Forgetfulness

by Ward Just

  They are the same thing, Thomas said.

  I am sorry about my German lesson. Sometimes I talk too much.

  Tell me. Do you like the Brahms?

  Yes. It is not Verdi or Mozart. But it is very powerful.

  It is sublime, Thomas said.

  Antoine smiled and did not reply. Instead, he made a gesture that indicated the subject was not worth pursuing.

  I'm glad we met, Thomas said.

  Yes, I am too. I am glad we had a chance to talk. I can tell you this, for your ears only. Your wife was not a target in this business. The encounter was as Yussef described it. A chance meeting.

  Thank you, Thomas said. I never doubted it.

  Bernhard had another idea.

  I know he did.

  He is more conspiratorial even than the French.

  His family background is German.

  That explains it, Antoine said.

  I worried about Bernhard's idea for a while and then I didn't worry.

  If it had been someone else, the someone else would have met the same fate. Or if there had been two or more walking in the mountains, same thing. All four were armed, even the boy. Nothing was going to keep them from their business.

  And that was?

  Antoine shook his head. He said, We have classified your wife's death as a terrorist act.

  Of course, Thomas said.

  Antoine swallowed the last of his beer, leaned back in his chair, and looked around, raising his eyebrows at the café hubbub, everyone talking at once. He said, Do you plan to spend the night in Le Havre?

  If you can give me the name of a hotel—

  Antoine called for the check while he took a business card from his wallet and scribbled a name and address. He said, Show them this at the reception.

  Thank you again, Thomas said.

  It's a small hotel but very clean, of moderate price.

  Antoine stood and they shook hands warmly.

  I wish you luck, Thomas said.

  Godspeed, Antoine said.

  Will you let me know what you discover?

  Assuredly, Antoine said. What I can. What is allowed.

  Your information will stay between us.

  The waiter delivered the check and Thomas put his hand over it. He said, Please allow me.

  The Frenchman hesitated, then nodded politely and walked away, stepping delicately as if his feet hurt. At the door he turned and gave a wave that was half a salute, and then continued on out the door without a backward glance.

  Thomas was relieved to be alone at last in a place where he was unknown. The same could not be said of Antoine, the focus of covert glances from the men gathered at the zinc bar. Thomas had noted that two of them put on their hats and left when Antoine appeared. Thomas ordered a glass of wine and a dozen oysters and sat back to collect his thoughts. But he was unable to gather them coherently so he contented himself watching the show, the bar arguments and laughter and the young lovers at the corner table who were making plans for the evening. His attention was noticed because the young woman caught Thomas's eye and winked; he tipped a glass in her direction. The patron continued to pull the porcelain handles, glass after glass. There were fewer now because the café was beginning to empty, and seemed emptier still in the bright glow of the overhead lamps. Thomas could not remember the last time he sat in a café alone, doing nothing, without even a newspaper, merely watching the action, such as it was. His oysters and wine arrived and he began to eat slowly, taking a tiny sip of wine with each oyster. The lovers left arm in arm and he wished he had a pretty friend to share an oyster with, someone he knew well but not too well. God, he was tired. He could sleep where he sat, put his chin on his chest and say night-night. If the girl he knew well but not too well was sitting beside him he would have to talk. He was tired of talking. And if he had this girl, what would he do with her? When the moment came, if it did, he would be forced to plead headache, sciatica, osteoporosis, or something alarming like shingles; perhaps a dangerous heart condition. Thomas glanced at the door and saw that the snow had ended; there had only been a dusting, no difficulty for the morning's drive. He hoped the hotel had a map. The next time he looked up the café was almost empty, the patron whistling to himself, cleaning the glassware at the bar sink. A second glass of wine arrived, and when he looked curiously at the waiter, the patron nodded from the bar; on the house.

  Tell the boss thanks, he said.

  I will do that. Are you and Monsieur Antoine friends?

  Yes, we are friends.

  He is a famous policeman, you know.

  So I've heard.

  He is from here, Le Havre. But he is often in Paris on his official duties. He and the patron play cards ... The waiter described the games they played and what they ate and drank during the hands. Dortmunder for Antoine, Heineken for the patron. The policeman was a cautious bettor, the patron reckless. Thomas listened and nodded, murmuring something now and then, when the waiter looked over his shoulder and backed away, pulling out the empty chair at the table.

  You forgot this, Bernhard said, setting the cardboard tube on the floor next to Thomas's duffel. He sat in the chair the waiter held for him and said, Scotch, neat.

  Thank you, Thomas said. Now go away.

  You didn't say goodbye. I had no idea where you were.

  You found me. I'm tired. Go away.

  Bernhard drummed his fingers on the tabletop, waiting for the Scotch neat. When it arrived he took a swallow and said, Prosit. Thomas called for the check.

  That was quite a performance back there, Thomas. Jesus, I thought you were going to give him your life story. You damn near did. And you didn't get much for it, did you? Francisco was a mistake on your part. Clever stunt with the portrait, I have to admit that. Only time I saw the little prick shaken. Maybe not shaken. Maybe only stirred, but at least you got a reaction. That was something. Antoine was impressed. But you walked away. Just walked away from him.

  The waiter arrived with the check and Thomas paid it, and the first one, and laid on a heavy tip. He looked at the card Antoine had given him and hoped that the hotel was close by. Fatigue had overtaken him. His eyelids weighed a thousand pounds. He did not believe he was thinking straight and wanted out of Café Marine before he said something better left unsaid.

  But we'll have time to talk about that and Francisco, too. You cut a little close to the bone there, Thomas. Francisco's a verboten subject. He's way back in the cupboard, out of sight. We don't talk about Francisco even when you don't use his name. You know that, for Chrissakes. I can't imagine what you were thinking of.

  I'm going to bed, Bernhard.

  So long as you understand the seriousness of it—

  Thomas reached down for the cardboard tube but had to steady himself on the chair—a shudder of dizziness. Finally he gathered both the tube and the duffel in his arms and stood blinking in the bright glow of the café.

  I had a call from Russ, Thomas. His little girl died last night. She ate something she shouldn't ve.

  Thomas looked at him but didn't say anything.

  Funeral and burial are private. New York City. I sent some flowers in both our names but you'll probably want to call him, so here's his mobile number. Bernhard passed a piece of paper across the table and Thomas took it.

  He's holding up all right, Bernhard said. Probably it's a relief.

  I doubt if it's a relief, Thomas said.

  Whatever it is, he's holding up all right.

  Thomas said, An overdose?

  Russ didn't say. And I didn't ask.

  Such a pretty girl, Thomas said.

  A great kid, Bernhard said.

  Goodbye, Bernhard. I'm going home.

  You can stay if you want. Antoine likes you. On principle he doesn't like Americans. He doesn't like me. But fuck him, my future plans don't include Antoine. This is my last gig with Antoine, although you can bet I'll have a chit to call in. Antoine owes me.

  Why?

  I delivered you
, Bernhard said.

  I'll be in touch, Thomas said.

  Don't forget about Russ.

  I'm not likely to, Bernhard.

  You're awfully damn flaky these days. Hard to talk to. Hard to get close to.

  That's what they say, Thomas said.

  But listen, Bernhard said. I have a new venture. Want to hear about it?

  He leaned close and began to talk but Thomas was no longer listening. He tried to imagine the grief that would come from losing a child. The pain would be never-ending. Every time you saw a child of that age on the street or in a schoolyard you would have to turn away. You would turn away generally, from your family or whatever you believed in. Because it was a child you would hold yourself responsible. You would eventually recover but never completely. You would be like someone who had lost a limb: the memory of it would never cease. An image came to him suddenly, Russ Conlon sitting slumped on a bed in a hotel room eating a room-service meal, his elbows on the table. The table was covered with a bone-white cloth. In the middle of it was a slender vase with a single pink rose. But why was Russ in a hotel room? He kept a pied-à-terre in one of the downtown neighborhoods. And why was he alone? The television set was tuned to a news program and Russ watched it while he ate methodically, his arms moving like semaphore. Between bites he sipped ice water. His face showed no expression as he ate, one forkful after another while the newscaster droned on, another car bomb in Baghdad, an unknown number of casualties but as yet no group had taken responsibility. On the screen was a burning vehicle and two women weeping. Russ pushed the plate aside and sat, still slumped, his hands in his lap. He did not look up when a waiter arrived and wheeled the table from the room. The image was so powerful that Thomas put his hands over his eyes. He did not want to see more, if there was more to be seen. He suspected that someone else was in the room, out of sight. Russ was not alone.

  But by this time Thomas was on the street, nodding to the écailler. Snow had ceased but the wind was busy. The streets were empty. Thomas had no recollection of leaving the café but he had his duffel and the cardboard tube. He showed Antoine's card to the écailler, who looked at it and said that the hotel was only a few blocks away. A very nice hotel, very clean. The service was good. Thomas thanked him and walked off, but when he saw a taxi he hailed it and rode the three blocks in warmth and silence.

  Early the next morning Thomas was in a black Citroën driving east from Le Havre. The day was chilly and overcast, iron-gray clouds hanging so low they seemed close enough to touch. He drove slowly through Bolbec to Yvetot and Rouen. He thought of stopping to see Notre-Dame cathedral in Rouen, the one that Monet liked so much he painted it twenty times in one year. But Thomas decided not to; he preferred Maître Monet's versions. Between Rouen and Amiens he passed from Normandy into the Department of the Somme. Beyond Amiens the land flattened some and the clouds lowered some more. The wind died. The roads narrowed and traffic thinned. The terrain seemed featureless, the villages uniform and lacking charm. They were working villages, and certainly to the inhabitants they would not seem charmless. But they were anonymous. Lahoussoye was followed by Franvillers. This was farmland although here and there were small copses, tufts of trees growing from the bald earth. Everywhere in this part of France were the cemeteries, carefully maintained and watched-after, more carefully than the villages. There were French, British, German, Canadian, and South African cemeteries, the result of the slaughter along the Somme salient in 1916 and later. Some of the cemeteries were very large and others quite small, only a few hundred graves, some with names and others blank. Mort pour la France. Died for King and Country. Thomas wondered about American graves, but they were farther south, near Soissons and Belleau Wood. He easily identified the German cemeteries because of the Gothic crosses that marked each grave in stone so dark it was almost black. Gott mit Uns. There were few billboards along the route. In January the cemeteries were deserted. Tourists and relatives of the dead tended to arrive in the more temperate seasons, combining a remembrance-duty with a holiday. At Albert, Thomas turned north along the sluggish River Ancre, passing through Aveluy and Authuille on the way to Thiepval. He spied the memorial beyond a slowly rising hill. The surrounding countryside seemed to him as desolate and barren as a desert but it stood to reason that the inhabitants would object to such a description. It was not their fault that a million men died in the vicinity; to them the Department of the Somme was home.

  With the help of one of the gardiens, Thomas found the name of St. John Granger. It was engraved high up on one of the inner vaults, so he could not read it no matter how hard he squinted. He thought he would give up. The name was there according to the register; there was no need for him to verify it. Still, he had come all this way. Thomas stood on the stone floor of the vault and looked upward into the shadows, name after name and all of them too far away to read. The wind picked up again and it was cold standing in the central arch of the memorial.

  Would this help?

  An elderly Englishman in a beret and a Barbour coat, trimmed military mustache and a very red face, was at his elbow. He handed Thomas binoculars.

  Thank you, Thomas said. He focused the binoculars and commenced to scan the vault's ceiling at the place he understood Granger's name to be. But he had no luck, moving the glasses back and forth through the rows of names.

  Can't find him, Thomas said.

  A relative? the Englishman said.

  Friend, Thomas replied.

  Mine's a school chum of my father's. He died some years ago and I promised him that if I ever got near Thiepval I'd find the name and say a few words. So I found him and said a few words.

  You kept the promise, Thomas said.

  I did, the Englishman said. What's your name?

  Thomas put out his hand and said, Thomas.

  No, I mean the feller you're looking for. I've good eyes. I'll find him.

  Granger, Thomas said. First name St. John.

  The Englishman pressed the binoculars to his eyes and stared up into the shadows. Thomas moved off a little and lit a Gitane, first of the day. Standing under the vault, he was surrounded by names, so many names that if they were raindrops they would be a deluge. He and the Englishman were the only visitors except for a young couple sitting on one of the stone benches, talking earnestly, their heads close together. Thomas thought they were on a tryst, working out a difficult romantic problem. Suddenly they kissed passionately. Their arms flew around each other's necks and Thomas turned away, grinning. Problem solved.

  Got him, the Englishman called.

  Thomas walked back to where the Englishman stood and took the glasses from him, aiming where he was pointing. It took a minute to find the name and the rank. So that much of the old man's story was true. But staring at the name, Thomas was unable to connect it to his friend, whose bones lay under a tree in St. Michel du Valcabrère. The disconnection was perverse. It seemed to him a monstrous joke.

  Thomas handed the binoculars to the Englishman and thanked him.

  The Englishman said, An old friend?

  Thomas said, Very old.

  I was puzzled when you said he was a friend. I still am. These men died almost ninety years ago, their bodies never recovered. The bones are scattered all over these fields. Thousands upon thousands of troops. The Englishman looked at him blandly but his blue eyes were ice cold.

  Family friend, of course, Thomas said. Our two families have been friends for generations. Thomas smiled, feeling seven kinds of fool; but he had made a recovery, and it was plausible.

  You're not supposed to smoke here, you know. Respect for the fallen.

  I was just leaving, Thomas said.

  The regulations are quite clear, the Englishman said.

  Goodbye, Thomas said and strolled off past the young lovers and down the gravel path to the parking lot. Along the way he pitched the Gitane onto the grass and then thought better of it and retrieved it, holding the stub until he reached the Citroën. He started the car and
waited for the heater to warm up, all the while looking at the monument, seventy-two thousand names. He wondered how many Grangers there had been, men who wandered away from the battlefield and made another life for themselves. Not very many, surely, but more than a few. Granger would have been the last. When the car was warm, Thomas reached into his coat pocket for his mobile phone. He tapped in the numbers Bernhard had given him and waited. On the sixth ring Russ picked up.

  He said, Hullo.

  Russ? Thomas.

  Oh, Tommy. It's so good of you to call. Where are you?

  Flanders. I'm calling from a parking lot in Flanders. I'm so sorry about Grace.

  Thank you, Tommy. It's a terrible business.

  Is anyone with you?

  No, I'm alone. Caitlin's flying in from Los Angeles. Russ's throat caught then and he was silent a moment. In the background Thomas could hear music. Brahms, he thought. Russ said, I'm expecting her later on today.

  Do you want to talk about what happened?

  No, he said. We can talk later, face to face. I'm just trying to get through the damned day. Funeral's tomorrow. Family only. She had so many troubles in her life, Grace. Too many for her spirit to bear.

  Yes, Thomas said.

  And so much of the time I was abroad.

  Don't start that, Russ.

  Fact, he said. The simple truth.

  Thomas watched the Englishman stride down the gravel path and into the parking lot, bound for an old green Land Rover. He unlocked the door and got in and in a moment was gone. The young lovers were behind him, walking slowly, their arms linked. They got into a Deux Chevaux but did not start the engine. Thomas watched them embrace and soon the windows began to mist over. He wished them great good luck in their adventures, whatever they were.

  So she was alone when she died, Russ said.

  She was a sweet girl, Thomas said.

  Yes, she was.

  I can be there tomorrow, you know.

  Thank you, Tommy. I know. But we're going to do this alone.

  I understand, Thomas said.

  I had a crazy idea that we should take her back to LaBarre. But Caitlin didn't want that so we'll bury her in a cemetery in Queens. I don't remember the name. Old cemetery. Her mother had some connection to it. So that's where she'll be. Queens, he concluded and grunted a half-laugh.