Sins of the Flesh (36 page)

“I'm the first to admit my ignorance in matters…what I mean is, I think one of us is supposed to move closer.” Nellie giggled suddenly and bounced next to Philippe, who still had his eyes closed. “We are allowed to do this, Philippe. We're married now. We can do whatever we want in this bed. Or don't you want to do anything?” she asked, shifting slightly.

“Yes…no…I…can't,” Philippe said miserably.

“What did you say?”

“I…I can't,” Philippe repeated in the same tone of voice.

Nellie's mind raced. It was perfectly all right with her if he couldn't do anything. In fact, she was so relieved she felt like singing. She searched her mind for words and a tone that would convey just the right mood. “There are too many people in this bedroom, Philippe, and you brought them here. Your mother, your other mother, and your father and my father. They're your guests, not mine. I'm not trying to be cruel, darling, it's just that this has been…a traumatic day, and like you said, you've been worried about your mother and father. I understand, and I don't want you worrying about your”—she hesitated a moment—“inability to…you know. I think I'll sleep in the guest room, and later when you feel…we'll work into our marriage in degrees. It happened too quickly. I'll stay here with you till you're asleep, and then I'll go down the hall. All right, darling?”

Philippe almost cried with relief. Within seconds he pretended to have fallen asleep, snoring lightly. When Nellie slipped from the bed and left the room, he scrambled up and stared at the closed door. Should he get up and lock it? He
wanted
to get up and lock it. He
needed
to get up and lock it. But he didn't. He was a married man, and his wife had a right to return to his bed if she wanted to.

Frustrated and feeling thoroughly wretched, Philippe Bouchet pounded his fists into his pillow. His last conscious thought before falling asleep was that he didn't love Nellie Bishop.

 

The Christmas tree lights winked at Jane. She'd forgotten to turn them off, even though she'd slept nearby on the sofa to be sure she heard the phone in case Daniel called. But he wasn't going to call now. It was ten-thirty
A.M
. on Christmas Day. If he was going to call, he would have done it before now. Depressed, she heaved herself up from the sofa, her eyes falling on the small gift-wrapped box Daniel had left on the table. A bracelet or necklace, possibly a lapel pin. How stupid she was, how incredibly stupid to think Daniel was going to give her an engagement ring. Well, she wasn't going to think about that now. First she'd take a shower, then have some breakfast and open her presents. Thank God she'd cleaned up last night. At least she wouldn't have to face the aftermath of the party this morning.

She was on the fourth step when the phone shrilled behind her. Jane's heart fluttered wildly in her chest as she made her way to the telephone table. Her hand snaked out to pick up the receiver and then drew back. She reached out a second time, her voice breathless with anticipation as she responded. Her eyes closed when she heard Bebe's voice.

“Merry Christmas, Jane! I just wanted to thank you for a truly lovely evening.”

“It was my pleasure,” Jane said dully.

There was a slight pause. “Oh, Jane, I'm so sorry! You thought…you hoped I was Daniel, didn't you? Look, I won't tie up your phone—”

“No, no, don't hang up. I've been sitting here all by myself staring at this damned tree and wishing Christmas would go away.”

“Listen, I'm making a Christmas dinner. It's one of those things I have to do. I'd like it if you'd join me.” Bebe giggled. “I have to warn you, though, my cooking leaves a lot to be desired. If you want to…if you'd rather wait to see if Daniel calls, I understand.”

“Bebe, I think you just saved my life,” Jane said with a catch in her voice. “I was just about to take a shower. I'll be there in an hour—and Bebe? Thanks.”

“Forget it. I've been where you are many times. I know how it feels. I'll set an extra place. Listen, how do you feel about walking?”

“I love to walk, especially at night when it's cool and the crickets are out. Why do you ask?”

“Bring your walking shoes and a nightie. I think it's time the girls had a hen party. You game?”

Jane laughed. “I'm packing already.”

The last thing Jane did before leaving her house was to open the present from Nellie. It turned out to be a framed photograph of herself, probably her high school graduation picture. She looked young and wholesome in her dark sweater and Peter Pan collar. Jane's first impulse was to pack it up and send it back. Instead, she shoved the picture back into the box and pushed it as far under the tree as she could.

Jane arrived at Bebe's at noon, her overnight case in her hand and an expensive bottle of perfume she'd been saving to share with just the right person.

 

Daniel Bishop rang Jane's doorbell, then let himself in with his key when she didn't answer. The first thing he noticed was his unopened present. Uneasy, he walked through the neat, tidy house, calling Jane's name over and over. Eventually he settled on her sofa and proceeded to drink himself into oblivion. At six o'clock he sank into a drunken stupor and didn't wake until four in the morning, at which time he walked through Jane's dark house calling her name again and again. Where in the goddamn hell was she at four in the morning?

Christmas was over, he thought bitterly as he drove home. The worst Christmas of his life.

 

Bebe raised her glass of club soda and made the first Christmas toast. “To Reuben, may he be successful in his mission.”

“You really mean that, don't you?” Jane said in awe.

“Yes. I love Reuben and I want him to be happy.” She held her glass aloft a second time. “Merry Christmas to you, Jane.”

Jane smiled and held out her own glass. “Merry Christmas, Bebe. Here's to our partnership and the success of our new film. Long live Hollywood!”

Willie barked under the table, and Bebe smiled. Life was almost perfect, she thought.

Almost.

The winter's snows were high now, and not a day went by without more, always more. The incessant stinging sharp spray blew against Reuben now, making each step he took seem like two. Often he fell backward, and then anger at himself would drive him forward with a vengeance.

He was with a new guide, a youth named Marcel. The boy had the stamina of a mountain goat, his steps sure and deft even in the knee-high snow. Numberless times the boy had turned to reach out a hand and pull Reuben from his deep tracks. He'd promised snowshoes on their next stop, which wasn't scheduled for hours yet.

Twice he'd almost been caught, and his last guide, Didier, had saved his skin—once on the train to Carcassonne and again when they'd leapt off the same train minutes before it was due to arrive in Carcassonne. The Germans on the train had been lax, but there had been one sharp-eyed soldier who kept staring at Reuben's American boots. Didier had played the part of a drunk, melancholy because his lover had rejected him on the holiday. Staggering in his tracks, he'd spewed words about women wanting presents, laces, and fine stockings and cigarettes. And, he'd demanded of the Germans, where was a poor peasant like himself to get such fine things? The soldiers had laughed, poking him on the shoulder to show they understood his feelings. All except the soldier with the sharp eyes. He hadn't laughed. Reuben's heart pounded in his chest. There were four Germans in their car and probably four more at the other end. There would be more in Carcassonne.

“This is my uncle,” Didier had said, pointing to Reuben. “I took his advice and now I am without a woman. He has had three wives and still I listened to him. I am a fool!” With an admirable show of despair, he'd thumped his chest in disbelief at what had happened. Reuben's heart continued to pound as he tried for a lopsided grin that didn't quite come off.

The sharp-eyed soldier moved to the back of the car, the other three moving forward to the middle car. Didier's hand snaked out to grip Reuben's thigh. A signal, but what did it mean? He nearly jumped out of his skin when Didier turned to the soldier behind him.
“D'urgence, sans delai, uriner.”
For Christ's sake, thought Reuben, why did he want to take a piss now? The soldier shook his head, but Didier was already standing, motioning the soldier to follow him. Reuben rose, too, his hands on the fly front of his trousers. Now he understood.

At the back of the car Didier pushed at the heavy door and actually urinated. Then he stepped back for Reuben to take his place. It was now or never, thought Reuben. His bladder was completely empty. As he sidled up to the open doorway, he felt a violent push and hurtled through swirling snow, striking the ground with a hard thud. Although he hadn't actually seen Didier's next move, he knew the Frenchman had swiveled and caught the German soldier behind the knees, sending him flying after Reuben. Minutes later Reuben heard a sharp crack as Didier snapped the soldier's neck.

“We have ten minutes, possibly fifteen, before the others realize he's gone. We must be quick,” Didier muttered, slinging the rifle over his shoulder. “All of them won't leave the train. Maybe three will come after us, but when the train pulls into the station the whole fucking army will be after us. This snow isn't heavy enough to cover our tracks. Move, monsieur!”

Reuben scrambled up the embankment on his hands and knees, Didier behind him. They ran then, as quickly as they could in the deep snow, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the Germans. Traveling as they were over flat land, and exposed to the elements, they were prey to any German vehicle that came along—and there would be vehicles as soon as the Germans on the train alerted the checkpoint at Carcassonne.

Now they were no more than eight kilometers from Carcassonne, still on flat land that Marcel said would change within the hour. Reuben prayed that the youth knew what he was talking about.

“Monsieur, I have seen an old man move faster,” the boy snarled impatiently. “I have a sweetheart I wish to see again. Slide your feet through the snow instead of lifting them up. Monsieur, you must hurry. If you look behind you, you will see a German truck. Once they see our path they will have no trouble following us as we are packing down the snow. Now do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Reuben replied through clenched teeth. His lungs felt seared with the cold, and his entire body was numb with pain, so numb he couldn't feel his feet or his hands. But he kept on, moving as fast as he could, after Marcel.

“There is a ravine we must reach that will afford us some protection. The snow is worsening, and it will be dark in another hour. Faster, monsieur.”

Yes, faster. Marcel had young legs, so it was easy for him to issue orders. Reuben's chest was on fire, his eyes burned by the cold. He could barely see where he was going, yet he had to keep moving. Desperately he tried to conjure up hatred, a hatred intense enough to drive him onward. But it wasn't working; his knees buckled, and he collapsed into the snow face first. Marcel's hand lashed out, grasping his shoulder. For a young boy, his grip was frightening. In another moment Reuben was on his feet and moving at the boy's sharp words.

“A puppy dog goes faster,” he growled.

“You son of a bitch! A dog has four legs,” Reuben snarled.

“It is easy to see you are no Frenchman,” Marcel snapped over his shoulder.

“I never said I was a Frenchman.” Reuben snapped back. “I'm an American, I'm three times your age, and I'm not apologizing.”

“I didn't ask for an apology. I asked you to move faster. All of us who have helped you have placed our lives in danger. The least you could do, monsieur, is move your goddamn feet faster. Do you want me to tell you what those filthy swine do to partisans? Of course you do,” Marcel said nastily. “If they catch someone like myself, they…they hack off his penis. The older ones like yourself, they carve off your testicles. For sure you will not walk, monsieur.”

Reuben knew the boy was baiting him, doing his best to make him move as fast as he could. He heard the boy next to him chuckle.

“I think I would kill myself if that happened to me,” Marcel said. “What would you do, monsieur?”

“In America we call testicles balls, and the man hasn't yet been born who will carve mine from my body. Just shut the hell up and leave me alone.”

The boy grinned in the fast-approaching twilight. This American was crazy, but he was all right for a man his age.
Mon Dieu,
he was so tired himself that he wanted to drop in his tracks and sleep, but he'd promised Denise he would return to her.

He was a handsome youth with his dark hair and eyes to match, Reuben thought. Thin but sinewy, and tall, almost his own height. And his hands were strong, that much was certain. All in all a young boy on the verge of manhood, the way Daniel was when Reuben had first met him. This one was dedicated and motivated to kill for his country. Reuben doubted there was a more loyal Frenchman anywhere.

The wind was sharp as a butcher's knife as they slogged ahead. Reuben was on all fours more than he was on his feet, and in the end he stayed that way, crawling after Marcel, making better time. Snow crusted the top of his wool gloves and stuck to the fine hairs on his wrists, but it didn't matter, he couldn't feel the ice. Nothing mattered anymore, he thought groggily.

A violent gust of snow and wind slammed into him, driving him backward. He cursed in English and then in French. Marcel laughed, a boyish sound of delight, then stretched out his hand to Reuben, who grasped it gratefully. “We're at the ravine, monsieur. Now you will be able to rest, but you must not sleep. Slide down on your…ass.” Reuben did as instructed. Almost immediately he felt warmer.

“For a while we'll be safe here,” Marcel continued. “A while, monsieur, can mean an hour or it can mean days. You must prepare yourself. You will sleep only when I tell you to, is that agreed?” Reuben nodded. “Good. It's snowing harder now, and the darkness will protect us. These Germans, sometimes they have dogs that can smell a man a mile away, but I heard no barking. I have very good ears.” He grinned. “Here,” he said a moment later, “eat this cheese and you'll feel your strength returning.” Reuben bit off a chunk of the rock-hard cheese and chewed obediently.

“We can talk here, Monsieur American. I am sorry if I was, how do you say in America, too tough on you. It was for your own good. I hope you understand.” If not, the boy implied with a shrug of his shoulders, it mattered little. “Tell me about the person you came all this way to find,” he said. “The networks are all buzzing about this crazy American who seeks a woman from his past.”

Reuben grunted and gave an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. But he talked then because he had to or he would have fallen asleep. He told the youth about his first meeting with Mickey and all about Bebe. When he got to the part about Philippe, his voice broke.

Marcel held up a hand. “It is enough, monsieur, you need tell me no more.”

“No, I want to,” Reuben insisted, and told him all about Simon and Dillon and his reaction to Philippe and the boy's reaction to himself. A long while later, after he was finished, he asked, “Well, Marcel, what is your opinion?”

“You are either very wise or very foolish, monsieur. You have come all this way, risked your life, to apologize for something that happened twenty years ago. I do not think I would have the courage to do what you are doing. Part of me thinks you are foolish and part of me applauds you. Tell me,” he said, “what will you do when you find your old lover? Have you given any thought to how you will feel? What will you do if this wonderful woman wants to pick up where you left off years ago?”

“I don't know,” Reuben replied honestly.

“I have heard of this woman and the other one she travels with. When this is all over they will be remembered. We will tell our children of her. I hope you find her, monsieur.” He was silent for a few moments before he spoke again. “I am disappointed in your son. I think you are, too, eh, monsieur? A twenty-year-old Frenchman is a man. He should be with us, defending his country. He is not the man his father is. I mean no disrespect, for I believe you think the same thing. How will he ever be able to feel like a man when he knows he ran to safety? Yes, yes, I know his mother wanted it and that he is Jewish. All the more reason to stay and defend France. What must he be thinking, monsieur? His father comes here in the middle of the war, and he stays in your place and makes films. It is very sad.”

“You would not do what my son did, is that what you're saying? Even if your mother asked…insisted you be kept safe?”

“No, monsieur. My mother would never ask that of me, nor my father. This is my home, my country, my people. Your old lover has turned your son into a coward. I am sorry if my words offend you; it is how I feel.”

“Perhaps someday we'll know how he feels. A mother's love is very strong, very intense,” Reuben said quietly.

“Understandable, but still wrong…. I think, monsieur, you can sleep for a little while. I will stay on watch. It is much warmer here, eh? The scrub brush and trees break the wind and carry the snow. Sleep and you will grow warm, the snow will be like a blanket.”

It was already light out, an hour or so past dawn, Reuben judged, when he grappled his way out of sleep. He was warm and hungry and had to go to the bathroom. And he was alone, he realized, his eyes going immediately to where Marcel had lain. The boy was gone, perhaps to check the area outside the ravine or possibly to relieve himself. Reuben looked upward through the snow and saw a ring of faces staring down at him.

All of them German.