The Tiger Claw by Shauna Singh Baldwin

Author:Shauna Singh Baldwin [Baldwin, Shauna Singh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical
ISBN: 9780307368393
Google: WrFNbAx1LWIC
Amazon: B005DB6LXG
Barnesnoble: B005DB6LXG
Goodreads: 13535127
Publisher: Knopf Canada
Published: 2004-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 21

Paris, France

Wednesday, June 30, 1943

“OH, YOU TWO! Look where you’re going!” Renée’s re-soled wooden heels teetered down the street behind Émile and Monique. “No more kissing!”

War-weary Parisians stopped to smile as Émile’s curly head obscured Monique’s eyes, radiant beneath white netting.

A photographer’s lens might have lingered on his tenderness, her joyous smile, brown ringlets and floppy hat brim, the white silk gown edged with lace, bare shoulders and forearms, might have focused on the white kid gloves beaded with pearls that encased her small hands, and missed the swirls of Renée’s hair, swept high into a pompadour decorated with flowers and fruits, more colourful than any turban Abbajaan ever wore for performance.

Noor, walking in their wake, Odile’s chatter in full flow beside her, wore a pink-ribboned flowered muslin, the only formal summer dress she had brought from London. It didn’t match her black handbag and gloves, but that couldn’t be helped. The sun’s heat was welcome upon her shoulders after the past few days in Madame Aigrain’s apartment.

Lovers with enough confidence in their future to celebrate a wedding in the middle of war lifted everyone’s spirits. German soldiers sweating under their steel helmets waved the laughing little group through a maze of checkpoints with only a cursory glance at their papers.

Only three years of Occupation and the Germans have become unremarkable, as if they have always been here.

“Babette!” Renée called.

Babette was skipping ahead, past a salon de thé, a boulangerie, a flower stall, heading for the wedge-shaped block of buildings rising over the rue Erlanger. She stopped before the rows of boxed red geraniums limiting the crowd on the sidewalk terrace of La Gargote, turned and called, “Maman! Maman! It’s Madame Meignot.”

“Ne fais pas l’idiote!” Renée sailed forward, artificial fruit tinkling and bobbling. “Madame Meignot wouldn’t leave her loge for a minute.”

“Maman, vraiment! I see her cane.”

It was indeed the concierge from the adjoining apartment building, hair bound up in a sky-blue turban, coming towards them.

“If I were a director, I wouldn’t give her even a bit part in my films,” Odile whispered at Noor’s shoulder. “Anyone can see she’s trying to find someone but pretending she’s not looking.”

Émile continued deep in banter with a couple at one of the sidewalk tables, everyone raising their glasses in congratulation. Monique’s laughter pollinated everyone else’s.

Madame Meignot couldn’t be a Nazi sympathizer, given Monique’s comments about her during the air raid, but after General Vidal, Max, Prosper and Archambault … anything unusual was a danger warning. Madame didn’t seem to be looking in her direction, but Noor’s palms were suddenly damp. She moved into the shadows beneath the bistro’s awning.

Madame Meignot went up to Renée and grasped her by the forearms. Steadying herself, she shouted, “Congratulations!”

Noor could see that wasn’t all she said.

Renée turned to Émile and suggested they take a table inside. Her smile looked forced, and terror filled her eyes.

“A table—here?” Émile’s arched eyebrow warned of expense. “D’accord! It’s our wedding day.”

Renée steered him through the arched doorway with La Gargote wrought in iron.

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