by Allan Massie
The German didn’t however restrict his conversation to literature. He spoke of his love of France, of the beauties of his home in the Black Forest – ‘How I should like to show them to you,’ he said, ‘perhaps when we are at peace again it will be possible.’ – of his taste in music, of his father, a Professor of Philology, and eventually of his marriage.
‘It is over, you understand,’ he said. ‘We were not suited. I say nothing against her. It is simply that I should not have married her. I am not made for marriage, but I did not realize that at the time. Besides, in 1934 it seemed wiser to marry, even for me, perhaps especially for a man like me. But it was a mistake. I married her because her brother was a special friend of mine. You understand? I loved him dearly. We both did. And then he was killed in a motor accident. We were left desolate and so we married. But it was only by thinking of him that I was able – I’m sorry if this embarrasses you, but I should like you to understand me, Léon – that I was able to fulfil my duties as a husband. Do you see?’
Léon looked away. Part of him wanted to laugh. Part of him felt sorry for the German. And indeed Schussmann was right – he was indeed embarrassed. But he was also alarmed. The bookshop had come to seem a refuge, a den where he was safe, and now it was as if a ferret had been introduced to flush him out.
‘Lieutenant Schussmann,’ he said, ‘please don’t go on. You will regret speaking so frankly.’
‘But why, Léon? Because of this stupid war, there must be no sincerity? Is that what you think? Please call me Karl. I am Marcus Karl but my close friends say Karl. Because you are French and I am German, does that mean we can’t be friends?’
Oh yes, Léon thought, and if I tell you I’m a Jew? And then he thought: what would Alain think? – Oh Alain!
‘Look at me, Léon. I am lonely here in your beautiful Bordeaux which is nevertheless a foreign unwelcoming city to me.’
He stretched out his hand and took hold of Léon’s chin, turning the boy’s head towards him.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you have lovely eyes.’ For the first time he had dropped into the second person singular, and now repeated the words in his own language. ‘Du hast schonen Augen. I should so much like it if you would one night have dinner with me.’
‘There’s the curfew,’ Léon said.
‘But that can be easily arranged. I should so much like it.’
It was at that moment that the door opened, with the ring of the little bell which Henri had installed in case he or his assistant was in the back shop. Schussmann let his hand fall away and turned to see Lannes.
Léon thought over the conversation while Lannes was upstairs with Henri, and again went over it, word for word, once Lannes had left. The dinner, if it ever took place, would be only a preliminary. That was obvious. How did he feel? Uncertain, even afraid, but also warm. If Schussmann – Karl – hadn’t been a German . . . it was nice to be desired, he couldn’t help feeling that. That was after all why he had first gone with Gaston, though admittedly he had from the first liked Gaston, who made him laugh, more than he liked the German. On the other hand, having a German friend might be useful. He disliked that thought, but he couldn’t put it away. And Alain, that was different, but, he feared, hopeless. Only another sort of friendship possible there. He was sure of that, sadly sure. Alain had offered no responsive flicker. He saw Léon as a mate – a ‘copain’ – nothing more. Well, there was no need to commit himself. Spin it out, he said. He looked in the mirror – at the ‘lovely eyes’ – and felt in his imagination Karl’s fingers running along the line of his jaw.
Lannes also had evidently had no doubt as to Schussmann’s intentions. That was another consideration to bear in mind.
He was still turning these thoughts over when the bell rang again and Alain himself came in.
‘Coffee?’
‘If you still have some and can spare it.’
‘For you certainly.’
For you, anything, was what he wanted, but didn’t dare, to say.
‘How’s school?’
‘Tedious. It all seems pointless now.’
‘And your rugby?’
‘That’s all right.’
‘I should like to see you play.’
‘Would you? Come along one day then.’
‘I’d like that.’
He brought through the coffee and poured it.
‘Cigarette?’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’ve just missed your father. He seems quite happy we’re friends. We are, aren’t we? I’m glad you told him we’d met.’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Oh I don’t know. He also told me that someone took a shot at a German soldier in the public garden yesterday . . . and that I fitted the description.’
‘And did you?’
‘Fit the description? He thought so.’
‘No. I meant; were you the guy that shot?’
‘Certainly not. I don’t know one end of a gun from the other. That’s to say, I’ve never fired one in my life.’
Alain wrinkled his brow.
‘I envy him, you know,’ he said. ‘At least he’s tried to do something.’
‘But he missed.’
‘Pity.’
‘Do you really think so.’
‘Do I? I don’t know. To some extent.’
For a little then they talked of books, those they had read, those that still awaited them, and, as they talked, they smoked, and Léon admired Alain’s ability to speak whole paragraphs without removing the cigarette which dangled from the right corner of his lips.
Then Alain said, ‘Of course all this talk is escapism, to divert us from reality. I wonder who he was.’
‘Who?’
‘The boy whose description you fit, who took a pot at the Boche. I really admire him even if he was a rotten shot. Maybe it’s more difficult than we think. I’ve never fired a pistol or revolver. Have you?’
‘I told you I haven’t. Actually I do know which end you point, but that’s about all. I don’t suppose it’s as easy to hit your target as it is in the movies, especially Westerns.’
‘Everyone’s been ordered to hand their guns in, but I expect there are lots hidden. My father’s got one of course, but it wouldn’t be right to use his.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, they can identify guns from the bullets, can’t they?’
‘But you wouldn’t, would you, even if you had one?’
Alain looked up and smiled broadly. His eyes were alight with enthusiasm or, perhaps, mischief.
‘Why not?’
Léon hesitated. He didn’t want to appear backward or cowardly. All the same . . .
‘All the same,’ he said, ‘what would killing a single German soldier accomplish? And would it even be right? Not to speak of the reprisals that would probably follow, he would probably turn out to be a poor conscript – like your brother – who didn’t even want to be in the army, not at all a real Nazi. And remember, I’ve even more reason to hate them than you do – being a Jew, don’t forget. But I wouldn’t do it.’
‘Fair enough.’ Alain was still smiling. ‘It’s too soon anyway. But the day will come, I sure of it, when we have to choose our side, choose between collaborating like my miserable uncle, and resisting.’
‘We could do nothing. There’s the other choice, neither one thing nor the other.’
‘Oh yes, we could be like sheep. But how would we fell afterwards when those who did resist are hailed as heroes? No, when the time comes, I shall choose to act. In any case, Léon – I don’t know just how to put this – do you really think that, as a Jew, you’ll be allowed to opt for doing nothing? Sorry, that’s horrid. Forgive me. But it may be true. Do you listen to the BBC?’
‘No, well, not often. It was at a friend’s house I heard the replay of de Gaulle’s first broadcast. I suppose there have been others, but I haven’t heard them. So – to answer your question – I don’t listen to the BBC, not really.’
‘Nor do I, because it would alarm my mother. But I’ve also a friend who does, and he says, there’s no doubt the English are going to fight on – even if, it seems to me, they’re not doing much fighting just now. So . . . give me another cigarette, please.’
Léon tossed him the packet.
‘Oh, is this your last?’
‘That’s all right. Take it. We’ll go and see my aunt and get more. I think I can shut the shop now.’
Léon thought: What would Alain think if I told him about Schussmann? Would he be disgusted?
XX
The concierge was surly as on his earlier visit.
‘Ill, is she?’ she said. ‘Don’t you believe it. That kind takes good care of herself. Do you know, she complained the other day she couldn’t find cream for her cat? For her cat, I ask you, and cream which we haven’t seen in Bordeaux since I don’t know when. All goes to the Germans, I suppose, not that I’ve seen anything to complain of in their behaviour. They’re being very correct, aren’t they? No, I haven’t seen her in a couple of days, but then I don’t look out for her, do I? Anything but, in fact.’
Lannes let the words wash over him. He knew the type only too well. They made eager but unreliable witnesses, their perceptions invariably distorted by malice and by their desire to make themselves seem important.
He had to ring twice before Madame Robartet opened the door. She was neatly dressed as she had been on their earlier encounter, but she walked more slowly and uncertainly, even in the carpet slippers she was wearing, and he didn’t recall her hands shaking as they did now.
‘It’s good of you to come,’ she said, ‘and so promptly. I’ve been worried. Is there any news of Monsieur Biron? Ah, I see from your face. He’s dead, isn’t he? I was afraid of that. He’s never been away for so long.’
‘I’m afraid he was already dead when we spoke before.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I see now he must have been. I knew it really when you sent these other policemen to examine his apartment. But I wouldn’t admit it to myself. He was such a gentle and thoughtful man. And then the way this other man spoke. I suppose he was murdered. Is that right? Why didn’t you tell me?’
She took a lace-fringed handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. The whiff of lavender it gave off reminded Lannes of his grandmother – his mother’s mother – who had always placed lavender in little muslin bags in the drawers where she kept sheets, pillow-cases, handkerchiefs – he couldn’t remember what else.
Why hadn’t he told her? Because in other ways too she was like that grandmother who had always shrunk from anything she deemed unpleasant, nasty or improper? There was no answer he could give now which didn’t seem insulting or patronizing, as if she was too old and frail to be faced with the truth. Which was nonsense, because the old who live close to death are less disturbed than the young by the deaths of others.
‘You look very tired, superintendent,’ she said.
She got to her feet, stiffly, and took a bottle of Crème de Cassis and two small glasses from a cupboard.
‘You’ll find this reviving,’ she said. ‘I usually take a glass myself about this time of day. My doctor approves. He says it stimulates the heart. Poor Monsieur Biron! That’s how I think of him though I gather now it wasn’t his real name. That man who called said horrible things about him. I didn’t believe them of course. But why did he choose to use another name? It’s puzzled me.’
The cat leaped on to Lannes’ knees, almost causing him to spill his drink and lay there purring as he stroked its glossy fur.
‘Which man was that?’
‘The one I called you to speak about. I didn’t care for him, you see. Nor did Abanazar. He likes you, I can see that. That’s good, he’s a very discerning cat. But he hissed and spat when the man stretched out his hand towards him.’
‘When was this?’
‘Just yesterday. I think it was yesterday, but it might have been the previous day. I don’t always keep note of the passage of time. Abanazar lets me know when he needs to be fed, you see.’
She nodded her head, twice, and closed her eyes, drifting into the sudden sleep of the very old.
The cat now thrust its head against Lannes’ face, purring the more intensely and flexing its claws on the thin jersey he wore under his jacket. He continued to stroke it, and waited patiently, held there, unable to move without dislodging the cat and having in any case no desire to do so. The old woman was right; he was indeed weary, tired to the bone. He took in the room: the cane-bottomed walnut chairs, the little tables with photographs in silver frames and knickknacks, a couple of Dresden shepherdesses, small tortoiseshell and porcelain boxes, the prints of old-fashioned country scenes, a glass-fronted bookcase that he supposed had not been opened for years, a case of stuffed birds, a card table on which a game of patience had been laid out, only half-finished for there was still a stack of cards to be dealt.
The old woman opened her eyes.
‘I really disliked him,’ she said. ‘He was impertinent. Ill-mannered. I’m sorry, I must have dropped off for a moment. How rude of me!’
‘Not at all,’ Lannes said. ‘Who was this man you were speaking of ?’
‘I’ve no idea. He didn’t have the manners to introduce himself. I would never have let him in if he hadn’t said he was a friend of poor Monsieur Biron. Which, as I discovered, he certainly wasn’t. The things he said!’
‘But what did he want? Can you remember?’
‘I’m not likely to forget. He wanted the letter.’
‘Which letter was that?’
‘The one Monsieur Biron entrusted to me. Which other letter could it be?’
‘You didn’t mention a letter when I was here before.’
The old lady took a sip from her drink, holding the glass in both hands, and then replacing it, very carefully, on the little marble-topped table by her side.
‘But I didn’t know then that Monsieur Biron was dead. So of course there was no call to mention the letter, since I expected him to reclaim it. He had only given it to me for safe-keeping, as he said.’
‘Did you ask him why?’
‘But of course not. It was no matter of my concern.’
‘And did you give it to the man?’
‘I told you Abanazar didn’t care for him, though he seemed to take to the boy.’
‘Which boy was that?’
‘The one who came with him of course. A nice-looking boy and well-mannered. Perhaps he was one of Monsieur Biron’s students. I don’t know. But I told the man I didn’t know what he was talking about and that I certainly had no letter. There are times, I think, when it’s permissible to tell a lie. When it’s in a good cause.’
‘So you do have the letter.’
‘But certainly. That’s why I asked you to come here. To give it you.’
XXI
Though she had spoken of it as a letter, the envelope she gave Lannes contained three pieces of paper stapled together: some notes made by Gaston himself, a letter in Spanish or Catalan signed by Cortazar, and a typed document recording Pilar’s death. Lannes called in young René and asked him to make a translation of Cortazar’s letter, then turned his attention to Gaston’s own writing.
‘I have never been a brave man, and now I am afraid. Marcel proposes to call on me this evening. (I must make sure to send Maurice, dear boy, away before he arrives.) He has information, he says. Has been in touch with Edmond and can satisfy my demands, answer my requests. Why does this frighten me? First, because I have this letter from Cortazar, which seems to tell me much of what I wanted to know, and the information he has provided me with is compromising. I’m in deeper waters than I thought of entering. (I must conceal Cortazar’s letter before Marcel arrives. But where? Dare I trust it to Madame Robartet? Surely that wouldn’t put her in danger?) I’m confused as well as frightened, scarcely know what it is I’m writing.
What a fool Pilar was, a brave fool certainly, even a noble one, but stil
l rash to the point of . . . I don’t know what. I only wish I had her courage.
Let me note down what I know and what I guess. I must be quick and brief.
Edmond was engaged in procuring weapons for the Fascists in Spain. That’s clear. It was of course illegal.
He met Pilar in Paris where she was working raising funds and making propaganda for the Republican cause, and seduced her. (Or did she – for political reasons – seduce him?) No matter. They became lovers or what passed as lovers. She learned what he was doing and then what? Threatened to expose him? This was in the year of the Popular Front. Exposure would certainly have been followed by a criminal trial. (Certainly? I don’t know but the possibility alarmed him.) But then what happened to stop her from exposing him? I don’t know. It’s clear however that he arranged – but how? – for her to be denounced as a Fascist agent and when she returned to Spain – on a mission for the Anarchist group to which she belonged, she was immediately arrested by the Communists and shot as a traitor without a trial. It was murder by proxy.
Where does Marcel come in? What part did he play? And who indeed is he, apart from being Edmond’s creature?
Finally, what is his purpose in proposing this meeting? Does he intend to feed me false information? Or is it something worse he has in mind?’
The writing tailed away. Then, across the bottom of the page, Gaston had scribbled: ‘How ignoble to be such a coward.’
