Dark Summer in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  German field-police had boarded the train at Bordeaux, checking that the passengers had an ‘ausweis’. As Lannes presented his, it was as if he himself, the policeman, was now a suspect. He wondered if Alain and Léon and Jérôme had each felt his heart race while their documents were being examined. But probably the glance given their papers had been as cursory and perfunctory as the one given his and Dominique’s now. There was no reason why it shouldn’t have been.

  It was a long journey. They had to change twice, at Brive la Gaillarde and Clermont-Ferrand. The hour between trains at Brive gave them time to eat lunch in the station buffet, an omelette for each, a quarter-litre of white wine for Lannes and a bottle of Châteldon mineral water for Dominique. The company which produced it was owned by Pierre Laval, who had masterminded the dissolution of the Third Republic and the naming of the Marshal as Head of State. He had been Pétain’s first Prime Minister before being ejected the previous December in a coup organised by the Catholic Right. It was as a successful businessman and Republican politician that Laval had persuaded the national railways – the SNCF – to grant him a monopoly of the supply of mineral water for its restaurants and station buffets. Lannes spoke of this to Dominique who made no reply.

  ‘At least we’re relieved of a German presence,’ Lannes said. Dominique merely nodded. The rest of the meal passed in silence.

  Maurice de Grimaud was waiting for them on the platform at Vichy. He shook hands with Lannes and embraced Dominique.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said. ‘I’ve really been looking forward so much to your arrival and to working with you.’

  He explained that for the moment he had arranged that Dominique should share his room.

  ‘You’ve no idea how hard it is to find accommodation here,’ he said. ‘The town’s simply packed, it’s exhilarating. I hope you didn’t find difficulty, sir, in obtaining a hotel room?’

  It was obvious that Dominique was eager to be off with his friend. He submitted to Lannes’ embrace and to the suggestion that they should meet the following evening before Lannes returned to Bordeaux the next morning.

  Maurice said, ‘I understand you are meeting my father for lunch tomorrow. He asked me to confirm that with you.’

  The boys set off, chattering, Dominique evidently relieved to be free of his father.

  As for Lannes himself, what was left to him but the opportunity to do nothing, to walk the streets of the spa town on a beautiful summer evening? It was all a sort of make-believe. He could pretend that he was on holiday, carefree, just as all the functionaries gathered here could pretend that they constituted the government of France. No doubt they were fully occupied, drafting minutes and papers, in the manner of functionaries, and plotting against each other, in the manner of functionaries; but it amounted to nothing. Which was not to say that Vichy hadn’t, in the eleven months of its existence, passed innumerable laws and issued countless decrees. Oh yes, it was a busy little world, no matter how futile. ‘Achtung,’ the Boches snapped, and Vichy sprang to attention.

  Lannes settled himself on the terrace of a café and ordered a beer. The terrace was crowded, as it would have been before the war, but with this difference. Many of its clients were young – younger than Lannes anyway – and some were in uniform. In the days of peace the clientèle would mostly have been in Vichy to take the waters, sick people or rich ones who had been persuaded by their expensive doctors that their health required a sojourn in the spa town.

  A girl at the next table laughed. She was leaning back in her chair, her glossy black hair resting on her shoulders. The movement of laughter had pulled her skirt up to reveal a stretch of thigh. Her companion – husband? lover? – reached forward to tug the skirt down. The morality of the National Revolution? Not so: his hand rested there, pressing on her thigh. She swung forward, bringing her elbows down on the table and cupping her chin in her hands. They gazed into each other’s eyes. The man – scarcely more than a boy – took one of her hands and raised it to his lips. He wore the blue uniform of the Service de l’Ordre Légionairre. He was telling her how he and his mates had ‘turfed’ a Jewess out of her apartment and taken it over. ‘So we can go there,’ he said. The girl crossed her legs, trapping his hand between them. ‘That’s good,’ she said, and her forefinger played lightly on his mouth.

  Lannes thought of them as he lay in his hotel bed. It was a hot night and he could not sleep. They would be making love now, happily, perhaps in the bed which belonged to the evicted woman. And where would she have found to rest? The girl had been lovely, and the boy, with his smooth skin and laughing eyes, nice-looking. Were they naturally vicious, or were they infected by the mood of the times? Neither thought was agreeable.

  It still felt like holiday in the morning. The sky was blue, with only a few little wispy clouds, and a gentle breeze blew from the mountains. A troop of schoolchildren passed chattering as he took his coffee on the terrace of a café next door to his hotel. It was strange to see no German uniforms in the streets. When he went to be shaved, the barber was eager to talk about football. ‘I’m a rugby man myself,’ Lannes said, ‘from the south-west,’ and wondered if he would ever watch Alain play again. He had half an hour before his appointment with Bracal’s friend; nothing to do but stroll, as aimlessly as visitors to the spa must often have strolled on summer mornings to fill in time before they were due to take the waters or have their next appointment with their doctor. He admired the flower-stalls in the square in front of the monument to the fallen in his war, and thought how they would have delighted Marguerite. Vichy was really charming, he had to admit. There was a light-opera feel to the town; it was as if the air was filled with music by Offenbach.

  The office occupied by Travaux Rurales was, suitably, above a branch of the Crédit Agricole, and the secretary at the desk was a burly young man who looked as if he would be at home behind a plough. And why not, in this town where everything seemed to Lannes to belong to the theatre, where the Marshal was playing at being a Head of State and where one day the curtain would descend, bringing an end to the make-believe?

  Naturally he had to wait; it would not do for someone playing the role of a zealous official to receive him on time, destroying the illusion that he was overburdened with work. Lannes was content to play his part too and sat and smoked three or four cigarettes while the fan suspended from the ceiling turned slowly. The burly young man stamped papers and sighed. Then he got up and disappeared, leaving Lannes alone. Eventually he returned and said, ‘He can see you now.’

  ‘Ah, my friend Bracal’s friend.’

  Lannes was surprised to find that the man greeting him looked no more than thirty. He was short, thick-set with a broad face dominated by a huge nose. He had bounded from his desk to shake Lannes’ hand, with none of the lassitude Lannes already associated with Vichy. The handshake was vigorous, even crushing, and there was a sparkle in his brown eyes. His accent was of the Midi and his smile was welcoming.

  ‘Bracal tells me I can speak to you frankly, and that I may expect frankness in return. Good. That’s what I like to hear. How are things in Bordeaux?’

  ‘Not good, and getting worse.’

  Lannes sat in the chair on the other side of the desk. There were only two chairs in the room which was scarcely furnished. A green metal filing-cabinet seemed an incongruous article under the huge Second Empire chandelier.

  ‘You can call me Vincent. I should explain, this is an outpost, manned only by myself and Georges who received you. Our headquarters, as you may know, are in Marseilles, largely because the boss’s mother used to teach school there and so he knows the city. Bracal says you know something of our work.’

  ‘What I’ve seen of it hasn’t impressed me,’ Lannes said. ‘A man who called himself Félix. I’m a policeman. I don’t like spooks.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you’ve come here as our mutual friend Bracal suggested you should. Why?’

  Lannes thought, he’s testing me. I must remember that
he is probably cleverer than he looks. He lit a cigarette, and said, ‘Curiosity.’

  ‘Good answer. Bracal’s spoken about you. He thinks we may think alike.’

  ‘I don’t know what you think.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. So I’ll speak frankly. We’re a small organisation, full-time staff not more than twenty-five, perhaps twenty-seven. Not a lot, eh? Not for the work we have to do. So we need to recruit agents, mostly people to keep us informed – we’ve a couple of hundred already, a few more than that maybe – it’s not my department, keeping count. What’s their job? Keeping us up to date about, for instance, German activities in the Occupied Zone. There you are! I haven’t surprised you, have I? Of course,’ he gestured at the portrait on the wall behind him, ‘we’re loyal to the Marshal, couldn’t be otherwise, could it? Not if we are to survive. And the Marshal has committed France to a policy of collaboration. How do we reconcile this with our activities?’

  ‘How do you?’

  ‘We take this line. The old man says what he has to say. But is what he says what he thinks? Nobody knows. Some of us make guesses. They may be informed guesses, but again they may not?

  Who do you think will win the war?’

  ‘There’s not much fighting, is there?’ Lannes smiled for the first time, amused by the abrupt change of direction. ‘Germany seems to be victorious.’

  ‘Seems? Good word. I’ve read your dossier of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Médaille Militaire and all that.’

  ‘A long time ago and in another war.’

  ‘Which we won. One up, one down, eh?’

  ‘Two down,’ Lannes said, ‘1870.’

  ‘Which we recovered from, to win the return match.’

  ‘Which we recovered from. Eventually.’

  ‘Good,’ Vincent said, ‘I think we understand each other. You’re in trouble with the Boches, Bracal tells me.’

  ‘If he says so.’

  ‘Oh, he does, I assure you he does.’

  ‘If I am, it’s thanks to your friend Félix. I didn’t care for his methods. And he made a mess of things. I suppose – from what I know of his ways – because he frightened his quarry, who was, as it happens, an honourable man and took what he considered to be the honourable way out. Or perhaps he was just afraid. I don’t know. Either way, your precious Félix bungled things, and has caused a deal of trouble.’

  ‘He can be a bit crude. Nevertheless. Chap called Kordlinger, isn’t it? You can’t satisfy him? Funny thing. His grandmother was French, born French anyway.’

  ‘So he told me, or at least said his grandfather was born a French citizen.’

  ‘Quite right. So he was. Grandma too, but she was also Jewish. Bet he didn’t tell you that?’

  Lannes said, ‘I don’t suppose it’s something he would broadcast. Is it true?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s not something I would lie to you about. No point in lying unless it’s necessary. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Cousin of his, distant cousin, works for us. Jew himself.’

  ‘Here in Vichy?’

  ‘Well, Marseilles actually. It’s not as unusual as you may suppose. Not everyone here is entirely in favour of the anti-Jewish legislation. Makes no sense to me, personally, and, as for you, I have you down as a good Republican, That right?’

  ‘As much as I’m anything.’

  ‘Good,’ Vincent’s smile broadened. ‘Very good. No time for enthusiasm myself. Does a lot of damage, enthusiasm. Félix’s trouble, you know. He was a good man in his way – I mean, at his work, I’m not talking about his character, another business altogether, but . . . enthusiastic. Too much so for us. Bit of a loose cannon, as the saying goes. So we’ve had to sideline him, office job, can’t do much harm shuffling paper. So, again: what do you say? Happy to keep us informed, are you? Good, Bracal’ll fix it. Good man, Bracal, speaks very highly of you. Enjoy your lunch with de Grimaud, Oh yes, I know about that. He’s one of those we keep tabs on. Interesting chap, don’t you think? Likely to jump the wrong way, however. That’s my opinion, personal one, you know.’

  XLVI

  The Hôtel des Ambassadeurs seemed exactly as it had been when Lannes met Edmond de Grimaud there the previous year. The tables in the foyer were again fully occupied. Waiters floated about with silver trays held aloft. There were flowers in pots – roses, hydrangeas, carnations, freesias – and an air of comfort and unhurried elegance. But then nobody, Lannes thought, hurried in Vichy. At the back of the room four old people were playing bridge; perhaps they were the same four he had seen on his previous visit; it was as if they hadn’t moved in the intervening months. A bald man, with the ribbon of the Légion d’Honneur in his lapel, was dealing the cards with slow deliberation. Lannes thought he recognised him: a minister in several of the Cabinets of the Third Republic, now marking time here in Vichy? He paused in the middle of his dealing to pick up the cigar that was smoking in an ashtray, and kept it clenched in the middle of his mouth as he dealt out the last cards and arranged his hand.

  Lannes went through to the bar where, in contrast to the foyer, only a few tables were occupied.

  The young barman greeted him as if he was a familiar and respected customer. Lannes remembered how he had looked on him with resentment on his last visit, when Dominique had been a prisoner of war and he had wondered how this young man had contrived to escape military service.

  ‘I have a message from Monsieur de Grimaud, sir. He apologises for being delayed and says he will be with you as soon as possible. Meanwhile he has instructed me to open a bottle of champagne for you.’

  ‘I’d rather have a pastis,’ Lannes said.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we are no longer permitted to serve it, not since the prohibition of aniseed-based liquors.’

  He twisted the wire off a bottle of Perrier-Jouet, deftly popped the cork, poured Lannes a glass and replaced the bottle in the ice-bucket, with a napkin wrapped round its neck.

  Particles of dust floated in the sunlight which streamed through the windows of the bar.

  ‘We can still get pastis in Bordeaux,’ Lannes said.

  ‘Then you are fortunate, sir.’

  ‘Nice to be fortunate in one respect.’

  ‘Indeed yes.’

  The barman smiled, as if inviting Lannes to join him in the pretence that all was for the best, or at least to agree that irony was their only possible defence against the reality of the way things were.

  ‘You may be interested to know that Monsieur Laval agrees with you about pastis,’ he said, ‘but the management forbids me to keep a bottle even for him. We still have bottles of course, but they’re under lock and key, until . . . ’ He smiled again, engagingly.

  ‘Until . . . ?’

  ‘Who knows? Perhaps one day they will be liberated. Meanwhile, there’s no pastis even for Monsieur Laval.’

  ‘Well, he’s in the shit, isn’t he, since they kicked him out last December. Put him under house arrest, didn’t they?’

  ‘Till his German friends stepped in, to countermand the order.

  As for that one, he may be in the shit, as you put it, for now, but he’ll rise again, you can be sure of that. His type always does. Meanwhile when he comes here on his rare visits to the town, he tells me how happy he is to be out of power and watching his Charolais cattle in the meadows. I don’t believe him of course. He’s a deep one.’

  ‘You speak very frankly,’ Lannes said.

  ‘And why not, sir? This is Vichy where we all say what we think even though we don’t always think what we say.’

  Lannes smiled in his turn and took his glass over to a table by the window. The barman followed with the ice-bucket and a stand to place it in.

  ‘I trust you will enjoy your visit, sir. It’s very good wine, you know, always the best for Monsieur de Grimaud.’

  ‘I expect you’re right.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Lannes wa
s content to wait. It certainly was good wine, much better than the bottle Gustave had produced the morning the boys took the train out of Bordeaux. As the barman had said, nothing but the best for Monsieur de Grimaud. Lannes felt for the brown envelope in his inside pocket.

  ‘My dear superintendent . . . ’

  Edmond de Grimaud approached him with hand outstretched. Lannes hesitated a moment before accepting it.

  ‘I trust Pierre has been looking after you.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  De Grimaud settled himself at the table, accepted the glass which the barman handed him.

  ‘Your health, superintendent.’

  Lannes nodded but did not lift his glass. He was uncomfortably aware of de Grimaud’s elegance, the well-cut navy-blue suit, the cream-coloured silk shirt, the neatly knotted bow-tie, the highly polished black shoes, the whiff of bay rum from his sleek hair.

  ‘Let me say how delighted I am to see you again, and add that Maurice is equally, perhaps even more, delighted, that your Dominique has come to join him in the excellent work he is doing.

  They had dinner with me last night. Your son is a charming boy and I am so pleased to have been able to be of some assistance in arranging for his repatriation. It is not good for young people to be held in prisoner-of-war camps. I only wish we could get them all home. We are of course working on that; it is one of the prime objects of our policy of collaboration, as you will know. As for my Maurice, the work he is doing has been the making of him. He is no longer the troubled adolescent you knew in Bordeaux. The transformation has indeed been remarkable. Meanwhile, if you permit, we shall eat here in the bar. I’ve been summoned unexpectedly to a meeting this afternoon with the Marshal and Admiral Darlan. Pierre, would you be kind enough to bring us some smoked salmon? I am so sorry, superintendent, I had looked forward to a long leisurely lunch, and it is possible to eat well here.’

  Lannes took the envelope from his pocket and pushed it across the table.