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"True, but men like Hemingway write history," Antoine answered. "Tomorrow's headline will read that the Ritz Paris was liberated by Ernest Hemingway. Now, scrape your clothes together and come on up to my room until—"
He didn't get any further, as crowding around him and into the room were three rough-looking Frenchmen. Resistance fighters. "Paul Stainer?" the one who appeared to be their leader said. "Come with us." He was holding a copy of The Collaborator.
* * * *
August 27, 1944
Having taken confession on his knees at the hem of the Catholic priest, with the jailer standing by, Paul rose to his feet. He flinched again at the sound of another salvo of gunshots from the courtyard.
"Just a minute. Not today for this one." Paul looked up sharply. He recognized the voice.
Noell Giroux, looking like any of the other French Resistance fighters and grayer but slightly slimmer and more muscular now than when Paul had slept with him, was handing a document to the jailer. Antoine was standing behind him.
"He's not a collaborator," Giroux said. "And he's an American. You couldn't do it like this for an American even if he was a collaborator." He turned to Paul, "Why in the hell didn't you tell them you are an American?"
"You took my documentation," Paul said, his voice shaking from how close he'd come to death. "And I didn't know it mattered that I wasn't really French."
"Of course it matters. How do you think the Duke and Duchess of Windsor made it out of France alive as vocal as they were as Nazi sympathizers? There's a process for foreigners. We can't simply shoot them. We're not the Germans."
The next afternoon, in a guest room of the Ritz, Giroux heaved his more muscular, but still meaty, body up from between Paul's bent and spread legs and, with a huffing sound, rolled over to the side. "Shit, I'm getting too fat for this," he said. "But I fucked you good, didn't I?"
"Yes, you fucked me good," Paul answered. And Noell had fucked him good. There was nothing wrong with Noell's cock or his technique. Noell had fucked him repeatedly in this room at the Ritz since the previous afternoon.
Paul figured he'd owed Noell the night of fuck for having saved him. Although it was really Antoine who had ultimately saved him by affirming that Paul had known things the Resistance was doing—and even had been saving French-owned artwork himself—and hadn't passed the information on to the Germans. And there was no reason to believe he told the Germans anything of importance to the Allied interests. Noell's declaration—as a resistance unit chief—that Paul was an American would have kept him alive but not free and out of trouble in the short run.
"I need to go thank Antoine now," Paul said. He rose from the bed before Noell could object and pulled on trousers and a shirt. He found Antoine in his room, stripped off the clothes again, pushed Antoine down on his back on the bed, and rode his cock for over an hour in a variety of positions and giving Antoine two ejaculations.
He dressed again and went down to the rue Cambon bar where, despite all of the Resistance work the bartender, Frank Meier, had been in, he was still overseeing the bar service.
"I wouldn't entrust this to anyone in the days that the old crew are gathering again," Frank told Paul.
"The old crew?" Paul asked.
"I think you've met Papa Hemingway already in some sort of frenzied introduction," Frank said, pointing out the table where the writer was describing how he personally had liberated Paris. "Sitting with him are the writers Jean Cocteau, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Simone de Beauvoir," Meier said. "They arrived this afternoon. By tonight, this place is going to be back up to its game in famous hotel residents."
"I left something with you. Do you still have it?" Paul asked.
"Yes, right here, along with half of the other secrets from every spy agency and news organization in the world," Meier said, fishing a packet covered with oilskin from a pile of other packets and envelopes.
As he left the bar, Paul wondered what Frank Meier would have thought—or done—if he'd known that the packet contained Paul's safe conduct from wherever there was a German presence to Berlin—to Garren von Kaube.
That evening he searched the bars of the lower class neighborhoods where the victory of liberation was being celebrated until he found a farmer displaced from Alsace-Lorraine who was determined to set out in his truck that evening to return to his home. Paul let the man fuck him in exchange for a ride to as close to the retreating Germans as the man was willing to get.
- COMMENTS
Anonymousabout 8 years agoAnon:
There were, at minimum, three different Saint Valentines. Stop being an idiot.
Anonymousover 8 years agoI really enjoyed reading a story set in that period. You write very well, but some of the enormous sentences are dizzying. Just one example:
"Until late August 1940, following the June occupation of the city by the Nazis, the leading socialite in residence, occupying the Imperial Suite of living room, dining room, kitchen, and three bedrooms and three baths, taking up an entire floor of the old hotel wing, was Laura Mae Corrigan, one of the world's richest women, who had come from nowhere to marry an American tycoon who conveniently died early in the marriage."
The monster sentences need to be broken up.
Some others are awkward, such as:
"Noell Giroux was a notable French charcoal artist and sculptor of forty-two... "
The way this is worded it sounds like Giroux did forty-two sculptures.
sr71pltover 8 years agoAuthorIsn't this a case where a continuance and, especially, a happy ending would deflate the power of the story? The intended message of this story is that even flawed characters can have a love story--and that love stories can be tragic and doomed. (Well, that and illuminating what I think is a very interesting story of the Ritz Paris.) Sure, you can fantasize that all works out well, if you like, and the ending leaves that open for you (if you must have such an ending). But the foreshadowing of the realistic end to this is right there in the story--where Garren, saying the war is lost, has his hands on Paul's throat and tells him that Paul will not suffer at the end--and Paul offers himself up for this ending as long as he can be with his lover. The logical conclusion here, supporting the theme of the story, is that the two will die in Berlin--at Garren's hand--before they can suffer any consequences not of their choice or that will deny their love story. That ending, I think, justifies the theme of the story and makes for a much more powerful love story. (As this is in the Valentine's Day contest, this might also be a good time to point out that St. Valentine's story is that he was imprisoned, beaten, stoned, and beheaded for cleaving to his beliefs. Not exactly a HEA ending--but an enduring one.)
Anonymousover 8 years agoThat is an absolutely well plotted & erotic story with first-rate dialogue appropriate for the story & times. My guess is that it either ends here, or continues in such a manner that Paul survives and escapes Nazi Germany with Garren, or ends up partnered with a high ranking officer of the American invasion. One can only surmise that the author might be of a mind to continue a great ride.
