The Girl You Left Behind Read online

  'Desolee,' I said, but I had known this full well. Some mischievous part of me had wished to reduce him, if only briefly, to the status of support corps.

  I stood there as they gathered their coats and hats, some of them replacing chairs, with a vestige of gentlemanly behaviour, others careless, as if it were their right to treat any place as if it were their home. So this was it, I thought. We were to spend the rest of the war cooking for Germans.

  I wondered briefly if we should have cooked badly, taken less trouble. But Maman had always impressed on us that to cook poorly was a kind of sin in itself. And however immoral we had been, however traitorous, I knew that we would all remember the night of the roasted chicken. The thought that there might be more made me feel a little giddy.

  It was then that I realized he was looking at the painting.

  I was gripped by a sudden fear, remembering my sister's words. The painting did look subversive, its colours too bright in the faded little bar, the glowing girl wilful in her confidence. She looked, I saw now, almost as if she were mocking them.

  He kept staring at it. Behind him, his men had begun to leave, their voices loud and harsh, bouncing across the empty square. I shivered a little every time the door opened.

  'It looks so like you.'

  I was shocked that he could see it. I didn't want to agree. It implied a kind of intimacy, that he could see me in the girl. I swallowed. My knuckles were white where my hands pressed together.

  'Yes. Well, it was a long time ago.'

  'It's a little like ... Matisse.'

  I was so surprised by this that I spoke before I thought. 'Edouard studied under him, at the Academie Matisse in Paris.'

  'I know of it. Have you come across an artist called Hans Purrmann?' I must have started - I saw his gaze flick towards me. 'I am a great admirer of his work.'

  Hans Purrmann. The Academie Matisse. To hear these words from the mouth of a German Kommandant made me feel almost dizzy.

  I wanted him gone then. I didn't want him to mention those names. Those memories were mine, little gifts that I could bring out to comfort myself on the days when I felt overwhelmed by life as it was; I did not want my happiest days polluted by the casual observations of a German.

  'Herr Kommandant, I must clear up. If you will excuse me.' I began stacking plates, collecting the glasses. But he didn't move. I felt his eyes rest on the painting as if they rested on me.

  'It is a long time since I had any discussion about art.' He spoke as if to the painting. Finally he placed his hands behind his back, and turned away from it to me. 'We will see you tomorrow.'

  I couldn't look at him as he passed. 'Herr Kommandant,' I said, my hands full.

  'Good night, Madame.'

  When I finally made it upstairs, Helene was asleep face down on top of our coverlet, still wearing the clothes she had cooked in. I loosened her corset, took off her shoes and pulled the covers over her. Then I climbed into bed, my thoughts humming and spinning towards the dawn.

  4

  Paris, 1912

  'Mademoiselle!'

  I glanced up from the display of gloves, and closed the glass case over them, the sound swallowed by the huge atrium that made up La Femme Marche's central shopping area.

  'Mademoiselle! Here! Can you help me?'

  I would have noticed him even if he hadn't been shouting. He was tall and heavy set, with wavy hair that fell around his ears, at odds with the clipped styles of most of the gentlemen who came through our doors. His features were thick and generous, the kind my father would have dismissed as paysan. The man looked, I thought, like a cross between a Roman emperor and a Russian bear.

  As I walked over to him, he gestured towards the scarves. But his eyes remained on me. In fact, they stayed on me so long that I glanced behind me, concerned that Madame Bourdain, my supervisor, might have noticed. 'I need you to choose me a scarf,' he said.

  'What kind of scarf, Monsieur?'

  'A woman's scarf.'

  'May I ask her colouring? Or whether she prefers a particular fabric?'

  He was still staring. Madame Bourdain was busy serving a woman in a peacock-feather hat. If she had looked up from her position at the face creams, she would have noticed that my ears had turned pink. 'Whatever suits you,' he said, adding, 'She has your colouring.'

  I sorted carefully through the silk scarves, my skin growing ever warmer, and freed one of my favourites: a fine, feather-light length of fabric in a deep opalescent blue. 'This colour suits nearly everybody,' I said.

  'Yes ... yes. Hold it up,' he demanded. 'Against you. Here.' He gestured towards his collarbone. I glanced at Madame Bourdain. There were strict guidelines as to the level of familiarity for such exchanges, and I wasn't sure whether holding a scarf to my exposed neck fell within them. But the man was waiting. I hesitated, then brought it up to my cheek. He studied me for so long that the whole of the ground floor seemed to disappear.

  'That's the one. Beautiful. There!' he exclaimed, reaching into his coat for his wallet. 'You have made my purchase easy.'

  He grinned, and I found myself smiling back. Perhaps it was simply relief that he had stopped staring at me.

  'I'm not sure I -' I was folding the scarf in tissue paper, then ducked my head as my supervisor approached.

  'Your assistant has done sterling work, Madame,' he boomed. I glanced sideways at her, watching as she tried to reconcile this man's rather scruffy exterior with the command of language that usually came with extreme wealth. 'You should promote her. She has an eye!'

  'We try to ensure that our assistants always offer professional satisfaction, Monsieur,' she said smoothly. 'But we hope that the quality of our goods makes every purchase satisfactory. That will be two francs forty.'

  I handed him his parcel, then watched him make his way slowly across the packed floor of Paris's greatest department store. He sniffed the bottled scents, surveyed the brightly coloured hats, commented to those serving or even just passing. What would it be like to be married to such a man, I thought absently, someone for whom every moment apparently contained some sensory pleasure? But - I reminded myself - a man who also felt at liberty to stare at shop girls until they blushed. When he reached the great glass doors, he turned and looked directly at me. He lifted his hat for a full three seconds, then disappeared into the Paris morning.

  I had come to Paris in the summer of 1910, a year after the death of my mother and a month after my sister had married Jean-Michel Montpellier, a book-keeper from the neighbouring village. I had taken a job at La Femme Marche, Paris's largest department store, and had worked my way up from storeroom assistant to shop-floor assistant, lodging within the store's own large boarding house.

  I was content in Paris, once I had recovered from my initial loneliness, and earned enough money to wear shoes other than the clogs that marked me out as provincial. I loved the business of it, being there at eight forty-five a.m. as the doors opened and the fine Parisian women strolled in, their hats high, their waists painfully narrow, their faces framed by fur or feathers. I loved being free of the shadow my father's temper had cast over my whole childhood. The drunks and reprobates of the 9th arrondissement held no fears for me. And I loved the store: a vast, teeming cornucopia of beautiful things. Its scents and sights were intoxicating, its ever-changing stock bringing new and beautiful things from the four corners of the world: Italian shoes, English tweeds, Scottish cashmeres, Chinese silks, fashions from America and London. Downstairs, its new food halls offered chocolates from Switzerland, glistening smoked fish, robust, creamy cheeses. A day spent within La Femme Marche's bustling walls meant being privy to a daily glimpse of a wider, more exotic world.

  I had no wish to marry (I did not want to end up like my mother) and the thought of remaining where I was, like Madame Arteuil, the seamstress, or my supervisor, Madame Bourdain, suited me very well indeed.

  Two days later, I heard his voice again: 'Shop girl! Mademoiselle!'

  I was serving a youn
g woman with a pair of fine kid gloves. I nodded at him, and continued my careful wrapping of her purchase.

  But he didn't wait. 'I have urgent need of another scarf,' he announced. The woman took her gloves from me with an audible tut. If he heard he didn't show it. 'I thought something red. Something vibrant, fiery. What have you got?'

  I was a little annoyed. Madame Bourdain had impressed on me that this store was a little piece of paradise: the customer must always leave feeling they had found a haven of respite from the busy streets (if one that had elegantly stripped them of their money). I was afraid my lady customer might complain. She swept away with her chin raised.

  'No no no, not those,' he said, as I began sorting through my display. 'Those.' He pointed down, within the glass cabinet, to where the expensive ones lay. 'That one.'

  I brought out the scarf. The deep ruby red of fresh blood, it glowed against my pale hands, like a wound.

  He smiled to see it. 'Your neck, Mademoiselle. Lift your head a little. Yes. Like that.'

  I felt selfconscious holding up the scarf this time. I knew my supervisor was watching me. 'You have beautiful colouring,' he murmured, reaching into his pockets for the money as I swiftly removed the scarf and began wrapping it in tissue.

  'I'm sure your wife will be delighted with her gifts,' I said. My skin burned where his gaze had landed.

  He looked at me then, the skin around his eyes crinkling. 'Where are your family from, you with that skin? The north? Lille? Belgium?'

  I pretended I hadn't heard him. We were not allowed to discuss personal matters with customers, especially male customers.

  'You know my favourite meal? Moules mariniere with Normandy cream. Some onions. A little pastis. Mmm.' He pressed his lips to his fingers, and held up the parcel that I handed him. 'A bientot, Mademoiselle!'

  This time I dared not watch his progress through the store. But from the flush at the back of my neck, I knew he had stopped again to look at me. I felt briefly infuriated. In St Peronne, such behaviour would have been unthinkable. In Paris, some days, I felt as if I were walking the streets in my undergarments, given how Parisian men felt at liberty to stare.

  Two weeks before Bastille Day there was great excitement in the store; the chanteuse Mistinguett had entered the ground floor. Surrounded by a coterie of acolytes and assistants, she stood out with her dazzling smile and rose-covered headdress, as if she had been more brilliantly drawn than anyone else. She bought things without caring to examine them, pointing gaily at the displays and leaving assistants to gather items in her wake. We gazed at her from the sidelines as if she were an exotic bird, and we merely grey Parisian pigeons. I sold her two scarves: one of cream silk, the other a plush thing from dyed blue feathers. I could see it draped around her neck, and felt as if I had been dusted with a little of her glamour.

  For days afterwards I felt a little unbalanced, as if the excess of her beauty, her style, had made me aware of its lack in myself.

  Bear Man, meanwhile, came in three more times. Each time he bought a scarf, each time somehow ensuring that it was I who served him.

  'You have an admirer,' remarked Paulette (Perfumes).

  'Monsieur Lefevre? Be careful,' sniffed Loulou (Bags and Wallets). 'Marcel in the post room has seen him in Pigalle, chatting to street girls. Hmph. Talk of the devil.' She turned back to her counter.

  'Mademoiselle.'

  I flinched, and spun around.

  'I'm sorry.' He leaned over the counter, his big hands spanning the glass. 'I didn't mean to frighten you.'

  'I am far from frightened, Monsieur.'

  His brown eyes scanned my face with such intensity - he seemed to be having an internal conversation to which I could not be privy.

  'Would you like to look at some more scarves?'

  'Not today. I wanted ... to ask you something.'

  My hand went to my collar.

  'I would like to paint you.'

  'What?'

  'My name is Edouard Lefevre. I am an artist. I would very much like to paint you, if you could spare me an hour or two.'

  I thought he was teasing me. I glanced to where Loulou and Paulette were serving, wondering if they were listening. 'Why ... why would you want to paint me?'

  It was the first time I ever saw him look even mildly disconcerted. 'You really want me to answer that?'

  I had sounded, I realized, as if I were hoping for compliments.

  'Mademoiselle, there is nothing untoward in what I ask of you. You may bring a chaperone if you choose. I merely want ... Your face fascinates me. It remains in my mind long after I leave La Femme Marche. I wish to commit it to paper.'

  I fought the urge to touch my chin. My face? Fascinating? 'Will ... will your wife be there?'

  'I have no wife.' He reached into a pocket, and scribbled on a piece of paper. 'But I do have a lot of scarves.' He held it out to me, and I found myself glancing sideways, like a felon, before I accepted it.

  I didn't tell anybody. I wasn't even sure what I would have said. I put on my best gown and took it off again. Twice. I spent an unusual amount of time pinning my hair. I sat by my bedroom door for twenty minutes and recited all the reasons why I should not go.

  The landlady raised an eyebrow as I finally left. I had shed my good shoes and slipped my clogs back on to allay her suspicions. As I walked, I debated with myself.

  If your supervisors hear that you modelled for an artist, they will cast doubt on your morality. You could lose your job!

  He wants to paint me! Me, Sophie from St Peronne. The plain foil to Helene's beauty.

  Perhaps there is something cheap in my appearance that made him confident I could not refuse. He consorts with girls in Pigalle ...

  But what is there in my life other than work and sleep? Would it be so bad to allow myself this one experience?

  The address he had given me was two streets from the Pantheon. I walked along the narrow cobbled lane, paused at the doorway, checked the number and knocked. Nobody answered. From above I could hear music. The door was slightly ajar, so I pushed it open and went in. I made my way quietly up the narrow staircase until I reached a door. From behind it I could hear a gramophone, a woman singing of love and despair, a man singing over her, the rich, rasping bass unmistakably his. I stood for a moment, listening, smiling despite myself. I pushed open the door.

  A vast room was flooded with light. One wall was bare brick, another almost entirely of glass, its windows running shoulder to shoulder along its length. The first thing that struck me was the astonishing chaos. Canvases lay stacked against each wall; jars of congealing paintbrushes stood on every surface, fighting for space with boxes of charcoal and easels, with hardening blobs of glowing colour. There were canvas sheets, pencils, a ladder, plates of half-finished food. And everywhere the pervasive smell of turpentine, mixed with oil paint, echoes of tobacco and the vinegary whisper of old wine; dark green bottles stood in every corner, some stuffed with candles, others clearly the detritus of some celebration. A great pile of money lay on a wooden stool, the coins and notes in a chaotic heap. And there, in the centre of it all, walking slowly backwards and forwards with a jar of brushes, lost in thought, was Monsieur Lefevre, dressed in a smock and peasant trousers, as if he were a hundred miles from the centre of Paris.

  'Monsieur?'

  He blinked at me twice, as if trying to recall who I was, then put his jar of brushes slowly on a table beside him. 'It's you!'

  'Well. Yes.'

  'Marvellous!' He shook his head, as if he were still having trouble registering my presence. 'Marvellous. Come in, come in. Let me find you somewhere to sit.'

  He seemed bigger, his body clearly visible through the fine fabric of his shirt. I stood clutching my bag awkwardly as he began clearing piles of newspapers from an old chaise longue until there was a space.

  'Please, sit. Would you like a drink?'

  'Just some water, thank you.'

  I had not felt uncomfortable on the way there, despite th
e precariousness of my position. I hadn't minded the dinginess of the area, the strange studio. But now I felt slighted, and a little foolish, and this made me stiff and awkward. 'You were not expecting me, Monsieur.'

  'Forgive me. I simply didn't believe you would come. But I'm very glad you did. Very glad.' He stepped back and looked at me.

  I could feel his eyes running over my cheekbones, my neck, my hair. I sat before him as rigid as a starched collar. He gave off a slightly unwashed scent. It was not unpleasant, but almost overpowering in the circumstances.

  'Are you sure you wouldn't like a glass of wine? Something to relax you a little?'

  'No, thank you. I'd just like to get on. I ... I can only spare an hour.' Where had that come from? I think half of me already wanted to leave.

  He tried to position me, to get me to put down my bag, to lean a little against the arm of the chaise longue. But I couldn't. I felt humiliated without being able to say why. And as Monsieur Lefevre worked, glancing to and from his easel, barely speaking, it slowly dawned on me that I did not feel admired and important, as I had secretly thought I might, but as if he saw straight through me. I had, it seemed, become a thing, a subject, of no more significance than the green bottle or the apples in the still-life canvas by the door.

  It was evident that he didn't like it either. As the hour wore on, he seemed more and more dismayed, emitting little sounds of frustration. I sat as still as a statue, afraid that I was doing something wrong, but finally he said, 'Mademoiselle, let's finish. I'm not sure the charcoal gods are with me today.'

  I straightened with some relief, twisting my neck on my shoulders. 'May I see?'

  The girl in the picture was me, all right, but I winced. She appeared as lifeless as a porcelain doll. She bore an expression of grim fortitude and the stiff-backed primness of a maiden aunt. I tried not to show how crushed I felt. 'I suspect I am not the model you hoped for.'

  'No. It's not you, Mademoiselle.' He shrugged. 'I am ... I am frustrated with myself.'

  'I could come again on Sunday, if you liked.' I don't know why I said it. It wasn't as if I had enjoyed the experience.