The Foundling's War (45 page)

‘Constantin’s dealing with it. He’s going to let me have it later today.’

Jeanne made coffee for him and buttered some bread. In her dressing gown with her bare feet in slippers with holes in them, she looked more depressing than the night before. She avoided looking at him and he realised that she found it hard to cope with the presence of a man of her son’s age. Paul was more friendly. Opportunities to talk were few and far between.

‘Did you see Laval’s speech?’ he asked.

‘Vaguely.’

‘You should reread it. There’s someone who thinks Germany ought to win.’

‘Apparently he’s negotiated a return of prisoners in exchange.’

Jeanne turned towards him, her eyes sparkling with anger.

‘What prisoners? And who’s going to choose them? I don’t believe it.’

Paul looked down. His choice of subject was unfortunate. But what could he talk about? Everything was getting worse. Rommel had taken Tobruk, the Afrika Korps had crossed the Egyptian border and the Wehrmacht had reached Kharkov. The spring offensive was developing from the north down to the Caucasus. Nowhere was there a glimmer of hope. Paul was silent. He rolled a cigarette and immersed himself in
Le Matin
.

‘Don’t pay any attention,’ Marceline said when they were in the street. ‘They argue endlessly. Every time he opens his mouth she contradicts him. It’s worrying her sick that her son’s a prisoner. I’ve known her a long time. When Monsieur Michette and I took over the Sirène, it was her last year there. She was in a bad state, her legs were giving her trouble from climbing the stairs, and she was going to confession all the time. The priest married her off to Paul. He was working for the post office. They came to live in Paris because people were gossiping and they’d had a son, a handsome boy who’s been scaring them this last year. He’s too clever and he despises them. I’ve got a hunch that they decided to be brave so he’ll despise them less. Did you see? Not one question.’

Jean learnt a great deal that day. He decided he would never laugh at Marceline again, who carried out her clandestine duties with the effective authority and discretion that she had acquired when managing the Sirène. She took control of everything, going to see Palfy who gave her the money Jean was owed, collecting his false papers. From now on his name was Jules Armand. He chose ‘Jules’ in homage to the nickname Nelly had invented. ‘Armand’ made the task of the producers of false papers easier. He kept the same initials and
date of birth. The following day he was at Moulins, and that night a guide led him through fields and forests to a French army post south of the line of demarcation. Stationed in a barn which no longer smelt pleasantly of hay but of boots, uniforms and rifle oil, the section was keeping the man on guard duty supplied with wine. Another was cutting bread and distributing a piece to each man with a sardine. On the whitewashed wall the section’s artist had drawn a red devil and written in black letters ‘152nd RI, France’s finest regiment’. A staff sergeant entered. A soldier shouted, ‘’Shun!’, triggering a lazy line-up, the men embarrassed by the wine and bread. The staff sergeant stood in the doorway, hands on hips, looking annoyed.

‘What’s that?’ he roared, pointing at Jean.

‘He’s just crossed the line,’ the corporal said.

‘Have you got papers?’

Jean handed over his new identity card. The staff sergeant read out his details.

‘Well, well, class of ’39 … You’re eligible for service. You’ll stay with us, in the armistice forces. Your lot hasn’t been demobbed yet. Go and get yourself some kit.’

‘Thank you,’ Jean said. ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of a rest. I’ll get the kit later.’

‘I’m not interested in what you wouldn’t mind. An orderly will escort you to the command post.’

He summoned a bewildered-looking private, squeezed into his tunic, his jaw pinched by his chinstrap.

‘Take this man to the command post.’

‘Yes, staff.’

‘Yes, sir!’ the staff sergeant yelled. ‘Sir, you ignoramus. It’s a gold stripe, can’t you see that? I’m in the cavalry, not the infantry. Nothing to do with you horrible lot. About turn … right wheel.’

Jean followed, dismayed. Behind him the section was laughing, restoring the staff sergeant’s good humour.

‘And when you go through the woods, be careful of the wolf!’

Was he falling out of the frying pan into the fire? The memory of his army experiences made bile rise in his throat. He would not be part of that company of clowns.

‘He’s a nasty bastard!’ the soldier said as they plunged into the undergrowth, whose delicious smell, heightened by the dew, enveloped them.

‘And he doesn’t care who knows it!’

‘Find a way not to be in his section. He’s always like that. I call him “staff” on purpose. Just to hear him scream that he’s in the cavalry.’

‘What’s the captain like?’

‘The cap’n? No better. There’s no escape here. What’s it like in the occupied zone?’

‘So so.’

‘The Fritzes all right?’

‘More or less.’

‘Given the choice, I still prefer it here. I’m from the Ardennes.’

Jean got out his cigarettes.

‘Do you smoke?’

‘Do I? They don’t call me the locomotive for nothing.’

He pulled on his cigarette with relish and attempted a smoke ring in the still air. A squirrel crossed the path and bolted up a tree, disappearing immediately in the foliage. A little further on, in a clearing, some young people in battledress khaki were chopping wood and piling it up in a stove.

‘They’ve got a cushy number, those Chantiers de Jeunesse,’
31
the private said. ‘Reselling charcoal on the black market. Their mess tins’re always full. And ciggies, you want ’em, they got ’em!’

Jean saw his chance.

‘Do you want the packet?’

‘Do I want it? You bet.’

His hand was already greedily outstretched.

‘Not so fast! Maybe we can come to an agreement.’

‘What do you want?’

‘To get away.’

‘Oh yeah! And I’ll be on a charge. Two weeks, one in solitary. Thanks a lot.’

‘You’re right, that would be shitty of me. Let’s keep going. Is the CP far?’

‘Another two kilometres, on the edge of the forest. Just outside Varennes-sur-Allier.’

Coming towards them rapidly, with a supple stride, was a young man in blue shorts and a short light-coloured jacket and white socks, his beret pulled down over one ear.

‘He’s one of the chiefs,’ the private said. ‘They’re all chiefs there.’

The young man stopped.

‘You’ve just crossed the line! I can tell without asking. Good: we can always use another pair of hands to rebuild France. Are you Chantiers age?’

‘I suspect I may be a bit too old.’

‘In that case it’s the Armée de l’Afrique for you. You’re in luck!’

He shook Jean’s hand and strode away to rejoin his group, who could be heard singing in their clearing.

‘They’re funny, that lot. Roll up their sleeves. Salute the colours. Sing songs: “Avec mes sabots …”, “Maréchal, nous voilà”. Roll on demobilisation! So what about those fags?’

Jean turned round. The young Chantiers leader was disappearing through the trees. The soldier held out his hand. Reluctantly, Jean drew back and punched him on the chin as hard as he could, muttering, ‘Sorry, mate,’ as the private crumpled to his knees, his eyes staring, a trickle of blood flowing from his split lip.

At Varennes-sur-Allier he caught a bus that took him to
Clermont-Ferrand
, where memories of Claude came flooding back. He felt ill: there was Rue Gounot where she had stood with the sunlight shining
through her dress, Place de Jaude where they had met again, thanks to the net cast by the girls at the Sirène. He wanted to cry. He could not stay. At the Sirène Monsieur Michette did not recognise him, but Zizi threw her arms around his neck.

‘Where’s your friend?’

Palfy had left a lasting impression. Zizi no longer ‘went upstairs’. She deputised for the
patron
and shared his bed. Business was not what it had been, but they could not grumble. Other trades had been worse hit by the restrictions. No, Jean did not need to stay. He was leaving for the Midi, where he planned to spend a few days before returning to the occupied zone. He had brought a letter from the
patronne
. That afternoon they found him a suitcase and a change of clothes that made him look like an ordinary traveller. A train took him to Lyon and another stopped the next morning at Saint-Raphaël, from where he telephoned Théo.

‘Jean! We hoped you’d find a way to get down here, but we didn’t expect you so soon. Where are you? Saint-Raph? Raining there, is it?’

‘No. Lovely and warm. I feel like diving in the sea.’

‘It’s not the time or the place. Stay where you are. I’ll come and get you.’

Half an hour later Théo was at the station, at the wheel of his wood-gas truck. They thumped each other on the back.

‘It must have caused you a lot of pain,’ Théo said.

And so Jean learnt that Antoine had died the previous day.

‘The doctor was too late. Antoine, he was red, all tensified. It looks like it was a stroke … We sent you a telegram straight away, but you never know nowadays if telegrams get there. It’s a real mess … Poor Antoine, he loved life, his Bugatti, Toinette … Ah my, Toinette, he adored her …’

Jean reflected that he had loved Marie-Dévote too and Théo had refrained from saying so.

‘Just yesterday, before it happened, he was fishing his long line in front of the hotel and brought back two rockfish. We’re having them
for lunch. Can’t let ourselves go without, these days. The funeral’s at five o’clock. Have you got a black suit?’

‘No.’

It really was a day for wearing black. Antoine, now stiff and cold, had deserted Jean, and he could not stop the tears welling up in his eyes. He had come to talk to the man who had been his childhood accomplice, and for the first time Antoine had failed to be there. How could you believe in death on the shore of this lovely blue bay bordered by maritime pines under a bright and carefree sky? Antoine must have thought he would never die.

‘It happened so quick Marie-Dévote didn’t understand what was going on. She was sewing in her bedroom. He went up to see her for a chinwag and he suddenly said, “I don’t feel well.” She told him, “Lie down.” She went to get him a glass of water when he went all tense. Then he went red too. And that’s it, he was dead. Completely dead, just like that. He didn’t even say “huh”. All over.’

They buried Antoine that afternoon in the cemetery at
Saint-Tropez
. Théo had ordered a ‘mausoleum’ that would be ready in a week’s time. Until then a wooden cross, earth and armfuls of wild flowers picked by Toinette in the hills covered the body of this man who had chosen to live as he liked, scorning inherited wealth and the milieu he had been born into. Death had taken possession of him with a swift, neat discretion that was not its habit. Théo’s explanations notwithstanding, Antoine had probably succumbed while making love for the last time to the beautiful, voluptuous Marie-Dévote. A happy ending that mingled the heat of desire and the coldness of death.

Toinette had cried so much before the service that she remained dry-eyed and dignified at the cemetery as the coffin disappeared under the gravediggers’ spadefuls of earth. In her lovely, melancholy profile Jean looked for signs of the du Courseau line, but Marie-Dévote’s Saracen blood and Antoine’s Celtic blood had mingled so well that there were no individual traces left of either. Her grace was cooler than her mother’s, and at the same time it was possible to detect a
more highly strung will than her real father’s. Several times during the ceremony Jean gave in to distraction, drawn by her faultless figure in black dress and stockings. He remembered by heart the note he had received in 1939 just after he had enlisted.

He had been charmed. It would have been a pleasure to answer her if Antoinette du Courseau had not revealed the secret of his birth to him. And some invisible thread had, without question, connected them in the last summer before the war. Words had turned out to be futile. They echoed mournfully, no match for a secret understanding. When Claude had stayed at the hotel Toinette had remained in the background. Nearly indifferent. Spending almost too much time with Cyrille, as if Claude and Jean did not interest her. Now he could contemplate her only as a beautiful image, not without a hint of jealousy, for one day a man would come and carry off this happy creation of chance and pleasure. Selfishly he wished her a mediocre fate, one that would not fill him with envy.

That evening, after the funeral, a procession of neighbours dropped in at the hotel. Marie-Dévote had prepared for their visits. She set out glasses, wine and pastis on the table on the terrace. They talked in low voices, as though the dead man still lay in his open coffin in the middle of the living room and could hear them. The Midi accent lightened the tone of their condolences, and with the help of the pastis a note of cheerfulness permeated the conversations. Toinette disappeared and Jean led Théo out to the garage. He wanted to see the Bugatti again, still sleeping there, its headlights turned towards the sea. Antoine had left this place only the morning before: his large pipe lay on the
workbench, a net was waiting to be repaired, and the car had just been wiped with a chamois leather, its chromework rubbed with oil.

‘He really loved it,’ Théo said. ‘Like a woman! One day I came here barefoot; he didn’t hear me: he was talking to it, he was saying to it, “My beauty. I’ll keep you turning over as long as there’s a drop of petrol left.” Hey … wait a moment. I’ll do it today. He’ll enjoy the music in paradise.’

Jean wanted to stop him. Théo had decided too quickly that he was master of all at last. But the Bugatti, which for three years had started at a tug of its ignition switch, refused his orders. The starter spun unresponsively. The motor shuddered and stopped.