The Last Time I Saw Paris Read Online Free PDF Page B

eyes, the soft face, the slender frame. It had to be her. Martin, she realized, didn’t look much different. His hair was darker, but he wore the same thin mustache even then. The boy was about seven, Claire thought. His blazing smile highlighted a missing tooth.
    “Your son?”
    “Michele.” Her face twisted and she glanced at Martin.
    He didn’t take his eyes from the road but lightly stroked Adele’s shoulder.
    “A soldier. He was called in a month ago. To protect the border in the Ardennes.” Adele stared out at the passing road. “These people flee to the south. But Michele will come to Paris. He will come home. And we will be there waiting.”
    Martin gripped the wheel tighter.
    They traveled in silence for the next few hours. Progress slowed as the car maneuvered through clumps of weary people walking, bicycling and pulling carts. They finally pulled over and parked under the shade of tall elms out of sight from the road. Claire stretched as Adele rummaged through a wicker basket and Martin pulled the gasoline can from the trunk. A blanket was spread over a carpet of leaves. Adele put out plates, glasses, a bottle of wine. She unrolled a sandwich wrapped in white paper and deftly cut small finger-sized pieces.
    “Madame Harris?” Adele patted the blanket next to her and held out a plate.
    Legs folded beneath her on the blanket, Claire gratefully took a bite. Her teeth crunched through the bread’s thick crust. Inside a thick slice of soft cheese, a cut of herbed chicken, a slice of tomato. A sip of red wine to wash it down. The earthy flavors melted against her tongue. She breathed deep and smiled. Better than every spoonful of Russian caviar she’d served at her party three nights ago.
    Martin closed the hood and joined them. A quick meal and the little car pulled back onto the road, fighting its way upstream. Night descended and still they drove. Claire pulled her fur close, leaned back and stared at the stars until her eyes closed.
    The rising sun woke her. Claire squinted, rubbing at the stiffness in her neck. Martin had driven all night. The road had grown more crowded, rustic farmland gave way to great expanses of cultivated fields. A large château towered in the distance. They rested a moment next to a wooded stream and took quick walks into the trees before splashing water on their tired faces and climbing back in the car.
    “How much farther to Paris?” Claire said.
    Adele looked at Martin then shrugged. “Not far, but . . .”
    They passed through a city. Orleans. The car slowed to a crawl, nudging through families with carts, pulling goats and horses, then urban travelers, stumbling along in wool suits and dragging suitcases or bursting out of cars filled to the roof with trunks.
    They crested a knoll. Beyond the rolling hills, tiny villages and steeples; in the far distance, a grey line of buildings interrupted the horizon. Claire knew instinctively it was Paris. Her breath caught in her throat.
    By midday they entered the outskirts. Heavy traffic in all directions snarled the small convertible. Martin slowed, then stopped. A concrete barrier had been erected across the road. Dust carts were locked together on each side. A line of policemen in blue uniforms stood behind the makeshift barricade, smoking cigarettes. Claire watched as Adele and Martin shared a look. This was Paris’s line of defense? Martin reversed the car; they turned off onto a side street.
    Claire’s attention was drawn to the Parisians themselves. Men in fine wool suits and ties, women in gloves and felt hats pulled, just so, over one eye. They had a certain walk; it reminded Claire of the models in New York. But their expressions were too hard, their pace too fast.
    The car scraped behind a newspaper stand and turned into an alley. Martin pulled the brake and switched off the ignition. They sat for a moment then slid out of the car.
    “Can you find your way from here?” Adele asked.
    “Of course.” Claire examined