A Citizen Of Nowhere

by Seth Lynch

  I thought I'd changed my life by becoming Salazar. All I changed was my address and my tailor. I didn't go deep enough, so the nightmares simply took the Métro to St Saint-Germain-des-Prés and hooked up with me again.

  'When I was young I used to burn candles and stare at my reflection in a mirror,' Megan says. 'Someone told me if you did that for long enough you could see the dead.'

  She giggles.

  'Megan, from now on there can be no lies between us.'

  'I wasn't lying, Reg; I used to do that a lot when I was a teenager. We were all interested in the occult in those days. We'd read Yeats's poems and imagine joining the Golden Dawn.'

  'That's all yesterday, I'm talking about the future. We can take on the world so long as we can trust each other. If we've got that, then the rest can go to the devil.'

  'We can try.'

  'We must. Nothing in this life is worth a damn. We can walk away from it or we can face it and if we face it we'll be making us count.'

  Megan smiles. Is she thinking of what I've said, or of those dead people in the mirror?

  'Are you inviting me to join your detective agency?' she asks.

  'I wasn't. In fact I'm thinking of chucking it in. Look at us – we're drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes like anyone else. We go to cafés and walk in the park. We queue outside picture houses and watch the movies.

  'On Saturday I was in some flea-pit in Montmartre. There was a knife in my hand. I was afraid – as you should be – that I might get caught. But I knew the danger in the house wasn't them, it was me. Every action had been planned out. If I had to fight in the main room I would make this move or that counter move. If it went into the hall I would position myself here and force them back. They were dead men breathing their last.'

  My heart's beginning to pick up pace and my hands have started sweating. Please let this be the result of too much coffee. I open my mouth to continue, yet other words fall from my tongue.

  'When a man stamps on a flower he should be held to account. We rip and tear each other like taunted beasts. Fables are written to justify our acts. We know we are destined for hell – we are living it. Every heartbeat is a tribute to the god of war. Please let it end.'

  'Calm down, Reggie, we've been over this. We can end it all now, right this moment. We do not have to keep death in our lives. I will make a list, number one; no killing.'

  Megan jots this down in her notebook.

  'Should that read: Thou shalt not kill,' I say. I manage a quick smile. I was on my way over the edge again and she's pulled me back. 'That means no killing at all – not even animals.'

  'Don't be silly, Reg. Wait a minute... I've noticed you don't eat meat.'

  'Not since the early 20s. I'd been on the pipe all weekend and went for a stroll, still feeling groggy. It was raining, but not enough to turn back. Water was dripping off my hat and I had my head down. I became obsessed with the idea of lamb chops. I would have walked to Wales if it meant getting some. I knew of a butcher's shop not far from my apartment. I thought I'd buy some and get my valet to cook them up – yeah, I still had a valet then.

  'Straight away the stench of blood and the sight of strung up bodies hit me. Then I had what the magistrate called "an unfortunate episode". My good war record and better connections got me off without charge but I still feel that repulsion when I pass a butcher's.'

  'This is going to be hard, but if it will stop you doing anything silly, I'll come along for the ride.'

  'That's why I was thinking of chucking the agency. If I'm not going to kill, I'm going to be vulnerable.'

  'I won't pretend that isn't true, although Gandhi is facing down the entire British Empire without having a gun tucked in his loin cloth.'

  'He's got a few million Indians standing behind him.'

  'I know you, Reggie. I know you are a brave and smart man. From now on that's what you are going to have to rely on. You can give up being a detective if you want to. The problem isn't money, it's boredom. You need the action. I know you fancy yourself as the cerebral type who can spend all day rearranging books, but that isn't true anymore. You'd do it for a few months and then go out one night and find trouble. What you need is something to occupy you physically and mentally.'

  'Oh, but you do that, Megan.'

  'If I were all you needed we'd be fine. Today we have to be serious. You need something to stop you going off the rails when I'm not around. I lost you once and I don't want to lose you again.'

  I grab her hand and hold her tight. We both of us are fighting not to cry. I draw her close: 'I'll never leave you again.'

  We kiss and the kiss is our sadness, our joy. The kiss is our finding each other. We hold each other for at least ten minutes before reluctantly letting go. Neither of us wants to speak because our words will bring us back to the world.

  'Three days have passed since I was up in Montmartre and the gang haven't killed me. They must have taken Legrand's pay-off, else I'd be dead by now. And Legrand spilt the beans about Marty's village.'

  'Marty's village? What village?'

  We go down to the office where I keep a map of France. We fold it out over my desk. Ash falls from Megan's cigarette and burns a hole in it. She puts it out quickly. So long as Vaour isn't a secret island in the English Channel, we'll be okay. Megan's enthusiasm rubs off on me. For the time being I'll forget about quitting and I'll play this out.

  'First time I saw Legrand she fed me a few scraps so I'd think she was helpful. She said that Marty had spoken of a village - an hour from Toulouse and a couple of hours from the Riviera. That reduces it to a few thousand square kilometres.'

  'Less, if you think about it,' Megan says. 'If it were an hour east or west from Toulouse it would be too near or far from the Riviera Coast. So it must be north or south. If it were an hour south it would be in the Pyrenees. They rarely have roads on those mountains and when they do they are more suited to donkeys than automobiles. So let's start by looking an hour north.'

  We scour the map together, getting in each other's way, for about fifteen minutes. Then we decide to do shifts. Megan, being methodical, produces a pencil which she uses to shade the map as she examines it. After each grid we swap over.

  'You know, Reggie, I think in some ways, this is all a bit sinister.'

  'In what ways?'

  'We're looking at a map so you can track someone down for a woman with unknown motives. That makes this work intrusive and unpleasant.'

  'I don't care about other people's motives. One way or another, Marty was behind the attack on me. I want to find him so I can chuck him in the Seine or the Garonne or the Loire or any other bloody river.'

  'Just so long as you don't end up on the guillotine. I still think it's sinister. Maybe your work is sinister, in the way a miner's work is dirty. I guess that's it. Do you really want to chuck him in the river?'

  'I do, but I won't. I'm going to stick to what we said. In fact my gun, knife, knuckle duster, and spare knife can stay here. I'll travel unarmed and think peaceable thoughts.'

  The names on the map merge into one another: Cabanés, Cuq, and En Périé. Do people live in these places? At some point in the near future I'm going to be in one them. I'll be walking around on some speck from the map. I'll find Marty and reveal his location to Marie. Then I'll sit back and wait for trade to come my way.

  What trade? I've been in this business for seven months and this is my third case. Nobody comes to me because nobody's heard of me. I spread a few cards out in cafés at the beginning. Since then I've done nothing. When I return from catching Marty I'll place advertisements in all the newspapers.

  'Here it is,' Megan says.

  She points at another name on the map - one that reads Vaour. I take my pen and draw a circle around it. I look at the map and the series of towns between here and there. I can see myself sat in a train compartment for eight hours. Then eight hours back. I can think of other things I'd rather spend sixteen
hours doing – like washing down a pissoir. Keep the train, I'll fix my bicycle and ride down there.

  'I'll head down on Friday. I want to get my bicycle together and I'll need some gear.'

  'You are going to cycle there?'

  'Yes.'

  'Why? It will take days.'

  'Because I want to. From now on I'm doing things my way.'

  'Are you going to become a hedonist too?'

  'I wasted years indulging in drink and drugs. I did things because I thought people wanted me too. Then I did whatever came into my head and to hell with anybody who got in my way. After that I collapsed and ended up suicidal. Then one morning I realised my life needed to change – I took my army pension and trust fund and set up this agency. If I can't work the way I want, then what's the point? As you said - I don't need the money. All I need is to occupy my mind.'

  'Occupied minds - probably all any of us need.'

  'I don't think so highly of the others.'

  I bring all the parts of my bicycle into the office and reassemble them as we talk. We go to bed an hour later, leaving the bicycle nearly complete. I'll finish it in the morning and spend the rest of the day cycling around Paris.

  *

  My first trip is out to Legrand's apartment. The 'For Rent' sign won't be there long; property is scarce these days. Satisfied that she is gone I ride to a camping shop near the Place de Bastille.

  The shop is up a side alley. I walk in, unaware that the whole place is a trap for the unwary. I want to purchase some saddle bags and a water flask – the sort you might take if you were off to discover the source of some virulent river. Within minutes I've been persuaded to buy a pair of short trousers with lots of pockets. Next I find myself agreeing to buy a penknife to keep in one of those pockets along with a compass for another one. Afraid I may buy the entire shop, I grab the salesman by his lapels and tell him that if he opens his mouth again I will leave without buying a thing. He begins to protest so I put everything down in a pile and turn to go. He scrambles after me, carrying it all, and silently beckoning me towards the cashier.

  At home I park the bicycle in the hallway. Before I reach the last flight of stairs to the apartment I hear Megan singing. The song is Louise. I stand and listen and, for the first time, I'm filled with love for the song. I am filled with love for her.

  The following days are spent cycling while the evenings are spent poring over the map. My leg is holding out. At times it gets stiff, forcing me to get off and walk around. I'll use those moments to grab something to eat. To cater for the times I won't be able to find any suitable food, I have stocked up on dates, dried fruit and nuts.

  I'm planning to stay in hotels along the way and, should I need repairs, to use local garages and forges. I'll wrap a few inner tubes around my neck and shoulders and trust to luck for a pump. One spare set of clothes will go in the panniers, along with an army wash kit purchased from a very expensive gentleman's retailers. This is a strange parody of the one I'd used during the war; I remember a particularly flamboyant lieutenant who served under me had had a kit like this – same items as mine, only made from more expensive metals.

  The most direct route comes out at around 600 kilometres. I want to take in Orléans, Bourges and Clemont-Ferrand, which means there will be some extra kilometres thrown in. The detour might not add a lot to the time as the roads between those places should be in a better state of repair. I'm reckoning on seventy-five miles a day with the arrival some time on day six - on the seventh day I shall rest.

  I know I can do it but as I hear the satisfying pop of Megan opening some wine I feel sick. I've never cycled that far in one go before and my leg is not as strong as it could be. What the hell. We drink the bottle dry and laugh. My gear, all piled up in the corner of the apartment, taunts me whenever my gaze falls in that direction. An-other two bottles have gone and I'm talking about going via Bordeaux, perhaps detouring down a bit further for a peek at a Pyrenean peak.

  Morning comes and the seconds beat time against my skull like elephants stamping on hazelnuts. I have reached an age where each hangover is worse than the last. Brushing my teeth I retch into the basin, not quite throwing up. I leave the bathroom feeling abused. I stand swaying slightly in the kitchen trying to remember what I was looking for. The world is moving in different, competing directions. For brief moments I feel all right, the rest of the time I'm deathly.

  Megan appears bleary-eyed in a black silk kimono. She smiles, burps, and takes some orange juice back to the bedroom with her. She looks beautifully dishevelled. Despite my condition I follow her to the bed.

  A moment of passion followed by a few hours' sleep and I'm in a condition to face the world. Even the drizzle, which was in the air during the morning, has gone, leaving a dry windless afternoon. I force down ten tablespoons of sugar dissolved in a glass of water. This should give me some much needed energy. After giving Megan a goodbye kiss I go downstairs. Filatre is standing in the hallway smoking his pipe.

  'Afternoon, old chum. It's nearly two o'clock. You must be in Orléans by now.'

  'Very good. I'll be there presently and when I wake up tomorrow morning I'll be on track again.'

  I get on my bicycle and, as I pedal away, I hear Filatre shout 'Hat!' which I guess is his translation of 'Chapeau!'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Two hours of cycling and Paris is a just a memory. So too is the sun and the calm. The wind, which started up a mile or so ago, introduces me to its wicked sister, rain. I stop to put on some oilskins: Megan gave them to me as I was about to leave. I look like a trawler-man making a desperate bid for freedom from the sea.

  The wind forces rain into every gap in my clothing. I endure another hour before finding a place to eat; dried dates have kept me going until this point. The place is a roadside bistro, the sort of joint you might take your wife – to discuss the divorce. I flop down at a table and order boiled potatoes, peas, carrots and orange juice. I follow this with a couple of espressos, a large glass of water and another orange juice. They serve me in silence, no questions as to why I want vegetables without meat, or why I don't want butter or what I'm doing here. I am, after all, an Englishman, fitted out like a trawler-man, riding a bicycle through a foul storm - what further explanations are required?

  My smoke on cycle trips is a pipe loaded with Saint-Cloud tobacco. I smoke this while lingering over a cognac and staring out of the window. The wind and rain beat at the doors, walls and windows, demanding that I return to suffer further humiliations at their hand.

  My clothes have been placed in front of a small stove. For decency's sake I've kept my trousers and vest on. I'd love to call it a night and kip here but I haven't travelled far enough. It's time to get going. My socks are now warm and dry. Everything else is warm and damp. I may rot away long before I reach Vaour.

  You feel at one with the landscape when you have to ride in rain-sodden clothes. I feel like a peat bog on wheels. Any dry patches have been dampened by sweat. I keep on like a mule or a pack horse counting down the days before the knacker's yard. My thoughts are limited to the next pedal stroke. Occasionally I consider changing into dry clothes, then I decide to wait a minute or two in case the rain starts up again.

  I arrive in Orléans, hardly noticing the changing landscape. Fields, cows and trees are replaced by houses, people and noise. I don't let myself get distracted: my energy has been drained to the extent that I can't afford an unnecessary blink of the eyes. I'm focused on reaching my destination for the day – a bed.

  Until now I've been shutting out complaints from my body. Little things, long suppressed, are bringing themselves to my attention. I am hungry, ravenously hungry. My back is aching. I make myself promises to keep going - first a coffee, hot black and sweet; some bread and jam, strawberry jam; a soak in a hot bath; a bed, any bed. I'm desperate now and my back is seizing up. I could lie down on the pavement and sleep here. Let them try to move me. I sit up straight in the saddle, ta
king my hands off the handlebars and stretching my back.

  A short distance up the road I can see the canvas awnings of the Hotel Bristol. The hotel overlooks the Loire as it meanders through the city like a casual tourist on a sight-seeing tour. I cycle straight up to the front door. The staff are dressed in a golden livery. At first they're not sure what to do with my dirty wet bike so I help them out.

  'Don't be an arse, man, take it out back,' I say. 'Have the bags brought to my room and have the chain cleaned and oiled – get someone who knows what they are doing. I want hot coffee, with bread and strawberry jam, bring that to my room too.'

  I take my key and follow a bellhop across the lobby. A few other guests are milling about in evening wear. On reaching the elevator I'm intercepted by an old duffer with a large Clemenceau moustache.

  'My goodness, sir, you look as if you've swum the Sénégal River.'

  'Nothing so easy, sir,' I say. 'Cycled down from Paris through a storm, en route for Toulouse.'

  'Good man. Idleness is a curse. So many of your age would have pulled up in an automobile sounding those blasted dreadful horns. Much better to see a man in full health, having given battle to the elements, who is prepared to pay for his efforts with his own sweat. Good man and good journey to you.'

  I squelch up to my room and give the bellhop a generous tip. I tell him I want that coffee and bread within five minutes. I take off my clothes and throw them on the floor; I put on the large dressing gown which is draped over my bed. The lad reappears with my drink. I tell him to take my wet clothes and launder them for the morning. Another lad arrives with my bike kit. I tip him too, and start cutting up the bread. I know I'm behaving like an upper class twit. Still, I'm getting what I want and am far too tired to give a damn about much else.

  The following days are spent the same way as the first – long hours in the saddle and nights flopped in a hotel bed. I long for hills or mountains, anything to break the vast expanses of borderless fields. My future stretches out along straight roads which disappear into hazy horizons. Avenues of plane trees provide a welcome relief from the sun. I can't think of anything beyond the next mile. I drink sugary coffee whenever I spot a café. I go through the same routines in different hotels. My legs feel stronger each day. The hills grow steeper to compensate for this extra strength. At times I come to a standstill on the side of the road. I curse myself for being weak and pedal off again, like a stubborn child, over the hills and under the sun.