The Cartographer of No Man's Land: A Novel (19 page)

“By God, yes! We meet again. Here am I, and thank God for it, eh? I expect to bring this war to a quick end. I’m a corporal now, you’ll notice.” He cocked his head at his badge, sat down and slapped his huge knees. “What have you to say for yourself?”

“How’s everyone and where are they?”

“Sad story, actually.” Roddy started eating Angus’s potatoes with his fingers. “Where’s that waitress? I’m sure to get a free supper. Likes my pipes, I can tell you! Played her more than a few tunes. Okay, so a lot of the lads are down with influenza and the rest being bled into the ranks. The great
183
rd broken up and scattered to the winds. Now I’m one of your lot, ready to take the Hun and drag him over his parapet. So, how’ve you been keeping? Met a friend of yours tonight at the play, by the way. Sam Publicover.”

“Publicover, Jesus!” Prescott said. “You should have seen him! That boy is a natural born fighter.”

“Killer, more like,” Cheverly Heck put in. “Had to keep him from beating a Kootenay to death after the play. The Kootenay has Roddy here to thank for his life.”

“Hmm,” Roddy agreed, munching thoughtfully. “Good-natured fun ’til the Kootenay resorted to name-calling of a more personal nature—‘skinny-boned herring choker’ was one. Things turned ugly when he called Publicover a pretty boy.”

“Well, he’s no herring choker. But he
is
pretty, you’ll have to admit,” Angus said, warming to the talk, happy to be with Roddy again.

“Indeed yes! That he is. All sunny innocence up to that point, but then he turns a murderous eye on the Kootenay, comes after him, steady on, mind, lifts him by the collar, and all hell breaks loose. Lucky the MPs were otherwise engaged. But to his credit, your man backed off when he saw it was no contest. We didn’t actually have to pull him off.” He shot a look at Cheverly.

“True enough.” Cheverly shrugged. “I grew up with him. He’s got five older sisters that dote on him. Don’t know what he’s so angry about.”

“Maybe that,” Angus smiled.

Conlon twirled his glass and said, “It’s always cold calculation with Sam. He chooses his fights unless it’s the Krauts. Even then, he rarely loses and never talks about it afterwards.” He sighed loudly. “Suppose I’ll have to dress him down for behavior unbecoming an officer.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one other thing about him,” Roddy said soberly. “He is
one hell
of a pretty boy! And, speak of the devil!”

Publicover, grinning broadly, blue eyes innocent, not a scratch on him, swung through the crowd and grabbed a seat. “Been missing me?”

Sweat, damp wool and liquor suffused the air as talk turned to the wonder of nurses, spotted that morning in their blue capes, managing to look wholesome, healthy and entirely unapproachable. Having stayed far longer than he’d intended, Angus headed for the latrine. Jostled in line, he thought back to the upper room in London—a sanctuary of measures, grids, coordinates and intersecting lines of longitude and latitude—where the cartographers he’d hoped to join bent over their stereoscopes, transforming aerial photographs into maps. There was something elemental and pristine about it, the careful, dispassionate execution, that called up the calming effect of drawing his birds—a tamping down of emotions too deeply felt. Sorry as he’d been not to join them, he was glad now not to have been part of their remote, sterile world. Line-by-line exactitude—his talent and his defeat. Maybe it was the liquor, or Roddy’s presence, or the laughter and camaraderie, but he felt grateful to be in the messy reality of the Front—the fleeting moments of joy etched all the more sharply by the horrors—all of it authentic, unspoken and understood by every man there.

When he returned to the table to take his leave, Roddy stood up. “Meant to ask. Ever find anything out about that brother-in-law of yours?”

“Declared dead. They found his tags and what was left of his platoon. Blasted away. That’s the official story,” Angus said. “Never recovered his body.”

“Aye. Sorry.” Roddy looked down at the glass he was holding between two thick fingers and his thumb. “You doubt it?”

“No, no,” Angus lied. “How could I doubt it?”

“So journey over, eh?” Roddy said. “Except whoops, you’re still here.”

“Exactly,” Angus said. “Here is where I am.”

“Think we’re on a suicide mission?” Roddy was serious.

“Conlon there, who apparently comes from a long line of Irish fatalists, doesn’t seem to think so. Preparation, Roddy.”

“Ah yes, drills and more drills, specialty training, put through our paces to keep doubt at bay. We’re up against it, I’m afraid.”

“Afraid so,” Angus said.

“Give my best to the ever-lovely Juliette and her charming son!” Publicover called out after him.

P
AUL WAS UP
when he got back, his mother asleep. “I wait for you,” he said. He pulled Angus down the corridor to the kitchen, where a few cans of peaches stood on the table. Ever resourceful, the kid had a friend in nearly every soldier he met. Something of his pale but wiry energy engendered both pity for his situation and admiration for his pluck. Juliette was remarkably loose with him, letting him roam about and fraternize. “He finds his own way through this
cauchemar
. It is best for him,” she’d shrugged.

“So, you’ve found some peaches,” Angus said, yawning.

“
Non
. Some other thing,” said Paul. He jabbed a dirty finger at the picture of Ebbin on the table.

“What’s this doing here?” Angus demanded. He swept the photo up.

“It is by your bed,” Paul said. “I have see
cet homme
.” He leaned in against Angus and pointed again at the picture of Ebbin. “This day, I have see him,” he whispered.

Angus snapped the picture. “This man? This man?”

Paul bounced on tiptoe. “
Oui. Cet homme!
”

“Where? Where did you see him?”

“With Brigitte. With soldiers and Brigitte.”

“Brigitte? Who’s Brigitte?”

“You know her. Soldiers know her.
Une amie
, a friend. Shhh. Don’t tell
Maman
.”

Brigitte—Roddy or one of the others, or a bunch of the others, had mentioned that name. She worked in a place off-limits. Naturally, Paul knew her. “No.” Angus shook his head at Paul. “You didn’t see him. Couldn’t have.” He pointed at Ebbin’s image. “This man is dead.
Il est mort
, Paul,” he said, measuring his words out against his racing pulse.

Paul didn’t flinch. “I see him. You are not happy?”

He’s making this up, Angus thought. But Paul was hardly the sort to give false cheer. What was he up to? A genuine mistake, perhaps. “You saw someone who
looks
like him, eh? It’s okay. I am okay.” Angus rubbed Paul’s head lightly, the white patch stiff and bristly under his palm.

Paul removed Angus’s hand from his head and held it in his. “
Vous avez peur?
” he whispered.

“Afraid? Of what? Of finding him? Like he was a ghost? No, no.” Angus smiled as best he could and put the picture in his pocket.

“I take you.” Paul grabbed Angus’s sleeve. He was insistent and so believable that Angus almost let him drag him along. Angus checked the time—
11
:
32
. “Stop,” he said. “I can’t let you go roaming the streets at this hour. No. You can—” Take me to him tomorrow, he was going to say. But if it really was Ebbin, he could be gone tomorrow. He could be dead tomorrow.

Paul looked at the ceiling, waiting for him to reach the obvious conclusion.

“Okay, look,” Angus said. “I’ll go. You stay here. Tell me where.”

“
Une maison à côté du fleuve
.”

“House by the river? Where by the river?” Angus said.

“It is dark. To find it—
très difficile
,” Paul said with import. “I take you.
Maman
sleeps.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

Angus looked at the clock and again at Paul. God, he was convincing—his thin face, drawn and nearly white, his good eye glittering. Angus pulled out a pencil and a small pad. All Angus could think to write was, “Paul is with me (
avec moi
). He thought he saw Ebbin and is taking me to him.” It seemed so crazy he almost scratched it out, but it occurred to him that she probably couldn’t read English, and he couldn’t write French very well, so it was all pretty futile. He could have had Paul write it, but he wanted it to be from him. Besides, they’d be back before she woke up. He centered the note on the kitchen table and stared at it.

“
Allons-y!
” Paul said.

“Okay. Done.” Angus wrapped his scarf around Paul’s neck and followed him out the door.

A
T THE EDGE
of Astile, Paul scurried down this lane and the next, cutting through the skeletons of roofless buildings. The surroundings grew increasingly unfamiliar. A flicker of hope was growing.
Hurry
, Angus wanted to say.
Hurry. Hurry
.

Tents stretched away to the east, white against the black night, the odd brazier burning here and there. The wind picked up and, with it, the flap of a tent lifted from its stakes and luffed like a loose sail. A single-story brick building with rounded walls loomed up. A horse whinnied. The stables on the outskirts of town. Paul took a sharp right down a dirt lane bordered by hedges as tall as a trench wall. A quarter of a mile later, the road dipped, and Paul turned into a cobblestone courtyard flanked by stone buildings, some very large trees, and what might have been an old granary.

Like a couple of spies, they crept across the courtyard to the corner window of a narrow structure with a wide-planked door. They planted themselves in the mushy detritus of dead weeds, feet sinking into the thin coat of snow. Angus leaned in from the side. Paul crouched so his nose was just above the sill. The light was dim, the voices loud. Smoke hung in the air. Bursts of laughter rang out over the plaintive notes of a violin. The tempo suddenly picked up.

If it was a brothel, and it clearly was, it was off-limits—neither a red lamp for ranks nor blue for officers. Angus was about to head in for a look when Paul’s pointy elbow jabbed him in the ribs. Unblinking, Paul pointed at a group of soldiers playing cards. A weasel of a man facing them was in British khaki. The Canadian with his back to them had a woman on his lap, her pink-and-black-fringed shawl draped over his shoulder, her plump arm casually around his neck, caressing his hair. Paul, squinting his good eye, pointed directly at him. The glass was none too clear, but Angus scanned the others. Lots of Brits, a number of unruly Canadians at another table. The fiddler was a young woman in a black tuxedo. Another woman, clad in a thin chemise, kissed her on the mouth.

The Canadian near the window leaned back, talking, gesturing, as the others laughed. Then he pushed the woman off his lap and stroked her backside as she stood. She licked her lips at him. Angus covered Paul’s eyes. Paul pulled Angus’s hand down and pointed again.

“Yeah, I know. You think it’s him,” Angus whispered. “It’s not, though.” Couldn’t be. Not this man, this man who threw his head back, who brushed his hair from his forehead in an all-too-familiar gesture.

Angus staggered back. “Sweet, sweet Jesus,” he heard himself say. He whipped his cap off, raked his hair. “Sweet, sweet Jesus.” No wonder Paul had been so sure. The Canadian stood up suddenly and was out through the crowd and gone before Angus could take it in. A side door banged open. The noise of the crowd spilled out. “Not so fast, Havers!” someone shouted. “We’ve a little business to settle.” Footsteps on the cobblestone. Running. A thud. A low moan. “Got him!” someone else grunted.

Angus raced around to the alley. Dark and narrow, it ran between the brothel and a high garden wall. There was a stack of crates, rotting vegetables strewn about, and a couple of bicycles; just beyond them, three figures. One held the Canadian. The other faced him. “Pay up, Havers, you miserable liar,” Angus heard him say.

Havers?

The heavyset soldier put his hands on his hips, then clipped the Canadian in the face, grabbed his hair, and gave him two hard jabs under the ribs. Angus clamped a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Stay put,” he said, and strode toward them, revolver in the air.