Sarah's Key by Tatiana De Rosnay Read Free Book Online Page A

door.
    “Guillaume?” I mouthed at Hervé.
    “Our new pal. Does something in advertising. Divorced. Bright boy. You’ll like him. He’s our only guest. Everyone else is out of town because of the long weekend.”
    The man who entered the room was tall, dark, in his late thirties. He was carrying a wrapped scented candle and roses.
    “This is Julia Jarmond,” said Christophe. “Our very dear journalist friend from a long, long time ago when we were young.”
    “Which was merely yesterday,” murmured Guillaume, in true gallant French fashion.
    I tried to keep an easy smile on my face, aware of Hervé’s inquiring eyes moving to me from time to time. It was odd, because usually I would have confided in Hervé. I would have told him how strange I had been feeling for the past week. And the business with Bertrand. I had always put up with Bertrand’s provocative, sometimes downright nasty sense of humor. It had never hurt me. It had never bothered me. Until now. I used to admire his wit, his sarcasm. It had made me love him all the more.
    People laughed at his jokes. They were even a little afraid of him. Behind the irresistible laugh, the twinkling blue-gray eyes, the charming smile, was a tough, demanding man who was used to getting what he wanted. I had put up with it because he made up to me every time, every time he realized he had hurt me, he showered me with gifts, flowers, and passionate sex. In bed was probably the only place Bertrand and I truly communicated, the only place where nobody dominated the other. I remember Charla saying to me once, after witnessing a particularly sharp tirade delivered by my husband, “Is this creep ever
nice
to you?” And watching my face slowly redden, “Jesus. I get the picture. Pillow talk. Actions speak louder than words.” And she had sighed and patted my hand. Why hadn’t I opened up to Hervé tonight? Something held me back. Something sealed my lips.
    Once seated around the octagonal marble table, Guillaume asked me what newspaper I worked for. When I told him, his face remained blank. I wasn’t surprised. French people had never heard of
Seine Scenes.
It was mostly read by Americans living in Paris. That didn’t bother me; I had never craved fame. I was content with a well-paid job that kept my hours relatively free, despite Joshua’s occasional despotism.
    “And what are you writing about at the present?” asked Guillaume politely, twisting green pasta around his fork.
    “The Vel’ d’Hiv’,” I said. “The sixtieth commemoration is coming up.”
    “You mean that roundup during the war?” asked Christophe, his mouth full.
    I was about to answer him when I noticed that Guillaume’s fork had stopped halfway between his plate and his mouth.
    “Yes, the big roundup at the Vélodrome d’Hiver,” I said.
    “Didn’t that take place somewhere out of Paris?” Christophe went on, munching away.
    Guillaume had put his fork down, quietly. Somehow his eyes had locked onto mine. He had dark eyes, a sensitive, fine mouth.
    “It was the Nazis, I believe,” said Hervé, pouring out more Chardonnay. Neither of them seemed to have noticed Guillaume’s tight face. “The Nazis who arrested Jews during the Occupation.”
    “Actually, it wasn’t the Germans—,” I began.
    “It was the French police,” interrupted Guillaume. “And it happened in the middle of Paris. In a stadium which used to house famous bike races.”
    “Really?” asked Hervé. “I thought it was the Nazis, in the suburbs.”
    “I’ve been researching this for the past week,” I said. “German orders, yes, but French police action. Weren’t you taught this in school?”
    “I can’t remember. I don’t think so,” admitted Christophe.
    Guillaume’s eyes, looking at me again, as if he were drawing something out of me, probing me. I felt perturbed.
    “It’s quite amazing,” said Guillaume, with an ironic smile, “the number of French people who still don’t know what happened.