Page 19 of The Last Restaurant in Paris

Gilbert’s fists clenched. ‘I’ll give the restaurant floor a mop now,’ he said, making his way to the broom cupboard.

‘Sounds good, afterwards you can help me peel potatoes,’ suggested Marianne.

Busch stepped backward with a smile. ‘You’re busy, I’ll leave you both to it. Just came by to give my congratulations,’ he said, leaving a copy of the newspaper on the counter. He tapped a finger on it. ‘I’ll get this framed for your wall – your first review!’

‘I’m honoured,’ said Marianne. ‘Thank you, General. See you tonight?’

‘Ah, regretfully, no – but tomorrow – yes, if you could set aside your biggest table, I’d be obliged. We have some important people newly arrived to the city.’

‘Certainly.’

In the third week that Luberon was open, they were finally paid a visit by locals. These were Gilbert’s mother and his brother, Henri, and their neighbour, Fleur Lambert, and her daughter, Lotte. Only they hadn’t precisely come on their own initiative. They’d been bullied into coming by Busch himself.

It was bad enough that Gilbert had to see the man at the restaurant most days, with his moon face, staring sloppily at Marianne, but Busch had come to Gilbert’s home to visit his mother after he’d helped to arrange a doctor’s visit.

‘It’s ironic,’ said Gilbert’s mother, Berthe, on the day they waited for the doctor to arrive, ‘I might have a heart attack due to the stress of having him visit before he even comes to check my heart. Feel it,’ she’d added, pressing Gilbert’s hand to the centre of her chest, which was racing.

‘Mum,’ he said, wincing, taking his hand back.

His little brother, Henri, twelve with bright red hair and deep green eyes, was adding to the bald patches in the hall rug with his constant pacing. His small, freckled hands balled into fists. ‘He shouldn’t be coming here. It’s too much to have them come here. Isn’t it enough that they’ve taken over the whole city – will they take our homes next?’

Berthe looked at her younger son, and snorted. ‘You don’t think they already have?’

Henri blinked. ‘I thought they were staying in hotels.’

She shook her head. ‘Not all of them. Some families are sharing their apartments. How did you not know that?’

‘Mum, enough,’ snapped Gilbert. Henri was tightly wound up as it was. He took a deep breath and tried to defuse the situation. ‘And don’t worry, that’s not what is going to happen. It’s just a doctor’s visit. That’s all.’

‘You don’t know that,’ said Berthe.

‘Yes, how can you know that?’ echoed Henri.

‘I just do.’

When the doctor had arrived, promptly at eleven in the morning, they were all bickering and his mother was clutching her heart in an alarming way.

The man Gilbert showed into the living room wasn’t who they had imagined. Someone with horns, perhaps. He was a tall, thin man, with a tired face and kind hazel eyes. While most Germans seemed to do everything fast – walk, talk, eat – he seemed to move slowly, like he was taking his time, with his words, his thoughts. It was calming.

‘Good morning,’ he greeted, in a gentle, soft voice, doffing his hat, respectfully, as Gilbert led him inside their flat where his mother was waiting in the living room. ‘I am Doctor Cordeau.’ He made his way to Berthe’s side.

He spoke good French, with an Alsatian accent.

His mother, of course, jumped on that straightaway. She sat up in her pink armchair, her green eyes turning to skewers. While he took out his stethoscope and prepared to do his examination, she did the same.

‘You’re from Alsace?’ she asked, brow raised.

‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘I grew up there, just on the border. This might be a little cold,’ he said, indicating the metal part of the stethoscope. ‘If you could open the top of your blouse just slightly I will have a listen. Do you have trouble breathing?’

‘Sometimes. Which town was it?’

‘Colmar. When do you find it hard to breathe – first thing in the morning, or perhaps at night?’

‘Oh, beautiful, with the half-timbered houses and the canals,’ she sighed wistfully. ‘German now, I believe?’ she said, then answered his question. ‘And whenever I’m lying down.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and his face was sad too.

His mother let out a sigh of relief. He was, like them, just an unfortunate man caught up in an unfortunate war.

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