The Avignon Quintet

by Lawrence Durrell

  Nevertheless … a thousand bombers over Cologne! And the B.B.C. radio programmes from over the water gathering self-confidence and density – always with that ominous drumbeat taken from Beethoven! He was impatient now for some action, in order to avoid such reflections.

  The new Government of Vichy was all smarm and affability, but it was obvious that without the weight of German forces watching over it its life would have been a precarious one, so evenly were the French divided between those who genuinely favoured Nazism, and those who found the occupation intolerable. For the moment the public had not felt the full weight of the German yoke. But it would not be long before the shortages and the ration-cards brought home the sombre reality. But such general considerations hardly touched the fringe of Von Esslin’s preoccupations at that moment; his speculations about the future were crystallised by the visit of three Vichy functionaries who arrived in an old car one morning and demanded audience. They were, so they said, attached to the French Second Bureau and they announced that within a matter of weeks the German army would move into the unoccupied zone as a sort of unofficial police force for the Vichy Government. Von Esslin was to be part of this operation.

  It threw him into a frightful rage to hear these shabby Frenchmen deliberating upon his future, and he was almost tempted from spite to put them under arrest. His face flushed dark as he told them, between clenched teeth, that he took his orders from the German High Command only – from nobody else; they were abashed by his vehemence and apologetic for the gaffe they had perpetrated. Nevertheless one of them showed him a letter of appointment signed by the Reichsführer S.S. und Chef der deutschen Polizei – no less a personage than Himmler himself – and Von Esslin’s heart sank. As a soldier he resented being a tool of the politicals and a weapon used by them in their secret wars. Nor would it have been any use to ask the rank of the new appointee – he might simply be a modest colonel-general and yet still have the power to report directly to Berlin behind his back and manipulate the armed forces by remote control. Besides, Von Esslin did not want a quasi-civilian posting in a backwater, with no possibilities of promotion. He applied instantly for a posting to the Russian theatre, but the message remained without answer. Silence fell. Perplexity grew. He heard no more of the dark-suited Vichy functionaries. Then one day his orderly told him that someone was waiting for him in his office and he found Fischer there, installed in a swivel chair, cap tilted back, paring his nails with a paperknife. “Good morning, General,” he said with his lazy and insolent smile, but he made no move to rise. Von Esslin remained standing and gazed at him silently. He wore the S.S. uniform, but with a shiny black greatcoat that hid insignia. He had very light blue eyes of great brilliance and weakness. It was as if you could see pieces of the sky through his skull, for the eyes did not join in the smile. “Pray be seated, my General,” he said, smiling, showing perfect white teeth. An incandescent smile but without any heat. “You are in my chair,” growled Von Esslin. He did not want to take the suppliant’s seat in his own office. The younger man shrugged and rose. He was tall and thin. He had rings on his fingers. At first blush this might have hinted at an innate effeminacy, but the impression was rapidly dispelled by the empty eyes. They might as well have been the empty sockets of a Roman statue, so little did they convey of sensibility or intelligence. He turned slowly towards the window and briefly traced a pattern on it with his forefinger. Then he turned round once more and again flashed Von Esslin that brilliant smile, empty as a neon sign. “You will get marching orders on Monday. I will go on directly and be waiting for you when you arrive.”

  Von Esslin sat down massively and treated the young man to a grimly bad-tempered smile intended to express his disdain and resentment of such cavalier manners. “But of where do you speak?” he asked, and the young man answered, “Avignon has been selected as the headquarters of the force, you will group there. The S.S. will quarter quite near at hand. All this is to help the Vichy régime – they fear the situation is sliding out of control; too many communists, Resistance groups, Intelligence groups. We shall have to begin with an impact. You will receive a list of villages where hostages are to be taken and liquidated.” He looked suddenly sick and sad, like a sort of blond Mephisto wounded by a memory. Ruminating, his tongue travelled round his teeth, as if to gather fragments of something he had eaten. Then he said abruptly, “I look forward to working with you. General, do you play chess?” Von Esslin said that he did not, though in fact he did. “Pity,” said Fischer, and once more gave that dazzling, disconnected smile. His skin was very pale, his cheeks bloodless and anaemic-looking, his eyelashes of a lightness that was practically albino. “Pity!”

  “What is your rank?” asked Von Esslin in a heavy, boorish tone; of course it would make no difference to the day-to-day issues. From his accent he thought he detected a sort of clever Munich garage mechanic in uniform. Fischer pulled down the collar of his greatcoat sufficiently for Von Esslin to see the characteristic insignia of the Waffen S.S. “I thought so,” he said. Fischer nodded with satisfaction. “We will work together very well,” he said, and added, but in a much politer tone, “May I see your hand, General?” Caught by surprise Von Esslin laid his hands out before him on the desk and the young man leaned attentively over them for a second, though he did not touch them. Then he straightened up, smacked his lips and said, “I thank you.” He went to the door, and standing by it, with the doorknob in his hand, he allowed his right hand to sketch a formal salute of great punctilio, at the same time bringing his heels softly together. Was it mockery? It was hard to decide, with that dead, smiling face gazing at him. Technically he should have risen and responded, but he was still full of anger, so he contented himself with a curt nod. The door closed behind Fischer, and Von Esslin turned with despatch to his telephone. He must find out from Paris what was brewing, what the future held for him.

  When he managed to contact operations he was told that movement orders had already been despatched, that he would have them within a few hours, together with details of the units engaged. So! He felt a touch of perplexity and unease grow up inside him as he listened. It was to be a take-over, no resistance was to be anticipated; he would consolidate around key towns and pave the way for the French Milice – the recruited Nazis of French origin. One of his oldest cronies was high up in postings, and Von Esslin broke the rules of military etiquette in telephoning him to say testily: “Forgive me, but do you know any reason why my transfer is being passed over? This is almost a civilian command they offer me! Why?” His friend’s suppositions were not very elaborate. “Passed over?” he said diplomatically. “That is hardly the word surely – you have been mentioned quite recently and that means despatches. It’s just an administrative bungle which will sort itself out in good time. Be patient.”

  As a matter of fact Von Esslin found these blandishments anything but reassuring; his mind once more began its hovering around a private thought which had for some time been troubling him. Was his Catholicism going to tell against him professionally? The idea had already presented itself to him more than once, though so far there had been nothing to confirm it. Well … once or twice he had heard ironic phrases fall from the lips of S.S. officers which hinted that one could not compromise between God and Hitler. Once he heard a young man say: “When a Nazi goes to confession …” but the rest of the phrase had been lost in ironic laughter. Then again, on another occasion, there had been a reference to a Nazi stormtrooper on church parade which had also led to strenuous guffaws. Was this new posting a tacit indication that his religion had come to the notice of his superiors? Shaving in the mirror, he went guiltily over the last few times he had been to church with his friends – they would hardly have informed on him? Why “inform”? “You are being stupid and suspicious,” he told himself aloud, and stepped into his bath with a sigh and a shrug of the shoulders.

  That night the detailed orders came and he read them through with cynicism and distaste; those Waffen units, why so many? The
y were going to break civilian morale, he supposed, in the traditional way; the Waffen units were Himmler’s personal toy, and consequently almost a law unto themselves. On the other hand Von Esslin’s own command had shed a lot of tanks – they were wanted for Russia perhaps? But there was no doubt that as a command this was going to be a backwater of little importance where nobody could expect to earn glory and advancement. It was not exactly a slight, yet he almost felt it to be one. There was nobody to protect him up there at the General Command, nobody to whom he could appeal privately.

  He felt suddenly very much alone.

  FIVE

  In Geneva

  THE STREET IN GENEVA AT THE END OF WHICH THE OLD Bar de la Navigation stands runs back from the lakeside with its bulky Corniche and scrambles up a steepish slope. It is an undecided sort of street, it seems at cross-purposes with itself, for it begins as a modest side-street, becomes for a block or so a wider boulevard, then breaks off abruptly to become a narrow dog-leg passage giving on to an evil-smelling court full of lidless dustbins. It was precisely this air of lugubrious secrecy that endeared itself to our hero (heroes, rather, for Toby had appeared in Geneva to join forces with Sutcliffe). It seemed to them the ideal place for those confidential mid-morning potations and games of pool for which the Foreign Office had invented the phrase “elevenses”, after the hour of the morning when one feels one most needs a short swift drink, or a long “unwinder”, to use slang.

  They were both engaged on what was then known as “war work”. In the damp basements of the Consulate (below lake level) a flock of new temporary offices had been created, each separated from the next by a wooden partition. Services of the most heterogeneous sort rubbed elbows. Oxford had sacrificed Toby to the needs of M.E.3 (counter-espionage), while a disgruntled Sutcliffe, pushed out of Vienna by the troubles, translated confidential German documents for the Military Attache’s department and waited angrily for his wife to be restored to him by the psychiatrists. It cost the earth. She was housed at the Prangens clinic across the lake. (Every morning he used to go out on the balcony of the small flat which he shared with his friend, and shout aloud, “I want my wife” in German; but it appeared to have no effect on the unimaginative Swiss.)

  The two huge men, so like ninepins, shared as best they could this ugly flat which was impossible to keep in decent order. Chaos reigned; neither was tidy, neither could cook. They heated up tinned food in a saucepan of hot water and ate it with sadness and disrelish, under the belief that they were economising. On Mondays a desultory charwoman did what she could to restore some order in their lives. In the evenings they often sat down to play poker, wearing pyjamas with broad stripes and eyeshades of yellow celluloid like the croupiers at Las Vegas. Their raptness might have persuaded one that they were playing for higher stakes than matches. Ah, the nights of the early war, fading down into the blue lantern-lit dusk with their dense fogs smearing visibility on the lake! The Swiss army was on “alert”, the country mobilised, the towns blacked out, though not entirely. It was almost a curfew, with most bars and bordels closing early. The world lived in a tension without remedy. The authorities had tried the air raid sirens and found they worked. The noise was deeply depressing and reinforced an innate tendency to stay at home and drink tea laced with applejack or plum brandy. Toby called these confections “spine-twisters” from the shuddering caused by the first mouthful. Aptly.

  The potations of mid-morning, however, were different, consisting of hot grogs with brown sugar (despite the muggy climate) in a vain attempt to defeat the chronic bronchitis they shared, the result of smoking too many Celtiques – the tabac gris of over-run France. This affliction rendered the morning cacophonous, due to a joint symphony of coughing so violent that it brought the Swiss couples who lived below out on to the landing, wondering if they should call for help. Sutcliffe imitated a young cat being tried for size, Goddard a surly Turkish porter being mauled by a bear. Sometimes they united to imitate the national anthems of various nations, or else to repeat in musical coughs the phrase “Le docteur Schwarz est un pot de chambre”. Schwarz was the analyst who had fled from Vienna carrying with him his choicer and richer patients – for not all could find the money to move with him. (Sutcliffe’s overdraft did not bear thinking upon.) It was Schwarz who had been bitten by a paranoid patient and granted a month’s leave to recover and attend to his infected ear-lobe. “Such are the love-bites analysts receive,” commented Sutcliffe bitterly to Constance when she answered the phone. “I wish my wife would react as positively.” But Constance was not there to be made fun of; she turned the jest coldly aside, saying, “I will certainly see you if you wish for any information. I am abreast of the dossier, but I am only standing in for Dr. Schwarz, holding the fort. I am not treating her, though I have established contact with her and had several talks. You may come at ten tomorrow.” She was disposed to be rather priggish, and received a rather unfavourable impression of him due to his dirty fingernails and lack of physical spruceness. Sutcliffe was intimidated by her beauty, but had only the faintest idea of who she was. Then came an accidental reference to Blanford in the conversation and she saw his eyes widen. “Goodness!” he cried and sat staring at her. “You must be Constance, the other sister.”

  “Then who are you?” asked Constance with hesitation, for a sort of feeling of familiarity had begun to grow up inside her, vague as a cloud. His name fell with a thud upon her ear. “It’s not true!” she exclaimed. But it was, it was he. They sat silent for a long moment, staring at one another, and then she began to talk rapidly, erratically, still not quite sure of her man. But the sofa of Freud clinched the matter – for she had seen his name on the invoice. “So after all you are real!” Sutcliffe laughed and said, “Everybody is real.”

  It was a crazy thing to say, if you were someone who did not believe in fairies, but then he was given to immoderate optimism when in the presence of beauty, to which he remained forever susceptible. But he smarted under her coolness, he found her a right bitch and he told Toby so. “Une garce,” he said, preferring the French word with the broad vowel sound spread like legs: like those satisfactory words and phrases he treasured – “gâtisme ou le relâchement des sphincters”.

  His friend looked at him with interest and asked, “Why are you so much up on end?”

  Sutcliffe replied soberly, gravely, “I am sure that Aubrey will end up in love with her and I understand why. It’s those sea-green eyes and the snow tan. But she’s a real Swiss prig.”

  “But she’s English.”

  “She’s both: a double priggery.”

  She had initially refused to meet him on social terms, outside the consulting-room, and he supposed this to be a question of medical etiquette, mixed with the evident distaste she seemed to feel for his company. So he was surprised when she telephoned to his office and said in her rapid, rather strained way, “I feel I was rather uncivil to you, and probably hurt your feelings; I am sorry if it is so. I would like to repent and also accept your kind invitation to a drink. This evening, if you wish.” He was both elated and nonplussed by the sudden change of wind. “Good,” said Toby when informed, “if she’s medical she might give us some tips about geriatric aid. I am putting up feebler and feebler performances with the typists’ pool. Little Miss Farthingale is languishing, and I am heartily ashamed of the poor motility of my product. The damn stuff can hardly swim, it turns over on its back and floats. The girls are right to protest.” Sutcliffe clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “We can’t ask her that. You will just have to live with your humiliation, Toby. But come to think of it, why don’t you try a Diplomat’s Aid?”

  “What’s that, may I ask?”

  “Get a nice thick office rubber band and make a tourniquet for your closest friend; place it rather high up and fairly tight. It will work wonders. I learned it from the little Indian typist. She says that in the Foreign Office …”

  Toby was elated by this information and unearthing a series of rubber bands fro
m his briefcase he retired to the lavatory in order to find something suitable for his troubled circumstances. Sutcliffe walked down to the lake to meet the ferry, for he despaired of anyone finding the little bar, just on a set of telephoned instructions. It was tea-time and the day was fine. Constance waved to him from the deck and he replied.

  She was not at her best, she looked tired and strained. Indeed her general appearance, for a girl who liked to be well turned out, bordered on the unkempt; her white mackintosh was not too clean and a missing top button had been replaced by a safety pin. Her hair had been badly cut and was all puppy dog’s tails. The truth was that she was still in a state of semi-shock, almost collapse, due to the news of Sam’s death. It was simply amazing – for they had both imagined that they were strong enough to face up to such an eventuality, that the life-giving power of their magnetic love would resist even this sort of separation. Love makes you naive, she realised it now; they had been acting a part, the part of two golden immortals from some romantic opera. Now here they were, under the wheels of the Juggernaut – or rather, she was; in a sense he had escaped and left her to gather up the remains of the thought “death”. No, that was not all, for some days after the news she had received to her surprise one brief letter duly transmitted by the Army Post Office to the Consulate. It had made an elaborate journey, the voice of her dead “husband”. Yes, all of a sudden the word had resonance, an old-fashioned gravity and pith. The whole of her small apartment by the lake seemed impregnated with it. That is why she had taken to sleeping at her office in the clinic, on a camp bed against the further wall.