Little Black Book

Martine Allegre sat at a sunny table with her friend Suzanne Martine Boucher, checking her watch as she swished her espresso. "I have work to do, Suzanne. I can't loiter in cafes waiting for tardy young men to show up."

"I know," Suzanne replied. "Just be polite. They were POWs, poor things, and apparently, they don't know many young women in Paris. You represent something to them."

"I'll bet I do," Martine scoffed. "But I have no time for hanky-panky. We have a country to rebuild." She puffed out a sigh. "I'm wasting time."

"Oh, I don't know. Two brave soldiers call and ask you to lunch? That's not too awful to endure. I remember romance…"

Martine leaned forward with a teasing grin. "That will teach you to marry young. At least Claude didn't interfere with your acting career!"

"He wouldn't dare," Suzanne growled. Her pouty lips, curly locks, and full cheeks disguised an underlying fierceness. She was serious about her work, just like Martine was. She yanked up the collar of her black leather coat; her bright blue turtleneck accentuated sparkling eyes. She had once worn this, her favorite outfit, on a harrowing midnight motorcycle ride through the rain from France into Germany to marry Claude.

Suzanne smiled at her accomplished friend. "Now look at you! Working with LeCorbusier, Jean Prouvé, and Charlotte Perriand. Urban planning and architecture are good fields for women."

"I have wonderful mentors," Martine agreed.

Suzanne nodded warmly. But Martine wasn't too surprised when she changed the subject to ask, "These soldiers – how do you know them, again?" Suzanne had become fond of POWs because of her wedding, which took place under odd circumstances she'd never really explained. That partiality was the reason Martine asked her to come to lunch.

"I can't remember," Martine said helplessly, waving her hands. "We must've met before the war. They sent a note to Maman's flat saying they realized while they were POWs that they both know me. How would that discussion even come up, Suzanne?"

Suzanne shook her head. "Not a clue."

"Maman got so excited when she realized I'd received correspondence from two men. She's probably lurking around that corner now," she said, scowling and pointing, "silently measuring me for a wedding dress. Or two."

"Really? Was it that serious?"

"Suzanne! Are you listening? I hardly know them! I'm being polite. They were handsome enough, but … Not. My. Type."

"Ah. No brains."

"Exactly. Or any brains they did have got mixed up with their..." She rolled her hands in the general direction of her lap, then rolled her eyes.

Suzanne's hands flew up. "Say no more."

Martine slumped, elbow on table and chin on fist. "I have work orders to write," she muttered. "There's rubble to clear before we can set priorities."

"The newspapers say it'll take years to get funds to rebuild," Suzanne murmured.

"I know, but there's planning to do. I'm identifying locations for affordable housing near public transport."

Martine and Suzanne were deep in conversation about the future of Paris when the voices of two approaching men broke their concentration. Halfway down the street, they stopped to argue loudly. One was speaking rapidly in French; the other was responding to everything he said, only in a coarse English that bore little resemblance to the cultured tones taught in school. They were jostling one another and looking unruly.

"That's them," Martine said glumly. "I remember the taller one. What a twit. Going on and on about his 'magic fingers.'"

"The short one looks familiar," Suzanne said, squinting. "Actually, they both do. Wait!"

"What?"

"I know those two. They're both twits. That one," Suzanne said, gesturing at the smaller man, "drove like a bat out of hell on a motorcycle for 600 kilometers across two countries, and never asked if I needed a break."

"How inconsiderate," Martine sniffed.

"Yes, and the other…" Suzanne shuddered. "Prepare to suffocate. He smokes constantly."

"Suzanne, this is France. Everyone smokes constantly."

"Fair enough, but he needs a shower, too. Anyway, I've told you about my ridiculous wedding to Claude? Well, that one dressed as my father, and 'mother' was grotesque. Do you know what a hillbilly looks like?"

"I don't think so…"

"Lucky."

They watched silently as the duo crossed the street, hectoring one another. Now they could pick out some words: "…Bringing a friend… Short one is mine."

"Why are they arguing?" Martine wondered.

"Oh, Claude explained that to me. They're fire and ice, complete opposites. Destructive, unstoppable forces of nature. Look, Martine, it's not too late to escape." Suzanne sprang to her feet, with her hands bracing the edge of the table. "This is our chance. They're buying cigarettes."

"Gitanes, ugh. Ouais, let's go!" The women collared a waiter, pointed at their table and the men, and then fled down the sidewalk in the opposite direction from the approaching POWs.

"I thought you said you saw her," Newkirk said as they entered the restaurant's sidewalk enclosure. "Where... where'd she go?"

"Probably took off the minute she noticed you," LeBeau shrugged. Newkirk cuffed him on the shoulder.

"This way, gentlemen," the waiter said. He led them to a table littered with cups, saucers, and plates.

"Merci. Where are our guests?"

"They just left, but they offered this table and said you would pay."

LeBeau and Newkirk looked flabbergasted. Then Newkirk's mouth crinkled slyly.

"Certainly, we'll pay, Monsieur. C'mon, Louis, let's eat." He leaned in. "They're toying with us. They'll be back. We're both a hard act to follow."

A lightbulb flashed. "You're right, of course, mon pote," LeBeau grinned. "They can't resist us."

Hell would freeze over first.

Episodes collide! Newkirk and LeBeau discover Martine Allegre is their mutual acquaintance in "Rockets and Romance." Suzanne Martine (later Boucher) appears in "Reverend Kommandant Klink." This story also mentions real architects and urban planners.