Winter's End

by Jean-Claude Mourlevat

  The two men replied freely to questions now, describing the hundreds of meetings that had been held over the last few months in cellars and garages, the underground work of thousands of invisible but determined partisans. Their supporters were waiting only for the signal, they revealed, and then the revolt would begin. It was a matter of days now, no more.

  The two cars had turned back and then branched off on a road going north. Bartolomeo soon recognized the moorland landscape and the moss-grown rocks. This time it seemed only a short way to the horse-men’s village.

  Faber and his wife had waited up late to welcome their visitors. They were upset to think they had received them so grudgingly last time and were determined to make up for it. They succeeded. Roberta was wearing a pretty flowered dress and pink lipstick. Her husband was barely recognizable in a suit that could have accommodated two men of normal size. A comb had left shining furrows in his black hair.

  Seeing the gigantic horse-man appear before her, Milena felt that she was suddenly in one of the stories she had read as a little girl, tales in which peaceful giants held children in the palms of their hands. Bart hadn’t been able to keep from telling her how Faber had crushed the Phalangists in his kitchen. She had doubted the story, but now that she saw the colossus in front of her and the new ceiling above their heads, she had to believe it was true. Jahn made the introductions. As soon as he said that Milena was the daughter of Eva-Maria Bach, Roberta clasped her hands, saying breathlessly, “Oh, how like her mother she is! Oh, my God, she’s so like her! And can you sing too, Miss Bach?”

  “I’m learning,” Milena modestly replied, to the great amusement of those who had heard her a few hours earlier.

  They sat down at the table — a new one, like the ceiling — and Roberta brought in beer. Faber dispensed smiles all around, delighted to have all these people in his house. The gradual revival of the leader of the horse-men was complete now, and it was a pleasure to see the change in him.

  “Well, Faber?” said Jahn. “Have you managed to assemble your men?”

  “I think so, Mr. Jahn. There are groups all over the country, ready to fight. A good number here in this village. I don’t know quite how many, but a lot. You’ll see them tomorrow morning.”

  Then Lando, the head chef, raised a particular problem: how to bring this fighting force of horse-men to the capital when the moment came? None of them could drive.

  “Walking’s best,” replied Faber. “A pair of legs never breaks down. It’ll take three days; that’s nothing.”

  “Three days is far too long,” growled Lando.

  “No, Faber’s right,” Bart put in. “If they go on foot and separately, it’ll be harder to pick them up than if they’re traveling by bus or car. They’ll be on all the roads coming from the north, the south, everywhere. And the rest of the population will join them. It’ll be a human tide converging on the capital. The Phalangists can’t intervene everywhere. They’ll be overwhelmed.”

  He went on in this vein, picturing the irresistible advance of the horse-men while all the other supporters of a free society rallied to them. His black eyes were blazing. Milena looked at him with love and admiration. He might be only seventeen, but he wasn’t afraid of arguing with older men, and they treated him as an equal.

  “I’ll speak to them tomorrow,” he added, without waiting for anyone to agree with him. “I’ll explain what’s at stake, and they’ll listen to me.”

  “Yes,” Faber confirmed. “They’re expecting you to speak to them anyway, Casal.”

  Now Jahn spoke, but gradually Milena realized that she was no longer following what he said. His words echoed around in her head without making sense. She felt dizzy, lost consciousness, and came around in the powerful arms of Roberta, who was laying her down on the bench, pushing the men aside.

  “White as a sheet, poor little thing! Has she had anything to eat recently?”

  The others realized that in fact Milena had eaten nothing the evening before, nor indeed had Dora. A long day’s work, all the emotion of the recital, the drive, the cold, and a glass of beer on an empty stomach had been too much for her.

  “You great brutes!” the tall horse-woman scolded them all, cutting a slice of cake. “There you go, starting revolts, and you don’t notice a girl fainting under your very noses! And Miss Bach at that! I won’t let you forget this in a hurry!”

  The incident brought the evening to an end. The visitors were to sleep in the nearby houses. Milena and Dora, after having something to eat and drink at last, were given the Fabers’ huge double bed; its owners were staying the night with relatives at the other end of the village. Bartolomeo and Lando went to the house of one of the horse-men who had been on the drive with them. The enormous Jocelin flatly refused to leave Jahn and insisted on putting him up at his own house. “I’ll protect you day and night, Mr. Jahn, that I will!”

  When they woke up, Dora and Milena heard the staircase creaking. Still drowsy, they emerged from under the eiderdown to see the large figure of Roberta coming upstairs with a tray in her hands.

  “They tell me musicians and suchlike artists have breakfast in bed, so here we are! Coffee, bread and butter, jam. Anything else you ladies would like?”

  “This is more than enough for us ladies!” said Dora, laughing. “It’s paradise!”

  “Now, you mustn’t make fun of us. I’m sure you’ve stayed in the best hotels.”

  “I’m not making fun, Roberta. This is much better than the best hotels. You’re very kind.”

  “Mitzi didn’t bother you too much?”

  “Not at all,” said Milena. “She slept in her own chair like a good kitty. Look at her.”

  The large cat twitched one lazy ear to greet her mistress. Curled up in the chair, she looked like an enormous ginger cushion.

  Roberta put the tray down on the bed and opened the shutters. Cold air and white light invaded the room. “There’s fog and frost this morning,” said the horse-woman. “You’ll need to wrap up well to go out. There now, I’ll leave you to eat your breakfast.”

  Sure enough, the two women couldn’t see more than five yards ahead of them in the village square, where they joined a group of some twenty men, including Faber, who towered half a head above everyone else; Bartolomeo, muffled in his black scarf; the head chef, Lando, who was freezing; and Jahn, with the faithful Jocelin still beside him.

  “What’s going on, Bart?” Milena asked.

  “Faber wants to introduce me to his people so that I can greet them and speak to them. They’ve gathered at the way out of the village.”

  The little group set off through the fog and had soon left the last houses behind. Bart wondered what to expect. Faber had said that a great many horse-men had gathered here, but what did that mean? A hundred? Perhaps two hundred? He walked on beside Jahn, never guessing that he was about to experience one of the greatest moments of his young life.

  At first he saw only a dozen rows of horse-men standing motionless in the mist. The vapor of their breath half hid their massive faces. They wore warm clothing and boots. Most of them had bags on their backs or slung over their shoulders. Clubs could be seen sticking out of some of the bags, while other men held clubs in their hands. Bart was impressed by the sense of power radiating from these dark, silent, colossal figures.

  “How many are there?” he whispered to Faber. “I can’t see them all.”

  “A great many, as I said. They’re waiting for you to speak to them. Right, get up there and off you go.”

  “But they won’t all hear me. My voice isn’t loud enough.”

  “You don’t have to shout. Just speak to the ones in front. They’ll pass it on. They’ll repeat exactly what you say till it gets to the back row. We always do it that way here — no need for anyone to yell.”

  Bart gave Jahn an uneasy glance. Jahn shrugged. He couldn’t help, nor could Lando or Milena, who gave him a little signal of encouragement. He took a step forward, slightly at a loss, and got up on t
he wine crate that had been put there for him to stand on. What was he to say? Why hadn’t he had the sense to prepare a speech in advance? Well, too late now.

  “Good morning, friends,” he began. “My name is Bartolomeo Casal.”

  He was about to go straight on, but Faber stopped him with a gesture. He had to leave time for the sentence to be repeated. The horse-men in the front row turned around and passed it on in low voices to those in the second row:

  “Good morning, friends, my name is Bartolomeo Casal . . .”

  who passed it on to the third row:

  “Good morning, friends, my name is Bartolomeo Casal . . .”

  and so on.

  Soon the message was lost in the mist, but he knew it was still passing from one man to the next. It took a long time. Now and then Bart looked inquiringly at Faber — Can I go on? — but Faber shook his head: no, not yet. After long moments of silence, the low note of a horn was heard in the distance. Faber nodded: the message had reached the end of its journey.

  Bartolomeo realized how precious words were in such circumstances. He mustn’t waste them. He had to find the shortest way to say what had to be said.

  He went on: “In the past, my father led you . . .”

  “In the past, my father led you . . .” repeated the horse-men in the front row.

  “In the past, my father led you . . .” the men in the second row passed it on.

  “And he lost his life, like many others.”

  “And he lost his life, like many others.”

  “And he lost his life, like many others.”

  “Now I will take up the fight again, with you!”

  “Now I will take up the fight again, with you!”

  “Now I will take up the fight again, with you!”

  “Trust me!”

  “Trust me!”

  “This time the people will be with us . . . ”

  “This time the people will be with us . . .”

  “And we will defeat the barbarians!”

  “And we will defeat the barbarians!”

  Punctuated by the horn calls in the mist, the simple sentences they repeated took on unexpected weight in the silence as they made their slow progress on. There was time to weigh every word, and every word weighed heavy: rebel. . . rebel . . . fight . . . fight . . . freedom . . . freedom . . .

  He asked them to set off for the capital that morning. When he had finished, the last horn call set off a roar that sent a shiver down his spine.

  “Go and greet them,” Faber told him. “Walk among them; they’ll like that.”

  “No,” protested Bart, getting off his crate. “I can’t do it. I don’t like the idea of some kind of personality cult. I’d feel ridiculous.”

  Jahn took his arm. “Go on, Bart. You mustn’t disappoint them. And those of them who knew your father will be happy to see him again in you.”

  Bartolomeo hesitated for a few more seconds and then made up his mind. “All right, but you come too, Milena.”

  He took Milena’s hand and led her forward. The first rows opened before them, and they let themselves be swallowed up by the peaceful crowd of horse-men, the vapor of their breath hovering almost motionless above their heads. It was an unreal moment. There were not hundreds but thousands of people ready to fight. In their heavy winter clothes, with caps or balaclavas on their heads, they seemed to have come out of another time. There were many women among them, and boys too, some of them no more than twelve. These lads were proudly brandishing their pikes or clubs. In the ghostly light of early morning they all made way for the two young people, offering them smiles and words of friendship.

  “Are we in a fairy tale?” whispered Milena.

  “That’s how I feel,” said Bart. “Either that or we’re dreaming the same dream at the same time.”

  Soon they had lost their sense of direction and didn’t know which way to go. Wherever they turned, they saw the same multitude of backs, shoulders, kindly faces, and there were the same large hands to shake. Immersed in the warmth of this human throng, they no longer felt concern either for what the next day would bring or for the biting cold of winter.

  “Which way is the village?” asked Milena at last, feeling dazed.

  A young horse-woman heard her and took her arm. “Would you like me to take you back? Follow me!”

  She set off ahead of them, very proud to be their guide. She was bare-headed, and her straight hair, growing untidily, stood up on her strong skull in tufts. There were deep folds around her neck. Her man’s coat flapped around her legs, and now and then she turned to see if they were still following her. When she saw that they were there, she smiled with delight. Once she took her opportunity to whisper to Milena, “Oh, you’re as beautiful as a princess!” Then she turned away very quickly, moved with emotion at her own daring.

  “You’re the beautiful one,” Milena murmured to herself. “Much more beautiful than me.”

  Back in the village they all met at Faber’s house again. Jahn left briefly, accompanied by the inevitable Jocelin, to go to the post office, the only place in the village with a telephone. He came back looking very pale to announce his news: the uprising had begun in the capital during the night, and the army had opened fire, terrorizing the population. There were dozens of dead, and this morning the Phalange had restored order. However, in several northern towns, young people had put up barricades, which they were defending doggedly, and those barricades were still holding.

  “Good God!” swore Lando. “Things are moving much too fast! It’s far too soon!”

  “Yes, it’s too soon,” Jahn agreed, “but there we are. The fire has been lit. No one can put it out now.”

  As soon as she woke up, Helen realized that this wasn’t going to be a morning like any other. After her fright when the militia broke into Milena’s room, she had fallen asleep. It was a heavy, dreamless sleep, and now she was sitting on the edge of her bed, feeling numb. Her alarm clock told her that it was nearly ten in the morning. She had never gotten up so late since coming to the restaurant. She washed, dressed hurriedly, and went out into the silent corridor. The sight of Milena’s shattered door brought last night’s violence straight back to her. She passed it without stopping and went downstairs, feeling vaguely that the whole world was out of joint.

  On the second floor, she went to Bartolomeo’s door, and saw that it too had been forced open. She glanced inside the room, where the same chaos reigned as in Milena’s after the barbarians had ransacked it. Objects were lying around on the floor, broken and crushed underfoot. Her stomach muscles cramped with fear: what would happen if her two friends ever fell into the hands of these men?

  The two restaurant rooms were empty. Helen took the elevator down to the basement. In the silence its iron machinery seemed louder than ever. Passing through the kitchens, she finally heard a faint sound coming from the staff canteen, and then voices. She opened the door and saw about thirty of her fellow workers sitting there, crammed into a space too small for them. They were in the middle of such a lively discussion that they hardly noticed her arrival.

  “We can manage the meals no problem without Lando,” a boy sitting at the corner of the table was saying. “I mean, we’re not total idiots!”

  “It’s not a matter of being idiots or not,” said another boy, wearing a warehouse man’s gray apron. “It depends on whether we can serve the customers anything. The suppliers know that Mr. Jahn has gone away, and we haven’t had half this morning’s deliveries: no vegetables, no bread. So what do you think we’re going to give people?”

  A young woman leaning on a cupboard said placidly, “I’m perfectly happy to serve anything we have, but I don’t think anyone’s likely to turn up. They say the factory’s on strike.”

  “Exactly,” agreed a man beside her, smoking a cigarette. “There was a scuffle at the entrance.”

  “So what are we going to do?” one girl asked.

  The discussion went around in circles like this for sev
eral minutes, until a young man of about twenty suddenly got up on his chair. He was clearly angry. “Look, I’m sorry, but you’re really getting me down with all this talk about vegetable deliveries!” he cried. “Going on about carrots and potatoes when people were putting up the barricades last night. You heard them too, I suppose. What are we waiting for? Let’s get moving!”

  “Hear, hear!” another young man agreed. “I’ve no intention of sitting here twiddling my thumbs. I’m off into town to see what’s going on. Coming?”

  The two of them put on their jackets and marched out.

  “Be careful!” the boy smoking the cigarette called after them. “They’re saying people died last night!”

  There was a long and weighty silence.

  “I wonder what Mr. Jahn would say,” one of the cooks, a girl in a white apron, said with a sigh.

  “What would he say?” replied another girl, getting to her feet. “He’d say he’s not our father, and maybe we should learn to manage without him. And not be scared anymore! Those two boys are right. I’m going after them. Who’s coming with me?”

  It was Rachel, a friend of Dora’s. Helen knew her well.

  “I’ll come,” she said, surprised to find herself so bold.

  Going along the corridor to her room, she felt a sense of elation. There were three days left before the winter fights. Only three days. But suppose the revolution was already beginning? Suppose the city was suddenly in chaos? Wouldn’t the Phalangists have more urgent things on their minds than going to watch gladiators die? Surely they would! They wouldn’t go to the arena. They’d stay away and the fights would be canceled! For the first time in months, she saw hope ahead. A faint hope, but a real one.

  Looking around her little room at her few ornaments, the two bookshelves, her clothes hanging from the cord, she asked herself an unusual question: what do you take with you when you’re a girl of seventeen going off to build barricades in the street to save your lover? Unable to come up with any satisfactory answer, she put on her brightly col ored cap, her scarf, and her winter coat, and set off.