The Single Solider: a moving war-time drama

by George Costigan

  Jean-Louis rose, beamed.

  Arbel and Ardelle worked. She warmed an iron for their clothes, he took the beasts.

  Jauliac began to sort wine.

  Madame Cantagrel gathered her cooking things before meeting the other women at the Salle De Fetes.

  Severine fretted.

  When the bell tolled everyone but Jacques, Jerome and Celine Valet headed for Church.

  Galtier walked to Mass, to pray Lacaze would dare show his face tonight.

  Gley, too.

  Chibret avoided his wife’s eyes. The word bitter didn’t cover her feelings. Arbel mule-head Jammes had cost her the highest female position in this community.

  Curé Phillipe prayed with them all, and then, as if he had God’s ear, prayed for them all. They went, finally, after six long dark years, into Peace.

  Madame Lacaze laid out her dress for the evening ahead. Excited, nervous.

  Feyt creased his best trousers.

  Zoe put on her dress. Sara’s mother took it off her, told her to go and help her mother pick vegetables.

  Terses and Christoph did not discuss the possibilities of tonight’s event.

  Janon closed the café when the post-Mass slurping was done. Night off, get drunk.

  The commune prepared.

  Trousers, shirts, dresses, even socks, were ironed.

  Celine ate old cheese and waited for him to come downstairs. He did, at three in the afternoon.

  “Please say we won’t go.”

  Jerome said nothing.

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  Nothing.

  “You’ll drink...”

  “And then we’ll fuck,” he offered indifferently.

  “Exactly. I won’t come.”

  “I don’t care.” He recognised the truth as he said it.

  “So, you’ll go – where they all hate you – only to drink. And then come back here and expect me to love you?”

  “I don’t care.” A beat.

  “So, what’s the point of us?” Jerome looked at her.

  “I’ve no idea.” Silence.

  A shred of conscience moved in him.

  “Why have you let me get to this state? Get a bottle and let’s go to bed.”

  “You’re fu— loving the bottle, not me.”

  “That is true,” he agreed.

  “How do you think that makes me feel?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Try!”

  “I need!”

  “What about what I need?”

  “You can have what you need—”

  “—after you’ve had what you need?” Jerome was baffled.

  “Yes! What’s the difference?”

  “Poison is the difference. You’re a cup, not a man. And I need more than your cock.”

  Someone knocked at their door. What? Stones? Threats.

  “You going to answer that?” she suggested.

  “No-one I want to see.”

  Celine opened it. The ex-Mayoral candidate, stinking, lurked in the hallway. The Mayor, shaved, stood in the doorway.

  “Yes?”

  “You asked me to find you a room. Here’s the address and the keys.” Celine faltered.

  “Who paid for this?” asked Jerome.

  Dominique had had enough of these two. “I did. The commune – we all did. We all coughed up to get rid of you.”

  Jerome came to the door, held out his hand for the keys. “What’s the condition?”

  “Don’t come tonight.”

  “See you at seven,” Jerome grinned. Bad breath. Worse than bad.

  “You’ll regret it,” said Dominique, resisting a profound urge to smack his stupid face sideways.

  “I regret everything,” the prat smirked.

  Dominique cast one cruel glance at Madame Valet. “I don’t blame you,” he said, threw the keys on the floor and walked. Celine aged.

  Five o’clock. Tables and benches were laid outside The Mairie. Food was cooking in the Salle de Fetes. Jauliac had the wine ready. The musicians were on their way. The evening would be warm and the sky was high.

  In the Mayor’s office Madame Lacaze owned that nerves were getting to her, too. “Will they come?”

  “He’s your damned son! What do you think?”

  The Mayor shocked himself with the snap in his voice but hell, he was the Mayor – fat lot of good it did him.

  Silence.

  “Exactly, Madame. Silence.”

  Dominique looked at her. “Why did my father say ‘they’ll come and then they’ll leave’?”

  She almost blushed. “I don’t know.”

  “Madame – I’m not sure I believe you.”

  Her back straightened. “Ask him.”

  “D’you think he’d tell me? He talks in smirks and riddles.”

  “Yes,” she nodded, “that’s so.”

  “And so – Elianne – I’m asking you.”

  “And nothing, Dominique. Nothing I know.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “But do you want me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then whatever else happens tonight – so will that.” The Mayor’s pulse raced.

  She picked up her bag.

  “6.30? To check the arrangements?”

  His mouth opened and closed, soundless. “6.30. Yes.”

  “Till then, then.”

  Gone.

  At six-thirty Arbel, spruced and combed, took Ardelle’s hand and hooked the new bench over his shoulder.

  They looked at each other and decided to waste their breath.

  The bache drooped over one and a half walls, a staircase and a bed. And him, dismantling a wall, loading the barrow, then the cart, then back to his dismantling.

  “Jacques,” Arbel said softly.

  Jacques lifted his eyes from the barrow, saw Arbel’s clothes, looked at the sun and asked, baffled, “Is it Mass?”

  “No,” he laughed. “The War’s done.” He added hopelessly, “Won’t you come and celebrate?”

  Jacques stared at Arbel. Is he mad, he thought?

  His eyes drifted to Ardelle, clearly pregnant and his heart jagged. “Yes,” she said, “Come and celebrate this, too.”

  Jacques said without a trace of self-pity or sentiment, “I’ve nothing to celebrate. You have.” And turned back to his work.

  They waited one second, turned and walked to the village.

  At six-thirty it was as if she, Elianne Lacaze, had not said a word. And certainly not those words, the ones she had said.

  No sign, no smile, no intimacy, no code, nothing.

  He scoured her face as she and Galtier, Severine and himself folded napkins, counted plates, glasses. Nothing.

  Jean-Louis looked in the mirror. The shave was good. He dabbed eau-de-cologne behind his ears.

  “I’ll be back later, Mamman.”

  “Who are you? Who are you?” she squinted.

  “Your son.”

  “God, you’re old.”

  Sara and her mother and Zoe sat. Zoe watched the clock.

  Sara watched the child and her mother silently prayed. Again. In case God had been out the first time.

  The Chef closed the Gendarmerie door, locked it, looked at Christoph.

  “Wish us luck.”

  Jauliac placed three bottles; one champagne, one red and one white along with a carafe of water on each table. Uncorked the red to let it breathe. A delicious smell swept into the air every time someone opened the Salle doors.

  Dominique greeted the musicians.

  Madame Lacaze invited the Curé to sit at the top table, The Council table.

  The people began to arrive – smiling, shaking hands, kissing three times, and looking round. To see. If they were here.

  Not yet. And maybe not.

  Jerome and Celine, at five to seven, were too occupied.

  Jacques worked.

  29

  The church clock struck the hour and Dominique stood. He welcomed them one and all,
had each table uncork the champagne; the children squealing at the explosions. He poured a glass, waited while his commune had done the same, invited them all to raise their glasses and perfectly sincerely, said, “To Peace.”

  “To Peace.”

  He’s not come. Please, Lord, keep him wherever he is.

  When the entrées had been served Curé Phillipe stood. Hats came off.

  “In the name of The Father, the Son and The Holy Ghost, we thank you Lord, for the reason for this meal and we ask your blessing on this our food.”

  “Amen.” Hats were replaced.

  And that those two haven’t come, he wished he’d added.

  The foie gras was demolished and the champagne began its merrying work. There was some laughter and time for a quick smoke.

  Dominique caught Madame Lacaze’s eye and again she smiled at him as if she’d never offered any intimacy.

  While the soup was being served Feyt stood. Silence.

  “You people,” he took the breath he needed not to weep, “could have betrayed me. Many many times. You didn’t. I’m proud to be one of you.” He raised his glass and toasted them. “LeChaim!”

  “LeChaim!” Laughter.

  People began to feel good. Better.

  Jauliac smiled, he’d make a packet on this.

  By a quarter to eight the tense atmosphere was dropping away. They hadn’t come.

  Galtier passed the word of Jean-Louis’ generosity. He’d paid, from his own pocket, for a place for the two filthy wretches. And for the champagne.

  And the soup was delicious.

  And the one sad person was Zoe.

  He hadn’t come. He hadn’t seen her frock. He hadn’t come to see her. Sara felt sad, glad, stressed and relieved.

  Jean-Louis smiled at his intended, his great capture, and waited his moment.

  “You did tell your son?” she whispered.

  “Of course,” he smiled. Like the confident liar he is, she thought. Soup plates were pushed back, the cooks were to be seriously complimented, napkins dabbed at smacked satisfied lips; and Zoe’s scream of joy cut clean into the evening air.

  “Papa!”

  Jacques worked.

  When Jerome took off his hat to greet his commune he was freshly shaven. Those who’d only heard of it gasped.

  Madame Valet removed her headscarf and now she too was egg-headed.

  Only Arbel and Renée Lacroix laughed.

  Chef Terses put down his glass. Christoph too. Zoe stared. Her teacher. Papa.

  It was very quiet. Very. Time sneaked by.

  The child thought. Everyone hates him. She looked to Sara.

  My mother hates him. And Mimi One, look. And Mimi two, see.

  Zoe swung her legs over the bench and ran home. Sara followed.

  The commune watched his child leave their celebration. Arbel stood.

  He rapped his glass on the table, once, lightly. The quiet swung its attention, and its disgust and simmering rage to him. What? “Mayor Chibret, I apologise.” He raised his glass. “When I came back Mayor Chibret suggested this celebration and I refused. I was wrong, Monsieur, you were right. But it was snowing...”

  Chibret laughed. His wife didn’t.

  Arbel looked round, specifically taking in Madame Valet and Jerome and said, “No-one needs me to say this – but there is a need for some good news here. Ardelle and I – we’re having a child.” He sat down. Blushed. So did Ardelle. Blushed crimson for him, for herself and for the embarrassment of being smiled at. She slapped Arbel hard and people laughed. Then Chibret stood and toasted their baby.

  So the commune did. Bread was picked up. A glass re-filled.

  A mouthful taken.

  Was the evening possible again, somehow? Terses motioned Christoph to relax.

  Jean-Louis sensed if the focus swung back to Lacaze and her now there could still be disaster.

  He tapped his glass with a soup spoon. She pulled once on his sleeve.

  “You haven’t told your son,” she hissed.

  “Our son,” he gleamed and stood to address the village.

  Stone, barrow, cart. Looked up at the dusk. Another hour.

  Sara held Zoe tight in her arms, rocking them both for some shred of comfort.

  “I know I know I know I know I know I know.”

  Zoe joined in, “I know I know I know I know I know...”

  Simone sat at the Formica-topped table, slurped her instant coffee and placed two photographs in an envelope. One of their son in her arms, standing in front of their brownstone, and the other of him staring at the single candle on his first birthday cake.

  She wrote, ‘You said you were afraid of forgetting. Don’t. I don’t and I won’t and I can’t and I shan’t. Ever.’

  The biro rested on her mouth.

  She wrote, ‘You know, if you sold the house you could be here.’ She crossed it out and threw the paper in the pedal-bin and began again. When she reached ‘...and I shan’t, ever’ she added, ‘What are you taking down?’

  “My good friends.”

  That brazen lie gathered almost all their attention.

  Madame Lacaze braced herself. Watched her bald son drink.

  “This is our celebration,” the pompous fool continued. Dominique’s eyes were fixed on Jerome. “Our commune, our country, our peace.”

  Elianne glanced up. Saw a bead of sweat.

  “But I know you will all want to join me in celebrating something even closer to my heart...”

  Dominique stared at his father. Everyone did.

  Including, and Duthileul waited for the eye-contact, Jerome. “Please raise your glass and join me in celebrating,” he was talking directly to Jerome, “Madame Lacaze agreeing to become my wife.” And he raised his glass, inviting.

  Silence.

  Apart from the sound a hundred dropping jaws makes.

  Elianne Lacaze fixed her eyes on a single crumb of bread on the table. Dominique Duthileul’s jaw closed and dropped, like a fish. A whole empty second passed.

  Nothing moved.

  A second and a half. Two.

  Sara’s mother stood, climbed out of the bench and walked home. Five silent seconds, in public, Madame Lacaze reflected, is a very long time.

  Jean-Louis, glass in his hand, arm outstretched, unshaking, still dared smile at Jerome.

  Galtier muttered, “Congratulations.”

  Jauliac looked around, repeated, “Congratulations.”

  The Mayor felt people’s eyes settling on him. His brain, flooded with fury, shock, contradiction and humiliation, had seized.

  ‘And then they’ll leave...’ came into his head. He looked to see.

  Au contraire.

  No. He watched Jerome Lacaze’s body organise itself so well, so capably, co-ordinated enough to push itself first upright, then to stand and to move firmly, determinedly, past Madame Valet’s restraining hand. He navigated the bench. He was walking towards them. How does he do that at this moment? Dominique was scientifically fascinated. Look. His whole body functions, moves. My mouth doesn’t. Look at him, striding.

  Forward. To...

  As Jerome launched the punch designed to smash his mother’s nose across her face so his jaw met Dominique’s fist travelling no more than a half-metre and light and heavy bedlam exploded as his neck cracked back, his spine arched involuntarily, an instant wet bloody warmth ran from a pain in his mouth and he folded into the square.

  The sound of bone hitting bone so very crisply stilled everything. Until Celine ripped the night open with her scream and climbed straight over the table, towards the top table, the Council Table. She was grabbed by Gley, bit him and he thumped her nose hard. It split. Spilt a lot of blood. Women, for that instant sisterly murderous, screamed. Gley’s sister lashed an elbow at him. The blow splintered his glasses and his hands leapt to his eyes. He lashed back at her. Another woman set on him. The man next to Arbel rose to help Gley. Arbel put out an arm to calm him and took a punch. Celine ignored the mess of he
r face and came on for Dominique. She stepped over the groan that was Jerome and Terses blew his whistle so hard everything stopped. Everything but Celine. Her nails were at The Mayor’s face, ripping for his eyes and Madame Lacaze was on her and the whistle was forgotten. Arbel, tasting blood in his mouth, calmly motioned Ardelle to leave, took off his coat and dived on the man’s back, his wiry arm first cutting off the windpipe, then spinning him to receive the full intent of his fist. It hurt, Arbel reflected in the instant, but it was a nice hurt. Severine launched herself at the bald banshee of Celine Valet and a fat left arm swiped her in the stomach and she doubled over, retching instantly. Still she clawed at the Mayor. Arbel felt strong arms pin his from behind. It’s not Ardelle was all he thought. Galtier kicked the prone Lacaze hard in the ribs. Madame Lacaze brought an empty champagne bottle down on Celine’s bald head. Neither broke, but the thud released the tension in Celine’s hands and Dominique pushed her away from his ravaged face and back into the chaotic developing mayhem. Arbel trod hard on the instep of the man holding him, spun and buried his knee neat and hard into the Chef Des Gendarme’s crutch. Terse whitened. Arbel, fascinated, watched the Chef ’s new cap roll to a slow-motion halt as he only felt and heard the sound of people wading into the mêlée, the glasses and bottles smashed, plates broken, tables and benches scattered as everyone either got out of the way, got into the way or moved for a better view. Madame Chibret spat in Arbel’s face. Ardelle screamed. Blood welted and seeped from beneath The Mayor’s eyes. Elianne Lacaze lied, “No real damage done.” Jean-Louis sat down, looked at the glass in his hand, drank it. Rank. Ardelle got in one good punch that flattened Madame Chibret before Christoph grabbed her. The Gréze musicians hid their instruments in a doorway and went back into the brawl. Celine recovered her screaming voice.

  “He was the only one of you – shits! – who risked anything to win this War.”

  People moved away from her, almost kneeling on him, the lepers re-identified. The circle widened. The brawling was held.

  “You are the worst people to have won anything. What have you won? You lot. What are you?” Terses rolled onto his knees.

  “Collaborators. Cowards. And Traitors. He was the only ONE!” She went to lift him. He groaned from everywhere.