Only one person there was not in a rush, standing close by the entrance, faintly illuminated by the light coming out of the open doorway. Julien stiffened. That turn of the head, set of the shoulders, that manner of standing. The patience of the way the woman let the rain run down her body rather than trying to find cover. He could see little, but he would have recognized her in any light or in any weather.
He ran down the stairs, forgetting his soaking shoe, not taking a coat or umbrella, and ran as quickly as he could across the street, bounding up the steps two at a time.
“Julia!” he called out.
She turned and smiled, and held out her arms to him. When he finally let her go he was soaked to the skin once more.
HE USED UP nearly a month’s allowance of coal to get her dry, and rather than talking, spent the first few hours they were together fussing like an old hen over her. Taking off her clothes and arranging them around the fire to dry, making hot water for her bath, sorting out an old dressing gown for her to wear, then running out again to the shops to find something—anything—to buy for her to eat. They ended up having a feast around the fire of boiled rice, tomatoes, a little bread, and some grapes. Not grand, perhaps, but in the circumstances, a triumph.
And eventually, when she was warm and dry and clean, they began to talk. The room was in near darkness, and even though it was no longer cold they huddled close together, touching all the time. He could not bear not to be touching her, constantly reassuring himself that she was truly there.
“Why on earth are you here? Are you mad?”
In the intervening year her hair had become even more flecked with gray; she had lost weight and had acquired the gaunt, furtive look of the persecuted and the hunted. Her fingers fiddled constantly, and he realized that the calm and poise that had once been so much a part of her had gone. The clothes now hissing by the fire were a size or so too big, and threadbare; Julien realized for the first time how artful her previous simplicity had been. Only her eyes remained the same.
She was drinking as well; her third glass of homemade brandy—given to him by a farmer at Roaix, made in the man’s own still—sat in front of her, already empty.
“I remembered how much you shouted at me for not coming to you last time I got into a mess,” she said. “And I didn’t want to risk that again. I hadn’t anticipated that you’d be out so late.” She had a faint, ironic smile on her face—which highlighted the lines growing around her mouth and in her cheeks. “On the other hand, if you mean what am I doing in France, it’s a long story. But basically I discovered that going to America and being let into America are different things.”
“So where have you been for the last year?”
“On a boat, and in various ports. I seem to have spent months in waiting rooms, waiting to plead my case. Which was listened to sympathetically until a decision had to be made. Then it was short and simple. No. I was in Havana, much of the time. Nice place. The boat docked there and the American authorities intervened. They were determined to stop us getting to the United States. Quite simple really: the politicians have promised that all refugees who ask for asylum in America will be given it, so they stop as many people as possible from getting close enough to pop the question.”
She poured some more brandy. “Then back to Lisbon, and was thrown out of there, then into Spain, which was also too dangerous. So I thought that if I was going to be arrested, I would like it to happen at home. I missed you,” she concluded simply.
“Being arrested will happen very soon,” Julien said. “Nearly all Jews have been already.”
She smiled, reached into her handbag, and tossed an identity card at him.
“Where did you get this?”
“Another one of my artistic creations. I forged my way out of the country, I forged my way back in again. I find I have quite a skill at these things. Identity cards are quite easy. I have a friend in Lisbon who is an artist, and he let me use his press. I’m quite proud of it.”
“Madame Juliette de Valois?” he queried with a smile on his face. “Unnecessarily grand, isn’t it?”
“Someone I knew when I was young. She died of tuberculosis when she was eight. Her father was a member of the Action Française and a great anti-Semite. It made me smile when I thought of becoming her. So, if necessary I can call on a birth certificate, you see. I also made myself a passport, showing I have been in Vietnam for the past eight years, hence no records of me in France. Residence permits for Hanoi, entry visa for Lisbon, and from then on everything is stamped and sealed quite legitimately. She had no siblings, her parents are dead. Very hard to prove I am not her. My only concern is that all these papers are too much in order.”
“What about the death certificate?”
“She died in Saint Quentin, and the town hall was destroyed in the last war. I mean, she’s perfect, don’t you think? On the other hand, I am penniless, homeless, with only one change of clothes, nowhere to live, and have given away any possible source of income with my old identity. I can hardly sell paintings. Not that anyone would want to buy them, I imagine.”
“And I am not the only person in Avignon who could recognize you.”
“No. I wasn’t sure it was the best idea. But—here I am, well fed, warm, and unmolested. Besides, when I look in the mirror I scarcely recognize myself. I’m surprised you did. It must be love. But I suppose I must go somewhere else.”
“You will go to Roaix. You’ll be safe there. And I will be able to keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t get into any more trouble. As for the question of money . . .”
“Ah, yes.”
“Do you have any at all?”
“No,” she said in a curiously light way, as if acknowledging the irony of it all. “God only knows what I would have done if I hadn’t found you. It’s a strange feeling, being penniless. I suppose I should feel liberated from the material things of this world. In fact, it’s very annoying. I do not like poverty. I do not see its appeal.”
“I can let you have a little. But I don’t earn much and my father’s assets are largely useless and you can’t sell anything anymore. So I am also without much in the way of resources.”
“Come and live with me, then,” she said lightly. “We can starve together and lead a life of Rousseauian simplicity. You can shoot rabbits, I will cook them for you. You can sit and read in the evening while I darn your socks.”
“You can’t darn socks, can you?”
There was just enough of a hint of suppressed desire for Julia to burst out laughing. Everybody in France, probably, had holes in their socks. It was one of the small humiliations of subjection.
“No,” she said with a giggle. “I have never darned a sock in my life. But it can’t be so difficult, can it?”
“And I know you can’t cook.”
“Julien, are you refusing me?”
And now he laughed. He felt the life surging back through him, like a house being occupied after a long absence.
“Officially, I suppose, you’re not even married anymore.”
“No. An odd situation to be in, I must say. But I can live with it.”
“So marry me then. Now you have the chance.”
The good humor and merriment were suspended the moment the words came out of his mouth. She put down her glass, then gazed at him carefully. “You’re not even saying this because you feel sorry for me, are you?”
“You know perfectly well I’m not.”
“That’s good. I would have hated that.”
“Well?”
“I will, kind sir. I will marry you,” she said with a faint smile. “And do so with the greatest pleasure. But properly. Not under a pseudonym. When I can marry you as me, then I will do so.”