A Prince Without a Kingdom

by Timothee de Fombelle

  In one single crime, O’Cafarell had gotten rid of the girl who knew too much and ensured that his own past had been dissolved officially and before witnesses. It was a masterstroke.

  Boulard wanted to meet with a New York judge in order to give him the results of his investigation, but war was grinding into action back in Europe, and he had returned hastily to Paris.

  On seeing how shaken up Vango was, the Cat read the twenty lines of Mouchet’s message, then glanced back at the postcard and at the name O’CAFARELL spelled out in giant metal letters on top of the tower with four spires. She blinked and read the message again.

  “I slept under the letters of his name,” groaned Vango. “And I didn’t recognize it. I slept under the letters of his name.”

  The Cat would have liked to console her friend. But the truth was she didn’t understand a word of what he was saying. Not a single word.

  “I’m coming with you to Paris,” said Vango.

  He took a deep breath and almost smiled.

  He was rediscovering feelings he thought had been buried. A seagull called out to him as it passed by. He looked up. For one last time, Vango was about to renounce his pledge to abandon the world and its violence forever.

  London, December 24, 1942, midnight

  She was wearing a gray coat that came down to her feet. The bells of Saint Paul’s and all the churches around had begun to ring out, at the same time as the warning sirens had gone off. Planes were flying over the blacked-out city. All the inhabitants had disappeared into cellars, but the sound of lone footsteps could still be heard in the street. The churches had been abruptly emptied on this Christmas Eve, and now the strains of carols floated up through the small basement windows. It was enough to rally the armies of mice in the basements of London with the Christmas message.

  Ethel had been wandering around for hours. Having no desire to go to bed, she had visited various spots where people were dancing. At seven o’clock in the evening, she had passed by the hotel where she was staying and noticed that her own window was lit up on the second floor. It was raining. She had stood on the sidewalk outside, trying to recognize the shadow behind the window. It was bound to be her brother, keen to lecture her again about returning to Everland instead of remaining at the mercy of the bombs.

  Ethel had been stopped during an alert the night before. She was found walking in the middle of an icy road in a summer dress. The police must have informed Paul. His air base was in Cambridge, but he had friends in London.

  And so, seeing her window lit up, Ethel had fled. She didn’t want to listen to any more reproaches from Mary or Paul, let alone from people she barely knew. The night porter at the hotel checked his watch and tutted when she came back late, and the garage mechanics had complained about the state of her car after she had reached speeds of nearly one hundred miles an hour traveling down from the north.

  “That’s no way to behave on the road. And look at the mud in your hair.”

  Hearing the mechanic give her a telling-off about her hair had put Ethel in such a temper that she had skidded twice as she sped off in the new Railton.

  Ethel often reflected on what Joseph Puppet had said in the zeppelin about the way people looked at women. She had appreciated Puppet’s freedom, his lightness of spirit. But the boxer had been killed when the airship went up in flames. What was left on this earth to keep her going?

  Men pursued her with their best intentions. For a while, there had been attempts to introduce her to serious-minded young suitors. The previous summer, against her better judgment, she had agreed to attend Thomas Cameron’s wedding. The results had been catastrophic: Ethel had looked sublime and the bride had made a scene, exploding at Thomas about the girl in the emerald-colored Indian outfit with little silver bells at her heels. That evening at the ball, two Cameron cousins had courted Ethel. After a dance or two, the first one began crying on his mother’s shoulder over by the cloakrooms. The second had more luck. Ethel gave him her arm, led him into the woods, and lost him. He didn’t return until noon the next day, by which time Ethel was already in Glasgow watching an air show.

  Only a few realized that her arrogance, intensity, effrontery, and silence weren’t simply part of her allure. Paul, Mary, and the Cat knew about her despair. Ethel’s life had been in free fall for six years now.

  On several occasions, Paul had tried talking to her about Vango’s death. One evening, when he was looking for her, he had come across in his sister’s bathroom the blue handkerchief that she had taken from the charred body on the grass at Lakehurst. She could only smile coldly in the mirror and shake her head, as if her brother were incapable of understanding the first thing about such a dreadful story, about a feeling of such complete emptiness. All grief is contemptuous, unassailable, perched at heights that nobody can reach. Perhaps we’re too afraid of any comfort erasing what is left of the memories.

  And yet this night spent roaming the streets of London was not the worst Christmas Eve of Ethel’s life. She had collected a great many of them since her parents had died. No, this Christmas Eve was fine by her. Ethel was playing at dodging the groups of soldiers who were on duty because of the alerts. She wasn’t afraid of the bombings. The few nights she had spent in air-raid shelters at the beginning of the war were happy memories. People shared stories, finally sitting next to neighbors they never greeted in the stairwell, as bottles of wine were dug out from the cellars. Ethel enjoyed these brittle moments. Her life was being protected. But one day she realized that she had nothing left to protect. She had tried to explain this to Paul with an odd question: “Do we bring the sand from the rivers indoors when it starts to rain?” And that was why she had made the decision to stay outside when the air-raid siren was sounded.

  Suddenly, Ethel came out into a dead-end street and saw three soldiers behind the sandbags. She recognized one of them and deflected her gaze.

  “Ethel!”

  It was Philip, a friend of her brother’s. She turned her back on them and headed off, flanking a brick wall. Philip had jumped over the barricades.

  “People are looking for you, Ethel!”

  She took the first road on the left. She knew that people were looking for her; that was why she was on the run. But it was hard to disappear in the deserted streets. Philip had spotted her turning the corner. When an airplane flew very low over the rooftops, Ethel couldn’t hear Philip calling out anymore. She climbed a few steps, made her way between two buildings, and emerged into another street, only to spot that both ends were guarded: there was nothing she could do. Philip’s voice wasn’t far behind her. She advanced hesitantly, before a new siren sounded. In a matter of seconds, the doors of buildings were flung open and lights switched on. It was the end of the alert.

  Men and women streamed out onto the pavement in their dozens. Ethel joined one of these groups. She saw poor Philip, who was puce in the face, going around in circles looking for her. She had known him in the old days, when he had studied in college with Paul. But now he was a family man with three or four children, or so she had heard, and he seemed very old as far as she was concerned.

  She set off again in the direction of the hotel.

  Two shadows could be seen moving behind the curtains in her room. She dug her heels into the cobblestones and tucked her fingers inside her sleeves. She was tired, and it was beginning to snow.

  She wanted to be left in peace.

  Paris, in a tower of Notre Dame, two hours later

  Beneath the bell, Vango watched Simon the bell ringer toasting bread over the coals in the stove. His thick fingers were unafraid of the glowing embers, which he flicked away so the toast wouldn’t burn.

  “Whenever I see you, it always marks a big occasion.” Simon smiled. “You should come more often.”

  He stirred two earthenware bowls filled with broth that were waiting by the corner of the fire.

  “Do you remember the first time?”

  “Yes,” said Vango, recalling his ascent of t
he facade of Notre Dame, with the crowd at his feet.

  “Well, a week later, I married Clara,” said Simon. “It took the bishop five minutes to bless us in the sacristy.”

  The bell ringer held out a warm bowl and a piece of toast.

  “The second time,” he went on, “you looked just as lost to me. It was before the war, in thirty-seven. And my daughter was born eight days later.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You spent at least two nights here. You said you were trying to find someone. . . .”

  “The Cat.”

  “That’s it. And you were going to disappear forever.”

  Simon slurped a mouthful of broth.

  “And now here you are again.”

  “I’m not very reliable.”

  “I had a sense you’d be coming back, because I thought of you yesterday.”

  Vango seemed surprised.

  “The reason my wife can’t be with us,” Simon announced proudly, “is that she’s expecting in January.”

  “Really?”

  “Our second child. Clara is with her mother in La Bourboule.”

  “Bravo!”

  “Each time you appear, a child is born a week later!”

  Vango smiled.

  “I’m relaxed about it,” said Simon. “It could be another girl. They’ve installed a motor for the bell. There won’t be another bell ringer after me. So two girls would be fine. . . .”

  He dunked his toast in the broth before adding, “And anyway, they don’t make so much mess.”

  Vango nodded absentmindedly. A small gust of wind had crept inside the tower at Notre Dame.

  “I won’t ask what you’re doing in Paris. . . .”

  “No,” said Vango.

  “You can stay for as long as you like. I’d be delighted.”

  They watched the flames die down as Simon’s eyes lit up.

  “D’you remember how I hid you in the spire up there?”

  “Yes.”

  “The police don’t know it’s hollow.”

  They each wrapped themselves in a blanket, on either side of the stove. They could barely discern the bell in the gloom above them.

  “I’ll stay until the last night of December, if that suits you,” said Vango. “There are some things I need to get ready. The Cat will pass by from time to time. After that, I really will go away.”

  “Really? Forever?” asked Simon.

  Vango didn’t answer.

  “Luckily, I wasn’t planning on having a big family,” the bell ringer muttered to himself.

  From time to time, in the darkness, the beating of pigeon wings could be heard. Each sound resonated inside the bronze bell.

  Vango was thinking about the days that remained before New Year’s Eve.

  He slept very little. At half past four in the morning, the Cat arrived from the top of the south tower and woke him gently.

  “Vango . . .”

  “Emilie?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Is he asleep?”

  “Listen!”

  They could hear slow breathing. Simon was sound asleep.

  “What have you got?” Vango wanted to know.

  “I went to give the documents back to Caesar. There was a message for us in the shutter. The French agent has been successfully parachuted in from London. His code name is Charlot.”

  “Has he reached La Blanche?”

  “No. He called Caesar from a village.”

  Nobody telephoned Caesar. Nobody ever met him. Nobody knew who he really was. He led a public life that couldn’t be compromised.

  “Charlot managed to jump in time, but the plane was hit just afterward by the German antiaircraft fleet. He saw it fall.”

  Vango stiffened.

  “The pilot has been reported missing. The plane plunged into a forest toward Mornes.”

  “Is there any chance of him making it out of there?”

  “Very little. Caesar says we shouldn’t do anything. The Germans will start looking for him there. And it’s marshy too, so even if he’s alive, he’ll have a hard time shaking them off.”

  Vango was remembering the English aviators he had hidden. They were very difficult to transfer out secretly. The English were spoils of war for the Nazis.

  “Charlot is coming to Paris tomorrow morning,” said the Cat, lowering her voice. “He has a package for the network. We need to give him instructions for La Blanche. Nobody knows that you’re not there waiting for him.”

  They fell quiet. Simon mumbled something and Vango strained an ear. The bell ringer was singing “Frère Jacques” in his sleep.

  “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning in the cathedral, the chapel of the holy Virgin,” ordered the Cat. “You’ll be given the parcel. I’ll collect it tomorrow evening.”

  “Wait!”

  But the Cat had gone.

  Vango hadn’t signed up for this kind of mission. He had come on personal business.

  He didn’t sleep a wink for the rest of the night.

  It was here, almost ten years earlier, that he had nearly become a priest. What was he going to do now? Where was his path?

  And yet he had never stopped believing. He felt as if he were in a deep valley flooded by a dam, where entire villages, paths, and hedgerows had vanished. Only the towers of churches appeared above the surface of the water. These bell towers were all that Vango had left.

  At half past seven, he made his descent via the cathedral chevet. He walked around the square and passed the Portal of the Last Judgment.

  London, at the same moment, dawn, December 25, 1942

  Ethel walked into the hotel and requested her key at reception. A woman was busily eating biscuits, which she had crumbled into some milk. It looked rather like the porridge that was prepared for Lily the doe back at Everland, but the hotel proprietor could hardly be said to have doe’s eyes. Instead, they were hidden behind lenses as thick as aquarium glass. She half stood up to take a disapproving look at Ethel’s shoes, which were soaking the carpet.

  “People have been waiting a long time for you.”

  “People?”

  “There was one at first, then another. And a third’s just arrived,” the receptionist informed Ethel without blinking her fishy eyes. “They’re upstairs. I gave them the key. They’re officers. I don’t want any trouble. And kindly remove your car from the sidewalk!”

  Ethel climbed the two floors slowly. She followed the landing all the way to the end, paused for a second, then turned the door handle.

  There were two men smoking in her room. One of them was standing in front of the window. The other was sitting on the bed. They wore Royal Air Force uniforms. As they turned to face her, water could be heard running in the bathroom.

  Paul must be washing his hands, thought Ethel, striding angrily into the room.

  “Paul?”

  “Good evening, Ethel.”

  It was Philip. He closed the bathroom door behind him.

  “We’ve been looking for you since yesterday evening. Why did you run away when I called out to you?”

  “Where’s Paul?”

  Philip turned somberly toward the officer standing by the window. The most senior of the three, and a colonel, he stubbed out his cigarette and took a deep breath.

  “Paul’s plane was shot down in France.”

  Ethel froze.

  The colonel pursed his lips before adding, “You should prepare yourself for . . .”

  Philip tried to put his hand on Ethel’s shoulder, but she stepped away.

  “The man he parachuted in is alive,” said the other man. “Paul fulfilled his final mission. He was a tremendous pilot.”

  “Get out.”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry.”

  “I’ll accompany you, Ethel,” said Philip.

  “Get out.”

  The men looked at one another, unsure how to react. Then the colonel gave a signal and all three of them headed for the door.

  “If you need anything at all,
please come to Cambridge. We’ll be there for you. You will always be most welcome at the base.”

  Ethel stood alone in her room, listening to their footsteps as they headed downstairs, before she went over to the window. She wasn’t crying.

  The Napier-Railton was waiting for her just below, on the sidewalk.

  Paris, Notre Dame, at the same time

  Vango sat down next to a shadow that was kneeling in the chapel. The pair of them stayed there, motionless. They were alone. The last of the candles from the previous night were still alight, melting and dripping onto the floor.

  The man looked very contemplative. He had put his leather briefcase behind him on the chair. Vango was wary of speaking to him.

  When the man tried to sit up again, his briefcase was in the way.

  “Is this yours?” he asked.

  Vango only wavered for a second.

  “Yes,” he said, tucking the briefcase between his knees. The man was Charlot. Footsteps could be heard in the choir behind them. Somebody was drawing near.

  “Are you due to meet Saint John at La Blanche?” Vango dared to whisper quickly.

  “Who?”

  “Saint John. He won’t be there. Ask Mother Elisabeth. She’ll explain.”

  “Thank you.”

  Charlot stood up and made the sign of the cross.

  “Do you think the pilot is still alive?” Vango asked the parachutist as he was about to leave.

  Charlot looked around and sat down again before speaking in hushed tones.

  “The plane exploded. I saw it in flames. I’ve annotated the map of the zone with the location of the exact spot where the plane fell. That piece of paper is in the parcel you’ve got.”

  The footsteps were heading farther away now. Vango recalled the burned bodies from the Hindenburg: the chances of survival after a fire in midair were next to none.

  “But I know the pilot,” Charlot added. “To my mind, if he’s still alive, he can get out of there.”

  Sounds of chairs moving in the cathedral choir. He lowered his voice.

  “He had just recovered from his war injuries. I had already fought by his side.”