Cold Winter in Bordeaux (13 page)

‘As I feared, but perhaps you will have a glass of champagne with me while you wait.’

He waved vaguely, and a waiter appeared to take his order.

‘I’m meeting someone myself,’ he said, and settled himself on the velvet-covered banquette beside Léon. ‘He’s always late of course, the privilege of the young and beautiful.’

Perhaps Léon looked puzzled, for the words were repeated in French.

‘Perhaps it’s better that we speak your language and a pleasure for me too, since I have a great affection for your country. Allow me to introduce myself. My name’s Edwin Pringle, Sir Edwin actually, and I am a Member of Parliament, for my sins. And you are?’

‘Léon.’

‘And serving gallantly with the Free French. Have you met de Gaulle? What do you think of him?’

‘He’s a great man.’

‘Undoubtedly, though one with atrocious manners.’

He laid his hand gently on Léon’s thigh.

‘I confess,’ he said, ‘to having a certain sympathy for the Marshal. But I’m afraid he’s doomed, poor old man. Ah, here’s the champagne. It’s in short supply, you know, but they are kind enough here to keep some bottles for me. I’m sure you will find it more agreeable than that doubtless atrocious coffee you have ordered. And are you excited by these North African landings?’

At the moment Léon was more embarrassed than excited. Was it etiquette to ask a Member of the British Parliament to take his hand away? Or to remove it himself? But could you do that and still drink the champagne he offered you? Fortunately the matter resolved itself, Sir Edwin taking a leather case from his inside breast pocket, extracting a cigar, and occupying himself in clipping its end.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s the last survivor.’

‘I prefer cigarettes,’ Léon said, relieved. ‘We don’t know much about what’s happening there yet. There are all sorts of rumours.’

‘De Gaulle was in the same boat, you know. He had been kept in ignorance of the Americans’ plans – they don’t care for him in Washington, you know – which between you and me and the bedpost is a point in his favour. I’m not greatly enamoured of our American friends myself, since they are determined to destroy our Empire – and yours too, dear boy – just as soon as they have finished with little Adolf. I’m told that when de Gaulle learnt of the landings, he said he hoped Vichy would throw them back into the sea.’

‘That’s funny. Someone in our barracks said exactly the same thing.’

‘You’re a contrary lot, aren’t you? Winston had to calm the General down over lunch. Otherwise, Lord knows what sort of trouble he’d have made. And what do they have planned for you, dear boy? Nothing too dangerous, I hope.’

Léon hesitated. He had an interview with Colonel Passy fixed for the following morning, but he mustn’t say anything about that. He shrugged his shoulders, said ‘it’s not clear yet’, and was relieved to see Jérôme standing at the door and scanning the room. He waved a hand to him.

‘Why, your friend’s little Jérôme,’ Pringle said. ‘How delightful! We met at a party last week. He’s really charming. You’re a pair of charmers.’

Jérôme made his way between the tables, leant forward to peck Léon on the cheek, and extended his hand to Sir Edwin.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, speaking in English ‘I’m late, and we can’t stay. We’ve an important appointment and we’re already late for that too.’

‘You’ve time for a glass of champagne, surely.’

‘I would love to, but I daren’t, we’ll be in trouble if we are any later. Another time perhaps. Come on, Léon.’

Out in Regent Street, he hooked his arm into Léon’s.

‘It’s so good to see you.’

‘What’s this appointment we have?’

‘There isn’t one. I made that up to get away. He’s a notorious old pederast.’

‘So?’

‘Well, yes I know, but … we met at a party last week and I hadn’t been there ten minutes before he was proposing bed. I tell you, I had the greatest difficulty in escaping from him. Fortunately he was distracted by the arrival of a gorgeous boy in RAF uniform.’

‘He told me he was a Member of Parliament.’

‘Oh yes, he is, but out of favour. They say Churchill can’t stand him. He was a fervent Munichite and had lots of German friends. Or so they say. I’m told he’s very rich, but all the same … oh, it is good to see you.’

‘And you. Where are we going?’

‘A Soho pub first, I think.’

‘I don’t want to drink much. I’ve got this appointment in the morning, remember.’

‘Of course.’

‘Is there any word of Alain?

‘No. None. But there couldn’t be, could there?’

‘I know, but I can’t help hoping. And worrying.’

‘Me too.’

‘And after the pub?’

‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we?’

* * *

Hours later, Jérôme turned on his side, and leant on the point of his elbow.

‘I don’t suppose we will ever do this again,’ he said, ‘but I wanted to just once. You don’t regret it, do you?’

‘Regret it? Why should I?’

‘Because we’re not each other’s type.’

‘I don’t know what my type is.’

‘Yes, you do, it’s Alain.’

‘That’s crying for the moon.’

‘I suppose we all cry for the moon, people of our temperament. I know I do and it’s unattainable. You remember that Fascist boy back home in Bordeaux I told you I was crazy about? I still am. I think of him every day. Stupid, isn’t it? Ridiculous really. All the more so because far from giving me any encouragement he made it clear he had no time for me. Quite the opposite indeed. Which doesn’t stop me from dreaming about him.’

‘So we’re both stupid,’ Léon said.

It was strange, lying there, with Jérôme’s leg resting on his, and listening to the night near silence of London. He knew Jérôme was right. They would never do this again. It was a sign of affection, nothing more except perhaps loneliness, though he couldn’t believe Jérôme was lonely – so many people had greeted him and chatted with him and been evidently pleased to see him in the two pubs they had visited; the one Jérôme had told him was known as the French, because its proprietor was indeed a Frenchman called Gaston, with huge moustaches, and it was frequented by other members of the Free French because it always had stocks of Algerian wine and Pernod or Ricard; and the other called, he thought, the Fitzroy, which was said to be a haunt of poets, and where everyone had been drunker than he found comfortable. Jérôme had been at home in both of them, and he hadn’t. He didn’t belong anywhere, that was the truth.

Jérôme leant over and kissed his cheek.

‘I must tell you,’ he said. ‘De Gaulle came to the studio the other day. He was about to broadcast to North Africa. I was introduced to him. He’s so tall that he made me feel as if I was back in primary school. When he heard my name, he said he had been at St-Cyr with my father, in the same class actually. “A very gallant officer,” he said, making me feel even more inadequate as the pansy son of a heroic father.’

‘You shouldn’t think of yourself like that. Would your father have been here, do you suppose?’

‘I’ve no idea. I was only five when he was killed. Actually, from what I’ve heard, I suspect not.’

‘Well, then, that makes you more adequate than he might have been.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ Jérôme said, and kissed him again. ‘But sadly it’s not true. We both know that really.’

* * *

Léon was early for his appointment with Colonel Passy, but half an hour after the time he had been given he was still waiting and had smoked five cigarettes. There were only two left in the packet – Woodbines, he didn’t much like them but they were cheap. Jérôme had made him a cup of coffee on the gas ring in his room, delicious real coffee – ‘Smuggled, of course,’ Jérôme had said – but he had been too excited to eat anything, and now felt sick with apprehension. The waiting room was cold and stuffy at the same time, and the other occupant was a middle-aged man in a brown suit, rather than uniform, who had a head as round as a cannonball and a neck as thick as a Prussian’s. He looked at Léon as if he knew him for what he was and didn’t like it. Somewhere, along the corridor, a door slammed. Léon twisted his fingers round and round. A pigeon landed on the window ledge and pecked the glass.

At last an orderly appeared and the man in the brown suit got to his feet, but it was Léon who was summoned.

He saluted Colonel Passy and was told to sit down.

‘You look very young. Did you lie about your age?’ Léon swallowed.

‘Not by much, sir.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Lots of people do. Your report’s good, but I’m not happy about sending children over there.’

‘I’m not a child, sir, whatever I look. I’m the same age as my friend Alain Lannes and you … ’

‘Alain Lannes. Ah yes, he spoke to me about you.’

‘Have you any news of him? Is it permissible to ask, sir?’

‘Permissible to ask, yes, but you don’t expect me to answer, do you? You’ve been trained as a radio operator. That’s why you’re here. We need one in Paris. Have you friends or family there?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

‘Good. You’d be no use to me for this job if you had. You’ll be on your own and any contact with family or friends is forbidden. We can’t rely on young men to observe that rule if we send them to their own city or home province. The temptation is too hard to resist when they’re lonely. And you will be lonely, very lonely. I hope you understand that, because being in danger sharpens the feeling of loneliness even though you have comrades in your own little cell. Still, this report’ – he tapped the papers on his desk – ‘this report on you is positive. It says you’re tougher than you look and know when to keep silent. So I’m satisfied, ready to take a risk on you. Don’t take that phrase personally, as a criticism. I take a risk on every agent I send to France. We can’t really be certain of anyone, of their capabilities, that is. Anyway you’ve passed all the tests set you. So you’re in. My colleague will brief you, tell you what’s what. You’re Jewish, aren’t you?’ Léon hesitated.

‘Does that matter?’ he said.

‘Only if the Gestapo get hold of you.’

XX

There was no difficulty in finding Catherine Haget. She had correctly registered her residence: rue Belle Étoile, off the Cours de la Marne, the same street where poor Gaston had had his rooms, where he received his students and boyfriends, and where he had been so horribly murdered. The concierge told Lannes she was in an apartment on the third floor left, ‘Though I’d be surprised if you find her up. She keeps late hours, that one, as her type usually does. Not that she’s a bad girl, not really. I must tell you I’m a good judge of character, having seen all sorts in my time, and she’s always well-mannered and polite and gives me the time of day with a lovely smile. I hope she’s not in any trouble. She’ll have to go if she is. This is a respectable house and my people won’t like having the police here.’

‘It’s just a matter of routine,’ Lannes said. ‘Nothing important.’

He had no wish to get the girl into difficulties.

There was sleep in her eyes when she answered his knock; she wore only a towelling robe and her feet were bare. He showed her his badge and she stepped aside to let him enter.

‘I wondered when you would get round to me,’ she said.

She was a pretty girl with a wide mouth, dark eyes and curly hair, and, when she turned away to lead him into the small sitting room, the loose robe didn’t prevent him from remarking her strong dancer’s buttocks.

‘Make yourself at home,’ she said, and settled herself on a couch. ‘Not that it’s much of a home, I only rented this place last month, and it’s not what I would have wanted, but there you are.’

It was certainly meanly furnished, and the half-dozen photographs of scenes from ballets that she had propped up on the shelves of an almost empty bookcase, and the vase of white chrysanthemums on the table beside a couple of coffee cups and a wine bottle, did little to give it a lived-in look. Lannes laid his hat on the table, lifted a newspaper from a wooden chair and sat down. He didn’t remove his coat.

‘So you’re not surprised to see me?’

‘Have you got a cigarette? Thanks. No, I knew that Adrienne Jauzion recognised me when our eyes met the other day even though I looked away almost at once, and the only question was whether she would want to get herself involved. I more than half thought she wouldn’t because she’s such a cold fish, but if you people got round to questioning her about Gabrielle, well then I wouldn’t have expected her to keep quiet. It is Gabrielle you have come about, I suppose, for I can’t think of any other reason why you should be here.’

‘It’s Gabrielle. Madame Jauzion said you were in the company of a German officer when she saw you.’

‘And if I was … we’re supposed to collaborate, aren’t we?’

‘Up to a point,’ Lannes said.

‘You have to yourself, don’t you?’

‘No more than is necessary. All I would say, Kiki, is that things may not stay the way they are, and you should bear that in mind.’

‘Meanwhile the Boches are still here.’

‘They are indeed. How long have you been back in Bordeaux?’

‘A couple of months. I had a job in Paris; it came to an end, so I came back. It’s my home town, after all, though to tell you the truth I’ve little enough reason to think of it as home. So, yes, I was back here before Gabrielle was killed. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?’

She stretched out her leg and scratched her thigh. The skin was pale in the winter light of the room that wouldn’t get the morning sun even if there was sun.

‘I didn’t kill her. If I’d been going to kill her I’d have done it five years ago. Do you believe me?’

‘There’s no reason why I shouldn’t.’

It hadn’t seemed probable, from what Adrienne Jauzion had said of the girl: that melodramatic set-up. It didn’t ring true.

‘But you had an affair with her?’ he said.

‘Yes, if that’s what you choose to call it. She made a set at me and I was crazy about her. Crazy’s the word, I think I was mad.’

‘And now, this German officer?’

‘That’s different. He’s a nice kid. He doesn’t even want to be here. He’s an innocent. These flowers there – chrysanthemums – what kind of flower is that to give a girl? They’re for the cemetery, aren’t they?’