy, every dish put away, the table wiped and the floor swept, the lamp switched off, the curtains snug so as not to permit the slightest leak of warmth or light into the air outside. From the corner, the radiator groaned softly. Daisy turned and went back down the hallway, all the way to the end, where their bedroom lay. The men were still talking, and Pierre (she knew this from experience) would not want her to linger and wait, to add any feminine awkwardness to their masculine farewells. She changed into her nightgown, washed her face, brushed her hair and her teeth, checked briefly on the children—both sleeping peacefully—and crawled into bed. The sound of voices drifted through the walls, and as she lay awake on her thin pillow, staring through the darkness at the shadowed ceiling, she thought she heard the word July.

  Possibly she fell asleep then, because she next became aware of Pierre banging open the door of their bedroom, reeking of cigarettes and brandy, humming something in his flat, tuneless way. He switched on the lamp carelessly and she opened her eyes a millimeter or two to watch him strip his clothes away, toss everything on the floor, piece by piece, necktie and collar and shirt and trousers, and clatter open a drawer for a pair of pajamas. She shut her eyes again and felt the sway of the mattress, the groan of springs as he settled in beside her.

  “Daisy?” he said. “You’re awake?”

  She made a small noise that might mean anything. His hand found her hip and turned her over.

  “Pierre, I’m so tired,” she said.

  To her surprise, he laughed and withdrew his hand, rolled on his back and switched off the lamp. “So am I, my dear. Very well. Let’s go to sleep.”

  She stared at the faint gray outline of his nose. In the darkness, she couldn’t quite tell for certain, but he seemed to be smiling.

  “What’s going on?” she whispered. “What does this mean?”

  He laughed again, and it was not the way he had laughed at her earlier, like the edge of a saw. This laugh was soft and happy, like the laugh she remembered from their honeymoon.

  “It means we are moving up in the world at last, my little wife,” Pierre said. “It means, for one thing, we will soon be moving out of this stupid dump to the kind of apartment even your grandmother will envy.”<
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  Chapter Seven

  Babs

  The Hôtel Ritz

  Paris, France

  April 1964

  It was far from a dump, but it wasn’t Langford Hall, either. There were no drafts, or the sound of old, aching floors and walls gasping throughout the night. No sound of wind blowing down chimneys, and no windows rattling like ghostly visitors. No scratchy bed linens that had been left on the line in a rainstorm by Mrs. Finch rubbing against my skin. And no need for socks on my feet to keep out the chill as I slept. No, the Paris Ritz wasn’t anything like home.

  Instead, plush carpeting swallowed all sound, and when I flipped a switch, the light was guaranteed to turn on without a flicker or pop. The pipes in the bathroom didn’t groan and rumble, and water was dispensed into the basin via a gold swan. I found I rather missed the gurgles, but as I sat in the heated water of the bath that was actually hot and remained so, I wondered if I missed it all because it was home, or because I didn’t belong at a place such as the Paris Ritz.

  By the time I’d bathed—making sure not to use more than one towel and face cloth despite the veritable pile of them heaped on the heated towel rack—and dressed, I’d confirmed my decision from the previous day to go back to England. Sitting at the desk and using the provided Ritz stationery, I wrote a note to Mr. Bowdoin explaining how I’d made a mistake and would not be joining him for a rendezvous or anything else that evening, and then another to Miss Dubose thanking her for her kindness, but letting her know that I’d be on my way home to England by the time she received my note.

  I packed up my meager belongings and stowed them carefully in my valise. It had taken me a while to find it, tucked very far back in the large closet, itself hidden behind door panels that blended with the wall, as if the staff had hoped to hide it forever.

  I dressed in the same tweed traveling suit I’d worn the day before and stood facing the mirror for a full five minutes debating on whether or not to wear Diana’s scarf. In the end I knotted it at my chin, then left the room carrying my valise, pausing at the door briefly for one last glance at the tall ceilings, marble fireplace, and carved frescoes over the doors. Maybe if Kit had been with me, I would have seen it through the rose-tinted eyes of a woman in love. But now it looked only like a beautiful yet cold and sterile place to sleep.