“It’s hard to believe it,” I said.
Though the first act of the German capitulation had been signed in Reims the day before, it wasn’t until we heard General De Gaulle and our neighbors in their cars, honking horns and flying a tricolore out the window, that it all sank in.
The war in Europe was over.
I threw on one of Mother’s scarves and drove us to her apartment in Paris. We flung the windows open wide expecting to hear a great celebration, but Paris was strangely quiet that afternoon considering the momentous news of the war’s end. All that changed, however, as the afternoon wore on, and young people streamed out into the parks and squares.
“Let’s go to the Place de la Concorde,” Paul said.
“Why don’t we just listen to the radio here?” I said. “The crowds may be too much for you.”
“I’m not a cripple, Caroline. Let me enjoy this.”
It was a lovely warm day, and we walked to the H?tel de Crillon at the Place de la Concorde. The lovely old building rose up from the square, the tricolore flying between the columns. It was all so surreal, to celebrate a free France, in the same square where King Louis XVI was guillotined.
As the shadows in the square grew long, the crowds thickened, and American military police wearing white helmets appeared here and there in the crowd, making sure people made it in and out of the American Embassy. We pushed through the crowds, the din of horns and singing all around us, waving white handkerchiefs above our heads, jostled and knocked as American army jeeps rode by. Young French men and women on the running boards popped champagne and threw flowers to the crowd.
As the sunlight waned, the lights came on at the Place de la Concorde for the first time since the war started. A cry from the crowd went up as the Fontaines de la Concorde were turned on once again and the fountains’ sculpted fish, held by bronze sea nymphs, sent great plumes of water into the night sky. People danced in the fountain fully clothed and soaked to the skin, mad with happiness that Paris was back.
Paul dropped his handkerchief, and a teenaged girl stooped to retrieve it for him.
“Here you go,” the girl said. “For a minute, I thought you were Paul Rodierre.”
“He is,” I said.
The girl danced off. “Very funny,” she called over her shoulder.
“She doesn’t know what she’s saying,” I said, but Paul knew the truth. He was barely a shell of his old self.
The wind seemed to go out of Paul’s sails after that, and we left after sunset to head home. As we drove toward Rouen, fireworks exploded over the Seine.
Once home, we changed into comfortable clothes, me in Paul’s soft trousers and an oversized shirt and Paul in his favorite ivory flannel pajamas. He seemed withdrawn and more tired than usual. He sat slumped at the kitchen table as I prepared dinner.
“Are you sad Rena’s not here?” I asked.
“It doesn’t help to bring it up. As it is, you can’t stop trying to be her.”
“I’m not,” I said.
“Cooking her recipes, dressing like her. Please don’t do that.”
“Because I wore a scarf today?” I asked.
“Just relax and let it be like it was in New York.”
“I’ve never been happier,” I said.
It was true. We had our differences, but since I stopped typing up medication and exercise schedules for Paul, our relationship strengthened every day. Plus, thanks to the Woolsey remedies, Paul was finally filling out.
“Then why don’t you move in? For good, I mean.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Paul. It would help to hear how you feel.”
“I’m crazy about you.”
“How so?”
Paul thought for a second. “You are a very hard worker. I respect this.”
“That’s it?”
“And I like the way you speak French with your American accent. Very sexy.”
“Certainly that isn’t—”
“And I never tire of being with you.”
He stood and came to me at the sink.
“I like your imperfections. Your lopsided smile.”
I touched my lips. Lopsided?
“And you don’t have a giant handbag you’re always pawing through.”
He took my hand. “I like that you wear my clothes.” He unbuttoned one button at my chest. “And your white skin. So smooth all over—I thought of that a lot while I was away.”
He wrapped his arms around my waist. “But my favorite thing about you is…”
“Well?”
“…the way you kiss. Sometimes I think I may not recover when I kiss you. It’s like going to another place.”
Paul pulled my shirt collar aside and kissed my neck.
I smiled. “Funny, there’s one word you never use.”
Paul stepped back. “Why do Americans have to have every detail spelled out? You say ‘I love you’ to the garbageman.”
“I believe the phrase was invented here.”
“If that’s all it takes, I love you. I can’t imagine a life without you. Now move your things in, your clothes, your books. Make the house ours.”
“You mean not go back to New York?” It was too wonderful to imagine, being with Paul for good.
“Yes. Make this your home. We can always visit New York. And your mother can move here. You already have the apartment.”
“I’ll miss the consulate, but Roger has Pia.”
“He certainly does.”
“Of course I’ll stay,” I said.
“Good then,” Paul said with a smile. It was like medicine to see that smile again.
Was it too late to have a baby together? I was over forty years old. We could always adopt. There was a file in my suitcase full of darling French babies who needed homes. We’d have a real family. Mother would be thrilled to have a wedding at last. Roger had wrangled her a visa, and she was on her way to Paris for a visit after all. I could tell her in person.
“Why not start tonight?” he said.
“I’ll go get my things.” Was this really happening? Did I have any silk stockings at Mother’s apartment?
“Don’t bring any makeup,” Paul said. “You are perfect as is.”
“Not even a lipstick?”
“Hurry. I’ll finish making dinner.”
“Please don’t, Paul,” I said. “Dr. Bedreaux says…”
Paul stood and walked to the counter. He scooped a few dusky new potatoes, the color of violets, from the bowl. Would it be too much for him to make a meal?.
“Don’t say another word, or I will change my mind,” he said.
I grabbed my purse. “Nietzsche said a diet predominantly of potatoes leads to the use of liquor.”
“Good. Bring a bottle of your mother’s wine. We’re celebrating.”
In the almost two-hour drive back to Paris, I made a mental list of what to pack. Capri pants. Silk stockings. My new lingerie. I would eventually need a proper French driver’s license.
At the apartment, I drew the shades, threw a suitcase together, and headed out. As I locked the door, the phone rang in the kitchen, and for once in my life, I ignored it. If it was Mother, I needed more time to tell her the whole story.
On the trip back I stopped at our favorite market and found one sorry-looking baguette, small, but a good omen. I stopped again to stoke the engine with wood and headed for Rouen, the car radio turned up, windows open, as Léo Marjane sang “Alone Tonight.”
I am alone tonight, with my dreams….
The papers all chastised the cabaret singer for having entertained the Nazis a little too enthusiastically during the occupation, but no song captured the war like that one. I sang along.
I am alone tonight, without your love….
It was wonderful not to be the one alone for once. Sad songs are not so sad when you have someone who loves you. I turned onto Paul’s street singing with abandon. Who cared what the neighbors thought?
I rounded the bend and saw a white ambulance parked at the curb outside Paul’s house, engine running.
Time stopped. Was it parked at the wrong house? I drove closer and saw a nurse standing outside the front door, a navy-blue cape over her white uniform.
My God. Paul.
The car barely stopped moving before I jumped from it.
I ran up the walk.
“Is Paul hurt?” I said, my breath coming in great gulps.
“Come quickly,” the nurse said as I followed her into the house.