Cold Winter in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  Did it matter who had killed Gabrielle Peniel when all France was a prison, a torture chamber opening on to the morgue?

  And that foolish boy, Michel, eager to join in the madness!

  His steps had brought him to the Place Gambetta. The terrace of the Café Régent was full of German soldiers. Some of them would be victims too, homesick boys, caught up in the Hell their Führer had unleashed on the world. He found he couldn’t enter the café. His hands were trembling as he lit a cigarette, the flame dancing in the cold still air. There was nothing he wanted to do, nobody he could bear to speak to – except Alain, and that was impossible. All his life he had tried to do his duty, and now it seemed futile. Why not go back to Yvette, and say he was wrong, had returned for the comfort she offered, also – though it would have been unkind to say this – for the illusion of life which she would provide.

  But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

  And yet there was nothing he could bring himself to do. He had never felt so low, so empty, so worthless.

  A hand fell on his shoulder.

  ‘Superintendent, well met.’

  He turned to see Sigi, a broad smile on his face. He was wearing a double-breasted camel-coloured overcoat and highly polished tan shoes. His head was bare and he looked disagreeably prosperous and at ease with the world.

  ‘You’ve been naughty, superintendent,’ he said, ‘but since you’re one of the family, I forgive you.’

  ‘Stop this nonsense.’ Lannes said. ‘The old count wasn’t my father.’

  ‘Oh but he was, I assure you.’

  Lannes had been briefly disturbed the previous year when Sigi, who might himself have been one of the old count’s bastards – and the product of incest at that – rather than only his illegitimate grandson as he was supposed to be, had tried to persuade him that the count had seduced his mother when she was a maid in his household. But he had rejected the idea. His father was his father and his mother had been virtuous. In any case he had no reason to believe that she had ever been a servant in the rue d’Aviau.

  ‘Come,’ Sigi said, ‘we’ll have lunch,’ and turned into the Café Régent, waving to a couple of German officers sitting on the terrace. Lannes was interested to note that they acknowledged the greeting, and followed him. Why not? He had known he was going to have to speak to the man, though he had never felt less like doing so.

  Sigi ordered champagne.

  ‘Not for me,’ Lannes said. ‘Please bring me a demi, Georges.’

  ‘You do make me laugh, superintendent,’ Sigi said. ‘It’s pathetic. And I find you have been bothering poor Jean-Christophe again. You must know that the poor sot can tell you nothing about anything. What will you eat?’

  ‘A sandwich,’ Lannes said. ‘A cheese sandwich. And I’ll pay for it myself, and for the beer.’

  ‘I do believe you’re angry with me, superintendent.’

  It was all Lannes could do to refrain from answering his mockery by saying that he loathed and despised him. He remembered seeing an English film, Rebecca, the year before the war. The sneering actor who had played the cousin of the dead woman – he couldn’t recall his name – had looked very like Sigi: self-satisfied, malicious and, ultimately, stupid. He would have liked to punch him in the face, but like Daladier and the English Prime Minister with the umbrella at Munich, he was – for the moment anyway – committed to appeasement.

  ‘Angry?’ he said. ‘No, I wouldn’t say that. There’s a lot between us, as you know, too much, and I’ve no reason to like you. Or you me of course. We’re on different sides of the fence. You have your beliefs and I have mine. If I was angry with everyone who thought differently from me, it would be absurd, wouldn’t it? Far from being angry, I’m going to appeal to your better nature.’

  ‘You think I have one? That’s a surprise, especially as I know you still believe old Marthe when she tells you I killed the old count, our father.’

  ‘Your father, perhaps,’ Lannes said. ‘Not mine. And even if you did, it’s not something I could ever prove. He fell downstairs, hit his head and died. Nobody saw anyone push him. An accident. That’s how it was, isn’t it?’

  ‘Old Marthe suffers from delusions, as I’ve told you before. She used to adore me when I ran about her kitchen as a child, and now she hates me. You can’t believe a word she says.’

  ‘In any case,’ Lannes said, ‘it’s a different matter I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘No, you’re not. But you might be curious.’

  Old Georges brought them their order.

  ‘It’s usually only the Boches who call for champagne these days,’ he said. ‘You’re lucky we’re not out of it.’

  Lannes pushed his sandwich aside. He had no appetite.

  ‘I’m going to appeal to your better nature,’ he said again.

  And again Sigi smiled, showing his teeth, as he said, ‘Do I have one?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Almost everyone has. Buried somewhere. Even Hitler perhaps. I’m told he loves his dog.’

  Lannes hesitated. The café was all but empty. Perhaps people were put off by the sight of all these Germans braving the cold on the terrace.

  ‘I spoke to young Michel the other day,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he told you what I said.’

  Sigi lifted his glass.

  ‘Your health, superintendent. Your very good health. Of course he recounted your nonsense. The boy tells me everything.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And … nothing.’

  ‘My daughter loves him. She’s afraid for him.’

  ‘It’s the way things are, superintendent. Men are warriors and the women weep when we march off to battle.’

  The man’s calm was infuriating. He’s enjoying this, Lannes thought.

  ‘This plan,’ he said. ‘This intention to join this French legion, I know you’ve put it up to him, that it’s your idea. It’s crazy. You’ve backed the wrong side, Sigi. Germany will lose the war, it’s losing it already. The boy will be killed, or, if he survives, disgraced and punished after the war. Is that what you want?’

  Sigi continued to smile.

  ‘Look outside, superintendent. The Germans are still here, and they’re going to be here for a long time to come. There’s a war against Bolshevism – a crusade, if you like, and young Michel is eager to be part of it. True, I admit, Germany has suffered setbacks in the East. All the more reason for idealistic young Frenchmen to join the struggle.’

  ‘And will you do so yourself ?’

  ‘I have other duties.’

  The man’s complacency was exasperating. Lannes wondered if he was indeed entirely detached from reality.

  ‘And what are these duties?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. They’re confidential.’

  Lannes had a dossier on him. It detailed his criminal past. He knew he had protectors, chief among them Edmond de Grimaud who was perhaps his half-brother, certainly his uncle. He had himself reason to be grateful to Edmond who had saved his career by putting pressure on the advocate Labiche when he threatened to destroy it, and in return he had compromised himself by closing down the investigation into poor Gaston’s murder for which he had no doubt Sigi was responsible. He still felt soiled when he thought of it. And now came this boast of protection. He didn’t question it. Sigi moved in the shadows where ordinary criminality rubbed shoulders with the secret world which itself was inextricably woven into the world of politics.

  ‘That’s irrelevant,’ he said. ‘We’re talking about a boy – what is he, nineteen or twenty? – whose head you have filled with foolish ideas which one way or another will destroy him. I’m asking you – begging you – to cut him loose.’

  ‘And if I don’t … ?’

  ‘If you don’t … ’

  ‘Are you threatening me, superintendent, brother? As you threatened a friend of mine whom you ordered to leave Bordeaux, but who is nevertheless still here? Yes, that surp
rises you, doesn’t it? It shouldn’t. I told you I have protection. You don’t understand, do you? It’s you, not me, who is in a precarious position. If I were to repeat what you have said about the outcome of the war, where would you be? The tables have turned, brother. Now it’s I who could have you locked up. But of course I won’t. I have family feelings for you, as does our brother Edmond. But leave young Michel alone, or there will be nasty questions asked about your son Alain who is no longer in Bordeaux. But where is he? And who arranged his departure from the city and perhaps from France? Think of that.’

  Sigi leant back in his chair, swinging it on to its hind legs, and smiling.

  ‘You’re in check, brother. It may even be checkmate. As for Michel, he is mine. I have trained him, moulded him, prepared him for the heroic role he must play.’

  It was ridiculous. The man was mad, intoxicated with the part he had written for himself, and that brave foolish boy, with his charming smile and the good manners which delighted Marguerite, was to be his first victim; his beloved Clothilde the second one. Lannes had humiliated himself in vain. He had failed his daughter.

  He got up, put some money on the table and walked away. Laughter from a table of German officers followed him into the square.

  XXXIII

  There was no restaurant car on the train, and when they had to change at Brive, Dominique and Maurice went to the buffet in search of food. They had talked very little on the first part of the journey, and not only because the compartment was crowded as was always the case now. They got a sandwich and a lemonade each and settled themselves at a table in the corner of the café.

  ‘You look unhappy,’ Maurice said.

  ‘Yes, I think I am. At any rate, if not unhappy, I’m worried and anxious. And I didn’t sleep at all well last night.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Going to see your godfather and Miriam, well it disturbed me. It made me wonder if … ’

  ‘If what?’

  ‘I don’t need to spell it out, do I, Dom? She’s my grandmother, well, my step-grandmother really, the Comtesse de Grimaud, who has always been understanding and kind to me, and there she is living in hiding.’

  ‘Because she’s a Jew,’ Maurice said.

  ‘I was ashamed when, just before we left – I haven’t told you this, have I? – she took me aside and said, “You won’t tell your father that you’ve seen me, where I am.” It’s not right, I thought.’

  ‘No, it’s not right. But you won’t say anything to your father, will you?’

  ‘No, I won’t. And that’s not right either. This sandwich is horrible.’

  ‘Mine’s not so bad. I told you you should have gone for a cheese one.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry anyway. I really like your father, Dom, but all the time we were there, he seemed so unhappy. As unhappy indeed as you look now. I got the impression he thinks we shouldn’t be in Vichy. Perhaps we shouldn’t, I don’t know, and yet the work we are doing there is good. Surely it’s good?’

  ‘You know it is. We both know it is. As for Father, poor man, he’s chained to a duty he no longer believes in. At least that’s how it seems to me. There’s our train coming in.’

  They hadn’t spoken of Clothilde, though she was on the minds of both.

  * * *

  They were shooting pheasants. Jérôme was surprised. It seemed strange to be doing this in wartime. Sir Edwin had apologised.

  ‘It’s not a real shoot, you know. Just a rough one, walking up on the birds. You can’t get beaters now, you see.’

  Jérôme had refused the offer of a gun, saying he wouldn’t know how, and been surprised to see that Max had one.

  ‘I love playing the English gentleman, ducky,’ Max said. ‘And actually I’m not bad with a gun. I once shot a coyote in Mexico.’

  So Jérôme walked beside him, smelling the wet leaves and thinking how remote the war was. There was no wind and a mist rose from the river and hung over the edges of the stubble fields they crossed. There were very few birds.

  ‘Damned poachers,’ Sir Edwin said.

  Jérôme wrote letters in his head. Darling Maman, you would be delighted if you knew where I am, safe in England and spending a few days in the sort of house that features in the novels you like to read. My host is a Member of Parliament. Henry James used to stay here sometimes and Turgenev once paid a visit. In the salon there’s a lovely Corot of cattle standing in a stream under willow trees. The war seems very far away … Léon darling, how I wish I knew where you are and how I wish you were with me now. I have been in no danger from Sir Pringle, as you call him – it should really be Sir Edwin, you know – because the American boy Max is here. It’s silly to speak to you of such matters when you are in danger every day. But of course you’ll never get this letter, it won’t even be written. It’s terrible to be here in comfort and even more terrible that I am so relieved that my courage hasn’t been tested and I’ve not been proved a coward. Unless it’s cowardly to be happy that I am not in danger, not even in much danger, I suppose, even if the Germans start bombing London again, which Sir Edwin says they’re no longer capable of doing in any force … Dear Alain, but here he could find no words. He was inferior to Alain and Alain knew it. Of course he was inferior to Léon too, even more inferior perhaps, because Léon being a Jew was in even greater danger than Alain, but Léon never made him feel inferior because he had chosen him to confide in and he knew all the worst that Léon had undergone … Dear Michel, I know you have no time for me, but I can’t stop thinking about you. There was a moment once when our bare arms brushed against each other, and another on the beach when you asked me to oil your back and even as I did so I knew that the pleasure we both derived was different, yet for both of us perverse. Of course I know I’ll never do more than that and most probably never touch you again, perhaps never see you, except in my dreams or the minutes before I go to sleep.

  There was a shot.

  ‘That’s my baby,’ Max said, and a large white spaniel lumbered off to retrieve the bird.

  * * *

  Alain rolled over in bed, stretched his hand out and felt no one there.

  He sat up, wary, listening. The morning light was grey-yellow, fog hanging heavy over Lyon. There was silence in the apartment. The girl might have gone out. To do what? Silence was frightening. You imagine things in the silence – the boots on the staircase, the breaking open of the door, the gun in your face. He reached out for his trousers, and began to dress. Of course the girl wouldn’t have gone out – he hadn’t paid her anything last night, had he? – and she wouldn’t leave him alone in the apartment in case he scarpered, unless of course she had set off to betray him. But what reason might she have to think there was anything to betray? Where was his wallet? He searched his pockets, no sign of it, remembered he had put it under the pillow. Yes, still there, thank God, and no, he couldn’t have paid her. Had they agreed on a figure?

  She came back. She was wearing only a slip which revealed most of her fat thighs, and was carrying a tray with two bowls of milky coffee.

  ‘That’s quick,’ she said, seeing him already half-dressed in shirt and trousers, though his feet were still bare. ‘You were sound asleep when I got up.’

  She put her arm round him and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘I’ve got an appointment,’ he said. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘No idea. I never know the time. Drink your coffee, such as it is. It’s still early, must be, look at the light.’

  ‘It was dark all day yesterday, never light at all.’

  ‘So it was. Where are you from? You’re not Lyonnais, I can tell.’

  ‘Toulouse,’ he said. ‘The rose-pink city. I’m Toulousain.’

  ‘Are you now?’

  The coffee was very weak.

  ‘Sorry I’m out of sugar,’ she said.

  She lay down on the bed, her head propped against the pillows.

  ‘You were all right, last night. For a novice.’

 
‘What makes you think I’m that?’

  ‘A girl can tell. It was your first time, wasn’t it?’

  He felt himself blushing, remembering Miriam and how she had spoken these same words to him.

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Liar. Not that I care.’

  He straightened his tie.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing. You don’t owe me nothing. I’m not a tart, though I could tell from the first you thought I was. I picked you up because I liked the look of you. I sometimes do that, with boys. You here long?’

  ‘Just passing through,’ he said.

  ‘After your appointment?’

  ‘Yes, after it.’

  ‘Then back to Toulouse?’

  ‘Yes. Back to Toulouse.’

  ‘Pity, we could have had some fun. That’s how it goes. Give me a kiss.’

  When he leant over the bed she held him tight and pressed her lips hard against his.

  ‘I don’t know your name,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know yours.’

  ‘That’s how it goes,’ she said again. ‘Watch out for the Boches. They’re everywhere now. It’s not like it was when this was still the Free Zone. Take care, beautiful. You’re up to something, I can tell. I don’t know what it is and I don’t want to know, but take care. If you run into trouble, remember this address. It’s quite safe since we don’t have concierges here in Lyon, in case you haven’t noticed. My name’s Anne, by the way. What’s yours?’

  ‘You can call me Richard,’ Alain said.

  ‘Richard? Nice name. Why not?’