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  “You must also apologise to Mme Guillard for what you have done”, my mother added.

  I immediately began to cry.

  “I am sorry Mme Guillard”, I sobbed!

  “You are sorry for what”, my mother asked.

  “I am sorry for stealing your roses Mme Guillard.”

  With that, my mother thanked Mme Guillard and walked me briskly out of the shop and back to the apartment. Once inside, she ordered me to go to my room.

  “You have school work to complete.”

  I sat on the edge of my bed like a condemned prisoner waiting for my father to return from the synagogue. I emptied my satchel of school books on the bed but had no inclination to open them. I lay down and closed my eyes.

  When dreams come to us in sleep there is no warning, no announcement they are about to begin. One moment my head was laying on the pillow, my eyes swamped with tears, staring aimlessly at a picture of the Eiffel tower pinned to my wall, the next I was laying in a garden listening to sounds of insects and watching the slanted rays of the sun strike a white wall creating nebulous patterns of shape and colour. The patterns resembled the face of a woman who appeared to speak to me with no voice, her lips twisting and curling sensuously among the flickering beams of light. A fly tickled my nose. I turned to see a stream flowing swiftly beside me and two red roses caught in a swirling eddy beside some rocks. In the distance I heard a piano playing some ragtime tune I did not recognise. The wind gusted gently over my face and the trees began to sing a song of twilight. Then everything faded to silence and I lay among stillness. In the distance I heard the rumbling roar of what sounded like an explosion. I heard it again, more defined this time. It seemed nearer.

  As with the beginning of dreams the conclusion always moves seamlessly into reality. I was being woken by a loud knock on my door. I opened my eyes. Dusk was settling and my room was streaked with shadows. Initially, I had no recollection of what had happened until I saw the books on the bed.

  “Paul, come out here please!”

  I went to the door and opened it. The light from the hallway blinded me momentarily as I followed my father to the living room. He beckoned me to sit on the couch. My mother sat beside me as he moved to the middle of the room and addressed me formally.

  “Your mother has told me of the incident with the roses. I have been to speak with Mme Guillard and apologized unreservedly for your wicked behaviour. Anshel Drezner’s father and mother are also appalled and they will deal with Anshel in their own way. I have accepted Mme Guillard’s suggestion regarding your punishment and I must say that your mother and I are grateful for her understanding in the matter. Don’t you know she was within her rights to call the Gendarmes? You may thank God that she has chosen to keep this within our community so for the next two weeks you will help out in her shop after school. I have thrown the roses away. Your mother and I do not want them in the house.”

  “But I had given them to Mama as a present!”

  I turned to my mother who frowned and shook her head.

  “When you gave them to me I was delighted Paul. They were beautiful but when you told me how you came to have them my heart saddened. Do you not understand?”

  “You stole the roses Paul!” shouted my father, “That is the action of a thief. Have you no idea of how that affects your mother and me? We cannot trust you. Faith in God is the foundation of our lives and someone who steals shows a complete lack of trust in God.”

  I looked at my mother, tears streamed from her eyes.

  “Mama”, I whispered.

  We ate that evening mostly in silence, my parents occasionally discussing more trivial events of the day. The next afternoon I began my sentence with Mme Guillard. Most of my time was spent preparing and arranging flowers for display. She taught me how to remove blemished leaves and cut stems properly and how to match colours and different flowers. Two weeks later, my reparation complete, she paid me four francs in addition to the cost of the original roses. I used two of the francs to buy my mother some new roses. She found two slim vases and placed a rose in each of them. She gave one to me.

  “Place this beautiful flower on the table beside your bed Paul and I will do the same. At night, you can look at it and know that I will love you always.”

  I gazed at her deep blue eyes and cried.

  4.

  The following Tuesday, Camille came to my shop. I was about to leave as I had promised my father I would paint the hallway of our apartment and was putting on my coat when she walked in wearing the same yellow coat and beret she wore the night we met. I stood for a moment transfixed by her face, grotesquely posed with my right arm raised high and my left arm bent behind my back.

  When she saw me, she laughed.

  “You are making your escape?”

  “No. I was feeling cold”.

  “I understand. It has become colder.”

  I completed putting on my coat. Camille in the meantime had turned her attention to a painting on the wall, a portrait of a young woman in a white dress. She clasped her hands together obviously fascinated by the picture of the young woman sitting on a chair with her arms loosely folded.

  “I haven’t seen this for some time. Where did you find it?” She asked.

  “I purchased it last year at house sale in Saint Germain. “I liked the truthfulness of the painting.”

  “She is certainly strong and determined”, Camille responded. “I love her eyes and her mouth and the curious gaze” She stretched her arm towards the portrait and began tracing the girl’s mouth in the air before placing her finger to her lips.

  “I wish to buy this painting”, she whispered.

  “The artist is not well known”, I replied, “Nathalie Kraemer from Poland! Are you acquainted with her work?”

  I was surprised anyone had heard of Nathalie. I had bought the painting for five francs and could find no information regarding her though later I discovered a book containing a selection of her poetry.

  “I am more than acquainted”, Camille answered.

  I was intrigued, but did not enquire further.

  Camille turned towards me, smiling.

  “Are you selling, Monsieur Politzer?

  I nodded.

  “How much are you selling for?”

  I returned her smile.

  “I would like you to have the painting as a gift. You seem to like it very much and it was not expensive to buy.”

  She gave me one of her frowns and I instantly regretted saying anything.

  “No, I wouldn’t consider it! Really, Monsieur Politzer, you must think me foolish. Now tell me how much the portrait is worth.”

  I had really no idea. I was about to respond by asking her what she thought it was worth then I remembered our previous night’s conversation about art.

  “Ten Francs would be a reasonable price, I think?”

  “You think! Don’t you know?”

  “Yes! Ten Francs! I’m sure of it.”

  She reached into her bag and produced a ten franc note which she placed on the counter.

  “Thank you”, I replied meekly.

  “I will take it with me now”

  “Of course, I will get some paper!”

  I almost ran into the back room to fetch the paper. I was terrified she would leave. My mind was unfocused and I was confused by her attitude towards me. I returned to the shop with some soft tissue, a sheet of brown paper and a ball of string. As I lifted the painting from the wall I could feel her eyes upon me. I carefully placed it on the counter, wrapped it first in the tissue paper, then the brown paper, before securing everything with the string.

  “You appear nervous.” She remarked.

  I didn’t answer. I was having trouble with the final knot. After three fumbling attempts, she said,

  “Here, let me.”

  She leaned over and placed her finger on the knot, allowing me to tie the string together.

  “Thank you.” I mumbled and presented her with her purc
hase. She looked at me inquisitively. I suddenly felt a great desire to kiss her. My face reddened. I took the ten franc note and put in my coat pocket.

  “I hope you enjoy the painting”

  She smiled.

  “Would you like to take me for coffee?”

  I had to suppress the yelp that unexpectedly rose from my throat and when I eventually replied I seem to speak an octave higher than normal.

  “I would love to.”

  “Good, where are we going?”

  She turned and walked to the door. I stumbled after her and suggested that maybe Café Cremieux would be a good place for coffee.

  “That is where you first saw me and it is where I first saw you.”

  She laughed. Her blue eyes twinkled in the sunlight.

  She remembered. I almost cried.

  We sat in Café Cremieux for three hours, at first drinking coffee then progressing to wine as we shared some bread and olives. I talked a little about my father and described him as an archetypal Rabbi with a long black coat and beard and a wide-brimmed hat. I listened intently as she described her childhood in Villelongue. She spoke with affection about her father Anton who owned the vineyard. He was unfamiliar with art and did not appear to share Camille’s love of music choosing instead to concentrate on educating his two sons Louis and Maurice in wine production. It was her mother who encouraged her to sing. As a young girl, she remembered her mother singing songs about the land and the history and myths of Occitania. These songs connected her with the past. They were simple tunes that spoke of love and loss and filled her heart with deep longing for a way of life destroyed by ignorance and ideology. I could not resist her charm. Every word she spoke drew me further into her world.

  Her mother persuaded her father to agree to her attending the Conservatoire de Paris where she studied singing and piano. It was there she met Maurice Emmanuel whom she referred to as a genius.

  “He was a great humanist with an unquenchable passion for the popular songs of ordinary people. He introduced me to Oriental music. Are you familiar with his work?”

  I had to admit I was not.

  “How would you know? Tell me about your mother and how you came to paint her portrait? I saw it in the window of your shop. She is very beautiful.”

  “She was very beautiful”, I replied. She died some years ago”.

  I began to tell her the circumstances of my mother’s death, but found myself speaking more about her life.

  “Her name is Anna Katzman and she came to Paris with her parents in January 1906 from Mazyr in Belarus. Her father was Saul Katzman and he was a baker.”

  “Did they leave Mazyr because of persecution?”

  “No, I don’t think so. My mother never really spoke about why they left. I assumed they came to Paris in search of a better life. At that time, the French government had passed a law ensuring religious freedom and tolerance for everyone”

  Camille squeezed my hand. “Well, I’m very happy that they did.”

  “A year or so after she arrived in Paris, she met my father at the Synagogue where he is now Rabbi. At that time he was already studying at the Rabbinical College. His family had come from Italy a few years earlier. He was completely taken by her and they married in June 1908.”

  “...in the Synagogue?”

  “...of course.”

  “And you came along, when…”

  “…on the 26th March 1910”

  “…and here you are, twenty-six years later, sitting in a café having coffee with a poor peasant from Aude.”

  “My mother was like your mother”, I continued, “She often sang songs from her childhood, beautiful songs from the land. I have never told anyone this but before I was born I heard her singing. I wasn’t aware she was singing a song and even less aware that it was coming from anywhere. I believed that I was the song. It was beautiful. So beautiful, I can still remember her voice.”

  “Can you still remember the song?”

  For a moment I resisted answering for I suspected she would ask me to sing it but her face was irresistible.

  “Yes.”

  “I would love to hear it”, she whispered.

  “Here?”

  “No, not here; maybe later when we are somewhere more private.”

  Somewhere more private! My anxiety returned, yet it was mixed with excitement and my desire for her. We continued trading stories. When Camille completed her course at the Conservatoire, she began working at the American Library before joining the company at L’Opera Comique. She had been singing in the chorus for two seasons when she auditioned for Carmen.

  “I never believed I would be successful. They had already chosen Cecilia for the role of Carmen and she was present at the audition. It was nerve-wrecking. I had to sing three songs and I selected, Parle-moi de ma mere from the show, Panis Angelicus by Franck and a song my mother taught me, Can vei la lauzeta mover.”

  “How did Cecilia react?”

  “The audition was a blur but I do recall she liked, Panis Angelicus. Anyway, they offered me the part of Micaela. I had just received the letter the morning you first saw me.”

  “I remember you reading it and ignoring me.”

  She frowned and then laughed.

  “Can I ask how you find Cecilia?” I enquired.

  Camille looked at me inquisitively.

  “She can be overwhelming at times...but more to the point Monsieur Politzer, how did you find her?”

  “I found her quite vulgar”, I replied.

  “Vulgar?”

  “Yes, her behaviour at La Coupole was unnecessary.”

  “Are you referring to her interrogation of you?” She emphasized the word, “interrogation”.

  “Yes. What was the point of it? I felt she derived pleasure from putting people down”

  “Oh, you can be sure of that. But did you not think she was beautiful?”

  “She was pretty, I guess.”

  “Oh Paul.” she laughed, “You guess? She is stunningly beautiful!”

  I began to smile nervously.

  “Yes, she is.”

  “And you were attracted to her...?”

  “...no, not at all.”

  She gave me a disapproving look.

  “All men are attracted to her Paul. She can read men with ease and she responds accordingly, sometimes charmingly, sometimes seductively. She will ignore them or attempt to embarrass them but whatever approach she chooses the outcome never changes.”

  “I did find her attractive”, I admitted, “but I also felt resentment and irritation.”

  “Because you felt she embarrassed you?”

  “She didn’t really know me and yet she appeared to judge me”.

  “She knows you now.”

  “She doesn’t know me. How could she? She doesn’t know what I like or dislike, doesn’t know what I think about or what is important to me.”

  “Oh Paul, women like her are not interested in what you like or think. They are only concerned with how you respond to them.”

  “You make it sound like I am someone she can hire.”

  “That is exactly what you are to her; a person who will satisfy a particular need. Let’s not talk about it anymore. I can see that you are upset. Would you like to go somewhere else?”

  “Somewhere more private?” I asked.

  “If you wish”, she replied without hesitation.

  We left the café. I was still sulking at the thought of being manipulated by Cecilia. Camille didn’t seem to notice because once in the street she linked my arm and leaned into my body.

  “Where are we going?” she enquired gently.

  “Maybe we could walk for a while.” I replied.

  “Oh, don’t be silly. Let’s return to your shop. I want to hear you sing.”

  She slipped her arm around my waist and I instinctively responded by placing mine around her shoulder and pulling her further towards me. The obvious attraction we shared for each other now became more palpable. I st
opped and faced her. She closed her eyes and raised her head. I looked at her briefly before kissing her.

  We almost ran to the shop and once inside she went straight to the back room. I was still locking the door when I heard her exclaim,

  “Oh!”

  Something was wrong and I rushed to assist her. When I entered the room she was standing in front of her portrait.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you to see that.”

  “You painted me? What were you going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. I just felt the desire to do it…”

  “…would I ever have seen it?”

  “Of course you would…”

  “...when.”

  “...I have no idea when”

  “When did you paint it...?”

  “...the morning after the performance.”

  She looked again at the painting. “You should have told me about it or at least warned me it was here before we arrived.”

  “I’m sorry Camille, I truly am. I never thought about it…”

  “...I must leave now.” She replied.

  She lifted the painting she had bought earlier and walked out of the shop without once looking at me.

  I returned to the café and began drinking cognac. Two hours later, I was having a very drunken conversation with someone called Jacques who said he was an off duty Gendarme.

  “Why did she leave, she knew I liked her, more than liked her, I kissed her?”

  “Women are such a mystery. Who knows? She was probably embarrassed. Don’t worry. Have another cognac.”

  I slumped on the table and raised the glass to my lips.

  “Here’s to embarrassing women...”

  We chatted for another hour and I have a vague recollection of Jacques introducing me to a woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to Cecilia. Night had fallen when I finally stumbled out of the café and towards my shop. Hanging on to my arm was the Cecilia lookalike. We literally fell through the door on to the floor and began fumbling with each other’s clothes. I also recall crawling with her towards the back room, stopping occasionally to plaster her with kisses.