A man who’s been to war must learn to make peace with the mirror.

A 6’1” tall man stood in front of an oak-framed mirror and a too-low wash basin with a brass cross-handle faucet. The young man was using a bronze double-edge safety razor while wondering whether he should grow a thin moustache like John Davis in the black-and-white picture he owned.

In that picture, the champion stood tall, shirtless, displaying his ebony muscles as he strictly pressed an unthinkable 285-pound barbell overhead. In the background, two Yankee girls were clearly admiring his rock-hard, 200-pound physique.

He had heard that Mr. Davis was very humble. He had brought the picture in order to get it signed by his idol.

It was noon in Paris, although it was only 6 o’clock for him. After his four-motor DC-4 plane landed at Le Bourget at the end of a sixteen-hour long flight that was broken up by a stop in the Azores, he had crawled to his hotel room in the wee hours and slept like a baby.

He stood shirtless while shaving. Anyone in the know knew that this man was an Olympic weightlifter, for he had a thickly muscled torso, massive glutes, cannonball shoulders that spoke of years of heavy pressing, and a trim, yet thick waist like one saw on antique marble statues displaying long-dead athletes.

He decided to keep his baby face. He wasn’t John Davis from the USA; he was Daniel Lévesque from Canada.

“And besides, if it ain’t broke, why fix it?” he thought as he finished shaving himself clean.

Indeed, the twenty-one-year-old lad sometimes attracted smiles and sparkly eyes from ladies as young as a peachy seventeen, as proven by the picture Daniel was presently taping to the upper edge of the mirror.

It displayed a pretty girl with raven hair and Andalusian eyes. She looked vaguely Spanish thanks to her rich complexion. She was quietly smiling with her hands neatly resting together on her lap in a pose that told of a nice girl one would want as a wife.

Yes, having met her was a lucky break. They were getting married next June and were both waiting for their wedding night to have sex.

Good God, he had gone a long way since he got back from this sad affair called World War Two. After two months of fighting and a year of having his soldierly services retained to help rebuild France, he was finally sent home on a ship headed for Halifax in early April. From there, he took a train to Montreal. Maple syrup on pancakes never tasted so great!

Within the next six months, he trained himself back to tip-top shape and landed a well-paying job thanks to his war-acquired fluency in English. Best of all, he became a better man. This was a big reason why his sweet girl chose him for her husband-to-be. His folks weren’t exactly happy with this. Zabel was from an Armenian family of migrants who were Orthodox! His folks wanted a Catholic daughter-in-law, but Daniel loved Zabel.

“Thank you. Thank you, Mister Stovepipe Hat!” Daniel said aloud in his small hotel room in Paris. He was referring to a quaint man he had met on the train from Halifax to Montreal, a man whose advice had been instrumental in helping him to become the man he was presently looking at in the mirror.

As he buttoned his white shirt, the Catholic lad recited his weightlifter’s prayer...

“In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Ghost, give me the strength to bring up my Total and keep me humble. The clean and press is the Son, for it’s a true man’s lift, fit for a true son of life. The snatch is the Holy Ghost, for it takes a spirited lifter to power up a loaded barbell while swiftly dropping under it into a deep split. The clean and jerk is the Father, for it allows the victor to stand tall while holding the world over his head. Amen.”

As he quickly tied his saffron yellow necktie with his usual half-Windsor knot, he heard people speaking in the hallway—a couple. They were not speaking French. They sounded ... Russian?

The woman had a wonderful soprano voice. She sounded happy to be in Paris, and who wasn’t? The city was gorgeous in October; the trees were all ablaze with fiery reds and golden hues. The man sounded grumpy and authoritarian.

Feeling curious, Daniel put on his double-chest jacket, grabbed his fedora hat and stepped into the hallway, just in time to catch a glimpse of the young couple as the man was closing the door. He met his eyes—a cold, dark stare. The Russian had formidable size. He was very tall with huge shoulders and he looked back at Daniel with eyes that said “Mind your own business!”

Daniel was starving and there was a street-side café facing the hotel; it looked very inviting with the aromas of hot croissants and fresh coffee.

He ordered a vichyssoise, some camembert and of course, croissants and coffee. This was his first French déjeuner in six months. He no longer wore his British khaki uniform with a “Canada” patch sewn on the shoulders. He was wearing a dark wine-red suit that brought out his pale, yet healthy complexion and looked unmistakably North American. He had taken off his fedora hat to show off his dark hair, but then he remembered Zabel and it put back on while mentally kicking himself for being so vain. He still had much to learn.

He was starting on his vichyssoise when he heard a soprano voice he was vaguely familiar with. She had a delicious foreign accent, but she spoke flawless French.

“Is this seat taken, Sir?” she said.

Daniel looked up and saw a strikingly beautiful woman, about twenty-two or twenty-five years old, that is, slightly older than himself. He immediately rose to his feet and pulled the empty chair for the petite woman, who got seated next to him ... and intoxicated his nostrils with her magic scent from Russia, for he recognised her as his new neighbour.

Daniel grew very nervous, for she was very much to his taste with her raven hair thrown back and showing the bright paleness of her forehead. Her dainty ears offered the sight of subtle earrings of silver. Her forest-green dress was as glamorous as a day dress could get and this Parisian outfit was completed by ivory gloves and a double pearl necklace where small topazes brought a touch of originality.

“I’m ... I’m Dan ... Daniel. Very pleased to meet you, Ma’am,” said Daniel with the same deference as if he were speaking to Princess Elisabeth.

The Soviet wife smiled at him with sparkling emeralds for eyes; her wine-red lipstick intensified the whiteness of her spotless face, which was as fine and delicate as her entire figure was petite and dainty, yet there were secret fires of strength within her. He felt that she could see through him.

She offered her hand and replied with her delicious accent, speaking formally and letting linger the first syllable in her name: “I am Nadia. I am honoured to meet the heavyweight champion of Canada.”

As Daniel nervously shook hands with her, he stared at her with open-mouthed astonishment, she went on: “Your shoulders, Mister; only an Olympic weightlifter has such big shoulders; boxers often have big shoulders, but not this big. And there’s your accent; you are not from France and there are no other French-speaking heavyweights anyway, so you must be Daniel Lévesque representing Canada; I have seen the list. We know all other lifters except you. You are the wild card! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“That is correct, Miss, uh Ma’am, sorry, but I also did amateur boxing in my teenage years.”

“Did you? Tell me about it! I am curious and I love sports,” replied Nadia with eyes ablaze with fires that looked positively exaggerated as a reaction to such trivial information.

“I started out boxing at fourteen, against my father’s wishes, but I was a natural. I was a very good light-heavyweight and on my way to a professional career when I fell in love with weightlifting. This was a very tough decision to make, but I never looked back. I won my country’s junior title in forty-three, then the senior title the year after, not long before I turned twenty. I got drafted in November and saw two months of fighting in Germany during the Reich’s bitter end.”

Nadia’s face became sombre as he referred to the recently fought war, so Daniel quickly changed subjects: “I was so happy to see Montreal again, and best of all, I met a wonderful girl to whom I’m getting married next summer!”

Daniel produced his wallet and took out a small picture of Zabel...

“She looks really nice, and very lucky too; she is with a true gentleman!”

“Oh, thank you most kindly, Ma’am, but I’m only doing my best. Ever since I met that strange man on the train, my life seems to have magically changed for the better.”

Nadia was presently looking over her shoulder; she clearly was expecting her husband any second.

“So, you met a strange man on a train; that sounds quite glamorous. Please tell me more.”

“He was a very quaint man, tall and wearing very old-style clothes—a stovepipe hat and an astrakhan long coat and he...”

“A stovepipe hat with an astrakhan overcoat?!” Nadia blurted out, under the shock of dramatic surprise and looking at him with unhoped-for joy. “Did he have a foreign accent? Did he smoke Flor Fina cigars?”

“Y ... Yes. As a matter of fact he did have a foreign accent, very much like yours. He must be Russian, and he did smoke very fine cigars, left handed too...”

“Ukrainian! He’s Ukrainian, from Kyiv ... Like me ... That’s Igor...” Nadia said, looking down at the street-side pavement with tears welling in her eyes. She aimlessly observed two sparrows that were picking small crumbs.

“Oh, please, Nadia, you must not be so sad under such fair heavens!” he said as he put a comforting hand on her forearm. “No one must be sad in Paris, the city of light, mirth and joy!”

Daniel felt an incredibly strong hand taking hold of his shoulder. He was quickly on his feet and confronted the man, ready to strike him down with a one-two punch.

“Oh, it’s you!” Daniel said as he saw the formidable size and height of the Soviet colossus.

“Da!” his foe replied, then he started to scold Nadia in Russian, or was it Ukrainian? Daniel had no idea, as he only spoke French and English and was learning Armenian for Zabel.

Daniel stepped forward and positioned himself between Nadia and this excuse for a husband.

He introduced himself in English. It was very awkward and it looked like the big Soviet was going to attack him any second. What’s more, two tall men were now standing by his side like bodyguards; they looked all the more ominous as they wore a black trench coat with a matching fedora hat. They gazed at Daniel with gun-sight eyes.

“Such a cheerful company! What have I got myself into?” Daniel thought.

Then, the big Soviet laughed out loud with the rustic sort of laughter you no doubt heard from loggers in Siberia. The strongman had some barbaric vibe about him. Daniel felt sad for Nadia; such a husband must not be much fun to live with.

He extended a huge hand to Daniel and spoke some broken English...

“Yakov Vladimirovich Kutziev, champion of Soviet Union in weightlifting! And you, what name of you is?”

“I’m Daniel Lévekk...”

Before Daniel could finish introducing himself, Yakov squeezed his hand really hard in an attempt to crush it into putty, but Daniel held on and fought back with fires of his own. He showed this Soviet that he too had a mighty grip, forged through endless pulls without using straps to help him hold the bar.

The petty cockfight finished with a draw. The Soviet laughed again and gave a friendly pat on Daniel’s shoulder. The customers were all looking at the two large men in great alarm. The café owner was especially worried; he thought they were about to fight each other and this would have meant loads of property damage, but all seemed good now. Phew!

“My wife, she says you have very pretty girl. I am most happy for you and I wish you the very best. Please, accept apologies of me. Let’s uh, let’s...”

“Let’s be friends! After all, aren’t we brothers in iron?”

“Yes, that is what I wanted to say to you ... friends. Oh, and these two other friends of me are our official, uh, official chaperones. Where we go, they go, but not in our bedroom of course! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

Pleased with his rustic humour, the Soviet powerhouse departed, wrapping a possessive arm around Nadia’s petite shoulders as the couple walked away with the pair of black-clad agents following them like trained dogs.

Yakov Kutziev was USSR’s top heavyweight. He was in Paris for one reason—to beat John Davis from the USA and win the 1946 world championship for Moscow.

He was a formidable opponent indeed, and Daniel had no idea what shape John Davis was in. The American lifter was one of the few prewar champions to have made a comeback, but he was a legend; he had won the gold medal in Vienna at only seventeen years old, beating seasoned lifters who had competed in Berlin two years earlier.

Daniel’s thoughts went back to Nadia as he ordered a Paris-Brest for dessert along with more of their amazing coffee. So, she knew that mysterious man ... What a coincidence! It was in fact so improbable a coincidence that it was unsettling. It felt like he was being thrown into an all-encompassing game. Do what he will, fate would stick to him like a shadow, like a black-iron barbell that would always be two pounds too heavy.

How could he forget that strange encounter on the train?

It was Sunday, the seventh of April. He remembered perfectly well...

He sat in the train compartment, wearing his Army uniform and full of smugness as he took vain pride in his Lance Corporal’s chevron. He was eyeing a pretty passenger, who made a point of ignoring him. He didn’t pay much attention to the quaint man who sat by the window.

This ageless man looked like one who had gone to sleep in 1896 and woke up next morning in 1946. As he observed the young Lance Corporal from under the narrow brim of his stovepipe hat, he took note of how the lad kept casting an eager eye at that young passenger. She got off at Gare du Palais in Quebec City.

The steam locomotive got moving again.

The ageless man faced the lad.

When he spoke, the strength of his soul shook Daniel down to his core...

“From what I can observe, young man, you have seen combat over there and you have been intimate with some ladies in less than honourable circumstances.”

The words had stung Daniel’s pride deep and hard. He had risen and moved on him, but the quaint man had seized his wrist with preternatural strength that reminded him of Bram Stoker’s depiction of Dracula’s ungodly strength.

He had sat back sheepishly and listened like a pupil to a world-famous professor.

Daniel didn’t do anything criminal when he was in France and Germany, but at times, he did take advantage of the desperate predicament some women were in. All he had to do was to offer cigarettes, whisky and food, and she would sleep with him. Granted, some of them were sexually starved, but most acted like this out of sheer necessity.

He got drafted the day after his twentieth birthday. He was still a virgin and naturally felt curious, but war intensely magnified this. From March to early May, he fought in Germany and played cards with Death. Fearing an untimely demise, he would take every opportunity for comfort and relief.

When V-E Day came and he remained stationed in France, he was already set in his ways.

On that train in April 1946, that ageless man wearing a stovepipe hat lectured him with powerful, life-altering words. He made him understand that he had been treating dames like some sort of sentient beings whose main purpose was to fulfill his sexual needs. The more decent ladies sensed this and were cold fishes to him.

Daniel got off the train in Montreal with the earnest resolve to change his ways. That quaint man had done to him what the ghosts of Christmas did to Mr. Scrooge.

Back into street clothes, Daniel began to treat women and everyone else like equals, like human beings who were just like him—making their way in life with hopes, dreams and goals and doing their best to avoid getting tripped by fate along the way.

He didn’t see this man again in Montreal, but he felt his influence at work. A mysterious person had put in a good word for him at a prestigious firm and he got hired on the spot. Then, Daniel was having trouble raising the money for his trip to Paris. After he had won the Canadian senior title again, the Athletic Commission agreed to make him their lifter in Paris, provided that he paid all his expenses including the plane ticket. Amateur sport wasn’t for the poor.

A cheque for $1,500 materialised out of nowhere. It was more than enough. This quaint man must have been rich and a weightlifting enthusiast, which was a very eccentric quirk in Canada. He must have seen him give lifting exhibitions in Parc Jarry.

As he thought of Parc Jarry, his mind drifted to Zabel. Oh, Zabel, Zabel and her raven hair ... Zabel and her lovely feet! He got to see her in her bathing suit during a trip in Sainte-Agathe-des-Monts when they took a swim in Lac des Sables, after which they spent the evening kissing and holding hands while roasting marshmallows over their campfire.

He also kissed and massaged her feet, as both of them felt horny while keeping their urges in check. They were both saving the fireworks for their wedding night.

Daniel was lost so deep in his thoughts that he almost forgot this wasn’t August anymore. This was October.

He was in Paris.

He observed the Parisian sparrows on the sidewalk; they kept coming back for the small crumbs that always fell off the small, round tables as people ate and talked. They too had their hopes and dreams.

As he enjoyed his Paris-Brest, which tasted amazingly fresh, Daniel felt he was being observed. Looking up, he caught a neatly dressed teenage girl in the act of looking away, but she looked back at him and showed him how she could wave her hand in her long, chocolate-brown hair while smiling. She was very pretty and her teal, knee-high skirt naturally led a man to her stockinged legs.

She looked lively and displayed a kid’s beauty, yet she also had her womanly side; she wore white day gloves with an ample blouse, sail-like in its whiteness and styled in a way that highlighted her slim waist. She was as short as Nadia, about 5’1” or 5’2”.

She was presently walking toward him as he took a bite from his dessert and a sip of his delicious coffee. Daniel couldn’t help but look at her black penny-loafer shoes encasing her girly feet.

“I think I’ve seen you before, Monsieur. Were you a soldier in Paris two years ago?”

It was clear she was desperate to speak to him. At any rate, she was bold. From up close, Daniel could see in her face that she was about the same age as Zabel—a peachy seventeen, still a kid, but almost a grown woman.

She stood in front of him while offering a three-quarter profile view, so he could observe her perky breast shapes from the most favourable angle. They were small, yet they looked average in size as they rode high on her petite frame.

He wanted to rise on his feet and introduce himself properly, but he had a fast-growing erection that stopped him midway in what must have been a very clownish move, for she burst out laughing.

She sat by him and kept laughing and giggling.

“Hello, Miss, would you like to have something? Some coffee, perhaps? Are you hungry?”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! My uncle owns this place and he spoils me too much, not that it makes me put on weight. Look!”

The teenage girl rose from her seat and displayed her ballerina-slim waist, moving in such a way as to make sure he had the best view on her slender curves. The elderly couple sitting nearby looked shocked at her licentious behaviour while Daniel felt both embarrassed and very much pleased. He felt wild elation, as girls who behaved like this were usually willing to have sex.

He looked at his watch; it was 01:40 p.m. He asked her to go with him on a walk as he wanted to see Notre Dame de Paris before he was due at the lifting club. She said she’d prefer something even more spiritual.

Daniel’s watch now indicated 04:30 p.m. as he chalked his hands before taking another warm-up set in the snatch. After going from 135 to 215 pounds in 20-pound increments, he was presently at 225 pounds as his last step before doing heavy singles using 245 pounds.

After chalking his hands white, he stood over the barbell and took a four-feet wide grip. He pulled and ... missed.

Instead of dropping into a shallow split under the bar, Daniel got stuck as it sailed slightly above his chin, then it sank down to his waist and he gently set the iron plates back down on the platform.

That weight should have been a cinch, but his timing was completely off! He knew why.

That Parisian girl was with him and he couldn’t pull his thoughts away from her nor take his eyes off her juicy figure.

Marie told him her name after they had sex in his hotel room.

Once she had dressed back in her blouse and skirt, looking like a teenage pin-up girl with her white gloves and pearl necklace, Daniel just couldn’t resist the pleasure of showing off with her by his side. He was having a relapse of smugness.

Marie was presently giggling nonstop as she watched all these dreamboat men hoist or press impressive weights.

Given his state of mind, Daniel couldn’t concentrate on such a complex lift as the snatch. He stripped the bar down to 135 pounds and started training his press, which was the simplest lift of the weightlifting trinity.

As he worked up in weights, he mentally relived the intimacy he’d just shared with Marie.

He felt the pang of guilt as he thought of Zabel. He had taken a turn toward an unknown destination, but having sex with Marie had been a genuine boffo.

Fortunately, she didn’t spot Zabel’s picture on the small mirror, which was in a shadowy corner of his room, thanks to the window curtain. He took it off while she was gone to the common bathroom, knowing she’d use that mirror to refresh her light makeup.

Everything about Marie was light and lively; she was the quintessential teen girl. Daniel smiled as he recalled their first kiss.

As soon as they found themselves alone in his room, Daniel kissed her and intensely drank her peachy charms and scent as he pinned her against the closed door. Marie kissed him back even more intensely and wrapped her petite legs around him.

Undressing this Parisian kid was a transgression at every undone button and every flash of perky flesh. The movements of her light breasts and her raspberry-pale nipples and areolas summed up her sparkly youth.

When she lay on the floor under him, she kept giggling like crazy, as if sex was the funniest laughing matter in the world. Amid her cackles, she said she was in the safest time of her month while he kept contemplating her pure-white nakedness with absolute awe.

He tasted, sniffed, licked, kissed and caressed her from head to toe; her lovely feet and perky breasts gave him life before his manhood made her sing a Parisian song when she climaxed on the floor with her legs propped up against his brawny shoulders. Her lithe body was thus coiled under him like a visual number six as he kept hammering her and willingly remained the prisoner of her velvety tightness.

Marie’s whimpers kept echoing through the room while he grunted his way to a slam-bang finish where he blissfully shot his seed and filled her up while listening to her high-pitched finale.

Both of them being young and full of fire, they did it a second time.

This time, the Canadian lifter screamed his relief into Marie’s shadow brown hair while burning her neck with kisses as he shot his maple syrup inside the Parisian kid, making her happy as she received his transatlantic jism while imprinting her little nails on his massive back.

Lastly, he fingered her the way she preferred, until she filled the room with her high-pitched fireworks, informing any passerby in the hallway that a dame was present.

Needless to say, he showed up slightly late at the lifting club, the owner of which gave Daniel a knowing smile when he saw Marie at his side.

Daniel was physically present in the training hall, but his mind was still in that hotel room where a blissful turn of fate had hooked him like a fish on a line. The bait tasted like Parisian raspberries, like Marie’s nipples.

At present, Daniel had his hands white with chalk as he went through his heavy singles and kept pressing 250 pounds overhead, making that barbell and the heavy iron plates on each end look like a toy.

Marie was all over the place, giggling and giving the training hall a nice female touch as she chatted and flirted with the American lifters. She presently tried, without success, to fit her white-gloved hands around the ebony arm of John Davis.

As he watched Marie with the Afro-American wonder of nature, Daniel didn’t feel jealous; the sight gave him taboo fantasies.

Daniel took the opportunity to meet and shake hands with his idol, but John Davis was busy with his training, resting a full five minutes between sets and meditating, sometimes looking like he had fallen asleep where he sat.

He nonetheless spoke a bit with the legend, who told him to pull a tiny bit longer before dropping under his snatch so he could get the bar an inch or two higher.

Yakov and the Soviet team were all lifting intimidating weights according to their respective weight classes—up to 132, 148, 165 and 182 pounds and finally, above all that, the heavyweights. Several black-clad agents were chaperoning them as they lifted under their coach’s watchful eye. These agents from the Ministry of State Security (MGB in Russian) were the Kremlin’s watchdogs.

Marie was now chatting with Nadia; both girls kept laughing together like giggling teenagers. Daniel couldn’t help but notice how similar they looked while being profoundly different—both were petite and had dark hair with Marie being two shades lighter. Nadia was a grown woman, although she looked very young, while Marie was still a kid, wearing a pearl necklace that was supposed to make her look more adult, but it glistened like a teenage girl’s smile in the softly lit hall, which was filled with men’s sweat and grunts.

Five Egyptian lifters showed up, the great El-Touni among them—El-Touni, who had won the Olympic gold in the middleweight division in front of the Führer.

Nadia and Marie enjoyed the view and giggled like schoolgirls as they watched the Egyptian dreamboats take off their street clothes in front of everybody and reveal their mahogany-brown physiques with cannonball shoulders and their full, powerful glutes, before putting on their shirtless gym attire, the same they always trained in under Allah’s sun.

Nadia’s giggling gave cause for Yakov to throw a jealous, menacing gaze at her.

Daniel was now doing clean pulls in sets of two, with his grip slightly outside shoulder width. His thoughts came back to Zabel. Once again, guilt struck him, crushing his sense of wellness under its heavy boot. The 300-pound barbell he was pulling to chest height felt like a feather in comparison.

He ought to stop seeing Marie. He ought to just compete and head back home and forget all about Paris. Maybe it wasn’t too late to pull back.

His eyes wandered and rested on Nadia and Marie of their own volition. Both girls kept up their lively chatting while Yakov kept lifting the heaviest weights without any sign of straining.

As he finished his lifting session, Daniel saw Marie walking to the phone booth. Her gait was midway between an angel and a ballerina. This girl was pure magic.

When he had showered and got back into his street clothes, Marie was right there waiting for him. She threw herself in his arms and kissed him before telling him she easily got carried away as she didn’t weighed very much.

Nadia and Yakov were there too along with their MGB chaperones offering their tall, shadowy presence. One of these men in black, the taller one, had a sinister look; his long, crooked nose made him look like some Bolshevik bird of prey. His vampire-pale face reinforced this effect.

His name turned out to be Sergei, from Leningrad, as Yakov made the introductions civilly. The other one, who stood “only” six feet tall, was Yuri, from Stalingrad. Yuri had the usual hard-at-work features of most policemen who were naturals in their trade; he was pretty much nondescript, except for an ugly scar that ran through his right cheek—a bayonet wound he got from a terrified SS somewhere in Pomerania.

Marie had phoned her mother. They were all invited for dinner in the Faubourg Saint-Germain.

It thus came to be that four Soviets had dinner in the humble three-room apartment rented by Madame Sophie Berthier, a widow and mother of Marie Berthier. The MGB agents didn’t come empty handed; they had bought some fine Beaujolais and a bottle of vodka while Nadia had found some chai to offer her host as a thank you gift.

To avoid burdening her mother with the cooking, Marie had arranged a food delivery with her generous uncle at the café.