She in turn squinted into her compact mirror, clicked it shut as though to end things, but the man was obviously enjoying his new company.
“Well I hope you find him in all this lot. We’re going to see if we can get a room in Neuilly somewhere.”
Colette smiled at his pronunciation. “La Défense might be better.”
“Ta, thanks. We’re Bartley by the way.” He reached over to shake her hand. A working hand, unlike Robert’s.
“I’m Bataille. Quite similar.”
“Mansfield we’re from. Near Nottingham. Ever heard of Robin Hood by any chance?”
“I learnt that legend in school. Where I come from, we have many.”
“Oh?”
“The most famous one’s about dogs.” She drew hard on her cigarette and let the smoke bypass his eager face. “I believe it’s mediaeval.”
“We’ve got a dog. A Sealydale. Jimmy.”
“No. Not that sort at all.” Colette managed a smile, and stubbed out her dimp more decisively than anything else she’d done so far.
“Go on, then.”
“Demons force men’s souls to enter the bodies of dogs – the great white dogs of the mountains...”
“Blimey.”
“They say that if you shoot at the dog and hit him, the soul will be delivered, but if the arrow or whatever falls on the shadow, the soul will immediately die.”
Silence as the tourists’ mouths hung open.
“Wait a mo,” the man said suddenly quick to change the subject, turned to his wife. “We’ve an Abel label we can give her, haven’t we, Pet?” he asked, but she wasn’t going to open her bag again, so he pressed out a used napkin and wrote on it, making holes with his Biro.
“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” frowned The Pet. “We don’t know who she is. Besides, I didn’t like that story at all.”
“Oh come on, it were harmless enough. Look, I’m just doing my little bit to help Europe open up. Remember our car sticker? All those stars?”
“Merci.” Colette slipped the napkin into her pocket.
All those stars...
“If ever you’re in Angleterre...” the Midlander began.
“I will, thank you.”
He looked back at her. His European trophy, bright in the sun.
“Might see you around tomorrow,” he said.
“I do hope you find a bed.”
Soon they were no more than echoes while the same Filipino stood attentive at new, ungrateful shoulders.
***
16.03
Colette got her bearings. Rue des Sables, south west, blinded by the sun as Carmelites, straight from the Martyr’s Field at Picpus, Sisters of Mercy, the Order of the Poor Clares, women who’d given up on the world kicked up the leaves, letting the light kiss their cheeks as they walked.
No men, no Bertrand, but still something made her follow the last cohort of some twenty young women swathed in coarse, loose robes. She listened for any discernible dialect but there were too few words, and those that reached her were of a holy nature, in Latin. Other travellers stared as the procession of grey, black and white flowed by.
She felt magnetised, somehow connected to their purpose. She’d recently started taking the Eucharist again for the first time since Bertrand’s birth, to lend more mystery, something more other-worldly to her existence. But there was no need for the Confessional – she’d been martyr enough what with her late husband whom she’d nursed for three years, and the shame of Bertrand entering the world without a father. Too much pain, too many burdens – until Robert Vidal had arrived. The man with the eyes of fire.
***
Like vast colanders, the foliage above spotted sunlight on to the heads of the Pauvres Soeurs des Souffrances. Just as in the Forêt de Woëvres in 1980, where her parents, Marguerite and Noah Rigaud had attached themselves to a new umbilical – the rubber variety – brought from his tidy garage on the birthday of The Blessed Virgin Mary, with bells from everywhere pealing the celebration...
Dust reached her eyes as though conspiring to keep her and her son apart. Her pavement shoes felt suddenly hard and inhospitable, so she removed them and drew closer, close enough to recognise “Tantum ergo Sacramentum,” choir and solo parts to de Chambéry’s limpid tune. The priest had always chosen Haydn, with his older boys taking the alto, but no matter, she joined in, her voice rising with theirs past the Lac pour le Patinage and campers settling down for the night. No longer anxious for her son or the fact she was alone. Forgetting her lover’s manipulation and neglect, she touched the nun in front and gave her name.
IV
16.42
Vidal led the Provençal down the Avenue de Madrid away from the Bois de Boulogne, but Duvivier, ever the strategist, caught up, his breath rasping from his lungs.
“You come second. Always. Semper. Remember that, my friend.” He pushed a finger into Vidal’s coccyx until he was allowed to draw alongside.
“It’s not a problem for me.”
“I disagree.”
They fell silent, in step broken just once by Vidal stopping to buy Le Figaro. He rolled it up to beat a fly away from his head as they followed signs for the cemetery. “That queer Tessier,” Duvivier began, out of the blue. “Are you sure there’s no family to cause trouble?”
“All in the Afterlife, I’m pleased to report.”
“We don’t want complications. Not now.”
“Look, they’d have found the cord round his balls. Felo de se.”
“A kick would have done the trick.”
“Oh, really? How would you have liked his fist up your arse every night? Besides, he was unreliable. A dismantler.”
Of my dreams, my ambition...
“What d’you mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Our new boy Matthieu had better be able to hold a camera.”
“He will.”
The cemetery seemed to heap up on itself below the hazy Paris skyline. Its population of granite and marble rendered to earth colours over the centuries. A huge wing here, a Bible there, red iron oxide like blood, leaking and staining. Instinctively, Vidal crossed himself as Duvivier’s half-formed eyes scoured the site.
***
17.03
For some reason the Lanvière priest thought of Colette and her light, thinning hair. How hard she’d tried with her appearance. How all in vain.
“Where are the cunts?” Duvivier forged ahead, his rolling gait at odds with the stifling rigidity of the place. In the distance, a couple with fresh flowers hunted for a grave and an old woman in black bent low, replenishing water.
“Heil!” came from behind a row of family tombs. Duvivier spun round.
“Cacheux! Good, where’s the other one?”
“We’re joined at the hip, Herr Kommandant.” A long hand from an immaculate linen cuff sought his, but Duvivier was nervous. Some obvious aftershave Vidal couldn’t quite place. Then Plagnol the Pigface appeared, unhealthily pink against a black polo neck and dark jeans. His eyes already dangerous.
Both produced posies of freesias. Éric Cacheux’s deliberately the bigger of the two, and Vidal pretended to draw in their scent.
“Plastic, I see,” he said. “How generous.”
“They’ll do.” Duvivier came between, and with appropriate solemnity for the benefit of a wheelchair and carer passing by, the tributes were laid on a slab whose letters had long disappeared.
“We’re seeing our new copain at 17.45 by the south gate. Any news or problems so far?” Duvivier stopped and Vidal offered him a Camel from the pack then lit up himself, pleased the others had noticed.
“Our Bébé was too fucking loud. We had to sort him out.” Plagnol said matter-of-factly.
“What d’you mean?” Vidal frowned.
“Like I said.”
“Please explain.” Duvivier exhaled, then a cough underpinned by phlegm.
“We gave him a shot of something. Nothing traceable.”
“You
did, not me.” Cacheux picked out one of the flowers and slotted it into his button hole.
“Does it matter for God’s sake? Fact is, he’ll have a quiet night. Got too many meddlers hanging around there for my liking.”
“And Jews.”
“It’s Drancy. So what’s new?”
The quartet clustered inside a marble portico with its six drawers, still empty and the name Famille El Fazoukt in gold leaf. “Noirs got rich.” Duvivier sneered, then spat on his finger, drawing it across the name. “Look here, I know what I’m talking about.” He repeated his little defamation on the tomb and watched it dry. “Nothing hasty in our Bébé’s nursery now. We need patience.”
“Easy for you to say that.” Plagnol’s fleshy mouth down-turned to a sulk. “The noisy brat hasn’t let up since he got there.”
“Just do as you’re told.” Duvivier stared at another name from the past. “Because I have another little anxiety.”
“What’s that, then?” Cacheux anxious to capitalise; to elicit a confidence, but the Provençal ignored him.
“This Mathieu could prove tricky. Not had the same vetting. No time. So he mustn’t know too much. Only what I allow. Is that clear?” He dropped his cigarette on the gravel and buried it with the toe of his boot.
“Is he one of us? A Dominican?” Vidal asked.
“Look at his first name. His dear mother insisted on it. Dominique. Can’t get much better than that, bless her.”
“Trial period?” Cacheux’s eyes on the beautiful man from Lanvière.
“Not possible. But my friend the Bishop of Kervecamp recommended him most highly.”
“What for?” Plagnol’s wispy eyebrows almost disappeared under his hairline.
“Domus, my new charity. Homeless stuff. Very à-propos, don’t you think?”
Vidal stared at the man who could spin lies more easily than Satan himself. Who could cast his devious net far wider than any other man of the sea. “But let’s not forget, at the end of the day, the poor fucker’s looking for love. His words not mine on his letter of application to join us. So let’s be nice to him. And another thing...”
“What?”
“His was the first reply we got.”
“We?”
“I mean, I.” Duvivier said quickly.
“Well, he’s come to the right place.” Vidal tossed his Camel butt over a cherub’s head as they followed the overgrown walkway to the far end. “Just watch him, in case. By the way, how long do we keep our Bébé?”
“Like I said. Long as it takes.” Duvivier slid him a teasing glance.
“Nobody asks if I mind playing nanny.” Plagnol bleated. “We’ve not all struck lucky getting a vast bloody presbytery like you.”
“It befits my station.” The Provençal snarled again. “And my years of service. Besides, Les Pradels is too far away for our purpose.”
“You get extra pay, don’t you?” Cacheux flicked invisible flecks off his sleeve as Vidal held Plagnol back.
“Remember,” he said, “if anything happens to the Bébé, I’ll be taking it very personally. Got it?”
“He gave us no choice. It’s all up to maman now.”
Vidal coloured, his fists tightening to flint. “Leave her out of this.”
“Can’t have fanny and freedom, now be fair.” Plagnol’s teeth showed like tiny pearls. Vidal had the urge to stuff them down his throat.
“Boys, boys.” Duvivier parked his bulk in front of them. “Let’s not spoil it, eh?” He produced a comb clotted with grease. Ran it once through his hair. “Re our questions for the show tomorrow. Are we prepared?” Three heads nodded, but Vidal was deep in thought. “Your parishioners, bless them, your Bishops, Deacons, sub-Deacons, curse them, will all be watching. So we make ourselves obvious.” He hawked phlegm back down his throat. “Just remember, our piety and concern are our alibis. Seeing will truly be believing. Right, we have two minutes.”
And as the sun moved behind the Eiffel tower silhouetting its skyward journey, the small company finished their rehearsal and went to introduce themselves to the new recruit from Perros-Guirec.
V
Colette’s beige suit was no longer smart. Its jacket flopped open and the skirt clung to her thighs as she walked, stretching and bagging with every step. The nun whom she’d tried to distract, merely continued singing, not from perversity but a fervour that seemed to grip them all.
“Please slow down.” Colette called out, for her feet were now grey around the edges and dirt-speckled above.
The woman – or girl, she couldn’t quite tell – who strode alongside, had eyes only for the way ahead, to the space reserved for the Pauvres Soeurs des Souffrances marked by a flag. ‘Bienvenue, Toutes les Femmes Sans Espoir.’ In bold red letters altering on the breeze.
So, someone at least cares in this city. God has obviously touched their hearts... “I’m Colette. Colette Bataille,” she repeated.
The nun turned with a pitying look on her face. A face of the purest and, if it were possible, the most translucent ivory. Her eyes without eyelashes, lined by pale blood, could have come from the brush of Van der Weyden.
“Here, use this.” She pulled a cotton square from her pocket. In the corner, an ‘A’ was embroidered above the letters PSS.
“Thank you.” Colette wiped her forehead, then between her breasts. “Is that for Anne by any chance?”
“No. Agnès. Sister Agnès. Look, we’re nearly there.”
The singing had resumed, more subdued and hesitant as the leaders crossed the flattened grass towards the site of the vigil.
“Caniculares Dies.” The young woman smiled to herself. “Except that according to tradition, they were over by the 11th. This is most unusual, don’t you think?”
“What is?”
“The heat of course. It can turn the brain.”
“I’m sure.” Colette was glad of the turf between her toes like a long cold towel.
“Maybe that’s part of the problem.”
“Problem?”
“Not now. I must go.”
But Colette held her arm. “Agnès, something’s very wrong here. I know it.”
“How come? Five hundred thousand for the Youth Camp and over a million for the vigil. The Holy Father couldn’t have wished for more.”
“But it’s my son, Bertrand. He’s supposed to be here!”
“He will be.”
“What do you do with feelings like this? I’m not mad, am I?”
Agnès paused, her eyes on the woman old enough to be her mother.
“Ascribe them to the forces of darkness. Today and tomorrow we have light.” She pressed her hand in Colette’s, then removed it.
“Can I be at the vigil with you, Agnès? It is important.”
“Look, I shouldn’t even be talking to you now. We must keep our own counsel in public, or suffer seven days alone.”
“Seven?”
“More if I’m not careful.” She looked to see if any of her Order had noticed so far, but to them, the shoeless woman from Lanvière was just another lost soul caught up in the expectation of miracles.
“So you call it suffering to be alone?”
“One is never truly alone of course,” Agnès turned to her, “but to be without the little reassurances, the smiles of life, is surely to be in Hell.”
“I spend most of my time there, then.” Colette managed a grin.
“You see,” the nun’s eyes suddenly became intense, “we are as veins and arteries. By us and through us, from one to the next, is the precious Faith carried.”
Suddenly a tannoy announcement amongst the trees sent the bird population heavenward from chestnuts and oaks overloaded by stale summer and brown in the dying sun. Soon the preparations for the Mass would be ready with the elevated dais and the requisites for it centred for all to see.
“My prayers to you and Bertrand.” Agnès whispered, before flying over the grass to rejoin her group. “I’ll see you again, I know.”
“Me too.” Colette stared after her, then realised her watch showed 17.50.
***
“Colette, this is Father Jérôme and Father Christophe de la Bonté. Two more loyal followers of our Holy Father.” Vidal was forced to shout her name with theirs as the hordes who’d gathered by the Eiffel tower were now invading the park from the west. Against his better judgement, the Kommandant had decided after all it was best to be transparent. Besides, he’d argued, the men of God had nothing to hide.
She looked the priests up and down, unable to respond, for the fat one was focussed on her breasts, while his companion’s gaze rested solely on Robert. “And finally, Father Xavier-Marie.”
A young man with sun-bleached brown hair stepped forward, doing his best to smile. “Hi.”
He was the same height as Bertrand and almost the same colouring, but tension made him awkward and hesitant. As a mother, she could tell.
Traffic stalled in the street, embalmed by fumes as motorbikes brazenly snaked their way through. Vidal stared after each one, remembering his own Deauville bike on the open road – its surge of freedom between his thighs, the wind in his throat.
The lights changed and the five picked their way across.
Colette was hot and dishevelled, her make-up awry and her hair continually pulled from her head by a mocking breeze, but Mathieu was alongside and it would have been rude to ignore him. “Where are you from?” she asked, and his eyes rested on hers without a trace of guile.
“Brittany. Perros Guirec.”
She was about to say her parents had once been there on a honeymoon visit, but Duvivier got in first. “We have a Celt among us, you see, Madame.” He barked, once more in the lead. He could equally have said Pagan or Peasant, such was his tone. “And I’m afraid they can be tricky.”
“St. Jean de Motte Mauron’s my main base,” the Breton added, ignoring him.
“I think they have the stapes from his ear.” Cacheux kept checking his suit, aware of his turn-ups rucking on his shoes. “Or whatever.”
The newcomer watched in obvious disgust, clearly feeling no desire to correct him. The fact it was the Saint’s left thumbnail now seemed irrelevant.
Malediction Page 3
