Kind, understanding Tony in Barcelona had showed her how sex was meant to feel. She must have stumbled on him by mistake; he was a good bit more decent than her usual choices. But unlike the other men she’d dated, he wasn’t “her class.” He wasn’t a man she could take home.
“Was Switzerland a good lover? I guess not, but then surprisingly few men are,” she said, with a look that suggested perhaps André, too, was less satisfying than he might think.
Again, the women at the table laughed. But André simply clasped and unclasped his hands again, pleased with this confession, with the notion of a younger Nanée lying in that bed in Switzerland, not understanding what she was missing.
“And since then, you’ve had better lovers?”
Nanée looked again to the drive. Surely that was the dim glow of headlights? Danny, whose return would distract Varian, and with him André. But nobody else was looking.
“Perhaps even men you’ve loved?” André prodded.
“I’ve thought so,” she said. Again fliply. Again the truth.
“Thought they were better in bed, or that they loved you?”
“That wasn’t your question,” she said. “Your question was whether I loved them.”
They all looked to the drive; yes, everyone now heard. They followed the slow progress of a shadow topping the hill.
“Your latest lover,” André said, “was he better or worse than that first man?”
She lifted her glass and took a sip. She was glad of the darkness. She had imagined she could control the commandant, when there was nothing about the situation that she controlled. She had imagined she would rescue Edouard Moss, when she’d been putting him in more danger rather than less.
“I’m beat,” T said. “You must be beat, Nan. Shall we head in together?”
Nanée focused on the car headlights, their dim glow swinging toward them now as the car approached the gate. She stared, hoping to make out the car, but it was impossible to see anything with the headlights still on, even dimmed.
“Better or worse?” André repeated.
“He wasn’t a lover,” Nanée managed.
“I think that’s enough, André,” Jacqueline said.
“How long ago was he?” André pressed.
“Leave it, André!” T said. “Bloody leave it alone!”
They all turned to T, startled. T didn’t rise to anger, ever.
Her friend meant to help her, but it would be easier if she might just give some answer, some small truth that hid the rest.
“I . . . ,” Nanée started.
The car stopped just beyond the gate. Doors opened. At the crunch of footsteps on gravel, Jacqueline was standing, saying with alarm, “Varian?”
Good god, it was someone sent from the camp. That fool of a guard hadn’t kept quiet.
“It’s okay,” Varian said, rising as the gate creaked open and they heard the low murmur of voices—Danny’s voice, thank goodness. Two sets of feet coming up the steps, not more. Two shadows crossing the belvedere in the spill of the light from the French doors.
Danny said, “Hey, you’re all still out here?”
“Edouard,” Varian said. “Welcome.”
“Edouard Moss!” André said. “Good god, man, you gave us a fright. Danny, you might have let us know you were returning with company. We’d have opened the good stuff.”
They were all standing now. Somehow, Nanée too was standing.
“Mr. Fry,” Edouard was saying, declining to shake Varian’s hand on account of his own filthy hands and clothes, his shoes and his pants looking and smelling as if he’d waded through sewage.
“Varian,” Varian insisted, already pouring Edouard a glass of wine, insisting he take it. “I’m so glad we’ve got you here. Why don’t you sit and have something to eat? I asked Madame Nouget to set something aside.”
“André,” Edouard said in greeting. “Jacqueline.”
He kept his distance, embarrassed.
“You remember T,” Danny said. “And Nanée.”
Edouard stared, clearly as stunned to see Nanée as she was to see him.
“You might have been here yesterday if you hadn’t fled, by the way,” Danny said. “Nanée went to fetch you from Camp des Milles, only to find you weren’t there.”
Edouard looked from Nanée back to Danny. “I . . . Nanée, what a surprise. I . . . I had no idea you were still in France.”