by Brian Moore
‘That’s him. Where is he now?’
‘I put him in the parlour. What shall I do? Do you want me to admit him?’
The Abbot rose, stepping out from behind his desk. ‘Did he ask for a room?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Good. I have to talk to him. I’ll let you know.’
Let me know what? Is he going to turn him away after all? I doubt it. What is the rule of obedience? To obey one’s superior in the Order? Yes, of course. But is there a higher rule, the rule of obedience to the Cardinal Primate, the leader of the Church in France? If the Abbot shelters this Nazi turd, isn’t it my duty to report it?
10
For as long as he could remember, he had held older men in respect. It went back to his father Henri Brossard, an old army man, ever the drill sergeant barking out commands, a ruler up his back, a parade-ground walk. His father had, in turn, looked up to the greatest of old men. The Maréchal. His father had served under the Maréchal in the First World War. The Maréchal was France. Religion also spoke in the tones of age. It was ancient and all powerful. It must be obeyed. The Pope was the Holy Father. But now that he himself was old, he no longer saw older men in a respectful light. Now, he looked at them for signs of failure: the faltering step on the stairs, the voice hesitating over a forgotten surname, the look of quiet deception when dimming ears had missed what was said. Now he measured them and their frailties against his own. And judged himself the victor.
He had known Dom André Vergnes for twenty years. At first, he had been intimidated by the Abbot’s manner and voice: the voice of Paris’s great schools, the accent he thought of and feared as snob. But, as always with clerics, he knew, at once, when he was likely to be believed and what would appeal to his listener. He could tell a priest’s politics in something so slight as a nod or a smile. The hesitation of the Jew lover when you brought the Yids into your tale. The sudden second look when you mentioned the milice. He knew, at once, whether a priest or monk had read the papers and followed cases such as his. He knew when a simple curé would give him a night’s lodging out of Christian charity without caring who or what he was. He knew the group who could be told part of his tale, who, while they might despise his past and condemn his actions, could be won by his penitence, and trusted, through the imperative of confession, to protect him from the laws of men. He also knew the group who could be told the truth, or most of it, who, while not sure of his total innocence, were sympathetic, hostile to this leftist, godless France. And then, of course, there were what he called the true believers: a small group, now growing smaller, those who had remained faithful when the wind had changed, who saw the long years of protecting him as their duty, a proof that, in backing Vichy, they themselves had made the proper choice.
Dom André was seventy-nine, almost a decade older than he. In the ninth decade, as he well knew, men become stubborn and unyielding, unwilling to admit error now that judgement day is close. Because of this he had little fear that Dom André would be swayed by Cardinal Delavigne’s order. But you never know. And so, when Dom André came into the parlour, he rose up to greet him, but deferentially, cautiously, waiting to see how the wind blew.
‘Ah, Pierre. How are you?’
A handshake. It told him nothing.
‘I can’t complain. And yourself, Father Abbot? How have you been?’
The Abbot sat stiffly in a chair by the parlour table, resting his elbows on the table, lowering his head slightly. A sign of dizziness?
‘I am well,’ the Abbot said. ‘I hear you’ve been moving about?’
What does he mean by that?
‘Yes. The usual. Can’t be too careful, particularly now.’
‘You’ve been in Salon,’ the Abbot said. ‘I know, because I had a telephone call from my old friend Dom Vladimir, the night before last. He asked me if I’d seen or heard of you.’
‘I wonder why, Father Abbot?’
‘Well, he said that in the past you’ve often come on here, after staying for a few weeks at St Cros.’
‘That’s true.’
‘He seemed quite worried. He warned me that you might be in serious trouble.’
‘Trouble, Father Abbot? Nothing new about that, is there?’
‘I’m afraid this is new, Pierre. Apparently, the day after you left St Cros, Dom Vladimir had a visit from the police. They’d found a car and a body in a ravine, just a few miles down the road. As you know, that road leads only to the abbey and to a few farmhouses. So they wanted to know if Dom Vladimir knew this person who’d been killed. There were no papers on the body, but it was identified through the car-rental people in Marseille. The driver was a Canadian, called Tanenbaum. Dom Vladimir had never heard of him.’
‘But why should he know anything about it? It was probably an ordinary accident.’
He saw the Abbot hesitate. That was well put. Just what I would say if I knew nothing.
‘Not exactly. The man had been shot in the chest. It could have been a simple robbery and murder. But Dom Vladimir was struck by the fact that this must have happened just a few hours before you suddenly informed him that you were leaving St Cros that same evening.’
‘Pure coincidence, Father Abbot. These days I can’t afford to stay long in any one place. But one thing puzzles me. How could Dom Vladimir think I had anything to do with this man’s death?’
‘I’m not able to speak for him, Pierre. But he did point out that Tanenbaum is a Jewish name.’
‘Tanenbaum? Who? Oh, yes, the man who was shot.’
‘Pierre, we all know that the Jews are the ones who are seeking revenge. Look, I’m not accusing you of killing this man. But, as Dom Vladimir pointed out, you might have been forced to defend yourself.’
‘Father, I’ve the greatest respect for Dom Vladimir. I revere him. But, if I may say so, perhaps he has been reading too many detective stories lately.’
He kept a smile on his face as he said this. And at the same time stared directly into the Abbot’s eyes. He’ll believe me. It’s too Grand Guignol for him to believe otherwise.
But the Abbot did a worrying thing. He rose from his chair and went to look out of the window at the school across the road. The lunchtime break was ending. An electric bell shrilled, calling the boys back to lessons. The Abbot did not turn round. He spoke in a quiet, careful tone.
‘Pierre, this is a difficult time for all of us. You know about the Cardinal’s commission?’
‘Yes, Father Abbot.’
‘And did you know our Bishop has been sending two priests around with a copy of your photograph and instructions that we are not to admit you if you ask for asylum?’
‘No, I didn’t, Father Abbot. Of course, I wouldn’t have embarrassed you, if I’d known that was the case.’
‘Wait. I didn’t mean it that way. If I hadn’t had this call from Dom Vladimir, I’d have ignored the Cardinal’s order. I am an independent prelate and I don’t have to obey the archbishopric. But now, I don’t know what to think. You may have wanted to spare Dom Vladimir any involvement in this matter. As you may want to spare me. But I think, for all our sakes, that I need to know the truth. Of course, under no circumstances will it go further than this room. You have my word on that.’
‘And you have my word, Father. I’ve never heard of Monsieur Tanenbaum. I’ve never set eyes on him.’
‘Well, that is good news,’ the Abbot said. But he kept staring out of the window.
He doesn’t believe me.
And then the Abbot said, ‘Pierre, I feel badly about this, but I must think of the school, the parents, and our duty to avoid any scandal at this juncture. As you know, I’ve always supported you and I’d be happy to keep you here, just as in the old days. But I’m worried. Some of our monks might not agree with me. And with all the publicity you’ve received, I can no longer be sure that, if you stay here, they will remain ignorant of your identity. Therefore, I don’t feel I can offer you a bed, not even for tonight. However, I’ll be happy to help you financially
if you can find a pension or somewhere to stay for the period you might have spent with us.’
Now, at last, the Abbot turned round to face him. It had been said. One could always tell when the tide had turned, when, in fact, it was dangerous to say or do anything that let them know you knew they had changed sides.
He got up at once. ‘Father Abbot, thank you. God bless you. I’d ask one favour. Pray for me. I need your prayers now, more than ever.’
‘Of course I will,’ the Abbot said. ‘And money?’
‘No, no, I’ll be all right.’
‘Will you be able to find somewhere to stay in Aix?’
‘I think I’ll move on. And, please, Father, if you’re speaking to Dom Vladimir, I’d be grateful if you would reassure him about that man’s death.’
‘Yes, of course I will.’
They went out of the parlour and down the hall to the front entrance. As they did, they passed the little office of the père hospitalier. He saw the new hospitalier, Father Blaise, look up from his desk.
He knows who I am.
The Abbot opened the heavy front door and, as so often in the past, clasped him briefly in a farewell embrace. ‘Safe journey, Pierre.’
The Judas kiss.
Dom André watched Pierre Brossard walk off down the Avenue Henri Martin, his step brisk, his head upright. He watched him turn the corner of the street and disappear. Will I ever see him again? Will he be captured at last, brought into the light of day, cameras, reporters, lawyers, judges, editorials in Le Monde? Or will he stay in darkness until the hour of his death?
These thoughts ran through his brain like sentences in a conversation with someone else and then, as he feared, deserted him, leaving in their place the shame of knowing he had sent Brossard away, not from principle, but in cowardice. In these last years it had not been difficult to give shelter to a man who, in his youth, had committed acts of violence, who had, in all probability, killed his enemies. Because that was wartime, the Occupation, a time forgotten by many and unknown to the young. Even he who had lived through those years now saw them as faded and dim, a half-remembered book read long ago.
But hearing Vladimir on the telephone from Salon the night before last, everything we did, our prayers for God’s mercy in this case, the letters we wrote in support of Maurice Le Moyne’s appeals, the money I took from our community fund to help support Brossard in those early years of clandestineness, what if, in helping him, we were not doing the work of Christian charity, but simply protecting someone whose ideas in the years of Occupation were close to our own? I, in particular, believed him, I knelt beside him in our chapel and prayed for his salvation. I felt the glow of righteousness, of helping a sinner find God’s grace, of acting as mentor to a man who had become a devout Catholic, a victim of that madness we lived through when the war ended and the French people, filled with hatred, sought to purge themselves of guilt by making scapegoats of a few. I had believed in the Maréchal, that fine old soldier brought down by de Gaulle, a preening egoist the Maréchal once treated as a son. I was bitter and that bitterness I now see was the truth behind my actions, perhaps behind all of our actions in the years we sheltered Brossard.
Half an hour ago, I looked out of the window, his voice at my back, familiar, devotional, sincere. And, suddenly, for the first time, I knew he was lying. God knows what dupes he’s made of us. He’s a scoundrel. I know it. He’s the father of lies. If he killed that Jew in self-defence and told me honestly that he had done it, I’d have been sick, I’d have been afraid to have him under my roof, but I would have sheltered him.
Or would I?
I don’t know. I’ve lost faith in myself. I call Brossard a scoundrel and a liar, but am I not a liar myself? Do any of us know the hidden motives behind our actions, especially those of us who pray nightly to God to forgive us our sins, yet all the time pride ourselves on being better than others, not evil, not fornicators, criminals, or men of deception in our daily lives. Easy to believe these things when God has not tested us. As today, I was tested by Brossard. Be honest. If he had told me the truth, wouldn’t I have got rid of him?
Of course I would. How can I pretend otherwise? I want nothing more to do with him. He deserves to be caught.
Dom André closed the front door of the residence and walked back down the corridor. Father Blaise came out of his office, his face greedy for news. ‘So, Father Abbot. Will our friend be back?’
‘No. I sent him away.’
Dom André walked on, going up the staircase to the privacy of his office. He rang the St Cros number.
‘Vladimir. He came here this morning. I told him what you told me. He says he’s never heard of the man. He wanted me to reassure you. But, Vladimir, I have to tell you. I did not believe him.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I sent him away.’
‘That was wise, André. I haven’t told you of the latest development. First, this was a story in the newspapers about a foreign tourist being robbed and killed. But today there’s a new story in Nice-Matin. Apparently, the Canadian authorities have checked the dead man’s driving licence and found it to be false. Yesterday, the police came back to ask me if I was expecting any visitor by another name. Of course, I said no. But André, I am like you. I have a bad feeling about this. As I told you before, the name on the licence was Tanenbaum. A Jewish name.’
‘Wait a minute. If the licence was false, the name on it could also be false.’
‘True. But Pierre wouldn’t know that, would he? If he thought the man was a Jew trying to murder him, what do you think an ex-milicien would do? Kill him. Take his money. Hide the papers. Make it look like murder for money.’
‘Oh my God. It’s possible, I suppose.’
‘It’s more than possible. André, I’ve changed my mind about this. I think we should tell the archbishopric that Brossard has been staying with me in St Cros, and that he came seeking asylum at your residence today.’
‘No. We can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘What if the Cardinal contacts the police? The police will come to see us. The press will get hold of the story. We and our communities will be pilloried as his accomplices.’
There was a silence on the line to St Cros.
‘Vladimir?’
‘André, I don’t think the Cardinal will contact the police. He has said publicly that the role of his commission is to investigate the Church’s involvement, not to act as policemen in hunting down Brossard.’
‘But he may feel obliged to do it.’
‘That decision is his to make. Not ours.’
‘Vladimir, if the police find Pierre, we will be the ones who are responsible. Do we want to have it on our conscience that he’ll be locked up in prison for the rest of his life?’
Again, there was silence on the line to St Cros.
‘Vladimir?’
‘Do we want to have it on our conscience that a man was murdered, that we may have helped the murderer escape and that a week from now, he may kill again? André, I’ll leave you out of it, if you like. But I must speak to Delavigne.’
‘No. You’re right. It’s time to tell the truth.’
On the night of May the 5th, T, arriving from Paris, booked into a Novotel near the airport. Next morning he drove into the suburbs of Aix, well before the rush hour. Brossard was due in Aix on May the 6th. At 8.30 a.m. T parked his rented car at the corner of the Avenue Henri Martin and the Avenue Paul Valéry, one street away from the Lycée St Christophe and the priory that was on the opposite side of the street from the school. Boys with satchels were being let out of cars by their parents. At eight-forty-five when the school bell started ringing T got out of his rented car and walked up to the school entrance as the last stragglers ran past him, hurrying to get in before the bell stopped.
There were no cars parked in the school yard. He crossed the street and looked through the iron railings at the front of the priory. Three cars were parked at the main entra
nce. No white Peugeot. He walked down the street and saw that there were No Parking signs on both the Avenue Henri Martin and the Avenue Paul Valéry. Perhaps the monks had a garage in the rear of the priory? T went to look. The rear entrance to the priory was connected to the street by an alley, too narrow to accommodate a car. The alley was a cul-de-sac.
No white Peugeot anywhere. T went back to the Avenue Henri Martin. At the far end of the Avenue he found a small square. The name of the café on the corner of this square was Café La Mascotte. He looked at the name of the square. Place des Tanneurs. The names matched the note he had been given. So the old fart didn’t go into town in the afternoons. He hung out at this corner café. That could make things easy.
Waiting was part of the job. Sitting on your arse, hour after hour, keeping your eyes open. He sometimes played tapes, American rock. French rock was shit. Pochon had told the Jews that the rented car must be big enough to look like a limo. T wore a dark suit and a chauffeur’s cap. That way, people didn’t find it funny, you sitting there hour after hour. It was part of your job.
The school bell was electric and rang every forty minutes, when classes changed. It got on his nerves. A little after 11 a.m. four clochards came staggering up the avenue. They stopped, refreshed themselves from a bottle of gros rouge, then walked out into the street in front of his car and began muttering some drunken shit about capitalists. One of them kicked his front tyre. T rolled down the window, smiled at them and said, ‘What can I do? It’s a job.’ It worked. One of them wiped the neck of the bottle and offered him a swig. He pretended to drink, then passed it back. They staggered on, going into the alley. He saw them sit down on the cobblestones near the rear entrance to the priory. By noon, they had been joined by eight other clochards, two of them women. He watched each group as it went in and then, just to make sure, got out of the car, lit a cigarette and walked up the alley, passing the priory’s back door. The door was open now and two monks were serving soup to the clochards from a table placed across the entrance. The clochards formed a line at the open door, like people queuing for tables at a posh restaurant. They seemed to be regulars. They knew each other. No sign of the subject. T went back to his car.
