by Elaine Young
Chapter 4
September 1972
Ari sat and stared into space as he filtered out the gushing speech given by the Head of the faculty. As usual he hung back, content to drink a glass of wine or two, eat the snacks and plan what he would do with the rest of the evening. Ari was bored and uncomfortable in his evening suit but the Department Head had decreed that he be there as the Faculty was looking for funding.
There had been no point in arguing so there Ari was, wondering how soon he could escape. The speeches were over eventually but he realised he couldn’t rush off until a reasonable period had elapsed. Myopically he viewed groups forming and dividing, meaningless social conversation ebbing and flowing as the well-dressed crowds swirled around him in a polite courtly dance. Ari sat and watched this with a jaded eye. He hated the brittle hypocrisy of these affairs. He had seen this so often before.
He took another glass of wine from a circulating waiter, but as he brought it to his lips his eye fell on a man in the crowd of important guests. The light fell on the man’s profile as he tilted his head to talk to a large satin-clad matron. Ari’s hand stopped in mid-air, his heart bounding. He fumbled for his spectacles and looked again. He knew he had seen that face before. It was thirty years older and much thinner, but it was unmistakeably the face he had seen across the street when his father was arrested.
He drained his glass of wine in one swallow. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, adrenaline prickling the backs of his hands. He was glad he was sitting as he felt as though he was about to faint. After wiping his perspiring face, he looked around.
‘Ah, Lebrun,’ trying to sound nonchalant, he asked the colleague who was seated near him, ‘I don’t keep up with politics, so tell me who is that man over there talking to the Head and his wife?’
‘Oh, that is Victor Dubois. Haven’t you seen him on the télé?’
‘Oh, yes, yes of course. I just thought he looks different in the flesh.’ That was true. He had seen the man on television many times but it was only that moment in the light,, as the man tilted his head which opened Ari’s eyes. He had obviously changed his name, but he was unquestionably Jacques Marteau.
‘Are you all right, mon vieux? You look ill.’
Ari vaguely waved his hand. ‘Thank you Lebrun. Just the heat.’ He sat there numbly. Finally he pulled himself together. You can’t sit here glaring you old fool; you will only draw attention to yourself.
He left then, cursing himself for having drunk too much. He needed to think and his mind was not co-operating. Even though it was not far he took a taxi to his apartment. He lumbered up the stairs and collapsed on his bed and lay there, as he had lain there night after night, torpidly staring at the ceiling until sleep overtook him.
When he awoke the next morning, he realised that he was entangled in his rumpled sheets still fully clothed. His head was throbbing, his mouth tasted like the floor of a hen house and he reached out instinctively for the bottle that was always on his night stand. His blind scrabbling knocked it over and it smashed on the wooden floor, the smell of whisky rising to his nostrils making his stomach heave. He lay back on the pillow, loosening the bowtie that was threatening to choke him. He needed a drink. Then he sat up suddenly, fully, soberly awake, the memory of the previous night dispelling the last of the vapours from his brain.
I have found him. Victor Dubois is Jacques, he thought, dazedly, the miracle has happened! He scrambled up and dug into the back of his safe for his notes on Jacques Marteau. He read them over several times. No-one mentioned having seen Marteau since the war. No-one had recognised him as Dubois. How is this possible? he thought. But he had not seen it before either. It was that simple gesture of the head, the bearing that was burned into Ari’s brain that had betrayed the man. He had lost a lot of weight, to be sure. The Jacques he remembered had been larger somehow, more muscular. He had worn a shortish rough beard, while Dubois sported only a thin well-clipped moustache; he had thick white hair, while the younger man had been dark, but the arrogant, hawk-like profile was the same.
He sat and stared blankly out of the window. What should I do now? I have dreamed of finding the man, but I have never thought of what I should do when I found him, except strangle him with my bare hands! Firstly, you old drunkard, enough is enough. You need to be able to think clearly . . .
He stumbled to the kitchen and emptied all the liquor he had down the sink. He then had a shower, standing under the hot water until it began to run cold. He changed into comfortable clothing and then made himself a pot of strong coffee as well as a huge omelette with cream and fresh herbs that he grew in containers on his windowsill. That done, he sat down to plan what he needed to do. He didn’t think it would be very difficult to find out more about Dubois. He knew that biographical details of most famous people would be kept in any newspaper morgue.
