Page 14 of The Gathering Storm

‘No, it’s a charity. An English lady set it up. They help Russian refugees find a place to live and give them money till they find a job, things like that. They’re bound to know someone who would give Russian lessons for money.’

‘Have you got the address?’

‘All I know is it’s over in the sixteenth, down by the river, past the Bois. Look it up.’ Igor swiped the rag over the bar top again. ‘You eating?’ he demanded.

Information had to be paid for, James thought. ‘I’ll have a croque monsieur,’ he said. ‘And a pression.’

Igor shouted the order through to the back, and poured the beer. He slapped it down in front of James, then added another pastis he hadn’t ordered. For a warm instant James thought it was a gesture of friendship, then realised that the profit on pastis was greater than on beer.

A smart young woman in a tailor-made was manning the office. She listened to James’s enquiry, then asked him a number of questions about himself, making a note of his name, address, and place of work. She knew the name of Charles Bedaux, and that seemed to give James some status. But it was his admission that he was English which finally thawed her. She switched from French into English to ask him where he was from, and elicited a description of Yorkshire. James could always wax lyrical over Morland Place, but he was rather wondering where all this was going, when she said at last, ‘We have to be very careful, you see, but I am satisfied now that you are not a Soviet agent.’

‘No, of course I’m not,’ he said, surprised. ‘I don’t look Russian, do I?’

‘I didn’t think you were. But we don’t get many people coming in off the street – mostly people come by recommendation. I can arrange with someone to teach you Russian. I’ll have to check with her first, so you must come back tomorrow.’

Thus James was introduced to Tatiana Bebidov. She worked during the day as a teacher at an infant school, so their meeting took place, conveniently for James, in the time between his office day and his evening engagements. As well as doing Meredith’s job, he was still expected to be available as before to welcome Charlie’s guests, make them comfortable, show them around Paris, entertain them. Most evenings were taken up with attending parties or escorting people to the theatre or nightclubs.

Tatiana Bebidov was a tiny person, with an unruly mass of dark brown wavy hair, barely subdued in a chignon. She had large, dark eyes, and a wide, full mouth that seemed always to want to be laughing. The effort of restraining it had given her deep dimples on either side. She had long, expressive fingers and when she moved it was with a grace that he learned later to associate with those who had trained in the ballet. She was vivacious and disarmingly friendly and he guessed her age to be about twenty-three.

She lived in a small, dark apartment in an old house with a particularly ferocious concierge, a large woman with enormous arms like bolsters, who would not allow James in without reading his letter of introduction several times, and inspecting him with an intimidating scowl.

‘What do you want with Mademoiselle?’ she demanded, at length.

‘She is to teach me Russian,’ James said. It said so in the letter, but this was obviously not a woman to argue with.

‘Why do you want to learn Russian?’

‘My boss has Russian clients. He wants me to make them feel welcome.’

‘What sort of Russians?’

James had no idea what would be the right answer. ‘Nice ones, who like flowers and birds and go to church,’ he said, and got ready to duck.

The woman’s eyes seemed to bulge, and then she broke into phlegmy laughter and reached out to pinch James’s cheek. The pinch hurt quite a lot. ‘You are a wicked boy, but I like you. Go on up. I shall knock every half-hour, so no funny business.’

Telling Miss Bebidov about this encounter broke the ice. She laughed. ‘That is “Maman” Poussin. She eats strangers for breakfast. Never show fear. She likes bold people who make her laugh.’

‘Is there a Papa Poussin?’ James asked. ‘Somehow I can’t imagine it.’

‘Oh yes, she is married, but he is no “Papa”. He has nothing to do with the tenants. He works for a newspaper.’

‘He’s a journalist?’

‘No, a printer. A compositor, I think it’s called. He’s a very small man and never speaks. One sees him scurry in and out, but that’s all. Your French is very good. You speak like a French person.’

‘Thank you. Yours is very good too, Mademoiselle.’

‘But you silly, I’ve spoken it since birth. We spoke it at home, English too. I can talk in English if you prefer. But do not call me Mademoiselle. My friends call me Tata, and we must be friends if I am to teach you properly. Your name is difficult for me. Shems, is that right?’

‘Shems will do very well,’ he said, amused.

‘And you must come every day. You cannot learn with a lesson once a week because you forget everything in between and are always catching up.’

‘I can come at this time every day,’ James said.

‘Good. Then we begin.’

By the time Maman Poussin knocked at the half-hour point, James felt thoroughly at home, though the room had an exotic feeling. The dark red flock wallpaper was almost hidden with framed photographs, icons of saints, posies of dried flowers, silk rosettes, and hanging strips of coloured silks, like scarves. The furniture was old and heavy, with crimson velvet upholstery, rubbed threadbare in places; the carpet was an ancient Turkish, mainly dark red and brown; and every surface was covered with ornaments and more photographs in silver frames. The alcoves either side of the fireplace were shelved and filled with old leather-bound books. In one corner a candle burned inside a red glass before an icon, and in another a samovar, with the silver worn brassily off, bubbled softly.