Chapter Text
Mid-July, 1939
The melodic ring of church bells woke Clarke up. She yawned and stretched, opening her eyes slowly and looking up at the ceiling. The ringing lasted for another few seconds, and then there was silence, followed by the flap of several pigeons’ wings outside the window.
Clarke Griffin, nineteen and freshly graduated from New York City’s Charmaine Diyoza School for Business and Secretarial Studies, rolled out of bed and planted her feet on the cool floor. She stood up and went to her small window, pushing the curtain aside slightly. A narrow street with creamy white limestone bathed in early morning sunlight greeted her eyes. She smiled. Paris just kept getting more and more magical to her the longer she was here. A month and a half in and she still couldn’t get over the simple view from her window.
She dropped the curtain and turned around to go get ready for the day, humming a Billie Holiday tune she hadn’t been able to get out of her head for the past four months as she boiled a pot of water on the stove to make her morning coffee. While the coffee steeped, she changed into her work attire, making certain not to forget her cardigan this time. While it was a hot summer, the embassy was chilly. She had found this out the hard way when she had started her new job as secretary to the American ambassador to France on the first of June. Her family had pulled some strings, initially intending for her to work for the government somewhere much closer to home, but a position had opened up abroad, and Clarke had jumped at the chance. Her go-getter attitude had impressed the recruiter instead of putting her off, and Clarke had miraculously been granted an interview and then a position at the embassy without ever stepping foot in Europe. She had excitedly moved her entire life from New York to Paris within weeks, much to her mother’s vocal chagrin but to her father’s quiet pride.
She gulped down her coffee, gathered a few final things, and left her apartment in a flurry. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and made sure she heard the door clang shut (her neighbours had ever so politely pointed out that she had left the main door open several times, so now she was more attentive to it). She sucked in a deep breath of air and went to the small shed across the street where her bicycle was parked. With an energy-boosting squeeze of her hands on the handlebars, she pushed off and was on her way to work.
**
Her job involved a lot of filing papers, taking dictation, arranging meetings, and greeting guests. Clarke had to admit that it wasn’t the most interesting work, but she found peace in the simplicity and the predictability of it. Her whole life had changed in her big move – she lived in a new city, was adapting to a new culture, and barely spoke the common language around her. Having something that was consistent and familiar like work settled her, recharged her so she could focus her free time on exploring and being adventurous.
At lunch time she sat with another girl her age, a fellow American who had been in France for four months already – a lifetime to Clarke. Her name was Octavia, and she had also come over for a job: assistant to the top diplomat under the ambassador. The two became fast friends, as Octavia was thrilled to welcome someone her age to the fold. She imparted as much wisdom as possible to Clarke, giving her tips she wished somebody had shared with her when she first moved to Paris. She spent five minutes detailing her relationship with a French man she had met last month, and Clarke smiled at the thought that in just a short time, she, too, could be assimilated into Paris life, dating freely, speaking the language at a high level, and enjoying her life as a bona fide adult.
The afternoon was remarkable because of the tension that settled over the office very suddenly at three o’clock. A guest had appeared last minute on the ambassador’s schedule. Clarke only caught a brief glimpse of the guest as several men ushered him into the office – he had a strong chin and fierce eyes. She overheard one of the men speak – some kind of Slavic language. It may have been Polish or Ukrainian, but she couldn’t distinguish between them with her untrained ear. After the men had shut themselves in the ambassador’s office, one of the senior consular services assistants came to tell her to not disturb them and to forget this meeting ever happened. Clarke was busy typing up some dictated notes from earlier, and she assured the assistant that she wouldn’t pry. However, every few minutes as she worked, she looked up at the door to the ambassador’s office, wondering what the meeting was about, who the man was, and why it was so secretive.
She knew Europe was undergoing some radical shifts right now. Despite her bright eyed and bushy tailed approach to life, she had a serious side, and she read the newspaper and listened to people around her. She knew things were being shaken up, and now with some eastern European country’s diplomat (for that’s simply what he had to be) visiting the embassy, she wondered how involved her country was.
Her shift came to a close after several hours left to her own devices, and she gladly left feeling accomplished, quickly forgetting the tension in the office. She hopped on her bicycle and peddled back to her neighbourhood, which was a fifteen-minute ride if she went straight home. Today, however, she meandered. She made it back to the edge of Le Marais, the vibrant neighbourhood that she called home, and began to cycle around, looking for somewhere interesting to stop for dinner. She was hungry, and she knew she didn’t have anything in her kitchen.
She people watched as she cycled, loving the mix of characters she saw going about their daily lives: a man with a top hat and a cane looking positively nineteenth century as he strolled slowly; three young women dressed to the nines, arms linked and giggling as they set out for an evening of fun and dancing; a nun leading twelve young children in six rows of two up the street in what Clarke had to assume was some kind of after school caretaking group.
Eventually, she became tired, and she stopped outside a small, unassuming tavern at the very end of a nondescript street she had never been down before. There was a spot for her to leave her bicycle so it would be out of the way, and she walked to the door, taking a quick look at the modest sign that signalled its name – Deuxième Terre.
She was hit immediately by the delicious smell of food and beer. The place was dimly lit, with tables scattered around. It was half full as other people had had the same thought as her after work, wishing to grab a bite to eat. She looked over at the door that looked like it led to the kitchen and caught the eye of a tall, burly, bearded man in an apron. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing tattooed forearms. He nodded at her in greeting, and she nodded back, giving him a polite smile and making her way to an empty table. She sat, and before she could blink, someone was beside her speaking.
Clarke looked up blankly, about to bust out her very rickety French to ask them to kindly slow down and speak more slowly, but she lost her train of thought because she hadn’t expected the waitress to be so pretty. The moment she looked up and caught her eyes, she was certain she had accidentally walked into the dressing room of a theatre and was being accosted by the lead actress. She was dressed in heavy black boots despite the summer weather, slacks the same brown colour as her hair, a white linen blouse, and a small apron over her waist where she appeared to keep extra cutlery and napkins.
Then there was silence, and green eyes peered into hers, waiting. Clarke blinked.
Oh, no. This is real. This is happening, she thought, and she cleared her throat.
“Could you please speak more slowly?” she asked in halting French.
The waitress did not show any kind of judgement.
“British?” she asked in English.
Clarke, surprised to hear at least one English word coming from the waitress’ lips, shook her head.
“American,” she corrected politely.
The waitress nodded.
“Ah. If it helps, I can speak to you in English.”
Her English was fluent, very lightly accented to Clarke’s ears, and had a steady beat to it. Clarke sighed in relief. She had stumbled her way into some strange meals over the past few days as she struggled her way through misunderstandings and embarrassments. Her dinner last night had been bread with a side of bread because she had simply given up trying to understand the menu despite playing charades with the waiter at the restaurant she had dropped in on.
“Thank you, I appreciate it,” she said with a smile that the waitress did not return, but who seemed to soften her eyes. “What’s good here?”
“What’s good here?” the waitress repeated in confusion.
Clarke’s smile turned into a light grimace. Her mother had warned her not to be too colloquial when speaking with people from other countries.
“I mean what dish do you recommend? Which ones taste good?”
“They all taste good,” the waitress said with a blank look. “Why would we serve something that does not taste good?”
For some reason, the way she took Clarke so seriously and spoke so earnestly made Clarke burst out laughing, and the waitress looked at her in confusion until she had her giggles under control.
“No, of course. You’re right. I guess what I mean is, what’s your favourite dish here?”
The waitress pondered the question for a moment.
“The lamb stew,” she said simply.
“Then I’ll have the lamb stew, please,” Clarke decided with another smile.
The waitress nodded her head, turned around, and left. Clarke watched her walk away before turning her head and looking at the crowd, studying the people secretively. A minute later, she heard something placed in front of her, and she was surprised that her food had come out so quickly. She looked down. It wasn’t a bowl of stew but a glass of beer.
“Oh, I didn’t-” Clarke began to correct the error, but the waitress gave a tilt of her chin.
“This is our finest Alsatian lager. It goes well with the stew. Try it.”
She turned around and left. Clarke shrugged and picked up the glass, taking a sip. It was tasty. Bitter and refreshing, just how she liked it. She took a few more sips as she waited for her stew to come out, which didn’t take long. It was served with bread with a hard crust but a deliciously soft centre. She thanked the waitress, picked up her spoon, and began to eat while reviewing the events of her day in her mind, wondering again who the mysterious visitor to the embassy had been and why the office mood was so tense around him.
Once she was finished eating, Clarke tuned back into her environment. She relaxed in her chair and sipped on her lager, now watching the waitress zip around the restaurant, tidying up messes and bringing things to people. She occasionally caught a glimpse of the man who had greeted her when she first arrived in the tavern. He must have been the chef, because he spent most of his time in the kitchen. Sometimes he would pop out, and the waitress would stand with him and talk quietly. Clarke studied the two of them as they spoke. They looked very familiar with each other. Maybe they were married. She smiled at the thought of a married couple running a nice little tavern like this with delicious food and beer. She took a sip of her drink and closed her eyes. This was exactly what she wanted. This was really living. All alone on the other side of the ocean, making her own way, carving out a path, free from the burdens and societal pressures of home.
When she opened her eyes, she found the waitress standing beside her, looking straight at her, her face neutral in its expression. Clarke jerked her head slightly, surprised that she hadn’t heard her approach the table. She gave a thin smile to the waitress, who merely tipped her head, picked up her empty bowl, and strode off into the kitchen. Clarke looked back down at her lager. The waitress wasn’t chatty like the ones would be in her hometown. She rarely went out alone back home, but when she did, there was always someone who would engage her in conversation. Here, however, it wasn’t the same. Despite not being confident speaking the language, she felt like people were different. She felt like there were secrets held she wasn’t privy to. She really needed to crack the code and ingratiate herself into the lives of those around her. Maybe a low stakes conversation with a waitress who spoke good English was her way to start.
When she finally took the last sip of her beer, the waitress appeared by her side again. Her timing was impeccable, and Clarke wondered if she was watching her. She flushed slightly at the thought before she realized that of course the waitress was watching her. It was her job to.
She looked up and smiled.
“Your recommendation was delicious. And the beer – definitely not too shabby.”
“Not too shabby?” the waitress asked.
“I mean it was very good,” Clarke clarified.
“Then next time I suggest you try our darker brew with the beef stew. It’s also not too shabby.”
Clarke couldn’t help the small chuckle that came out of her lips. She hadn’t met many people in the city that were this fluent in the language and this willing to try out new phrases they had just learned. She was so curious to know why this woman – who seemed maybe a few years older than her – knew how to speak so well.
“Where did you learn English?” Clarke blurted out.
The waitress had been about to turn around, but she stopped and looked down at Clarke.
“My mother taught me,” she replied. “She insisted learning many languages was the key to a fulfilling life.”
“How many languages do you speak?” Clarke asked in curiosity.
“Several,” the waitress replied without elaborating.
They stared at each other silently for a moment.
“What’s your name?” the waitress asked as if suddenly remembering she should be polite and also ask questions.
“Clarke,” came the response. “Yours?”
“Lexa,” the waitress replied.
“Well, Lexa,” Clarke said. “Thank you for the lovely meal. I’ll definitely be back again.”
Lexa gave her a nod, picked up Clarke’s empty glass, and walked away. Clarke busied herself reaching into her purse and counting out some francs to put on the table before walking to the exit. She glanced over her shoulder just as she was about to open the door. She saw Lexa standing at the bar, holding a glass and drying it out with a towel. However, her eyes were on Clarke. When Clarke saw her looking at her, she quickly looked down at the glass as if her eyes had just been passing by, and Clarke shook her head and left.
She hopped back on her bicycle and began to meander her way back to her apartment. She inhaled the scent of the city – a little smoky and gritty on this hot summer day, but not bad at all. She was perfectly content.
She didn’t know it, but in just a few short months, her life – everyone’s lives around her – would completely change forever.