originally published in Ophelia’s Muse May 2002
Lamps sputtered against dank subterranean air as he squinted at the papers. Fuel fumes stirred a bouillabaisse of tobacco, coffee, soup, sweat and mildew. The muted breath of those around him sounded more distant than the trickle of sewers beyond the chamber walls.
“I’ll be dammed,” Bradley muttered in English.
Six of the surviving members of Etienne duMarche’s Resistance cell exchanged uncertain grins; they might not understand his words, but the American’s tone sounded promising.
Michelle, who’d learned quite a bit about his language--among other things--over the past months, bumped Bradley with her hip. “I did o-kay, no?” she asked in halting English.
Bradley slipped an arm around her. ‘
Cherie
, you did
tres bien,
’ he chuckled in French.
‘Eh, then I
merite
more than a hug,’ Michelle declared. She kissed him with fevered familiarity, much to the ribald amusement of their comrades. Only basset eyed Etienne grunted sourly.
‘So, we broadcast tonight?’
Bradley shook his head. ‘We can’t risk being on the air long enough to send this,’ he replied. ‘Enough good people have been lost to
le Cameleon.
’
Growled curses greeted mention of the German agent who ruthlessly preyed upon the city’s freedom fighters.
‘Which means?’ Michelle demanded.
‘Which means,’ Bradley took a deep breath, ‘I’ll have to take this out myself.’
Michelle stalked silently from the room. The others shuffled awkwardly, looked at Etienne who nodded.
Andre polished his glasses. ‘I’ll get started on your papers.’
‘Give me your coat and those documents,’ said Emily, a cheery middle-aged woman as adept with needle as she was with sniper’s rifle. ‘You should get some rest,’ she added with a nod after Michelle.
Bradley looked at Etienne.
‘Go,’ he said gruffly. ‘We’ll let them know you’re coming.’
Bradley nodded gratefully. He ducked down the cramped corridor to the niche he shared with Michelle. Candlelight softly illuminated her whippet wiry form from behind. She stiffened as Bradley embraced her.
‘War’s a pig,’ she said after a time, ‘devouring everything, turning it to
merde
.’
She turned to Bradley. ‘Why? Why do men feel obliged to destroy all that is good, is beautiful? Is it only
ennui
that creates art and music and love in times between so they can tear it all down again?'
Reflected in Michelle’s moist brown eyes, Bradley saw the same need he had, to believe reality was more than gaping wounds upon lands and bodies. ‘Even during war there’s still art and music,” he said. ‘And love. It’s those that matter, what anchors us until the winds of hell pass.’
Michelle put a finger to his lips. ‘Words,’ she said, ‘we are full of words, are we not? We who have no idea what tomorrow will bring. It is not words I need now.’
Their lips met, parted slowly. Tongues waltzed with deliberate intimacy while fingers unfastened, as if of their own instincts, buttons and zippers, belts and hooks.
Michelle drew him to the bed. Bradley stretched over her. His eager cock glided through her pubic down, along the soft rise of her belly, yet he did not hasten. For as Michelle had learned from him, he had learned from her.
Faire l’amour
, she’d taught him, was more than mere fucking. His lips found the tender places behind her ears and jaw in their voyage along her throat. Michelle combed through the hair of Bradley’s broad chest, trailed nails along the ridges of his stomach, caressed his engorged shaft.
She purred as Bradley nuzzled her breasts, stretched her arms above her head. His kisses became moister, tenderly sucking as he moved along the tautened mounds. Michelle gasped as he suckled her, probed his tongue around the aureole of each hard nipple.
Michelle arched as the first tremors of release trickled through her. Bradley roamed her trembling flesh to her protruding navel, rolled the small bulb of natal flesh between his lips. She moaned softly as the current of her orgasm surged stronger still.
His mouth moved to her lower belly. Bradley’s chin brushed her dark thatch; his breath caused the curls to sway. Michelle’s slender fingers spread herself as Bradley drew his tongue between her outer and inner lips.
He teased the reclusive clitoris from its hood, sipped her into his mouth. Michelle writhed as Bradley sucked, light flickers of tongue upon her exposed knob. Her hands convulsively clutched his hair, drew him upwards. They kissed hungrily as Michelle guided him into her slick and silken warmth. Waves of pleasure closed her eyes, rippled along Bradley’s cock. He held her without moving as she bathed in the feeling of fullness.
Before her spasms ebbed, Bradley’s hips began to rise and fall, each stroke a little longer, a little stronger. Michelle wrapped her legs around his waist and met his thrusts with equal vigor. Together they rode mounting waves into a fiercely tender tsunami, the tightening that holds time still, the ecstatic drowning in the inevitable flood.
#
Bradley’s eyes opened. Gently, he untangled from Michelle’s embrace. She sighed sleepily and rolled over.
He slipped on his trousers, retrieved pistol and flashlight from beneath the bed. Cautiously, Bradley moved aside the blanket that served as curtain.
‘It’s Andre.’ He blinked at the sudden light. ‘Etienne says it’s time’
Bradley nodded. Andre handed him the identification papers. By flashlight, he scanned them quickly but closely. Bradley grinned. ‘
Parfait
as always.’
Andre smiled hesitantly, clasped Bradley’s hand. ‘In case we do not see each other again,
bon chance.
’
‘And you as well,
mon ami.
’
Andre bobbed his head once, then scurried down the corridor.
Michelle was sitting on the edge of the bed when Bradley returned. ‘I heard.’
They dressed quickly. As Bradley reached for his undershirt, Michelle put her hand over his. ‘Leave it,’ she said, ‘it smells of you.’
Bradley touched her face. ‘I will be back for you,’ he said, ‘then we will be together. Always.’
Michelle smiled sadly, kissed Bradley’s palm. ‘Together,’ she whispered. ‘
pour toujours.
’
#
Etienne glanced up from the chessboard as they entered the main chamber. He pointed his finger at Bradley, nodded towards the space he shared with Emily.
‘Just you,
Americain.
’
Bradley looked at Michelle. She shrugged, gave his hand a squeeze. Bradley disappeared down the corridor Etienne had indicated.
Bradley noticed a chessboard beside the bed as he entered the room. He chuckled. Etienne’s obsession with the game--Bradley could imagine Emily enduring endless lectures on the subject--bordered on fanaticism. On this board, king’s pawn had opened two spaces forward to create egress for queen and king’s bishop. Bradley felt tempted to answer the gambit when he heard raised voices.
The loudest seemed to be Etienne’s. Bradley thought he also heard Michelle, but he couldn’t discern the words. He started to leave the room when Etienne burst in, face flushed a dark red.
Without preamble, Etienne related the instructions received from the night’s broadcast. He had Bradley repeat them until he felt satisfied the American had committed them to memory.
‘Anything else I should know?’ Bradley asked.
Etienne hesitated, then shook his head and turned to the chessboard. With a shrug, Bradley left.
Michelle wasn’t in the main chamber. Puzzled, Bradley looked in their room. No Michelle and, Bradley noted absently, no undershirt. Instead, Emily greeted him with a sympathetic smile.
‘Michelle left this for you.” She handed Bradley a folded paper. Bradley read:
Bien-amie,
I wish I could have said this in person, but I’ve been sent
above ground to help prepare your way. Please know, I
will wait for you. So I say not good-bye, but until we meet
again.
Stay safe,
Michelle
Bradley’s throat tightened. He nodded at Emily, not trusting himself to speak. She seemed to understand as she handed him the coat. Not even the faintest rustle betrayed the documents sewn within its lining. Bradley scooped up the identification papers and tucked them into a pocket.
‘Let’s go.’
Bradley followed Emily and her cloth covered basket as she unerringly wove the maze of tunnels. They emerged through a panel behind the confessional of a small church. The old priest paused from lighting candles long enough to give them a silent blessing.
Emily tucked her arm through Bradley’s, as a mother might a son, as they strolled through the chill dawn. Vichy policemen showed them scant attention. Emily pecked Bradley on the cheek, then disappeared into the bakery she operated as a cover for Resistance operations. A German soldier rode up on a motorcycle, dismounted and pushed past Bradley into the shop. Bradley slowly exhaled, then continued on his way.
#
When the telephone rang that early morning in German headquarters, SS Colonel Fredrick Horst was waiting.
‘He’s on his way,’ was all Horst heard before the line went dead.
Horst immediately dialed a number and asked to speak with his aide. The plan was simple, Horst thought, but he was taking no chances.
#
Though the ticket office had yet to open, Vichy and German guards--some with dogs--patrolled the growing queue of passengers. Bradley maintained a stolid expression, hands firmly in his pockets.
A dog snarled beside him. Bradley slowly turned to face the flat serpentine stare of an SS Lieutenant and a German soldier with leash in one hand, machine gun in the other.
‘Your papers.’
Bradley protested, as they’d expect, even as he unbuttoned his coat. His perspiring palm pressed against the middle button while he reached for the demanded documents.
The officer almost appeared bored as he thumbed through the forged identification. Yet, Bradley noticed the man’s ice blue eyes widen momentarily.
