Page 91 of The Velvet Hours
My eyes met hers. “I’m sure you haven’t.”
“Now, shall we go?” She gestured toward the door. “Giselle mentioned the marzipans were on the counter.”
I went into the kitchen and found a gilt-colored box with a red satin bow.
Returning to the hallway, I asked Grandmother how Gisellealways managed to find the best provisions, when nearly every shelf in Paris was bare.
“Jean-Luc,” she said, and a sly smile appeared on her lips. “It’s convenient to have a brother in the black market.”
***
It was nearly five o’clock when we arrived at the Armels’ apartment. Marthe had shunned taking the Métro, and so we arrived by taxi.
“It’s hardly a coach,” she said as I shut the door behind us. “How times have changed.”
“Indeed, not a horse in sight.” I laughed as we both stepped onto the curb.
I looked up at the tall stone facade of the Armels’ apartment building. The carved pillars that flanked the large wooden door.
“I’ve never even been outside Paris,” I said softly.
I paused in front of the buzzer to their apartment, hesitating for a moment before I announced we had arrived.
I was slightly embarrassed by my lack of worldly exposure, in contrast to my grandmother.
But Marthe took the opportunity to show me that the space between us was not as wide as I imagined. She touched my wrist slightly, saying: “And I have only been to Venice, the city where I first took my name.”
46.
April 1940
As we stepped into the Armels’ apartment, I no longer inhaled the smell of books, but rather the warm scent of simmering onions.
“I’m so pleased you both could join us,” Monsieur Armel said with great exuberance.
I saw Grandmother’s eyes travel inside. Sitting at the table were two little children, a boy no older than six and a girl that looked a few years older, perhaps nine.
For a moment, I was seized with a sense of alarm. In all of the excitement of the past two days, I had forgotten to tell Marthe that we would not be the Armels’ only guests.
I could see Grandmother stiffen at the sight of the children. The playful excitement that had laced the air since we had left her apartment suddenly vanished.
Monsieur Armel noticed Marthe’s look of bewilderment.
“Didn’t Solange tell you?” He smiled warmly. “We’re being joined by a colleague of mine, Solomon Weckstein, and his two young children, Eva and Leo. His wife is in the kitchen trying to help save my poor attempt to make a chicken.” He laughed. “I’m lucky the butcher couldn’t get me a lamb, as who knows how I would have ruined that.”
“You must pardon me, Monsieur Armel. Suddenly, I am feeling quite unwell.”
I looked at Marthe. She was shaking.
“She has been a bit under the weather recently,” I apologized as I took my grandmother’s arm. I felt its thinness beneath the silk material of her blouse, and her fragility sent a pang through my heart. I suddenly regretted that I encouraged her to leave the house.
“Come, please sit down...” Alex took Marthe’s arm and ushered her to the living room.
She was white as a gull. She turned toward me as Alex escorted her across the hall. I read the expression on her face as though she was hoping I might be able to save her from something.
“Can we go?” she whispered. “I thought it would only be us this evening...”
I was still holding the box of marzipan. The red ribbon had come undone against my nervous hands.
