HS03 - A Visible Darkness

by Michael Gregorio

  He raised his lantern to my face, let out another dismissive grunt, then turned away, stumping off into the fog. ‘Follow me,’ he shouted.

  We trudged after him in silence, each man carrying his bag or valise. It was heavy going; the sand was very fine, damp with fog, and it clung to our boots like lead. A dark structure loomed up suddenly. A wooden hut. There appeared to be others dimly glimpsed in the shifting half-light.

  Colonel les Halles kicked his boot against the frail door.

  ‘Entrez, monsieurs!’

  He might have been urging assault troops forward on a suicidal mission.

  Was he capable of conversational speech? Every word was an order. Every order was to be obeyed. Was I alone in hearing the sarcasm in his voice? Or was it a question of Prussian sensibility, and nothing more?

  One of the newcomers pushed past me, hurrying forward into the light and the shelter. ‘This is true French hospitality!’ he exclaimed.

  I followed him up the wooden steps and took a few wary paces into the room.

  We might have been aboard a whaling-ship. The edifice was ribbed and panelled like an upturned boat, the wood as shiny as metal, green-tinged where damp had made its home in the grain. The wooden roof was low, the room was small, and it seemed even smaller, crammed with sets of drawers fixed along three of the walls. Heaps of tools and instruments were stored above the drawers. Those drawers were narrow, as if they were used to hold maps and drawings, each marked with an iron letter from the alphabet. There were picks and hammers hanging from hooks. Large boxes containing screws and nails, all the paraphernalia of carpenters and woodworkers, were ranged on top of the drawers. In the centre of the room, a large table was illuminated by a hanging oil-lamp. Bread, cheese and wine had been set out on trays.

  There were four soldiers standing around it. Their eyes slid over me and settled on the newly-arrived Frenchmen. Greetings and names were quickly exchanged, together with more particular enquiries, regarding their journey and the state of the empire. The words Spain and guerrilla were like magnets to men who were isolated on the extreme northern coast of the continent.

  I stood apart, holding tight to my travelling-bag, like a lost pilgrim, uncertain to whom I might address myself. But Colonel les Halles had other plans for me. He had taken up a position at the far end of the room, well away from the feast.

  ‘Stiffeniis,’ he called. ‘Come over here.’

  I went to stand beside him.

  We were like a small private island; the other officers composed a larger, more convivial land mass some way off across the wide sea.

  ‘I received a note regarding you from General Malaport,’ he began, then stopped abruptly. ‘First, let me see your orders.’

  As he spoke, he slipped the cape from his shoulders. His uniform was stained and spotted. Mud had dried in places, as if he had just recently stopped working, and then in such a hurry that he had had no time to restore his finery. Only the stripes on his sleeves and the silver epaulettes on his shoulders proclaimed what he was. In the days to come, I would understand that this was what he wanted his underlings to think of him: he was a commander, he was ready to soil his hands, having no time for social nicety. He put first things first, and all the rest flew out of the window.

  ‘You have left a wife and three young children in Lotingen,’ he said, taking the letter that I held out to him, folding his arms, settling his bulk on the edge of the table, staring at me out of dark, hooded eyes. ‘Your wife is expecting a fourth child, I’ve been informed. It cannot have been easy for you to leave them there, not knowing how long it will take to . . . to resolve the situation here.’

  It was the first word of ordinary humanity that I had heard from his lips. Was there a Madame les Halles waiting for him in France? Was there a child who could squeeze a drop of tenderness from the heart of Colonel les Halles?

  At my back, I heard the start of a small welcoming party for the new officers. Bottles were broached and exclamations of appreciation were made, concerning the unexpected quality of the German wine, the excellence of the dried sausages and the pickled herring.

  He was keeping me well apart, I realised, singling me out, marking me off from the others. I was his Prussian guest, though that did not mean that I was to be generally made welcome. I waited in silence while he cast his eyes over my letter of commission. When he had finished, he handed it back to me. ‘Carry this letter with you always,’ he warned. ‘It will be your passport here. You won’t go far without it.’

  ‘Without your assistance, I will not go far, in any case,’ I said.

  He did not reply immediately.

  ‘Do you know what is happening here on the coast?’ he asked, his voice low and guarded. His eyes flashed into mine.

  ‘General Malaport told me. That is, he spoke of a woman,’ I replied obliquely, taking my lead from my interlocutor.

  His thin lips creased into a bitter smile.

  ‘I like your answer,’ he said. ‘I can only hope to God that Malaport has chosen wisely. I will not hide it from you, I would have preferred a . . .’

  ‘French magistrate?’ I interrupted him.

  ‘What else?’ he answered quickly. ‘But that is hardly the point. Get this fixed firmly in your mind, monsieur. My only concern is for results. I asked the general for a man who knows Prussia and understands the Prussians. Malaport has sent you to me. I had no voice in the matter. My work is being hampered, I want the obstacle removed. I will not permit interference with my plans. If you are not successful, you’ll be sent packing. They can send me someone else, or I’ll do the job myself.’

  I felt the urge to smile, though I was careful to conceal it. How would such a man manage to ingratiate himself with a nation of Prussians who hated the occupying forces on sight?

  ‘You, sir?’

  ‘Me, sir. Or someone like me. A man whose only aim is the good of France. A man who will stop at nothing to achieve success.’ He made no effort to hide his pride, or his single-minded drive. ‘Do you understand what I want from you?’

  He looked up suddenly, glanced over to the table where wine was being consumed in quantity, then back at me.

  ‘Did you tell them why you were coming here?’ he asked.

  I shook my head.

  ‘I do not discuss the emperor’s business with the first man that I meet,’ I replied.

  ‘Keep it that way,’ he said, as if the declaration had won me some sort of grudging consent. ‘You will reveal your findings to me alone. They will discover the motive for your presence here soon enough. They are mechanics. They have more important tasks to occupy their thoughts. I will keep them busy. They must only know what is necessary.’

  ‘Different tasks, nothing in common,’ I summed up.

  ‘On the contrary, monsieur,’ he snapped. ‘All of you have one aim in common. Your roles may differ, Herr Magistrate, but all of you must strive to make Nordcopp a place which is safe and efficient.’ He lowered his voice a key. ‘Murder and commerce do not make good bedfellows.’

  He stared at me in silence for some time.

  ‘I want to show you something,’ he said, turning to the desk behind him.

  Something that might have been a child’s game had been roughly tipped from a box. The pieces were distributed higgledy-piggledy over a board painted yellow and blue, as if a careless boy had knocked the models over, then gone to bed without bothering to set them in place again.

  ‘These are my dreams,’ he announced quietly.

  At my back, the welcome party grew louder. Glass clinked on glass, more drinks were poured, conversations were eagerly pursued with mouths full of bread and cheese.

  ‘What do the pieces represent?’ I asked.

  His eyes darted in my direction, dancing in the lamplight, apparently amused by the naivety of the question. They spoke of a sharp intelligence, but little kindness. He looked down, moving the pieces carefully, placing some on the broad blue field, shifting others onto the narrow yellow one.
There was a fixity in his concentration, a gentle care in his handling of those frail objects which surprised me. His large head inclined over the table, carefully surveying the positions that he had chosen. The silvery hair on his head had been cut back almost to the bone. The dark stubble on his jaw was longer, as if he had forgotten to shave that day.

  ‘Those toys would delight my son,’ I said.

  He picked up one of the pieces as if it were a precious jewel.

  ‘The real pleasure is to see them grow,’ he said. ‘Soon the game will begin. For the moment, we are content to plan. But the work goes ahead and nothing must delay it. No one. This coast will never be the same again.’

  He set the model down, and gazed at me.

  ‘Herr Magistrate, I want you to do something for me.’

  I nodded, expecting to receive some further peremptory order.

  He paused for a moment. ‘Go over to that table. Help yourself to a glass of red wine. A very large glass. Drink it off in a single draught. Then drink another. As soon as you’ve done that, monsieur, you must follow me.’

  I looked at him in disbelief. Was this some sort of bizarre joke?

  ‘I am not a great drinker of wine,’ I began to say.

  His forefinger appeared in a flash in front of my eyes. It was stubby, strong, the fingernail black and broken.

  ‘Drink it!’ he hissed. ‘You’ll be needing it. They will start their work tomorrow, but you will start tonight.’

  7

  I OBEYED WITHOUT a word of protest.

  Something in his manner warned me that it would be futile to resist.

  I walked across to the table where the French officers were eating and drinking, took a firm grip on a warm bottle of red wine, filled an empty glass to the brim, then poured the contents straight down my throat. I took a deep breath, poured out another draught, then drained it off in the same fashion. On the far side of the room, les Halles nodded slowly, as if some ritual of initiation had been carried out to his liking.

  I studied his face for a moment, defiantly poured myself a third glass of wine, and emptied it off just as quickly.

  The French officers watched with indifference. I might have been a condemned man, availing himself of a final request before the sharp axe fell. The colonel’s staff must have known what was in store for me, yet no one uttered a word to warn me what it was. One of the officers who had travelled up from Lotingen took a pace towards me, his mouth full of bread, his eyes round with surprise.

  A voice spoke out, and stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘This way, Herr Stiffeniis,’ the colonel called.

  He swept a lantern from its hook on the wall, and threw open the door.

  As I walked towards him, he addressed the men in the room.

  ‘By the time I return, you will be in your bunks, messieurs,’ he said. ‘My adjutant will show the new men where to sleep.’

  No one said a word. They were going to bed, whether they liked the idea, or not. Colonel les Halles had decided.

  ‘If you are tired today,’ he added, ‘you’ll be exhausted tomorrow. I intend to work you to the bone.’

  He stepped back, and ushered me out of the door.

  The fog was as thick as a fire burning damp peat.

  Dimly, I heard the murmur of conversation picking up inside the hut, the clink of glasses, a toast of some sort. For one moment, envy possessed me. I had eaten nothing since leaving Lotingen, and the wine was burning a hole in my stomach. The hot fumes rushed to my head.

  ‘Are we going far, Colonel les Halles?’

  ‘Not far,’ he growled, holding up his lantern.

  The light glowed like sulphur. It hurt my eyes as I trailed behind him.

  The night was warm, the damp air seemed to cling to my skin. A light breeze ruffled the hair on my neck, and I shivered. I was, I realised, a trifle inebriated. And yet, I thought (one of those blatant idiocies for which drunkards are renowned), a spinning head and a sheen of sweat on my brow were better than the gut-wrenching stink of excrement on the streets of Lotingen.

  My thoughts flew home to Helena.

  Her battle with the flies, her efforts to keep them away from the children and out of their food. If I could just conclude this case, I thought, I might be able to make capital of my success, and force General Malaport to take steps to resolve the situation.

  I felt a sardonic smile form on my lips.

  Was this what it meant to be a Prussian magistrate? If I were able to solve the problems of the French, would it result in a thinner layer of merde on the streets of my home town, and fractionally less fetid air for my children to breathe?

  The colonel stopped in front of the last hut, and held the lamp up.

  ‘Tell no one of what you are about to see.’ He stared at me for longer than was necessary. ‘Is that quite clear, monsieur? The details, I mean. You must act with circumspection.’ Still, he held my gaze. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked, as if he were inviting me to leap into deep water from a great height.

  ‘I am here for no other reason,’ I said.

  As he unlocked the door and ushered me into the room, my nerves were taut.

  I was not prepared for the fetid smell, and had to swallow hard. A tangy stench of organic decomposition seemed to have worked its way into the wood from which the hut was built. You might consume it with fire, but you would never wash it away. An animal might have been rotting under the floorboards.

  And what was that object laid out on the table?

  In the gloom, it looked nothing like the body of the woman that I was expecting to find.

  Indeed, it looked more like a very large badger.

  Les Halles held up his light.

  ‘Blast their eyes!’ he cursed. ‘Somebody has been here.’

  I did not hear the rest. My eyes were drawn to the object on the table in the centre of the room. It was draped with a cloak of animal pelts. Some were brown, others black and every shade of grey. Was this furry winding-sheet made of rat-skins? Only the head and the face remained exposed.

  I corrected myself.

  What remained of a face . . .

  The conversation I had interrupted in Lotingen that morning came to my mind.

  ‘. . . Pure evil! Why would anyone . . . ?’

  Les Halles set his lantern down on the edge of the table.

  The light revealed a forehead that was blue, the skin pulped and split. A thick crust of blood had congealed in a black sheet across the woman’s left temple. Her left ear was a solid lump of blood, which had dripped down onto her slender neck. The nose was turned up at an angle that was obviously unnatural. But below the nose, all was a mystery. There was a gaping hole where the lower half of the face ought to have been.

  ‘You won’t see much if you stand dithering there,’ les Halles called sharply. ‘Come closer, man. You’ll need more light. There ought to be some candles.’

  While he rummaged on the shelves which ran the length of the far wall, I stood beside the table, alone with the body. He wished to illuminate it, render it more terrible, more indelible in my mind. He fumbled in the gloom, while I prayed that he would not find what he was looking for. There was too much light for me as it was. I cringed at the task which lay before me. No sight is worse than a lifeless corpse, except the spectacle of a woman who has been hideously mutilated.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ he called over, roughly opening drawers, slamming them closed again.

  ‘That wound is terrible,’ I managed to say.

  He returned with a fistful of candles, muttering beneath his breath, lighting them from the lantern-flame, setting each candle firmly upright in a pool of its own wax along the table edge. Like the high altar in a church. The orange light swelled, casting dancing shadows on the brutalised face. The sunken cheeks seemed to quiver with animated life.

  ‘What’s this?’ les Halles exploded, as he set a candle down beside her head.

  I looked where he was pointing.

  A trail of st
ones had been laid out on the table like a halo.

  He snatched one up, held it to his eye, then threw it to the farthest corner of the room. ‘I gave strict orders that no one be allowed in here,’ he hissed. ‘They are devils. They come and go as they please. God knows how, but they do it. There’s no stopping them . . .’

  ‘Of whom do you speak?’ I asked.

  I was unable to look away from that devastated face.

  ‘The Prussian girls. They must have wormed their way in here, covered the body with that vile thing, then laid these baubles out on the table. Thieves, the whole blasted pack of them!’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I said.

  Faced with a corpse, he seemed more interested in bits of stone.

  ‘This is amber,’ he replied, as if he were spitting out nails. ‘Unpolished amber! These women are barbarians, monsieur. They’ll steal it and sell it, yet they believe in every legend that is spoken about it. This, I suppose, is some sort of pagan funeral rite. Somebody’s going to pay for this . . .’

  I raised my eyes and stared at him.

  ‘Would you punish this woman’s friends because they care?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t give a damn about her friends!’ he exclaimed. ‘There are more important issues. One of my men has been seduced. How could they get in here without help? That soldier has disobeyed me. Do you see now, Herr Magistrate? Do you understand the gravity of it? They wrap my men around their little fingers. If those girls know what happened to her, everyone in Nordcopp will know.’

  I looked down at the damaged face.

  Which religion prescribed the strange manner in which that corpse had been laid out?

  ‘A ritual, you say? What kind of ritual?’

  Colonel les Halles shook his head. ‘This cloak is supposed to save her from the Baltic cold when she’s laid in the ground. The amber will buy a seat near the fire in their Valhalla.’ He blew his lips together noisily. ‘You Prussians are master storytellers. This coast has more tall tales to its name than a children’s nursery.’