The Statement (20 page)

‘I think you’re right,’ Joseph said. ‘And because I’m acting on his behalf, I don’t feel that I have the right to refuse you, either. I say this, despite the fact that I know it’s against the wishes of Cardinal Delavigne that we shelter you. I don’t like to be put in a position of disobeying the Cardinal. But before he left for Rome Dom Henri mentioned the Cardinal’s request and said he didn’t agree with it. Neither he nor I guessed that you would be arriving so soon on our doorstep. The question for me now is what would Dom Henri say to you, knowing that a retreat will start in two days’ time. Would he limit your visit to the next two days?’

When they turn against you, there’s no going back. But why let him get away with it? ‘Joseph, I’ll help you with that decision. If you’re unhappy with my being here while the retreat is in progress, I will, of course, leave before then. It’s sad, though, that this decision comes from my old classmate, whose father was so close to mine, we who were brought up in the same way.’

‘Yes, we were brought up in the same way,’ Joseph said. ‘We’re both children of the Church as it was in France when we were boys. It was a Church that saw modern society as an insult against God’s laws, a Church that was anti-democratic, filled with clerics and laymen who would think of you as the victim of a plot by those Jews, freemasons, communists, whom we were taught to fear and despise. It is that Church that still claims your allegiance and which, by shielding you, forgives you and, in doing so, forgives itself for its silence when thousands of Jews were sent to their deaths.’

‘Why are you so bitter, Joseph? I don’t remember
you
helping any Jews.’

‘You’re right. I chose to become a monk, to turn away from the world and give my life to God. But what did that mean? Did God give me permission to ignore what was happening here? How could it be right to turn away, when in doing so, I was betraying France?’

‘What are you talking about? Betraying France?’

‘My silence was a betrayal. Unlike you, I didn’t believe in Vichy or Pétain. I felt ashamed that France had willingly become the Nazis’ servant state. But I did nothing. I said nothing.’

‘And the communists – was that the side you should have picked, their armies raping women, running wild through Europe, their Jew commissars bringing us the teachings of a godless state?’

‘Pierre, listen to me. I’ve heard you express your opinions when you came here in the past. You’ve never showed any contrition for the killings you committed in the
milice
. On the contrary you continually justify your actions. You pretend to be devout, you pretend to have found God, and I know you’ve managed to convince many priests, even those who despise what you did, that during the war you acted in good faith. You’ve deceived them, but you cannot deceive God.’

‘So you’re turning me out. Pushing me into the arms of the Jews who are trying to murder me. All right. But stop giving me a lecture. You’re just trying to excuse yourself. You’re afraid of me, now that I’m hunted, now that I’m a
cause célèbre
. Admit it. And don’t tell me that God hasn’t forgiven me. How do you know?’

‘That’s true. I’m sorry.’

‘All right, then. I have only one question for you. I want to stay here tonight. I must make arrangements. I must find out if the next place where I ask for asylum will, unlike you, treat me with the charity and forgiveness the Church has always shown to men like me.’

Father Joseph bowed his head, then said, ‘Very well. You may stay here tonight.’

Then turned away, walking back up the path, past the monk hoeing near the compost heap. The wooden gate of the vegetable garden squealed as Joseph opened it. In the stables that had been converted into a chapel, a bell tolled. The gardener monk put aside his hoe, made the sign of the cross and stood, silent in prayer. At the garden gate Father Joseph also crossed himself and bowed his head to pray.

He watched them both. The Angelus bell. The prayer at noon. The Commissaire expects me to ring him around now. But not from here. I’ll call from the town.

Five minutes later, the
père hospitalier
, sitting in his office under the
porte cochère
of the mansion, saw the little Peugeot come up the drive, approaching the main gates. He pressed the electric gate opener and the heavy iron gates swung wide. When the Peugeot reached the Corniche road outside it stopped, although no traffic was passing by.

Fifty yards up the road, a vista point. Three tourist cars were parked there. Half a dozen tourists, armed with cameras, were taking pictures of each other against the panorama below. It looked harmless but he took care to identify the makes of all three cars, before driving off in the direction of Villefranche.

You cannot deceive God
. Why did he say that, Joseph? Because he has always been on the other side, a Jew lover. I might have known it. In all the times I’ve come here over the years, he’s never wanted to talk about our early days. Now, I know why.
You cannot deceive God
. I’m not trying to deceive God! Jesus, my Saviour, I pray to You, I worship You, I could never deceive You. I didn’t deceive anyone, not Monsignor Le Moyne, not Abbé Feren, I confessed my faults and was given absolution. He’s wrong. Joseph, he’ll never understand. Contrition for what I did in the
milice
? What I did in the
milice
was right for the time, right for the war we were fighting. Why do I let him upset me, I feel faint, I feel my heart. I’ve got to talk to the Commissaire. Things are bad now, worse than ever. Maybe it’s the moment to ask the Commissaire if he can get me out. Bolivia, he said. But that was years ago. Still he always wanted me to leave France.

Villefranche was like a second home. The old town behind the seafront, with its narrow streets and alleys, was the dark heart of the port, a brothel quarter in the years when the American fleet called here, hidden away from the tourists who strolled along the marine promenade and ate in the waterfront restaurants. He had been a guest in the priory so many times in the past twenty years that he knew every street in the old town. He had his regular café in the Rue Obscure, a place where he was known, but not known, a place where he had often picked up his envelope. There was a closed telephone kiosk in the rear of the café.

Now, as he came down on to the lower Corniche road above Villefranche, he looked again and again in his rear-view mirror, just to be sure. The third time he looked he saw a green Renault Clio. One of the cars at the Vista Point had been a green Renault Clio. Could be coincidence. He turned into the upper reaches of Villefranche and drove down towards the seafront. Suddenly, he swung into the kerb and parked. The green Clio went past, headed for the yacht basin. He drove on. In the underground
parking
at Place St  Michel he locked the Peugeot and walked down a steep narrow street, leading to the dark alley known as the Rue Obscure. He still felt faint. His mouth was dry and he was hungry. After I call the Commissaire, I’ll have a beer and some food.

But what about the call to the Commissaire: will I say it? Will I, at last, get my Vatican passport? Will I end my days in some bugridden, half-black country, sitting in a stinking café surrounded by greasy
métèques
? What choice do I have? Even with the Chevaliers helping me, there are only a few places that will take me now. And most of them are ‘
intégriste
’ with mealtime readings and prayer vigils and no television. At least, in another country I could relax, live in an apartment, eat what I want when I want it. What should I do, should I test the waters and ask about a passport? Will that make him angry?

He was passing familiar shops, bars, vegetable stalls, coming into the darkness of the Rue Obscure. Halfway up the street was the Bar Les Antilles with its beaded front curtain, its little-used outdoor tables and, inside, a row of banquettes, an old-fashioned football machine and a little zinc bar adjoining the kitchen. He pushed aside the curtain and went into the gloom. There were only four customers, two old men playing draughts, and, in one of the banquettes, an alcoholic couple, man and wife, silent over tumblers of Ricard. At the zinc counter, Max Pellan, the proprietor, was reading the sports pages of
Nice Matin
. He looked up, his reading glasses slipping to the tip of his empurpled nose. ‘Ah, Monsieur Pierre. How’s it going? Back for a visit?’

‘Just a short one, this time.’

They shook hands. ‘What can I offer you, Monsieur Pierre?’

‘I’ve been thinking about
pan bagnat
. Do you have it today?’

Max looked into the little kitchen behind the bar where his wife was chopping onions.

‘Clotilde?
Pan bagnat
, is it possible?’

‘Yes.’

Max turned back, pushing his glasses up on his nose. ‘And to drink, Monsieur Pierre?’

‘A beer. But first I must make a phone call. Can you let me have a
jeton
?’

Max reached into a tin box and handed him two phone counters. ‘Go ahead.’

Just beyond the zinc bar, a corridor led to the phone kiosk which faced the door of the toilet. At the end of the corridor was a locked and barred back entrance. He entered the phone kiosk and, pulling its folding glass partition shut behind him, stood, trying to get up his courage. The passport, yes, or no? What will he say?

He dialled Avignon.

‘Hello, yes?’

‘Monsieur Pierre here, Madame. Is your husband at home?’

‘One moment, please.’

As he waited, he glanced through the glass panel in the direction of the bar. No one coming through. Take it easy. Why should I be afraid of him?

‘Hello?’

The Commissaire’s voice. And at once it was as though the years had fallen away like leaves from a tree and he again faced someone he was afraid of, someone like Commandant Lecussan in the days of the
milice
. Men like this had the gift of giving fear. And he who could charm abbots and monsignors had never had a chance with the Commissaire who had always treated him as someone whose silence had been bought, who could be destroyed at will. And now he must ask a great favour of this man.

‘It’s me, sir. I promised to telephone you when I arrived in Villefranche.’

‘You’re there already?’

‘Yes, sir. But I’m afraid there’s a problem. The priory will only accept me for one night.’

‘
What?
’ The Commissaire’s voice was suddenly loud.

‘There’s a laymen’s religious retreat starting there in two days’ time. Besides, I think they’re afraid. The Cardinal’s men have been talking to them.’

‘But you’ll be staying there tonight?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And then?’

‘Tomorrow I’ll move to Nice. I don’t see any problem in Nice. Dom Olivier is Prior General and a great friend of the Chevaliers.’

As he spoke, he heard footsteps behind him in the corridor. He turned and saw a kid in a blue anorak and an American baseball cap go into the toilet and close the door. He did not see the kid’s face.

‘Yes, I know Dom Olivier,’ the Commissaire said. ‘You should be safe there. Phone me tomorrow as soon as you arrive.’

He hesitated, cradling the receiver between his shoulder and his ear, as he turned to look back at the shut toilet door. Who’s that kid? This is what I’m up against. I can’t turn my back, day or night. I’ve got to get away.

‘Sir, there
is
a problem. I can’t stay in Nice for long. Even in those circles, word could get out. I’ll have to move on very soon. Sir, I think it’s time for a change of plan. I’d like to go abroad.’

There was silence in Avignon. He tried again.

‘Some time ago, sir, you urged me to take this step. Do you remember?’

‘That was years ago.’

‘But is it still possible, sir? I think it would be best for all concerned, don’t you?’

‘I have no opinion on that,’ the Commissaire said. He did not sound angry, which was a blessing. ‘I’ll have to think about it. In the meantime, remember, we’re paying you, we’re protecting you. You do your part and we’ll do ours. Relax. We’ll work something out.’

‘But, to be honest, sir, I can’t relax, not for a moment, sir. After all, they’ve tried to kill me twice, first in Salon and then in Aix. My life’s in danger as never before.’

‘If I were you I’d stop worrying,’ the Commissaire said. ‘You gave that second one the slip, didn’t you? Listen to me. I haven’t told you yet, but the police now know who these people are. They’re working on it. I don’t think you’ll have to worry much longer.’

Could he believe him? Were they just trying to keep him from losing his nerve? ‘If you’re right, sir, that’s very good news.’

‘Of course I’m right! Phone me tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

He heard the Commissaire hang up. He stood for a moment, trying to fix the exact words of the conversation. Nowadays, unbelievably, he often forgot what had been said, he who in the old days was known as the Recording Angel of the Second Section. The Commissaire didn’t say no. He had not been angry. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’ That’s what he said. He’ll have to do more than think about it. I can’t go on like this. Never mind about them finding those Jews, it’s the gendarmerie who’s on my tail now, there’s no stopping those army bastards, or that
juge d’instruction
, that Jewess looking for revenge. Bolivia, somewhere, anywhere, would be better than this.