Dragons in the Forest

by Peter Yeldham

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Well, I mean it’s a prison sentence either way. And for a woman like Mademoiselle that would be terrible. I doubt if they separate killers from thieves, or street prostitutes and lesbians from other women …”

  “Alex, will you shut up!” The count’s usual aplomb deserted him.

  “I will, Monsieur. Can I just say something else?”

  “You’ve already said too much.”

  “This wouldn’t occur to the chief accountant, but I’m sure it will to you. She only took enough for them to live on. And at times it must have been an awful temptation, when we had such huge sums of cash here, before it was put on deposit …”

  “Alex, I warned you …” the Count said ominously.

  “That’s all I wanted to say. I felt I could mention it, because it would be quite obvious to you. She was utterly desperate, so she took these small amounts. If she’d been a real thief, she’d have taken so much more.”

  ALEX’S DIARY: DECEMBER 14th, 1944

  I suppose the Count thought over what I said, but I feel as if I’m in trouble for saying it. Laroche has been tight-lipped and livid all day. There’s no sign of de Champeaux, and not a word from him since I tried to defend her, and ended up with him staring at me. No, not staring, just glaring and not saying anything, until at last he spoke two words. He said, “get out”.

  So I got out, and soon I might be out of the penthouse as well as out of this job. If that happens I only have my own big mouth to blame. But I still think what I said is true. Or what I tried to say. She would never have taken a solitary yen for herself. It was a vain attempt to hang on to a hopeless marriage, to that vain and selfish bastard — and I would really love to flatten his nose. It’s the first time I’ve ever wanted to fight someone. I’d like to hit him until he went down in a heap.

  But I expect if I tried, he’d turn out to be a champion boxer as well.

  18

  MERRY CHRISTMAS

  The farmer had a tiny house near Karuizawa, and every inch of ground he owned was cultivated and fertilised in the spring and autumn, when the new crops went in. His land comprised three terraced fields; the lowest of them held water draining off the hillside and was an abundant rice paddy.

  Alex and Mathilde rode there early on Sunday to buy food, before he caught the train back to Tokyo. They had managed to persuade their mother not to accompany them, because she always swore she could smell the human fertiliser, even months after it had been dug into the soil. She usually conveyed this by sniffing loudly and commenting the vegetables should be cheaper as she had to scour and wash them so many times to expunge the smell of shit. Knowing she would say this loudly, they felt it was much easier to deal with the farmer without her.

  They parked their bikes at the gate, and made their way to the house along a narrow path. On either side of it the winter crops, cabbages, carrots, onions, potatoes and white turnips grew in profusion. On the terrace below were trees heavily laden with mandarin oranges.

  The farmer came out of his house to meet them. He was a small, gnarled man in his late 50s, and for years had been part-time caretaker of their house before each summer vacation, and one of his daughters had cleaned for them. Now both the daughters worked in munitions factories, while the farmer did a lively business selling food to those in the Karuizawa community who did not have ration coupons.

  Which, the Germans apart, meant almost all the other residents now living there.

  “Nogi-san,” Alex said, after the exchange of greetings, “we need vegetables, eggs, a bag of rice, and we’d like to order a plucked chicken to be collected next week for Christmas.”

  “Very difficult, Alex-san,” the farmer replied, which was a surprise because he was usually keen to do business.

  “Why is it difficult?” Mathilde asked, equally puzzled,

  “How do you pay me?”

  “Cash, as usual.”

  Alex took out his wallet. It was filled with notes, after being paid his new salary increase. Whether there would be another such payment he didn’t know. The situation at the bank remained unresolved, but he did not want to discuss it with his family, or let it spoil Christmas. Whatever was needed could be spent buying food to last until he could join his mother and sister for the festive holiday next week. But Tokuichi Nogi showed no enthusiasm at the sight of the money. He sighed and shook his head.

  “What’s the matter?” Alex was perplexed. By now the old farmer would be smiling, chatting to them, busily selecting prime vegetables and often tempting them to buy more than they intended.

  “Cash no good, Alex-san. Not any more.”

  “What do you mean, no good? It was good the last time we were here to buy from you.”

  “Not now. People don’t want it. They want food, clothes, coal. Not cash. Cash is just little pieces of paper that don’t keep you warm, or stop you being hungry.”

  “But we all need it, to live.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it buys things …”

  “What things? If I give tangerines to Hata-san the butcher, he gives me meat in exchange. Or rice to Tanaka-san, he gives me charcoal. Cash don’t buy meat or charcoal any more — tangerines and rice buy them. So it’s stupid to sell my produce for money, if I can trade it for the things I ready need”.

  Alex stared at him in dismay. It made ominous sense. In Tokyo he could use his salary to enjoy life and buy meals or drinks with his friends. But here, where only necessities mattered, it appeared as if the currency in his wallet was about to become worthless.

  “Then you won’t sell us vegetables or eggs? Or rice? Not even the chicken for Christmas day? Not at any price?”

  The farmer shrugged. “One yen, five yen, what’s the difference? Just the same size piece of paper, that don’t even burn long enough to light the fire.”

  “But we need food,” Mathilde said, “how do we live if we can’t buy it?” She looked shocked and helpless, unable to believe it. They had been purchasing their food from him since they had been forced to move here, and she had known him from her childhood. If asked, she would have replied that she considered him a friend. He avoided her gaze, as though aware of her thoughts and ashamed.

  “Nogi-san,” she asked, “is there anyone who will sell us food?”

  “Not for paper money. Nobody believe in paper money now.”

  “Then what can we trade for food?”

  The farmer remained silent for a moment. He shuffled his feet, gazed down at them, then reluctantly looked at Mathilde.

  “Clothes,” he said. “If you give me the coat you wear, Mathildesan, I give you vegetables and meat to last until New Year.”

  “Bugger that,” Alex protested to her in French. “Tell him to get stuffed. Not your new coat, Tilly.”

  “What else is going to buy us anything to eat?”

  She took off the thick, fleecy-lined coat and handed it to the farmer.

  Alex dozed in the train, and woke to see moonlit reflections on the window as they descended through a pine forest, followed by darkness as they went into a tunnel. The train was being pulled by an electric engine, a necessity because of the steep incline. When they reached Yokokawa, a steam engine would take over, the blackout would come into force, and blinds would be drawn in all the carriages.

  It had been disturbing at Nogi’s farm. Mathilde had felt so cold after giving up her coat that she had ridden straight home, while Alex waited to collect the vegetables and eggs. The farmer had been ill-at-ease, bringing him a basket of eggs, a bag of rice and more vegetables than he expected, or could carry. They agreed it would be best if he made two trips, and Nogi-san had said next week he would prepare his very best prime chicken, and he would also have more fruit and vegetables for them. He was sorry about the barter, but who knew what the future held, and he was only doing what others did now. Alex had tried to ease his embarrassment by saying he understood. These were difficult times. He rode home heavily laden, and when he return
ed for the remainder of the food half an hour later the farmer’s wife was already wearing Mathilde’s coat. It seemed like a fitting end to a bloody awful week for, as yet, he still did not know what action the Count had taken about Cecile. Or about his own situation after he had tried to defend her.

  It was after 10 o’clock when he let himself in the back door of the bank, fully expecting that Frankenstein would emerge from his quarters to check on his arrival. It was one of his irritating habits, to appear, grunt, and depart again, as if noting the time of Alex’s arrival home and curious to find out if he had brought anyone with him. But there was no sign of the caretaker. Instead he saw a light burning in the corridor that led to the Count’s office, and went tentatively in that direction. The door was wide open, and the Count was at his desk. He had clearly heard the door, for he looked up without surprise.

  “Alex.”

  He appeared like a different man, wearing casual clothes, a pullover and a plaid shirt replacing his usual formal attire.

  “Monsieur, I didn’t expect you here at this hour.”

  “I had a meeting earlier tonight. I imagined you might take the late train down, so I waited. I’ve caught up on some work, and now seems a good time for a drink. Beer, or something stronger?”

  “Perhaps a scotch,” Alex said. The Count poured two large malt whiskies, gave him one and indicated for him to sit. He resumed his own chair behind the desk.

  “I saw Cecile tonight. She came here. I’ve been trying to make up my mind what to do, as I explained to her. I told her all my instincts led to the belief you can’t steal money and expect to be forgiven. Not if you work in a trusted position in a bank.”

  Alex felt glad he’d asked for the whisky. He gazed at the amber liquid in the crystal glass, and took a sip. It didn’t make him feel better.

  “Then I told her your views on the matter, and how you might’ve talked yourself out of a job as well. Not that it’s relevant just now, but she said to thank you.”

  Alex nodded, and took another nervous sip. He wished he had asked for a beer. In a moment this was going to be finished, and he’d be left to fidget with an empty glass.

  “I’d actually come to a decision on your comments late on Friday, but thought it might do you some good to spend the weekend concerned — sweating about it, shall we say?”

  Thanks a lot, Alex thought. I had a great time. He took a large gulp of his whisky and finished it.

  “I’ll replenish that, shall I?” The Count rose and refilled the glass. While doing this he said, “I also decided Cecile could wait and worry herself sick about it. I felt some days of anxiety might make more impact on her when we finally talked.”

  “Sir …” Alex tried to be patient, but this was protracted beyond reason. “Could you just tell me if … I mean, is she going to prison or not?”

  “There’s your drink,” the Count said. “And as I’ve waited two hours just for you, young man, you might at least give me the courtesy of five minutes. I thought it better if we discussed this tonight, instead of the morning in business hours.”

  “Yes, Monsieur, I’m sorry.”

  “I doubt if you are. But since you’ll fidget nervously with the next drink, I’d better give you an answer.”

  He went back to his seat, picked up his own glass and took a long and deliberate sip, then looked at Alex. “No,” he said, at last “she’s not going to prison.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Never mind God. You can thank me. I’m not having her charged, but neither will I have her back here. So she’s out of a job, and I daresay that means Clermont will leave her. I told her it’s the best thing that could happen, because he will certainly leave her in the end, but by that time she’ll be older, less attractive, and she may not be able to find anyone else.”

  Ouch, Alex thought, you really gave her a bruising.

  “I daresay you think that was harsh and unsympathetic. I assure you, Alex, I’m very sympathetic. She’s been my secretary for 10 years, the best one I ever had. She was efficient, pleasant, a decent human being with a reprehensible husband.”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “I’m flattered to hear you agree with me.” The Count enjoyed his moment of barbed sarcasm, and rose to pour himself a second drink. “How did you know about Clermont?” he asked casually. “I thought your father might have known them socially, but as a couple they rarely mixed in local circles. Was it your father?”

  “No, Monsieur.”

  “Cecile thought it might have been a girl who used to work here. What was her name again?”

  “Kimiko.”

  “Ah, yes. The rather exotic femme fatale who seemed to arouse the passions of some of our executives. Was it her?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. But it wasn’t a case of idle gossip. She cared for Mademoiselle — for Cecile. She told me, but no-one else.”

  “So you were close?”

  “Yes.” The Count studied him quizzically, but before he could ask the question, Alex answered it. “No, we didn’t, if you’re wondering. I mean, we wanted to … I even planned it with her. Unfortunately our plans coincided with the first night you asked me to check a transfer to an account in Zurich.”

  “Really? So you were busily engaged here, when you might’ve been — let’s say, more intimately engaged with Kimiko?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s what we’d have to call devotion to duty.”

  Alex was forced to smile. “I don’t think I had a choice. She was upset about it the next day, asking why I didn’t arrive. But it was impossible for me to explain.”

  “I see.” The Count was impressed by this apparent self-sacrifice. “I’m sorry, Alex. I had no idea I was ruining your private life. Did she forgive you?”

  “No.”

  “A pity.”

  “It’s the past.” He hesitated. Monsieur, may I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’ll happen to Cecile, if she can’t get another job?”

  De Champeaux frowned. “I’m afraid that’s not my problem. Or yours. My first meeting tomorrow will be with Laroche, to advise him there will be no prosecution. He’s not going to be pleased. Not pleased at all.”

  “Do you mean he might be a threat?”

  “I hope he wouldn’t be stupid enough to break banking trust rules. He’d never get another post, not in this country or in France. On the other hand, one should always consider worst-case possibilities. So what are they?”

  Alex simply watched as the Count rose and started to pace the room, realising he was meant to listen, not supply an answer.

  “He’s unpredictable, but in this instance fortunately uninformed. He knows about the Swiss transactions, of course. With his position here it could hardly be otherwise. But he doesn’t know details. Not names, account numbers, or the banks in Zurich and Geneva. He has no real information of them at all. If he tried to suggest the embassy was involved, they’d deny using the diplomatic bag. So whatever he chose to say would be no more than vague and unsubstantiated hearsay, which we could deny. Convincingly, I imagine.” He paused, and this time he clearly required an answer. “Couldn’t we?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. We could — and would.”

  “Thank you, Alex.”

  He slept fitfully, with confused dreams. He was in a courtroom, taking the oath to swear he was the owner of account number 7305 at the Banque Commerciale de Zurich, and the entire contents were to be distributed to Mademoiselle Cecile Patou, on the condition that she divorced Jacques Clermont without giving him even a single Swiss franc. Moments later, he seemed to be on the tennis court, hitting wonderful angled winners, while Clermont lost his temper, queried line calls, smashed a racquet, and was roundly booed by the large crowd. This one was a splendid dream. Unfortunately, just when he was thoroughly enjoying this sequence of events, a girl in a fur coat who was wildly cheering for Clermont turned around, and he saw it was Kimiko.

  Before he could talk to her, h
e woke to the wail of an air raid siren. He went sleepily to the window to raise the blind. The city was dark, the moon almost full, and he could see the bombers, silver and oddly graceful against the night sky. They were well to the south, heading for the docks, and Alex contemplated the cold trench and the prospect of scrambling into his clothes to go down to shelter with the Frankenstein family, then crawled back into bed instead. He was sound asleep within moments.

  Finally, towards morning he had another dream. He and the Count de Champeaux were at Nogi-san’s farm, where they carried a heavy deposit box of money to his verandah. After a long argument, the farmer at last reluctantly agreed to accept the box containing two million yen, in fair exchange for one cabbage.

  Alex woke and saw a pewter-coloured sky. Smoke was rising from the direction of the harbour. It was still early, and the warm bed with its futon tempted him to remain there. But instead he headed resolutely for the shower, choosing not to doze and risk any further fantasies.

  ALEX’S DIARY: DECEMBER 22nd, 1944

  Since Sunday night there has been a raid most days and every single night. The bombing has been relentless. It accounts for the sombre mood; no Christmas spirit in evidence anywhere in this city. Certainly none at the French bank. Laroche was called to an interview with the Count on Monday, and since then has hardly spoken a word to me, which makes our working together difficult. As for lunches in the dining room — it’s like eating in a tomb.

  No yuletide joy in the streets or shops either. Normally it is a time of high excitement; the Emperor’s birthday is also celebrated on December 25th, and there is great festivity with a national holiday lasting until after New Year. This year is different. People are tired and fed up. But I can hardly wait for the break, to get away from here. Tomorrow the bank closes until early January. Two beautiful weeks in the mountains. I’ll be on the late train, arriving around midnight, and I’ve never looked forward to Christmas as much since I was a kid and believed in Santa Claus. I’ve bought presents for Mama and Odette, and went to find a new coat for my sister. In the Mitsukoshi department store they said I didn’t have enough coupons, so I had to buy extra on the black market, and the coupons cost more than the garment.