The Cartographer of No Man's Land: A Novel (15 page)

“No . . .” Publicover moaned.

“
S’il vous plaît, Madame
,” Angus said. He held out his hand for the jar. The boy ran off. Reluctantly, she handed the jar over and then in one swift move forked up the tunic again.

“Damn it.
Damn it!
” Publicover grabbed the stick and then there was a click. He and Angus whipped around. The boy had a revolver in his hands. Publicover’s eyes went wide. “Whoa!” he said. “That’s mine! Give it here, pal.” The boy marched over and held the gun straight at Publicover. “Bang!” he said, as Angus grabbed his wrist and took the gun.

“Hey!” The boy glowered. The woman came to and started scolding and jabbing at him. “A joke!
Je le taquine!
I tease him!” the boy cried.

Angus removed the bullets one by one and shook his head at Publicover. “Should have put this away.”

“This is
my
fault? It was with my stuff. Where’s
your
gun? The boy’s a goddamn lunatic. They both are.”

Angus turned the boy around, ignoring his defiant expression. The woman fell quiet.

“A joke! Piece of crap,” the boy snarled.

“No, not a joke. A loaded revolver.” Angus opened his hands and showed him the bullets. “You could have killed him. Might not have meant to, but you could have.”

The boy crossed his arms. “Lice,” he said.

“No excuse,” Angus said. “Dead.
Mort.
He’s a soldier.
Un ami
. Understand?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “
Oui
.” He shifted his gaze to his mother and back at Angus. “My
papa
was a soldier.
Il est mort.
”

“I’m sorry—” Angus said.

“I am a soldier also.”

“Sure, sure you are.” Angus knelt down. “Protecting the home front. Good job. But never, ever point a gun unless you intend to use it. What if this had gone off? You need to apologize.”

The boy scuffed his feet. “Do it,” Angus said. He was shaking with the cold now.

Finally, the boy turned to Publicover and sighed in a sing-song, “
Désolé
.” After a beat, he added, “
Votre revolver, c’est merdeux. Je peux vous obtenir un meilleur . . . pour un prix.
”

The woman and Angus exchanged a look. They almost laughed.

“What? What’d he say?” Publicover demanded.

“Well, he apologized, and then said that your gun is shit and he could get you a better one. For a price. I think that’s what he said anyway.”

Publicover stiffened, but said, “Yeah? Tell him to be my guest. Name his price. Never much liked that revolver anyway.”

The boy grinned and his mother quickly dipped the clothes in and out again. The smell of lye came on strong. Shivering, Angus and Publicover decided there might be advantages to boiling water after all. It was too damn cold to figure out. The woman pulled her shawl tight and tapped the boy on the shoulder. “
Allons-y
!” she said, and he ran ahead of her to the house. Angus asked Publicover her name.

“
Raffarin. Madame Raffarin
,” she said without glancing back. “
Et Paul, mon fils.
”

“Ah, you speak English!” Publicover called after her.

“No, she just spoke French,” Angus said.

“Aren’t you the bloody riot? Where’ve you been anyway?”

“Witnessing the army taking care of its own,” Angus replied. “After which I spent the night with my men in the barn. And you? Didn’t you get my message? Where were you? Not here, obviously.”

“Obviously. Got here around midnight, and she had the door locked, so I—”

Before Publicover could finish, the boy sloshed a bucket of water at them. Angus jumped out of the quilt just in time to receive the splash against his legs. Warm water, thankfully. Mud streaked off. The boy and his mother were clearly professionals at housing soldiers. The boy, Paul, cocked his head toward the house, and they followed him up the steps and into the kitchen.

A tub of water, partially hidden by a folding screen, steamed by the far wall. Shivering badly now, Angus reached in his haversack for a coin, flipped it up, and barely caught it. “Heads!” Publicover said. It was tails.

The woman lit a lamp on the table and one on the cupboard. A parchment yellow glow filled in against the gloom, and Angus saw the woman was neither brittle nor skittish, but worn and tired, and that there was dignity in her bearing. And in her lean frame, her dark hair and eyes, her solemn expression, something that reminded him of himself. She gestured at the tub. Angus shuffled over. She took his quilt without looking at him. He tested the water, steaming hot, and slowly crouched in.

Paul shoved past his mother. A photograph on the cupboard had her holding a baby in a beribboned dress. A short, sturdy man, very proud, had his arm around her waist. Paul moved the picture, pulled back a cutwork curtain from the cupboard and took out a narrow box. On the cover, a jaunty scarecrow; inside a set of jackstraws. He cocked his head at Publicover, who inspected the box.

“Jackstraws! Why not, eh, while I wait my turn,” Publicover said.

Paul took out the pointed sticks and held them up. “How much?”

“How much? Are you kidding? You selling the sticks, or are we playing a game?”

“Play! How much?”

“Alright,” Publicover sighed. “A penny a stick. God only knows how many revolvers you’ve got stashed away from your winnings.”

The woman stood over Angus with a thick bar of soap and a sponge.

“You’re not thinking of washing him? Not necessary,” Publicover said brightly. “He can wash himself.” To Angus, he said, “How’s the water?”

Angus didn’t answer.

“Might I add that I didn’t get a bath yesterday? Had to stand under a trickle of water from a rusted pipe in the barn with the men? Cold water,” he continued, following Paul to the table. “No handmaiden to wash me. But certainly, you go right ahead.”

Engulfed in steam, Angus lifted the water to his face. Hot water. Clean, clear water. He cupped it in his hands, let it slip through his fingers as if witness to a miracle. He lifted it to his face again and again. A shudder went through him. And another.

He could sense the woman watching him. He put his face in his hands and fought a welling-up.

“
La guerre
,” she whispered, kneeling next to him.

He shook his head, but could not look up. The shuddering grew violent. She waited.

“
Un jour, vous serez lavé propre de lui,”
she whispered as the shaking subsided. “
Un jour . . .
”

Someday. Washed clean of it—if only. Finally, he was able to glance up.
La guerre
. It was there in the shadows beneath her eyes, in her unflinching gaze. She knew.

She lowered her eyes and dipped the fat sponge into the water, then stood behind him and squeezed it over his head. Her movements were slow and sure. She lathered his hair. He tried to stop her, but let himself fall into the slow, circular rhythm of her hands against his temples, over the crown of his head, along the back of his neck. Vague words, English and French—Publicover and the boy at their game—circled through the steam and evaporated. She reached for a pitcher and poured a stream of water over his head that cascaded down his back, over him and through him. “
Un jour
. Someday,” she said.

“You’re an optimist,” he whispered.

“Died and gone to heaven, have you?” Publicover broke in. “Some of us wouldn’t mind a bit of washing-up ourselves. Hot water, that sort of thing. What! You moved that stick. I saw it!”

“
Non!”
Paul protested as Publicover stood up, his quilt catching a jackstraw and trailing a clatter of sticks to the floor. “Arrrgh!” Paul growled. He grabbed the white patch of his hair and crouched around in mock temper.

“
Merci
,
Madame
Raffarin
,” Angus whispered. He took the soap and sponge from her.

“Juliette,” she said, and placed a towel on the chair next to the tub.

“Um, are you quite done?” Publicover stood over him. Angus finished washing quickly. They exchanged places. Juliette set a bowl of water, a razor, shaving brush and cup of soap on the table beneath a mirror. The light so dim, his hands so heavy, Angus could barely lather up, barely scrape the razor against his cheek. When he was done, he wiped his face with the towel and stared at the mirror. The hollows of his cheeks seemed deeper, as did the lines that framed the corners of his mouth—two thin lines that deepened when he smiled, and that, when he was serious, made him seem all the more so. So he’d been told. By whom? He couldn’t remember. Publicover, splashing in the tub, said, “Think I might get some help here? Sponge? Or, no. I see, you have to shave.”

Angus tossed him the sponge, then in a near trance climbed the narrow stairs to the bedroom, where he fell into the bed and slipped like silk between the sheet and down coverlet.

S
EVERAL HOURS LATER,
the smell of eggs and frying potatoes wound through his sleep. Publicover, mouth open, sprawled an arm and a leg onto Angus’s side of the bed, then clutched his wrist and jerked it hard, bringing Angus back to the high-ceilinged room in Astile, at the edge of Arras. Lace curtains draped to puddles on the floor. He would find a long swath of French lace for Hettie Ellen and let it cascade around her shoulders and would twirl her around and watch the lace trail out and circle back around them both.

He swung his feet to the floor. What the hell time was it? Where were his clothes? He pressed his face into his hands and breathed in soap and lavender, and crept down to the kitchen. A pot of coffee. Scrambled eggs and potatoes piled on a platter. Their clothes were hanging on chairs and draped over a wooden frame by the stove. Must have passed the lice muster. Their freshly ironed shirts were folded on a chair.

Juliette poured cream over the eggs. Angus stared at her hands, at her long fingers, the three thin silver rings. “
Mangez, mangez
,” she said, with a quick gesture and turned back to the stove, but not before giving him a fleeting smile.

Angus pulled out a chair. Publicover stumbled down and took up a fork. “Eggs. The order of the day over here. Eggs and spuds, eh? Oh my God, the smell of it! But maybe we should head to the mess tent. Kidding! Good billets, eh? Told you.
Merci
,” he said to Juliette.

“Publicover, you’re a wonder.”

“That I am, but I didn’t rate a private hair wash now did I?” Publicover pointed his fork at Angus. “What have you got that I haven’t, eh? That’s what I want to know. I’m the one who needs a girl.”

“She’s not a girl, Sam.”

“True enough.” He stuffed in more eggs. “Did get something from her, though.” He reached behind to the cupboard and lifted up a stout bottle of amber liquid. Popped the cork off and waved it under Angus’s nose. “Have a whiff.”

“Scotch?”

“Yep. The boy told me, from what I could gather from his Eng
lish—which is pretty good, actually—that it was left by the chap who left the jackstraws. Dead too now, apparently. My guess? The kid won it off him.”

“Hmm. You pay her for it? Or him?”

“Of course. She didn’t want it. Scrinched her nose up at it. Took the money, though.”

“I’ll pay half as long as we share it with the captain. Bring it tonight.”

“Will do. Fond of his whisky, eh? Tonight we’ll find out what’s what in this town. Hear there’s quite the brothel for officers. Not that I plan to find out.”

“No?”

“Course not! Keeping myself clean. I’m waiting for a girl who’ll be a sweetheart to me alone, not the entire corps. Oh!” He put the scotch away, forked in another mouthful, and said, “Speaking of our fearless leader, guess who popped over while I was bathing? Told me he heard they’d finished most of the burial duty around Courcelette—four months since, but never mind. Tough duty. Anyway,” he took a deep breath. “Um, I guess the lists are in. More up-to-date. He said he’d go to HQ with you to check on your Ebbin Hant. If you want to.
Plus,
he ran into a friend of his who was near the
12
th at Courcelette.”

Angus went completely still.