It was surreal, this place where she suddenly found herself. One bathed in opulence and means, while so many in Lisbon lined up around the embassy and languished in front of cafés.
“Ah, James.” A tall, slender man approached them, his thin dark brown hair swept neatly to the side, his skin tanned a healthy gold from the beach that was only a short walk from the hotel. “Who is this lovely creature at your side?” He spoke with a heavy French accent.
“This is Miss Harper.” James indicated her first, then the man. “And this is Monsieur Blanchet.”
The man took her hand and kissed the back. “Enchanté.”
“Miss Harper is the woman I mentioned,” James said.
“Ah, oui.” Monsieur Blanchet nodded. “La bibliothécaire américaine.”
The American librarian.
James casually lifted a finger at someone across the room. “Do excuse me a moment.”
“By all means,” Monsieur Blanchet said smoothly.
James glided off, leaving Ava with the Frenchman.
“It is a strange place, is it not?” he asked in French as he surveyed the room. “What is your opinion of all this?”
“It appears to be a glimpse of heaven amid the hell of war,” Ava responded back in French.
“A glimpse?” His brows rose.
She had given offense. “Pardon, Monsieur Blanchet. I only mean that it is so small a place in times such as ours.”
“Please,” he said genially, “call me Lamant. And you are not wrong, so I am not offended. You needn’t worry.” He cocked his head. “This is a mirage, a shimmering promise on the horizon that disappears once you grow closer. I was curious on your opinion on the matter.”
“Well, that’s it exactly.” Ava looked at the room again, at the hip bones jutting through silk gowns, at the strain lining men’s smiles, at the heavy pours of amber liquid into the cut crystal glasses. “It doesn’t seem real.”
“It is not,” Lamant agreed. “We all left our homes where we were starving. We are here until we no longer have the money to afford a room, biding our time for visas and passes as generations of inheritances trickle through our fingers like sand through an hourglass. We are safe, yes, but for how long?”
The rhetorical question lingered in the air between them, neither having an answer despite both wishing they did.
“James said I would like you and he was not wrong,” Lamant said. “I have something I think you will find interesting. Something that may help. There are newspapers printed beneath that preposterous mustache of Hitler’s. Men and women who risk their lives to publish the truth. I brought them with me from Lyon when I was smuggled out and have been wanting to ensure they fall into the right hands. James has told me you are such a person.”
The grandeur of the room fell away, and she focused the whole of her attention on Lamant. There had been mention of these clandestine papers at the embassy, but she had failed to acquire any thus far. “I can promise you if I am given those newspapers, I will personally ensure they are seen to properly.”
“It is as I figured.” A grateful smile stretched over his thin lips.
James made his way back toward them from across the room.
“I will have them delivered to your car while we dine,” Lamant said. “I also have ways of acquiring more if you like. Mademoiselle Harper—” he bowed over her hand and kissed the back of her glove once more “—it was a genuine honor.”
He left as James approached, a silent nod shared between them. “Forgive the interruption,” James said. “I hope you found Monsieur Blanchet as interesting as anticipated.”