by Iain Pears
This last was, in many ways, the most terrible of all the skills he made me learn. To my surprise, I was surprisingly good at them. Although I had never before considered myself a natural criminal, it appeared that I had an aptitude in that direction. Robbing a bank or town hall was not really that different from the one-boy raids I had launched at school, and I had learned young that immense walks in the far more rugged terrain in Wales or northern England—a hundred miles or more, spread over several days, camping out at night where I could—was an effective salve for the troubles of adolescence. I discovered later that the all-seeing Mr. Wilkinson knew of these activities of mine—he knew my old headmaster well—and added them all into his calculations. Schoolboy criminality, evidently, was a better qualification for his esteem than the more normal virtues associated with the civil servant.
All, bar shooting, I could do, and do well. But the evening with Virginie was different entirely. It was where Lefevre and I began to part company, and I started thinking for myself about this task which others wanted me to perform.
She was a seamstress, so Lefevre told me, of the sort that abound in the thousands throughout eastern France, eking out a small living with their hands, permanently in danger of hunger, and willing to trade all they possess for a little security. Those who are lucky find a companion, a bourgeois student perhaps, and set up house. The foolish dream of marriage, the more practical realise the liaison will be of short duration, and that eventually the respectable world will reclaim their protector. Most will then be left to fend for themselves once more, unless their former lovers can be persuaded to pay for any children that might have been produced.
Others are less fortunate and drift into a life of whoring, and the huge numbers of soldiers along the border provide ample business. Their lives are brutal and often short. It is remarkable how many remain human nonetheless; the spark of humanity is not so easily extinguished, even when there is often little to sustain it. The woman Lefevre took me to was one such. She was probably an illegitimate child who would one day generate more such as she was. She found herself in Nancy and was inevitably turning to soldiers for protection.
But she was still young and new and fresh, as the saying goes, and had ambitions above mere survival. Life burned in her and would not be easily quenched. The clarity of her vision was remarkable: she had a sophistication of thought far beyond her sex, or station or age. Listen:
“Do not think I do not understand what I am doing. I could become a flower girl, or a shop worker or labour in a factory. I might find some drunken soldier who would beat me and leave me. Or be forced to live with a man far more stupid than I am and defer to his obtuseness in exchange for security. What I do now may not prevail. I might sink to the bottom, and live out my days wheedling ever more disgusting men for a few sous. ‘Hello, dearie, want a good time?’ I’ve seen it all. It is one future that may become mine.
“But only one, and it is not inevitable, whatever the moralists tend to think and hope. I might do better. I am prepared to gamble, and if it does not work, then I will at least end my days in the gutter knowing that I have tried.”
Lefevre made her a proposition. In exchange for any information she might provide, he would offer payment. Gold for betrayal; the most essential of human transactions, but he attempted to disguise it by subtle words and careful phrasing. She saw through them all immediately.
“What sort of information do you have in mind? We are in a border town full of troops. I imagine that is the sort of information you require.”
“Café gossip, tales of troop movements, training. Who is up and who is down in the army.”
She pursed her lips. Very well-formed lips, wide and curving, touched up by only the faintest art. “That is all very well, I imagine, but hardly vital. What country do you come from? Or work for? I will not spy for the Germans.”
“We do not work for the Germans,” he replied.
“Probably the English, then. Or the Russians.” She considered. “I think I could manage that. Depending on the price, of course. But I think you set your sights too low.”
“How is that?”
“The whole of the general staff is here. Would it not be better to have information from that quarter, rather than café chit-chat?”
Lefevre did not reply.
“You have made me a proposition, Monsieur. I will make you one. I do not want to spend my life in the company of soldiers. But to present myself to better society I need clothes, jewels, somewhere better to live.”
She stopped, for what she had in mind was clear enough.
“And how much would you suggest?” Lefevre said dryly.
“About a thousand francs.”
He laughed, then shook his head. “I think not, my girl. I do not have such sums at my disposal and if I gave it to you I doubt I would ever see it again. You’d be on the next train out with a different name. Do you take me for an idiot?”
I abbreviate, and my memory does not recall the exact words, but that was the essence of the conversation. It was illuminating; I considered that Lefevre had made a mistake, and that I had seen one of his limitations. He did not think broadly and was cautious in his judgement. Perhaps he was right; experience had taught him that neither men nor women were to be trusted. But I believed I had seen something he either had not glimpsed or wished to disregard.
The girl was clever. I do not mean sly, or cunning, although life had taught her much of that when it was needed. But intelligent. She saw a chance for herself. She did not, I noted, threaten—did not say she would go to the authorities and report us, which was just as well for her. She judged the situation clearly.
And even in her situation—which was poor and could easily have been squalid—she somehow rose above circumstance. She dressed well considering the quality of her clothes; she sat and talked properly. There was an animation in her eyes and expression which made one forget that she was neither particularly beautiful nor favoured in life. Even Lefevre did not address her too roughly or rudely. She had character, in sum, and I believed it was a pity to waste it.
You note I talk here entirely without reference to morality. Let me rephrase it; we were talking to a whore about how to be better at her trade and I was considering seriously that we should act in some way as her pimps. Express it in such a way and it is shocking; I was already a long way from home. Yet I did not see how her life could be made worse, or her soul even more imperilled, by the course she wished to pursue. And there might be gain all round. I put my argument to Lefevre afterwards.
He dismissed it. “A thousand francs? For a girl who charges two francs a night? Are you serious?”
“How long are we staying here?”
“Until we’re finished.”
I scowled. “Tell me.”
“Why?”
“Because I would like to talk to that girl again.”
He shook his head. “No. I forbid it.”
I found her again the following evening, walking across the Place Stanislas. Even from a distance I could see the effect she had: men walking towards her would slow down as they passed; some nodded, uncertain whether she was signalling to them. Poor as she was, she was so far above the normal that there was doubt. She was not brazen or vulgar; she attracted through an appearance of vulnerability and delicacy. I briefly considered the fate that lay before her, how that delicacy would be trampled and ruined, and shuddered slightly. I had seen in her eyes the day before that she knew exactly how her future could develop.
A man began talking to her as I approached; I bristled somewhat at the indignity, and so hailed her in a louder voice than I might otherwise have used.
“Good evening, Madame, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.”
The effect was delightful; he froze with horror at the evident mistake he had just made, gave me one brief look and ran as fast as he could. Virginie looked at me coldly.
“You will have to pay for that,” she said.
“I intend to
. Have you eaten this evening?” It was nearly eight o’clock by then and already dark and cold.
She hadn’t, so I took her to a restaurant. A moderately expensive one, deliberately chosen, as I wished to see how she would conduct herself, how much she knew about manners.
Although by far the worst-dressed woman in the place, she did not allow herself to be abashed by her obvious poverty. She behaved to the waiters with proper grace, did not allow her voice to rise as the alcohol seeped into her blood, chose her food cautiously but well, ate with delicacy. And the waiters responded; she did not flirt with them, but she made herself attractive in a distant, untouchable fashion. She got better service than I did; by the end of the meal she was getting more attention from them than anyone else in the dining room.
We were halfway through the first course when I realised I had quite forgotten who and what she was, and brusquely brought myself back to earth. “I must ask you for some information,” I said. “I’m afraid I do not understand you at all, and that could be a grave impediment to any business arrangements between us.”
She looked at me evenly, not perplexed, as she was already far beyond that stage. At no point so far had she asked me any questions at all, which was a good sign.
“I have been thinking about what you said yesterday,” I continued. “My associate”—we had not given her any names—“is not interested in your proposal, but I see some possibilities.”
Much later she told me how excited she had been by this remark; so overwhelmed that she did not know how she had prevented herself from bursting into tears. All I can say to that is that her self-control was remarkable; not a flicker of any emotion passed over her face. Had I known how well disciplined she was, I would have engaged her on the spot.
“But I need some answers from you.”
“What exactly?”
“I need to know whether you will be capable of filling the role you desire for yourself. A gentle nature and pretty face will not be sufficient. You need also to be…”
I paused, not knowing how to phrase it.
“Good in bed?” she asked quietly.
I almost spilled my drink. “No. Absolutely not. Well, yes, of course. What I was going to say was possess a degree of breeding. An ability to manage in different social situations. To be someone who could be relied on not to make a fool of themselves. Who can elicit information discreetly, without anyone suspecting them. Basically, do the job without being exposed in any way.”
She nodded.
“So far, you have behaved impeccably. Which I find extraordinary in a runaway mill girl or whatever you are.”
“Were I a runaway mill girl, then you would be right,” she said with a smile.
“I understood…”
“That is what your friend assumed, and I did not see why I should tell him my life story. It was hardly his business.”
“So your story is…?”
“Not one that I wish to tell you.”
I frowned.
“There is no need to look like that. Just take it that I have good reasons for being what I am. As for the rest, you have seen how I stand and walk and converse and eat and drink. Have you found any fault?”
“Absolutely none.”
“Do you find me grotesque, unlikely to attract the sort of men I would need to find?”
“No.”
“Do you wish to discover for yourself how good I am?”
I stared, somewhat horrified, at her.
“Come along, sir. We are talking business here. I intend to go into trade selling something, with you as an investor, so to speak. It is surely wise to ensure that the goods are of high quality.”
I was covered in embarrassment at this, at her calm as much as at her proposal. “I really don’t think that is necessary,” I muttered.
“You find me unattractive?”
“Certainly not!”
She smiled faintly. “I see. You consider yourself a gentleman.”
“No,” I replied. “That is becoming ever more difficult to credit. But I prefer to consider you a lady.”
The smile vanished. She looked down at the table and said nothing for a while, then looked me straight in the eye. “I will remember that.”
There was a long, awkward pause between us, then I coughed and tried to restart the conversation. I realised only faintly that she was now in command; the willingness to shock and surprise, the delicate display of emotion, the hint of secrecy had all so foxed me that I had allowed her to take control.
“My—ah—investment. How do you intend to spend it?”
She was as relieved as I to return to more neutral territory. “All on clothes, with a little left over for perfume. Jewellery I can rent once I have the clothes to pass as a lady. The bourgeoisie are credit-worthy.”
“I know little about women’s clothes, but I doubt they are less expensive in France than in London. I doubt you will get much for a thousand francs. I would hate to see the venture fail for lack of capital.”
“So give me more.”
“I think five thousand will be a more realistic sum,” I continued. “I will arrange the money tomorrow.”
“You have that much money to give away?”
“Good Lord, no! It’s not my money. It’s the bank’s.”
“The bank’s?”
“A long story. But I have discretion to make some payments which do not need to be directly accounted for straightaway. And I am not giving it away. However, I will need a strict schedule of payments, otherwise questions will be asked. You will be of service to many people, but the connection must be kept discreet. I should be able to lose you in the accounts.”
“And if I take the money and disappear?”
“You will not.”
“How do you know?” “Because it is your chance. The only one you will ever get and you know it. And because one day you might accidentally bump into my friend once more.”
“How long are you staying here?”
“I don’t know. Another few days.”
“And where might I find you after that?”
I gave her the address of a corresponding bank in Paris. “You will send letters there, and I will see to the rest.”
“Then there is nothing else to discuss. I will collect your money, and spend it. You will have to hope I am as honest as you believe.” She stood up, and gathered her thin scarf. “I am, you know, when I can be.”
I escorted her out into the cold of the night, and she slipped off into the darkness.
Lefevre was so furious with me on so many counts it is difficult to remember which loomed largest in his mind, but all his objections stemmed from his anger that I had gone against his wishes. I was there merely to learn from him, not to act independently. He raged at me for an hour, and the extent of his fury taught me much. He was a violent man, full of anger at the world, and he allowed it to cloud his judgement. He also had no understanding of people, I decided. He considered no one trustworthy, so did not try. They were to be threatened or frightened into compliance with his wishes; his methods had no greater subtlety.
To all of this I had one answer. I was not aware I was his employee, and I did not see why I should necessarily follow his orders in anything. I had not risked his money, or even Government money, but taken the risk upon myself. This was not entirely true, of course, but it sounded better. I would act as broker between the woman and the Government. If she came up with any useful information, I would sell it on, and use the money to pay off the debt. If she were caught, or proved less trustworthy than I anticipated, then no one would be able to trace it to Her Majesty’s Government. Better still, I would arrange for all moneys to be paid out of the Bank of Bremen’s office in Paris, so that, should suspicion fall on anyone, it would be assumed the Germans were her masters. I was rather proud of that.
He was not mollified. In fact, the realisation that I had thought the matter through made him angrier still. “You’re weak, and stupid,” he screamed at me, t
hen his voice fell. “Like father, like son,” he hissed.
“What does that mean?”
“Your father’s a weakling, always was. Couldn’t look after himself, couldn’t look after you…”
“He’s ill.”
“Weak in the head. I know all about your father. Picking flowers, that’s all he’s ever been good for.”
I hit him. It was in better circumstances than the last time I’d tried, and I didn’t even have to think about it; I just lashed out and my fist smashed into his face. With most people that would have been enough, but not with Lefevre. He was much tougher than most people. I had hurt him, but not enough to stop him. He took a step back, then came at me like a steam engine, grappling with me and knocking me against the chest of drawers in the hotel room. But if he had strength and years of bitterness on his side, I had agility and weeks of bubbling resentment on mine. I twisted, rammed his head against the wall and rolled across the floor. He hurled himself on me and began pounding at my face with his fists, while I instinctively kneed him in the stomach. The mirror fell off the wall and smashed onto the floor when he hurled me bodily across the room; the bed collapsed when we fell on it, my arm tight around his throat.
He won. He simply had more stamina, could take more punishment than I could. He left me, barely conscious, gasping for breath on the floor, standing over me but also only just able to keep upright, the blood pouring from his nose. Then he kneeled down, and held a knife to my throat for a few seconds before stumbling out of the room.
“If I ever set eyes on you again, I will kill you, do you understand?”
I had no doubts that he meant it.
I did not see him again, not that night nor the next day. He simply vanished, leaving no note behind him, leaving me to pay the hotel bill and explain the destruction in the bedroom. In retrospect I accept that I was wrong. His life was more at risk than mine should anything go badly, and he had spent much of the last quarter century exercising caution and surviving. If he trusted no one it was not simply because of a fundamental ill-will in his nature, it was from bitter experience. And he was getting old; I reminded him of his failing powers, and how different his life had been from his earlier, more optimistic expectations. Had he been less closed, less distrustful, we might have established a useful cooperation based on mutual respect, if not warmth.
