“Good afternoon,” Monsieur Normand said as she finished her tour and approached his counter. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
“Bonjour,” she answered. Seeing how his smile widened, she continued on in French, explaining that Mademoiselle Davide had sent her, that she was in need of one hundred grams of green olives, the same amount of prunes, about twenty-five grams of fennel seed, and—although she knew it was a rarity indeed—something that might impart the flavor of fresh orange peel. With his every nod her heart lightened. He even found some dried orange zest for her, apologizing in advance for its elderly state.
“I do not think it will taste much of anything,” he said after taking a sniff, “but it is better than nothing.” He refused to take anything for the pinch of orange zest he’d given her, and only asked one shilling and sixpence for the other items.
She shook his hand, thanked him several times for his kindness, and tucked her purchases into her bag. Feeling in need of refreshment, she followed her nose down the street to an Italian café. It was amazing how restorative a few gulps of coffee could be. Hot, bracingly black, and pleasingly bitter, it lifted her spirits far more effectively than the insipid cups of tea so beloved by her English friends.
She paid for the coffee and took out her fare for the Tube ride home, tucking the coins in her coat pocket so she wouldn’t have to dig for them later. As she did so, her fingers brushed against something. It was the business card, now rather battered, of the man she and Ann had met on their way home from the dance hall a few weeks before. Walter Kaczmarek.
Unbidden, a single thought dropped into her mind. She had liked him. Liked him despite not wishing to like him. There had been something compelling about the man, impossible to measure in words alone, and she realized, abruptly, that she badly wanted to see him again.
She took out her A to Z and searched for Fleet Street. It wasn’t far away at all—a half hour’s walk, if that. She stood at the counter of the café for a long while, her gaze flitting between Mr. Kaczmarek’s card and the place on the map, half-hidden by her forefinger, that marked the location of his office. And then, for the first time in living memory, Miriam threw caution to the wind.
Tucking the card back in her pocket, she walked down the street to a phone box by the corner. After inserting her pennies, she dialed the number and waited for someone to answer.
“Good morning, Picture Weekly,” a cheery voice said in her ear. And then, after a long pause, “Good morning? Hello?”
Of course. She had to press the button to deposit the coins and complete the connection. “Good morning. I would like to speak to Mr. Kacz—”
“To Kaz? Of course. May I furnish him with your name?”
“Yes, if you wish. It is Miriam Dassin.”
“Please hold the line.”
A few seconds, no more, and then the clatter of someone picking up a receiver. “Miss Dassin. What a pleasant surprise. May I hope you’ve decided to take me up on my offer of lunch?”
“Only if you are not occupied. I have been shopping nearby. At least I believe it is not far—the market of Spitalfields?”
“Then you’re quite close indeed. There are some decent pubs near the market, but the food isn’t what I’d call inspired. Do you like fish?”
“I do,” she said, and then, cautiously, “I assume you do not speak of fish and chips.”
“No, this place is several steps up from your typical chippie. Do you have a pencil to write down the address? Yes? It’s called Sweetings. Thirty-nine Queen Victoria Street. The easiest route is south along Bishopsgate, then, at the point where it branches into two, stay on the right. That’s Threadneedle Street. When you get to the intersection at Bank Street, continue straight ahead onto Queen Victoria Street. Sweetings will be on your left. What time suits you?”
“I have finished my errands. Any time is convenient.”
“And I’m just finishing my day here, so you’ve caught me at the perfect time. It should take you twenty minutes to walk there. Shall we say half an hour? Just to be on the safe side?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I’ll wait outside. à tout à l’heure,” he finished, his accent surprisingly good.
She had walked along Bishopsgate on her way to the market, so it should be an easy matter to find it again by heading in a general southwest direction. She set off down the street, holding her bag close to her chest as she shouldered her way through the crowds. It seemed as if half of London had decided to do their weekly shopping at the market.