Michel And Axe Bury The Hatchet (The French Bastard Book 2)

by Avan Judd Stallard

  “I should save mine for later,” said Ken and smiled.

  “If you like,” she said.

  From the corner of her eye Axe saw Michel wink at her. He was smiling from ear to ear, and Axe did not think for a moment that it because he was so joyed by his breakfast.

  33

  “What is he doing?” said Axe.

  “No idea,” said Michel.

  Ken rummaged through the detritus of Axe’s former home, first the piles of usable materials that Michel and Axe had formed, then amid the rubble itself. He seemed to be looking for something particular.

  “He’s not shy of opinions,” said Axe.

  “No. But most of it is bluster. He’s young.”

  “How young?”

  “I don’t know. He says twenty-five. I imagine that’s what he told the British officers who recruited him. I don’t believe it.”

  “He’s so thin. He looks like a boy.”

  “He is a boy. A very smart one, no doubt, but a boy. He must be scared.”

  “He doesn’t seem scared.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “What are we going to do with him, Michel? More to the point, what are you going to do? You have your voice, much of your strength … you are a soldier. You will want to go back to your army now.”

  Axe spoke matter-of-factly, but the nervousness of her flickering gaze betrayed her emotion.

  “Let’s give it a little time,” said Michel. “A day or two and we’ll see with Ken. As for me, I’m not going anywhere while you have this business with Elmo hanging over your head. Besides, how would you explain the disappearance of your fiancée?”

  “That he did not love me enough to stay,” said Axe, too quickly.

  “Well … that …”

  Axe put her hand on Michel’s forearm and forced a wan smile. “Do not worry, not about me. When it is time, we will find the right lie, and it will be fine. I’m becoming good with lies.”

  “I know what you mean. War seems to have a way of getting people to do things they never thought they’d do. And think things. Even feel things. Has a hand in everything.”

  Axe looked at Michel curiously. It was not the sort of thing she expected a soldier to say. She wondered what lies he told. Maybe just the same lies everyone told themselves. Perhaps, if he stayed long enough, she would ask, and he would tell her.

  Ken had grown animated, circling a spot as he pulled and pried and levered.

  “He has found something. But I do fear the boy is mad,” said Michel, and chuckled.

  “Then he should fit right in,” said Axe.

  “I can tell him to stop, if you want me to. If you don’t want him hunting through the rubble.”

  “No. But thank you. I have the letter, and that’s the only thing that mattered. The rest is just rubbish and broken memories. I’ve got the unbroken ones up here,” said Axe, tapping her forehead. “He can have the rest. Good luck finding anything useful.”

  They left Ken to his own devices. Something about the guilelessness of the boy—his blunt, sometimes brutal and utterly honest approach to conversation—was completely disarming. It had been mere hours, and already they trusted he would not betray them.

  Morning became afternoon. Michel helped Axe with the fence in the eastern paddock, layering rock to reform a flattened fence, then hoed out blackberry bushes and thorn that had taken root, preparing the way for the sheep that would not be returning anytime soon. It was a fantasy, like the countless fantasies indulged by those affected by the war. Who was Michel to deny Axe hers? Reality would intrude soon enough.

  When they took a break to drink water, Michel decided it was time he explain why he was not in the French Army. He told Axe that his estranged father was an important French politician and would never let him fight as a common soldier, so he went to the British Army and gave a false name.

  “What name?” said Axe.

  “Michel Blanc.”

  She nodded. “And your real name is Michel Poincaré?”

  It had been so many weeks without his being able to speak that Michel had forgotten most of the questions he wanted to ask, such as, when he came to, how Axe, Godewyn and Esmee had known to call him Michel.

  “How did you—”

  “Your knife. The one in the dead German. It had your name on it,” said Axe. “I don’t suppose you would make a very good assassin, leaving your name sticking out of the dead.”

  “So …” said Michel, and he paused, waiting to see what else Axe had figured out.

  “So I know you are Michel Poincaré and your father is a politician. That is all. Oh, and that there is a French politician named Raymond Poincaré. But is he an important politician?”

  Axe was playing.

  “You might say that,” said Michel. “Last I checked, he was still the President of France.”

  “Oh. Any relation?”

  “So you know,” said Michel. He looked down. “But it’s complicated. I’m a bastard, the child of his mistress. He’s my real father, but I’m not a real son to him. Just an inconvenience.”

  Axe rested her hand on Michel’s forearm and met his gaze. “All I know is that a person ought to be whoever they want, wherever they want and for whatever the reasons are that matter to them. If that means you are Michel Blanc, and sometimes Sven Valentijn when you need to be—that is all I know, Michel.”

  He stared at Axe intensely, in a way that made her feel both light and heavy. She let her hand drop from his arm, but as she did he caught her fingers, stepped closer and reached out and took her other hand.

  “Axe, I don’t think I’ve ever—”

  “Michel,” she said quickly, cutting him off, though with a gentleness in her voice. She shook her head, and neither of them needed words to understand. “I’m sorry.”

  “Ahh … no, no, don’t be. Nothing to be sorry about. Ok. Ok.”

  Michel dropped Axe’s hands.

  “I … I appreciate everything you’ve done for me is really all I wanted to say. So, thank you. Well, should we get back? Check on Ken? Yes, I think so.”

  Michel bent down and picked up the hoe and water bucket. Axe followed his quick, awkwardly purposeful movements with her eyes. There was no conscious thought in her mind as she watched him, only tingling in her body and a swelling feeling, as if there was a ghost within her shell probing for cracks.

  She stepped forward slowly and surely. Michel stopped and looked at Axe with boyish confusion.

  She closed to within a foot and reached out. Her hand wrapped around the back of Michel’s head. She pulled him down and as she did she leant in and closed her eyes. She met his lips and kissed him sweetly. She leaned back and opened her eyes and saw that his own were still closed. She took a deep breath.

  “In another world, Michel. But we only have this one,” she said.

  Axe turned and walked away. She suddenly felt in possession of her own body, which felt weak, like she might buckle in multiple places.

  Axe kept walking, unsure of the meaning of what she had done.

  34

  At first it was giddiness, then confused desire, uncertainty and finally anger as he came to an understanding. The kiss had not been a real kiss. Not a kiss of passion or promise. It had been a kiss of pity.

  It had to be, or she would not have stopped and walked away. Which meant she did not want him.

  Worse, perhaps. She felt sorry for him.

  He had deluded himself into thinking that the passion that gripped him in spite of all he knew about the bitch named Florence had grabbed hold of Axe. He had been wrong. No doubt that misjudgment was the work of Florence, too.

  She—Florence—had picked him up and shaken him stupid, then thrown him down and kicked him in the teeth, because she lied to him and made him lie to himself. Now it was all so very clear, and he would not let it happen again. He should go back to where he belonged. He was kidding himself pretending to be Sven, her fiancée, when that man was real, a man she actually loved, and he
was pretend.

  But Florence would not let him. Michel knew what she was doing—the games Florence played—and it made no difference. It was infuriating, but he had to stay until he knew Axe would be safe.

  The following day, Michel got up to the light of predawn and the smell of food. Real food. He walked outside and saw Monster sitting, staring at Ken, who was bent over the outdoor stove. Michel heard sizzling and smelled meat. His mouth wetted with hunger.

  “You are awake! Ken has been awake for a long time.”

  Ken examined Michel’s face and smiled. He waited for Michel to speak.

  “That’s … meat. Real meat.”

  “Yes. Rabbit.”

  “What? You got a rabbit?”

  Michel stood over the pan filled with pieces of rabbit, fried and now braising in its own juices with unripe tomato and carrots and old onion.

  “Yes. You do not like rabbit?”

  “Of course I like rabbit. I fucking love rabbit.”

  “A bad word. You do not say this to Ken.”

  “What?”

  “The bad word. So why has Michel not eaten this rabbit before?”

  “I tried. The gun didn’t shoot straight. Wait, did you shoot it?”

  “Yes. I shot the rabbit, it is obvious,” said Ken.

  “I didn’t hear the gun. You shouldn’t have taken the gun.”

  “I did not use a gun. I use my bow to shoot.” Ken pointed back at the barn.

  Michel looked. Against the barn wall he saw a piece of hardwood that Ken had whittled. It was as tall as a tall man and perfectly straight, the string loosened from its notch. Half a dozen arrows were lined up next to it.

  “What the hell … where did you get that?” said Michel.

  “I made it.”

  “You made it? How?”

  “From things I found. It is easy if you are smart like me.”

  Michel realized that, yesterday, Ken had been digging through the rubble of Axe’s house in search of materials. He had been building a bow and a handful of arrows.

  “You shot a rabbit with it?”

  “Yes. I am a master of kyudo. For Ken it is easy.”

  “Kyudo … what is that?”

  “It is a Japanese martial art. Kyudo is the way of the bow. My father teaches me, even though he does not like me and does not teach me. I watched him and that way I learned everything.”

  “So while you weren’t learning a dozen languages you were practicing this martial art, which you taught yourself. Like everything else. A martial art with bows and arrows?”

  “Yes. This is a surprise for Michel. Why?”

  Michel looked at Ken and shook his head. “Didn’t you ever play? Like a normal child. Play games?”

  “Play is for stupid children. I learn, not play. That is why now I have rabbit and stand in Belgium talking German with the French man called Michel. So who is smart and who is stupid?”

  “I guess you’ve got a point, Ken. You’re one smart kid.”

  Ken’s posture straightened and he crossed his arms.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just a thing we say. Of course you’re not a kid. I don’t know any kid who could have made his own bow and shot a rabbit with it.”

  “No?”

  Michel laughed. “No, Ken. None. Not in France or Belgium, not in a million years.”

  “Ok. The food is ready for one hour. Ken must practice before the food is eaten. Better for the body and spirit.”

  “Practice what? Shooting your bow?”

  “No. Don’t be stupid. Kyudo is for practicing in the afternoon. Morning is for practicing tai chi.”

  “Tai chi. Naturally. Makes perfect sense.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what the fuck is tai chi?”

  “Why again you use this word?”

  “Huh? Oh, it’s not … it’s just a habit. A bad habit, maybe. What is tai chi?”

  “I will show you. But only if you seek to learn.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You can learn if you have strong desire, unless you are stupid. Are you stupid, Michel?”

  Michel laughed. “Well, that’s a matter of opinion, I dare say.”

  “We will see. I will teach you. If you are stupid, you will not learn. If you are not stupid, you will learn.”

  “Right. No pressure, then.”

  “No. Tai chi is the opposite of pressure. My Chinese grand-father teaches me.”

  “But what is it?”

  “Tai chi is the art of movement. Very good for the body. For meditation. For mind and spirit. Also very good for not receiving a fighter’s punch or kick in the head,” said Ken, and cracked up in laughter.

  “It’s for fighting? Now we’re talking.”

  “No. Not fighting. Defense. Tai chi is not to hit or kick, it is to meet the hit or kick of another. To use a man’s own hit or kick against that man, to use his force against his self,” said Ken, and Michel thought of the time, still fresh in his mind from just a few months earlier, when he had been soundly and undeniably beaten in a fight by an old, limping, harmless-looking man. A man who used Michel’s own formidable power against him.

  “Teach me. I want to know,” said Michel.

  “Good. Maybe you will learn—if Michel is not too stupid. Ken is superlative teacher. I think Michel will learn. Then we will eat rabbit.”

  35

  From the door of the barn, Axe watched the two men who had stumbled into her life practice … slow dancing? No, not dancing. Whatever it was, Axe had never seen it before.

  Only as she listened to Ken explain things to Michel did Axe begin to understand that Ken was teaching him a Chinese martial art. She had heard of martial arts, special ways of fighting that were practiced in the Far East, but she had not imagined them to be so strange and slow. Or beautiful. The forms were majestic—the ones practiced by Ken, at least. Michel’s were more brutish.

  “Lower at the knees,” said Ken.

  Michel dropped his stance, while keeping his hands high, his palms curved, as he imagined himself cutting air with his movements.

  “Smooth, soft, like water in the stream. When hardness resists force, something breaks, nobody knows what. When softness resists force, softness uses, takes. If you are softness and you meet force, you possess the other’s force.”

  Ken’s skinniness now seemed something different. It was litheness and grace. His youth was suppleness. His arrogance was confidence. Axe watched with wonderment.

  Ken moved between positions with perfect fluidity and total control and assuredness. Michel followed his actions, at times stumbling or repeating a movement to get it right. Oftentimes he moved too fast or too slow and he did not look graceful, yet nor so awkward as he should have. He was fully embracing Ken’s instructions and example.

  “The most important lesson for life is a man cannot avoid getting hit. The man who tries to never get hit, gets hit worst. Accept the fist. Embrace the fist. You understand? This is the metaphor for life.”

  “I think so,” said Michel. “You’ve got to take your licks. Roll with the punches.”

  “This is also fact for tai chi. Force comes and will keep coming. You must meet it and make it your force. Do not let the force break you.”

  Ken watched Michel as he completed the last movement of a sequence.

  “Good. Remember to breathe. If you forget to breathe, energy does not flow. And make your knee relax. Knee. Knee.”

  “This is relaxed,” said Michel, clearly straining with movements that Ken made look so basic and easy.

  “Energy travels inside the body in spiral. So the body must travel in spiral, from foot through knee to waist, chest, neck, head, arms, hands. Tai chi is not like a stupid soldier, up, down, up, down, straight, heavy. Tai chi is … flow. Are you flow, Michel, or are you a stupid soldier?” said Ken in a tone of disapproval.

  “I’m … I’m fucking well trying, Ken!”

  “Tai chi is not swearing,” said Ken. He stopped his own movement and
folded his arms. “And tai chi is never anger at superlative teacher of bad student.”

  Michel breathed in deeply, then sighed. “Yes. I know. I’m sorry. I’m just not very good. I won’t swear again. Not while I’m practicing. You are a good teacher. Show me more, please.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are a good teacher.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, Ken.”

  “Ok.”

  Ken continued. When he came out of his final pose he said, “Ok. This morning you learn seven poses. This afternoon, after Ken practices his kyudo, I teach you more.”

  “How many more are there?” said Michel.

  “Only two hundred ninety-six,” said Ken.

  “Oh. Is that all …”

  “Ok. We should eat rabbit now. Axe has watched for a long time, waiting for rabbit,” said Ken. He turned and smiled at Axe, who only now came from the darkness of the barn.

  “How long have you been there?” said Michel.

  “Not long,” said Axe, and winked at Ken.

  “Michel is my student. I teach him tai chi. He is not a good student, not a bad student. In-between student. Hopefully he gets better,” said Ken.

  “Yes, let’s hope,” said Axe, and smiled at Michel.

  He did not return the smile. He looked sheepish, and that surprised Axe.

  “We should eat rabbit now,” said Ken.

  36

  Michel and Axe were quiet as they ate. Ken was not. He asked Axe if the farm was hers, and she explained that she had returned from Rotterdam to run the farm after her parents were killed by a bomb. Ken seemed more interested in her life in Rotterdam than in the loss of her parents or her decision to return. He wanted to know how she got to Rotterdam, why she went, what she did there.

  Axe had been sent there at her father’s urging, aged twenty, when the war began. She immediately loved the city: the vibrancy, the diversity, the food and especially the music. She found work as a typist at Rotterdam University, where she met Sven, a young and promising economist. She explained that he was her fiancée.

  “Where is Sven?” said Ken.

  “Rotterdam.”

  “He does not come?”