by Allan Massie
‘Poor Aristide,’ the count said, ‘he was a good man but a weak one who failed in everything he attempted. It was characteristic that he should have been so disgracefully weak at the time of what we need not hesitate to call the crime, and, so many years later, have thought it possible to make amends. As for the brother . . . ’
‘As for the brother,’ Lannes said, ‘he is now, in our present circumstances, a man of influence, even power, well thought of in Vichy.’
‘By the moral architects of our national revolution,’ St-Hilaire said, and Lannes responded to the wintry irony of his words.
‘Quelques crimes toujours précèdent les grands crimes,’ the count said, and Lannes recognised the quotation.
‘Madame Jauzion is a remarkable actress,’ he said. ‘Her performance at our two meetings was flawless. Pray give her my compliments. I am surprised to have been told that she fails in Racine, and especially in Phèdre which you quote – so appositely, if I may say so.’
The count said, ‘I am pleased we understand each other, and that you also approve of the steps I have taken with regard to your son and his friends. Boys of spirit. I envied their ardour. I shall show you out myself . . . ’
He said this as if doing Lannes an honour.
‘As for Phèdre, I suppose that you can play tragedy only if you open yourself to what is tragic and do not prefer to shut such knowledge away and live in denial. Which is itself tragic, for denial renders you incomplete. Or so it appears to me. Nevertheless my affection for her is sincere.’
In the hall, he stopped by the door and took a heavy walking-stick with a silver knob from a stand.
‘This was Aristide’s,’ he said, ‘but you will have no need of it, will you?’
XL
‘So that’s how it seems it was,’ Lannes said.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Moncerre said, ‘and Jesus Christ again. He had a nerve. You believed him, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I believed him.’
‘How could he be sure you wouldn’t act on it?’
‘I’ve wondered about that of course.’
What he couldn’t say to Moncerre: he treated me like a man of honour, not a policeman. It was a form of flattery, and I succumbed as he knew I would.
‘Fucking aristo,’ Moncerre said.
Lannes thought of the count’s smile when he went out of his way to show him what was undoubtedly the murder weapon – their blunt instrument – the late nineteenth-century dandy’s cane with the silver knob which had belonged to the professor and which his daughter in her fury had picked up to stave his head in. It was remarkable and ridiculous. Some crimes always precede the great crimes. Had the count learned, he wondered, of Lannes’ detestation of the advocate Labiche? He thought of Adrienne aged eleven and her uncle, and her father’s pusillanimity. If it had been Clothilde . . .
‘There’s still a puzzle,’ he said now. ‘Assuming, as I’m sure we should, that I’ve just been told the truth about the killing, why was pressure put on Bracal to close down the case and order us to release Sombra? It doesn’t make sense. That pressure didn’t come from St-Hilaire, I’m sure of that.’
‘It’s obvious,’ Moncerre said, ‘whoever stepped in thought that Sombra had done it when the professor wouldn’t hand over whatever was demanded of him, and was afraid he would break under questioning. Just because he made a balls-up of it doesn’t mean “whoever” wasn’t afraid – and with reason.’
‘You may be right.’
‘Makes sense anyway. Not that it matters, does it? We’re fucked either way.’
Lannes wondered if Moncerre despised him for having in effect given his promise of silence to the count.
‘We couldn’t have proved anything,’ he said. ‘There was no evidence. Certainly she had the presence of mind to remove his papers, but I have no doubt that these have now been burned. So all she would have had to do was to deny everything.’
The ‘bull-terrier’ grinned.
‘You don’t need to make excuses, boss. Not to me. I don’t give a damn, you know. But I would have enjoyed having another go at that effing Spaniard. That’s the truth. He may be innocent of this one, but if ever I saw a man who was asking for it, it’s that bastard. One day he’ll be ours. And that effing advocate too. So what now?’
‘What now? Nothing,’ Lannes said. ‘There’s nothing to be done now.’
Moncerre said, ‘Have you heard, a Boche sailor was stabbed near the Porte du Palais last night?’
‘That’s nothing for us either,’ Lannes said. ‘That’s for the gendarmerie, or for their own police.’
‘It was probably a quarrel over a girl, nothing more than that,’ Moncerre said. ‘No business of ours anyway, as you say. Pity whoever did it made a botch of the job though.’
The sky was a deep summer-blue with a breeze from the Atlantic making the leaves on the plane trees tremble. It was a day like a Charles Trenet record, inviting you to be idle and happy. Lannes walked without purpose. It was again enough to be out of the office and alone. Even the ache in his hip was still. He sat outside a little bar in the rue du Vieil Temple and ordered a beer. He couldn’t account for his mood, for his freedom from anxiety, his unaccustomed contentment. The words, ‘it’s a moment out of time,’ came to him.
Léon appeared, leading Toto, hesitated a moment when he saw him, and responded when Lannes raised his hand.
‘Henri thought you’d deserted him,’ Lannes said.
The boy flushed and sat down.
‘No,’ he said, ‘not that.’
The waiter approached and Léon asked for a lemonade.
‘Alain has spoken to me,’ Lannes said.
‘And?’
‘Perhaps it’s for the best.’
Léon said, ‘It’s strange. What we are doing, it’s right, I’m sure of that. So why do I feel I’m running away?’
‘Have you told your mother?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Or your Aunt Miriam? No? I’ll see to that, when you’ve gone.
There’s nothing you can do to protect them, you must know that. So there is no reason to feel guilty.’
‘But I do.’
‘Oh, I understand that. One never needs a reason to feel guilty. I trust you to look after Alain. He’s headstrong and rash, needs restraint.’
For a little they sat in silence. Then Lannes said, ‘I have the impression you know yourself better than Alain knows himself. You’ve had reason to learn what and who you are as he hasn’t. That’s why I ask you to look after him. And the other boy?’
‘Jérôme looks soft. But he isn’t.’
‘Good. I’m glad to hear that.’
It was strange. He had felt sympathy for Léon, pity too. Now he found that he respected him.
He said, ‘Only one thing. Say good-bye properly to Henri. Don’t just slip away without a word. You’ll find he understands you.’
Léon drank his lemonade, and said, ‘I’d better get Toto back. Henri worries if I have him out for long in case he over-exerts himself. Not that he ever would, he’s a lazy old thing. Do you remember, you once told me to forget that you are a policeman.’ He smiled. ‘I think I’ve just managed to.’
Lannes remained outside the little bar for a long time, enjoying sunshine and idleness. In two days Léon would have gone, Karim also, and he could speak to Kordlinger. It wouldn’t be easy. Kord-linger might suspect he had been playing a double game, bringing him information only when it could be of no use. There would be a black mark against his name, branded unreliable. Well, things would get worse. At least he had put in the application for an ‘ausweis’ which would permit him to go to Vichy to meet Edmond de Grimaud. There should be no difficulty about that. Edmond had readily agreed to authorise his journey. And Dominique already had his ‘ausweis’ and was eager, even impatient, to join Maurice and take up the position secured for him as an officer in the Chantiers de Jeunesse. So he would have one son in Vichy, the other with the Free French; an insurance policy for the family
? That wasn’t really a welcome thought. But which thoughts were welcome now? And what would Marguerite say when she learned of Alain’s departure? If only they could speak to each other as they used to do.
Clothilde was alone in the apartment when he returned. She was bare-legged in a summer dress, with sandals on her feet. Her face glowed.
‘You’re looking very smart, darling. Are you off somewhere?’
‘Just to the cinema.’
‘With your German?’
‘Manu? No, Papa, that’s over. I took your advice. Anyway his unit’s been recalled. Just with Dominique and a friend of his from the legion.’
And it’s the friend, he thought, who accounts for the excitement you are trying to suppress.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’ll bring him back afterwards?’
‘Depends on how long the movie lasts. The curfew, you know.’
‘Yes, of course, the curfew. Where’s your mother?’
‘She went to see Granny. Apparently she’s got a pain. I must fly or I’ll be late.’
She gave him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.
‘Don’t worry, Papa. I’m happy.’
‘I can see that.’
‘You worry too much. You know you do. And it’s pointless.’
It was strange to be in the apartment alone with the sunlight slanting in and falling on the bowl of pink roses on the table. It felt wrong. He couldn’t settle to read, but found nothing else to do. Pointless to worry? How could he not? He put a record on the gramophone: Ravel’s Bolero. Quite the wrong music, with its insistent gathering tension; but he couldn’t bring himself to take it off and play something else. He lay back in a chair and closed his eyes. The music stopped and there was only the whirring as the turntable went round and round. He fell asleep.
When he woke he heard Marguerite busy in the kitchen.
‘You look terrible,’ she said.
‘I always do when I wake from an afternoon sleep. You know that.’
‘You didn’t used to. How I wish you weren’t a policeman. I’ve always felt like that, but it’s worse now. It’s not only that you are always exhausted, it’s because I’m convinced you have come to hate the job itself.’
He felt closer to her than he had for months, but all he could reply was: ‘How would we live if I wasn’t?’
She looked away, lowering her eyes.
‘I would feel that I was running away,’ he said.
‘And why not?’
‘The war and the Occupation won’t last for ever.’
‘Won’t they?’
‘I’m sure they won’t. How was your mother?’
‘It’s her liver, she says, but I think it’s mostly boredom and bad temper. And she complains about rationing and worries about money.’
‘Don’t we all? It’s a lovely afternoon. Come for a walk, eat an ice-cream in a café? We haven’t done that for a long time.’
He took her hand as they strolled to the Place de l’Ancienne Comédie, and thought that this was how they had walked through the streets before they were married and indeed in the early years of marriage, when she was still only a wife and not a mother. Was it the thought of Clothilde’s face, glowing with happiness as it had been that afternoon, which awoke this feeling of tenderness in him? He was ashamed to remember that only a couple of hours previously he had been imagining Yvette lying naked on her bed. He squeezed his wife’s hand and found the pressure returned.
He ordered an ice-cream each and a citron pressé for Marguerite and a marc for himself. Their silence in the sunlight was companionable, without strain. They spoke first of Dominique.
‘You’ll miss him,’ he said. ‘So will I of course,’ he added, as if his first words suggested indifference.
‘Of course we will, but he is so eager to do good, and he says this work is so worthwhile, that it would have been selfish to try to persuade him to stay at home. Birds must fly from the nest, I do realise that, Jean.’
‘Who’s Clothilde’s new boy? Have you met him?’
‘Oh yes, he’s charming, quite charming, a well-brought-up boy from a good family, I’m sure. I told you that young German was merely a passing phase.’
‘Well, it seems you were right there.’
‘Of course I was. I do know our children, Jean. As for this boy – he’s called Michel – he is good looking, which isn’t so important, and has lovely manners.’
‘Very different from me then,’ he said.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ she smiled. ‘Nothing wrong with your manners, not when we were young anyway. Even Mother approved of you then.’
‘Not so as I noticed,’ he said, and returned her smile.
‘You don’t need to worry about Clothilde. I know she irritates me and I’m sometimes short with her, but she’s a sensible child really, and as for this boy, when you think of how she is deprived of so much that she should enjoy at her age, I can only be happy to see her engaged in what is probably only a flirtation. It’s Alain who causes me concern. I never know what he is thinking or what he wants and he is so intense that I am really afraid he will do something stupid. I know you think he’s perfect, Jean, just because he plays rugby and reads books, but I am so anxious for him, and not only because he never speaks to me about his feelings, unlike Dominique who tells me everything.’
It occurred to him that this might be the moment, when for the first time in so long they were really talking to each other, to tell her of Alain’s intentions. But he had promised him not to speak of his plans till he had gone.
‘We have to trust our children, all of them, to do what they think best,’ he said.
‘That’s weak, Jean. Alain’s too young and immature to know what is good for him.’
XLI
Lannes kept well back from the platform as the train pulled out, ten minutes late in leaving. Alain had slipped out of the house, early, as he quite often did, before his mother was awake. He met Léon and Jérôme as arranged in Gustave’s Bar near the station. It had been Lannes’ suggestion, and he joined the boys there. They were nervous, all four. Only Jérôme managed to assume an air of gaiety and make jokes.
‘There’s no need to be anxious,’ he said, ‘my godfather’s plans never go wrong’ – an assurance that failed to reassure Lannes; he felt his stomach tightening. Gustave brought them coffee and croissants as if it was an ordinary morning. Lannes ran over words of advice in his mind, but couldn’t bring himself to utter them. He sensed they were eager for him to go, to leave them on their own with their adventure; he was the odd one out. They had no need of him.
Léon said, ‘You will see to my aunt, won’t you? And . . . ’ ‘Of course I will. She’ll be relieved, I think, that you are getting away, and, as I’ve said, there is nothing you could do to protect her if you remained here. Your mother too will be happy to think you are safe. They’ll both know that you are acting for the best.’
‘I feel guilty nevertheless,’ Léon said. ‘I did speak to Henri, as you told me to. That was bad enough. He wept.’
‘He’s fond of you. What about your parents, Jérôme?’
‘My godfather’s invited them to lunch, and I gave him a note for my mother. It’s all right. He’ll see that she doesn’t try to interfere, to do anything to stop us in Marseilles. We can trust him.’
Alain was very pale. He had thought about this moment for so long, been so eager for it, and now the adventure he had imagined was all but underway, and for the first time he wondered if he would ever see his mother and father, sister and brother again. That at least was what Lannes read in his son’s eye, and his thought was confirmed when Alain stretched across the table, took hold of his hand, and pressed it hard.
‘You mustn’t worry,’ he said.
‘Of course not,’ Lannes said. ‘I have every confidence in you.’
If only that was true. He did indeed have confidence in his son, but disclaiming worry, anxiety, fear, that was a lie, and Alain knew it as surely as h
e did himself.
In a fortnight it would be a year to the day since the first motorised column of German troops had crossed the bridge over the Garonne and rolled up the cours Victor Hugo while the Bordelais had stood watching, powerless, mystified, silent and ashamed. Now, for the three boys . . .
‘It’s strange,’ Jérôme said. ‘I really feel as if we were off on our holidays.’
‘Gustave,’ Lannes said, ‘bring us a bottle of champagne, please.’
The cork popped. Glasses were poured. It was a moment of solemnity.
‘All for one and one for all,’ Alain said.
Jérôme raised his glass and clicked it against the others.
‘To the Liberation!’ he said.
Léon drank with them, but remained silent. Lannes thought, he can scarcely contain his excitement, and yet he is ashamed, as the others aren’t, to be abandoning his family to their uncertain future here in Bordeaux.
‘It’s time you were off,’ he said.
He embraced them all, clasped Alain tight to his breast and kissed him on both cheeks, like a general who had just pinned the Croix de Guerre on his uniform.
They set off for the station. As they entered it, Léon turned and looked at the Hotel Artemis across the street.
Lannes followed at a distance, keeping in the background. When at last the train pulled out, and the smoke from the engine drifted away, he felt desolate. His son was off to fight for France, and he was trapped here in Bordeaux. Tomorrow the boys would be in Algiers, and he had to account to Kordlinger for his inability to satisfy his demands. Meanwhile he would play truant, keep clear of the office till he was sure the boys had arrived in Algiers, just in case he had an unannounced visit from Kordlinger.
He was surprised to find Henri downstairs in the bookshop, sitting at the desk which for months had been occupied by Léon. More surprising still, Henri was sober. He had shaved and was wearing a suit and a collar and tie.
‘Yes,’ Henri smiled. ‘I’ve been letting myself go, I know that. It’s Léon who has shamed me into pulling myself together.’
