‘No, you do not.’ Serge was leaning against the adjoining carriage door. ‘You certainly do not.’
The ringmaster leaned towards a low side table where a cut-crystal decanter sat next to a matching tumbler. He poured a thick measure of brown liquid into the glass then knocked it back in one.
‘Serge tells me you were fighting. Not only do I have a stowaway on my hands, I have one who is so confident that he thinks he can harass my troupe?’
‘I didn’t—’ Michel began, and Serge reached over and grabbed his upper arm so tightly that Michel thought he would rip it off.
‘No need to argue. I do not deal with stowaways. Or at least, I deal with them in only one way. Serge! See to it that our friend here finds his way home.’
‘Yes, Werner,’ Serge answered, and made to pull Michel from the cabin.
‘Oh, and Serge?’ the small, rotund ringmaster said. ‘Bring that Jean to me later. He has much to answer for.’
Moments later, Michel was facing an open door between the two carriages. He saw the trees rushing by, could feel the air on his skin as Serge tipped his body towards the opening. Michel pushed his weight backwards, feeling the warmth of Serge against him. He tried to speak, tried to beg, but the wind caught in his throat. The trees were slowing now, the ground that was once a blur of grey and brown was now dirt, pebble-stones. The train’s brakes squealed beneath them as they rounded a bend. Then Michel saw the trees grow closer, felt the wind once more as he sailed through the open door towards the sky; then to the ground, the pebbles, the stones and the dirt as the train click-clacked away from him, the giant and the dwarf watching from a window as their stowaway rolled in the dust and mud, down a bank and away from sight.
Four
La Campagne
As Michel lay on the warm, damp afternoon earth, he listened to the train as it headed away from him. He groaned and moved first to one side, then the next. He lifted one leg, then the other, repeating the movements with his arms. Nothing broken, nothing too badly damaged. His right side ached – it had taken the brunt of the landing – his palms were bloodied and grazed, his knees similarly ripped, but otherwise he was, in most respects, in one piece.
He stood and took in his surroundings – a small shelf of land above a steep green hillside, that below held a silvery snake of river between blots of verdant woods, brown roofs and ploughed criss-crossed fields surrounding the plain, with a church spire announcing the village.
He stretched a little and managed to walk a few steps towards a tree. Leaning against it he looked left, right and above to the train tracks, and then he spotted it – his bag. Carefully, he made his way over to it and hefted it onto his back. Although not heavy, the weight pulled at his shoulders and the muscles surrounding his bruised ribs, made him wince.
A narrow path littered with leaves and overgrown weeds led from the outcrop to the hill, and then down into the village. Michel followed it, watching each foot as he took a step, leaning his weight to where he could bear the bag better, so his ribs did not scream with pain.
It took him some time to reach the foot of the hill, where he found himself in a field of sunflowers that had yet to open. Their thick stems jutted from the ground in neat rows, and Michel, suddenly tired from the descent, lay amongst them to catch his breath and ease the pain a little.
He lay back, putting his bag under his head, and closed his eyes. The pain was not worse, but it was not better, and his side burned. He tried to imagine something else to shift his focus from the soreness, and found himself thinking of her face once more – the emerald eyes, heavily kohled, which in his mind’s eye had looked at him with a questioning amusement, as if he were a new animal to play with – perhaps he would dance for her or sing, making her plump rouged lips turn upwards into a smile.
Michel opened his own eyes and watched the streak of clouds overhead, remembering how just a day or so before, he had stood on the bridge over the Seine, looking at the sky, wishing it would rain and dampen the heat of Paris. The clouds here danced and changed from moment to moment, first showing him a horse, then, as he watched it, transforming itself into a balloon, then into a cup, then disappearing altogether. He moved to sit; his shirt was stuck to his back and he could smell himself, a rich musk that would surely make the flowers wilt.
He could hear the hum of the grasshoppers that cooled themselves all around him, yet he never saw one. The caw of a lonely crow pierced the quiet countryside, and eventually Michel stood, heaving his bag onto the other shoulder, following the field towards the river.
He soon came to an uneven road of sorts and followed it to a low stone bridge, which led him into dense woodland of oaks and elms. He welcomed the shady embrace of the thick trees and, as their branches danced in the late afternoon breeze, he stopped and tried to catch their secret whisperings.
He is here. He has come. But soon he will be gone…
In a cluster of wild poppies that bobbed their delicate heads, Michel spotted two pairs of blue eyes watching him. He made to move towards them, but a hiss, then a meow, sent him a message that he was not welcome. Then he saw their tails gently waving in unison, like two snakes awaiting their prey, begging him to come closer. He sat on the bank of the river and observed them. When they curled up, wrapping their tails around themselves, he moved gently left, then right, watching their keen eyes follow him.
Suddenly, Michel removed his jacket, and leapt from the bank into the water, his nostrils filling with the heavy algae water that brought back a sudden memory of his youth. He sank down, his feet soon touching the slush of the riverbed, and he counted – one, two, three – and watched the air bubbles rise above him, popping on the shimmering surface. His lungs burned and his head ached, so he pushed himself upwards, towards the rippled distorted reality above, kicking hard and reaching until his fingertips broke through, then his arms, and finally his head and shoulders. He breathed in deeply, then, treading water, wiped his face and eyes with an arm. He blinked – once, twice – then started to swim to the bank. His eyes searched for the twin cats, and not seeing them he felt strangely bereft; he was alone again.
With some effort, Michel pulled his waterlogged body onto the bank. Now free of the claustrophobic embrace of the river, he lay back, his arms stretched out from his sides, and closed his eyes. For a while, he watched the shapes on the underside of his eyelids merge and shift, like oil on water – there a dot, then a bright spark, then a face, eyes… a mouth he had imprinted on his mind. Michel’s eyes snapped open again and for a moment he hoped she might be leaning over him, yet all he saw were the same shape-shifting clouds; all he heard was the murmuring river in his ears.
He rolled over and took a cigarette from his jacket pocket. He tried to light it with a match, but a drip from his arm extinguished it. He tried once more and, finding a spark, dragged deeply, lighting the end into a comforting orange glow.
From behind him he heard a rustle of grass, and he wondered whether the twin cats had come back to play. He made a clucking sound, one he had used to quieten nervous horses, encouraging them to come closer – Trust me, it sang, I’ll take care of you.
Nothing appeared, and Michel was left with the sound of the leaves as they whispered to each other, remarking on their new visitor and wondering when he would leave. He wondered the same, and said aloud, ‘Soon. Soon I will go, the moment I know where I am going.’ The leaves repeated his message, allowing the wind to take it far and wide: Michel has nowhere to go – someone must find him quickly.
Michel waited until his clothes had dried enough, then left the charm of the riverbank and the chatter of the wood to meander into the small village nestled between the river and the hillside, covered with neat rows of vines that revealed the settlement’s history of wine-making.
The village had no sign to welcome a weary visitor, no inn, no pension. Just a handful of thatched houses, a small café and the church, and in the small square a statue of the Virgin Mother. Michel looked at the statue. He ha
d never seen such a tribute; she was not green and mottled like the outdoor statues in Paris; instead she shone in bronze, buffed and polished daily by a devoted hand.
He turned from the statue and settled upon the café, where a pair of old men sat and played backgammon, a black-and-white dog lying between them. Michel took the other table and waited.
Minutes ticked by on the church clock tower – five minutes, then ten, and finally fifteen before a middle-aged woman appeared, her apron stained by food and wine, her hair streaked with grey and curling at her shoulders.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘A visitor.’
‘We do not get visitors.’
The two men stopped playing their game and looked at Michel. Even the resting dog raised her head for a moment.
‘I am just passing through.’ Michel smiled at her.
The woman shook her head. ‘What do you want?’
‘Water, please.’
‘Just water?’ She laughed. ‘This is not a charity.’
‘And a small glass of Burgundy.’
‘Mmmhmmm,’ she murmured and walked away.
‘No visitors here,’ one of the old men repeated to Michel, only four teeth showing in his gummy mouth. ‘It is a quiet village. Quieter now. Some people left; you know who.’ He tapped the side of his nose and winked. ‘Better they are gone.’
‘Better for who?’ the other man chimed in, his busy eyebrows raised in question. ‘For you? You just do not like anyone.’
‘Not true!’ the gummy man snapped. ‘I like French people. Good, proper, French Catholic people. Not them with their ways and their little hats and beards. Not to be trusted.’
The proprietor returned with Michel’s glass of red, which she slammed down onto the table, sloshing wine over the rim, and then demanded payment straight away. ‘No tabs. Not for strangers.’
‘There’ll be more strangers soon,’ the eyebrow man laughed. ‘And here you all are thinking how lucky you are that they left. Now you will have the Germans instead. They will take your wine, your food – hell, they will even take your wives and daughters!’
‘Can’t be worse than the Jews.’ The gummy man stood and threw some coins onto the table so they clattered, and the dog growled.
‘Pah! Away with you. Begone!’ the eyebrow man cackled. ‘Always a sore loser, that one. Never mind him.’
Michel nodded and sipped at the wine, expecting it to be bitter and heavy with ethanol, but it was pleasant and ripe on the tongue.
‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ the eyebrow man said. ‘Even our cheap wine is good. Not a bad place to live, if you ask me. What’s your name?’
‘Michel.’
‘Well, Michel, I am Lucien, and this here under the table is my dog Coquette. And our waitress who has shown you so much hospitality is Madame Guillaume. Do not mind her; she is angry with her husband for drinking too much last night. He is still in bed.’
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘And you. Always good to see a new face, eh Coquette?’ The dog sat up and looked at Michel. Then, as her master waved his hand, she trotted over to meet the visitor.
‘She likes you,’ Lucien remarked, as Michel rubbed the old dog behind her ears.
‘I like animals.’
‘It shows. So, what brings you to our little village of Vodable?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Michel sat back in his chair and took a mouthful of wine whilst Coquette rested her head on his thigh. ‘I left Paris and I was thinking to visit Saint-Émilion, where my grand-mère lived, see if some friend of hers would perhaps give me a job for a while. But now I am not sure.’
‘What has made you unsure?’ Lucien raised his glass in a toast.
‘I don’t know,’ Michel said, feeling the warmth of the alcohol swirl around his brain, making him suddenly tired. He yawned.
‘Did you go off to fight when it all started? I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to get away from that life now. A soldier’s life is a sorrowful one – take it from me.’
‘No.’ Michel shook his head; tried to shake the tiredness away. ‘I couldn’t. I broke my leg a few years back. It healed badly. One leg is a bit shorter than the other now.’
‘Better for you. If you had gone, you’d be mincemeat by now anyway. Is it true the Boche are in Paris?’
‘They were arriving as I left.’
‘Not surprising. They’re a quick bunch, looking for the next bit of land. Not sure why they need so much. I tell you, just as I told my wife, they’d be better being a little more French, a little more relaxed. Drink some wine instead of beer, eat proper food. The wife says they eat nothing but pork. Now and again a bit of bread. You think that’s true?’
‘I’ve heard similar things.’
‘You like this wine?’
‘It’s very good, though I shouldn’t have bought it really.’
‘What is money for if not for wine?’
Michel laughed and nodded.
‘Where will you stay tonight?’ Lucien asked, draining his own glass.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I tell you what. You come and stay with me, on my farm. I’ll let you sample my own wine – much better than this – and you can pay me with stories of your travels. My wife will not mind… Well, if we get her some flowers, she won’t mind so much, eh?’ Lucien winked.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve been married for forty years. Imagine that. Forty years – just me and her. No children. We welcome a friendly face from time to time; it gives us a little entertainment. Not much here – as you can see.’ Lucien indicated the quiet square.
‘That’s very generous of you.’
‘He who is generous will themselves be blessed, for they share their food with the poor – so say the Proverbs. You know the Bible?’
‘My mother taught me, but I can’t say I’m devout.’
‘No matter to me! You see, so many people around here – take my gummy friend Armand from the square who you met earlier. Says he is Catholic, says he is part of the Church, but you see how he is? Unfeeling towards anyone not like him. Not very Christian, is it? I say I’ve seen more Christian people in my life, proper Christians, who have never once stepped inside a church!’
‘They say Hitler is Catholic.’
‘See! Proves my point exactly. Says one thing yet then goes and does another!’
Michel yawned again.
‘You need food,’ Lucien said. ‘Come. We eat, we drink, and we tell some stories. What else is there to do around here?’
As he spoke, a gust of wind dragged a cloud of dirt around the statue and the Madame slammed the wooden window shutters, announcing the closure of the café, and thus the whole village. It was decided Michel would stay with Lucien.
Lucien did not live far, and Michel thought at first that he was being taken back into the woods and towards the river. ‘There were two cats there?’ he told Lucien, pointing at the thick branches. ‘Two, identical. They had blue eyes, I think, or green, and they watched me. Sorry.’ He stopped. ‘I sound foolish. The wine, you see, and little food.’
‘You saw the twins,’ Lucien said.
‘The twins?’
‘My cats. Twins, as I said. Same litter, the same markings, and as villainous as each other. They come and purr by the fire for a while, but then, my friend, they plot and scheme to make my life difficult. One minute I go to sit down and one of them runs underneath my foot, so I fall! But I look over and there they sit, together, their tails moving in time with each other. I know they are laughing at me; I know! But my wife, she thinks I’m mad. One day, though, one day, she shall learn the truth!’ Lucien’s voice had taken on a distinct edge that set the dog Coquette howling along with her master. ‘See?’ Lucien pointed at his dog. ‘She knows. She understands.’
Michel wanted to tell him that he mistrusted cats too, but his tongue was thick and heavy, his mind swam with tiredness, and the pain in his ribs had returned, reminding him of the afterno
on’s adventures.
‘Not far now,’ Lucien said. ‘This heat makes the strongest of men wilt.’
‘It is not just the heat.’
‘Then it is your journey.’
A minute or two later, Lucien rounded the bend to reveal a tidy farmhouse with stables and barns to the rear, vegetable patches to the right, and to the left neat rows of vines that continued for a mile or so.
‘A few vines?’ Michel asked.
‘Just a few.’
Before they reached the green-painted front door, it was swung open by a squat woman with white hair, cheeks as rosy as apples, and eyes as blue as the sky. ‘Lucien!’ she commanded. At her tone, Coquette ran to her and sat at her heel, giving a perfunctory lick to the woman’s bare calves by way of apology. ‘Lucien!’ she shouted once more.
‘This, Michel, is my wife – my darling, darling wife, Isabelle.’ Lucien took the worn cap from his head and bowed deeply, as if visiting royalty.
‘Get up, you old fool! He has been drinking again at the café. I can tell. Why did you let him drink?’ she asked Michel.
‘I didn’t,’ he muttered.
Isabelle looked Michel over, head to toe. ‘You’re not from here?’
‘No.’
‘A city. Paris, Marseille?’
‘Paris.’
Suddenly, Isabelle’s face softened. ‘Paris is my love. I should have married it and not this brute. Come. Come in, Michel. I’ll get you some wine.’
‘And me?’ Lucien asked.
‘You have had quite enough.’
Michel followed Isabelle into a warm kitchen, where pots and pans bubbled on the stove and the back door was open to let the last of the day’s air seep inside as the sun began its lazy descent.
‘Sit, sit,’ Isabelle demanded, indicating a chair at the wooden kitchen table.
‘You see? They are here again! Causing havoc!’ Lucien appeared in the kitchen, blood-red wine spilt down his shirt, a bottle in one hand, cork in the other, and the twin cats, pebble-coloured, swarming around his ankles. ‘They did it on purpose.’
The Ringmaster's Daughter: A beautiful and heartbreaking World War 2 love story Page 5
