Barbouze

by Alan Williams

  A CRS officer had told him that it was now hoped that special crews would be arriving from Paris to fly the planes out. But he did not know when. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps later.

  Since the destruction of the Caravelle, Neil had made three telephone calls. The first had been to the British Consulate, where he had spoken to a fruity-voiced young man called Wynne-Catlin who had listened to his troubles and said, ‘Oh, sounds a bit tricky to me — better stay at the airport and get on the first plane out.’ Neil had said, ‘Thanks!’ between gritted teeth, and the fruity voice had added, ‘Right, I’ll look into it. All the best!’

  The next call had been to Pol. There had been the three familiar pips, then the woman’s voice reciting the number back to him. When he had asked for Pol he had been put through to a M. Julien, who told him that Pol had been moved to another department. After a lot of explanations he had been at last transferred, and the resonant voice, slightly subdued now, came on the line: ‘Comment ça va, Monsieur Ingleby?’

  Neil had described his plight, and the answer had had a lyrical sadness to it: ‘Ah, there are good days, my dear Ingleby, and there are bad days. This is a bad day. But you ought to get on a plane tomorrow. There’s nothing more I can do.’

  They had said goodbye, and Pol had promised to look him up at his newspaper offices if he came to London. It was the last he ever heard of Pol. It had not been one of the most satisfactory relationships, Neil reflected.

  His final call had been to Mallory, put through to the upstairs bar of the hotel. His voice had come over in a piercing electronic hiss, largely unintelligible, wishing him ‘Good luck, old boy, have lots o’ drinks on me! Send my love to the airhostesses!’ Then he added, ‘We fixed about you in the hotel. You stick there. Should be all right.’

  Neil hung up and walked back to his stool at the bar, feeling alone and vulnerable, dreading the approach of night when the CRS would be growing tired and might even be withdrawn. Then the commandos would come in, pretending to be refugees, and prowl round among the crowds until they found him, and empty a couple of machine-pistol clips into him while he slept. Or maybe they would do it more silently — with a knife, perhaps. And pin a notice on him: ‘JE SUIS UNE BARBOUZE’.

  Darkness fell, and the lozenge lamps along the ceiling came on with a sombre orange glow; while outside, down the highway into the city, special arc-lights had been set up to illuminate the column of cars that now stretched for more than a mile, under a heavy CRS guard.

  In the main hall they tried to sleep, nerves inflamed by the hot howling wind and the claustrophobic longing for escape. Neil had bought a série noire edition of Simenon at the bookstall and started to read, sitting propped against the wall; but the print crawled in front of his eyes like slabs of insects. He felt tired, sick, trembling after six cups of sour black coffee. Later he sought relief in the toilet which was splashed and choked, without water or towels or paper.

  He slept at last, hunched up with his face against the skirting, dreaming that he was in the Dorchester Hotel with Colonel Le Hir and the two German legionnaires who were somehow improperly dressed, and there was a row with the management; and then Caroline had appeared in her wedding dress, but her face somehow indistinct, and Neil had made some appeal to Le Hir who had taken him outside and called a taxi.

  He woke staring at the distant ceiling, listening to the wind and whimpering of children, then remembered with a pang of relief that Caroline was not yet married, and that perhaps he had a chance after all — if he could only get out of here, on to one of those planes, across to Paris and back to London.

  It was nearly midnight. Duxelles had told him that if he were still in the country after midnight he would be arrested. But he felt too tired to care anymore, his mind lulled into a torpor which was the final antidote to his state of tension.

  Most of the people in the hall were asleep, but their breathing was loud and fast and uneasy; and he noticed what he had feared all along — that there were now far less CRS about. Instead, numbers of young men were wandering up and down buying sandwiches and coffee at the brasserie. He closed his eyes again; but no one came near him.

  It was after midnight now. He decided he might try to ask the CRS to arrest him; but when he stood up and saw the length of the floor packed with sleeping figures, he felt dangerously conspicuous. They can still get me here, he thought, and he burrowed down again into the wedge of bodies, lying still, heart beating, feeling as he had done as a child when he came out of the freezing night into a large room with people crowded round a fire in one corner. He remembered the terrible urge to get into that crowd, away from the cold darkness; and he crept deeper among the warm breathing bodies.

  Then he began to nurse a new fear: that someone would try to talk to him and find out that he was English. Earlier, when he had been drinking with Mallory, it had not seemed to matter. But now, in this sleeping sepulchre, he felt his only salvation was to remain anonymous, buried among the crowds. He lay with his eyes closed, waiting for morning.

  He slept badly, waking every few hours, sweating yet cold, his mouth full of fur and his head slamming with a slow deliberate pain.

  It was some time in the small hours. He had been dreaming again, fighting to get through the crowds to the smoking Caravelle, weighed down with cardboard boxes and marble clocks, feeling a nudge in his buttocks, somebody shaking him by the arm. He saw two boots with black gaiters in front of his face. A CRS man was standing above him, gun over his shoulder.

  ‘Papiers!’

  Neil sat up and looked round. About a dozen CRS were moving between the rows of refugees, examining papers. He dragged out his passport with the deportation order inside. The CRS man frowned at the document for several seconds, then looked at him: ‘You know you were supposed to be out of the country two hours ago?’

  Neil tried to concentrate, to make sense of what was becoming a confused nightmare muddled up with his arrival with Le Hir at the Dorchester. He said, ‘Yes, yes, I know I’m supposed to be out of here. I want to get out of here. I can’t. They blew up the plane.’

  ‘You’re an English journalist?’ said the CRS man, still frowning.

  ‘Yes. I’m in danger. They’re going to kill me. Can you arrest me?’

  The man shook his head and handed the passport back: ‘You have to stay here. There may be a plane tomorrow. And you’d better be on it!’

  Neil lay back and watched the lamps burning above him like red-hot pendulums. The CRS man had moved on to wake someone else. Neil had a fierce thirst; he saw that the bar and brasserie were closed. A couple of men in berets were lounging against the wall near the glass partition of the Garderie d’Enfants. There were now only about a dozen CRS in the hall. He crouched down and closed his eyes again, but he could not sleep.

  There was a man’s head lying a few inches from his own. It was bald and creased like putty, the mouth half-open, making no sound. It was like the face of a dead man. He turned the other way and saw a tiny child staring down at him with big round eyes, its lips quivering on the point of tears. It was so young that he could not tell whether it was a boy or a girl. It had thick curls, like a print of David Copperfield as a child, and wore a miniature white duffel coat with pegs the size of pretzels.

  He looked away and went on trying to sleep. His back ached, and he lay stretching his legs to work out the cramp in his thighs and calves, but each time he moved he only awakened some fresh, overstrained muscle, and the ache began all over again.

  Something brushed lightly against his face. It was the hem of the child’s duffel coat. He said in a whisper, not unkindly, ‘Vas-y! Où est ta maman?’

  The child goggled at him for a long time, repeating in a murmur, ‘Maman!’ Then slowly, unsteadily, it tottered away among the sleeping bundles, calling ‘Maman!’ — over and over again without anybody taking any notice.

  Neil began to crawl away from the putty-faced man, and his fingers touched the edge of a trampled magazine. He opened it up and lay with t
he pages folded across his face, and at last fell asleep.

  He woke suddenly, dazzled. He was looking into the glare of morning sunlight. Somebody had lifted the magazine from his face. He twisted his head round and blinked painfully.

  Standing above him, with a heavy black handbag slung over her shoulder, was Anne-Marie.

  CHAPTER 7

  Anne-Marie said quietly, ‘Get up, Monsieur Ingleby. We’re leaving.’

  He lay for a moment staring at her, not quite certain where he was. He had a sore throat and his eyes stung and his hair was itching, rubbed against the grain of his scalp like cat’s fur stroked the wrong way. He sat up, trying to collect his faculties, feeling very unwell.

  She repeated, with a curious wooden expression, ‘Come on, we’re leaving.’

  He began to think more clearly. His watch was still stopped. He looked at the clock above the departure desks and saw that it was just after seven o’clock. There was a sluggish movement in the hall: people arranging their luggage and queueing up for the toilets and for coffee. The airhostess and the CRS men, in smart dark-blue, were still on duty, and the wind still roared outside.

  He stood up, rubbing his eyes, and looked at her. Her face was cold and empty, like a grainy black-and-white photograph. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said dully, still half-asleep.

  ‘We’re leaving,’ she said again. ‘You can’t stay here anymore.’

  He opened his eyes wide and shook his head. He wondered if he were still dreaming: ‘But what are you doing here? How did you know where I was?’

  ‘I went to the hotel to find you. You didn’t get my letter?’

  He frowned: ‘I’m sorry — I’m not really awake yet.’ He pressed his hand to his forehead: ‘I don’t quite understand what’s going on.’

  ‘You’re coming with me, Monsieur Ingleby.’ Her eyes had a blank icy look; and for a full ten seconds they stood facing each other without moving or speaking.

  ‘I can’t go with you,’ he said at last, ‘I’m booked on the first flight today. I’ve got a deportation order.’

  ‘There will be no flights today,’ she said, hitching the bag higher on to her shoulder, ‘the CRS captain has just told me.’

  He swallowed dryly, tasting the bitter aniseed on his breath, wishing he had a toothbrush and razor. The stubble on his chin felt like an extra skin. He said, ‘I must go and wash, I can’t talk to you like this.’

  She called after him, ‘Hurry! We haven’t much time.’

  There was a queue outside the toilets, and it took him several minutes before he found a vacant cubicle. The lavatory seat had been torn off, and he sat for what seemed a long time on the cold china rim, his head in his hands, trying to arrange his thoughts into some order.

  He remembered what Mallory had said about her. Even if she were not Broussard’s stepdaughter, all logic warned him against her. But logic was no longer with him. Again he felt that perverse compulsion to stay close to those who threatened him — to explain to them what had happened, to seek protection by telling only the truth. There was no protection awaiting him from the CRS or from Pol or the man called Wynne-Cadin. But there was just a chance that Anne-Marie might be able to help him.

  He stood over the washbasin and splashed tepid water on to his face and into his eyes, flattening down his hair with wet hands.

  She was waiting for him outside. He looked at her more carefully now. She was wearing a tight sea-green dress. Her hair was scraped back and her face had a stiff drawn look with scoops of shadow under the eyes as though she had not slept.

  She looked at him with a vacant stare. ‘I’ve got my car outside,’ she said, starting to walk across the hall towards the entrance.

  ‘Wait a minute! Anne-Marie!’

  She paused, her shoulders hunched slightly forward: ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where are we going?’ He stood beside her, wanting to lean on her, to seek her support while the crowded hall seemed to be revolving round him.

  ‘I know a way out of the country,’ she said, ‘I’m going to take you.’

  She turned and strode on, and he followed her, past the brasserie where they were selling paper mugs of steaming coffee and salami sandwiches. He said, ‘I must have something to eat.’

  She turned again, her eyes flashing darkly: ‘I told you, we don’t have much time.’ She glanced round the brasserie, at a group of CRS by the door, and added, ‘Come on, please! I don’t want to be seen around here.’

  He remembered the deportation order just in time, changing it to his breast pocket before they reached the CRS at the entrance. ‘What are the chances of a plane today?’ he asked, as the guard flipped through his passport.

  The man shrugged: ‘I don’t know anything. The crews are still on strike.’ He looked again at Neil’s passport:; ‘You’re a journalist? You want to leave today?’

  ‘Yes.’ Beside him he saw Anne-Marie watching them both with eyes narrowing into fierce slits.

  The CRS man went on, ‘You’ll have to take your chance here. It depends on when they get the special crews from France.’

  ‘What are the roads like? Are the frontiers open yet?’

  ‘I wouldn’t try going by road,’ he said grimly, ‘there are a lot of Arab Front terrorists about. All the roads in the Bled are dangerous — especially after what happened yesterday with Ali La Joconde and his friends. Beaucoup d’effervescence!’ He turned to Anne-Marie: ‘Are you both together?’

  She nodded and flicked a dog-eared identity card at him. Neil tried to catch a glimpse of the surname on it — whether it began with a ‘B’ — but she was too quick. The CRS man saluted and she walked past him through the entrance. Neil caught her up, and on an impulse of affection tried to take her hand. She snatched it away as though he had touched her with a flame. Her fingers, with their pearl-white nails, felt small and cold.

  She ignored him completely as they walked down the concrete steps into the sunlight where the dust swept stinging into their faces. They walked with their heads down, shielding their eyes, and Neil called to her above the wind, ‘You heard what the CRS man said — that it’s dangerous to try and drive out?’

  ‘The CRS know nothing!’ she cried. ‘I know what I’m talking about.’

  They had to walk nearly a quarter of a mile, past the lanes of dust-brown cars, full of the frightened faces of people who were preparing to camp out here for perhaps days.

  Because of the wind they hardly spoke to each other. Neil wished again that he could have a shave and some breakfast — at least one coffee and a glass of Fernet Branca. The wind battered him, making his face raw and dry. Anne-Marie walked in front of him, her head and shoulders bent forward, the bag swinging against her hip. It gave her a heavy, slouching appearance; and he thought of her running down the sands, strong and brown, smiling with white teeth, hair swirling. She was not the same girl any more.

  The car — the Simca convertible in which they had gone down to the Casino de la Plage — was parked off the road on the edge of a maize field sprinkled with poppies. It was empty, with the black hood closed. She unlocked the door on the driving side and let him in beside her. Her movements were deliberate and unhurried.

  He sat back in the bucket-seat and she switched on the ignition. Above the grunt of the engine he said, ‘Anne-Marie, I want to get one thing clear — about what happened yesterday with General Guérin.’

  She said nothing, swinging the wheel over, and they screeched round in a tight circle into the empty lane leading back towards the city.

  ‘Do you think I betrayed General Guérin?’ he said, raising his voice against the whine of the car.

  ‘No, I don’t think you betrayed anybody.’ Her voice was quite calm: ‘General Guérin and Colonel Le Hir were arrested — that’s all.’

  ‘I was with them. It was because I was in the car that the CRS knew it was Guérin.’

  ‘I know.’ Her profile was rigid, her sun-filled eyes on the road.

  ‘Do the others think I be
trayed Guérin?’ Neil shouted, as the car began to lurch from side to side, buffeted by the wind. She did not answer. The road raced towards them, curving into a roundabout, and she braked violently, dust rising like steam, the car howling into the turn, out on to a wide road between the tobacco fields.

  Neil clutched at his knees, peering through the brown-caked windshield, his heart thumping hard. He turned to her again: ‘Anne-Marie, listen!’ Her face remained immobile, watching the road. ‘I must talk to you before we go any further. Does the Secret Army think I betrayed Guérin?’

  She made a sudden movement with her hand. The windshield-washers spurted, dribbled down, the glass and the wipers swept the dust aside in a clean arc. The road ahead was empty, the sky blue with brown drifts of dust swooping and spiralling in the wind like ghosts.

  ‘Anne-Marie, listen! Slow down, will you! I have to talk to you! What have you come here for? How did you find me?’

  ‘I went to the hotel last night. I told you, I left a letter asking you to meet me. You weren’t there.’

  ‘How did you know I was at the airport?’

  She turned with a quick look of triumph in her eyes: ‘Where else would you be? You were trying to get away.’

  ‘I was frightened,’ he said, in a hoarse voice that was lost in the scream of the slip stream. The car slowed and turned on to a track like the one up to the farm yesterday. Neil felt a nasty sinking in his stomach: ‘Where are we going? This isn’t the way along the coast. We’re supposed to be making for the frontier!’

  She made no reply, steering the car up the bumpy track towards a line of trees, with the mountains beyond.

  ‘Anne-Marie, this isn’t the right way!’

  ‘We can’t take the main roads. There are too many patrols out — we wouldn’t get through. I’m taking you a special way I know.’

  He knotted his fingers together, watching the track bump towards them, trying to remember how far it was to the frontier. They were coming into a village, chalk-white with bulging walls, patched up with newspaper and straw and tin cans under roofs of sagging corrugated iron. Two French soldiers sat in a jeep on the roadside. She accelerated, her hand down on the horn; and as they flashed past them, Neil had a glimpse of one of the soldiers shouting and waving towards the village.