‘Thank you,’ I murmured.
For a moment, she looked as if she wanted to stay and help tend to Claudine, but it was summer, and there were customers to serve. She patted Claudine’s arm and gave me a weak smile before fixing a smile on her face and taking an order from the next table.
I sipped my wine and watched the colour return to Claudine’s cheeks.
‘I owe you an apology, Solange.’
‘Not at all.’
‘I do.’ Her shaking hand stilled my protest. ‘And perhaps an explanation.’
‘Claudine, you don’t.’
She continued in a toneless voice, twisting her wedding ring around her finger.
‘My first husband was older than me, and worldly. He was kind at first, but as the years passed, no child came and his eyes began to wander. He left when I was twenty-five. For a little dancer. Seventeen years old and already carrying his child. I was devastated.
‘I met Christophe at a Christmas party in ’37. He was everything I wanted. Young, handsome, and so dashing in his officer’s uniform.’ Nervous fingers moved from the ring to the brandy glass, turning it in circles. ‘We married within months. Despite the scandal of my divorce, even my parents came. They loved him, but how could they not?’
‘In the days before the Phoney War, he travelled a lot. He had to, I understand that. But I was lonely, so lonely. There was another man, a childhood sweetheart. One night, only one night. I didn’t love him, Solange. You must believe that. But Christophe was always gone, and Gustave was so attentive. One stinking night.
‘Christophe found out. Of course he did. I don’t know how. And then the child began to show. It wasn’t Gustave’s – mathematically could not have been – but Christophe, he didn’t believe me. Couldn’t forgive me. Isn’t that funny, Solange?’ Her laugh was bitter. ‘My first husband left me because I couldn’t conceive his child, and my second husband left when I did.’
She pushed the brandy glass away, and for a few moments we watched the families stroll along the esplanade. A seagull shrieked and dived for some morsel. Just another day in Paradise.
Claudine wiped away a tear, smudging mascara almost to her hairline.
‘He was gone then,’ she whispered. ‘The lovely laughing man – my husband, my friend, my lover. He was gone and I was married to a stranger who hated me. It was almost a blessing when he left to defend the Maginot Line. He wasn’t there when my daughter, our daughter, came. And she came fast. My little Adèle wanted to be born, wanted to live. But there were problems, as if God knew I was an unfit mother.’ One hand reached out to me, palm up. It was a supplicating gesture, and I didn’t know what else to do but to grasp it in my own. I squeezed her fingers, as if I could share my strength with her.
‘She was born on the tenth day of May 1940. The same day Germany invaded Belgium. What a day to remember, isn’t it? But how lovely she was. She looked just like him. The same eyes, the same nose, the same smile. She even had hair, Solange. A full head of hair.’
My eyes prickled with tears.
‘She was with me exactly thirty-one hours. My Adèle. My beautiful Adèle.’ Her shoulders hunched as sobs tore through her. A couple, strolling by arm in arm, moved farther away, embarrassed by Claudine’s display. ‘I’ve lost her, and now I’ve lost Christophe. Again!’
There was nothing I could do, but be there for her. The other problems, the wolfram and the smuggling, they’d be there tomorrow. I held Claudine’s hand as she wept, wondering how much of her story to believe.
Chapter Twenty-two
I took Claudine home when it began to rain and flicked through her address book until I found Julian’s number. If anyone knew how to deal with her, he did. Neither noticed when I made my way home.
I slept badly again, rising before dawn. Paced until I couldn’t stand the sight of my villa and stuffed the blonde wig back into my bag. The roads were still wet from the overnight showers, although the sun was bright. I took the coast road, cycling towards São Julião da Barra near Carcavelos. It hadn’t taken long to discover that the old maritime fort was now a political prison. I wasn’t sure what I expected to see there – perhaps Christophe’s face at a window?
A camouflaged lorry turned off the main road and stopped at the gate. The canvas sides hid the cargo; it could have just as easily been provisions as another prisoner.
I left the bicycle on the side of the road and climbed down to the beach. Removed my espadrilles, dug my feet into the cool, damp sand and watched a fleet of fishing boats head out to sea.
The dark man appeared farther along the beach, his dog trotting beside him, carrying a dead branch. My heart skipped a beat.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ I muttered to myself. ‘You’ve seen the man once. Haven’t even spoken to him. And for all you know he is . . .’
This time they passed close enough for me to recognise him. I exhaled, feeling weak.
Verboten. This man was forbidden. In every sense of the word.
His dog steamed ahead, then doubled back, dropping the branch and running through the man’s legs, tripping him.
‘Knut! Come here, you idiot!’ he laughed, making the German words seem less harsh.
The dog barked once and complied. Accepted the gentle ruffling of his fur and nudged his master until the man picked up the branch and flung it down the beach. This time the dog dropped the branch at my feet. He barked once, tail wagging, and sat down. Heart racing, I held out my hand, allowing him to take my scent.
‘Nice doggy.’
He was having none of it, batting my hand towards the
