‘Or shoot you.’
‘May I?’ he asked. He didn’t bother with the children or propriety. He took down my washtub for his laundry and began to pull off his things. The boots came first.
‘Jean-Guy, some papers,’ I said. ‘Drain the boots and set them near the fire. Marie … chérie, go upstairs and find the monsieur two towels. Two, you understand?’
She was learning her numbers, so this had to be emphasized and every opportunity taken. ‘You haven’t got lice or bedbugs, have you?’ I asked, only to see him shake his head.
The forage cap and tunic fell into the tub, Dmitry pulling off the thick woollen shirt until naked, he stood warming himself at the stove, the marble of his flesh hard with muscles, but chapped on the inner thighs and on the knees by the coarse heavy wool of the trousers. His bitte was uncircumcised and drooping, but loosely extended and long enough, oh, for sure, the curly flaxen hairs damp even there. ‘I’ll get the towels,’ I said.
‘Some cognac, too, madame.’ There were goose pimples all over him. The broad back, strong arms, and buttocks were those of Michelangelo. Jean-Guy was mesmerized by the sight of him. Me, I was embarrassed because Dmitry felt he could do this in front of me, and must have heard something of what had happened.
Wrapped in towels, he wolfed the soup, bread, and cheese I set before him, and gradually the children regained their normal shyness. It was always nice to have a little company.
‘Would you like more soup?’
‘It’s so good, madame, I can only say yes. A thick potage of vegetables, leftover rabbit stew, and chicken stock, the very essence of the marrow. You don’t waste anything, do you?’
Even this opportunity to talk? I wondered but didn’t reply. I filled his bowl, then decided to feed the children and myself a little early. Was I hungry? Was I eating for two? I guess I was.
Together we shared our meal. Food always helps at times like that. He asked about Janine, and were Jules and she getting on? From these and other things he said, I gathered that he’d been in the army for some time. ‘Janine will pull through, thank God. Jules … he hardly ever comes here.’
‘And the Vuittons?’ he asked, looking hungrily at the bread. I made such good bread in those days.
‘He’s with them, I guess.’
He gave a nod, me telling myself that he knew all about what had happened to me and asking how could this possibly be: by letter from Janine, or by unofficial visit to Paris? I decided that he’d come through Paris but had chosen not to tell me.
‘How are Michèle and Henri-Philippe?’ he asked.
‘Good, I think, but I didn’t see him.’
‘But you and Michèle spoke of him?’
‘Not really. No … no, as a matter of fact, we didn’t.’ But was he interested in Michèle, I wondered, or worried for Henri-Philippe’s sake? I simply couldn’t tell.
Dmitry had a way of buttering his bread that was foreign to me. He would cut a thick slice and lay it on the outstretched map of his left hand. He’d scoop lots of butter, half-melted by the heat of the kitchen, and make three or four passes over this map before probing for pockets of resistance around the crust.
Then he would pause to examine the slice as if not just grateful for the privilege of devouring it, but satisfied he’d covered every bit of the terrain before doing so.
He had strong teeth, good and straight, not chipped or stained, and absolutely white. ‘Michèle, madame. Your sister’s very worried about her and unable, as yet, to do anything about it.’
‘Did Nini send you here?’
‘Am I not allowed to stay?’
‘For how long?’ I asked.
‘Two days. When the uniform’s dry, I’ll leave.’
‘And go back to the front?’
‘If the invasion hasn’t started by then.’
He did a strange thing then-unexpected at least. Jean-Guy was sent to fetch a jar of plum jam from the storeroom. That, too, was spread over the map as if to hide the butter before he sprinkled a few droplets of cognac over everything and cut the map into four sectors.
Presenting each of us with one of them, he said, ‘Your sister is getting much better, madame, and sends her love. For myself, I was sorry to hear what had happened to you.’
We ate in silence. Marie got jam and butter all over her chin and tried her best to lick it off.
Wiping her face with the dishcloth, I nervously said, ‘Have your coffee while I see if I can find some things for you to wear.’
The washroom of the de St-Germains-my God, you had to have seen it in those days to have believed it. The room was just along the corridor on the other side of the staircase and facing on to the orchard. Gargantuan, it had slabbed grey marble on the floor, white brick tiles on the walls, and the bathtub of white alabaster that was nearly twelve centimetres thick. How had they carried it into the house?
Gold taps gave water, with a brass rack standing nearby for the towels. There were mirrors on the armoire doors, glass and stained glass, the life-size statue of a standing nude on a little pillar, the girl with one arm upraised, her right knee a little forward, the left breast thrown up. A peacock was clasped like a pillow in the right arm, against which the cheek was pressed, her eyes closed. A delightful thing in white marble. Art Nouveau, of course. How many times had the old man passed his hands across her bottom, the bidet waiting?
Now it is all gone. The tub smashed to pieces like the broken shell of a strangely shaped coconut whose meat, now dried, still clings.
There are little heaps of mirror glass beneath each of the splintered doors to what’s left of the armoire, and I’m seeing so many images in this room. Tommy in that tub, ripples on the surface and steam rising. Me kneeling over him, laughing, kissing …
Dmitry wafted bubbles. The suitcase was with him even there. He had asked for the loan of a razor; if possible, a toothbrush and a bar of soap. So what, exactly, was he carrying in that little suitcase, and why had he never let it out of his sight?
He spoke of the boredom of the troops, of their drunkenness, their depressing searches for female flesh in the bistros and cafés near the front, their absences without leave. Many times, he had heard the propaganda broadcasts of the Germans from across the no-man’s land that led to the fortifications of the Siegfried Line and fifty Panzer divisions. ‘Frenchmen, lay down your arms. This is a British war. We have no quarrel with you.’
I sat on the little stool we kept for such things, but there was no way I could avoid looking at him. The mirrors took care of that. We drank wine now. Red or white, what did it matter? He was a little drunk; me more than that because there was something about him I simply didn’t like. ‘Which side are you really on?’ I asked. It was stupid of me, I confess.
Dmitry filled the sponge and squeezed it over his head. ‘No one’s but my own.’
‘You know lots about wireless sets.’
‘Merely enough to get by.’
‘And the Action française, how much do you really know about them?’
‘Enough to keep my nose clean, madame, but if you’re thinking I’m interested in that little bauble of your husband’s and the Vuittons, forget it. I only want to survive what’s coming.’
‘So why the interest in the contents of my attic and the coach house?’
I had found him in both places.
The shoulders lifted, the sponge came up again. ‘Janine told me to take a look.’
Did she keep that suitcase for him in her room? I wondered, but told him not to leave a lot of water on the floor.