Cold Winter in Bordeaux (18 page)

There were days, many of them, when he felt guilty himself, to be happy and having fun in London when Alain and Léon were God knows where in France, and in danger, but that’s how it was. He went to the office every morning and wrote the pieces he was told to write, and made his broadcasts once a week, and was assured he was doing good work that was valued. It might be true, he didn’t know, and in any case, it was the work he was assigned to and he was serving France, and the idea of a France that would be free again, as best he could. It wasn’t what he had dreamt of when they had taken the train out of Bordeaux, and, often waking early, cold and looking out at a London that was still dark and gloomy and often enveloped in dense fog, he felt ashamed and inferior to Léon and Alain, but he accepted that what made him ashamed also brought relief.

The truth is, he said then, that I’m really a coward, a pansy coward who enjoys life and is afraid of danger; and in this mood he began to write a novel.

* * *

Alain waited, as instructed, by the statue of Louis XIV in the Place Bellecour, ‘under the horse’s tail’. To his surprise he recognised the man who approached him: he had known him in the training camp in England as Robert Palisson. He was both a cynic and a fire-eater, a hook-nosed man of the Right who despised Vichy. Now he held out his hand and said, ‘So you’re Clovis now. I’ve become Raoul. Welcome to Lyon, welcome to the absurdity of Occupied France. Have you eaten? No? Good. I’m starving.’

He led him to a bistro in the Place Morand. The patron showed them into a back room where none of the dozen tables was occupied.

‘You’ll be all right here, Raoul,’ he said. ‘But you’d better give me your ration tickets. I have to account for everything, sod it. There’s sausages and lentils. All right? And a flask of Beaujolais.’

When they were alone and eating, Raoul said, ‘And so, my little Clovis, here we are in our beautiful France, and tell me, how do you find the Resistance?’

‘I’m confused,’ Alain said.

‘That’s a good beginning. That’s the best beginning. Let me tell you, there is not a single Resistance. There are many. First of all there are the Communists who distrust those of us who come from London, and would rather do without us, but can’t because they need the money we alone can supply. They’re devoted to Resistance but you can’t, my dear Clovis, trust them an inch because they’re all waiting for the happy day when they can launch the Revolution and cut our throats. Apart from that they’re splendid chaps. As of course are members of other Resistance groups who started off in Vichy and still revere the Marshal and have convinced themselves – some of them anyway – that he has always seen Vichy as a holding operation, no more than that. And then there are all the part-timers, the “after hours Resisters” I call them. You have to understand their position. They’re in work, have offices, shops or factories to go to, a home to return to with their wife and children. They live under their own identity unlike you and me, and, though they’re sincere – oh, no doubt they’re sincere – belonging to the Resistance? Well, it’s a snob thing really for some of them, and for others, the optimists, putting down a marker for life after the war when they can show off their good conduct medals. And then – have some more wine, these sausages aren’t bad, are they, whatever they’re made of, better not ask the patron – there’s the politicians. All they want to do is print newspapers, distribute tracts and prepare for their political future. And get money from us, of course, to do all that. Basically they’re shits. But sometimes useful shits, even if they have been blown towards Resistance only as the winds of the world have shifted. And then finally there’s us, the Gaullists from London, and we’ve got to control them all, otherwise it’s not just us, but France, that is in the shit. Is that clear, or are you still confused?’

‘It’s very clear and it leaves me more confused than ever,’ Alain said.

‘Good boy. You’re catching on. I should get you a gun. You don’t have one yet, do you?’

‘No, I don’t. But tell me, what’s my role? Nobody’s really explained anything properly.’

‘Now there’s a surprise. Let’s just say, you’re assigned to me as my right-hand man, and don’t worry, we’re going to have some fun. Some day, if we survive – big if of course – we’ll look back on these days as the happiest of our lives.’

* * *

‘It’s so kind of your mother to say she’s happy to have me stay with you over Christmas,’ Maurice said, ‘but are you sure she really means it? Wouldn’t she rather have you to herself alone?’

‘Not at all,’ Dominique said. ‘She was delighted when I asked if you might come, and Maman never pretends, she’s utterly honest and sincere. Anyway she likes you, and so does Papa.’

‘Well, I’m delighted too. I love the work we’re doing – well, you know that, you love it yourself – and it’s valuable and important, but we both need a break, a holiday even if it’s only for a few days. The kids are splendid but they’re wearing, you can’t deny that.’

‘I wouldn’t even try to. There’s just one thing, Maurice. Alain, you know what I’ve told you which isn’t much, because I don’t know much myself, and I’ve refrained from asking questions – it’s better that way – but I think he’s not to be mentioned. Papa may speak to me about him, I don’t know, but otherwise, well otherwise, there’s a veil of silence. You understand? It’s awkward and, I think, painful.’

Maurice looked very grave.

‘Of course I’ll ask no questions. I can see it’s difficult. Like so much now, almost everything I sometimes fear. My own father, as you know he’s always frightened me rather, but it sometimes seems to me he’s frightened himself now, frightened of what the future may bring, I mean. I’m looking forward to seeing your parents again; they were so kind to me when I was in trouble. And your sister of course.’

‘Clothilde? Oh yes, I wouldn’t mind having you as a brother-inlaw. I’m not joking. You’re my best friend after all. Almost my only real one actually. So what could be more appropriate?’

The train drew out of the station. Vichy would soon be left behind as the December afternoon darkened and snow fell on the hills.

XXVII

So he would speak to Michel, that was agreed. The boy’s grandfather had gone so far as to say that it would be a weight off his mind – ‘Even though,’ he added, ‘I reproach myself for, as it were, failing in what should be my duty myself. But that’s how it is. I’m what they call a back number, in the boy’s eyes, a relic of a dead civilisation. I don’t think I exaggerate. So if you will shoulder the responsibility … ’

‘After all,’ Lannes said, ‘it’s on behalf of my daughter too.’

Suppose the silly boy did indeed join this Legion of French Volunteers and was killed on the Eastern Front, as was all too probable, would Clothilde in time forget him – as most things, even the worst, are forgotten – or would it blight her life? He hadn’t tried to deter Alain from joining de Gaulle’s Free French, even though he knew how this would distress Marguerite.

He swung his blackthorn stick as if beheading an imaginary thistle. Damn these politicians who on account of their vanity and with vast carelessness for the lives of others had loosed Hell on the world.

If the boy wasn’t killed, could he ever return to France after Germany had been defeated, and, if he did, what would be his fate? Years in prison, at best.

Moncerre and young René were in the inspectors’ room next to his office and both got to their feet when they saw him.

‘Me first,’ Moncerre said, and followed him into his own room.

‘That chap you told me to put a tail on,’ he said. ‘He’s a pro, spotted it, and my man lost him. Sorry. I’ve given him a bollocking of course.’

‘It probably doesn’t matter,’ Lannes said. ‘It’s interesting, though. He was sufficiently alarmed to call his superiors in Vichy or Marseille and have them get the Alsatian to warn us off. He’s a pro, as you say, a spook, as you may have guessed.’

‘I can’t stand spooks, they always bugger everything up. So, do we?’

‘Do we what?’

‘Lay off him.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so. He was using Gabrielle – and others – and this concerns us. He’ll turn up again, if, that’s to say, he ignores my order to get out of Bordeaux, and when he does, you can have a word with him. He’s playing games with us, and I don’t care for that.’

Moncerre began filling his pipe. He pushed the tobacco down with his thumb, and struck a match.

‘I’m at a loss, chief. I don’t know what the hell you are talking about, not really. It might help if you didn’t keep your cards close to your chest. Then I wouldn’t be feeling my way in the dark.’

He drew on his pipe, and emitted two little puffs of smoke. Lannes smiled and said he wasn’t sure he had any cards. Instead he took the bottle of Armagnac from his cupboard and poured them both a glass. He handed one to Moncerre who downed it straightaway, and told him to fetch young René in.

The boy was excited, a little pink in the cheeks, and looked, as he sometimes did, like a schoolboy about to present what he knew, or at least hoped, was good work to his master. It pleased Lannes to think that there was still something fresh and puppyish about him, and that he hadn’t yet been worn down by the demands and disappointments of their job.

‘I think I’ve got somewhere,’ he said. ‘At last.’

Moncerre glanced at Lannes, raised an eye, picked up the bottle and refilled his glass.

‘I don’t know of course,’ René said, ‘but it’s like this. I did a round of all her pupils again, as you asked me to. Most were still unwilling to say anything, and perhaps had nothing to say, and I don’t mind admitting I was losing hope and on the point of agreeing with Moncerre here that it was all pointless and that we weren’t going to get anywhere. Then – you remember Madame Duvallier, chief, and her daughter Charlotte who told you of the suggestion Gabrielle had made to her – well, I got nowhere with the mother once again, indeed she was like a brick wall, insisting she had nothing to say, and I was just about to leave, thinking it was all futile, when her husband came in. He’s a doctor, quite a well-respected, even distinguished physician indeed, I’ve checked up on that. To my surprise when we had been introduced and his wife insisted again she had nothing to add and I was to tell my chief to stop bothering her or she would lodge a complaint, he said he would see me out because he had to go to the tabac having forgotten to get tobacco for his pipe. Well, I suspected this was an excuse to speak to me alone, and so it proved, because he said he had something to tell us – ‘Oh, not a confession, nothing like that,’ he laughed, – but I don’t know, he was decidedly edgy, I thought. Anyway we made an appointment for him to come here this afternoon, at four o’clock. What do you think, chief, is that all right.’

* * *

Dr Duvallier was on time, which made Lannes wonder if he was eager or anxious. He allowed René to take his Homburg hat and dark velvet-collared overcoat, settled himself in the chair opposite Lannes’ desk, and began to fill his pipe from a leather tobacco pouch. His hands were steady but a few wisps of tobacco fell on to his waistcoat. He smiled, and said, ‘I feel I should apologise for my delay in speaking to you, superintendent, and indeed I would reproach myself if I had realised sooner how things stood. But you must understand I knew nothing of the circumstances of Madame Peniel’s death till very recently. You may find that hard to believe, or indeed understand, but the fact is that I gave up reading the newspapers the day the Armistice was signed, and my wife did not tell me of your own visit, superintendent. You may find that also difficult to believe, but the truth is that Madame Duvallier prefers not to speak of what she finds distressing or unpleasant. She suffers from anxiety, you understand. Consequently it was only a few days ago that I learnt of what Charlotte had told you and of the allegations relating to Madame Peniel. Perhaps I should say that Charlotte is my stepdaughter, the child of my wife’s first marriage. Her father was one of my closest friends, we were like brothers indeed as well as being colleagues, and when he knew he was dying he told me it was his dearest wish that I should care for his widow and daughter. But Charlotte and I are not easy together. She’s a difficult girl, withdrawn, and one who resents me as an interloper. You understand?’

‘Are you suggesting that she wasn’t speaking the truth when she told me of Madame Peniel’s improper suggestions?’

Duvallier applied a match to his pipe and puffed vigorously.

‘Not at all, not at all. I wouldn’t accuse the girl of lying, perhaps not even embroidering. Exaggerating perhaps, because I have to say that the story she told you surprises me. I had known Gabrielle, Madame Peniel, for a long time; she is one of my patients – was one of them, I suppose I should say – and she always seemed a lady of the utmost respectability. However, that’s irrelevant. My reason for coming here is quite different. She consulted me a few days, perhaps a week, before her unfortunate death, complaining of insomnia, anxiety, loss of appetite. I diagnosed a condition of hypertension – not remarkable, certainly not uncommon, in these terrible times. I prescribed a simple sedative, a placebo really, such as I have often found effective, and, to be honest with you, superintendent, thought no more of it. You must understand that I have many patients and quite a few of them in a comparable state of distress or anxiety. Indeed I would go so far as to say that there is an epidemic of anxiety, the causes of which are not identifiably personal. You understand?’

Lannes lit a cigarette. An epidemic of anxiety? Who was free of that? Marguerite might be said to be one of the sufferers, but…

‘And you identified no objective reason for her state of mind?’ he said.

‘None at all, and now I reproach myself. I’m a conscientious doctor, as I’m sure my patients would confirm, but, like so many in my profession, I’m overworked, all the more so because, as you will know, so many doctors here in Bordeaux were Jews who are now forbidden to practise. Consequently one may give in to the temptation to seize hold of the simplest explanation, as, in this case, I confess I did. It is only now that I have concluded that the poor woman may have been afraid, and evidently had reason for her fear. This distresses me. You understand?’