Red rainbow, p.25
Red Rainbow, page 25
Another uninvited visitor appeared shortly after Florence left, this one literally appearing from nowhere. Hilaire had feared this visit since César’s return. Death was not a genie doling out wishes unconditionally. Death was a taker, not a giver. She had expected Death to adopt the form she had at the theatre, the English socialite she’d adopted chiefly the last 30 plus years.
That would have been too easy. There was no sting in that appearance, Hilaire having no background with that woman’s original body. Death had a different look for her. Not Maxi – not even Death was cruel enough to do that to her, plus while Hilaire had been kind to Luc, Maxi had been even kinder, like a second mother to him. Death still struck close to home, choosing the form of her second sibling, late brother Rollo. ‘He’ stood with his arm resting on the mess of a mantelpiece, frozen in time at the age he was when she had killed him in self-defence in this very room.
“Don’t be too hard on her. She is a good servant of mine. We do what we do, we are who we are.”
“Okay.” Hilaire could hardly argue the point with her visitor. Not when he/she had done her a huge favour when she begged her – them.
“This city has always been a favourite. The activity may die down a little now, bar the lovely counter reprisals, but I’ll always have a soft spot for old Paree. You can go back to your quiet life. You were kind to Luc. I’ve watched over you for that reason. You didn’t ask me to, it was something I was willing to do. I stopped someone from informing on you on the rooftop. Silly, foolish, fuckwit me, I didn’t realise you’d stored that up to use as currency in an emergency.”
“I had to say something dramatic to get your attention, that was all.”
“I see and hear everything. You got cocky. Florence thought she could take it to the edge and not go over. You thought you could control her. César thought he was a Trojan horse. His death was signposted, and you all chose to ignore it and then had me tear down the sign. For expecting a favour from me, that protection is gone.”
“I didn’t expect it. I’m grateful, though.”
“You were kind to Luc. You were also kind to Kass. Enough said, really.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that. I don’t think you’re going to tell me either. How are they?”
“You deprived me of the Love Phantom. The time for social niceties is done.” He/she wasn’t smitten, surely? This had to be an example of Death’s twisted sense of humour – Hilaire knew who had fathered Luc, which was a prime example of that.
“How do I find her?” That was if she wanted to say a better goodbye, Hilaire having no plans to accompany Florence on her European destruction tour.
“How do you find any vulture?”
César’s ability to land on his feet surprised even him. It was known he’d socialised with Nazis during the Occupation, which could have been an issue now that it was time for receipts to be paid. There was an argument that he had collaborated. He had tried to make things run smoothly. There was a distinction between collaborating to save lives and collaborating to ruin lives. Some used it as a tool to get ahead – though he’d done a bit of that. But never at anyone’s expense, bar the Germans. By shaking their hands, he had been able to steer them a fraction towards his and his country’s aims, but such distinctions would be lost on the angry mob. Naturally, his power would save him from a lynching, but his standing could have been tarnished if not for how his war ended.
He couldn’t have planned it better if he’d tried – and the bits he did plan were improved upon by others without his best interests at heart yet still worked in his favour. His arrest and the attempted arson at his workplace cemented his status as a patriot, some even claimed hero. His ill health even worked to his advantage, ‘proof positive’ of his maltreatment at their brutish hands. He came up smelling of roses yet again in newly liberated Paris. Good old Hippocrates took over his treatment, staying over at his townhouse to get him through the worst of it. For now, he was recovering with Marcella at his side. She was staying with him until he recovered – he was told this and accepted it, happy to have her there. How long the recovery time would be for near-death energy depletion from an energy vampire was anyone’s guess. He was fatigued but was working up to gentle exercise, a daily walk round the block. He saw Alexia on one of these walks. He would have thanked her for what she tried to do for him and would have promised her he’d not tell on her, but that wasn’t possible with Marcella by his side. Instead, he merely smiled, a smile that was noted by his nurse cum jailer.
Guillaume had never been to his main home before now. He popped around frequently enough now to fuck up the electrics. The expense didn’t bother César, it was the inconvenience of rewiring that he found a hassle. There was no point doing it until he was back on his feet fully and able to meet him on neutral ground. Patience had chosen to return to her old life but was staying in touch, Hilaire too. Florence – who knew where she’d gone to? César didn’t hate her even though he knew she’d almost accidentally killed him in the rescue attempt – down the guards, down the inmate too. The three gifted members of the Foundation had no control over their powers, which were constant. As she had said, she was not so different. The main thing was that the attack left no physical scars, not even superficial ones.
Forgiveness was easier when someone wasn’t around. César certainly wouldn’t want to see Florence outside his window late at night, that was for sure. The bogeymen were gone now. The hangings and shootings were not over, sadly. Head shavings were back too. Not everyone could forgive and forget. He had acted fast to spare Hector any consequences for his supposed betrayal by having him installed in his offices. This was a temporary position (which Hector felt was beneath him anyhow, hardly on a par with his civil service background), a method of rehabilitating him for his role in the Vichy administration. It was an attempt for his popularity to rub off on Hector – he vouched for him ergo he was okay.
Hopefully, in a few more weeks, months, France would be entirely free, at which point César could look at calling for his family to return home. Life would go back to normal. Any thoughts he’d had about going to Germany as a ‘prisoner’ or on business to infiltrate and manipulate were gone. His powers of persuasion seemed to work better at stalling them than making them follow his ideas. His group had not been militant, that was not their way, yet they’d still made an impact, a foundation for others to build on. He just had to think of a job for Nadine (who was now attending a specialist clinic as an outpatient to help her cope with her sickness as much as possible).
And think of a way of introducing Marcella to his family. She’d returned to stripping, just lunchtimes, coming back with stories of the Americans that wound him up. She tried giving him a Hershey bar that one of them had given her and took umbrage when he binned it. He then asked Miss Cartier to come over to type out a couple of letters for him when he knew Marcella would be around, tit for tat to make her jealous, but he needn’t have involved Fernande in it. A visit from Claude Escoffier and his much younger wife (45-47 – César wasn’t precisely sure and wasn’t going to ask, even Love Phantoms clearly not indestructible) did the job much better anyway. They’d fought and made up, and then this visit that he hadn’t even orchestrated knocked things back.
Old Claude was not the problem. Escolico Ltd was owned by Claude Escoffier and the Selico family. The Selico family, sensibly, had not been based in occupied Europe throughout the war. They were not usually based in France even in peacetime, the clan globetrotting where business and their whims took them. Claude Escoffier was not so well-travelled, spending most of his 73 years in his home country bar holidays and travelling in the racing season for big meets where his horses were running. They had been to the stables before popping round to visit him, Sebastienne Escoffier coming round in her famously skintight jodhpurs. She flirted with him a little in front of her husband, inviting him to the stables for a ride when he was up to it. There was nothing in it – he flirted back with her over the phone and when she came to the office, their chats rich in risqué innuendo, but he never did this in front of Claude. He would never act on it, having a general rule not to get involved with married women, but it was harmless fun, not that his lemon-sucking lover would see it that way.
The purpose of their visit was not just to show off Mrs Escoffier’s impressive figure. Claude came to see him with a view to using the attempted destruction of their main bottling factory for publicity purposes. Drink the soda the Nazis tried to destroy. Maybe, maybe. They needed an angle for the American relaunch, and this had potential. Mentioning his arrest wasn’t the way to go, though. He had not been in captivity (if he could even call it that) for long, not compared to others, and his ill health had nothing to do with the Nazis. The martyr-hero angle didn’t fit, and it would only upset his family.
Even in a mood, Marcella had behaved reasonably well with his boss, saving the snide comments until they’d left.
“She wore them for your benefit.”
“And the horses. I’ve got no control over what you wear or don’t wear, so I don’t see how you can blame me for what...”
“This again,” she groaned.
“Older women have been flirting with me before I knew what puberty was, let alone went through it. We’re much worse than that when nobody else is around, she gets it back. It’s a bit of fun, nothing more. She didn’t know you’d be here, so she’d have thought the sight of her arse in jodhpurs would be a tonic for me.”
“And was it?”
“We both know she looked good, I’m not going to lie about it. They’d look better on you.”
The frost thawed reasonably quickly, but it seemed that these little niggles would be par for the course. Introducing her to his family, his mother especially, wasn’t likely to go as well as that, but he still had to go through with it because that reassurance would hopefully help Marcella see that they had a future. That was the only way he stood a chance of persuading her to give up that part of her past, a trade she didn’t need to do. His love for her had been reinvigorated by her care during the first few days of his convalescence. She took a step back when his health improved, in the amount of care she gave and in affection. Hilaire and Patience’s failure to fall at his feet upon lengthy viewing of his face encouraged him that there had to be some love and desire for him in his viewers for his power to stoke. Hilaire and Patience were very kind to him and seemed keen to maintain contact, but that wasn’t love. The Like Phantom? His power got him friends – for lovers, there had to be a little more. Looking at it this way, he felt less like he was taking advantage. And it wasn’t as if Marcella was always agreeable. There were dramas and hurdles to come, he certainly wasn’t going to have it all his own way, and he welcomed that.
César arranged for Hilaire and Patience to meet him the same morning at his office. Hilaire arrived before Patience, present when César arrived flanked by two of his friends who’d brought him in. This was his first day back (and he was only in for the morning, making a phased return), the staff surprising him with a cake, which they presented to him on the shop floor. Patience arrived as he gave a brief speech thanking them for their support and for not letting the threat chase them away. He cut the cake up into as many pieces as he could – not enough to go round all of the staff, César letting them pick their own pieces rather than play favourites. He took one piece for himself as this was expected, though he offered this to Hilaire and Patience as he took them on a tour of the premises. They deserved it more than him, César thanking them yet again for saving the building.
“It’s yours, they made it for you. They will ask you what you thought of it,” Hilaire said, the staff’s love for him apparent even from her short time here. A couple of workers recognised her from that fateful morning but didn’t quiz her about it, instead whispering heartfelt thanks. She understood that affection; seeing him walking with a silver-handled cane made her feel nurturing towards him. She was pleased to see him recovering and listened avidly as he went through the different roles on offer. He opened a bottle of Chablis upon returning to his office and asked them which positions, if any, appealed to them. He was giving them free choice of the factory floor, office work, whatever they wanted. He was not replacing anyone, these would be additional positions. Scrambler had already started his job as assistant quality controller. He was based in one of the outside sheds just for now, César committing to build a proper building there as soon as possible. It had to be some distance from the machines or none of them would have jobs.
Hilaire hadn’t planned on working for César. There was no debt for him to repay to her. Unfortunately, it was going to cost a lot of money to get her home habitable, let alone presentable and pleasant. Christien offered to help her out; she remained steadfast in her refusal to this offer. Christien was a true Communist, as demonstrated by this generous gesture. He shared his wealth throughout his life with good causes and the Party. He did not have the finances to spare on her. She was loath to take César’s money too, but it was different if she earned it by helping him with his business. It would be a way of keeping the friendship alive too, something she often wasn’t good at. She regularly lost touch with people and didn’t want that to happen here.
Patience had landed a parttime job at the designers now, just one day a week, and took a flexible position with César, two days and a morning on the assembly line. Hilaire’s job was more fixed, five mornings cleaning the factory. She arrived so early by bicycle that she saw the nightwatchmen (there was now two of them, possibly an increased security measure) and the dogs leave. The dogs were scared of her, remembering her prior association. César offered her security work if she wanted it, an accurate assessment of her strengths, but she wouldn’t put the poor dogs through it.
Patience admired Kalle Paget for playing a blinder with the theatre. Deveral had put all of his money into renting the place leaving him destitute and about to become homeless (though he had options sparing him the streets, Kalle and Patience’s homes for starters). With his death and the subsequent investigation and the chaos of Paris right now, the bank had not got round to repossessing it yet. Kalle, Deveral’s righthand man for 32 long years, former juvenile lead and all-round assistant, helping with both cast and crew, opened up the doors to the displaced, the homeless, the desperate. He got a charity involved too to help with food while he organised performances on the stage, starting with the children and planning adult plays too. Patience agreed to go along with Charlotte (out of work but still trying) to help for a Saturday afternoon performance. The bank could eject them at any time, but they couldn’t erase the goodwill Kalle was building up here. This had been a theatre of the people for the people. They didn’t lose their audience through a couple of strange shows – it was understood that the manager had killed a large number of Nazis here at the cost of his own life, a few missteps prior to that understandable and forgiven.
Playing into this background, Kalle had erected a makeshift sign renaming the theatre as the Meyer. He trusted that investors would come forward. Patience was less sure, unable to bother César with this as she knew how much of a money pit this place could be. One afternoon show became a regular Saturday occurrence, which she helped with each week. She still had her machinist job on a Monday, and Tuesday to Thursday working with marketing for César. She initially took the assembly line position as she didn’t want to be any bother, but she got bored and asked him if it was possible, only if it was no trouble, to try another role. He couldn’t have been more accommodating, reminding her that his staff and the building wouldn’t be there without her help (Patience wished this wasn’t true – this demonstration of how much of a positive difference her power could make meant she would have to re-evaluate putting it away in a drawer... at some point). The theatre work was unpaid, a way of remembering Deveral.
Kalle advertised through word of mouth and fliers for a paid revue, the profits going to the theatre's destitute residents (the cat qualified as eligible for this too). Patience was pleased to see several of her co-workers from both of her jobs turn up for this. Maurice Cassard turned up to watch too. Patience went to see him with a cup of coffee between acts and asked him how he was. He had been released and promised her he was fine and taking it easy. She realised the old man who was with him was his partner – she presumed this relationship was potentially secret due to his partner showing no signs of ill treatment, unlike poor bruised and battered Maurice, his hand, wrist and forearm encased in a cast.
“I heard you didn’t speak. That’s so brave,” Patience said, filled with admiration for his bravery. She’d been in that spot and could only imagine how hard that must have been to go through with.
“There was nothing to say, nobody left for them to blame, bar one, and they already knew about her. They came at both of us wanting to punish a dead man. That can be done, but they don’t have that power. I’m glad you made it through safely.”
“People have rallied round me. People I didn’t even know, and friends too. Things are looking up.”
Patience meant the words as she said them – so why was her delivery so unconvincing when it came to things looking up? She enjoyed both of her jobs, she was starting to socialise again – three-day weekends were good for that, Patience going to see live music at least once a week again. Bartholomew’s fate – which was by no means guaranteed to be entwined with hers even if he made it – was at the back of her mind but didn’t seem to be behind her downbeat tone. Something was wrong that she couldn’t put her finger on. She’d felt a heavy cloud of depression looming when it looked like the Love Phantom had croaked but that was replaced with euphoria when he recovered so it couldn’t be that.
