Dragons in the Forest

by Peter Yeldham

  “I’ve never heard of that rule,” Alex told her.

  An unwritten rule, she explained; nevertheless it existed. It was the bank’s policy, and would do his future no good if it became known. She was sure Monsieur Ribot had noticed them returning on the day of their last lunch together, and they must be careful not to let it become obvious.

  “But what are we doing wrong?” Alex wanted to know, after they’d met and found a corner table.

  “Upsetting Ribot,” she said, “not to mention the Sardine and the chief accountant — if they knew about it.”

  “What a bunch of hypocrites.” Alex was indignant, which she thought was nice. “All trying to get their hands on you. Grabbing your bottom, asking you to come to work without panties. They’re disgusting, whereas we’re just having a civilised lunch together.”

  “Not quite as civilised as last time,” she said, with a glance around the decidedly cheaper sushi bar.

  He had to grant her that. But this was all he could afford. His eagerness had overlooked the lack of money until his first pay day at the end of March. Embarrassment had been avoided by managing to borrow from his sister. Mathilde was an avid saver of pocket money but a reluctant lender, and this sushi bar was the extent of any largesse she was prepared to risk.

  “Next time will be somewhere special,” Alex promised. “But that’s all it is. A nice civilised lunch. Hardly enough to upset that bunch of sex maniacs.”

  Kimiko treated him to one of her lingering looks. “Forget them,” she said, “they won’t get anywhere with me, and they know it. But a civilised lunch — just the two of us. Who can tell where that might lead?”

  “Where?” He wasn’t sure he should ask, or what she was implying. Kimiko could be extremely complex for a not-quite 21-year-old, sent fresh into the world from the cloistered calm of St Joseph’s.

  “Anywhere.” She smiled at him. “It’s been known for a man and a girl who like each other to go out to a lunch such as this, and not come back all afternoon. Or even the next day.”

  My God, Alex thought, she wants me to suggest we find a hotel room. That’s what she really wants. She does! But he didn’t say it. He couldn’t. The words were on the tip of his tongue — but he could not manage to get them past his teeth. Instead he tried to change the subject, and asked about Mademoiselle. She didn’t answer at first; she hadn’t yet finished her speculation about unsafe meals

  “Some people fall in love over lunch. It can change lives. They become enamoured and run away together. Lunches can be dangerous.”

  Alex thought this tête-à-tête was already dangerous. He didn’t want to change his life, not yet. He just wanted to take her to bed in a nice short-time hotel. At present he had no long-term plans beyond a few nights of intense lust.

  “Here’s the sushi,” he said thankfully as the waiter arrived with it, “so while we eat please tell me about Mademoiselle Patou.”

  Kimiko reached over and selected a choice piece of squid from his plate. She was always too nimble with her chopsticks for Alex.

  “Her married name is Madame Clermont,” she told him. “Cecile Clermont, nee Patou.”

  “Still married?”

  “Oh yes, very much so.”

  “She prefers to use her maiden name?”

  “Her husband insists she use it.”

  “Insists?”

  “So it won’t be known she’s working to earn their living, while he skis in the winter and plays tennis all summer.”

  “Good God,” Alex said, suddenly realising who she meant. “That’s Jacques Clermont you’re talking about.”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “Not personally, but I’ve seen him play tennis. He’s brilliant. He always wins the summer cup at Karuizawa.”

  “And our Mademoiselle takes home translations and extra work at night, so he can join all you exclusive people in your holiday homes up there in the mountains.”

  Alex tried to ignore the gibe. “I think my father sometimes went to dinner at the Clermonts.”

  “Then he’d have met Cecile. The quiet one at the far end of the table, who was probably paying for the meal like she pays for most things.”

  “How did you find this out?”

  “She was in tears one day. Sobbing her heart out in the ladies. I could hardly believe it was our smart Mademoiselle. She wanted to talk, and I’m a good listener.” Kimiko shrugged. “Until now I’ve told no-one. But you’re different. You won’t gossip about this, Alex, will you.”

  “Of course not.”

  “She dreads people knowing the truth.”

  “So she supports him. But I always thought Clermont was rich.”

  “Everyone thinks that. His family in Switzerland is rich, but he has extravagant tastes. They gave him money but he spent it all. It seems whenever he got into debt the family paid. Eventually they’d had enough, and put him on a strict allowance.”

  “Then why must she still work to pay his bills?”

  “Because the allowance doesn’t keep him in the style he expects. And since the war, the allowance is no longer dependable. Boats are sunk, banks blown up, cheques lost — it’s all so distressing for Jacques.”

  “And so unfair for her.”

  “Terribly unfair. She works and he plays. He’s never worked in his life — and no matter how short of money they are, he never will.”

  Alex was thoughtful, remembering the athletic figure, how he played to win, and the way the ball came back with such a cut and spin that few players could handle it. Jacques Clermont. Often in the social pages of the newspapers; photographs of him winning tournaments, on the ski slopes, or a guest at parties. Women loved him. Men thought him a sterling chap. All of a sudden Alex could recall his father’s smile when someone had asked him what good old Jacques did for a living?

  “Not a lot,” his father had said, never realising that, long afterwards, when he was in Indochina, his son would be working in the same building as Clermont’s wife.

  Alex wondered how he would feel the next time he encountered her. He thought of how desperate and lonely she must have been to have entrusted the details of her life to Kimiko — or anyone who worked in such proximity. It was a small world, he reflected, as they finished their sushi and went back to the bank.

  ALEX’S DIARY: MARCH 20th, 1943

  We took great care returning individually to the bank. I started to agree with Kimiko; it is imperative Ribot, Laroche and the Sardine do not know about us. It has become vital they have no notion of our intentions. Because over lunch I took a great step forward. I persuaded her to have a special dinner with me next week, the night after I receive my first pay cheque. Not that it took a great deal of persuasion. While I blurted out the invitation and held my breath, she smiled and said what a lovely idea. She even said — with one of her enigmatic looks — that she would tell her parents she would be quite late getting home.

  “Quite late?” I asked.

  “Perhaps I’ll tell them I’ll stay the night at a girlfriend’s house,” she said, and proceeded to hold my hand.

  It was as simple as that. Neither of us will go home that night.

  I spent the rest of the day in a dream, imagining the discreet hotel I’d book — dreaming of our first love making, waking in the morning in bed with Kimiko and doing it all over again. Just us, no families, no noisy breakfast, no trains to catch. We could stay in bed together — fondling, arousing, caressing, possessing — and fucking each other till exhaustion:

  I MUST HIDE THIS DIARY SO MATHILDE OR MY MOTHER NEVER GET THEIR HANDS ON IT.

  We could do all these things and more, until it is time to bathe and stroll leisurely to the bank like a pair of innocents looking as though it was just an ordinary morning on an ordinary day. Which it can never be!

  I hope — no, I already feel sure — that Kimiko is as highly-charged and eager for a night of sex as I am.

  9

  A VERY PRIVATE AFFAIR

  The last day of Ma
rch was wet and chilly. A large limousine crossed the river by the Nihonbashi Bridge, and made its way along the canal road. It passed the crowds leaving the Mitsukoshi department store without attracting particular attention. While cars were rare during this second year of the war — especially those not powered by charcoal burners, for petrol was rationed and most vehicles were forced by law to use charcoal — this one had a chauffeur at the wheel suggesting it was either a government car, or belonged to someone rich enough to afford the black-market gasoline to run it. It received no more than an envious glance; people were concerned with heading home, making for the nearest bus or underground station in a scurry from the unseasonable weather.

  Alex was engaged in a struggle to progress in the opposite direction, buffeted and jostled like a salmon swimming upstream as he tried to force his way from the department store to the bank where — miracle of miracles — Kimiko would be inside waiting for him. Sleet was still falling from leaden skies, and the pavements were treacherous. It was almost time for the bank to shut, and he had no wish to be late and find her locked outside to wait for him in these wintery conditions. It would not be a favourable start to the intricate arrangements made for their evening.

  This, at last, was his first pay day. Finally he was a salaried member of the bank, and he and Kimiko were spending the night together. He had found a congenial restaurant, and booked a table for two. He had also taken time to carefully check the neighbourhood, and made enquiries at a number of discreet hotels. Were rooms available for several hours, just supposing he was to arrive after dinner with a companion?

  Indeed, he was told, he and his companion would be most welcome! Would he care to pay in advance, and make a reservation?

  No, no, he quickly explained, it was just a query at this stage. But what if they should arrive, check in for an hour or two, and later decide the room was so desirable that they wished to alter their plans and stay until the morning?

  He was assured they would be even more welcome!

  It had been a very stressful week for him. The thought of Kimiko had occupied his mind to the exclusion of anything else. Desire had become intense; he was noticeably preoccupied. Ribot had made it his business to report that the new clerk’s work was slack. Mademoiselle Patou had called Alex to a private meeting, and asked if there was a problem that was causing him concern. Any worries at home? Problems with his family? Any little difficulties at work?

  Alex had said he could not think of any.

  Mademoiselle had quietly suggested he must settle down. Whatever may be troubling him should be put aside. This position at the bank was an important opportunity for him, and added she had decided not to bother the Count with Monsieur Ribot’s report.

  He had thanked her, and promised her the assistant manager would have no cause for further complaint. Gritting his teeth, trying not to think provocative thoughts, he had set about his job with deep determination.

  Until at last it was pay day. And tonight was the night!

  He had worked through the lunch hour, and in return asked for half an hour before the shops closed, in which to buy a gift with his first pay packet. Mademoiselle — he had to keep reminding himself not to think of her as Madame Clermont — said how kind of him to think of a present for his family. How very thoughtful.

  What he bought was a decorative silk scarf for Kimiko. He decided he would wait until after they had finished dinner before presenting it. He had rehearsed the words dozens of times, altered them, then had come to the conclusion that he would not say anything at all, but would just hand it to her and see what happened next. If God was on his side, the scenario that had been constantly in his mind would then follow.

  The crowds were even thicker, and their stampede from the bleak afternoon was impeding his progress. Anxious not to be delayed he manoeuvred his way to the outside of the crowd, nearer the roadway. As he did, the big car splashed past. Slush sprayed him as its tyres encountered a wet pothole in the road. He had no time to step back; he felt the grimy liquid splatter his face, and realised the wrapping paper of the present was now filthy.

  Before he could shout an angry protest, the limousine was out of range. He caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure in the back seat, then saw the car slowly turn at the next corner and pull up. That was when he realised it had stopped at the private side entrance of the French bank.

  The sole passenger was rugged in a warm coat and wore a felt hat. Part of his face was obscured by an influenza mask — a familiar enough sight since the bitterly cold weather had returned after everyone had hoped winter was over. Chill winds, sweeping from South Korea had brought frost and sleet, so a facial mask was a sensible protection against the recurrence of winter and the chance of observation, for it would be most unwise to be seen arriving here.

  He thought it unsafe to make this visit at all; there were surely more discreet ways. But an instruction had been given, and he was a man trained to obey orders. Between the passenger and the chauffeur was a screen of glass, with a speaking tube for communication. The passenger gave a command into it, and the driver left the car and walked to the door of the bank. He rang the bell and, after a moment, it was opened. At the sight of the giant caretaker, the passenger collected an attaché case, raised his mask to cover all but his eyes, and left the warmth of the car. The chauffeur gladly returned to it while the passenger went inside the premises.

  From down the street Alex saw Frankenstein usher in the visitor. Someone had come to the side entrance by special appointment, with an attaché case. It was not his concern, and nor was there any time to waste. He cursed the car that had muddied him and may have ruined the silk scarf inside the wrapping. He hurried around to the front entrance, and thankfully was in time; the bank had not yet shut its main doors although some of the lights had been switched off as a prelude to closure.

  Kimiko appeared engrossed in her work. Then she slyly glanced up at him, and his heart skipped a beat. She had changed while he was out, into a smart new dress. A beautiful dress. But it was the long intense look she gave him that filled him with joy. The whole night ahead had a wonderful feeling of delicious and illicit pleasure about it.

  He glanced at his watch. Another two minutes and they would all be clearing their desks, collecting coats, bidding each other goodnight in the accustomed manner. And he and Kimiko would carefully play their parts in the charade, departing in opposite directions, and meeting only minutes later at a selected spot in the adjoining street. Alex saw Ribot rise and switch off his desk lamp. It was a signal they all knew, and they began to tidy desks and head for the cloakrooms. Kimiko was one of the first; he thought it prudent if he was one of the last.

  It was then that Mademoiselle Patou came and murmured to him that he was required urgently in the Count’s office.

  Alex had never seen so much money. It filled the attaché case. The money was mostly in bundles of 20s, 50s, and even 100-yen notes. The Count did not introduce his visitor, who had divested himself of a heavy coat, his hat, and what appeared to be an influenza mask. The room was partly in shadow, and the man who had been brought here in the limousine sat in a chair away from the light. After one brief glance at him Alex’s attention returned to the startling contents of the attaché case.

  “This is a sum of money which is to be placed on deposit in our strong room,” the Count said. “I have a total verified by the depositor, but the bank requires we check the amount. It’s a highly confidential matter, so I’ll ask you to undertake it, Alex.”

  “When, Monsieur Le Comte?” But he already had a deep foreboding of what the answer would be.

  “Now, of course,” the Count replied. “We have to verify this total while our visitor remains. When we’ve established the amount there will be paperwork for you to type.”

  Oh God, Alex thought, not now. Not tonight of all nights. Already the main bank doors would be shutting, and very soon a puzzled Kimiko would be waiting at their rendezvous. Shortly it would be dark, as well as bitterl
y cold, and she would hardly remain there for long. This was going to take several hours, at least.

  “Is something wrong, Alex?”

  “I had made some arrangements, Monsieur.”

  “In view of the importance of this, I’ll have to ask you to cancel them. Use my telephone if you wish.”

  “Er, no … that won’t be necessary.”

  “You may be very late getting home to Yokohama. Do you want to make a call to your mother?”

  “There’s no need, sir. They’re not expecting me home.”

  The irony of that was bitterly true. He had told his mother that Mr and Mrs Sardaigne, the assistant accountant and his wife, had invited him to dinner and suggested he stay the night. He would therefore take a small suitcase with a change of clothes. Trying to ignore the cynical look on his sister’s face, and to distract her from a comment that might prove awkward, he asked if she had any new ideas about how to feed the goat. The wretched Gracie was still with them, being milked by the cook and living off newspapers. The milk still tasted vile, and although she had been advertised for sale there had been no takers.

  Alex, in expectation, had left his suitcase in a locker at Tokyo station. He would have to collect it when he caught a late train home. What a fiasco. All his brilliant plans in turmoil. The table booked at the friendly restaurant, where he could never go to eat again. And Kimiko in what had been a brand new dress. A trim, smart dress. Plus the expectant look on her face! There was no doubt in his mind that after an intimate dinner they would have gone to the hotel and made love. Several times! Certainly several times. And stayed there to wake together in the dawn light to make love again.

  He remembered a quotation from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. “When sorrows come, they come not single spies. But in battalions.” This was a battalion of sorrows, all right. It was a bloody great army of them. It was a tragic defeat of what was supposed to be the best night of his life until now. A night that had gone horribly wrong.