Secret Journal of
Dr. Jules Lebrun
Chateau Retour. 1947.
CHATEAU RETOUR PLANTATION,TOURAINE PROVINCEAPRIL, 1947
It was sunset when the vehicles reached the boundaries of the plantation. They had been driving along the north bank of the Loire, on the road that ran along the embankment of the levee. Tiredness dragged at Marya like water, a band of weariness over the brow weighting her head, and still the scene brought her out of herself.
The river lay to their left as they drove westward past ruined Tours, broad and slow and blue, long islets of yellow sand like teardrops of gold starred with the green of osier willow. It was mild, with the gentle humid freshness of spring in the Val of Touraine; the sun was on the western horizon, throwing the long shadows of cypress and poplar towards them, flickering bars of black against the crushed white limestone of the road. Clouds drifted like cotton-puffs in a sky turning dark royal blue above, shading to day-color and the flaming magenta shade of bougainvillea on the horizon. Down the bank to the river was long grass, intensely green, broken by clumps of lilac in white and purple; on the narrow strip of marshy ground along the base of the embankment were willow trees leaning their long trailing branches into the slow-moving water, over carpets of yellow flag iris.
I am so tired and so afraid, Marya thought, sliding the window down and breathing in. Forty kilometers an hour, and streamers of hair the color of birchwood flicked out from under her kerchief. But this minute is the gift of God; He is here, so here home is. The fleeting scent of the lilacs, a delicate sweetness, the heavier scent of a flowering chestnut tree. Country smells, warmer and more spicy than her native Malopolska. She smiled and sighed, ceasing to fight the weariness. How had Homer put it, in the mouths of those fierce bronze-sworded Achaean warriors, so long ago? It is well to yield unto the night.
Chantal raised her head from her hands, breaking the silence that had kept her crouched and swaying with the motion of the vehicle for hours past.
"Are you so happy, then, nun?" she asked. Black circles lay under her eyes, like bruises. She should be hungry, sleepy, but there was only a scratchiness beneath her eyelids and a sour feeling in her gut that left a bitter taste at the back of the mouth. This was her first time so far from Lyon, if you did not count one train-trip to Paris before the War, when she had marched in a Party youth-group delegation for May Day.
The Pole smiled at her. "For a moment, Chantal, for a moment. Life is a distance-race, not a sprint. Tomorrow I may be in terror, or in pain, so now I take a minute of joy to strengthen myself." A chuckle. "Or as the kitchen-sister used to say when I was a novice, you only need to wash one dish at a time." Grimly: "God made the world, we humans make its horrors. Let me enjoy a moment where our handiwork has not marred His."
The communist snorted and turned sideways in her seat, looking out her window. Humility, she thought. The opiate of the people.
Although there would be few people here, few of her sort. The fields were turning dark, and there was a deafening chorus of field-crickets, nowhere a light or sign of man. She shuddered; this was the country, and she a child of streets and buildings. Empty, the home of the brutal rurals, the quadrupeds, as the Party men called peasants. Unfamiliar noises echoed; birds, she supposed, and shivered again at the thought of woods and animals and emptiness with no sustenance or hiding place. Insects crawling through everything, dirt, shit from animals lying about. Pigs and cows and horses, sly-faced farmers and beaten beast-of-burden women; all that and the Draka too.
She shivered and hugged her shoulders. I can face death, she thought. It was dying that was the problem, the way of it.
Marya turned back to the window and sighed again. Anger so fierce was like vodka; one glass at the right time could give you the strength of a bear, too much or too often and it ate you out from the inside. Anger demanded a direction, an expression; if you could not turn it on the ones who aroused it, your mind turned it on yourself, turned hatred to self-hatred and self-contempt. Such is the nature of fallen man, she thought. Also, anger and hatred gave an enemy too much grip on you. The emotions locked you to them, and in hatred as in love one took on the lineaments of the mind's focus; only God and His creation, and mankind in general, were safe targets for such feelings. Pity was safer, charity, the unconquerable Christian meekness off which an oppressor's physical strength slid like claws from glass.
Your way is hard. Lord…
They turned left and north off the main road, between two tall pillars of new fitted stone, with a chain slung between them at three times head-height. She read:
Chateau Retour Plantation
est. 1945
Edward and Tanya von Shrakenberg, Landholders
Beyond were the remains of a small village, an old Loire river-port of white tufa-stone cottages and shops. It was being… not destroyed, disassembled; she could see piles of salvaged windows, doors, piles of stone block chipped clean of mortar, flat farm-wagons piled with black Angers roof-slates. A few workers were about, stacking tools and clearing up for the next day's labor; they paused and bowed as the cars passed. Marya looked a question at Yasmin.
"Port-Boulet," she said drowsily, straightening up and rubbing her face with a handkerchief dipped in icewater from a thermos-flask. "Ahhh, tha's bertah. Port-Boulet; we knockin' it down to build the Quartahs." Seeing the look of puzzlement, she continued: "The fieldhands' quarters, the village, the mastahs doan' like folks livin' scattered about, wants 'em all near the Great House. And fo' buildin's, smithy and barn and infirmary and suchlike. Even puttin' up a church, bringin' it piece by piece from over't' Chouze-sur-Loire, a bit west of hereabouts."
The nun nodded. It made sense; a pattern of great estates worked from a common center made for concentrated settlement, just as small single-family holdings often meant scattered farmsteads.
"We's not long to home, now," Yasmin said, looking over to her father where he slept stretched out with his rifle by his side and his greying head on a folded coat. "Poppa," she called softly, nudging him cautiously in the foot. "Poppa, almost there. Ten minutes."
He stirred, touched the weapon, then levered himself up, yawning hugely. "Ahh, gutgenuk," he said; the nun filed it away, another of the dialect-words that sprinkled his English. That one sounded Dutch or German. "Nice't' be backs under m'own roof."
Home, Marya thought, and fought a new shiver of apprehension. A stopping-place at least.
She forced her eyes back to the darkening fields outside; they were driving north now, away from the river and into the flat alluvial vienne of Bourgueil. There was a line of low hills ahead, five or six kilometers, visible in glimpses between the lines and clumps of trees that cut the horizon. Already those were shapes whose upper branches caught blackly at the light of the three-quarters moon. The open ground was still touched lightly with the last pinkish light; a big field of winter wheat to their left, bluish-green and already calf-high. Her countrywoman's eye found it reassuring; flourishing, this was a fat earth. Potatoes to the right, neat rows well-hoed, about twenty acres. Marya could see the marks of recent field-boundaries within the standing crops, lines and dimples brought out by the long shadows of evening.
Smaller fields thrown together, she thought. Then they turned west, onto a narrower lane bordered on both sides by oaks, huge and ancient. Into a belt of orchard; the convoy switched on its headlights, bringing textures springing out in the narrow cones of blue-white light. Swirling horizontal columns of ground-fog rising with the night, rough-mottled oak bark and huge gnarled roots, trefoil leaves above their heads underlit to a flickering glow. The apricot trees beyond with their pruned circular tops, bands of whitewash on their trunks, a starring of blossom and a sudden intoxicating rush of scent. Then through darkened gardens to a gravel way before the looming gables of… not a house, not a castle, really.
A chateau; Marya had a confused view of towers round and square, patterned in alternate blocks of white limestone and dull-red brick, before the
vehicles swung over a gravel drive that crunched and popped beneath the tires. They halted in a glare of floodlights before the main doors, and the silence rang in ears accustomed to wind-rush. The door of the car opened and she stumbled out onto the drive, staggered slightly with bone-heavy weariness and the stiffness of a body confined far too long. People were bustling about, servants in dark trousers or skirts and white shirts, lifting parcels and bundles with shouts and scurrying. The coffle was unshackled from the flatbed truck and led away; the vehicle followed, driven down the lane to some garage or storage area.
The nun blinked again beside Chantal, trying to flog her mind into alertness. Stretcher-parties were taking Issac and the lightly wounded serfs from the truck. Beside her Tom was stripping the magazine from his rifle, handing weapon and bandolier to another servant; that one joined four more staggering under the dismounted twin-barrel from the front car, all shepherded off by the overseers. To an armory, she supposed, although the ex-Janissary kept the fighting-knife in his boot, and two steel-tipped sticks rested in his gear-bag. The cars reversed and moved away as the crowd melted into the house with their burdens..
A woman shouldered her way toward them against the movement, waving and calling with a wide smile.
" 'Allo! 'Allo, Tom!" A Frenchwoman in a good plain dark dress, with a baby on her arm and a boy of four or so walking by her side. The child sprinted ahead and leapt at Tom, was caught in the thick arms, swept up laughing and seated on a shoulder. Towhaired, but the six-months babe in the woman's arms was as dark as Yasmin; the Frenchwoman was in her thirties, well-preserved with a robust village look about her, big-breasted and deep-hipped. She embraced Yasmin's father with her free arm, was kissed with surprising gentleness.
" 'Allo, Yasmin," she said, as the younger girl took the baby, who was looking out from a cocoon of blanket with wide dark eyes and a dubious expression.
"How y'all, Annette?" Yasmin replied, cooing and blowing at the infant, who replied with a broad toothless smile, waving pudgy fists and drooling. "And how my little sister? Eh? Eh?"
"I am well," Annette replied in slow, careful English. "Justin is well; little Fleurette is well." She stepped back from Tom and glared.
"I am happy also to see that my husband is well. After an affaire of shootings, such as he promised me was behind him; at his age one expects a man to act with some sense, non? But of a certainty, no: they are all little boys who must play with their toys, n'est pas? One man already I have lost with this soldiers nonsense." She crossed her arms on her broad bosom. "Do I ask too much that the second refrain? Or perhaps consorting with all the courtesans of Paris and Lyon has restored his youth?"
Tom grinned, reached up to tug on the boy Justin's hair and hand up a rock-candy, then spread his hands in a placating gesture.
"Sweetlin", it weren't nohows my doin'." He fished in his pocket, came out with a velvet case. "An" Paris, that where I gits this fo' yo'."
"Hmmmp." She opened it; pearl eardrops. "Hmm-mmp." A sigh. "Ah, well, d'accord, there is perhaps a ragout waiting on the stove." She turned to Yasmin, took in the two new house-servants with an incline of her head.
"You will join us, daughter?"
Yasmin shook her head, handed the baby back to its mother with unconscious reluctance. "Thanks kindly, but I's got things to do; settle Marya and Chantal here down, 'n Mistis may need me. Mebbeso tomorrow 'round lunchtime?" A grin. " 'Sides, ain't nice to separate man 'n wife after they's been apart two weeks."
'Sho "nuff," Tom laughed, and swung a hand that landed on Annette's buttocks with a sharp crack. She jumped, squealed, and dug a sharp elbow into his ribs.
"For that, my old, perhaps you sleep on the floor and learn manners." To Marya and Chantal, in French:
"Mesdames, you will be weary from your journey. Another time we will speak: we have a cottage not far from the manoir, you must visit, I will introduce you to others of us." A smile. "You will find us all very much en famille here on Chateau Retour, it is needful."
Yasmin watched as the four moved off, the adults with their arms about each other's waists, boy seated astride Tom's neck. A fond look touched her eyes.
"Annette good fo' Poppa," she said. "After Momma die, he get old faster than needs." Shrewdly: "Good fo' her, too. Her man die in the War, an' there widows aplenty: three wenches for every buck. Annette she, hhmmmm, kinda practical 'bout things, like yo' French mostly is; do y'all good to listen to her, she talk sense. Set her cap for Poppa, land him a year ago, get things fixed up regular with a preacher an' all." A sigh. "Pretty weddin': Mistis Tanya set store by Poppa. Well, time's a-wastin'."
She put a hand under their elbows and moved them off toward the steps; Marya felt blank, as if her mind was storing information at a rate beyond her exhaustion's capacity to sort it. The family of the master and mistress were still grouped by the doors; the three serf women halted just in earshot and made obeisance, waiting. Marya glanced up under lowered lids, examining the man who also owned her; he and Tanya were standing face to face, both hands linked.
Tall, even for a Draka. Light khaki trousers and shirt showed a broad-shouldered, taper-waisted silhouette; muscled arms, and a sharp V of deltoid from shoulders to neck. His face had a cousin's similarity to his wife's, a masculine version; dark tan, set off by the wheat-colored hair and grey eyes. Eye, rather: the left socket was covered by a leather patch and thong. Scarring below and above, deep enough to notch the bone; his little finger was missing on that hand, and there were more scars up the back of it and along the arm. A boy of perhaps nine beside him, a younger version but with the mother's brown-and-bronze hair.
"… worst problem was the baby tryin' to get out and kick the bushmen to death, leastways that's what it felt like," Tanya was saying. She turned her head. "Ahh, here's Yasmin with the two bookkeepers. The light-haired wench here's the one I told yo' about, has medical trainin' as well, saved Issac's life."
"Yo' could always pick them, my love," the man said. Deep voice, slightly hoarse; the three women stepped forward and the new arrivals made the hand-over-eyes bow they had been taught.
"Up, look up," he said to them. "We save that for formal occasions, here in the country."
He rested his right hand on the holster of his automatic pistol as he turned to them; not a menacing gesture, simply habit. The other hand gripped his wife's; he was still smiling from the reunion as he looked them over with swift care, turned Marya's head sideways with a finger.
"Slav?" he said.
"Yes, Master," she answered. "Polish." At least he isn't looking at our teeth, she thought. Of course, he had access to dental records.
"That was swift thinkin' and nerve, savin' Issac in the ambush. Good wench." He turned to Yasmin. "These two look exhausted, settle them in." A grin. "Yo' worn down from travelin' too?"
Yasmin smiled back from under her lashes. "Wouldn't say so, Mastah," she murmured.
Tanya laughed outright and tossed a key to Yasmin. "This for the 'cuffs. And since yo're not tired… when you're finished unpackin', collect Solange and attend upstairs to help with our celebration; 'bout eleven, or thereabouts." The Landholders turned toward the stairs, and Tanya ruffled her son's hair; he hesitated a moment, watching the two women with his head slightly to one side before following his parents.
"The blond one isn't very pretty," he said, glancing back at his mother. "Her face is square an' her legs are short."
His father smiled, dropped a hand to his shoulder and shook him lightly, chiding. "That was unkind, Timmie, an' she's done good service. Remember what…" The doors closed.
"Wake up."
"Mmmmmph," Marya said. A hand shook her shoulder, gently insistent. She blinked awake, then shot bolt upright in shock. No siren, no pallet; the air smelled of cloth and wood and greenery, not the wet stone and disinfectant reek of Central Detention. Warmth, and sunlight on oak floorboards, the bright tender light of early morning in springtime, and birds singing.
Yasmin stepped back in an alarm th
at faded quickly. The nun rubbed granular sleep out of her eyes, looking about the room she had not seen when she tumbled into bed last night. Plain. Up under the eaves of the chateau, with a sloped roof and a dormer window; three beds, for herself, Chantal and Therese, dressers, mirrors, chairs. The furniture was plain but sound; there was a rug on the floor, and the beds had clean sheets and sound blankets. She crossed her arms on her shoulders, feeling at the thick flannel nightdress, warm and new. Luxury, compared to Central Detention; more comfort than the mother-house of the Order, in Lwow before the War.
The serf girl yawned prettily and patted her lips with the back of one hand; she was wearing a belted satin robe. "Solange," she called over her shoulder. "Y'all got their stuff?" To the three newcomers: "Thisshere Solange, Misris Tanya's maid."
"Yes, cherie, I have it," a voice from the corridor outside answered Yasmin's question. A woman's voice, soprano, mellow and beautiful.
"Viens, Pierre," it continued.
A man backed into the room, dragging a wooden crate, straightened with a grunt and left. Solange edged past and stood at Yasmin's side, looping a companionable arm over her shoulders.
Parisian, Marya thought; not just the accent, everything. Managing to make the midnight-blue pajamas look like a chic lounging outfit. A little past twenty, but she looked younger in the overlarge clothes; long sleek black hair bound up in a Psyche knot at the side of her head, big violet-rimmed blue eyes heavy with a tired satiation. Straight regular features and small-boned grace, a dancer's movements.
Under the Yoke Page 18
