Resistance

Marcel rests his head against crumbling plaster, perched on an uneven stool in the corner of a room. His naked body is tense against the cold with his legs crossed and his hands wedged in-between his thighs. Sinking into himself he watches teardrops darting down a windowpane and floats into a blurry daze as a chill drives through the room. Whispers from a kettle begin to swell.

“Yvette… Yvette”. He raises his voice in search of a response. “Yvette!”.

“Shut up!”. His body jolts as a sharp bite returns from dark.

Yvette heads to the stovetop and pours hot water into a teapot. She pulls a silk dressing gown flush against her body with arms crossed revealing a slim figure. Lumps protrude at her joints. She’s lost weight. Cut above her shoulders with a clenched fist and a sharp knife her hair is matted and ununiform. Her face shows a history of damage with a dominant scar down a hollowed cheek. She notices Marcel naked and bent unto himself in the corner of the room.

“Get changed”. Her tone draws little reaction from Marcel although he lowers his gaze towards the floor like a soft pup. Yvette breathes a soft sigh from her nose. She glides towards him collecting a heavy patchwork quilt, bending down and resting it over his shoulders from behind.

“You are cold” she whispers.

“It IS cold”. Marcel replies, in a matter-of-fact way.

“So then get changed”. She returns to the stovetop and pours out two cups of chicory coffee whilst letting the steam bring warmth and moisture to her face. She sets the teapot aside and watches coffee swirl as the room returns to a soft ensemble of wind and rain, the occasional rumble of what should be thunder echoes in the distance. Marcel think’s that it could be something else. Yvette pays it no attention.

“I miss Milou”.

Sat in what’s left of a wrinkled armchair Yvette lifts her eyes from the teacup that she has pressed against her bottom lip.

“What...?”

“I miss Milou…” Marcel repeats himself using a heightened tone.

“You miss… your dog?”. The pause in response is deliberate although she knows it’s intent will be lost on him. Even as he turns to face… her furrowed brow does not register.

“He used to love this weather… wet and windy. My mother would be outside of herself when we’d rip through the house leaving traces of our walk all over her Persians!”. He pushes his words through a soft reminiscent smile. The room is dimly lit with scattered candles. One beside Yvette casts shadows across her wooden face. No response. Marcels gaze returns to the grey.

“Yes, I miss Milou and his bark”. The sounds of outside return to the room now more intrusive. Rain taps at the windowsill and winds mimic ocean waves lapping at shoreline. Yvettes’ thoughts begin to get the better of her. She wonders why she’s here with Marcel and then can’t remember how they met again. How old is he? A memory arrives albeit brief. It’s him as a child playing with her brother. Her brother was at least 10 years her younger so Marcel should be around 20. Or was he younger? There is an obvious age gap even moreso apparent right now. She feels a bit sick and then forgets to care.

Yvette finds that she tends to look down on him because he seems somewhat untainted by this vicious world. She wonders if in another life she might have given him more of herself, but a voice tells her that he’s weak and naïve and that it’s just sex. She recounts the first time she recognised him in Brasserie One whilst doing a drop off of an intelligence package. She was still working when she approached him after powdering her nose and adjusting her cleavage. She was thicker back then and it easy for her to entice him into meeting her again the next day and a few days after that. His family were wealthy and well known in the city his father an intendant in the Police Nationale of the Vichy regime. Marcel had been on the radar of the local resistance as a possible asset to turn his father and so she had initially been ordered not to engage, but it was decided after the bastards occupied the city with more force that his father was a domestic threat and would be executed. She met him three times before accepting that he was utterly inept. He hadn’t shaken his childlike characteristics given that because of his family name his day-to-day life had not really changed, despite a war that had ripped all normality from the lives of most. She met him a fourth time because just for a moment she found him to be somewhat endearing. The fifth time was after his father had been executed and she wanted to see if she would feel any emotion in his company for the part that she had played in it. She didn’t. The sixth time they had sex. This was all over a month ago and she’d only seen him a few times since but it frustrated her that she would allow herself the company of someone she actually disliked and yet when he would knock, she would answer.

“You used to ride horses?’’ Marcel interrupts her thoughts as he turns again to face her in the dark. She wished he’d stop talking.

“I used to go to the cinema, I used to swim naked in rivers, I used to dance…”.

“So you do miss some things then?”

“How can I miss memories that I choose to forget”. Yvette’s reply makes Marcel feel uncomfortable.

“Well… I still miss Milou”.

The sound of tyres coming to a halt on wet gravel has Marcel suddenly on his feet with his back pinned against the wall as he awkwardly peers down at the street. He’s panicked but takes a step back and calms himself turning to face Yvette as the truck slowly pulls away.

“Passing by” he says with an air of relief. Yvette takes another sip of her coffee.

The evening has passed now and still the rain persists. The first winter storm of the year comes as a force of nature sweeping through the district and dragging in its wake a bleaker environment. Yvette never has to tell Marcel when to leave he can usually sense the writings on the wall but today he may have overstayed his welcome in an attempt to navigate the downpour. Collecting his clothes from the bedroom he heads back to the window and places them neatly on the stool. He hoped she might ask him to stay.

“What will you do tomorrow? I could come around again in the evening to see you” He continues in the hope he might say something that suddenly makes Yvette pay attention to him. It happened once before and made him feel good for a while.

“Tomorrow my mother is hosting a lunch for the regional intendant Marchais and Klaus the new head of the protection squads in the free zone. I could probably get a seat at the table you know…maybe I’ll hear something worthwhile.” If only Marcel was alluding to the passing of information. He wasn’t, he was trying to boast. Yvette was numb to him. She knew that for a start he would never have a seat at that table. His own family knew better than any of his inability to take anything seriously and so kept him at a distance. They didn’t even let him work in the textile factory anymore after he watched a printing machine run dry and ruin some very hard to come by stencils. The Klaus he referred to was a butcher; Klaus Barbie the head of the Gestapo not any protection squads. Further to that, she knew about this meeting weeks ago and was also aware that it had been cancelled with Klaus delayed in Le Puy where he had travelled for a hunt. Yvette recognised some of the names that had been caught in his raids and heard through the lines that screams from their torture had echoed round the back streets of Le Puy like fox shrieks throughout the night.

“Enjoy your meal.”

“You know you don’t have to worry. There are people working to fix things. My father was always talking about the resistance groups… combat groups in the shadows. The war will end soon and you’ll have to start living again. The Allies will come. You don’t have to be scared. We’re not alone.”

“ WE?...We are not anything” She speaks clear and direct. How he’s never had an inkling of what she does is beyond her. He’s a complete idiot she thinks. Or maybe she’s just really good at doing what she does. Noticing she’d taken offence to his previous comment he crosses the room now fully dressed in an attempt to bridge the gap and salvage the night.

“I’m sorry”. He tries to take her hand but she abruptly pulls it back. He moves away picking up his cold cup of coffee still sat untouched on the counter and drinks it in one.

Stairs groan under foot as they make their way out of the apartment. Marcels’ head is bowed and his posture lacks confidence. He is usually carefree in his own world but after seeing Yvette he always seems to leave feeling less of himself. She doesn’t usually care about his feelings but when it’s visibly apparent to her that she’s affecting his well-being she thinks she’s being unfair and it makes her feel something. She doesn’t like the awkwardness. As he walks out of the door, she immediately goes to shut it behind him just as Marcel turns to face her.

“ I love y…”. Yvette closes the door cutting him off mid-sentence. For a moment she pauses with her face scrunched. Her hand hovers over the door handle. She realises that it’s his innocence she’s drawn to and that she’s selfishly ripping it from him for no reason other than that her own has been ripped from her. She swallows the lump in her throat and turns her back disappearing upstairs into the dark. She’ll see him again next week.