Fever (28 page)

Studer and Lartigue were walking up and down in the space between the huts. The sun was low in the sky and the cold wind from the mountains reminded the two men that it was still winter.

“There's one thing I'd like to know,” the captain said. “Where's Marie's uncle? The stockbroker she worked for as a secretary in Paris?”

“I don't know,” Studer replied. “All I can do is guess. You should ask your future wife. Didn't you tell me Marie sent a telegram from Bel-Abbès asking for money? The journey from Bel-Abbès to Gourama can't have cost 5,000 francs, even with a detour via Fez.”

They turned round and went back into the hut where the remarkable proceedings had taken place. The members of the court-martial had left. The old man was still sitting in the chair and Marie was on the arm, leaning against her father.

“Marie,” the captain asked, “where is your uncle?”

“Your question,
chéri
, sounds like that other, weightier one: ‘Where is Abel thy brother?' You mustn't be so suspicious, Louis.

“You sent me money at Bel-Abbès. I'd run into Jakob Koller there – but please, I beg you, never call him my uncle again. You know yourself, Cousin Jakob, that Father Matthias left Bern in a hurry. After that we heard nothing more from him. He had the copy of the temperature chart, that was enough for him for the
moment. But Jakob Koller was furious because he knew he wasn't going to get any of all that money now. He enlisted in Lyon. I stayed with my father. I stayed with him until we reached Colomb-Béchar, where I took him to the camp commandant, who was to send him on to Gourama. I'd arranged to meet you there too, Cousin Jakob. The three of us would manage to unmask the false priest, I thought —”

“False priest! What kind of a way is that to speak!” said Captain Lartigue reproachfully.

“I'll speak as I see fit,” came Marie's rejoinder.

This is not going to be a particularly harmonious marriage to start off with, Studer thought, but with time they'll smooth down each other's rough edges. Perhaps they'll even be a happy couple? Out loud he said, “Let the girl have her say, Lartigue.”

“If you insist, Studère. I'd just like to point out that I was making only a minor criticism. My future wife shouldn't talk like a character out of some trashy novel. False priest indeed!” he muttered.

“Do you mean to say,” said Marie in irritation, “that he was a true priest? He was a false priest.”

“Yes, he was a false priest and a false person,” said the old geologist in his bleating voice.

“Of course, Father. You're right and so is she.” Lartigue had adopted a conciliatory tone.

He's already calling the old man Father and using the familiar
tu
to him, Studer thought. A remarkable man. No wonder he gets poor marks at the War Ministry. But still . . . he's . . . he's a man.

Marie went on:

“I ran into him in the street in Bel-Abbès when I got back from Colomb-Béchar. I've never known what fear is, you know, but when I saw Jakob Koller, suddenly I did . . . And, anyway, he'd been good to me, he took
me with him to Paris when I couldn't stand it with Mother any longer. That's why I felt obliged to help him. I asked him what I could do for him. We were in a little Arab café and I hardly recognized him. His hair had been cropped short, he was nothing but skin and bones, his uniform hung loose – and his eyes! They were darting to and fro . . . When I was a child I once saw a hare in a furrow during the hunting season and its eyes were flickering hither and thither just as fearfully as Jakob Koller's.

“He said, ‘Give me some money, Marie. So I can get away.' Perhaps it was wrong of me, but I just felt disgusted by him. Still, I said, ‘Jakob Koller, you've got a lot on your conscience, but I will help you. How much do you need?' – ‘Ten thousand francs.' At that I laughed and told him he'd get 4,000, not a centime more. I arranged to meet him in the café the following day at the same time and give him the money. Then I sent you the telegram, Louis. The next evening he deserted. I got him some civilian clothes as well. Where he's gone off to, I don't know, but I don't think we've anything to fear from him now. I told him I would give you the whole story, Cousin Jakob. After all that he was decent enough to warn me about the false priest. Yes, the false priest,” she repeated, looking at her fiancé with a belligerent expression.

“Yes, Marie, the false priest,” Lartigue repeated in a gentle voice. He was at the table, starting to gather together the documents that were lying around on it. “I've put in a request for leave today. I imagine we'll be able to set off for Switzerland in a week's time. And once we're there, we can try to turn these papers” – he tapped the documents – “into money.”

For a long time no one spoke.

“What about Father?”

“We'll take him with us. Do you think in Switzerland . . . I mean . . . I wouldn't want . . .”

Studer interrupted his stammering. “I imagine they'll put him,” he whispered to the man who was fort commandant, doctor, vet, livestock dealer, military strategist and boxer all in one but could still be shy and awkward, “I imagine they'll put him in a hospital.”

Lartigue nodded. And Studer went on. “I don't suppose you could find a pair of Moroccan mountain sheepdogs for me, could you?”

“Moroccan . . . mountain . . . sheepdogs?” the captain looked at the sergeant as if he was beginning to doubt his sanity.

“Don't they exist?”

“Not . . . no . . . Not so far as I know.”

“Then we'll just have to take your Scotch terrier back for the Old Man.”

“The old man? Which old man?”

“Who do you think? Our chief of police, of course,” said Studer.

After their evening meal the two men were sitting on the balcony of the tower.

“Don't you think the story's going to come out some time or other?” Studer asked. “And your part in it?”

Lartigue giggled softly. Then – Studer could hardly believe his eyes – he stretched out his hands, palms upwards, raised his arms, his hands turned over and fell with a slap onto his thighs. The right hand came up, clenched in a fist, with just the index finger pointing up, straight, alone. The finger touched his lips and pointed upwards. And Studer could understand the mumbled words:

“Why concern yourself with what is to come, my
brother? You would only despair if you tried to conceive what the future will bring. What are past, present and future to Him, the Eternally Silent? To Him to whom eternity belongs?”

A small detachment of men was slowly crossing the flat ground between the fort and the
ksar
; the dull thump of drums reached them. Father Matthias, the “false priest” as Marie had called him, was being carried to his final resting place.

A quiet voice could be heard from the room: “Don't think I want to be a burden on you, Marie. You mustn't think that.”

“Of course not, Father.”

“Come on,” the captain's voice was hoarse, “let's go and accompany him down there” – he pointed at the procession on the ground – “to the cork-oak. After all, he didn't want the money for himself.”

Studer was happy with that. He claimed he was freezing and asked the captain for a coat. He was given a thick, pale green greatcoat lined with white linen. The lapels bore the emblem of the Foreign Legion: the red grenade with flames flaring up out of it. Putting on the uniform gave Studer great satisfaction. For once before he died he could wear the uniform he had dreamt of so often in Bern when life had seemed pointless . . .