“Yes. I wondered why; and moreover I wondered why Fischer of all people. But it’s not my affair, after all.”
They walked in silence for a while and then the French girl said, “It isn’t much of a mystery really; I have a husband I love who is dying of a rare spinal complaint. He is bedridden. A musician, an artist! At all costs my two children must eat and drink – no sacrifice would be too great. My job as documentalist with the municipal library vanished with the war. My work for the Red Cross earns me a pittance as you know …”
“I see. Therefore!”
“Therefore!”
On an impulse the two girls embraced and said no more. In the window of the bookshop which angled the narrow street they saw a cluster of slogans and pamphlets and portraits of the Marshal which suggested that the bookseller had responded to one of the “warning visits” of the Milice. Yet on the outside of the window, written perhaps with a moist piece of soap, were the words “le temps du monde fini commence”. It was like a douche of cold water, life-giving and sane and truly French in its cynicism and truthfulness. Quiminal laughed out loud, her composure completely restored as she said, “C’est trop beau.” It was as if a ray of light, a glimpse of the true France, had peeped out at them through the contemporary murk of history. They walked on awhile before the girl said, but almost as if talking to herself, “It is he who controls the lists of the taken.” Constance guessed that she was speaking of Fischer. An expression of weariness and sadness settled on her features. “Sometimes he ‘sells me lives’ as he calls it. I buy as many as I can!” For the moment Constance was silent, though she did not quite understand the purport of the last words. But she felt great warmth and sympathy for the girl and admired the world-weary resignation which was so very French, and so very far from everything that she herself might be, or might wish to be. The basic Puritanism and idealism of the north held back from such an open acceptance of life with all its hazards. But there was no knowing how she might have reacted under similar strains, similar circumstances. Much later Nancy Quiminal was to describe her strange harlot-like relation with Fischer. The names of the Jews and other undesirables gathered up in the weekly list of battus, as they were candidly called by the Gestapo “beaters”, were transcribed on long spills of paper and in this form were delivered to the Mairie where the Etat Civil of the victim could be checked and his or her name transcribed in the register. There was nothing underhand about all this, it was legal and above board – it satisfied the Nazi sense of self-justification for what they were doing. But then Fischer would arrive with these lists, unbuckling his belt and throwing it upon the hall table like a wrestling champion making his claim, issuing a challenge. She had to wait for him there in a kimono of silk which he had sent her – ready for business. But sometimes they sat and talked and drank some stolen liquor, a bottle lifted from the house of one of his victims. For the most part, however, the Gestapo did not loot; they gave a note of hand for everything they took, for they revelled in the intense legality of their actions. Naked on the bed with her, he would become heavily playful, touching her body and her lips with the long spills of parchment-like paper, and asking her whom she would buy from his list. It was the sexuality of the satrap – he allowed her one or two, sometimes three, slaves of fortune. Their names were crossed out and were not transferred to the great official register. Such victims were surprised to be released the next day. But it did not always work, sometimes he was captious and capricious; after promising her he withdrew his promise and reinstated the names. It was a curious way to redeem these unfortunate hostages – by her very embraces. It was queer, too, sometimes to come upon them alive still and walking the streets, unaware that they owed their good fortune to her. But even this sacrifice did not always work, for Fischer went through variations of mood; sometimes he was full of vengeful thoughts and desires and she found him hard to handle. Once he asked abstractedly why her daughters were never present when he visited the house, and she did not answer, though a cold thrill ran down her back. She had to beg for every sou, to plead, to wheedle, and he would gaze at her with that bright dead smile, anxious that she should grovel; sometimes half-playfully she did, sinking to clasp his ankles, and he stood there with his hands on her shoulders, suddenly switched off, his attention elsewhere; he gazed into some remote distance and went on smiling from the depths of this complete abstraction. She described him as “un drôle d’animal”, and mixed with the distaste and disgust for this relationship there was a certain pity – an inbuilt French regret at the spectacle of someone who deliberately chooses the road to unhappiness, who revels in self-immolation and the misfortunes of others. Sometimes he fell asleep and had nightmares during which he cried out and wept, and once after such an occasion he discovered the adolescent sources of much of his instability based on shame – for he wet his bed. It was a shock, and he did not reappear for some time – it was she who, needing money, set about finding him. But all this information came later; on that first evening the two women merely shared a coffee at the bar of the hotel before saying goodbye and promising to meet on the morrow for the visit to Tu Duc.
The Prince was in a poor humour that night, and not at all disposed to travel north as he must; he felt he had a cold coming on. His room was cold, his feet were cold. “And yet I must,” he said gloomily, “the General’s movement permit specifies times and days, and I mustn’t miss the connection since we have to cross into the northerly departments. Damn! I saw the old boy coming out of the church at Montfavet; he looked very sad and weary, perhaps the Creator gave him a talking to …”
“What were you doing there?” said Constance.
“I went to try and get a glimpse of Quatrefages; they gave me permission – Smirgel, the slimy one, took me. My dear, Quatrefages is really floating, really dingne. Walking about like Hamlet. He was sure I had come from India with special private information for him! I ask you! No, he’s not all there. Perhaps it’s the drugs, though Smirgel says not. They are keeping him most preciously in the hope of discovering … what rubbish it all is, I must say!”
EIGHT
A Confession
IN THE CASE OF VON ESSLIN MATTERS HAD FALLEN OUT somewhat differently, for he had not been slow to act upon the wave of optimism occasioned by Constance’s visit. It was almost with euphoria that he motored down into Avignon bound for the Grey Penitents, for he had been visited by a new idea concerned with the problem of mass and confession. His boots clicked firmly upon the pavements of the little causeway which crosses the bubbling waters of the canal, with its old-fashioned wooden paddle wheels. He went with only a modest escort, so as not to draw too much attention to his exalted rank, and also because he did not like to fill the street with armed men unless it were on a professional basis, so to speak. The great portals of sodden wood sighed open and he stepped from stone on to wood, and from daylight to the fragile light of candles burning everywhere. The little chapel was deserted though ablaze with light, as though the time of a service was approaching. The three wooden confessionals, so like telephone booths, were open. Beside them was an electric bell and a card with the name of a duty priest who, apparently, could be summoned in case of need. Von Esslin sat down in a pew for a moment, then knelt in prayer, as if to prime his gesture, to purify it, before it was executed. Then he pressed the bell and listened with bent head until the echoes died away in the depths of the church. Outside one could still hear the hushing of the waterwheels as they spooned away at the dank canal of the ancient and now vanished tanners. At last from behind the altar, moving very slowly, very sluggishly, there came a burly priest with a massive square head on which the shock of greying hair was cut en brosse. Von Esslin sprang into a salute as the figure advanced and then, relaxing, said in his halting French, “Father, I would like some information. On behalf of many of my officers, where can they hear mass and attend confession?” The insolent dark eyes stared at him with a toad-like composure; the priest’s face stayed expressionless as he reflected. H
e looked the General up and down with no trace of servility. “There is only one priest who knows German,” he said at last, “at Montfavet. I will telephone to him and you can go there when you wish and arrange with him. When would you like?”
“In an hour,” said Von Esslin, elated to find that he might shed his burden so summarily. “Is that possible?” The squarehead bent his chin to his breast and said, “Very well. In an hour. I will telephone to Montfavet now.” It seemed almost too good to be true. The priest turned abruptly on his heel and went slowly back towards the altar. Von Esslin watched for a moment, a trifle put out of countenance by his cursory attitude. Then he too turned and made his way out of the candle-gloom into the sunlit street where his escort awaited him. He had one or two official calls to make and he undertook them now in order not to present himself too early at the little church of Montfavet – he wanted the priest to have ample time to contact his German-speaking confrère. So that it was a good hour and a half before he broached the winding tree-lined roads which lead towards the ancient village. Everywhere the streams were in flood, they ran hissing and gushing among the green meadows. Larks flinched in the blue sky above. His spirits rose again and he heard himself humming a tune from an opera under his breath. How long ago, how far away, the world of music seemed!
The car with its escort rolled across the green sward in front of the old church and came to rest. Von Esslin got out smartly and with springy step made his way into the gloomy interior. He no longer felt timid about the matter – he had convinced himself that he really was acting on behalf of his brother officers. But the church was empty and there were no lights on – only such light as filtered through the tall windows on to the big, undistinguished holy paintings. After a moment of irresolution he entered the side chapel marked IV and sat himself down in patience for a while; then, thinking to improve his hour, he took to kneeling at a prie-dieu and ventured upon some propitiatory prayers to the Virgin which might serve as a sort of scaffolding to the more important confession which was to follow. The sound of footsteps – a strange shuffling footfall – brought him back to himself. The priest had entered from behind the altar and was halfway across the church to where the confessional stood, its oaken doors invitingly ajar. He was a tiny figure, stunted and swart as a black olive, and his eyes glimmered with intelligence. But from the waist downward he was grievously twisted, his whole haunches thrown out of symmetry so that he walked half-sideways with a laborious swaying rhythm. All this happened so fast, however, that there was hardly time to form a clear impression, for the little priest with open arms beckoned him into the confessional with an air of kindly complicity. Von Esslin obeyed and found himself in semi-darkness now, facing an empty slot in the wood, for the priest was not tall enough to reach it. He heard the little man’s rapid exhausted breathing as he began with the opening flourish of his peccavi, “Father, I have sinned.”
The responses and interventions of the little priest came back in German all right – but with so rich a Yiddish accent that for a moment the General nearly burst out into an imprecation. It was as if the gods were making a jest of him! Had they set a Jew to shrive him knowingly? No, it could not be, yet was there anything to stop a Jew from becoming Catholic? Was there? Was there? No, nothing. He was nonetheless briefly possessed by a confused sense of outrage and involuntarily his hand sought the butt of his revolver, his fingers fiddled with the safety catch in a futile, aberrant manner.
The accents of a Viennese psychoanalyst, forsooth! It turned his conscience sour to hear that unmistakable slurring upon certain words. Yet how silly all this was! It cost him something to proceed with his confession, but he managed to stumble through it and receive the expected admonition and mock-punishment which would, according to the strategy of the faith, absolve and pardon him. Yet the contretemps almost made him feel that the performance lacked real conviction. It set him arguing with himself. It was in something of a state of perplexity that he had himself driven back to his headquarters in the fortress. His staff had taken over a regular warren of interconnecting chambers, all giving through one central door on to the main corridor – a security officer’s dream. And here on the wall, leaf by leaf, they were laying out the maps which delineated not only his somewhat ambiguous command but also its relation to general troop dispositions further north. He supervised all this with undiminished élan and good humour. The news from Russia, though not disquieting, nevertheless hinted at diminished momentum, of halting to regroup, of stiffened resistance. Well, with such extended lines of communication an occasional pause for consolidation was only to be expected.
That evening Fischer was alone in the mess, reading and re-reading his one and only intellectual possession, Kropotnik’s Chess Problems. The younger man seemed moody and disinclined to converse, which was quite in keeping with the General’s own mood. He ate his dinner with a haughty silence. In his memory he still lingered over that singing, swaying Yiddish intonation, as in words or phrases like “ Welch einen Traum entseqensvoll …” He wondered if the little priest might figure one day upon a Gestapo list? There was disrelish in the thought.
The next day dawned chill and misty with skirls of fine rain; the German officer appeared on time, sitting rather stiffly upright in his duty wagon – the posture somehow seemed to illustrate his deafness. He was full of a shy punctilio, but was not unhappy to be escorting two pretty women – for Quiminal had elected to join Constance for the visit to Tu Duc. There was mist on the swollen river as they traversed the famous bridge, leaving behind them the flock of churches and belfries and taking the road to the hills. Constance sat in front beside the driver, eagerly reading off the landmarks which memory rendered precious.
NINE
Tu Duc Revisited
AS FOR AVIGNON, SHE HAD NOT AS YET REALLY MADE UP her mind whether to stay or leave – her resolution had been somewhat sapped by the obvious disgust and distress of the Prince who was dismayed by the thought of leaving her behind when he took his own leave. All the sadness and barbarity of the place with its medieval sanitation – how would she face all this alone? He asked her this, and Constance herself did not quite know how to answer these questions. It was as if she were waiting for a sign or portent which would decide the matter for her. But meanwhile the rich tapestry of her memory spread itself all round her, illustrated by these fine forests and sweet limestone hills full of pure water. The German officer drove stiffly but carefully, walled up as he was in his deafness; Nancy Quiminal had fallen silent, though from time to time she shot a thoughtful glance at her companion. How silent the roads were! The countryside looked, in such wintry light, ominous and beleaguered – as indeed it was. It was not far to go, but Tubain was tucked away in a secret hollow of its own, so that when they arrived the seclusion of the place gave them the impression of having travelled many leagues.
The German switched off the motor and the sound ebbed away from them into the forest. There stood the little manor, damp-stained and unpainted, its gutters swollen with fallen leaves, overflowing upon the front steps and the broad stone verandah with its climbing rose trees. They sat, the three of them, and said nothing.
“Is this the house?” said Quiminal and when Constance nodded, went on, “I came here once, very many years ago, as a small child; an old mad lady lived here? Yes. We brought her eggs!” Constance climbed down and said, “I must just see if everything is the same.” The familiar click of the gate greeted her. Everywhere gutters oozed and dribbled for it had rained that night, though now the sky was clear. The garden lay, as always, in its own atmosphere of ruinous isolation, waiting for the burden of summer bees, for the song of blackbirds or cuckoos. The kitchen window was still broken; she peeped in upon the table at which they had so often sat to eat or play cards. But the hearth was piled high with vine snippings and paper – a suggestion of habitation which made her heart leap. Was someone living here? She turned abruptly aside and cried, “We must go down to the village and get the key; I must see the inside
.” The French girl shrugged and said, “Bien sûr.” But as Constance turned, her eye caught a ghost of movement amid the forest trees and following it discerned a man hovering about in the distance, obviously hesitatingly, haltingly wondering if he dared approach. It was Blaise the carter who, together with his wife, had played the role of caretaker for them during that last summer. She beckoned him urgently and at last, with misgiving, he approached, though he only recognised her when he was quite close. Then with a bound he came to her side and took her hands. “They have arrested you, then?” he said in a low anguished tone. But she smiled and disclaimed the fact, and they were far enough away from the car for her to whisper a brief account of her fortunes, and an explanation of what she was in fact doing there. He followed her explanation with narrowed eyes, urgently and with a sort of fearful concern. But when she hinted that she was all but thinking of returning to live at Tu Duc he threw his head back and gave a harsh laugh of pure rapture. “Wait till I tell my wife,” he cried, “she will be mad with joy.”
“But first I must see what state the inside of the place is in,” she cried, for she was still hesitating, and taking the key from his pocket he said, “Come. Enter. All is as you left it. It is perfectly habitable.”
It was strange to step into the dark kitchen with its ceiling-high cupboards and scoured white table marked by the cutting knives of past cooks, among whom she could now number herself. She ran a finger along the white mantelpiece and saw that it gathered no dust; who continued to clean and tidy here now? His conversation supplied the answer – it was his wife. But leaping over all these considerations he asked impulsively, “And the boys? How are the boys?” She was caught unawares, and felt all of a sudden assailed by shyness. “Well,” she said. “Very well.” He insisted, “And Sam?” She realised with a sudden shock that Sam was still, for him, alive on this earth – it gave a strangely relative colour to the fact of his death. She went on to volunteer the fact that he was in Egypt with his friend Aubrey, on active service. She was suddenly swept away by the luxury of having him, her husband, restored to her in this factitious way. She positively drank up his impulsive “Bravo” and squeeze of her hand. The echo of Sam went on repeating itself in the empty room, the empty house; she could talk freely about him because he was still alive! The psychologist in her reproved this weakness, but the lover rejoiced; just to talk about him as if he lived helped her surmount the agony of deprivation which she had been forced to bottle up by her false professional pride. Moreover this was the signal for which she had been waiting. She would stay on in Tu Duc with the shadowy mythical Sam, sole possessor of the truth of his death, so to speak, until her sorrow and hunger were worn out; she would work through the rich vein of his death and Blanford’s incapacitation – the horrible accident which had encapsulated itself inside the greater and more wounding accident of the world at war.
The Avignon Quintet Page 76
