Kaleidoscope (16 page)

‘But to a clinic, Louis, not an asylum. Epilepsy isn't madness. It can be controlled in many cases by proper medication.'

‘Which Madame Buemondi must have been obtaining from someone in Bayonne which is so near the Spanish border, Hermann, the medicines are likely to have come that way.'

‘Unless she was moving escapees out of the country, or doing both, my old one, and while we're out here freezing our balls off, don't forget that the treatments in Chamonix were unsuccessful and that Carlo Buemondi demanded the return of his daughter and must thus have known with whom the girl was staying.'

‘Viviane Darnot,' echoed Louis, clucking his tongue as he nodded, and wanting nothing more than his pipe, a good fire and a chance to think.

Kohler gently shook him by the shoulder. ‘Come on then. It's stupid of us to be arguing out here. Hey, you can drive. I'm going to let you.'

‘For once? Through lousy roads for over 900 kilometres of this?'

‘Then what the hell are we going to do?'

The Sûreté was swift. ‘Find another way, my friend.'

‘No, Louis. Now, look, you can't expect me to do a thing like that. I'm in enough trouble as it is. I caught a glimpse of my dossier. Yours isn't any better.'

‘Success belongs to those who dare, Hermann. To fly is to approach the gods.'

‘You sound like Goering.'

‘It is the only way if we are to get from here to there to Paris and back in such a short time. Besides, it will give you the chance to spend a night with Giselle and Oona, wrapped in their collective embrace.'

‘Then let's hope the weather eases and Rommel doesn't need the plane.'

‘Shall we eat first?' asked St-Cyr.

‘Where?' demanded Kohler suspiciously.

‘Fayence. The olive mill of a friend.'

‘Louis …? Ah, Louis,
mon enfant! Mon cher!
' The cook threw her arms about the Frog and took him to her ample bosom, all 150 kilos of her in a red polka-dot housedress and green woollen cardigan with tentlike apron. Pearl earrings too. ‘But … but out of nowhere you appear? In this snowstorm? In this dreadful war?' Her dark eyes narrowed swiftly. Sweat was brushed from her brow with a forearm. ‘It is the murder of that poor woman. Even here we have heard of it. The spear, Jean-Louis. Hooked with the barbs of vengeance and pulled for good measure!'

Bernadette Yvaldi gestured at the futility of life. ‘But come … come in, my friends. Two seats. I have only two seats left but you shall have them on a night like this and the Generalmajor Johann Vermelhren, he will not say no or I will poison him personally. And anyway, you have one of them in your company.' She dipped her dark-haired head Kohler's way but refused to acknowledge him otherwise.

The place was packed with Luftwaffe. ‘Louis …? Louis, how the hell did you know they'd be here?'

‘Pleased, eh? The secrets, Hermann, they are best kept to oneself.'

‘You didn't know,' hissed Kohler.

‘No, my old one, I did not know of anything but a small aerodrome, but God, he has smiled on us, eh? The slender ray of light, Hermann. The warmth of a fire knowing high octane fuel will be ours if only you can sing the right tune.'

The woman ushered them to a table next to the fire. The Moulin of the Broken Wing was a converted eighteenth-century olive mill complete with press. There were about twenty tables with chequered cloths, plain linen and candles.

‘I look after them,' she said tartly, ignoring the grins of her boys in uniform. ‘The Moulin, it has become their mess.'

‘Good,' breathed Kohler. ‘No one eats better than the Luftwaffe.'

‘Oh?' she taunted, a tough old pork-pie of sixty maybe. ‘If you wish the
haute cuisine
, monsieur, you had better leave.'

St-Cyr chided her. ‘Don't ruffle the feathers, Bernadette. This one is okay, eh? Good simple food, Hermann, that is what she always serves.'

‘Simple, monsieur, because with those dishes nothing can be hidden. No rubbish in the
langouste Belle Aurore
or the
poularde de Bresse brais
é
e
à
l'estragon
because we stick to the truth by being uncomplicated. There is only one menu and that is what you will eat in my establishment.'

‘Which of them is the Generalmajor?'

‘You are sitting in his chair; Jean-Louis in the chair of his mistress but … since they are not here,' she shrugged, ‘I can give their places to someone else.'

‘That God of yours just frowned, Louis. Let's hope they don't show up.'

The soup was a thick marriage of mutton stock, vegetables, garlic and God knows what else. Good, though, and served with bread brushed with olive oil because the Luftwaffe must have asked for bread and maybe they were short of butter or she simply made them eat it that way. The omelette had truffles, reminding Kohler of Périgord and the truffle hunter of that last case.

Stuffed woodcock were crammed with the birds' chopped intestines minus the gizzard,
foie gras
and more truffles. Garlic again, but mild enough – not strong like the garlic of the north – and dashes of Armagnac.

The
daube
was more than just a cheap cut of Provençal beef soaked in wine with herbs and braised in olive oil before making the casserole stew. It was superb. Chunks of beef, but sausage too, and duck – he'd swear it was duck. Salt pork, lamb, ground black pepper and white beans. Bay leaves, onions and things. Peppers, tomatoes and black olives, of course. Bean stock, too, and wine.

Kohler was impressed but Louis … for a Frenchman, Louis ate with almost total lack of interest after the first few exclamations of joy for Madame's benefit. He sipped the local wine, refusing the 1911 Château-d'Yquem of the Luftwaffe and the Dom Pérignon. He read and read again the dossier of Madame Anne-Marie Buemondi and often looked up to stare emptily into the fire.

Then he took to looking at the photograph of the other daughter, Josette-Louise.

Their coffee came – he refused the desserts, asking only that their portions be saved for later along with any leftovers. ‘We are travelling by air, Bernadette. A long flight through dangerous weather conditions and possible hostile aircraft. It will help if we have something to eat. It will take Hermann's mind off the extreme altitude and the chance of Allied bullets.'

Then he went right back to the dossier, muttering only, ‘Hermann, see what you can do, eh? I am desperate for tobacco.'

What Hermann didn't realize was that the dossier was not just that of Madame Buemondi, but contained also that of the weaver. There were glimpses of a common past: Chamonix and the convent school; Viviane Darnot at the age of seven cut off from her father in England, the mother dead of influenza; Anne-Marie Cordeau fourteen years old; snatches of Viviane's diary rescued from the grate of some recent fire and spanning several years.

‘
We see each other every day and I know she is my friend but I have yet to say hello and introduce myself. Dear Jesus, why can You not let me learn to speak French as the others do
?'

And then: ‘
She brushed against my hand in the corridor. The light at dawn was suffused with grey. There were bursts of sunlight struggling through as we went outside. Matins again. More prayers, and still more of them always. Oh God how I hate it here. She is my one ray of hope
.'

‘
I have been weaving and the punishment is this: For one mistake all is torn out. For two mistakes the tips of the fingers, which are already so painful, are struck five times with the Mother Superior's stick. For three mistakes one lives in silence on the knees before God without warmth or food
.'

‘
Anne-Marie is so kind to me. Where everyone criticizes, she praises. I know she hates the tapestries as much as I do, but each little step forward wins a word, a kind look, a tender smile
.'

‘
My father came to visit. He has said I cannot go home. When I wept, he got angry. Anne-Marie says that it is not because of anyone else, only that he is afraid to have me home. When I asked her why this should be, the look she gave I could not understand. It upsets me still
.'

There were not many more excerpts. Delphane had obviously compiled both dossiers and had probably selected only those fragments that would give the effect he desired, and had destroyed the rest. Ah yes.

‘
Last night I fell asleep in Anne-Marie's cot with her arms around me. The cold, dry air of these mountains in winter makes the skin of my fingers crack. There was blood on the tapestry, my blood, and now my fingertips, they will never heal
.'

‘
I worked all day at the weaving. It's like a ray of sunshine, a breath of the sweetest air. No more beatings, no more harsh criticisms from the sisters or the Mother Superior. Now I am free to weave as I want
.'

‘
I am studying hard, and have visited the Abbé Martin in his workrooms at the monastery. He has much to offer and has agreed to show me all he can. Dear Jesus, why have I been so lucky? There is nothing but encouragement now. Anne-Marie, she has said, “You are uniquely gifted. In you has God placed his trust for the future.”'

‘
My tapestry hangs in the Mother Superior's office and is seen by all who come to visit her
.'

Kohler placed a full pouch of pipe tobacco beside the forgotten glass of wine, and patted Louis gently on the shoulder. ‘The Generalmajor and two of his fly-boys were at Stalingrad until only a few weeks ago, Louis. My sons are our ticket. The flight's on for 0600 hours, weather permitting.'

There was barely a nod, no consciousness of stuffing the furnace and lighting up, only that same far-off look. Moisture collecting in the ox-eyes.

‘
My father came to visit but there was no thought or mention of my going home. He avoids looking directly at me and this I still cannot understand. Anne-Marie has said it was very wise of me to stay, that the years, they will harden me to life's little realities and that I must always live for my weaving. She is so good to me. Every day I see her, I thank God we have slept together and shared our love for each other
.'

‘
Anne-Marie Buemondi (neé Cordeau), self-proclaimed lesbian. Sexually promiscuous. Has had many lesbian affairs, most notably that with the weaver Viviane Damot and, most recently, the student Angélique Girard, bisexual with whom she has been secretly meeting for some time
.

‘
Known to be dealing on the black market in Cannes and Marseille. Makes frequent trips to Bayonne where she also has property
.

‘
Suspected of supplying arms, ammunition and false papers to the maquis of the Alpes-Maritimes
.

‘
Suspected of operating an escape line for enemy prisoners of war and of using this conduit to funnel infiltrators into France and Italy
.

‘
Estranged wife of the Fascist, Carlo Buemondi, professor of art and founding member of the National Socialist Party of Cannes and the Society for the Greater Glory of Italy. Mother of twin girls: Josette-Louise, last address: 22 rue Terrage, Paris; and Josianne Michéle, diagnosed as suffering from epilepsy, the result of the mother's sexual deviations
.'

St-Cyr shuddered at Delphane's brutal lack of understanding but saw the notations as the Gestapo Munk would have seen them.

On the surface, then, nothing but death for virtually all those associated with Anne-Marie. Deportation to a concentration camp for Viviane Darnot. Gas or the lethal injection for Josianne-Michèle – the State, the Glorious Third Reich could not tolerate any signs of weakness, especially ‘madness' brought on by a mother's ‘sexual deviations'.

Yet what was the truth? A pawn ticket. A woman so desperate for cash on the day she was killed, she had said to the antique dealer, ‘Cash. I must have the cash or all is lost.'

A woman who possessed a villa full of valuable pieces. Surely she could have sold something? She had had the contacts. She had bartered with a sharp determination and efficiency.

A woman, then, with two faces, two masks.

An espadrille, a small, cheap porcelain figure of the Christ at Galilee, a cross that had been fashioned by the village blacksmith.

The espadrille had been that of a child of ten or twelve, and all three items had been together on the shelf beside the bed in that cottage. More shards of Roman glass and bits of pottery. Why must shards of glass keep coming up?

Two daughters, the one estranged from her mother though she was Anne-Marie's favourite; the other, the one who was ill, the favourite of the father. ‘My little one, my Josianne …' Carlo Buemondi had said to Hermann only to have one of his current girlfriends call him away to comfort in the mud.

Himmler's buyer was furious. Anne-Marie Buemondi would not let her husband sell the villa.

Viviane Darnot was terrified the Germans would discover she was British and carrying false papers.

St-Cyr drew out the
santon
, placing the little carving next to the candle. Though the talk was everywhere now, the men relaxing, the sound of them was as if hushed.

The beechwood bobbin had been in the mother's coat pocket, wound with the russet wool of the cape she had given to Angélique Girard.

The clot of wool had been on that hillside near the
santon
, near where, in all probability, the shot had been fired.

According to Carlo Buemondi, the weaver and his wife had practised their archery using images of himself as targets.

St-Cyr set the pawn ticket between the bobbin and the clot of wool, and in that moment saw again on the cinematographer's screen, the weaver's eyes as she had looked at him in Chamonix nine years ago. Shards of mirrored glass then; shards of Roman glass now.

The force of the bolt would have fractured Madame Buemondi's spine.

The boy, Bébert Peretti, had seen something on that hillside but had been forbidden by Delphane from telling them anything, as had everyone else in that village.