THE BASHFUL COURTESAN

This is a READING of the 7th Chapter from my novella THE BASHFUL COURTESAN

I’ve included the written transcript in case someone wants to read along, or they are hearing impaired.

“I don’t know,” I said in a close whisper. “Are they Germans? Is it Eisner?” “No.” “No? Then who? Are they marketeers? What do they want? Will they kill us? What have you done, Yevgeny?”

“I haven’t done anything,” I insisted. And I hadn’t, I told myself—except to steal my painting.

The fact that she thought they might be Black Marketeers made me wonder just who they were, if they weren’t Resistance. Was it possible someone had discovered my secret? Suddenly, I wanted them to come through the door; the waiting was interminable. It had been a half hour since we first climbed into our hiding place, and I was starting to feel anxious. The pressure of not knowing what was going to happen sat on me as though it were a weight--both intolerable and inflexible. I can well understand what they mean when they say fear is a great motivator; I’d like to add that fear of the unknown is an even greater motivator. The terror of recognizing that someone’s willing to search you out for some strange, unknown reason, works on your mind to such an extent that you feel as if every breath you take is loud and rasping and will lead them directly to you. The hole was humid with the heat of our bodies--dank with the stench of our fear--and I closed my eyes as I heard each footstep outside the door. I marvelled at how Stanza had heard them walking up the stairs, and wondered if she could hear the ceaseless pounding of my heart as well; I wondered that they didn’t hear it. I was grateful for the warning she’d given, but she’s always been like that I have to remind myself--even to this day. Since her blindness, her other senses have somehow become more acute; she can smell frying onions from three blocks away. I’ve never understood how she says she can hear footsteps coming up the stairs while I hear nothing but the soft, sifting sigh, of the wind outside. She knows exactly which floor the person is on too, by the different pitch of creaks and groans each riser makes when being stepped on. I might not have understood it, but I was grateful for it all the same.

All at once there was a knock on the door. It was loud, insistent, with raised voices demanding I let them in. I gripped Stanza’s arm, telling her to stay quiet—not to make a sound no matter how frightened she became. Any sound we made, I said, anything at all, and we’d be sure to give ourselves away. I wasn’t about to take any chances, I said. Not now.

I reminded myself that the Allies were almost at the edge of the city. While I wanted to believe in them as much everyone else, I remembered Dunkirk, as well as the fall of Paris. And just like everyone else, I wanted to believe that the Germans were losing the war, but from where I was, it was difficult to know what was happening in the world around us. I didn’t have access to a radio, and while I may have known others who did—others who worked at the Jeu de Paume—I wasn’t about to question them as to how the war was progressing.

I heard the door crack and then splinter before slamming against the wall directly above us. Stanza tightened her grip on me, burying her face in my neck. I could feel the coldness of the sweat on her skin, and heard the whine in her throat as she fought to keep it down; had she been able to shed tears, I know the tears would’ve been running down her face.

Two very distinct, heavy sets of footsteps walked into the apartment, standing on the rug above us.

“I thought you said he was here,” one of the men said.

I recognized the man’s voice right away. Etienne Archambault worked upstairs at the Paume, and although I’d seen him staring at me from time to time, I’d simply dismissed him; people have stared at me my entire life. The fact that he was a member of the Resistance came as no surprise to me either, but the fact that he was here, or that he’d been watching me for the past two weeks or more, made little sense at the moment.

“I’ve been out front—just like you said. They never came down the stairs. I would’ve seen them if they did.”

“What about the back alley? Look! They went out the window, you fool!” Etienne said, and I heard him walking toward the window I’d left partially open. I could hear him swing it open, muttering a curse as I imagined him looking at the old fire escape and ladder.

“Why would they go out the window unless he knew you were following him?” the other man asked defensively. He sounded accusatory.

“He didn’t see me,” Etienne said softly. “He was too busy fighting with that thing,” he said, and I knew he was looking at my painting. I could almost imagine them examining the painting as they thought of what to do next. “Why bring it here? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I can’t believe he walked through the streets with that thing, and no one said anything,” the other man laughed. “That thing’s huge.”

“It doesn’t matter why he brought it. They’re not here,” Etienne said.

“Something spooked them. The window’s open—I mean, maybe it’s meant to be a distraction and he’s hiding in one of the other apartments. He could be waiting for us to run out after him,” the other man said.

“Them. There’s two of them, remember? And she’s blind, so there’s not going to be a lot of running around anywhere. Besides, if he knew I was following him, he would’ve run as fast as his little legs would take him, painting, or no painting,” Etienne said. “He’s not here; the window’s open. They’ve obviously left. He’s probably thinking he can come back later, after all the confusion dies down.”

“What confusion?” “When the Allies come marching through.” “And in the meantime?” “We search the place. He’s hiding something. I know he is; I can feel it.” “What am I looking for?” “Something we can take back to Renaissance that will tie him to the Germans.” “He really thinks he’s helping them, doesn’t he?” “He says he knew him before the war, so he wants to be certain before he does anything.” 

“What do you mean from before the war? You mean he knew him as an artist? Everyone’s an artist in Paris--even if they paint houses.” “It don’t care if he paints or not. I know he’s collaborating. Renaissance told me to watch him, so I’ve been watching him. Him and that Eisner are up to something,” Etienne said, the conviction of his belief echoing in the harsh sound of his voice.

“Yeah, but you’re not in charge, and neither is he. Volland’s in charge of this one.” “Just because she’s sleeping with him, doesn’t make her in charge.” “I think he answers to her.” “The man speaks five languages. Have you ever heard him speak? He speaks English like he was born to it. He even speaks Russian. Who the hell speaks Russian?”

It was a moment before either of them spoke again, and when they did, it was Etienne, and he didn’t sound happy.

“They’ve got German rations, and food. Cheese. Meats. Bread. Where’s he getting it from, if not from Eisner?”

“I don’t know, but I’m taking it. I haven’t had anything like this to eat for months,” the second man laughed. “Why should we even bother to fellow them now? The man’s obviously a collaborator.”

“You know what he says. Renaissance might be ruthless, but he’s never been wrong. He’s never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it. The fact the little dwarf works for the Germans might be all we need to know, but he wants more than that. As soon as he found out about the dwarf he had three of us watching him, and the woman.”

“So?” “So? She’s blind!” “What do you think he’s doing, then?” “That’s what we’re here to find out. There has to be a book, or a ledger, he’s hiding. Maybe he has a place under the floor?” He began stomping his foot, listening for any hollow sounds that would mean our death. I could feel Stanza’s hold on me tighten, the grip of her fingers pinching the flesh of my arm. Dust was falling through the cracks.

“Hey, what’s this?”

And just as quickly, the stomping stopped. I could hear Etienne walk toward the bookcase I’d leaned the painting against it, the echo of his receding footsteps sounding like a reprieve. It was obvious the other man found the small hasp behind the bookcase, and when he released it, I could hear them pushing the bookcase clear. They’d found my studio. I’d cut a hole into the wall of the next apartment some years ago; small, low to the floor--even I had to bend down to enter it--and thought how they’d probably have to enter it from on their hands and knees. I was using one of the two bedrooms next door for my studio, and the other was where I stored the original paintings I’d forged. I had the windows boarded up to prevent any light from escaping.

It was better than finding us hiding under the floor boards, I told myself. At least I wouldn’t be forced to work on the forgeries any longer. As much as I may have enjoyed the challenge when I first began working on the forgeries, I knew I could’ve done so much more if only the Eisner had given me the latitude I wanted.

“So, this is your German collaborator?” I heard the other man say with a laugh. “He’s nothing more than a forger. You wanted to know what he’s been up to, and here it is. He’s obviously in on it with that bastard, Eisner. That’s who’s been giving him the food, and the supplies. He wants to keep him alive so that he can continue forging.”

He’s still has the originals here,” I heard Etienne say.

“Hard to move I should think. They probably want to hold onto them until after the war. I can’t say that they thought this out too much. What do you want to do with them?”

“We’ll have to tell Volland. She’s the one keeping track of everything. She’ll definitely want to know about this. We’ll have to tell Renaissance as well. We’ll let him decide what he wants to do. If it was up to me, I’d kill him.”

“And so we just leave them?”

“Do you want to walk through the streets carrying a dozen Dutch Masterpieces? They’d shoot us for looters.”

“Nobody seemed to question the dwarf when he left the Paume.”

“That’s because the German’s are too busy beating a retreat to worry about someone stealing a single painting! For all they know, he could say it was his and he was hiding it because he was afraid they’d burn it. They’ll probably try to blow everything up before they go anyway. This might be the safest place to keep them.”

“What do you mean they’ll probably blow everything up?”

“You don’t think the Luftwaffe has orders to bomb this place? You don’t think they’ll do here what they did to London? Of course they’ll bomb us! You’d be a fool if you think they won’t. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they blow up the Eiffel Tower on their way out; or the Arc de Triumph. If you want to make a statement, can you think of a better one? It would be like blowing up the Statue of Liberty, or else the Empire State building, in New York.”

“So we just leave?”

“He’s not here, is he? Renaissance needs to know what he’s doing; Volland will want to know as well. Who knows how many others like him are doing the same thing? This could be the proverbial tip of the iceberg.”

I could hear them sliding the bookcase back into place. “What about the door?” the other man asked. “What about it?” “It’s broken. Someone will know we’ve been here.” “Do you think it matters? Just close it. You can come back tomorrow and fix it if you want, but by then it might be too late.”

*

We waited until they were gone, and then we waited a little longer. I heard them on the stairs, heard the front door slamming shut behind them, and still, we waited. I waited for my heart to stop pounding in my chest; the cold grip of fear seemed unable to let go its hold of me, and all I wanted to do was lay there in her arms and let Stanza hold me. She seemed to sense it; I felt her arms tighten around me as she placed a soft kiss on the top of my head. I slowly pulled the string tied to the rug above us and pushed the floor boards up, letting in what little light there was left in the room before finally climbing out and helping Stanza up out of the hole. I put a chair up against the door, wedging it tight.

“We have to leave,” I said, moving my painting aside and pulling up the small hasp holding the bookcase in place. I pushed it open with little effort.

“And go where? You heard them. The Allies are coming. We can’t just leave.”

“It’s one of the ironies of life,” I said, “that I’ve spent the last three and a half years searching for my paintings in the bowels of the Paume, only to lose the one that means everything to me, on the very day I reclaim it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I told you. I found her. The Bashful Courtesan. And now we have to leave it behind. Again.”

“You found it? Where?” “It came into The Martyr’s Room. I think they were planning to destroy it.” “And you saved it?” “Of course!” “You should have let them burn it. She means less to me than she does to you,” she said with a sigh. “She’s everything you once were!” “No. She’s everything you wanted me to be. I’m not that girl anymore. I was twenty-seven then. I’ve almost been blind for longer than I could see. I thank God I can’t see it. It’s been like a curse to me. It would just remind me of that bastard every time I looked at it.”

“You can’t mean that! It’s my masterpiece.”

“What good is a painting to me? It only serves as a reminder of what I once was! That whole time serves as a reminder. I’ve learned to move on with my life and leave all of that behind me. Obviously, you can’t.”

“That’s not true!”

“No? What would you want to take if it was something that can’t be replaced?” she said testily. “A painting? If everything in your life can be pared down to something as simple as a single painting, you’d choose that over everything else? Without hesitating. Why? Because you think it’s important to me? You think that it’s a part of me? Do you want to know what I think we have to take with us? Food. That’s it. If you think you can’t leave the paintings behind because they may be destroyed, then hide them. As for your sketch books, and your paints? You’re an artist. You insisted on carrying them out of Vienna. I don’t expect you’ll be leaving them behind now, will you?”

“Some of those paintings are on wood panels. I’d have to bust up the frames and roll up the others. It’d damage them more doing that. I can’t take that chance.”

“You’ll have to leave them here.” “What do you suggest I do?” I said, my patience running low.“I told you, hide them--in plain sight. Put them on the walls where the other paintings used to be; in the rooms, in the halls. If someone finds them, so be it. The only ones who know they’re the real paintings are those two who left, you, and Eisner. It will be a great find. People are finding great works of art all the time.”

“Mme. Volland will know.” “And who’s she?” “She was the assistant curator before the war. She’s been keeping track of every painting the Germans have stolen, as well as who owned them. If she finds out I’ve been working as a forger for the Germans, no one will ever buy anything I paint again. I’ll be discredited.”

“All the more reason to leave them. They can’t prove anything if the paintings are here. And you haven’t been working for the Germans; you’ve been working for a single German. You did what you had to in order to survive. Reputations can be rebuilt. You did it after we left Vienna, you can do it again. We’ll go to America; we’ll even change your name again if we have to.”

“America?” “No one will care who you are there.” “You don’t think they’ll know what I did? The art world isn’t as big as all that. Paris might be the centre of it all, but New York is just as lucrative.” “There are other places we can go. What about Chicago? Where’s that? I remember hearing about that place after the war. Maybe we can go there? There are other places. The world is a big place.”

I finally agreed with her and began to hang the paintings in various rooms, writing the room numbers on a small slip of paper I had in my pocket. As well, I hung several on the walls in the hallways. The owner of the hotel had a Jewish wife, and they fled the city as soon as the Germans arrived. I’d heard that they made their way south, into Vichy, which seemed the most likely place for us to go. As soon as the Germans arrived, they took as many paintings and works of art from the hotels and private homes as they could. But once they left a place, there was no need to return. I knew the paintings would be safe. And Stanza was right, of course; people were always discovering lost works of art. If the hotel’s owners came back after the war and discovered the paintings, it might make up for all the hardship they endured. If not, they might still be hanging where I left them when we returned.

We stood a better chance in the countryside than we did in the city, and I told her that once I’d finished moving all the paintings. The only problem was getting out. I knew if we followed the rail lines we’d be able to hide in the shadows as well as empty railcars. We had to get out as soon as we could, I told her. The Germans would be watching the tracks--using them to leave the city--and the Allies would probably want to bomb them to stop any trains from leaving, but it was our only hope of getting out of the city. We’d used the train lines before, when we made our way out of Vienna, and it made sense using them again. Of course, at that time, we weren’t in the middle of a war, I told myself.

I packed up my painting kit and put it in the same small satchel I’d been using for years. I made certain the bookcase was back in place and took whatever food was left behind, stuffing it into a second, larger satchel; picking up Stanza’s walking stick, I took her hand and led her out of the door.

I asked myself who Renaissance was, and why he was so interested in me.

*

The night was warm, and humid, with a breeze coming in off the river that offered little in the way of relief from the muggy heat of the day. The cobblestones held onto the heat like a miser with a penny, happy to spend it now that the night had finally arrived. Paris in the summer is hot and clammy; it makes your clothes stick to your body and the sweat run down the length of your back, making you feel there’s little hope of escaping the city’s sultry summer excess. I looked up at a clear, moonless night, grateful for the cover of darkness and immediately regretting that only I could enjoy the canopy of stars on display. The Milky Way, so seldom seen in a city the size of Paris, stretched across a night sky so crowded with stars it made me wonder how the ancients were able to determine anything with just the naked eye. I wanted to say something, wanted desperately to share the beauty of everything around us--even the trees seemed to come alive in the silence of the evening breeze-- but I felt it would be too much for either of us. How do you explain the evening’s stars as anything other than celestial? And not being able to see it, how do you not resent the sights that surround you? You can’t. Because the Germans were now in the process of evacuating the city, there was a city- wide blackout. Before the threat of the Allies, Paris was a city that seemed to stand defiant with her bright lights. Who’d dare bomb Paris, we’d ask, as though the question itself was a challenge. What would you gain strategically? Where would the moral victory lay in razing a city thought to be a cultural center? There’d be none. The Allies themselves would be vilified for such a transgression, which I’m certain must have crossed the minds of the German High Command in Paris as they purposely defied Hitler’s orders to destroy the city. In destroying Paris, you’d leave yourself open to the criticism of history, and while people can forgive--or seemingly forget--an endless array of atrocities, being singled out as the man who destroyed Paris would probably be too much for one man to bear. But how could the same argument not hold true for cities like London, Berlin, Dresden, Stalingrad, or Tokyo? The man who bombed Tokyo was celebrated as a hero; the man who defied the Emperor.

We’d have to stay in the shadows I told myself, and not having to worry about the light of the moon I hoped would make our trek through deserted streets that much easier. There was the sound of heavy guns somewhere in the distance and it reminded me of a story I’d heard from an ancient veteran of the Prussian War who remembered hearing guns as the Prussians neared the city. That was the last time the Germans entered Paris, he said; the Great War was a war meant to exact vengeance for that transgression. And even in this day and age, people say the same things. Wars are fought to erase the bitter taste of defeat suffered during previous wars. The Franco-Prussian War; The Great War; the Second World War--will it ever end?

I could hear the shunting of trains as well, the noise of which seemed to travel through the thick air, and I paused to listen, thinking I might hear the echo of voices carried on the light breeze; but Paris was a dead city, its streets deserted, and the only sound I heard was the steady click of our heels on the paving-stones. There’d be an occasional face peering out of a window, searching the streets until they were reassured by the sight of us hiding in the shadows. Almost immediately the faces would withdraw, as if the sighting of us had not only satisfied their curiosity, but reminded them of the imminent dangers they faced themselves.

There was also the sound of dogs, their vicious barks a source of anxiety as far as Stanza was concerned. I reassured her that we were no closer to them than we were the heavy guns--nor would we be, I added. I was constantly looking ahead at the wide, open streets. We’d followed Rue des Saint-Peres until we reached Rue de Sevres. From there, I decided it was wiser to stay on the smaller side streets for as long as we could--because streets and alleys offered us more shadows to hide in. A light breeze rustled the trees lining the boulevards, and it seemed that every street corner had a square with stairs leading down into the bowels of the city where the Metro lay in waiting. There were sidewalk cafes that had been boarded up, their chairs chained to nearby fences, while the blank windows of the surrounding buildings stared down at us as though they were vacant eyes, lit up by the occasional blink as someone looked out over the empty streets below. As we made our way to the Boulevard Raspail, the streets opened up again, becoming wider, and we made our way as quick as we could to the Rue de Rennes. Here, all the side streets met at huge, open, tree-lined squares. Before the war, life in this part of the city was known for it Bohemian lifestyle of Gypsies, arts and artisans--the Montparnasse of paintings--where life was teeming with streets full of hawkers selling paintings, and books, and street musicians were spilling out into the avenues from small sidewalk cafes; now the streets were empty, the sound of the wind through the trees sounding as though it were an eerie whisper in search of the living. Even Stanza sensed it, asking me where we were.

“Montparnasse,” was all I said, and it seemed as if even she hesitated at the sound of that name, taking in the wonder of what once was and evaluating it for its loss. I pulled her along, and we made our way from the Rue de Rennes, to the Rue du Depart, and from there to the Avenue du Maine. I could hear the stillness that was the cemetery two blocks away, the very air itself feeling different, as though it were suddenly colder--not so much as though it were the chilly hand of death reaching out for us--but that it had somehow cooled off, brushing against the thousands of granite tombstones. From the Avenue du Maine we followed an alley as old as the city itself, the walls of the buildings faded with age, the darkness enveloping and encroaching on us as though it meant to contain us, while above, the sky and all it stars seemed to open onto forever and I told myself we were not lost. I could hear the station; I could feel the heavy vibration of the trains under my feet, and I could hear the dogs snarling and barking.

We’d left what I always thought of as the old city and reached what felt like the industrial heart--a vital artery of ribboned steel that seemed to bisect the city, almost as if it were a garish wound--a faded, bloodied scar that would lead us out of the city. There were lights flashing in the distance, through the leaves of trees as the wind sifted through the branches with a gentle caress. We came up on a small hill, and I told Stanza to wait while I meant to crawl ahead and see what was happening.

“Don’t you dare leave me standing here,” she hissed. “You’ll have to crawl,” I said. “I don’t care what I have to do; don’t you leave me.” I placed her hand on my belt and felt her grasp it as we crawled forward through the bushes; I was hoping to see what was happening below. Gare Montparnasse consisted of a dozen tracks or more that came up out of the earth as though they were escaping, each one twisting into the other like so many twisted reeds of steel that it became a confused mass of tracks that rose and fell off into the distance--all but undulating across the landscape. There was a long convoy of trucks that snaked its way toward the tracks, using the Rue d’Alesia, a light fog of dust enveloping everything while the lights of the hand torches the soldiers carried cut through the night around them. There were soldiers walking back and forth along the length of the waiting trains, looking underneath the boxcars every dozen steps; some overseeing prisoners who were being loaded into the boxcars. There was a second train being loaded with paintings, and statues, and other treasures--silk carpets, and antique furnishings; gold and silver plates; candelabras and menorahs--while yet a third was being loaded with endless boxes of files the German High Command felt it was important enough for them to take out of the city. I could hear the soldiers screaming at the prisoners to hurry; the dogs straining on their leashes, barking with a frenzied menace. It was obvious the soldiers were just as worried about the threat of attack as everyone else. I suppose they may have felt they were safe loading prisoners onto the train because no one would think to risk attacking a convoy of prisoners. Perhaps the Allies should have attacked the station? Those prisoners being sent out would’ve been saved from the certain death they faced in the Camps they were being sent to.

“Now’s our chance. We can go move South from here; as long as we keep the tracks on our right, we won’t get lost.

“But you might get caught,” a voice said.

I turned my head at the sound and saw a man in a tight fitting suit with a fedora set at a raking angle standing with his hands on his hips. His pistol was still holstered, and he patted it gently as he smiled at us. Stanza tried to hold back a scream, and I felt her tighten her hand on my belt as she buried her face into my back. He motioned for us to get up, and I held Stanza’s hand as we crawled out from the bushes.

“Did you really think you could leave and not be noticed? Did you think that we weren’t watching you all this time? Or that no one would say anything as you walked through the streets? Please? Your hands? Up!” he said as we stood.

“Is he going to shoot us? Is he alone?” Stanza asked.

“Forgive me Madame,” he said, and he holstered his gun. “I’m not here to shoot you. On the contrary. I’ve been sent to retrieve you,” he said.

“Retrieve us? And who sent you?”

“It was the Obersturmfurher!” Stanza said of a sudden. “Who else could it be? He’s had us followed. It was him in the apartment.”

“The Obersturmfurher?” the man said with a note of incredulity. “My God! No, no no; even I find it hard to believe that he could have thought this through to the point of you actually leaving. I doubt he has any idea you’re leaving at all. And where were you going by the way?”

“Vichy France,” I said with a note of defiance that made the man smile.

“Vichy?” he said with a laugh. “What were you going to do if you got there? The Allies have broken through; the resistance has finally made its move and are starting to close in. We have, at the most, a week before the city falls. Perhaps we should send you to the Camps with the other prisoners?”

“No!” Stanza said quickly. “Tell him about the Obersturmfurher,” she said.

“We already know about him. I told you, he’s being escorted to headquarters. Did you think having him as your friend would protect you--because you have a Nazi friend? Good God woman, they shoot people like you for having Nazi friends! They call them collaborators.”

“Eisner,” Stanza said again, clinging to the name as if it were a trump card and laying it down once again. “Obersturmfurher Gerhard Eisner. He can explain everything.”

“She really doesn’t understand, does she?” he said, looking down at me. “Do you know how long we’ve been looking for you? In fact, if there’s any one name that’s going to keep you off those train, or from getting a bullet in the head, that’s it! But maybe I should let the Obersleutnant explain it to you. He’ll want to see you as soon as he can. He really is excited to see you. Can you think why?”

“We’re not thieves.”

“I know, I know. You’re the missing piece to a very large puzzle. But don’t worry, the Count will sort it all out.”

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