The Boiling Season (41 page)

When I stepped out of the trees and into the courtyard of Villa Moreau, Hector's men were emerging from their quarters. I was struck by how little change was required for them to turn back into soldiers. Yet when they had taken up their rifles and machetes, there seemed to be little agreement about what they should do next. Some of the men were yelling that they must go to the barricade. Others insisted they take up positions inside the estate. One way or another, they knew they could not stay where they were.

Upon reaching the path, they were joined by other soldiers from other villas, and together they made their way back to the drive, still not knowing what to do when they got there. And then they arrived, and it was clear the decision had already been made for them.

It was some of the men beside me, at the front of the pack, who first saw the men running toward us from the gate, four in front and one limping along in the rear, struggling to keep to his feet. The men with me were quick to reach for their guns and take aim, and I have no doubt they would have fired, had not the men in their sights thrown up their arms just in time, waving frantically that they were friends, not enemies. That was the moment we understood the barricade had fallen.

And then there was silence. As suddenly as they had started, the guns out on the road ceased, and there seemed to be no one coming in pursuit of the men retreating from the barricade. And where, I wondered now—as the men from the barricade finally reached us, shouting about platoons of troops and artillery assembling on the road—were Hector's precious lieutenants now that the real battle had arrived?

Although I had never been in close proximity to one before—nor seen one, except in pictures—somehow I knew the throaty thrum of the tank as soon as I heard it. I knew little about such things, yet still I was surprised by how quickly it moved, rushing forward and crushing the gate in a single motion. As the tank crested, first rising up and then tipping downward, its turret swinging in a wild arc, the others around me took off running.

But if it was cannon fire they were fleeing, they could just as well have stayed put; following its dramatic entrance the tank appeared to have nothing in mind but rest, coming to a slow, lazy stop.

The way the soldiers spilled down the drive, like water from an overturned cup, they must have come by the thousands. I did not stay to count. The trees beside me to the west and behind me to the south erupted as Hector's men opened fire. The army's response was equally sudden, and I do not know how I managed to get away. In an instant the air was alive with bullets, and the dirt and the grass and the gravel and the trees and every material thing was eating them up.

I made for the manor house, aware of the shots kicking up at my heels. Inside, the scene was no less frantic. Men were racing simultaneously up and down the stairs, and from every direction—and seemingly every mouth—came ceaseless shouting. A thousand competing plans were hatching at the same moment, with no one left to carry them out.

At the top of the stairs, the men broke off down the corridor. The door to my rooms was closed, as was the door to the colonel's office. But the rest were open, and the men were scurrying through, rifles at the ready.

Once inside, I locked the door behind me. I did not need to go to the shutters to know the army had advanced farther down the drive. In addition to their guns, I could hear their voices now, and from the balconies of the other offices Hector's men were firing down upon them.

I stayed low as I crept across the floor. My progress was slow. So loud and close were the guns that it was difficult to keep from recoiling every time one of them went off. Eventually I reached my desk. But even once I had managed to slide the key from my pocket, my hands were shaking too much for me to be able to fit it into the lock. I needed both hands, one to steady the other.

The pistol was still wrapped in the same oilcloth in which Dragon Guy had delivered it. Not once having touched it since then, I had never had time to develop a proper feel for the thing, and even now—with bullets thunking into every part of the manor house—it felt wrong in my hand.

As I started to close the drawer, I spotted something else tucked in the back, half buried by a bundle of paper. It was Hector's gun, the nickel plating just as shiny and polished as it had been the day he handed it over for me to keep, a little more than a year ago. Seeing it there, I felt a sickening knot tighten in my belly. How I wished now that I had thought to give it back.

It was clear I could not stay in the office, even if I had no idea where else to go. The tank had begun firing now, and even though the manor house was not the target, I could feel the floor shake with every shell. Should the tank choose to swivel this way, I knew I might never be able to come back; there would be nothing left to come back to.

I saw my father's icons on the shelf, M. Guinee's key, my books and the boxes of records from the hotel. All I had left of Senator Marcus was his suit, which I was already wearing. On top of the desk I spotted a small pile of Madame's letters, tied with a piece of yellow ribbon.

There was room in my pocket for just one item. And so I chose Hector's gun, hoping it was not already too late.

This time the stairs were clear. At the bottom I discovered a dozen of Hector's men squatting in clusters on either side of the broad front entrance, taking turns firing. Three men bunkered behind the front desk popped up as if spring-loaded into a child's toy, spraying the circular drive with bullets. And then, just as quickly, they ducked back down. The front of the desk looked as though it had been chiseled away.

There were bullet holes everywhere—high up on the wall, in the hallway mirror, in the ballroom door. It seemed that no angle, no amount of cover, could provide any safety. A blue china vase missing its upper half sat in prim indifference on a pedestal beside the library. The saw teeth cutting across its middle looked so serene and perfect they could have been sculpted by the artist himself. But not everything had been touched so superficially. On the floor between the settee and an armchair lay a man with a small purple smudge in his neck. It looked like a stain, like a drop of wine spilled on a tablecloth.

Huddled there at the bottom of the stairs—just as I was the night of Georges's robbery—I could not decide what to do. I watched from behind as one of the men beside the entrance slowly raised his finger. A moment after the first came another. The others waited nervously for him to finish his count. The instant his third finger rose, the man pivoted toward the doorway and the others did the same, swinging the barrels of their rifles ahead of their bodies, shooting without taking time to aim. I got up to run just as one and then another of them fell.

Safe now around the corner, I glanced back. Those still standing had pulled back their guns and returned to their positions against the wall, pausing to catch their breath. The two men I had seen fall lay still on the floor. The only part of them that moved was their blood, blooming atop the marble.

Once again the leader began his count for all the others to see, firing his fingers out like pistons—one, two—his concentration unbreakable.

For the first time, I saw his face. It was Marc. He had found a place to put his anger, and I knew there was nothing I could do or say now to stop him.

There was an explosion of bullets, and I fled, knowing better than to look back. I ran down the corridor as fast as I could. This part of the manor house seemed completely empty, so I was not prepared when I stepped on to the verandah and suddenly found myself surrounded. There were five of them, but their pulsing, sweaty faces made them seem like one. Reflexively, I raised my hands.

Both pistols were still in my pocket, weighing me down like stones. I do not know why they did not shoot. I tried to stop, but I lost my balance and stumbled to the ground. Several of the barrels followed me down, still pointed at my head.

“It's
him
,” one of the men said. “It's just
him
.”

When I looked up, they had already dispersed, returning to their posts behind the low wall. The army had not yet made it this far. Down below, the charred pig glistened on its platter. On the surface of the pool floated the party's abandoned vessels, scratched tin cups and hollow gourds, too insubstantial to sink.

Even before I reached the back of the manor house, I could hear the shouting. Soldiers were pouring onto the grounds surrounding the outbuildings, and there were women and children everywhere. There was too little space for so much chaos, and the soldiers were swinging randomly with the butts of their guns, using them as clubs. I watched with sinking horror as one of the laundresses—a friend of Lulu's, still wearing her purple floral dress—took a blow to the head and tumbled lifelessly to the cement.

Some of the women had weapons, too, but they were outnumbered. Every minute there were more soldiers. I heard shots coming from up above and then one of the soldiers down below fell with a cry against the wall of Mona's kitchen. I saw with relief that the door was still barred shut.

Mlle Trouvé stood barefoot on the top step leading up to the casino, calling out to the children below her on the grass. Given how little time had passed since the invasion began, she must have run straight here, abandoning her shoes along the way. Seeing her so disheveled, I was struck by how much like a child she was herself.

“Hurry,” she shouted to the children as they bumped and stumbled their way toward the door. But it was taking too long, and the youngest among them could not keep up. Down the stairs Mlle Trouvé went, collecting one under each arm.

“Let me help you,” I said.

She did not answer. There was no time. We could hear the voices of the soldiers getting closer.

Up and down the steps we went until we had gathered together every last child. When they were safely inside, we scurried in after them, closing and locking the door behind us. At that very moment I heard the crunch of heavy boots kicking through the dust and pebbles outside.

“They're here,” I said.

Mlle Trouvé was nearly gasping, trying to catch her breath. “Let them come.”

In her shaking hands a rifle trembled. Had it been in here all along?

As I watched, feeling the hope drain out of me, she pulled back the bolt handle to make sure the chambers were loaded.

It was just the two of us, with our backs to the door. The children were huddled at the other end of the room, crouched behind the bar. Although the electricity had been shut off, there was enough light coming through the windows that I could just make out our surroundings. Mlle Trouvé and her students had made themselves at home here. The roulette table was piled high with books. There were balls and toys in the craps pit. In the center of the room they had cleared a space to sit on the floor, pushing the blackjack tables up against the wall.

Mlle Trouvé closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the door. All her breath escaped in a long, exhausted sigh.

Out on the grass I could hear the chink and rattle of guns and gear as the men took up positions. An indecipherable squall of noise burst from a radio not far from the window.

I put my hand on her shoulder. Up and down it surged.

“All we need are some desks,” I said. “We'll have ourselves a proper school.”

Beyond the walls of the casino, men squawked at one another through the static, relaying orders about what was to be done. I could only hope that someone among them, either the men outside or the men at the other end—was holding the map I had drawn in Paul's office, an exact replica of the one I had made shortly after Dragon Guy appeared here, and that he saw that the building he had surrounded was the one they had promised to preserve. I had given them everything else. This was what they had given me.

I said, “I'll buy the books myself.”

Mlle Trouvé was silent. Suddenly I realized how quiet everything had grown. There were still occasional pops in the distance, but outside the window I could hear two birds chittering to one another in the trees. It was over. It was done. And this was my compromise, one that I hoped my mother and father might both accept: the charred remains of an idyllic past, along with the promise of something better to come.

As for Mme Freeman, there was nothing to say except that what was lost had never really been ours to begin with.

“The children will have a home here,” I said. “They will be safe. And so will you.”

Beside me, Mlle Trouvé was crying.

Chapter Thirty-Three

I
n the morning the army was still removing bodies. I was afraid to look too closely, for fear of whom I might see. The soldiers ignored me. They seemed not to see me at all. It was my life's role to be always invisible.

They did not bother to wash away the blood. They did not sweep up the bullet casings. They had no interest in the scraps and junk Hector's men left behind. They were careless even about the weapons. In their hurry, they barely seemed to notice the estate at all. Or at least what was left of it. They had taken to its ruination with glee, breaking every window they saw, kicking in every door, blowing holes wherever they could, smearing the walls with blood. Now that the battle was over, they were ready to forget.

An officious-looking man with a blunt chin and shiny shoes was overseeing the cleanup with an air of impatience. When I asked what would happen when they were done, he gave me a curt glance and said, “I don't intend to wait around to see.”

“But what about me?” I said.

“What about you?” And he turned to catch a passing soldier, into whose ear he commenced yelling orders.

When I went to find them, Louis and Lulu were gone from the cavity behind Villa Moreau. There was no sign that anyone had trampled through the trees and underbrush to get to them. All I could do was hope they had found their own way out.

As I made my way along the path, I passed several of Hector's men handcuffed in a row between two armed soldiers. Among them hunched the colonel, his eyes no longer so cold and clear. His eyebrow was stiff and streaked in crimson. Around his neck was a long, curving gash. The string of seashells was gone.

“What do you think of your gardens now?” he slurred through a swollen mouth.

The soldier walking alongside him raised his rifle and struck the colonel between his shoulder blades. He staggered on the stones, and I reached out to keep him from falling. But he would not accept my hand.

I did not begrudge him his anger, but neither did I see any need to offer a defense. I had done what I could. We had men enough who had dedicated their lives to destruction. We had far fewer who had ever committed themselves to saving anything.

Some shots rang out from the direction of the preserve, and the soldiers hurried the prisoners up the path.

The door to Madame's villa was closed. The courtyard was strangely peaceful. It seemed to be the only place other than the casino that they had left untouched. The guards and thugs were gone now. Only the stage remained, looking like something constructed for some itinerant piece of children's theater.

Inside, all the shutters over the windows were closed, and the darkness felt wet and heavy. With no fresh air to lead the way, the sticky tobacco smell still lingered above the table. Everything about the place felt trapped. In the center of the room, above the chaise where he had briefly lain like a pampered king, Hector hung bound and gagged. They had wrapped the rope around the mount of the ceiling fan.

The plaster above was filthy with muddy prints. I could think of any number of people they might have belonged to. Soldiers under orders from President Duphay. Or the colonel and the rest of the flunky high command, who had no further use for him. His was a sacrifice everyone demanded—even Hector himself.

I had not wept at the death of my father. I had not wept at the death of M. Guinee. I had not even wept over the tragedy that had befallen Senator Marcus, for whom I had such great respect. All of the tears I had stowed away I left at Hector's feet.

I cut him down myself. It was not easy. It had taken several men to get him up there, but I could not bear to let anyone else touch him. On Madame's bed I laid him out. I took off his soiled clothes and washed him. He seemed so much smaller now, so much more like the boy I had known. And yet I was surprised at how well he filled out my suit. With the necktie tightened and the collar closed, he was perfect again.

The drawers of the dresser were empty. Despite his ascension, Hector had never acquired anything more than the red-and-white jersey he had been wearing ever since the day I first met him. Even before I opened the wardrobe, I remembered it was empty. I had seen for myself, on the day of his coronation, that Hector had purged his brother's unused shirt, the only item either of them had ever hung there. There was, he said, no place for sentiment. And yet I opened the door anyway, somehow knowing exactly what I would find. Standing on a chair, I reached directly for the very top shelf. Stuffed into the back corner, where no one who was not looking for it would ever see, was not only the shirt, but also the filthy linen suit. All of it folded as poorly as any boy would.

In the back of the jacket were two singed and bloody holes.

And on the very same shelf, tucked into the same back corner, was the dirty, creased children's book from which Hector had been learning to read. In it was a scrap of torn paper with which it seemed he had marked his place. He had very nearly reached the end. I opened it up, and there was a passage underlined in lead: “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.” There was no way of knowing, just by looking at the line, who might have drawn it. Hector? The child who had left the book behind? But if the scrap of paper were there to mark the passage and not Hector's place in the book, did that mean Hector had finished it? The pages toward the end were as dirty as the rest, but it was impossible to know for sure.

I fanned through the rest of the pages, but I saw no other markings. Until, that is, I went to close the book, and then I happened to notice, on the inside of the back cover, a wild mess of scribbling. I immediately recognized his handwriting. There were some of the words we had practiced making together: book, pencil, brother, tree, desk, chair. But also some words I would never have taught him.

And last of all, on the bottom, were two names. His and mine.

I decided, then, that he had finished the book. How could he not, given his determination? And the thought brought me comfort. Even if the story was as silly as it appeared to be, I liked to think he carried it with him throughout this ordeal, and that it reminded him of what we briefly had.

I placed the book upon his chest, and on top I folded his hands.

Around the bed I scattered the rest, whatever remained of Mme Freeman's belongings: her photographs and books and even her bottles of perfume. And against the headboard, behind Hector's head, I leaned Mme Louvois's painting. It seemed fitting that the general's wife should be the final witness. Present at the start of all of this, and now also at the end.

The flames were still small when I walked out the door, but by the time I reached the drive there was smoke in the sky overhead.

M
ona had finally left the kitchen. I found her in Raoul's villa, sitting beside him on the bed.

“Well?” I said.

The two of them looked up in silence, their faces worn blank with weariness. I could not imagine what I must look like. Dragon Guy's shirt hung from me like a tablecloth, wet with sweat and soil. There would be a great deal more of that to come. All those piano pieces and antiques in the guesthouse, previously crafted into beds and gurneys, need now face their final transformation. Wood and nails. That was all we required. We would have more desks than even Mlle Trouvé and her students could fill.

I said, “There is a lot of work to be done.”