I felt Charlotte’s eyes on me, peeping through her lace curtains. I thought for sure she’d have regrets after she sobered up. I was wrong. I looked at Papa. ‘I see.’
Papa put his arm around me, leading me into his wine bar. Across the way, I could see the Milice had wasted no time covering my painting with black paint and Milice propaganda posters. Two Vichy police patrolled it as if I had the nerve to come back. Passengers on their way out of the city paused to look at the black blotches, talking among themselves as if remembering the scene from yesterday.
The little old woman who sold daisies from tin buckets rolled her cart up to Papa’s wine bar. She flashed an intriguing smile as she peered through the window, adjusting her gloves at the wrists.
‘Sure has caused a commotion,’ Papa said, sitting down with a glass of dark red wine. ‘That painting. People talking about the Catchfly all day yesterday in my store… in the street. In the toilets at the brasserie.’
‘You don’t say?’
I watched the old woman walk around her cart and rearrange the simple mix of flowers she had for sale, petals drooping from the cold. She glanced up at me through the glass every so often while Papa breathed in the aroma of his wine, swirling it in his glass before taking a short sip and rolling it on his tongue.
‘Yes… quite the stir.’
‘Maybe there are others,’ I said as the old woman plucked a single daisy from her bundle and offered it to me from the other side of the glass. ‘Somewhere else in the city.’
Papa glanced at the ceiling as if pondering the idea. ‘Haven’t heard.’
I got up and went outside while Papa drank his wine.
‘For you, mademoiselle,’ she said, handing me the flower. I smiled, wondering why she’d give me a flower when I was the one who had always sought her out. ‘Your friend says—’ glancing at the wall where I had painted ‘—well done.’
‘My friend.’ I smiled. Marguerite. I took the flower, twirling it under my nose, taking a whiff. ‘Merci.’
She moved her cart down the road while I walked back into the wine bar. Papa didn’t even know I’d left, only giving a fleeting glance to the flower in my hand. We watched the miliciens point their guns at the painted stones, laughing, acting as though they were shooting at people.
‘Catchfly,’ Papa said between sips. ‘It’s a damn weed.’
‘Drink your wine, Papa.’ I tapped the table near his glass.
Papa looked at me as he drank. ‘Gérard came in yesterday asking for you.’
I set the flower on the table. ‘Oh?’
‘He left for Paris. Emergency assignment. Might be gone till the spring. He was very distraught at having missed you, but his train was leaving. He asked me to buy you flowers in his name.’ Papa pointed to a wilted bouquet of flowers on the far shelf.
‘He left?’ My mouth hung open for a second. ‘Not back until the spring?’ I didn’t expect this.
Papa raised his eyebrows for his answer. Months had gone by keeping Papa in the dark about Gérard. I felt a push in my gut. Maybe it was the black paint on the wall across the street, or maybe I was just tired of living a lie. Either way, I felt compelled to be brutally frank, honest with him in a way I hadn’t been since I came home.
‘Papa, I’m sorry if this hurts, but Gérard’s not the man you think you betrothed me to all those months ago.’
Papa seemed surprised by my statement, the cornflower blue in his eyes sparkling like icicles. ‘He’s a fine man. He’s a soldier—saved troops with his own hands—Battle of Sedan!’
I shook my head. ‘First you said Gérard had saved a man, now whole troops? Papa, that French soldier you’re talking about died long ago.’
‘He’s prestigious. Secure.’
‘Now he’s just a man who’s doing bad things.’ My back got very straight and the words I had always wanted to say flew out of my mouth. ‘Collaborator! That’s what he is, Papa—arresting people left and right. He’ll beat a man for a promotion! How many children has he made orphans?’ I dug my palms into my eyes before pulling them away. ‘I’m glad he’s gone.’
Papa looked up, pausing, mouth pinched. ‘He’ll be back.’
We stared at each other across the table, his face similar to the way he looked at Mama just before they’d get into a fight, creased around the eyes.