THE ROSE PERFUME

Chapter 40

Downstairs a new line of German soldiers forms around the hostess stand. Raina tucks menus under her arm and guides them to their seats. Her hair swishes along her back and her nose is in the air. Four waitresses waiting for Joel to pass them plates through the food service window watch the men like lovesick birds.

Paul pulls a notebook from his pocket, "For now, your job is to watch how I take the orders and refill water and tea, bread and cheese, and fetch other necessities from the kitchen when asked.

I stand by as he takes the orders from a table with a girl in a felt hat and her boyfriend. Next, we go to a table with three soldiers who are talking over their long day's work. Paul passes humor back and forth with them and the short man with a mustache drops his drink. I run to the kitchen for another, but when I return the soldier is not happy with me. There are three concern crevices push up in his forehead and his pale eye cast a dark shadow. Paul offers an explanation to him in German, "neues Madchen," He says.

"Aha," the German says, "Neu." And just like that, I sense him forgive me.

This is when I first realize that something is amiss. I knew the newspapers and most radio shows are now in German, I heard the comedian upstairs telling jokes in German, but it is not until now that I realize Paul's conversations with every table are in German. Even now, as the soldiers look over their menus, I see that those also are written in German. And unlike the newspaper, there are no small descriptions in French anywhere near the bottom. Why is this a problem? I do not speak German.

Paul asks the soldier questions about his order. I can tell because of the lift in his voice at the end of each sentence. They toss unrecognizable humor back and forth and laugh. The more I listen to this foreign conversation, the more my abdomen fills with panic, and beads of sweat pool down my back. Paul writes down the order in his notebook. He is calm, collective, and easy.

I snort fright from my lungs and slide more breadbaskets and plates of cheese onto other optimistic tables. Then follow Paul back to the kitchen service window with heavy feet. Joel cannot reach Paul's ticket. He stretches and waves his arms and holds his breath until at last he has it between two fingers and falls back.

"Whew." Joel says, "I need longer arms."

"Or at least a little less taste testing back there," Paul says.

I fan myself with a menu and watch the other servers confidently cruising the room. How will I do this tomorrow without Paul's help?

Another wave of nausea crawls up my esophagus. I step around Paul, push through the kitchen door, and slide into an open break stool beside two serving girls. They push their shoes off, wiggle their swollen toes, and complain about the ridiculous pain in their achy legs. Their gloves are pulled off and tossed on the counter behind them with loose seams and stains. I press my hands flat over my face to cool it down.

Paul barges in through the door and puts his hand up on the wall behind me.

"What's going on?" He wants to know. "You were doing just fine, but this the last hour you've been distracted."

All the curls on Paul's forehead are lined up in a row. His eyes are tired and wise. A calm in the chaos.

"Oui..." I say unsure what to tell him. My sour stomach turns over. I twist away, slump in my seat, and make an effort to swallow the fear in my heart.

He puts his other hand on his hip. "I teach languages," He says. "I work over at the University in the morning before coming here in the afternoon. They cut my hours which is why I work here. And I used to teach to a wide variety of students from all over the world including women. But now I just mainly teach French to German soldiers and officers. What I'm saying is, I can help you."