by Seth Lynch
I get up early and ride to Vaour. The sun is like a guard dog sleeping peacefully in the sky. I am not fooled. That dog can bite; I'm still suffering from yesterday. I'm a weather communist; the sun's heat should be distributed evenly across the globe. Perhaps we could have a little more in the summer and little less in the winter. The rain, too, must fall evenly. A little snow, a few blustery days, all evenly distributed between the nations.
I have no intention of approaching the mayor's office until at least nine-thirty. Even at that hour I'm willing to lay even money that it won't be open. Freewheeling into the village I pull up outside the office to double check. This is the sort of place where it might only open once a week. Or once a fortnight. A notice by the door reads: open Tuesday and Wednesday, ten-thirty till twelve. Well, it's Tuesday. I have two hours to kill.
Given that I have now read the opening hours on the mayor's office door I have availed myself of all the free entertainment on offer. I don't fancy the café today. If I could go in quietly and order a drink in French I would. Right now it's too early and I'm too stiff and tired to be playing the English buffoon. The garage attendant is wearing a string vest and blue trousers. He's awake and sweeping the forecourt. A cigarette dangles from his lip. Perhaps it's the same cigarette he had there yesterday. What inspires him to get up each morning? That garage can't be making much; I haven't seen an automobile in all the time I've been here. Does he go there to escape his family? Perhaps there was a tree on the site, where he'd meet his lover. She had to go away and they swore to meet again, beneath the tree, one year later. The years pass - he cuts down the tree and sells it for firewood. Then he builds a garage, still waiting. Years later a fancy Daimler pulls up. She's in the passenger seat applying her make-up. He catches her eye as he wipes the windscreen. Now he rises each day and sweeps the forecourt, buys some wine, and sleeps in the sun. He's still waiting, but no longer for her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
After two hours of pacing, and a short nap leaning against a wall, I'm ready for officialdom. At least there is some shade on this side of the building. I am alone; everyone else must be planning to conduct their business tomorrow. The door is locked. I check my watch – ten thirty-two. I check the opening time – ten thirty. Have I lost a day or two somewhere along the way? I can't have; I was here yesterday, and the day before everybody was off to church. It is quite definitely Tuesday and it is between ten thirty and twelve.
Ten forty-five: I hear a slight noise followed by the distinct sound of footsteps. Some cheeky so-and-so has opened the door on the quiet; if they try to make out it was open all along I'll swing for them.
The lobby is cool and dark. The floor is made up of large flagstones; someone went to a lot of expense making this floor, then the centuries took their toll. My eyes are struggling to adjust from the bright sun outside; there is probably some trick the locals have developed when they come in out of the sun. I can hear the sound of footsteps echoing from a hallway. The reception area is staffed by a man who is sleeping with his legs up on the desk. I'm tempted to pull up a chair and sleep alongside him. Instead I take a seat, then slap my hand hard down on the desk. He wakes with a start. I brush my hand on my trouser. 'Got the little blighter,' I say.
The man reaches for a pair of spectacles, fumbling them onto his nose. Next he produces a handkerchief which, without ceremony, he uses to blow his bespectacled nose. He is about to open the hanky and inspect the contents when I cough. He puts it back in his pocket and inspects me instead.
'You were saying?'
Not a bad gambit. The man is not particularly tall; say one metre sixty, although it is hard to measure his height while he is sitting. He seems to be one of those pernickety men who always take a moment to brush invisible dust from their jackets. The cuffs of his once-white shirt are a little worn and the left one's stained with black ink. His bow-tie is tied loosely and hangs away from his neck. The time spent sleeping and working in this dark lobby has given him a pallor unusual for the town. He speaks with the local accent.
'You were going to look it up for me,' I say.
I speak in French, not English. Here's hoping I don't run into him in the café.
'I was indeed, sir, but what was it again?'
'Ah, you wise old dog,' I say and tap the side of my nose. 'Holding out for more are we?'
'I am not sure to what you are referring.'
I have played this gambit out and the fellow looks genuinely confused. Now is the time to play it straight.
'I'm going to give you fifty francs. You are going to show me a list of everyone living in the area. You are also going to remember if any outsiders are living here.'
'Was I? Not so sure I was, but I will.' He smiles and scratches the back of his head. 'For one hundred.'
I should have started with twenty but the days are too short to waste them haggling. I count out a hundred francs so he can see I have the money. I give him fifty and tell him he can have the rest when I get what I want. He stands up and walks over to some dusty drawers. I wonder if he'd walk faster if I'd threatened to bust his head open. He returns with a ledger which arouses my suspicion - it looks like the one Legrand used.
After sneezing at me a few times and then drawing his handkerchief, the man opens up the ledger. He looks reverentially at the pages, before I turn the book around so I can read it.
'That is a list of everyone living in the area,' he says. 'There are only three outsiders living here and I don't need a book to tell you who they are. There's the Matusi couple – Italians. I wonder why we don't turn the country over to them.' He looks to see if I'm going to encourage him in an anti-Italian diatribe. I don't. 'They have been living here since 1912. Then there is monsieur Dubois. He has had a place here for about five years. He's been living in it full-time for around a year now. Keeps himself to himself. I would be willing to bet the other fifty in your pocket that he's the one you want.'
I take out the fifty and give it to him. He goes on: 'Dubois lives in a farmhouse about three kilometres out from the village. Follow the road towards Campagnac. He isn't proper foreign though - he's from Paris.'
He gives me detailed directions and even draws a map. Now that I have woken him up he probably feels he should be doing something.
'I must say, you speak a lot better French than they give you credit for,' he says.
'Who?'
'The folk in the café.'
'No, I don't. I hardly speak a word of it, and we never met.'
'Quite right, sir, you never said a word and this is a dream.'
His legs re-occupy their former space on the desk and he slouches in the chair. I leave him to his work.
I know the road towards Campagnac as I cycled some way along it on Sunday. There's about a mile between the last house of the village and the turning to the Dubois farm. I can see farm buildings in the distance. I feel a certain amount of nervousness. I used to feel like this in the early mornings, in the moments before sunrise, on the days when we were going over the top. Then it wasn't about life or death; it was about how you'd die. I never once went over with any expectations of returning. This time I expect to return triumphant. The road out of Vaour is a quirky affair with a liberal scattering of pot-holes and mounds. I've gotten used to riding on these roads over the last few days. All you have to do is remember to proceed with caution. If you forget that simple rule the road will remind you – by bouncing you up a few inches and then sending the saddle straight up into your balls. I have had two such reminders and I don't wish for a third.
The road towards the farmhouse is a different breed. This one is narrow with a deep ditch on one side and a thorny bush on the other. In case you happen to have a good sense of balance, and aren't likely to fall into the bush or ditch, the road is covered in small rocks. Ride too slowly and you will fall into spiky arms. Ride too fast and the wheels fire the stones up at your shins. I push the bike along the road to the farm, giving the stones a good ki
cking along the way.
The outbuildings are falling down around the chickens which scuttle across the yard. The courtyard itself wants serious attention, although it's in keeping with other places I have seen about here. Nearer the house is an automobile, a Citroën like Filatre's, covered with old rugs and canvas. A pump stands on its own about four metres from the kitchen door. The property must have its own spring – a valuable asset in these parts. The house itself looks to be in a good state of repair, to my untrained eyes at least.
Enough of the sight-seeing. The time has come to meet monsieur Gustave Marty. After placing my bike carefully against the wall of the farmhouse I call out 'Hello?' May as well play the English tourist again. I walk up to the kitchen door, knock, and call out. No response. I place my ear to the door. Nothing. I take my water bottle from my bike to act as a prop before going walkabout.
The front of the farmhouse overlooks a large garden which merges into rolling hills stretching up to a forest. Not another building in sight. Deer frolic in the distance. You could go crazy holed up in a place like this.
The lawn has been mown and kept like an English garden with flower beds along the front of the house. A crumpled man sits sleeping in a deckchair. If he were younger I'd say the man was Marty. This guy looks to be in his fifties. His skin is tanned, no doubt from sleeping out under the sun. His hair shows a lot of grey. He could be Marty's older brother – Marie never mentioned him having one.
'Bonjour,' I say, loud enough to wake him, or so I thought. I repeat with more volume and edge a little closer. His chest is moving; at least he isn't dead.
'Excuse me.' This time I say it while standing right next to him.
I can hear his heavy breathing and an occasional whistling from his nose. He's dribbling slightly on to an expensive linen suit. Underneath that he has on what looks to be a silk shirt. The shirt is a mistake – it's showing up all his sleepy sweat. A little table beside the chair holds a bottle of London gin and siphon of tonic water. Besides them; a knife; half a lemon; a glass with a lemon slice wedged at the bottom.
The man wakes and rubs his eyes. He moves his head to one side and rubs his neck.
'What? Who the hell are you?'
I hold up my flask and say, 'Drinky water?'
Waking properly now, he turns in his seat to get a better look at me. I get a better look at him too. His right hand is patting against his thigh like an errant jazz drummer on cocaine. He spends a moment or two stretching his limbs. He must have been asleep for a fair while. Once the stretching is over he takes a pair of silver rimmed spectacles out of his jacket and puts them on. His face is inexpressive - I wouldn't want to play him at cards. I wouldn't want to play him at anything. I'd like to smack him over the head and throw him in the Seine to see how he likes it. Then again, he might not be Marty.
'You are English?' he asks in English with a Birmingham accent.
'I am indeed; Nickson's the name – Harry Nickson. You are the first person I've encountered who can actually speak my language since I arrived in the South.'
I proffer my hand which he shakes. He has a weakened grip which I have the impression had once been strong.
'That, sir, is because you are in France. In France we speak French. I lived in Birmingham, in England, for two years and nobody there spoke to me in French. I had to learn English. The name of the country offers a good clue as to the language the people will speak.'
'Quite so, but if one spent all one's time learning the languages of every country one might visit one might never leave school.'
He humphs and climbs slowly out of the deckchair. His arms shake and his legs look wobbly. If that were me I'd lay off the gin. Once up he walks off towards the house. Seeing that I have remained near the chair he turns and calls out, 'Come then.'
We walk all the way around the house to the kitchen door. Along the way he pauses to inspect things, a bit of the wall; a flower; the drain pipes. I doubt these things provide the slightest interest – he's having difficulty walking and doesn't want to own up to it.
'Yours, sir?' He indicates my bicycle with a nod in its general direction.
'Yes, rode down from Paris on that blighter. If it wasn't for the channel I'd have ridden from London.'
He turns toward me. From behind a slight film his eyes seem to shine. 'I adore cycling,' he says. 'I can't do it myself these days. Each summer I travel down to the mountains and spend the day waiting for The Tour to go by.'
'I first saw it myself in 1912,' I say. 'The spectacle inspired me to take it up. My parents had taken us to the Alps for some summer hiking. Seeing a cluster of people gathered at a roadside halfway up a mountain my brother and I ran over to find out what was happening. I think I was expecting to see a dead body. What we did see was Eugène Christophe; we didn't know who he was, so an old fellow filled us in. I stood and gawped at him open-mouthed. The road was not much more than a rubble track and deadly steep. Here was this man, on a bicycle, covered in dirt with sweat streaks down his face, mastering the mountain. What really did for me were the stragglers. The ones who just keep going. They looked as if they had stolen their bikes to escape the mortuary. In that battle they fought against themselves I saw something - it was something I knew I had to do for myself. I got my first bike within a week of returning home. It's not a sport we follow too much in my homeland, not like you French.'
'French! I am Belgian!'
I know you are, you lying little blighter, but you registered here as a Frenchman.
'So you must have been proud to see De Waele go on to win last year's tour,' I say.
'I was indeed. I always feel the years when a Belgian wins are the special years. Have you ever been to Belgium?'
'Yes, but not under the best of conditions.'
'I see, of course. For that I thank you. Look, why don't you rest here for a while? If you have nowhere else to be I could use some company. I could even have the spare room laid out. My maid will be here soon and she'll conjure us up some grub.'
He leads me inside to the kitchen where he produces a few dusty bottles of beer from a cupboard. After twenty minutes of talking about the Tour de France I find myself growing to like the fake Dubois.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We sit at the kitchen table drinking beer and talking. Outside, the sun turns nasty and starts burning up anything in sight. The shutters are part closed and the light in here is dappled and gentle. I feel at ease listening to Dubois and sipping his beer. If he isn't Marty I might invite him up to Paris. If he isn't Marty, then I'm a Dutchman.
At one point Dubois gets up and leads me on a tour of the house. There's not a lot to it. Downstairs next to the kitchen there's a drawing room – every home should have one. This one is stiff and formal like a dead general. Dubois points to a large carpet hanging on the wall and says it's from Flanders and expensive. I guess he stuck it on the wall to stop people wiping their feet on it. Two wide cream-coloured couches sit facing each other like overweight duellists. Seconding the couch on the left is an armchair which has been padded to the point of near bursting. The other couch has chosen a tall vase to side with it. One wall has a huge painting of an exceedingly ugly child standing next to an even uglier dog. It may have been painted three hundred years ago, or the kid's parents got him up in that garb to draw attention away from his bulbous eyes and minuscule forehead. Dubois misinterprets my silence for awe and whispers, 'This is my Versailles room.'
The rest of the tour goes by in a haze as I'm haunted by an image of the ugly dog wearing the child's face. It keeps calling me Mama. I need a drink – I tell Dubois this but I don't tell him why. We return to the kitchen.
After an hour of talking about any-and-everything the maid arrives. She enters the kitchen with the casual air of a woman entering her own domain. Seeing me she stiffens and assumes a formal posture. She managed to achieve this with a few gestures which demonstrate that she has been in service a long time. Service or not, she is the
lady of the house. Her entrance was not that of a servant, even a familiar, long-standing servant. That was the entrance of a wife. She didn't head towards the larder or the sink she made straight for Dubois. Her whole body moved as one who is about to bend and kiss her husband on the head.
'Fix us some food, Nathalie. I warn you though; monsieur Nickson here says he eats nothing from animals. He is like some visiting Eastern guru.'
Dubois grins at me as Nathalie rolls her eyes to the ceiling. He said all this in French so he thinks I haven't understood him.
'I have asked her to fix us some grub,' he says. Then he goes to the cupboard where the beer is kept. 'I have ice delivered – it allows me to chill some wine.'
The wine is in a silver bucket, the ice almost melted. The bottle is covered in dew so it should be nice and cold. Nathalie walks over to a larder and returns with a basket of vegetables. She rolls up her sleeves and begins chopping and scraping as Dubois and I sip the cool white wine. I feel a tiny bit guilty watching her work like that – hasn't Dubois got some other room we can drink in?
We remain at the table. Before her arrival we'd been lost in talk and now Nathalie's presence has made us self-conscious. Perhaps he doesn't like talking English in front of her. With nothing else to do I gaze around the kitchen. The room is divided into two separate areas. One section is the working kitchen. The part we are in is the eating area. If you know the person living here isn't actually a farmer then what you see is what you might expect to find. There are some Japanese prints on the wall. The table has formal high-backed chairs as seats. Place mats are a delicate shade of turquoise. Nothing objectionable, nothing to remember, no sense of personality or ownership – the bland uniformity of bourgeoisie taste, or a man trying to hide is identity.