by Allan Massie
Only a little better.
Jérôme’s mother didn’t realise what she had demanded of him. Jérôme could drop out as she urged. Alain too if he chose. Their life would go on as before, and the worst they might feel would be a certain shame. His position was different. He was an outcast, a Jew, and compromised whether he acted or not. If only Schussmann had never found his way to the bookshop. If only Gaston who had loved him and understood him and made him laugh was still alive. If only they could all go back eighteen months and wipe out everything that had happened since. If only he wasn’t so afraid . . .
His steps had taken him into Mériadeck, the Jewish district. A girl, about his age, with a black eye, smiled at him. He shook his head, and she said, ‘Another time, darling.’ He walked on, then stopped and looked back. She was leaning against the wall and the beckoning smile was still fixed on her face. If I was normal, he thought, I would have accepted her invitation. He found himself in front of a tailor’s shop. His great-uncle Léopold, he realised. He turned the door handle and went in.
The old man was sitting cross-legged on the table, sewing. He didn’t recognise Léon. It was at least five or six years, maybe more, since he had been here, and he had been only a child then.
‘What do you want, young man? A suit made?’
‘I don’t know what I want,’ Léon said.
‘Then you’re in good company in today’s world.’
‘I’m Rebecca’s boy,’ he said, ‘your great-nephew, Léon.’
‘Well, well, well, quite grown-up, I see. And what brings you to see old Léopold?’
‘I don’t know. I just found myself here.’
As if it’s where I belong, he thought.
‘Make yourself useful then. Make some tea while I finish this. Then we’ll talk. That’s what you want to do, isn’t it? Talk to the old Jew.’
Léon did as he was bid. The half-light of the shop was comforting. The place smelled of dust, cloth, tobacco and the ginger-coloured cat that came and brushed against his legs, purring when he leaned down and scratched it behind the ear. The kettle boiled. He made the tea.
‘There’s a lemon and sugar in the cupboard,’ the tailor said.
‘So?’ he said, as Léon handed him a mug, ‘Rebecca and Miriam married out, but you’ve come back.’
‘I don’t know,’ Léon said again.
‘Because you’re in trouble you come to the old Jew.’
‘I didn’t think of myself as a Jew, not till recently,’ Léon said.
‘Now I can’t avoid realising that’s what I am.’
‘Tell.’
He obeyed. It all spilled out, from Gaston onwards and Alain’s father.
‘That policeman? Coincidence, he’s been here to ask me about another matter, the murder of an old customer of mine,’ old Léopold said. ‘As policemen go, not a bad man. So? What then?’
Schussmann, Félix, the Hotel Artemis, Jérôme and Alain, Jérôme’s mother: Léon held nothing back, except the rape – he couldn’t speak of that as he had to Jérôme, only Jérôme – and his friends’ names. He had indeed been about to reveal them but the old tailor raised his hand and said, ‘Tell me nothing that isn’t necessary. I don’t want to know who they are. If I’m ignorant, I can’t betray them.’
‘What should I do?’ Léon said.
‘You ask me that? How can I give you an answer? I’m eighty-three. You’re what? Twenty?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Eighteen, are you? When I was your age I believed in God. Then I believed in Marx and the Revolution. Now I have only one certainty which is that I shall soon be dead. There was a girl came to me with questions like yours. A Spanish girl. She was married to your employer, Monsieur Chambolley. Did you know he had had a wife?’
Léon nodded his head.
‘I knew, but he never speaks of her.’
‘No? She wanted advice, just like you. I told her to go home and cook her husband’s dinner. Instead she went to Spain where she was murdered. People don’t want advice. They want to be told that what they want to do is right. So: what do you want to do, Léon? You want to escape to England with your friends. Yes? So what do I say? It’s madness and you will probably be killed. Is that what you want to hear? Of course it isn’t. You want me to say, go ahead and be a hero. Yes?’
‘And if I stay here?’
‘Then you are in trouble, in danger and will probably be killed in any case.’
‘You’re encouraging!’ Léon said, and smiled for the first time that day. ‘If I go to England I’m deserting my mother and Aunt Miriam.’
The old Jew took a pinch of snuff and sneezed. Sunlight streaked through the dusty window.
‘And if you remain here in Bordeaux, which is already a prison, you can protect them?’ he said. ‘You, a mere boy, a Jew, a homosexual as you tell me, can protect two middle-aged Jewish women from whatever threatens them? That’s good, that’s really good.’
‘So you advise me to escape to England with my friends?’
‘Who am I to advise anything? You will do what you want. If I say, don’t fall in love, love is dangerous, keep out of other men’s beds, or women’s, would you pay any attention? Of course you wouldn’t. So advice is futile. All I can say is, this or that is likely to be the consequence of what you choose. You must live with the consequence. Or die of course. So I am no help, am I?’
The ginger cat stretched up with his front paws against Léon’s leg. Then he leaped onto this lap and thrust his face into Léon’s, purring demandingly. Léon stroked his head and ran his hand along the line of the cat’s back.
‘What’s his name?’ he said.
‘All my other cats have had names. Not this one. I call him simply “Cat”. Do you know why? It is to remind me that for the men of power in the world I have survived into, I have no name myself. For the Nazis, I am no longer Léopold Kurz the tailor, I am merely a Jew, another Jew. So Cat is only a cat. We are all now only what the label says we are. In Germany we wear the yellow star. That will come here in France too. And I read that in Germany people who are like you in another respect are branded with a pink triangle. So there you are, Léon, a yellow star on one lapel of your jacket and a pink triangle on the other. You think you should stay in France? There: that is merely a question, not advice, you understand.’
XXXIV
Moncerre said, ‘So how was it, kid. Did you take what she was offering?’
Young René Martin blushed, but was saved from having to answer immediately because Fernand that moment brought a platter of crudités and charcuterie.
A burst of laughter came from the table in the middle of the room where eight German officers had reached the brandy stage.
‘You mustn’t be shy, kid,’ Moncerre said. ‘Keep yourself pure for a wife and you’ll have no choice but to find one. And then you’re trapped. I speak from experience. So, chief, you got nowhere with that bastard. Do you want me to have another go at him? It would be a pleasure.’
Lannes said, ‘We’re going to have to release him.’
Arriving at the office that morning, he had been summoned by Bracal. There had been representations, he was told.
‘What puzzles me,’ he said now, ‘is who knew that you had picked him up.’
‘Who did the representations – I like that word – come from?’ Moncerre said.
‘Bracal wouldn’t say. Just gave me to understand that they came from a level he couldn’t ignore. Said he was sorry.’
‘Big of him.’
‘I think he may have been. In any case, he gave me instructions. Aristide’s case is to be closed down, written off as unsolved. That’s official, he said, it’s not my decision, you understand. To be fair to him, I don’t think he’s altogether pleased. On the other hand, if people at the top demand the investigation be abandoned, there’s a nasty stink of rotten fish.’
One of the German officers shouted for more brandy.
‘Just leave the bottle,’ he told the waite
r.
Fernand leaned over to remove Lannes’ plate.
‘It’s not the good brandy,’ he said, ‘whatever the label. Rot-gut into which I pour a drop of molasses. They like it sweet.’
‘So this is an end of case lunch,’ Moncerre said. He picked up the bottle of claret and poured out three glasses. ‘We might as well get drunk, chief, and you, young René, should return to your bit of fluff.’
‘She’s actually quite a nice girl,’ René said.
‘Worse and worse.’
Fernand returned with dishes of lamb’s kidneys and fried potatoes.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I’ve another present from Cuba. Will your man want more?’
‘He doesn’t do much work. He might as well smoke,’ Lannes said.
‘I’m not happy,’ Moncerre said. ‘I really had my teeth into that bloody Spaniard.’
‘He says you broke one of his ribs.’
‘I bleeding well hope I did. One has to get some satisfaction from a cock-up like this. Sorry, chief, I’m not implying you cocked it up. But you have to admit we’ve been well and truly fucked.’
‘Well and truly.’
‘Again. Yet again’
Song – a marching-song by the sound of it – rose from the German table.
‘This is intolerable,’ Lannes said. ‘I’m off. I’ve a couple of calls to make. Moncerre, if you intend to get drunk, I’d advise you to do your drinking somewhere else. Where there are no Boches.’
It was his duty to inform Adrienne Jauzion that the investigation of her father’s murder was being abandoned. Judging by her previous indifference, she probably wouldn’t care. Nevertheless it had to be done. He was right. Her response was icy. Could she really, he wondered, be so utterly unconcerned? His face must have revealed his feelings, for she said, ‘You are not entitled to judge me, superintendent, since you know nothing of what put a distance between me and my father. Things happen in families that are not to be broadcast to the world. It’s a matter of honour and shame.’ And so she dismissed him.
No such official requirement took him to the cours de Verdun and Aristide’s old mistress. But he had liked her and she had been obliging enough to identify the body. So it was a matter of courtesy.
She was in the same chair, again with a glass of port wine on the little table beside her, and the white cockatoo in its cage, as if she hadn’t stirred since his previous visit. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and said, ‘Silly of me to weep when I hadn’t seen the old boy for years till he was laid out as a corpse, and it’s nothing to me whether you find the brute who killed him. What’s the murder of an old professor in today’s mad world? Give me a cigarette, superintendent, if you please. My doctor forbids me to smoke, but at my age, what does it matter? And Aristide and I would always light up after we’d made love. That’s good. I really can’t think why I have deprived myself of such an innocent pleasure for so long.’
‘I’ve wondered,’ Lannes said, ‘about two things. He returned to Bordeaux three months ago and you said he didn’t come to see you. Why was that? Wouldn’t it have been natural to call on you, seeing how long you had lived together, especially since you gave me to understand you parted quite amicably?’
‘Perhaps it would, but he didn’t. I’ve wondered about this too, and, to tell you the truth, it’s made me sad. I never missed him when he left, but, since he was killed, I don’t know why it is, but the thought that he had been in the city without choosing to visit me, has been painful. I’ve told myself he may have thought me dead, but he might at least have taken the trouble to find out, and if he had he would have found me still in this apartment where we lived for so long. It was selfish of him, I think. But there it is, it’s silly to cry over spilt milk. I suppose he simply didn’t care, the old bastard. What was the other thing?’
‘The daughter,’ Lannes said. ‘You gave me to understand you knew nothing about her, but I can’t believe you didn’t know she is Adrienne Jauzion.’
The old woman laughed, a wheezing short-breathed laugh that ended in a fit of coughing. She held out her glass to Lannes who re-filled it.
‘Of course I knew,’ she said. ‘The truth is, I was always jealous of her, of the idea of her, that is, for naturally I have never met her. But he was so proud of her that I didn’t even want her to have a share in his death. Was that wicked of me, do you think, to want to keep him to myself even after he was dead?’
‘If it makes you feel better,’ Lannes said, ‘she doesn’t give a damn for him, dead or alive.’
‘Why should that make me feel better?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lannes said. ‘I’ve been ordered to release the man who may have killed him. And, if it’s any comfort to you, I suspect Aristide may not have come to see you because he knew himself to be in danger and was afraid.’
The cockatoo began to dance on its perch, shifting from one foot to the other. It cackled happily, then in a muttering voice, said, ‘Poor boy, pretty boy, poor boy.’
XXXV
‘On n’est pas sérieux quand on a dix-sept ans.’ Clothilde’s friend, Marie-Louise, daughter of a fashionable dentist, was fond of quoting this line of Rimbaud’s. It was for her the justification of her attitude to life, even under the Occupation. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it,’ she would say, ‘so let’s enjoy our youth while we can.’
‘We’re eighteen now,’ Clothilde said. ‘So perhaps we have to be more serious.’
She had taken her father’s warning about Manu to heart. Perhaps it was indeed wrong to associate with Germans, even with a nice boy like him.
‘So we’re eighteen,’ Marie-Louise said. ‘That needn’t prevent us from going to the swimming pool. I made a sort of arrangement with Alain’s friend Philippe. I think he rather fancies me. When I suggested the pool, he said, all right even though he added that he only likes swimming in the sea. So that must mean something, don’t you think?’
Marie-Louise was small, dark, bouncy, and eager for experience.
‘And do you fancy him?’ Clothilde said.
‘Not a lot really, but it’s nice to be fancied, don’t you think? Mind you, I’d rather it was Alain.’
‘Alain? He thinks of nothing but rugby and politics.’
‘Goodness, how sad, I’m not interested in either. So Philippe will have to do for now.’
He was there before them, sitting by the edge of the pool. He had changed into his swimsuit but hadn’t entered the water.
He said, ‘You’re late. I would have given you up if I hadn’t met a friend here.’
‘I’m always late,’ Marie-Louise said. ‘That way, I’m not kept waiting myself. I hate having to wait, you see. Where’s your friend?’
‘Oh he’s in the pool. He swims like an otter. Actually I was a bit nervous coming to the pool, because the last time I was here, I was thrown out.’
‘Why was that? Did you start a fight? I hope that was why,’ Marie-Louise said. ‘I like to think of you fighting.’
‘Nothing so dramatic. Alain had brought along Jérôme and another friend who turned out to be a Jew. So we were all asked to leave, and there was almost a scene till I got them to see sense and go quietly. But it was embarrassing.’
‘It’s not a good idea to have Jewish friends,’ Marie-Louise said. ‘Alain should have more sense. You should speak to him, Clothilde.’
‘Oh, Alain goes his own way,’ Clothilde said. ‘He’s as obstinate as a pig.’
‘Actually, I thought the Jew boy was a bit of a twerp,’ Philippe said. ‘But then I don’t care for Jews. You never know where you are with them and I can’t think of them as French. Not proper French.’
A blond boy swam to the edge of the pool. He put his hands on the edge and sprang out, shaking the water from his hair. He stood up, the sun sparkling on his wet bronzed skin. He wore only a black slip which emphasised, rather than concealed, his sex. For a moment he remained still, commanding admiration. Then he ran his hands over the upper part of h
is body and strolled towards them.
‘This is Michel,’ Philippe said, and introduced the girls.
‘Which one’s yours?’ Michel said.
‘This one,’ Philippe said, laying his hand on Marie-Louise’s shoulder.
‘Ripping,’ Michel said, and settled himself beside Clothilde. He gave her a brlliant smile and looked on the point of making a pronouncement, but all he said was, ‘It’s lovely in. You’re a fool to stay out, Philippe.’
‘Only like swimming in the sea.’
‘What about you?’ Michel said to Clothilde.
‘Oh I love it.’
‘Come on then,’ he said bounding to his feet and holding out his hand.
They swam two lengths, then came to rest at the far end of the pool. He put his arm round Clothilde.
‘You’re jolly good. Not many girls swim as well as you.’
He pressed her close to him.
‘Why haven’t I met you before? Where have you been all my life?’
It was a line from a movie. She was sure of that, though she couldn’t remember which film she had heard it in. But the right reply came straight to her lips.
‘I don’t know, do I?’ she said.
‘You’re gorgeous.’
He flicked his tongue from side to side.
‘I’d really like to kiss you.’
‘Well, you can’t,’ she said. ‘Not here.’
‘Somewhere else then.’
