I wandered into the kitchen. A chef in a white hat and apron was leaning over a large copper pot of soup with a ladle while a member of his team stood waiting for his comments. He spoke in a low voice, the opposite of Yvette’s bellowing shriek. When he saw me, he raised his eyes and nodded before returning to his work. The atmosphere was industrious and efficient, but most notably happy. I glanced up to the pots stacked on top of the cupboards, to the rack where utensils hung along with pots and pans from the ceiling and knew that I could reach them all simply by lifting my hand. Yet, back then I had been Yvette’s “grabber” and my life at the château had changed dramatically when I went from uselessness to sudden importance. I smiled to myself, then left the room.
One thing that had changed was the stable block. Machinery had taken over from horses and plows. The apartment at the top of the stairs was now used as offices; the stables lodged tractors and other equipment. Jacques Reynard’s workshop was still there, but his spirit had gone. I felt a wave of sadness. I realized that in all the years since Coyote’s disappearance I hadn’t let anyone into those places in my heart that Jacques Reynard, Daphne Halifax, and Joy Springtoe had made their own. I left the stable block with a sense of loss.
I ambled about the château, soaking up the memories, touching things, listening to the echo of voices that resonated across the years. But I yearned to talk to someone who had shared it all with me. My mother had gone; Pistou had existed only in my imagination. The Duvals and Yvette had left and, anyway, I had no desire to see them now. Yet, part of me craved revenge. I wanted to slay my demons. The chevalier yearned to draw his sword on all those who had tormented him, to derive pleasure from their pain as if, in some perverse way, their pain would negate his own. So, I set off to town in the hope of finding Père Abel-Louis.
The sun was now high in the sky. I was hungry, although I had eaten with Caroline, croissants and a cup of coffee. It was cold, the heat from the sun weak and ineffective, but I insisted on walking. I put on a coat and hat, thrust my hands into my pockets, and walked down the road, the path that cut through the fields being too wet and muddy. I didn’t have boots. I savored the surroundings, listened to the odd bird that braved the chill, and remembered. It was somehow more pleasant out in the open. The memories were less claustrophobic. The cold was bracing. The views of the fields, the wide horizon, the sense of space, invigorated me. I felt ready to confront my biggest enemy.
The town had changed little in forty years. There were a few new houses on the outskirts, there were cars where there had mostly been horses and carts, and I didn’t recognize anyone. No one at all. I wandered down the road, peered into shop windows and small cafés. I didn’t relish being anonymous; I had got used to that long ago and, besides, I was a different person now, at least on the outside. I was an adult walking through my childhood and everything that had once seemed so large now appeared very small and unimportant.
When I reached the Place de l’Eglise I sat down on the edge of the fountain. There was no water springing out of the mouth of the fish that stood at the foot of the saint; it was frozen like the trees. The square was busy with children, mothers standing chatting in the sunshine, pigeons picking up scraps on the ground. It was hard to imagine that there, in the shadow of the church that still dominated the square, my mother had been stripped, shaved, and humiliated in front of a baying crowd. That I had been held up for all to see like a sacrificial lamb. Of course, we weren’t alone, my mother and I. There had been others, punished in the same way, paraded naked like animals, but I didn’t know them; I only remembered my own horror. But now the place vibrated with life and cheerfulness. Maurilliac had moved on. There was no statue of little Mischa Fontaine, the boy who saw a vision and received a miracle. There were no pilgrims who came in search of a similar experience. It hadn’t been turned into a shrine. No one remembered. Or so I thought.
28
The church of St. Vincent de Paul did not frighten me any more. Having cast a sinister shadow over my childhood, it now radiated serenity, not menace. The statues of the saints did not gaze down on me from their pedestals with condemnation but with contemplation; after all, they were made of stone, not flesh. The sun cast beams of light over the chairs, illuminating the places my mother and I had occupied every Sunday. I sat down, alone in the silent building. I expected to feel God’s presence there, now that Père Abel-Louis had gone, but I did not. If I felt Him at all, it was in the fields, out in the open air, beneath the sky. When I stretched my eyes as far as I could see, I believed I could sense infinity, perceive a higher power, out there in the mists. But not here. Not within these cold walls of stone.
I remained there for a while. I forgot my rumbling stomach. Lost myself in the still quiet of my solitude. But my legs were too long and it wasn’t long before I grew stiff. The seat was uncomfortable, the wood hard, the air stale with the smell of age, like a musty old man. I knew there were bones beneath my feet and was sure that I could smell them The flowers that adorned the altar were pretty enough, but there had been too much unhappiness there. Beneath the serenity vibrated an undertone of all that had passed. History could not be erased. I stood up and walked back down the aisle. Père Abel-Louis had chased God out of his own house, and God had never returned.
I ate at a restaurant that gave onto the square. The locals were used to tourists and although they looked me over with the wary eyes of people who had never ventured further than their own town, they left me alone to eat in peace. The food was good. I had eaten in this spot with Coyote but that old bistro had long gone; in its place was this fancy restaurant serving foie gras and champagne. I was just tucking into dessert when my attention was diverted to the door where a couple were leaving. I only saw her profile. One moment she was there at the entrance, the next she was out in the square; but she was unmistakable: Claudine. I froze and stared out of the window, hoping she’d turn around so that I could see her better. So that I could be sure. Her hair was shorter, shoulder length, and she hunched a little in her heavy coat. But I recognized the nose, the short upper lip, the mouth. She was no longer toothy but I knew it was she. There was nothing I could do; by the time I had got to the door, she had gone.
I drank my coffee with renewed energy. The blood shot through my veins and my heart quickened. I suddenly felt hot. I took off my sweater and loosened the collar of my shirt. Claudine was still in Maurilliac. I knew I could track her down. It wasn’t hard. Maurilliac was a small place. I’d wait until Sunday and find her at Mass. She had never missed Mass as a child. Like me she had been dragged there every Sunday morning. We had shared a hatred of le curéton. We had laughed about him on the bridge. I longed to discuss the past with her. She was one of the few people who had understood me. She had taken the time, like Coyote and Jacques Reynard.
As I paid the bill I asked for Père Abel-Louis’ address. The waiter was suspicious and asked why I should want it. “I’m an old friend,” I replied. He hesitated a moment before giving it to me.
“I should warn you, he’s very ill,” he said. He narrowed his eyes. “He doesn’t like visitors.”
“Oh, I think he’ll like me,” I said with a smile. The waiter shrugged and reluctantly gave me the details. I tipped him a little extra and walked out into the square.
Père Abel-Louis’ front door was unremarkable, as if the plainness was designed to assure he receded into obscurity. It wasn’t the showy residence of a retired priest, the most important man in town. I stood there a moment, collecting myself. I did not know what I was going to say to him. I just knew that I wanted to see him, the more old and decrepit the better. I lifted my hand and knocked. When no one answered, I knocked again. I heard a rustle from within, then the metal clink of keys and bolts. It sounded like a jail. I wondered why he locked his doors like that. I wondered from whom he was hiding.
A withered old man looked at me suspiciously. I recognized him immediately. His hair was thinner, whiter, his scalp crimson beneath it. His face was gray
and gaunt, his cheeks sunken, his lips little more than a thin scowl. But his eyes were the same unfeeling balls of glass that had once burned holes in my resistance. He ran a dry tongue over his lips and stared up at me blankly. It was clear that he did not recognize me. “Père Abel-Louis,” I said, and he grunted.
“Who are you?”
“Mischa Fontaine,” I replied. His tongue darted back into his mouth and he blinked.
“I know no one of that name,” he said quickly, attempting to close the door. I stuck my foot inside.
“I think you do.”
“I am ill.”
“And I have come to visit you,” I said, pushing open the door. He was frail; I didn’t even have to draw my sword.
“I don’t wish to see anyone. Who gave you my address? Why didn’t you telephone first? Have you no manners?”
I forced my way inside and closed the door behind me. He hobbled up the corridor, leaning heavily on a stick. He had been so tall, but now I towered above him. I noticed he was trembling. Hadn’t he known that little boys grow up to be men?
He sank into an armchair. The room was dim, the shutters closed to allow only a little light to penetrate. The air was stale. It stank of incontinence and death. I pulled the cord so that the shutters opened further. He winced as the sun tumbled into the room, placing a hand in front of his face with a yelp.
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to see you, Père Abel-Louis. I wanted revenge for making my life miserable. But I see that you are dying.”
“I am old and weak. Leave me to die in peace.” I could almost hear the rattling of his bones, but I felt no compassion, just hatred.
“But you are a man of God, are you not?” His lips trembled and he turned his face away. “How do you think God will judge you?”
“God performed a miracle in my church.”
“That had nothing to do with you, Père Abel-Louis, and you know it. But you made it your own, didn’t you?”
“I forgave you, what more do you want?”
“Forgiveness?” I scoffed. “You forgave me?” My laughter terrified him. His eyes flickered like those of an animal caught in a trap and his mouth twitched. A light, white foam began to collect at the corners of his lips and his breathing grew labored. “You let them punish my mother and you let them torture me. As a man of God, how do you explain that?”
When he looked at me his eyes were no longer glassy, but bloodshot and frenzied. “You prey on a weak and feeble man who cannot defend himself?”
“You preyed on a little boy too small to defend himself.”
“It is all in the past.”
“You think it remains there for me?”
“I only did what I thought was right!”
“How many innocent people died because you turned a blind eye? Tell me that, Père Abel-Louis. How many retributions took place in the shadow of your church?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I realized that I had touched a nerve, although I didn’t know why.
He sat there, a trembling skeleton of a man. “May the devil take your soul,” I said quietly. “Because you promised it to him, didn’t you, Père Abel-Louis?”
“May God forgive me,” he said suddenly, the terror burning in his eyes, turning his face red. “Forgive me, Mischa.” He closed his eyes and grew very still. The room suddenly grew hot. The air was sucked out of it, as if the walls were closing in around me. I took off my coat and sat down on the sofa. The house hadn’t been cleaned; he was living in squalor. “I regret the past,” he said, his voice a whisper. “I have hidden from it for most of my life. Bolted the door, barely ventured out. I welcome death because I cannot live with myself and the things I have done.”
“There is still time to wipe the slate clean. Doesn’t Jesus welcome the sinner who repents?”
His eyes welled with tears. “But I’ve done unspeakable things, Mischa. In pursuit of worldly goods. Now I face death I realize they mean nothing. I will meet God naked and alone. I have nothing. Nothing. You cannot understand. You were only a boy.”
“I am a man now and I do understand.”
“No, you don’t. But let me tell you. Then I want you to leave and I don’t want to see you again. I knew one day it would all catch up with me. Now it has, I do not fear it.”
“I promise,” I said. My heart began to pound and my hands grew sweaty. Unlike Père Abel-Louis, I was afraid of the past, afraid of what he was about to tell me.
“When the Germans came I was left no choice but to welcome them. We didn’t know how long they would stay, whether the Allies would defeat them. I believed the Germans were here for good; I backed the wrong horse. They were pleasant enough. They treated us with respect. No one was hurt. They simply marched in and took over the château. Your mother was working there for the Rosenfelds. When they left, she stayed on with Jacques Reynard to look after the place. She thought the family would return at the end of the war. The Germans were a shrewd lot. They knew the key to peace rested with me. I was the keeper of the flock. If they had me on their side, the rest of the community would follow. So, they invited me for dinner. They attended Mass. They were generous. Times were hard for the French, but they made sure that my life was easy. Your mother fell in love the moment she saw your father. It was plain to see. But they kept it secret. Only I knew, because I saw it with my own eyes. Then you were conceived and your father asked me to marry them. They didn’t want you to be illegitimate. I conducted the service in the little chapel at the château. There you lived like any normal family and no one argued. Your father was a powerful man. I was fond of your mother. She had great charm and wit and, of course, a rare beauty.” He paused a moment while he cleared the phlegm in his throat. He requested a glass of water. I found the kitchen at the back and filled a glass from the tap.
“You see, Anouk and I were friends. It is impossible for you to imagine.”
“What went wrong?” I asked.
“The Allies came and the Germans left. Your mother knew too much.”
“So you punished her?”
“I betrayed her. I told the people that she had married Dieter Schulz and that her child was a Boche baby, the devil’s spawn.”
I felt a sharp pain at the sound of my father’s name.
“And you let them do that to her?”
“I stood by and let them punish her.”
“And me? I was three years old.”
“You were a baby.” He heaved a long-drawn-out sigh. The air rattled down his windpipe. He coughed again to clear it. “I did it to save myself. I hoped she’d leave. But she stayed to torment me. She knew the deals I had done with the Germans, she knew the people I had betrayed. She knew my hands were tainted with the blood of the innocent, but she didn’t speak out.”
“Why not?”
“Because no one would believe her. I was a man of God. Who would believe a fallen woman over a man of God?”
I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees and rubbed my forehead. So Père Abel-Louis had sacrificed me and my mother in order to save his own skin. Now I knew why my mother had insisted on going to Mass every Sunday: her presence reminded him of his sins, and she knew those sins would torment him. She refused to leave; she wouldn’t let him beat her. I was surprised she had never told me. Not even when she was older, when the past was just a memory. But she never spoke about the war, my father, Père Abel-Louis. Perhaps that was the poison that fed the cancer that finally killed her. If only she had shared it all with me, she might have saved herself.
“I lost my voice, Père Abel-Louis. We were outcasts.”
“I had no choice,” he hissed, averting his eyes so he didn’t have to look into mine.
“You could have talked to my mother. Surely, if you had been such friends, you could have kept the secrets together.”
“Anouk wasn’t that sort of woman. She was defiant, willful…”
“But she loved the Germans.”
“No!” His vo
ice was now a growl. “She loved a German, your father. She loved France and its people. The moment the Allies arrived she celebrated with the rest of them. I knew it was only a matter of time before she betrayed me. I had to look after myself. Maurilliac needed a Father, I couldn’t let them down.”
“You were not worthy to serve them.”
“They needed direction.”
“You showed them the way of hatred and vengeance.”
“I was confused. I was afraid. You cannot understand.” I knew instinctively there was something he wasn’t telling me. His eyes swam around the room, anywhere but into mine. His evasiveness was chilling.
“Then help me to understand so that I can forgive you.” Once more he closed his eyes. His face blanched and seemed to shrink into itself. His white hands lay in his lap. They did not move. He sat hunched and defenseless as if death had already come and was slowly swallowing him up. I knew that he was not going to tell me any more.
I left as I had promised. I had no intention of returning to that airless room. It wouldn’t be long before he joined those he had betrayed and faced their judgment. I wanted so much to believe in Heaven and God, just so that justice would be done. I leaned against the wall and gulped in lungfuls of fresh, cold air. It burned my windpipe but it felt good.
As I walked back up the road, I longed to share my experiences with someone. I wanted to find Jacques Reynard but feared he was dead. I couldn’t take such news today, after confronting Père Abel-Louis. As long as I didn’t know, there was hope that he still lived and that I would find him in Maurilliac. I couldn’t bear the idea that the evil priest was all that remained of my past. I now doubted my own eyes. I resigned myself to the fact that the woman I had believed to have been Claudine was probably someone who just looked like her. It was wishful thinking, nothing more. I hunched my shoulders and slipped my hand through my coat, into my trouser pocket. I pulled out the little rubber ball my father had given me and rolled it around in my palm. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come. I was only digging up painful memories. Père Abel-Louis had cleared his conscience, but what about me? His revelations hadn’t changed anything, only the way I saw my mother. But what was the use? She was dead.
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