Forgetfulness

by Ward Just

  You're in no danger, if that's what you're thinking.

  It had not occurred to Thomas that he was in any danger. But he was not encouraged by Antoine's assurance.

  I wish I had more details for you. I was lucky to get as much as I did. My people were not happy when I left the service. I am bound to say that while they admire Bernhard they do not always approve of his methods. Bernhard is not respectful of protocols, as you know. He's the bull in the tearoom. My people did not like it when I went to work for him.

  Dusk was coming on. Thomas rose from his chair and went to the edge of the water. Leon, standing at the end of the pier, was nearly obscured by the fog coming in waves. Thomas skipped one stone after another, thinking of Yussef and the boy and the other two, now at large. It didn't matter to him where they were actually, only that they had taken up residence in his mind once again. He saw them clearly at the long table shackled hand and foot, the guards behind them slapping their bastinados against the chair backs. The boy had been terrified, the other two resigned, Yussef still as death itself. That was where they were in his mind and they remained there still, until, at a mysterious signal, they rose from their chairs and glided across the room to the stairs and disappeared while Thomas skipped stone after stone across the ruffled surface of the water.

  He took his seat again and said to Antoine, What did you learn about them?

  The other two were common criminals, not stupid, Saudis. The boy was a courier. Yussef was a different breed, devout in his own way. He could recite verses of the Koran from memory in a beautiful haunting voice. He did that even when filled up with chemicals. He was unreachable in that state of intoxication. Ecstatic, I would say, and in that state harmless. He reminded me of a feral cat my wife took in. She was nice to the cat and after a while he lost his hostility and became a house cat like any other, except now and then, entirely unpredictably, his eyes would flash and he would bare his teeth and you saw at once where he came from and what he was and might become again if conditions changed. In other words, if he felt like it. That was Yussef when he was intoxicated. We learned that among other activities he organized public executions. He organized them the way we French organize a parade. Yussef chose the time, the place, the means of execution, and the executioners. The event had a ritual formality to it. Someone had misbehaved, betrayed a comrade, refused an order, disobeyed the Koran, mocked God. Other times Yussef arranged for the car bomb or the assassin's bullet. That was what he told us he did. His descriptions were quite poetic. Yussef had the storyteller's gift and if I had not known better I would have sworn that these stories came from deep in his subconscious and arose from his dreams of the man he wanted to be instead of the man he was. But I cannot swear to that. Much of what he told us could not be verified. Really, the only crime we could prove was the killing of Florette.

  And you let him go, Thomas said.

  The man we got back was a valuable man.

  French?

  I don't know. I imagine he was. Or, who knows? Maybe a she.

  Thomas wasn't sure how much more he wanted to know. He had the idea he was lying in an open grave and the grave was being filled with sand, one grain at a time. The Moroccan would be with him for the rest of his days, arriving at unexpected times, one scrap of information after another, and he'd better get used to it. This information would come to him whether he wanted it or not. He had no say in the matter. Thomas listened to the foghorn a moment and said, Is it true they were on their way to Holland?

  We think so, Antoine said. A disciplinary action. One of their people had talked to the police and Yussef was on his way to prepare the execution. He was a fanatic about security and that was why they were traveling the mountain trail. We believe they entered the country at Perpignan. Probably by boat from Algiers.

  This information came from him? Some of it, Antoine said. After torture?

  Some of it, Antoine said again. What kind of torture?

  What you saw in Le Havre and other kinds. Don't ask me to be specific. I have already said more than I should, but we felt you were entitled to know what we know. Bernhard was most insistent. I have to say that after one year with us Yussef was not right in the head. I suppose verses from the Koran can carry a man only so far. They are only songs, after all. He may have been deceiving us but I don't think so. He was unbalanced, Thomas. I don't think he'll be much use to anyone from now on but I can't give a guarantee. Much remains unexplained. Not all problems have solutions. I am unable to say more than that.

  They were silent. Somewhere back of the breeze, the foghorn, and the gulls, Thomas heard piano music, no doubt a late-season cocktail party at one of the trophy houses, probably the Lunds on Hall's Hill. Thomas explained to Antoine that in the summer a musician who did Bobby Short imitations charged five hundred dollars an hour for a three-hour gig. That included the dinner jacket and the smart repartee. The three-hundred-watt smile came with the tip. But the musician migrated to the Caribbean after Labor Day, so he would not be available. The music they heard was recorded. Thomas craned his neck to locate the Lunds house but fog had closed in. Thomas lit a Gitane while they listened to "Ain't Misbehavin '" very faintly in the distance. He said, In the old days Bernhard would have insisted we crash the party. He'd make a pass at the hostess or maybe the host, depending on his mood, and stay till dawn. Flirting, telling stories, drinking everything in sight, letting everyone know he was a basket full of secrets.

  Does your wife know what you do, Antoine?

  No, Antoine said.

  If she knew, would she mind?

  I think she would. My wife is religious.

  Florette liked the rituals of the church but she was not religious.

  I think my wife would mind terribly, Antoine said. She liked the idea of the police, a stable business, guardians of the public order, an early retirement and a good pension. She thought I was a superintendent, which I was, but not the sort she imagined. She thought more along the lines of Inspector Maigret. She would not like to know what I did actually and what I do now. She would definitely not like the idea of running mercenaries for an American. It would not be—

  Comme il faut, Thomas said and they both laughed.

  The fog continued to gather. The foghorn's moan diminished, the piano music vanished. The pier was lost to view and Leon with it. Somewhere back of the dune an owl cried. Thomas reached into his beach bag and pulled on a sweater against the chill. Dusk was coming on fast.

  He said, You can't kill them all, can you?

  Antoine said he didn't think so.

  There are so many, Thomas said.

  Very many, Antoine agreed. On every continent.

  In time—

  It will be worse, Antoine said.—they may lose heart.

  Like my feral cat? Antoine snorted. I didn't tell you the end of the story. My wife's cat was an Abyssinian, quite handsome, ringtailed with a narrow black stripe down its back. One day the brute clawed my wife from her elbow to her wrist, broke the skin to the bone. She was terrified. She loved the cat and could not understand what made him turn on her. So I had it destroyed. Or to be precise: I took it outside to our back yard and shot it dead.

  And did she approve?

  I didn't ask her, Antoine said.

  Thomas was suddenly very tired. This was his favorite time of day, the sun shuddering in the west, the sea settling, the fog arriving to close things out. It was a perfect day for a sketchpad and a pencil. He collected a handful of sand and let it leak through his fingers. There were scores of tiny tooth-shells and other remains of sea creatures. This part of the Atlantic had long been empty of fish except for fugitives. But it was very beautiful at the end of the day.

  Thomas said, Do you miss Le Havre?

  Antoine thought a moment and said, Yes.

  You were awfully good at what you did.

  Yes, I was. I was the best they had.

  An unusual skill, Thomas said.

  Very unusual, Antoine agreed.

&nb
sp; And then you didn't want to do it anymore.

  It's not personal, my friend. All mechanics retire. Antoine was silent a minute or more, listening to the owl's cry. He said, I was fifty-five. My wife wanted to return to Bretagne, the village where she was born. Our children and grandchildren live nearby. And when Bernhard came along and offered me enough money to buy the house she always wanted, I said the time had come. Two years with Bernhard and then a proper retirement. A common police story: Inspector Maigret goes home to tend his garden, play boules with his friends, visit his grandchildren, grow old. And in a year or two that is exactly what I will do.

  For a split second, as Antoine turned his head, Thomas sensed the ambiance of the stage, and an audience, and a skilled actor alone in the spotlight. Thomas knew that something more was coming and he waited for it, watching sand slip through his fingers. Above them gulls drifted in light wind and the nearby sound of waves curling onto the beach resembled applause.

  When you are very good at something, Antoine began and then sighed, declining to finish his sentence. He said instead, I miss hearing confessions. Not the sordid details of their lives—I have no interest in their lives. The details of the crime. A successful interrogation is a beautiful thing. The truth builds so slowly you can believe the room is under a spell, time advancing by heartbeats. You would say: one small brushstroke after another. It's exhausting. It wears you out, hour after hour, and at last all defenses are broken down and the truth makes itself known. We did this and then we did that. X gave the order. Y was the target. Z was the escape route. God is great. And in thirty minutes you have everything you need and more than you need because the man in the chair cannot stop, a torrent of words. And then you must be very careful that the imagination is not in play. You must beware that the subject has not become bewitched with his story and concluded that as good as it is in fact, he can make it better by exaggerating. As with Yussef.

  Antoine was silent again, staring at his hands. Thomas watched him work his callused fingers, a magician preparing to pull smoke from his thumbs.

  Do you remember all of them?

  Every one, Antoine said. I have an excellent memory. And you're not troubled?

  Of course I'm troubled. Not to be troubled is not to be human. But I was a policeman. I acted on behalf of the state. I came to know my subjects very well. I came to know them perhaps better than they knew themselves. Not that any of us can know more than a finite amount, and even that's prone to error. In the end we are doing a job, an assignment. There's a residue we cannot explain. Too bad. Tough luck, as you would say. But Yussef chose the arrangements of his life, not I.

  You felt you knew Yussef?

  Yussef most of all. Not that it mattered in the end.

  That's what happens when you do your job.

  You should go back to yours, Antoine said.

  I intend to, Thomas said.

  So that you will not be troubled.

  That depends on the subject, Thomas said.

  Antoine poured the last of the wine into their glasses. Thomas shook a Gitane from his pack, offered one to Antoine, took one himself, and lit both with Florette's lighter. Bernhard stirred, murmuring something unintelligible.

  I was troubled in St. Michel du Valcabrère, Thomas said, so I thought it was time to return to America. I don't know why; I hadn't been here in years. My acquaintance with it is limited to what I'd read in the newspaper and now that I'm here I find that the newspapers were not wrong. America is not the place for anyone who is troubled. Still, I was not ready to return to St. Michel. I drove from New York to Boston and up the coast from Boston. I saw a car ferry and I took it. I liked the look of the village, a half-dozen shops, lobster boats in the harbor, a snug anchorage. I spent an hour on the harbor drawing boats. I liked it. And so I stayed.

  And has it met your expectations?

  Thomas said, Entirely.

  So you're settled down.

  Probably not. This afternoon's news changes things. I have to think about them again, Yussef and the boy and the other two who murdered my wife. They were locked up. But now they're back in the world. One of the things that appealed to me about Maine was the quiet, and now it's not quiet.

  It will be again, Antoine said.

  Don't think for one minute that the dead don't have voice, Thomas replied.

  They heard an unfamiliar sound and looked up. Antoine was on his feet at once, pitching his cigarette away, crouching, peering into the fog. They heard a rattle of shingle, then silence, and once again a heavy step close by, alarming in its force. Two men, Thomas thought, perhaps three, incautious in their approach. So they had arrived at last, a final rendezvous, and as acceptable now as later. Thomas rose from his chair. From the fog a fantastic shape materialized, very tall and broad, two-headed, now at the water's edge and moving in their direction. Antoine crept away and was lost in the fog. Thomas remained standing, waiting for the fog to part. The horse and its rider arrived from the fog, Lund's young daughter astride her creamy palomino. The body of the horse, its color identical to the fog surrounding it, seemed to disappear, leaving only its head and the girl's visible. When Tina Lund saw Thomas she gave a little cry and reined up, frightened. Her horse raised its great head, quartering, its hooves slipping on the shingle. When the animal was under control, Tina grinned and waved at Thomas, and in a moment she was gone, lost again in the fog. Only then did Thomas notice Leon lumbering toward him over the stones and soft sand. Leon paused to listen to the retreating hoofbeats, then holstered the pistol he held in his hand.

  He said, Who was that?

  Thomas said, The neighbor's daughter.

  She should be careful, Leon said.

  She likes to ride her horse on the beach. She's just a kid.

  She was unexpected, Leon said. She could've gotten hurt.

  No harm done, Thomas said.

  She was lucky, Leon said with a cold smile. Is Mr. Sindelar all right?

  Thomas had forgotten about Bernhard, who continued to sleep. He was motionless except for a tic in his cheek.

  Antoine stood off to one side, a disgusted expression on his face.

  Leon said to Antoine, We must leave now. The ferry.

  Antoine looked at his watch. We have a minute.

  It will take time getting the car up the hill.

  Thomas put his hand on Bernhard's shoulder and shook him. Bernhard opened one eye and looked at him blankly.

  Your boat, Bernhard.

  Leon reached down for Bernhard's hand and slowly hauled him to his feet. The big man stood, swaying a little, looking like a drunk trying to get his bearings. His face was still full of sleep. He said, Where are we going?

  To the mainland, Antoine said.

  Thomas said, You're welcome to spend the night. I have room. Bernhard looked left and right, angry at the unfamiliar surroundings. He said, Where are we again? Maine, Thomas said. Christ, I don't know where I am. You're in Maine, Thomas said. What am I doing here? You missed the horse and rider, Thomas said. What horse and rider?

  A girl on a horse, Antoine said. Surprised us. Looked at first like a desert mirage when they came out of the fog. I don't know anything about it, Bernhard said.

  Leon collected the beach chairs and the hamper and began to move across the beach to the dune and the parking lot beyond. Antoine offered his arm to Bernhard, who waved it aside.

  Really, Thomas said. There's room here.

  We have to go sometime, Antoine said.

  We have important interviews in Bangor, Bernhard put in. Good lads for the team in Baghdad.

  Antoine looked at Thomas and shook his head: no interviews in Bangor, no lads for the team in Baghdad.

  All right then, Thomas said.

  Did you find out all you needed to know? Bernhard asked. Thanks for coming all this way, Thomas said. I knew Antoine would deliver. Let's go, Bernhard, Antoine said.

  This is important, Bernhard said. Listen closely. If we can help, let us know. We have resources. W
e have the damnedest resources you can imagine. We're full-service. You have only to ask.

  I know, Thomas said.

  You bet, Bernhard replied.

  Then Leon was back with a flashlight and a car blanket for Bernhard. He draped the blanket over Bernhard's shoulders and the three began the slow march across the rocks and sand. It was almost dark. Fog was all around them now and there were no lights visible on Hall's Hill or anywhere else. Thomas worried about Tina Lund navigating her horse in the darkness but she was a resourceful girl and the horse knew the way. Thomas gathered up his camp stool and beach bag and followed behind them, Bernhard now holding on to Antoine's arm. When Leon reached the parking lot he switched on the car's headlights and opened the rear door. When Thomas looked inside he saw a bed with a reading light fixed to the headboard. The windows were smoked for privacy. Leon helped Bernhard onto the bed, where he gave a jaunty wave to Thomas and closed his eyes. His body went slack at once, a collapsed balloon. Antoine covered his legs with the blanket. Then Leon climbed in behind the wheel and impatiently gunned the engine.

  Let me know how he's doing, Thomas said to Antoine.

  He'll be all right. You should have seen him a week ago. He tires easily, that's all. Antoine got into the front seat of the car beside Leon, who was busy unstrapping his hip holster and stowing it in the glove compartment.

  The horse scared you, Thomas said.

  I have always been frightened of horses, Antoine said.

  That one's tame enough.

  Antoine grunted. Leon gunned the engine once more. I wish you very good luck, Thomas said. And you, Antoine said. Perhaps we can meet sometime in Brittany. Antoine smiled broadly. Inshallah, he said, and closed the car door.

  Thomas rapped the roof of the car, bruising his knuckles on the armor plate. The Mercedes eased forward and back again and stalled. The parking lot was too small for a stretch limousine. Leon restarted the engine and cranked the steering wheel but ran the car into the dune. Thomas walked around the front of the car and stood in the headlights to give hand signals, forward, left, back, left again, forward. At last the car was free and moving slowly to the road. Presently it began to climb, heeling now to starboard, now to port as it slipped in the ruts. The taillights winked on and off as the car dipped in the shallows of the road. Thomas watched it rise up the hill, the headlights aglow in the underbrush until it reached the top, turned the corner, and was lost to view, leaving Thomas alone in the parking lot. He stood quietly listening to the owl and the faint splash of waves breaking on the beach. There were no other sounds. The wind had died. Then somewhere in the distance he heard faint hoofbeats, a horse in a slow trot, and Tina Lund whistling softly.