Daniel Torday - The Last Flight of Poxl West

Before I could answer her, she kissed me. Her hand was clutching me. On the coarse pallet on her floor, I took Françoise’s clothes off. I was a miner seeking some long-sought vein — only after its ore was heated could the precious metal be extracted. Something different happened to Françoise than was happening to me. After I’d finished she grew as cold as the tea on her counter.

“I won’t ask it again,” Françoise said. “It’s been a very long time since I asked it of someone, but with you I feel I can.”

The room filled with the smell of tea. Until she stood and walked over to the lamp by her bed to turn it out I didn’t understand what she was asking, but then I saw: she wanted the quiet privacy of darkness. In the slick, dim room she moved beneath my fingers until she was done.

When I woke the next morning Françoise had already left. There was no note, no sign of her. I gathered my things and returned to my flat. That night I worked my shift, and the next two, and did not see her again until the next time her band played. When they finished, she told me to meet her at her flat in an hour.

She was in just a robe when I arrived. She had her mandolin out. She began to pick some American folk song she’d learned from her records. While she played, I had a chance to take in her flat with the lamp lit. Clothes lay upon its floor in squalor. But I soon came to learn that if we needed to leave, she always knew just where to find a blouse, a sweater. She kept a fresh tulip on her windowsill each afternoon. Years later, when the war was over, an old Dutch woman would tell me of friends who ate the tulips from their gardens when they were the only thing left to eat. But there in the serenity before the war broke out in earnest, the splash of violet or carmine or vermilion on Françoise’s windowsill lent order to her room. She may have been born cross-eyed, but Françoise as I knew her could see and see and see.

6.

One night Françoise invited me to the home of a couple she knew well, and whose complicated role in her life would grow clearer to me in the weeks after I met them. The Brauns lived in Delfshaven, a quiet neighborhood fifteen blocks from Françoise’s flat—236 Heemraadssingel. Their block followed a canal up from the Nieuwe Maas. Over the glassy, still surface of their canal, languid willows dipped their arms down to the water as if searching for something just below its surface.

Inside we encountered Herr Braun, a dentist, and Fräulein Braun, his wife, who had been Françoise’s teacher. By the time she was sixteen, Françoise had already been at work in the brothel for a number of years. Frau Braun had been attractive then — now she was obese, but the clear blue of her eyes allowed me to imagine her in her youth. One afternoon as Frau Braun sat alongside her before an old piano, Françoise had put her hand on her teacher’s arm. Frau Braun had pulled it away. Three years later, when Françoise was no longer attending school, Frau Braun had seen her performing with Greta at Café le Monde. They returned together that night to her house, and Françoise visited the Brauns’ home regularly in the years to follow.

That night the four of us ate sauerkraut and bratwurst. We looked out on their garden. The Brauns were attentive to Françoise’s needs, which they seemed to anticipate even before she asked for things. There was a familiarity between them that felt almost paternal. They were cold to me, and at first I didn’t know if it was because they were protective like parents — or if they felt some other kind of propriety with Françoise.

“What of your work?” Herr Braun said.

“I’ve just found something permanent,” I said. “Working in the cranes. In Veerhaven.” I’d been walking down Schiedamsedijk when I heard the familiar sound of a man speaking Czech. Along the canal were dozens of cranes, which served to take the cargo from ships entering the harbor. This Dutch shipping company had bought cranes from Czechoslovakia, but all the men who ran them except him had been called to the army because of the fear of German invasion. In the weeks and months to come, I used these cranes to unload shipments. The money Johann Schmidt had given me was beginning to run out, and it was providential for me to find this work.

“Poxl has done quite well since he arrived,” Françoise said. The Brauns nodded and dragged their knives across their bratwurst. “I’ve even taught him to play some guitar.”

We’d settled into some after-dinner port when the Brauns’ daughter joined us. Heidi was eleven. She had wiry black hair and skin tawny as if she’d been too long in the sun. She seemed a bit shy with me, but she immediately walked over to Françoise. It was clear they knew each other well.

“Heidi,” Herr Braun said, “would you like to sing a song for our guests? Why not one of those American folk songs your mother has taught you?”

Françoise and Frau Braun were suddenly quiet. Now even Herr Braun grew red at the collar. Heidi walked over closer to Françoise. She blanched white as if a cloud had passed between her and the rest of us.

“You want to sing and you won’t, so off with you, then!” Herr Braun said.

“Poxl can play guitar for us,” Françoise said. “Heidi, we could do that new Rice Brothers Gang song.”

Heidi’s soft skin regained its color. She looked Françoise in the eyes. At the back of the Brauns’ house I picked up a guitar and began to hack at the only three chords I’d learned since arriving in Rotterdam — G, C, D. It took me a second to change between each chord, setting each finger slowly on its fret, but I could essentially manage it now when given the time. Françoise had been playing that Rice Brothers Gang record incessantly, and in particular a song that was new at the time but has grown quite familiar to listeners in the years since, “You Are My Sunshine.” It was the only song I knew. Françoise sang the end of the verse: “If you leave me to love another, you’ll regret it all one day.”

When she came to the chorus, Heidi sang a perfect tenor, three notes above. Her voice was naturally a few steps higher than Françoise’s, but it was as if the same voice was singing the two parts together.

One night the following week, when we’d just arrived home from one of her performances and had had a lot to drink, Françoise said we needed to talk. I was full of wine and ready for bed, but clearly something was eating at her. Hazy as I was, I sat and listened.

“For a long time I’ve wanted to tell you the story of my childhood,” she said. “Now that you’ve met the Brauns, and will surely see them again before long, I’ll tell you. But before I tell you, before I do, first I must know something from you, something I’ve been needing to know: What do you think of my work? Of what I do for money?”

She turned on a lamp, stood and lit the burner on the stove, brewed some tea. This wasn’t going to be a quick conversation, and I steeled myself for it. Unlike our first time together, now when Françoise made tea for me, we would go through the ritual of allowing it to steep, and then actually drink it. I’d learned to wait patiently while she finished this ritual before we could talk again. It gave me time to consider an answer. I was not displeased with her. I did not long to leave her. I’d never known a different version of her — this was simply Françoise, the same Françoise I’d first met. I’d tried in the past, against my better judgment, to think of her with her clients, but all I could think of was my mother and her cuckolding painter. I grew angry, but not at Françoise. I did not know where to put the anger. In our time together I’d learned not to ask. I did not know then what I even thought love was — I only knew that in the moments when I was with Françoise I did not want to be anywhere else in the world.