Nightingale (15 page)

Yves drew a deep breath. “Thank you for letting him stay the night. He’s just—”

Maurice lifted a hand. “The less I know, the better. I don’t want to slip up when I talk to somebody. You know that it’s dangerous.”

“It’s too late now.”

“In what way?”

“In every way that’s important. He . . . I’m afraid it’s quite serious.”

Maurice paused, then put the cup back down on the table and uncrossed his legs. “With an enemy?”

“No shots were fired last night.” Yves swallowed. “Unless you’d labor the metaphor, that is.”

Maurice tilted his head. “You are making everything as hard as you possibly can for yourself, aren’t you? Falling for the wrong man, making powerful enemies, and then tying yourself in knots over it all? It looks like you’re actually enjoying it.”

“I’m not.” Yves looked down at his folded hands. “I wouldn’t have encouraged Heinrich if it had been my idea. And I definitely wouldn’t lead him on if I had a choice.”

“But you don’t.” Maurice gave a deep sigh, weary enough that Yves wouldn’t have been surprised if Maurice had excused himself and retired back to bed. “Well, now that you’re done, let’s go out. I could rather use a change of scenery, and I’m starving.”

* * *

Going out on Maurice’s terms meant taking a sumptuous, very late lunch that fortified them both for the show ahead. In this case, he took Yves to a restaurant frequented by their type—artists, show people, dancers, and those who served or admired them. Since many performers appeared much later and often somewhat bedraggled from the night before, the restaurant was fairly quiet when they arrived.

A man gesticulated for them to come over, and Yves recognized him as Jean-Michel, one of the professional songwriters who’d made a name for himself penning some of the biggest hits of stars like Mistinguett and Chevalier. Yves glanced accusingly at Maurice, but Maurice waved him off in good humor.

After they’d ordered drinks and food, the real purpose for the meeting emerged: Maurice was commissioning Jean-Michel to write a revue for the Palace, with hours of program and, judging from sketches Jean-Michel brought from his partner—a designer—elaborate costumes. The more Yves listened, the clearer it became just how expensive the show would be, and yet, in the eyes of the conqueror, it would appear completely harmless. The story was that of a poor boy made good, falling in love and chasing his beloved through a series of set pieces, and beyond that, not very much.

While Maurice studied the sketches, Jean-Michel looked hopefully at Yves. “Are you excited about the lead?”

Maurice lowered a sheet of paper he’d closely examined. “He will be, once I offer it to him.”

Yves took a deep breath. This would pay many thousands of francs. Always one for big dreams, Maurice was never stingy about paying for the talent he wanted. “Can I think about it?”

“We’ve had this conversation before. You’re ready. Your fans will want you to. How long are you going to try to hide away?”

Jean-Michel smiled. “A voice like that should rule the world.”

“Well, hard to imagine it could do a worse job of it.” Maurice fixed Yves with a stare that only looked playful to outsiders. “Considering how little that talent likes ruling in the first place.”

“All right.” Yves shrugged. “I’ve survived so far; I’ll survive this show.”

“Marvelous.” Jean-Michel beamed. “Leave this to me. I’ll tailor those songs to suit your voice in ways that nobody will ever be able to sing them the same way you did. To be honest, what I have I couldn’t imagine anybody else singing. This is so exciting!”

“And here comes the champagne.” Maurice waved the waiter over. “Maybe if we get him drunk enough, Yves will actually celebrate the biggest move in his career.”

Unless it meant falling off the stage tonight, Yves thought, but as so often, Maurice’s humor proved irresistible. This would give him a level of security, a steady flow of money, and it was the exact kind of show he’d grown up seeing with his mother and sister. He’d admired everything, from the blinding lights to the graceful dancers, the glamour of the costumes to the power of the music that swept the audience along. Most of all, he’d admired the ability of the stars to make reality vanish for a few hours, creating a world where charm, wit, and words were the most powerful weapons available.

Thanks to Madeleine, he’d grown up with the firm belief that no power overcame that of an artist. It had taken war to shake that out of him. What Maurice and Jean-Michel offered was nothing less than to open a door back into that fantasy.

Chapter 21

With the deal sealed, Yves had an excuse to spend much more time at Maurice’s than in his own flat, despite Heinrich having informed him that his windows were repaired, and he’d also arranged a delivery of coal so neither Yves nor his neighbors had to worry about heating. According to Heinrich, it was merely to make sure he didn’t lose his voice to the cold, but of course, it also kept Heinrich warm when he visited.

Yves’s current engagement at the Palace had run its course, and he spent his days rehearsing for the new show and taking additional dance lessons. A few times a week, he still went onstage here and there to try out the new songs he’d written and workshop a few comedy numbers. He didn’t need the money; Maurice had advanced him for the show, and he’d saved up in the previous months, too aware how many performers couldn’t keep themselves in relative comfort when the work dried up.

After two and a half uneasy years under German control, things were starting to feel a bit more normal, like Paris had settled into her new circumstances. Yves met Heinrich maybe once a week, sometimes for a formal dinner with other Germans or mixed company from the military and the embassy; sometimes it was for a concert or an art exhibition.

Often, afterward, Heinrich would come upstairs for an hour or two, opening the second part of the evening with friendly, encouraging conversation. Rarely, if ever, did he talk about his work or duties, and Yves preferred it that way. Powerful as Heinrich was, knowing what he worked on carried so many dangers—including that of despising the man. They then undressed and went to bed, where, invariably, pleasant beginnings turned into something that Yves bore without much enthusiasm.

He tried to change it, tried to avoid that act that left him feeling hollow and powerless, and replace it with the way Maurice preferred to pleasure and be pleasured. Sometimes he succeeded, making Heinrich push only into his mouth until he spent there.

He wasn’t surprised or even disappointed when Heinrich offered him a handkerchief after that first time and shook his head in regret. “I cannot do that.” Which was as much as Heinrich would ever speak about lovemaking.

Despite their failings in the bedroom, Yves still enjoyed Heinrich’s company. The German certainly approved of Yves’s dedication to learning his language, and Heinrich would lend him books from his own library, which Yves, armed with a dictionary and a book on grammar, would decipher like coded enemy transmissions in between his other pursuits.

One of which was Falk, who sometimes came to Maurice’s villa after duty. Thankfully, he understood that they couldn’t be seen too much in public. Maybe he knew about Heinrich, or maybe he simply didn’t question why they only ever met at Maurice’s place, though Yves didn’t take him for that naïve.

Still, meeting him there was entirely deniable. Jean-Michel and his partner had moved into the villa as well, and Yves suspected they were both sharing Maurice’s bed at times. They both were delightful company in any case, and the evenings when Falk didn’t show up they spent planning the show and exchanging tales. Jean-Michel’s partner, Thierry, had worked in Hollywood in the late twenties and most of the thirties, and knew of all the scandals that the studios had covered up. He and Maurice entered a drawn-out war of innuendo and implication, individual battles fought every evening.

Sometimes, Jean-Michel would sit down at Maurice’s Steinway and play a song he’d been working on. And sometimes, Yves would sing. This kind of singing was different from a performance, of course; it was interrupted with advice or one of them stopping to make notes. Even so, Yves noticed a strange light in Maurice’s eyes, and he knew that they had something here, something beautiful and amazing. This felt right. It felt like a revelation, a true breakthrough, and they boasted about a success they all knew was in the air. The show would drop on Paris like a bombshell.

One of those evenings, Yves claimed the piano and played the song he’d been working on that morning after Falk had stayed the first time. It was catchy, hopeful, flirtatious, and he’d called it
Little Kisses
, recalling that first flush of love and pleasure, stolen kisses and glances. Maurice applauded, and so did Thierry, but Jean-Michel’s features sharpened in that way that betrayed he’d been hit by inspiration, a common occurrence, especially after a glass or two of red.

He set down his wine glass and came over to the piano. “Can I have a go at this?”

Yves stood and offered him the chair.

Jean-Michel launched into a version of the song, stopped halfway, then started at the beginning, changing and adjusting as he went. And something happened. It was still entirely Yves’s song, yet Jean-Michel was shifting it, playing with the speed and emphasis. Yves scrambled for some paper to capture the changes.

“Like it?” Jean-Michel asked and took his fine hands off the keys.

“I prefer it.”

And just then, that easily, with that same alchemy, Yves’s regard for Jean-Michel changed. They sat down together on one side of the room and started reworking
Little Kisses
, ideas coming so quickly they laughed at trying to capture them before they were superseded by other, better ones. It was well past midnight when they had to admit that they had either run out of inspiration, or the song was as good as it was going to get. Glowing with owner’s pride, Maurice offered them glasses of his favorite port before they all retired to bed.

The next morning, they went to the Palace to rehearse until lunch, when Heinrich appeared, standing out in his uniform among the workers and personnel and musicians.

After finishing his song, Yves stepped over to Jean-Michel. “I have a guest for lunch.” He nodded toward Heinrich, who gave the briefest of nods in acknowledgement. This in itself was strange; Heinrich was normally keen to join in when it came to the company of artists, but maybe he was eager to get going.

“That’s fine. Enjoy your meal.” Jean-Michel gesticulated for the chorus dancers to return to the stage.

Yves walked over to Heinrich. “Good to see you, Oberst.”

Heinrich drew a deep breath. “A sight for sore eyes. And soothing for sore ears.”

Yves chuckled. “I’ll have to go get changed if you are to take me to lunch.”

Heinrich looked around, and the way he did—examining, taking stock of things—made Yves uneasy. He couldn’t imagine what it felt like, being a German in Paris. While most seemed genuinely unaware of how the French refused to acknowledge them more than necessary, and that entertainers and whores were happy to take their money mostly out of the need to keep coal in the oven and food on the table, some seemed skittish.

Terror attacks would have been more frequent if not for the many hostages the German authorities threatened to execute, but they were still common enough to haunt a man as perceptive as Heinrich. The man wasn’t a boor, and he spoke French well enough to hear the anger and humiliation underlying almost everything—especially as the shops became emptier and the shortages more dire. Even though this didn’t really have an impact on the Germans, who continued to enjoy life in Paris. For the right price and in the right place, goods that had vanished from shops months ago were still plentiful. Regardless that a bottle of champagne might cost more than a worker made in an entire month, champagne was still being drunk, and would always be drunk in Paris.

“I wanted to speak to you for a moment.”

“Of course.” Yves led him past the stage to his dressing room, closing the door behind them.

Heinrich drew a deep breath that seemed heavy and labored, as if his shoulders had turned to lead.

“Bad news?” Yves lifted a hand and stepped closer.

Heinrich took his hand in both of his. His fingers were clammy. “You’ll likely hear it soon, regardless.”

“What is it?”

“Field Marshal Paulus has surrendered what’s left of his sixth Army at Stalingrad.” Heinrich pressed his lips together. “I just heard the news through the wire.”

For the first time since Yves had known him, Heinrich looked shaken. Yves drew closer and placed his arm around the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t so much sorry for the Germans, but he didn’t like seeing Heinrich like this. He must have friends or comrades in that army, maybe family.

Heinrich nodded silently.

“It had been going badly for a while, I heard.”

That had been hard to ignore. The BBC broadcasts reveled in every setback and loss of the Axis and talked up the successes and gains of the Allies. That news spread through Paris in an instant, despite the mandatory death sentence for
listening to “enemy propaganda.”

Yves had forced himself long ago to not believe even half of it, negative or positive. Paris was its own little world. It often seemed incomprehensible there should be an outside at all, where hundreds of thousands of men were fighting. But it wasn’t just Paris that felt isolated—sometimes even Maurice’s villa and his own circle struck him as a different world; rationing didn’t touch any of them, for one. And while his neighbors queued for hours in the morning for bread and kept rabbits and pigeons for food on their balconies, Yves didn’t even have to worry about tobacco or coffee or the abysmal
ersatz
versions of both.

Heinrich shook his head, possibly unable to believe the news himself. “This is the first time in history that a German Field Marshal surrenders. The pressure on Paulus must have been tremendous. He petitioned to be allowed to surrender, but Hitler wasn’t having any of that kind of talk.”

“Hopeless, then?”

“I don’t know, Yves. It was inevitable. When the Russians took the last two airfields, Göring could no longer . . . But these are technicalities. We will need to make contingency plans. That is the trouble with war on this scale. Few men can plan for defeat. If we’re allowed to make such plans.”

“I know very little of war. Beyond what I saw.” And that had been enough by far.

“May God give that is the last you’ll ever see of it, too.” Heinrich gently took Yves’s arm off his shoulder. “It seems in poor taste to go out on a day like this.”

“Of course.” Yves nodded. “I’ll just eat something with the crew.”

Heinrich glanced at his watch. “What was that song you were singing? When I came in? Is it new?”

“It’s . . . yes.” Just how he’d received the inspiration for it returned in a wave of embarrassment. “I’ve been writing new songs with Jean-Michel.”

Heinrich’s lips twitched. “Who is he?”

“He’s been working with big stars for almost fifteen years.” He found himself tempted to explain that there was no risk from Jean-Michel; he had a partner and seemed to have a much greater interest in Yves’s technique and voice than his body. Or maybe he didn’t flirt because he didn’t want to ruin their professional relationship. But if he explained this to Heinrich, would it just sound like he was trying to cover up something? And exposing a fellow Frenchman—even in such a minor manner—struck him as wrong. “He’s been looking to work with me for a while.”

“I believe you have something there. It’s a striking song. Beautiful.”

Yves smiled. “Thank you. I hope people will love it.”

“No doubt. Also, I was going to ask you—there will be a dinner at the German embassy. Some people have been curious about you, and I think it would be a good idea to sing there. The size of the fee is no problem. The ambassador is nothing if not generous.”

Yves swallowed. “What is it for?”

“It’s his birthday.” Heinrich paused meaningfully. “Nothing political.”

As if any gathering in the German embassy would be anything less than political. “I’ll have to talk to Maurice about it.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine with it.” Heinrich lifted his eyebrows. “It’s certainly more convenient for you than the ambassador’s place in Chantilly. The dinner at the embassy will be a comparatively low-key affair.”

Something like stage fright rose in Yves’s throat, and he hadn’t even agreed to do it yet. “As long as it’s not political.”

“No. Many people in the embassy love the French.”

Well, that, and the ambassador’s powers reached so far that declining the invitation could have all kinds of ramifications.

“Besides,” Heinrich looked around. “It will make you known to those poor souls who do not frequent the Palace to hear you sing. It could be very useful for you. Let alone the substantial fee. You don’t seem to care a great deal about money, but it’s not something to be disregarded.”

“It’s not that. I’ll sing. I’ll talk to Maurice, but you’re right, he likely won’t object.” The ambassador’s continued goodwill was too important—Maurice would bend over backward to please him. And was it so different from pleasing powerful French authorities? What if Maréchal Pétain had summoned Yves to Vichy to sing?

And did he really need to concern himself with this? He was a singer. Singing was his calling, and his way to make a living. He didn’t prefer one audience over the other; he already sang to Germans, and there would be French guests as well. This wasn’t his choice, money or not. He couldn’t decline.

“It’s settled, then.” Heinrich put his hat back on and half-turned to the door. “I’ll see you in the evening, if that’s convenient.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be home.” He forced a smile. He resented Heinrich for simply changing his plans, forcing him to return to his flat rather than stay in the companionship and comfort of Maurice’s villa. Increasingly, Heinrich felt like a burden, and this too often in a literal sense. He enjoyed his company and the discussions they had, but wished they’d left it at that. But for the life of him, he couldn’t find the words to tell Heinrich.