Missing Person (17 page)

BOOK: Missing Person

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However, we did on occasions go down to the village. We would leave the chalet at around 10
A
.
M
.
and take a path lined with small chapels. Sometimes we went into one and Denise lit a candle. Some of them were closed. We walked slowly so as not to slip on the snow.

Lower down, a stone cross stood in the center of a kind of roundabout from which a very steep path descended. Half the path had wooden steps built into it, but the snow had covered them. I walked in front of Denise, so that I could catch her if she slipped. At the bottom of the path was the village. We walked down the main street to the square in front of the town hall, and passed the Hôtel du Mont- Blanc. A little further, on the right, rose the grayish concrete building of the post-office. There, we sent some letters to Denise's friends: Léon, Hélène who had lent us her apartment in Rue Cambacérès ... I had written to Rubirosa to tell him we had arrived safely, thanks to his passports, and advised him to join us, as he had told me, the last time we had seen each other at the legation, that he intended to "settle down to a quiet life." I gave him our address.

The road sloped upward toward Rochebrune. Groups of children, accompanied by gym instructresses in navy blue winter sports outfits, were coming out of all the hotels along the road. They carried skis or ice-skates over their shoulders. The resort hotels had, in fact, been requisitioned for the poorest children of the large cities several months ago.

Before turning back, we watched from afar people crowding round the ski-lift booking-office window.

Above "The Southern Cross," if you followed the sloping path through the pine trees, you arrived at a very low, one- story chalet. This was where the woman who did our shopping lived. Her husband owned a few cows. He was caretaker of "The Southern Cross" when the owners were away and had fitted up a large room in his chalet with a rudimentary bar, seating, and a billiard-table. One afternoon, Denise and I went up there to fetch some milk. He was not very welcoming, but when Denise saw the billiard-table, she asked him if she could play. At first he seemed surprised, then he relaxed. He told her to come and play whenever she liked.

We often went there in the evenings, after Freddie, Gay Orlov and Wildmer had left us to plunge into Megève's night life. They suggested we join them at "L'Equipe," or in some chalet for an "entertainment among friends," but we preferred to go up there. Georges - this was the man's first name - and his wife awaited us. I think they liked us. We played billiards with him and two or three of his friends. Denise was the best player. I can still see her standing there, slender, holding the cue, I can still see her gentle Asiatic face, her limpid eyes, her chestnut hair with copper reflections in it, which tumbled in coils to her hips ...

We used to chat until very late with Georges and his wife. Georges told us there would certainly be trouble one of these days, and identity checks, since many of the people who were in Megève as vactioners were on a continual spree and attracting attention. We were not like the others. He and his wife would take care of us, in case of difficulties.

Denise had disclosed to me that Georges reminded her of her father. We often made a wood fire. The hours passed in warmth and closeness, and we felt at home.

Sometimes when the others had left, we stayed alone at "The Southern Cross." We had the chalet to ourselves. I would like to be able to relive certain clear nights when we gazed down at the village, which stood out sharply against the snow, so that it looked like a miniature village, a toy village in a shop window at Christmas. Those nights, everything seemed simple and reassuring and we dreamed of the future. We would settle here, our children would go to the village school, summer would come with the tinkling bells of the herds being led to pasture. We would lead a happy life, with no surprises.

On other nights, the snow fell and I felt I was suffocating. We would never be able to get away, Denise and I. We were prisoners, at the end of this valley, and the snow would gradually bury us. There was nothing more disheartening than these mountains which blocked out the horizon. Panic took over. Then, I would open the french windows and we would go out on to the balcony. I breathed the cold air scented by pine trees. I was no longer afraid. On the contrary, I felt detached, serenely melancholic, faced with this landscape. And what about us in it? It seemed to me that the echo of our movements, of our lives, was smothered by this cotton wool which fell in light flakes around us, on the church tower, on the skating rink and the cemetery, on the darker line of the road threading the valley.

And then Gay Orlov and Freddie started inviting people to the chalet in the evenings. Wildmer was no longer afraid of being recognized and turned out to be the life and soul of the party. Ten, often more, would turn up unexpectedly at around midnight, and the party which had begun in another chalet took on a new lease of life. We avoided them, Denise and I, but Freddie asked us to stay so graciously, that sometimes we accepted.

I can still picture several of those people - dimly, as through a mist. A lively, dark-haired man who was always inviting you to join him in a game of poker and who drove around in a car registered in Luxembourg; a certain "André- Karl," blond, with a red sweater, his face tanned by longdistance skiing; another fellow, very hefty, decked out in black velvet, and in my memory endlessly circling, like a large bumble-bee ... And a number of women - someone called "Jacqueline," a "Mrs. Campan" - good looking, fresh-air types.

Sometimes, once things were under way, the light in the living room would be switched off suddenly, or a couple would disappear into a bedroom.

And now, this "Kyril," whom Gay Orlov had met at Sallanches station and who had offered us a ride in his car. A Russian, married to a very pretty Frenchwoman. I believe he traded in cans of paint and in aluminium. He often telephoned Paris from the chalet and I kept telling Freddie that these phone calls would attract attention, but Freddie, like Wildmer, had lost all sense of caution.

It was "Kyril" and his wife who brought Bob Besson and a certain "Oleg de Wrédé" to the chalet one evening. Besson was a ski instructor, some of whose clients had been celebrities. He practiced ski jumping and his face was scarred by some bad falls he had had. He limped slightly. A small, dark man, a native of Megève. He drank, which did not prevent him from skiing from eight in the morning. Besides his work as an instructor, he occupied a position in the Service Corps, and in this capacity had the use of a car, the black sedan which I had noticed on our arrival in Sallanches. Wrédé, a young Russian whom Gay Orlov had met before in Paris, paid frequent visits to Megève. He seemed to be living on his wits, buying and selling tires and spare parts, since he too phoned Paris from the chalet, and I kept hearing him calling a mysterious "Comet Garage."

Why did I strike up a conversation with Wrédé that evening? Perhaps because he was so easily approachable. He had a candid look and there was something ingenuously high-spirited about him. He laughed at the drop of a hat. Attentive to the point of continually asking you if you "were all right," if you "wouldn't like something to drink," if you "wouldn't rather sit on the settee than in this chair," if you had "slept well last night?" ... A way of drinking in your words, eyes wide open, brow wrinkled, as though you were the oracle pronouncing.

He had understood our position and was very soon asking me if we wanted to remain here, "in the mountains," for long. When I answered that we had no choice in the matter, he announced in a low voice that he knew a way of slipping across the Swiss border. Would it interest me?

I hesitated a moment and said, it would.

He told me that one should reckon on 50,000 francs per person and that Besson was in on it. Besson and he would conduct us to a point near the border, where a friend of theirs, an experienced guide, would take over. They had got around ten people, whose names he mentioned, into Switzerland this way. There was time to think it over. He was returning to Paris but would be back the following week. He gave me a phone number in Paris: AUTeuil 54-73, where I could contact him if I came to a swift decision.

I spoke to Gay Orlov, Freddie and Wildmer about it. Gay Orlov seemed amazed that "Wrédé" was involved in border crossings, since the impression she had had was of a light- hearted young man, who eked out a living buying and selling things. Freddie thought there was no point in leaving France, since our Dominican passports protected us. Wildmer, for his part, thought Wrédé had the look of a "gigolo," though it was Besson he particularly disliked. He claimed that the scars on Besson's face were phony and that he applied them himself each morning with make-up. Rivalry between sportsmen? No, he really could not stand Besson whom he called: "Papier Mâché." Denise, on the other hand, found Wrédé "attractive."

As it happens, we made up our minds very quickly. It was because of the snow. It did not stop snowing for a week. I again had that feeling of suffocation which I had had in Paris. I told myself that if I stayed here any longer, we would be trapped. I explained to Denise how I felt.

Wrédé returned the following week. We came to an arrangement and discussed the border crossing with him and Besson. Never had Wrédé seemed so warm, so trustworthy. His friendly way of patting you on the shoulder, his pale eyes, his white teeth, his eagerness, all this pleased me, although Gay Orlov had often told me laughingly that you had to be careful with Russians and Poles.

Very early that morning, Denise and I fastened the straps of our cases. The others were still asleep and we did not want to waken them. I left a note for Freddie.

They were waiting for us by the curb, in Besson's black car, the one I had seen in Sallanches. Wrédé was at the wheel, Besson next to him. I opened the trunk myself to put in the luggage and Denise and I got into the back of the car.

Throughout the journey no one talked. Wrédé seemed nervous.

It was snowing. Wrédé drove slowly. We drove over narrow, mountain roads. The journey took a good two hours.

It was when Wrédé stopped the car and asked me for the money that I had a vague premonition. I handed him the wads of notes. He counted them. Then he turned round to us and smiled. He said that now, as a precautionary measure, we would split up, to cross the border. I would go with Besson, he and Denise with the luggage. We would meet again, in an hour, at his friends' place, on the other side. He kept smiling. A strange smile that I still see in my dreams.

I got out of the car with Besson. Denise sat down in the front, next to Wrédé. I looked at her, and again I had that premonition. I wanted to open the door and tell her to get out. The two of us would have gone off together. But I told myself I had an ultra-suspicious nature and was imagining things. Denise seemed confident and in good spirits. She blew me a kiss.

She was dressed, that morning, in a skunk-fur coat, a Jacquard pullover, and ski trousers that Freddie had lent her. She was twenty-six, chestnut-brown hair, green eyes, and 5 foot 4 inches tall. We did not have much luggage: two leather bags and a small dark-brown suitcase.

Wrédé, still smiling, started the engine. I waved to Denise who was leaning her head out of the lowered window. I watched the car as it pulled away. Soon, she was nothing but a very small, dark spot.

I started walking, following Besson. I looked at his back and the marks of his footsteps in the snow. Suddenly, he told me he was going to scout ahead, as we were approaching the border. He told me to wait for him.

After about ten minutes, I realized he was not coming back. Why had I led Denise into this trap? I did my utmost to brush aside the thought that Wrédé would abandon her too and that nothing would be left of either of us.

It kept snowing. I walked on, looking in vain for some landmark. I walked for hours and hours. And finally I lay down in the snow. All around me there was nothing but whiteness.

I
GOT
OFF
the train at Sallanches. The sun was shining. A motor coach, its engine running, was waiting on the station square. One solitary taxi, a DS19, was parked by the side of the road. I climbed into it.

"Megève," I said to the driver.

He started the car. A man of about sixty, with iron-gray hair, who wore a threadbare lumber-jacket with a fur collar. He was sucking a hard candy or a lozenge.

"Nice weather, isn't it?" he said.

"It is..."

I gazed out of the window and tried to recognize the road we were on, but without snow, it looked quite different. The sun on the pines and the meadows, the arching trees overhead, all these different greens surprised me.

"I don't recognize the road," I said to the driver.

"You've been here before?"

"Yes, a long time ago... there was snow on the ground..."

"It's not the same with snow."

He took a small, circular metal box from his pocket and held it out to me.

"Would you like a Valda?"

"Thanks."

He took one himself too.

"I stopped smoking a week ago... My doctor told me to suck Valdas ... Do you smoke?"

"I've stopped too ... Tell me ... Are you from Megève?"

"Yes, sir."

"I knew some people in Megève... I'd very much like to find out what happened to them ... There was this fellow, Bob Besson, for example."