HS03 - A Visible Darkness (6 page)

On every occasion, French conversation died in an instant.

Their eyes rolled up to the ceiling, they spoke in worried whispers,
and the man sitting next to the window dropped the sash, leaning out to see that nothing had come adrift above us, reaching up to check that the ropes were holding, calling to the driver, ducking back inside to announce that all was secure, and that, despite their worst fears, nothing had happened to upset their plans.

Plans?

One thing was clear to me: their military careers would be at stake if any damage were done to the ‘beak.’ At the same time, I began to feel that they feared for more than just their careers alone. They spoke of the officer that they were delivering it to as some sort of ogre, who might eat them all if any harm came to his metallic plaything. It gave me unexpected pleasure to hear the thrill of fear in their harsh voices.

Suddenly, a loud shriek split the night.

Leather brakes bit harshly on the steel rims of the wheels. The carriage creaked, rocked, skidding from side to side on the sandy surface of the road. The smell of burning took the place of salt and sea air. Above our heads, instruments, tools and boxes began to clash like warring bands of medieval knights locked in a battle to the death, coming to a crashing, rowdy climax as the vehicle lurched to a sudden halt.

My travelling companions flew into a fit.

They leapt down onto the sands before the coach had fully stopped.

I did not follow, but remained where I was. I was going on to Nordcopp after all, and I dared to hope that the rest of the journey would be more peaceful without them.

‘
Les forets!’
one man shouted. ‘
Avez soin des forets!
’

‘
Descendez mes instruments trés vite!
’ another voice demanded.

I heard the studded boots of someone up on the roof, the repeated calls for their valuable cargo to be unloaded, and carefully, too. I stared out through the open window, wondering whether I ought to get down and offer them a hand, but then dark shadows ran into the circle of light that was cast by the coach-lamp. They would have no need of me. Indeed, the local helpers seemed to be more efficient and orderly. A voice stood out above the others, issuing
orders in a sharp, commanding tone, while a succession of boxes, packages, bags and more unwieldy objects were handed down from the roof to the hands now reaching up to receive them.

I took complete possession of the empty vehicle, and closed my eyes.

‘Paralysed with fright, are you?’

The accent was French, though the language was German.

I opened the eyes. A head was poking in through the door, a dark silhouette against the sulphurous light of a lantern.

‘Or are you deaf?’

Wisps of sea-fog hung about his face and hair like drifting pipe-smoke.

I sat up quickly. ‘Colonel les Halles is expecting me in Nordcopp,’ I began. ‘The sooner I get there . . .’

‘You are there,’ he snapped in bulldog fashion. ‘And I am he. Now, get out quick, monsieur, or that carriage will take you straight to Königsberg.’

I made haste to jump down from the coach, embarrassed to be told by a Frenchman what a native Prussian might be expected to know. So, this was the ogre that my fellow-passengers had been speaking of, the one with whom General Malaport had told me that I would be required to work.

He was shorter than myself, more square, robust, rugged. His head was a cube, his close-cropped hair as white as salt. And yet, he was not old. Certainly, he had not passed forty. There was a piercing, challenging, brutal quality to his rude stare, as if he were summing me up for future use.

‘Procurator Hanno Stiffeniis,’ I announced. That ‘get out quick’ still stung, and I thought it best to meet his rampant arrogance with disdain.

‘I know who you are, monsieur,’ he replied brusquely. ‘I do not know what you may yet be. But we have work to do. The stink of the Baltic Sea will not cover the stench of the
fräulein
for very much longer.’

He turned away, shouting to the man on the roof of the coach. ‘That drive shaft! Break it, and I’ll break your neck!’

As I retrieved my leather satchel from the ground, he turned to meet the other new arrivals, informing them that their instruments would be stored in a hut close by, warning them that nothing should be touched without his say-so.

He exercised authority like a bludgeon.

‘Coach clear, Monsieur le Colonel!’ a soldier saluted.

Les Halles grunted, and waved the man away.

‘It’s too late to do anything tonight,’ he said, his voice gruff and low, as if he were accusing us of coming late on purpose, just to frustrate his plans. ‘You’ll start first thing in the morning. We rise at five.’

He raised his lantern to my face, let out another dismissive grunt, then turned away, stumping off into the fog. ‘Follow me,’ he shouted.

We trudged after him in silence, each man carrying his bag or valise. It was heavy going; the sand was very fine, damp with fog, and it clung to our boots like lead. A dark structure loomed up suddenly. A wooden hut. There appeared to be others dimly glimpsed in the shifting half-light.

Colonel les Halles kicked his boot against the frail door.

‘
Entrez, monsieurs!
’

He might have been urging assault troops forward on a suicidal mission.

Was he capable of conversational speech? Every word was an order. Every order was to be obeyed. Was I alone in hearing the sarcasm in his voice? Or was it a question of Prussian sensibility, and nothing more?

One of the newcomers pushed past me, hurrying forward into the light and the shelter. ‘This is
true
French hospitality!’ he exclaimed.

I followed him up the wooden steps and took a few wary paces into the room.

We might have been aboard a whaling-ship. The edifice was ribbed and panelled like an upturned boat, the wood as shiny as metal, green-tinged where damp had made its home in the grain. The wooden roof was low, the room was small, and it seemed even smaller, crammed with sets of drawers fixed along three of the
walls. Heaps of tools and instruments were stored above the drawers. Those drawers were narrow, as if they were used to hold maps and drawings, each marked with an iron letter from the alphabet. There were picks and hammers hanging from hooks. Large boxes containing screws and nails, all the paraphernalia of carpenters and woodworkers, were ranged on top of the drawers. In the centre of the room, a large table was illuminated by a hanging oil-lamp. Bread, cheese and wine had been set out on trays.

There were four soldiers standing around it. Their eyes slid over me and settled on the newly-arrived Frenchmen. Greetings and names were quickly exchanged, together with more particular enquiries, regarding their journey and the state of the empire. The words
Spain
and
guerrilla
were like magnets to men who were isolated on the extreme northern coast of the continent.

I stood apart, holding tight to my travelling-bag, like a lost pilgrim, uncertain to whom I might address myself. But Colonel les Halles had other plans for me. He had taken up a position at the far end of the room, well away from the feast.

‘Stiffeniis,’ he called. ‘Come over here.’

I went to stand beside him.

We were like a small private island; the other officers composed a larger, more convivial land mass some way off across the wide sea.

‘I received a note regarding you from General Malaport,’ he began, then stopped abruptly. ‘First, let me see your orders.’

As he spoke, he slipped the cape from his shoulders. His uniform was stained and spotted. Mud had dried in places, as if he had just recently stopped working, and then in such a hurry that he had had no time to restore his finery. Only the stripes on his sleeves and the silver epaulettes on his shoulders proclaimed what he was. In the days to come, I would understand that this was what he wanted his underlings to think of him: he was a commander, he was ready to soil his hands, having no time for social nicety. He put first things first, and all the rest flew out of the window.

‘You have left a wife and three young children in Lotingen,’ he said, taking the letter that I held out to him, folding his arms, settling
his bulk on the edge of the table, staring at me out of dark, hooded eyes. ‘Your wife is expecting a fourth child, I’ve been informed. It cannot have been easy for you to leave them there, not knowing how long it will take to . . . to resolve the situation here.’

It was the first word of ordinary humanity that I had heard from his lips. Was there a Madame les Halles waiting for him in France? Was there a child who could squeeze a drop of tenderness from the heart of Colonel les Halles?

At my back, I heard the start of a small welcoming party for the new officers. Bottles were broached and exclamations of appreciation were made, concerning the unexpected quality of the German wine, the excellence of the dried sausages and the pickled herring.

He was keeping me well apart, I realised, singling me out, marking me off from the others. I was his Prussian guest, though that did not mean that I was to be generally made welcome. I waited in silence while he cast his eyes over my letter of commission. When he had finished, he handed it back to me. ‘Carry this letter with you always,’ he warned. ‘It will be your passport here. You won’t go far without it.’

‘Without your assistance, I will not go far, in any case,’ I said.

He did not reply immediately.

‘Do you know what is happening here on the coast?’ he asked, his voice low and guarded. His eyes flashed into mine.

‘General Malaport told me. That is, he spoke of a woman,’ I replied obliquely, taking my lead from my interlocutor.

His thin lips creased into a bitter smile.

‘I like your answer,’ he said. ‘I can only hope to God that Malaport has chosen wisely. I will not hide it from you, I would have preferred a . . .’

‘French magistrate?’ I interrupted him.

‘What else?’ he answered quickly. ‘But that is hardly the point. Get this fixed firmly in your mind, monsieur. My only concern is for results. I asked the general for a man who knows Prussia and understands the Prussians. Malaport has sent you to me. I had no voice in the matter. My work is being hampered, I want the obstacle removed. I will not permit interference with my plans. If you
are not successful, you’ll be sent packing. They can send me someone else, or I’ll do the job myself.’

I felt the urge to smile, though I was careful to conceal it. How would such a man manage to ingratiate himself with a nation of Prussians who hated the occupying forces on sight?

‘You, sir?’

‘Me, sir. Or someone
like
me. A man whose only aim is the good of France. A man who will stop at nothing to achieve success.’ He made no effort to hide his pride, or his single-minded drive. ‘Do you understand what I want from you?’

He looked up suddenly, glanced over to the table where wine was being consumed in quantity, then back at me.

‘Did you tell
them
why you were coming here?’ he asked.

I shook my head.

‘I do not discuss the emperor’s business with the first man that I meet,’ I replied.

‘Keep it that way,’ he said, as if the declaration had won me some sort of grudging consent. ‘You will reveal your findings to me alone. They will discover the motive for your presence here soon enough. They are mechanics. They have more important tasks to occupy their thoughts. I will keep them busy. They must only know what is necessary.’

‘Different tasks, nothing in common,’ I summed up.

‘On the contrary, monsieur,’ he snapped. ‘All of you have one aim in common. Your roles may differ, Herr Magistrate, but all of you must strive to make Nordcopp a place which is safe and efficient.’ He lowered his voice a key. ‘Murder and commerce do not make good bedfellows.’

He stared at me in silence for some time.

‘I want to show you something,’ he said, turning to the desk behind him.

Something that might have been a child’s game had been roughly tipped from a box. The pieces were distributed higgledy-piggledy over a board painted yellow and blue, as if a careless boy had knocked the models over, then gone to bed without bothering to set them in place again.

‘These are my dreams,’ he announced quietly.

At my back, the welcome party grew louder. Glass clinked on glass, more drinks were poured, conversations were eagerly pursued with mouths full of bread and cheese.

‘What do the pieces represent?’ I asked.

His eyes darted in my direction, dancing in the lamplight, apparently amused by the naivety of the question. They spoke of a sharp intelligence, but little kindness. He looked down, moving the pieces carefully, placing some on the broad blue field, shifting others onto the narrow yellow one. There was a fixity in his concentration, a gentle care in his handling of those frail objects which surprised me. His large head inclined over the table, carefully surveying the positions that he had chosen. The silvery hair on his head had been cut back almost to the bone. The dark stubble on his jaw was longer, as if he had forgotten to shave that day.

‘Those toys would delight my son,’ I said.

He picked up one of the pieces as if it were a precious jewel.

‘The real pleasure is to see them grow,’ he said. ‘Soon the game will begin. For the moment, we are content to plan. But the work goes ahead and nothing must delay it. No one. This coast will never be the same again.’

He set the model down, and gazed at me.

‘Herr Magistrate, I want you to do something for me.’

I nodded, expecting to receive some further peremptory order.

He paused for a moment. ‘Go over to that table. Help yourself to a glass of red wine. A very large glass. Drink it off in a single draught. Then drink another. As soon as you’ve done that, monsieur, you must follow me.’

I looked at him in disbelief. Was this some sort of bizarre joke?

‘I am not a great drinker of wine,’ I began to say.

His forefinger appeared in a flash in front of my eyes. It was stubby, strong, the fingernail black and broken.