Dark Summer in Bordeaux (30 page)

Marguerite started to cry. Lannes was sorry for her. He should have taken her in his arms and offered comfort. He did nothing.

‘I can’t forgive you,’ she said. ‘I shall never be able to forgive you.

He will get himself killed and it will be your fault.’

What was there to say? He has done what he thinks is right. Pointless. He thought: you haven’t tried to stop Dominique from going to Vichy. That may be more dangerous in the long run. You don’t understand how things are. You don’t understand why Alain has to do what he is doing. You don’t understand because you don’t know him as I do, and because you care nothing for anything outside the family. He didn’t tell you what he planned to do because he knew that you wouldn’t try to understand him, that you would just tell him not to be silly. You don’t know what the world is like because you don’t care to know.

He said none of what ran bitterly in his mind. And really he had no right to reproach her. Weren’t there mothers all over France who shut their eyes to the war, the humiliation of defeat and Occupation, and enclosed themselves in the little world of home and family? What else should they do? And yet her determination to exclude the reality by which they were as a country and a people oppressed exasperated him, not only because he couldn’t behave in the same way but because there was selfishness in this wilful blindness. All the same she was entitled to speak to him as she had. He had deceived her, and they both knew he would do so again. The fabric of their marriage was torn. Trust once lost is never fully recovered. He had seen too many examples of marriages and relationships in which the light has been extinguished. They would patch things up, after a fashion, find a way to come to some form of accommodation, because it was necessary to do so, and life would be intolerable otherwise, but they would both know that things could never be again as they had been. His secrecy, his deceit, and her words ‘I shall never be able to forgive you’, could not be forgotten. His own mother used to say, ‘time is the great healer.’ It wasn’t always true. There are wounds that never close but continue to suppurate.

He got to his feet ‘Alain has done what he believes is right. That’s how we’ve brought him up. We should be proud of him. Now I must go out, back to work.’

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Run away. As usual. Take refuge in your work, like a coward. Or go and get drunk with that loathsome bullterrier of yours. I don’t care what you do. I’ll never care again, do you hear? My mother was right about you, she always said I had made a mistake marrying you.’

He picked up his stick. On the stairs he found he was trembling and leaned for a moment against the wall to steady himself. He could hear her sobbing, or thought he could, but there was nothing to say or do about it. He had no comfort to offer and she would refuse it if he had.

XLII

‘Well, he’s safe up in the mountains,’ Fernand said, ‘the farmer’s a cousin of a cousin. Christ knows what he’ll make of the little bastard – I don’t suppose he even knows that milk comes from cows. He’s a right one – I’m glad enough to be rid of him – he propositioned my Jacques, you know.’

‘And what did Jacques do?’

‘Smacked him in the kisser.’

‘How did Karim take that?’

‘Do him credit. He laughed and said, “Have it your own way, anyway I really prefer girls myself too, just thought I’d try it on.” Maybe he’s not such a bad kid, even Jacques says that, though he was mighty offended at the time. Anyway he’s safe for now.’

‘Thank you. I’m grateful. I felt a responsibility to the boy. I don’t think he’s had much of a chance. Maybe he’ll learn to go straight now.’

As ever, even a short conversation with Fernand left Lannes feeling more cheerful. He made his way to the address Karim had given him. It was a mean street no more than a hundred metres from ‘The Wet Flag’, or ‘Chez Jules’ as the bar was now called. There was no concierge. The building stank of poverty. He climbed the stairs to the third floor. There was a smell of something cooking in stale fat and the stairs hadn’t been swept for days. He knocked and the door was opened by a woman dressed in a housecoat with a pattern of faded flowers. She had curlers in her hair, a couple of them working themselves free, and her crimson lipstick extended beyond her mouth to smear her left cheek. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth and her feet were bare.

‘What’s he done now?’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do I mean? Do you think I don’t recognise a cop when I see one? I wasn’t born yesterday.’

‘May I come in?’

‘Don’t suppose I can stop you.’

She stepped aside and as he passed her he realised that she was wearing nothing under the housecoat. The room was warm and damp, the air stale and smelling of unwashed garments, and there were cobwebs across the window. The table was covered with dirty cups and glasses. An empty bottle of Rhum St Jacques stood beside a pack of playing cards and a plate of half-eaten macaroni.

‘Go ahead. Finish your meal,’ he said, but when he looked at the macaroni he saw that a fly buzzed around it and a cigarette had been stubbed out among the tubes.

‘So what’s he done?’ she said again. ‘I know he’s up to something, the little bastard. He hasn’t been home for three days.’

‘Is Karim your only son?’

‘One’s enough. More than enough, I often think. You don’t happen to have a drink on you?’

Lannes shook his head.

‘He hasn’t done anything that need worry you,’ he said.

‘That’s new,’ she said. ‘So what do you want?’

She picked up the empty bottle and sighed.

‘I’m needing badly,’ she said. ‘How old do you think I am? I’m thirty-five and I look fifty and I can’t talk without a drink.’

‘All right then, I’ll fetch you one.’

‘Rum,’ she said. ‘Rum’s what I drink.’

When he returned with a bottle from the ‘alimentation’, she was sitting at the table with her head in her hands and groaning. He poured her a glass which she downed in one swallow; then shuddered and held it out for a refill.

Lannes moved a pile of dirty clothes from a chair and sat down opposite her.

‘He brought a German officer here,’ he said.

‘One!’ she said. ‘If it was only one. I have to give up my bed’ – she gestured to the other door in the room – ‘so the Boches can stick it up his arse.’

Lannes found it hard to picture Schussmann, who had seemed fastidious to him, in this squalor. He produced his photograph and laid it before her. ‘This one?’

‘Him,’ she lifted the glass again. ‘That one was a laugh. He took one look at me coming out of the bedroom with sleep in my eyes, threw some francs on the table and was off down the stairs like a rat making for its hole. We had a good laugh over that one. Never made easier dough, Karim said. But the others. One of them wanted us both at once. “Not on your nelly,” I said, “first one, then the other.” “All right, call me Hermann,” he said. Where’s Karim, why are you here?’

The couple of large tots of rum were already thickening her speech, but her voice was stronger. Lannes tapped the photograph of Schussmann, ‘This one’s dead, shot himself when they found out he was queer, and the Boches want the boys he went with.’

‘And you’re here to do their dirty work, clapping the cuffs on my Karim. Bastard. Well, you’re out of luck. Like I say, I haven’t seen him for days. So you can get out, Mr Policeman, you can fucking well get out.’

Lannes said, ‘Calm down. You’ve got it wrong. I came to tell you he’s safe, out of Bordeaux, where the Boches won’t find him. You’ve nothing to worry about.’

‘What do you mean? Nothing? How am I to live without my boy? Where’s the money to come from? They pay him more than they pay me. That’s the Boches for you, filthy swine.’

She gave herself another rum and lit the cigarette which had gone out.

‘You’ll manage,’ Lannes said. ‘I just wanted to let you know he’s safe.’

‘Bastard,’ she said again.

‘That’s all right. I wasn’t looking for thanks. If anyone comes asking about him, you’ve no idea where he is.’

‘Well, I haven’t, have I?’

On the stairs he passed a bald German sergeant.

‘She’ll be pleased to see you,’ he said. ‘She’s a lovely old woman, all ready to go.’

I shouldn’t have said that, he thought. I shouldn’t mock her. How else is she to get by, and perhaps she really cares for the boy? Why didn’t he tell me Schussmann had run away, in a panic or disgust? Maybe he was ashamed.

Dominique and Clothilde were playing cards. She had been crying and her eyes were red-rimmed.

‘Where’s your mother?’

‘She’s gone to bed,’ Dominique said. ‘She says she has a headache, but I think it’s more than that. There’s something wrong, isn’t there? It’s about Alain, isn’t it?’

‘Where is he?’ Clothilde said. ‘We’re all worried. He hasn’t been arrested, has he?’

‘No, of course not. It’s nothing like that. You don’t need to worry, darling. Your mother hasn’t said anything, not even to you, Dominique?’

‘All I know is that she’s unhappy.’

‘And angry,’ Clothilde said. ‘With you, Papa. I know that. What’s happening?’

‘Yes,’ Lannes said, ‘she’s angry with me. There are things we don’t think alike about. It happens. It’ll pass.’

‘We’re not children,’ Clothilde said.

‘No, you’re not. It might be easier if you were. Still children, I mean. It would be a lot easier.’

‘You’re unhappy too, Papa. And anxious. Why don’t you go through to her and make up?’

‘No,’ Dominique said, ‘don’t do that, not now. Do it later. I looked in a little while ago and she’s asleep. But you must talk to each other. I know that. You really must, whatever’s wrong. Oh, I forgot, there’s a letter for you. It was delivered by hand. Here it is. Rather grand, with a crest on the envelope.’

He slit it open, a single sheet, from St-Hilaire.

‘I have had a telegram from my cousin, the General. The birds have landed safely. All is well. I made my peace with Jérôme’s mother. I am grateful to you for your understanding concerning the other matter we talked about.’

Assurance of distinguished sentiments and all that.

Lannes said, ‘I can tell you now. Your brother is in Algiers. He flew there yesterday with two friends. They have arrived safely.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Clothilde said.

‘I do,’ Dominique said. ‘You knew and you didn’t stop him. And you kept it from Maman. It’s terrible.’

‘But why Algiers?’ Clothilde said.

‘Tell her, Papa. Tell her. You must tell her.’

‘You know Alain’s opinions,’ Lannes said. ‘You know how deeply he feels about the Armistice and the Occupation, how indignant he is. Well, North Africa is the first step for him and his friends towards joining de Gaulle and the Free French. And, Dominique, you are correct. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t try to stop him. He knew it was dangerous, there was no need to tell him that. I said merely that he must do what he thought was right, just as I said that to you when you declared your intention of going to Vichy and taking up the position offered to you there. Which, as you will remember I told you, is not without danger too. You are both doing what you believe to be right, and I’m proud of both of you. There’s no difference.’

There was a silence. It lasted perhaps a couple of minutes. Clothilde dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. Then Dominique said: ‘But there is. There is a difference. I discussed the invitation Maurice sent me with Maman. I discussed it fully with her as well as with you. Alain kept his plan secret from her, and you – her husband – colluded with him in this secrecy, this deceit. That was wrong, monstrous. Do you think she will ever forgive you?’

Lannes lit a cigarette and found that his hands were trembling.

‘I don’t know that she will,’ he said.

‘Poor Maman, to be deceived and betrayed,’ Dominique said.

‘Poor Papa,’ Clothilde said, ‘to think you had to deceive and betray her. And Alain, he might have said good-bye. I am his twin after all. And he didn’t even ask me to look after No Neck. I will of course, but, all the same . . . I don’t understand it . . . ’

‘I don’t understand how you and Alain could cause her so much pain,’ Dominique said.

‘No, I don’t suppose you can,’ Lannes said, ‘but that’s how it was. That’s how it is.’

XLIII

He had barely slept. Twice, as he lay staring into the dark, Marguerite had cried out, but she did not wake, and, to his relief, did not stir when he slipped out of bed. It was scarcely dawn. He left the house like a guilty man escaping the scene of the crime. In the Place du Marché, stalls were being set up and goods laid out. The familiar bustle could not disguise the paucity of what was available. The first bars were open and the traders were drinking their ersatz coffee, many enriching it – and making it palatable – with the addition of a nip of marc, brandy or rum. The mood was sombre, conversation restricted to grumbles. It would be like that every morning now. Lannes called for a double dash of marc in his coffee. He took his cup to the door of the café. It was still cool but the sun was pushing its way through the mist that rose from the Garonne. It was going to be a hot day again. He thought of Alain waking in Algiers and feeling the exhilaration of the African dawn. He wondered how he and the other boys would pass the day, when and how they would take their first steps towards the Gaullists.