Seventy-five thousand francs, Christian thought admiringly, as he helped Brandt unload the bread, the hams, the cheese, the Calvados. This man cannot be defeated by anything! He has friends and commercial acquaintances all over the world, ready to spring to his assistance at any moment.
The man in the hat came back with two canvas sacks. Christian and Brandt stowed their belongings into them. The Frenchman did not offer to help, but stood outside the shine of the one small light, obscure, watching, expressionless. When the packing was finished, the Frenchman led the way down a half-flight of steps and unlocked a door. 'Au revoir, Monsieur Brandt,' he said, his voice flat. 'Enjoy yourself in Paris.' There was a subtle overtone of warning and mockery in the Frenchman's voice. Christian would have liked to seize him and drag him under a light to get a good look at him. But as he hesitated, Brandt pulled nervously at his arm. He allowed himself to be guided into the street. The door closed behind them, and he heard the quiet clicking of the lock.
'This way,' Brandt said, and started off, the sack of loot over his shoulder. 'We haven't far to go.' Christian followed him down the dark street. Later on, he decided, he would question Brandt about the Frenchman and what he would be likely to do with the little car. But he was too tired now, and Brandt was hurrying ahead of him, walking swiftly and silently towards his girl's house.
Two minutes later Brandt stopped at the doorway of a three-storey house. Brandt rang the bell. They had not passed anyone.
It was a long time before the door opened, and then only a crack. Brandt whispered into the crack and Christian heard an old woman's voice, at first querulous, then warm and welcoming as Brandt established his identity. There was the small rattling of a chain and the door opened wide. Christian followed Brandt up the steps, past the muffled figure of the concierge. Brandt, Christian thought, the man who knows precisely on which doors to knock, and what to say to get them open. Someone pushed a button and the lights on the stairway went up. Christian saw that it was quite a respectable building, with marble steps, clean, bourgeois.
The lights went out after twenty seconds. They climbed in darkness. Christian's Schmeisser, slung on his shoulder, banged against the wall with an iron sound. 'Quiet!' Brandt whispered harshly. 'Be careful.' He pushed the button on the next landing and the lights went on for another twenty seconds, in the thrifty French style.
They climbed to the top floor and Brandt knocked gently on a door. This door opened quickly, almost as though whoever lived in the apartment had been waiting eagerly for the signal. A beam of light flooded into the hallway, and Christian saw the figure of a woman in a long robe. Then the woman threw herself into Brandt's arms. She began to sob, brokenly, saying, 'You're here, oh, cheri, you're here… you're here.'
Christian stood awkwardly against the wall, holding on to the butt of his gun, watching the two people embracing. It was a domestic, husband-and-wife embrace, more relief than passion, plain, unbeautiful, tearful, touching, profoundly private, and Christian felt embarrassed.
Finally, half-sobbing, half-laughing, Simone broke away, pushing back her straight, long hair with one hand, and with the other still clutching Brandt's arm, as though to reassure herself that he was real and to make certain that he would not vanish in the next minute.
'Now,' she said, and Christian remembered her light, soft voice very well, 'now, we have time to be polite.' She turned to Christian.
'You remember Diestl, don't you?' Brandt said.
'Of course, of course.' She put out her hand impulsively. Christian shook it. 'I am so glad to see you. We have talked about you so often… Come in, come in… You can't stand out in the hall all night.'
They stepped into the apartment and Simone locked the door behind them, the sound home-like and secure. Brandt and Christian followed her into the living-room. Standing before the drawn curtains in front of a window was a woman in a quilted robe, her face in shadow, outside the light of the single lamp on the table near the couch.
'Put your things down, oh, you'll want to wash, oh, you must be starving,' Simone was saying in a babble of wifely consideration. 'We have some wine, we must open a bottle of wine to celebrate… Oh, Francoise, see who's come, isn't it wonderful?'
Francoise, Christian remembered, the German-hater, that's who it is. He watched Francoise warily as she came out from her place near the window and shook hands with Brandt.
'I am so glad to see you,' Francoise said.
She was even prettier than Christian remembered, a tall woman, with chestnut hair and a long, fine nose over a controlled mouth. She turned to Christian, smiling and extending her hand.
'Welcome, Sergeant Diestl,' Francoise said. She pressed his hand warmly.
'Oh,' said Christian carefully, 'you remember me.'
'Of course,' said Francoise, staring directly at him. 'I have thought of you again and again.'
Greenish, hidden eyes, Christian thought, what is she smiling at, what does she mean by saying she thought of me again and again?
'Francoise came to live with me last month, cheri' Simone said to Brandt. 'Her apartment was requisitioned. Your Army.' She made a charming little face at Brandt, who laughed and kissed her. Her hands lingered for a moment on his shoulders before she pulled away. Christian noticed that she looked much older. She was still small and trim, and there were anxious wrinkles around her eyes and her skin looked dry and lifeless.
'Do you expect to stay long?' Francoise asked.
There was a moment of hesitation. Then Christian said, stolidly, 'Our plans are not definite at the moment, we…'
He heard Brandt laughing and stopped. The laughter was high, near hysteria, a combination of relief and amusement.
'Christian,' Brandt said, 'stop being so damned correct. We plan to stay until the end of the war.'
Then Simone broke down. She sat on the edge of the couch and Brandt had to comfort her. Christian caught Francoise's eye for a flicker and observed what he thought was cool amusement there, before Francoise politely turned away and strolled back to her window.
'Go,' Simone was saying. 'This is ridiculous. I don't know why I'm crying. Ridiculous. I am getting like my mother, cry because she's happy, cry because she's sad, cry because it's sunny, cry because it's beginning to rain. Go. Go in and tidy up, and when you come back, I shall be as sensible as you can imagine, and I'll have a beautiful supper all ready for you. Go. Don't look at me with my eyes like this. Go ahead.'
Brandt was grinning, a foolish, homecoming, childish grin, incongruous on his thin, lined, intelligent face, now grimed with the dust of the long trip from Normandy.
'Come on, Christian,' said Brandt, 'let's get the dirt off our faces.'
Together they went into the bathroom. Francoise, Christian noticed, did not look at them as they left the room.
In the bathroom, with the water running (all cold because of the lack of fuel), Brandt talked, while Christian arranged his dark hair, wet with water, with someone's comb. 'There is something about that woman,' Brandt was saying, 'something I have never found in anyone else. I… I accept everything about her. It's funny, with other women, I was too critical. They were too thin, they were too vain, they were a little silly…
Two, three weeks, and I couldn't stand them any more. But with Simone… I know she is a little sentimental, I know she's getting older, there are wrinkles… I love it. She is not smart. I love it. She has a tendency to weep. I love it.' Then he spoke very seriously. 'It is the one good thing I have got out of the war.' Then, as though ashamed at having talked so frankly, he turned the water on full and vigorously rinsed the soap off his face and neck. He was stripped to the waist, and Christian noticed with amused pity how his friend's bones stuck out, like a small boy's, how frail his arms were. What a lover, Christian thought, what a soldier, how had he ever managed to survive four years of war?
Brandt stood up and towelled his face. 'Christian,' he said seriously, through the muffling cloth, 'you're going to stay with me, aren't you?'
'First,' Christian began, keeping his voice low, 'what about that other one?'
'Francoise?' Brandt waved his hand. 'Don't worry about her. There's plenty of room. You can sleep on the couch. Or…' He grinned. 'Come to an understanding with her. Then you wouldn't have to sleep on the couch.'
'I'm not worried about the overcrowding,' Christian said.
Brandt reached over to turn the water off. 'Leave it on,' Christian said sharply, holding Brandt's hand.
'What's the matter with you?' Brandt asked, puzzled.
'She doesn't like Germans, that one,' Christian said. 'She can make a lot of trouble.'
