In This Hospitable Land (16 page)
“It’s only been two days,” André explained patiently. “You agreed to a week.”
“
Only
a week,” the ex-governor fumed.
Alone again André worked with vinegar but it left the liberated pulp with a bitter taste. Alcohol gave a fine flavor to the plum but on its own couldn’t penetrate the skin. Brine successfully dissolved the wax but the resulting fruit was more like an olive than a prune.
Late that night André finally devised a bath with caustic soda. He tried several strengths for varying lengths of time then carefully watched and jostled the plums sitting in different pans of solution, unable to perceive any difference whatever. Sitting down and rubbing his eyes he wondered whether and how he might succeed with his limited number of chemicals and agents.
He rose from his seat well past midnight, ready to call it a day and hoping the answer would come to him unbidden as he slept. The dim light of the pantry cast intriguing shadows on the pans of plums that seemed to await—no, insist upon—the determining poke of a finger. Unable to resist one more try, André gave a last push of his forefinger into each pan. Wherever he pressed the plums continued to hold firm. But in the very last pan the skin unexpectedly gave way and the liquid of the pulp began to bleed through.
Too excited for sleep André took several plums from the pan and set them on a grill to drip and dry overnight. Had he stumbled into a possible answer? He began to feel the same excitement he had felt at the Free University of Brussels whenever an experiment worked.
Thursday morning he took the weeping plums and set them out in the bright sun. After a couple of hours the purple fruit began to pucker and crinkle.
Impulsively he went down to the mayor’s store and invited Lucien to the château the following morning.
Early Friday the mayor appeared at the villa with other leading citizens. De Montfort caught sight of their procession toward the pantry and imposed his unwelcome obtrusive presence.
André led them to his experimental plums set into a red-and-yellow dish to provide a vivid contrast with the dark purple of the fruit. He passed the dish around and each of the visitors—excepting de Montfort—took one of the dried plums, squeezed it and then with trepidation took a bite.
Each chewed conscientiously, swallowed hard and—much to André’s relief—took another bite. Slowly their faces relaxed into grateful smiles.
“It’s a prune!” the mayor declared joyfully. The other taste-testers nodded happily.
Lucien gave André a kiss on each cheek. The others followed suit except for de Montfort. He wanted to know if André was ready to return the pantry to its owner.
Saturday morning, at André’s request, the mayor gathered a number of townspeople in the quiet, idle plum factory. André demonstrated how to mix his caustic soda formula. The villagers would only need to pick the plums, place them into a vat of the winning mixture, and after the skin had dissolved spread the plums out in the sun to dry, concentrating the sweetness within.
The crop was saved!
The next day André slept late but Alex wanted to talk. Despite the success of the plum project and a great show of thankfulness from the citizens of Bédouès, Alex couldn’t bear to stay in the château a minute longer and not just because he hated de Montfort. As the summer’s end approached he was increasingly concerned Bédouès, on the Atlantic Ocean side of the Massif Central, would soon face cold winds and winter snows bound to blow in from the west.
“I don’t like the situation here,” he complained to Denise in André’s stead. “We’re too exposed not only to the weather but to the new regional headquarters of the national police, in Mende. That’s not even thirty-five kilometers north.”
Denise listened and leafed through the Sunday newspaper. “Goodness. It says here all Belgian refugees have been ordered back to Belgium to reestablish the national economy.”
“If that anti-Semitic mayor in Florac learns of this,” Alex said gloomily, “he may send instructions for us to leave. Or he could send the police to force us out.”
“I bet that awful de Montfort is showing him that article right now,” Geneviève complained.
Denise sighed. “When I was down in the village yesterday I heard the Vichy government is sending officials to all small towns to ensure compliance with new regulations.”
“What new regulations?” André asked, entering the room and yawning. Alex explained and André instantly agreed, “We’re too vulnerable here.”
A timid knock at the attic door announced Nichette, who made a quick curtsy and informed them de Montfort wanted Alex and André in the front parlor immediately.
The enormous ex-governor of Djibouti stood with his back to the brothers as they entered the front room in which they had had their first unpleasant interview. De Montfort took up most of the space and much of the oxygen.
“Well well,” he said facing them. “The RAF has bombed Berlin. That shows anything can happen—like plums turning into prunes.”
The brothers exchanged a puzzled look.
Leaning forward de Montfort announced in a commandingly large voice, “You have to leave. The French authorities require that you return to Belgium. And now, since everyone knows, I can’t charge you rent anymore. I have no reason to keep you.”
Afraid Alex might physically assault de Montfort André said, “We would leave this instant if we had someplace to go. But we can’t go back to Belgium. Our wives are British subjects and England is still at war with Germany.”
“Where you go is not my problem. Here!” de Montfort barked, holding out a form and rattling it. “Sign!”
The Sauverin brothers read it together and André cried out, “But this says we’re leaving at the end of the month!”
“Days,” Alex seethed. “Not even a week.”
“I can’t sign that,” André declared definitively. “But we’ll get out as soon as we can. We wouldn’t want to abuse your ‘hospitality’ one second longer than we must.”
“If you don’t want to sign,” de Montfort said scornfully, “I’ll sign for you.”
The massive man sat at a small desk, scrawled “André Sauverin” on the contrived document and left the room before the brothers could express their outrage and dismay.
Stunned, Alex said, “Now we know how the French ran Djibouti.”
The brothers went to visit Lucien Mauriac in his shop late the next day. Before they had a chance to deliver their bad news he told them, “I’ve just heard on the BBC that the Luftwaffe has been bombing London for six hours straight.”
Alex nodded knowingly. “Retaliation for the attack on Berlin.”
“I’m just glad you’re safe here with us,” Lucien said.
When the Sauverins described their latest “interview” with de Montfort, Lucien raged, “That bastard! Betraying the very nature of this place!”
The Sauverins explained that their mistreatment by de Montfort wasn’t the only reason they had to leave. They had spent all day staring at a detailed map of the Lozère département in search of a location even more remote than Bédouès. On the far side of the Massif Central, in an area facing the Mediterranean, they had discovered the small village of Vialas. They knew nothing of it but instinctively felt drawn to it.
“We saw the bus driver and asked if he knew it,” André explained.
“He was very quick and firm,” Alex put in. “‘It’s fine. You’ll fit. They’ll accept you.’”
“I wouldn’t know personally,” Lucien said. “But I’ve heard it’s pleasant.”
The three stood awkwardly in the gathering gloom.
“Even if you go,” the mayor of Bédouès warned, “you’ll have the problem of being illegal Belgians. You’ll have to register to live in Vialas too.”
“Is it possible,” André asked gingerly, “that we could receive official dispensation? Should I go up to Mende and throw myself on the mercy of the departmental governor?”
Lucien considered. “I’m told he’s quite humane.”
Alex asked bluntly, “What if some person of standing spoke up on our behalf?”
Lucien quickly took the hint. “I’ll do better than that.” Even though he would miss his friends, he would do anything in his power to help them. “I’ll provide you with an official certificate of commendation attesting to the value you bring to the region.”