I briefly considered leaving her. Letting her work the thing out herself. Whatever the thing was. Paris was good for that. You could walk around the corner, lose someone and move on. People did it every day. I had employed the strategy myself, but doing it now would call for a different approach. I had improvised before.
But I was lethargic. My will was fading. Something vital was being steadily sucked out of me.
IV
I was driving a steel-gray Renault Talisman down a Vaucluse road in the direction of the Luberon mountain range. The Talisman was designed and drove like
a smart bomb, as if the Pentagon were tele-guiding you towards an as yet undetermined target. The road divided the Côte du Rhone vineyards from those of Châteauneufdu-pape. On the left side, the caked clay soil of the Côte. On the right, a chalky soil covered by small stones which surrounded the vines planted in the bitumic soil, reflecting the sun onto the base of the stock of the vine.
She slipped a CD onto the player, a Rojas tune called ‘En la Orilla del Mundo’. She closed her eyes, her features relaxing into a posture of pleasure, or at least as close to pleasure as she could come. It didn’t matter what went on in her head. It was a core realization — my own form of satori — that you never really knew what was going on in anyone’s head, not even your own. Just because people cried didn’t mean they were sad. It just meant tears were rolling down their faces. We were on another route nationale, well into the Luberon range now, approaching a village named La Coste, perched on a hilltop, and principally known as the childhood abode of Donatien, Marquis de Sade. The sun hard and glaring, the high whistle of the Mistral wind causing the car windows to rattle.
“Sade was right, Franck. Not everyone deser ves freedom. Some people defile the gifts they have been granted.”
I pulled onto roadside, stopped, turned off the ignition. “I’m beginning to think you were right. It was in the cards, you and me. We had to finish things off together.
It was meant to be.”
I shoved the car seat back and she crawled on top of me. She looked at me, another question in her eyes, riding up and down. She could do things that would look ridiculous on anyone else, like the bandana she had wrapped around her temple. I’m fucking her, looking past her out the window at cars passing by, she is talking to me in a rhythmic monotone, trying to explain something through her desire, the only thing that could hold her captive.
“Franck,” she’s saying, “it’s a two-way street. When I fuck, I want to extinguish life, and when I extinguish life, I want to fuck. Can you understand, Franck?”
The chateau was a few hundred metres away, jutting out of a steep, rising promontory overlooking the departmental road where we had parked. I started up the car, then turned onto the access road, which wound upwards in an S curve, over a river, then through a tree orchard, and lands cultivated with corn, soya, sunflowers. The remainder of the property was forest and heath, with a spring running through it. Closer to the chateau itself, a large round swimming pool, several older dwellings, a large hangar. Outbuildings, the signs of a farm manor or former estate. Then a series of tiered gardens, leading up to an asphalt driveway to a four-car garage at a lower level on the East side of the manor.
“They call this a Maison de Maitre. The Manor of the Master. Positively feudal. Wait until you see the inside, Franck. And the owner. Some people, they occupy positions in society, Franck, and they are nothing better than merde.”
She slammed the door, and walked up a path rising towards the main entrance, with two Corinthian pillars marking the perimeter of a hemicycled porch. After a few minutes, she still hadn’t returned. I walked up towards the entrance, lit another cigarette. As I approached, I noticed the door was partially ajar. I could hear her voice. An elderly male voice, responding in a rapid, tremolo register.
“This is just not appropriate. You must leave.” And her mild, but firm rejoinder.
“It’s time for your check-up, monsieur le baron.” “Really, I just cannot see you now. Please, go.”
I entered a large lobby, decorated with Louis XV furniture. At the entrance, an Egyptian mosque lamp and a Bohemian enamelled humpen, for welcoming guests.
17th century Venetian glass. Clear, colourless cristallo, decorated with enamelled and gilt decoration. The wall was covered with paintings. Still, nobody visible. On the west side of the room, another door ajar, leading into an oval drawing room. I followed the sound of Sheba’s voice and the high strung elderly voice. The man looked like he might be the president of a yacht club, or a freemason. An ascot tightened around his neck. Blue blazer, My eye caught a glass-enclosed wall case with a collection of Montoyo cigars. “I have something for you.”
She opened her purse and removed an ivory, pearlhandled hairbrush.
Monsieur le baron stared at the hairbrush, as if it were a handgun. The hairbrush reminded him of something.
“Madame la baronne has gone shopping for the afternoon and monsieur le baron looks elsewhere for affection.
Mais le chat ne nous caresse pas. Il se caresse à nous ...”
She continued to tap the underside of the brush onto the palm of her hand. Monsieur le baron stared at the brush, and the longer he stared, the more he seemed to become something, or somebody else. He seemed to be struggling with something, then his head bowed slightly.
He retreated a step. She advanced one step towards him, cradling the brush in her hand. Something about their movements struck me as rehearsed. Then, he noticed me for the first time.
“Who is that?”
“Ah, Doctor Thompson, you have arrived. Excellent.
Before the examination begins, I invite you to survey the premises. We have quite a collection here, Doctor Thompson. Seven Watteaus, nine Bouchers, eight Fragonards. A nice series of Dutch ‘little masters’ of smallscale landscapes and genre scenes. If you toured the galleries, Doctor Thompson, you would see Rembrandts, not to mention some masterpieces by the Flemings Rubens and Van Dyck. I seem to recall a Velazquez. And, interestingly, absolutely nothing after the 18th century.
A veritable Luddite, Doctor Thompson.”
She crossed the floor to a glass-enclosed display case.
“Tin-glazed earthenware in the form of HispanoMoresque and Italian maiolica and French lead glaze.
That piece looks like Palissy ware. I could be wrong. But, over here, we most definitely have prime examples of English slipware and some more exotic samples of Iznik and Persian ware. Some: 18th-century celadon vases and a pair of Meissen ewers and two cups. Arms & Armour, ceramics, enamels, gold boxes, metalwork. The ancestors of our subject were decidedly more of the buccaneering variety than our domesticated subject. But, the blood grows thin, Doctor Thompson, the blood grows thin ... Doctor Thompson, the patient was most uncooperative during our last visit ...”
She paused. Frowned. Tapped the floor with the tip of her pumps. Acupuncture. She had pushed a button to the Baron’s personal time tunnel, as his facial expression grew younger and younger. Seventy, sixty-fifty-fortythirty-twenty-ten. A ten year old, naughty child with a lot of time on his hands.
“Such a good family, and such a naughty, naughty little boy. The unworthy heir to all this unearned wealth. So, we have had to train him, as best we can, in domestic duties and punish him when he is disobedient. Come here.”
Speaking in a stern voice, cradling the pearl-coloured hairbrush in the palm of her hand. Ready and available for use.
“Madame la baronne has been over wrought. She doesn’t have the energy to discipline this naughty little boy. Come here.”
She sat down, turned her back on him. The baron seemed to have forgotten me. He crossed the floor, his head downcast. She passed him the brush. He began to brush her hair. The baron began. Began to brush. To brush her hair. The baron brushing her hair. Her profile visible to me. She snapped her fingers. And then, said this:
“Colonel Mustard. With the hairbrush. In the oval drawing room.” Upon hearing this phrase, the Baron fl
ushed. He continued mechanically brushing her hair. A si xt ysomething child with a lot of time on his hands, brushing Sheba’s hair.
“Doctor Thompson, as we discussed at our last conference, it is universally accepted that a significant number of men abuse their wives. What is not generally recognised is that women can, and do, abuse their houseboys. Now, there is a distinction here. Abused females can appeal to friends, relatives and even the police. They have access to shelters and help-lines. Estimating the number of battered wives is relatively easy. On the other hand, men who suffer pain and humiliation at the hands of wives, sisters, mothers, and female employers must hide their pain and shame. Up until very recently, studies reflect the belief that only a tiny minority of men are victims. Today there is a considerable weight of clinical evidence to the contrary. Men are victims, but they cannot appeal for help. Ergo, their interest to our laboratory as potential subjects.”
She prodded the baron in his backside.
“And, why is this so, Doctor Thompson? One word.
Fear. Fear is the essential ingredient in training any naughty boy. It may be fear of humiliation, fear of pain, or simply an ingrained terror of a strong dominant woman.
But, once they are trained, Doctor Thompson, oh-la-la, you can do anything with them. We hope to present our findings in this regard at our next worldwide conference.
How is our patient doing, Doctor Thompson?”
“He’s behaving.”
“Continue to observe, Doctor Thompson. To cement the obedience procedure indelibly in his mind, a mistress must arrange at least one witnessed event. It doesn’t matter who sees him thrashed in his pink panties. It could be a relative. It could be a complete stranger. But until you can truthfully demonstrate your authority in front of a third party he will always believe he can revert.”
She stood up, angry.
“And this is why the baron has been trying to avoid me. After two years of perfect obedience, still the old way of thinking persists! But, now I’ve got you back, don’t I? Answer me!”
“Yes.”
“Now, you little self ish bitch, who committed the murder?”
The baron emitted a diarrhetic giggle. Like shitting his pants. She cupped a hand around her ear like a sea urchin, as if she hadn’t heard properly.
“Pardon?”
“Mrs. Peacock,” he babbled, saliva dripping down his chin, “with the dildo in the pantry.”
She smiled.
“That’s better. Mrs. Peacock. With the dildo in the pantry.”
The baron was sweating, glancing at the door of his own house. But, he seemed paralysed. She stared at him, in mock surprise.
“Is that something I see beneath your blouse? Are you secretly wearing your frilly petticoat ... Maryse ... ? ”
The uttering of the name gelatinised the old man’s insides. Six centuries of haughty nobility destroyed by the mention of a set of knickers. Then, as suddenly as she had assumed the persona of clinical dominatrix, she let it drop, a sneer of disgust crossing her face. And, I’m thinking of a sixteen-year-old girl who jumped out of a window a long time ago.
“Il me dégoute. Look at him, Doctor Thompson. The same person who was calling me a salope, only fifteen days ago. And, now, just a little boy, shitting himself.
Dégueulasse.”
She walked across the room to a glass-enclosed, dark mahogany bookshelf. Tapped on the glass.
“You remember our last visit, my little salope, when we discovered your little jardin secret? Fifty years you’ve been keeping these papers secret, and now, finally, finally, the little dirty secret of secrets has been revealed.”
“Non. That is not part of our agreement.”
“That is not part of our agreement,” she mimicked.
“J’en ai rien à branler de tes agreements.”
She opened the cabinet, pulled out a sheaf of documents. Passed them to me.
“Read the first one, Doctor Thompson.”
DOCUMENT NI-9912
Richtlinen fuer die Anwendung von Blausauere
(Zyklon) zur Ungeziefervertilgung (Entwesung)
“These, Doctor Thompson, are guidelines for the use of Prussic acid, also known as Zyklon, for the extermination of vermin. Human disinfection. Thinning out the weaker elements.”
“So, he’s a Nazi. Big deal.”
“Doctor Thompson, this document is one of the core pieces of revisionist historians, and various other old men — Freemasons, royalists, members of their little boys’ clubs, groups trying to prove that the Jews were not killed during the Second World War. No Drancy, no Vel d ’hiv, no Auschwitz, no Buchenwald. Here is another one, a volume authored by a certain J.C. Burg, titled Maidanek in alle Ewigkeit? And another: ‘On the circumstances underlying the alleged “gas chamber” homicide of Struthof, the three successive and contradictory confessions of Joseph Kramer.’ Proof that the Nazi gas chambers never existed. And, that’s not all. Here, we have a little departmental memo, dated 7 July, 1942:
‘Attention: René Bousquet From: Vice-Prefect Dalmas Date: 7 July, 1942
It is far preferable that the Préfecture organize this operation, rather than allow interference with a strictly French administrative jurisdiction. It can be justified on the same grounds as the August ‘41 operation: Communist agitation after the Wehrmacht invasion of the Soviet Union.
In the event the operation is approved, teams have been organised for July 16. 4 500 gendarmes, gardes mobiles, officers of the police judiciaire or from renseignements généraux shall make up the 900 teams. Each team will be made up of three to four men. The operation will cover both Paris and the suburbs. I have requisitioned fifty buses. I would suggest that, if the public is concerned, we respond with a further instruction that, as a humanitarian gesture, children should be permitted to accompany the parents of arrested Israelites.’
“Truly, a piece of genius. But, during one infamous night in ‘42, Doctor Thompson, over 22,000 Jews between the ages of 16 and 55 were arrested by the French police in the Paris region. Often blamed on the German occupier. But, they never could have done it without the assistance of Bousquet, Secrétaire Général of the Police. The Baron’s immediate supervisor. You probably wouldn’t have noticed a piece of Juden vermin named Rebecca Goldenstein, n’est-ce pas? But, our memory is long, so long, monsieur le vice-prefet. And, there are some things which are never forgiven. Not even on Yom Kippur.”
She reached inside her slouch bag. Pulled out a pistol. A nine millimetre. Browning. High power. She pointed the trigger to his temple, cocked it. Kept her eyes on the baron, who was mute.
“They are all the same. All of them. First that grin while they look me over. Then, when they see ‘such a pretty little girl’ holding a pistol. Can you imagine? A 17 round detachable box, four inch barrel on it, a terrorist’s dream, and all they can see is a pretty little girl. Do you see what television does? But after, they all look the same. Pourquoi je ne te buterai pas sur le champ, monsieur le baron? Give me a good reason not to put you out of your misery.”
She cocked the trigger, pressing the barrel of the Browning harder against the temple of the old man.
“What is it you want?”
“Do, you know, Franck, that Goering was a transvestite? Just like the baron here. These were the superior aryans who planned our extermination. In private, crossdressing sodomites. Now, tell us where you were transferred in 1942.”
“Bordeaux.”
“He worked for the Prefect of Bordeaux. Maurice Papon. And, what did monsieur le baron do for Monsieur Papon?”
“He made lists.”
“Lists, and lists, with names and names. Notice how easily these people speak of themselves in the third person. He made lists. But, that’s not all he did. He also organised train schedules, didn’t he? To what destination? Answer!” “Drancy. Please, if you want money, take it, I beg you, anything, but just leave me alone!”
“Putain de merde, ça me donne envie de niquer. You know, Franck, act
ing as judge, jury, executioner, that makes me so bloody hot. J’ai besoin d ’une sensation forte. Franck, just wait for me outside, it will be just a moment, no problème.”
I turned and exited the house. It’s hard to recall exactly what was running through my mind, except that it had nothing to do with me. It was a private matter. Old country feud. As I crossed the threshold, two muffled shots punctuated the afternoon. Sheba emerged at the front entrance, spotted me, and held up two fingers, turned around, closed the door, pulled a handkerchief from her purse, wiped the door handle. Then, she stood for a moment, examining me, neither of us moving. She looked calm, but for a thin bead of sweat beneath her eyes, which she wiped away delicately with her index.
“Everything’s fine, Franck. We can go now.”
I drove for a while, neither of us speaking. Carcassonne, Bordeaux, then up the West coast, through towns littered with human refuse baking under the hard sun of the Southwest. As we turned into the périphérique road ringing Biarritz, she spoke for the first time.
“Give me a cigarette. From the compartment, Franck.
You look funny, what’s the problem? A quoi tu penses, Franck?”
We were passing by a petrochemical plant located on a deserted industrial zone inland from the coast. I pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Turned off the ignition. I wasn’t sure about anything yet. Just waiting for my mind to catch up with things.
“That old man would have been dead in a year or two.
So, what the hell was the point?” “How convenient. If it’s any solace, a lot of people think like you, Franck.”
“It’s not convenient. It’s survival. It’s the way it is. Why can’t you just bury the past?”
“That’s how we bury the past, Franck. By revenge.” “Why the fuck is it you people can’t just move on?” “The point, Franck chérie, is that someone has to feel the suffering we did. Nothing else suffices. It doesn’t really matter who. But they have to feel senseless, random pain.”
Leper Tango Page 17
