moon.â
âDo we do that for everyone whose brothers have been killed?â
âNo, not at all. But Duncan knew a lot about SC2âhe devised some of our codes. We couldnât risk him revealing what he knew.â
âSo it wasnât really about his mother and his brothers?â
âThat was an added bonus.â
She was silent for a while as the flames flickered behind her. âThatâs not how Duncan sees it. He says you saved both his and his motherâs life.â
I smiled. âPeople in the field have to know that everything will be done to support them. Thatâs why Duncan told youâto ink it into your mind.â I gestured to her frock.
âI like your dress.â
âAll I have with me is two pairs of slacks, two blouses, two skirts, and this frock. It was the frockâs turn.â She gave a slight shiver. âIâm thawing out at last.â
âWhen youâve finished here, and move down to London, we shall fityou out in French-style clothes, with French labels, in French sizesâcentimetres, not inches. Inches would be a giveaway.â
âI canât wait. Iâm tired of looking dowdy.â
âOh, Iâm not sure French wartime styles are any better than ours. Donât get your hopes up.â
âA girlâs not going to be seen in Paris withoutâ¦without showing a bit ofâ¦flair.â
âHow do you know you are going to Paris?â
She made a face. âSpoilsport! Bordeaux, then, or Lyon, or Louzac, for that matter.
All
French women are fashion-conscious.â
âLouzac?â
âWhere my father came from. Have you forgotten already?â
Madeleine looked up at me and smiled. Skin as smooth as eggshell, brown eyes as I said before, a brown-gold that reminded me of whisky (a lot of things remind me of whisky), and a furrow between her eyebrows, making it look as if she was always about to break out in a frown. But, after her hair, the fringes of which glinted in the light from the fire, it was her neck that caught the eye. It was long, curved, like that of a newborn foal. It carried her head like a swanâsâthe way she held herself she reminded me of a ballet dancer.
âIâve never been to Paris,â she said sadly. âI love the Paris scenes in that new film,
Casablanca
, where Bogart and Bergman begin their affair, driving around in an open-topped car before the Germans invade. But maybe Iâll never go.â
âOf course, you will. If you didnât have such eye-catching hair, youâd look a bit like Ingrid Bergman, so itâs only fitting that you go. Youâll love it, the cobblestonesâespecially when they are wetâthe street lights, the smell of the Métro, the Grands Boulevards, with their chestnut trees, and the sidewalk cafés with their waiters in long black aprons, the way they wash their streets with running water that disappears into gutters. Not even the Germans can have ruined Paris.â
âAre you always so nice about the Germans?â
âI can be, yes. Are all Germans Nazis, do you think? I donât.â
She shrugged. âWhen I was a young girl, I wanted to be a dancer. I had a few lessons, got accepted by a dance school, then a small ballet troupe. I loved it but then I twisted my kneeâbadlyâI tore all sorts of ligaments and muscles, and it never recovered completely. It ruined my hopes and I had to give up dance. I was heartbroken.â
She moved further from the fire. âIâm telling you this because we are talking about Germans and I once read that Leni Riefenstahl started out as a dancer; then she too damaged her knee and had to give up. And look what happened to herâshe turned to acting, then made those documentaries. Is she a Nazi, or not? They say she wasâand maybe still isâHitlerâs lover. She fascinates me.â
âI wonder what the Germans think of
Learning to Kill: Stories