The Cyclist (35 page)

Authors: Fredrik Nath

BOOK: The Cyclist

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A darkness began to impinge on his peripheral vision. He shook his head. He had to buy time. He saw nothing ahead. No movement in the early morning light. He had difficulty holding his head up. A thirst such as he had never felt before raged in his mouth and throat. He managed to reach to his breast-pocket. He found his cigarettes. It took a superhuman effort, but leaning on his elbows, he extracted a Gitanes and lit it. He realised with chagrin, he had used his last match.

The aromatic smoke hit the back of his throat. His head did not spin as it always had done before. His vision sharpened instead.

A stray thought appeared. He was going to see St Peter. The angel would judge him. Had the Maquis priest lied to him or had he received absolution? Did it count?

Another soldier to his right stood up and ran, crouching, towards him. Auguste’s vision was clouding over. He stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and took aim. He did not care where the bullet landed, as long as it kept their heads down. The recoil against his shoulder jerked his upper body and made him grunt with pain.

‘Odette, where are you?’

‘Ma fleur, will you remember me?’

Sounds and pictures. Voices from the past. His mother, her arms open, taking him in her arms. His father, pipe stuck in his mouth, scolding.

Auguste shook his head. He fired the gun. It could have sent the bullet anywhere. He ceased to care. His eyes began to close. The heat of the cigarette-end woke him. It burned his lip. He thought five minutes must have passed. Was it long enough? Could he leave now?

He groped at his side for the sten-gun. He had never fired one before and he fiddled with the safety catch. By mistake, he set it to ‘on’. He realised the mistake in his confusion and flicked it up. He fired a burst. The recoil made his hand judder and the spray of bullets flew in a random pattern.

His eyes darkened but he could still hear. It felt as if he was there but also somewhere else.

He felt a pressure on his shoulder. All remained black.

A deep voice said in German, ‘He’s dead.’

‘No,’ said a second, ‘still breathing a little.’

‘He was a rotten shot. If he’d been a professional, he could have got me twice at least.’

Auguste wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to tell them he had no wish to kill them.

A girl’s voice in his head whispered, so soft he strained to hear it, ‘
Te absolvo.
’

Then Auguste heard the girl’s faint laugh, like tinkling silver bells and he understood.

It was the gentle voice of an angel.

EPILOGUE

The camera crew stood silent in the gloaming. The darkening room seemed smaller to all of them and the interviewer realised he still sat forward in his chair. He leaned back and a wave of exhaustion flowed over him. His back ached.

Zara looked up as if expecting comment. The interviewer stood up. For once, he had nothing to say. He glanced at his watch. Six-thirty. No lunch today. He noticed how his stomach rumbled and became aware of the hypnotic quality in the old woman’s story.

‘I…’

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘It’s late. We had another inter…’

His voice faded as if anything he had to say became meaningless. It was his first time. He was a virgin in the arms of a gigolo. He realised how when he walked into the room he was confident, smug. Those feelings now departed. They were replaced by the kind of humility he never imagined he could feel before an old lady, a woman whose life was, after all, spent.

He wanted to tell her how he felt, but this time, no words came.

‘You liked my father’s story?’

She smiled a wan smile and stood. ‘Can I go to the WC now? Doesn’t time fly?’

When she returned, the men had packed up. It took time for them to load the van. The media man, the man in charge, the boss, stood in the sitting room. He felt embarrassed but he had no idea why he felt like this.

Zara said, ‘I hated them all you know.’

‘What?’

‘Not my father. To him I was his little flower. The rest of them I mean.’

‘You hated them?’

‘Monique took my father from me. He died to save her. He died to save Pierre too. My mother allowed it to happen. She must take the blame as well. My papa was a wonderful man. If those Jews hadn’t come along he would still be alive. Monique ruined my life.’

‘But… but don’t you care how he felt about it? He gave his life for them because he was a good man.’

‘You think that helped me? Do you think I care about that? I lost the only person who loved me unreservedly.’

She picked up the cap-badge from the low table by the chair.

‘See this?’ she said, ‘This piece of metal is all I have left of him. He loved me and I will never forgive them for letting him die.’

Her face was different now. Not old and wrinkled. The interviewer wondered if the half-light played tricks on him but it was almost as if she was a young woman, animated and furious.

‘Right-ho. Well, we’ll have to be off then.’

His exit was swift.

Zara stood looking at the closed door and she could hear a voice in her head.

‘Never forget your Papa loves you, never forget.’

A slow smile came to her furrowed face as she returned to the chair in the sitting room, where she sat staring out of the window at the gathering dark.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

I wrote
The Cyclist
as a tribute to the brave men and women of France who fought so valiantly to protect and preserve their culture and their homeland during the German occupation. We should never forget their courage, loyalty, and determination. It has never been my intention to be anti-German, only anti-Nazi in my character portrayals. The present population of that country, whom I know to be both kind and hospitable, have nothing to do with any characters portrayed here.

All characters and the physical resemblances to people in this book are entirely fictitious. In common with many writers of fiction, I have taken the liberty of tweaking both timelines and history to suit my story. If it offends, I humbly apologise.

I have based the geographical setting upon my own sojourns in the Dordogne Valley, a wonderful place, unsullied and green as it is. The references to various wines and their quality I stand by because they are genuine. Truly, France has the best wines in the world.

The main character represented to me a question that, despite the passage of time, remains unanswered, of how Christians could stand by, witnessing a Jewish genocide let alone collaborate with one. What did they feel? This is my answer to that question and I hope it will give enjoyment in the answering.

The premise? A search for absolution.