He focused on the happy scenes below. The Swiss, bless them, were trying to find normality. Lausanne had everything from musical recitals to theatrical presentations, put on by the soldiers to keep them engaged, help them feel uplifted and reconnect them to something more akin to civilian life. Even he had been drawn into helping out with concerts, like the one this evening. Many a time during his incarceration he had been called upon to use his baritone to keep spirits up; now he had been asked to use it to entertain internees and Swiss concertgoers alike. He felt helplessly chuffed to see his photograph in the concert programs.
There was a knock at the door. It was Dr Müller.
‘Ah, good afternoon, Jacques. How are you feeling?’
He grinned. ‘Better than I have in a long time,’ he admitted.
‘Truly?’ The doctor beamed his pleasure. ‘That’s wonderful to hear.’ He scanned the notes at the end of Jerome’s bed, comparing them to the file he was carrying. ‘So, you’ve had your drops?’
Jerome nodded. ‘Just a few minutes ago.’
‘Good, good. You have excellent colour too,’ the doctor observed. ‘That’s very heartening. I heard you sing last week, Jacques. I do enjoy light opera.’
He nodded. ‘I sang that for my wife. She loves opera.’ He hoped his wording might encourage the doctor to do more to help him reach her.
‘That is why you put so much emotion into it. I understand your impatience, Jacques —’
‘Jerome,’ he corrected.
The doctor nodded, slightly awkwardly. ‘We are making all the right enquiries. Now,’ he said, keen to move away from that troublesome topic, ‘are you receiving all your rations?’ He was looking in Jerome’s ears as he asked this.
‘Most generously. I receive chocolate, tobacco, real coffee, real milk.’
The doctor chuckled. ‘Say aah,’ he encouraged, feeling around the glands of Jerome’s throat. Jerome obliged. ‘Good. Very good. I see Nurse Agatha has changed that dressing on your eye. How is it feeling? No pain?’
Jerome nodded. ‘None. To all intents dead and blind. No complaints but she did say she might try to find a proper patch for me to wear.’
‘Yes, indeed. I can organise that for you. May I listen to your chest, please?’
Jerome enjoyed the Swiss. Now that he was moving among them daily, he’d begun to see them for the lonely yet generous people they were. They had a singsong way of speaking that was peppered with smiles. Despite this he sensed an unease – a sort of melancholy, as if collectively they were always ready for bad news. Perhaps that came from being neutral, surrounded by belligerents, or maybe from centuries of making a living off the mountains, always wondering what was happening over in the next valley. Such a different landscape to his own birthplace. He began undoing his shirt. ‘Do you know there’s music and dancing in the ballroom of this hotel?’
‘Yes. My wife and I attended one a couple of weeks ago. They trialled it and now I believe it will happen more often. The internees have formed a wonderful dance orchestra, haven’t they?’
Jerome shook his head. ‘I think the English love performing.’
‘Oh, if I’m honest I think all the internees do after so long in captivity but yes, you might be right – the British are more openly . . . er, shall I say, theatrically inclined.’
After a pause while the doctor asked him to breathe deeply in and out a few times, he gestured for Jerome to dress again.
‘Hmmm, slight wheeze. Have you been coughing?’
‘Yes, a few moments ago.’ He desperately did not want the bad news today.
‘Isn’t it marvellous that when you sing you never cough?’
Jerome blinked, then grinned. ‘I’d never considered that but you’re right, Dr Müller.’
‘That’s because you’re healing.’
‘But just now I was —’
Dr Müller waved away his concern. ‘More to the point, how are you actually feeling in here, Lieutenant Bouchon?’ Müller said, touching his own temple.
Jerome shrugged, perplexed. ‘Better.’
‘Excellent. Nightmares?’
‘Some. Nothing I can’t rationalise by morning.’
‘Good. Not bored?’
‘No,’ he scoffed, looking appalled.
‘Many are, you know, now that the novelty of being removed from prison in Germany has worn off. I’m glad you’re not.’
‘I’d gladly work if that —’
‘No, no . . . that’s not what I meant, son. I’m just seeing boredom creeping in to some of the internees’ lives and it tends to equate to them drinking more liquor, and that leads to more indulgence. But you live a healthy life all round and I’m glad to see you’ve put on some weight, got some colour back into your complexion.’
He had to ask. No point in remaining cowardly. ‘So how am I doing, Doctor?’
‘Well, this is it, you see, Jacques . . . er, Lieutenant. I actually think you’re improving, and rather swiftly at that.’
‘Improving?’ he repeated. He realised that he sounded appalled.
The doctor nodded. ‘Your limp is less pronounced, so your muscles are getting stronger in that leg from the long walks you take, and I want to congratulate you on that. Those hikes will be demanding on your lungs but obviously you are coping so very well. Your eye, well, that’s not going to change in terms of regaining sight, but you are clearly adjusting and compensating with the remaining sight you do have, which I note is sharp. The point at which your arm was amputated is healing so much better since we did that second small surgery. There’s no pain?’
‘It’s numb,’ he admitted. ‘But, Dr Müller, what about tuberculosis?’
‘That’s the best news of all.’ The doctor sounded jaunty. ‘Not everyone who has been a victim of the poison gas is condemned to die of TB. I know that was the popular opinion when the first cases came through. So many did die from gas complications and yes, there have been many deaths after long suffering and contraction of the disease. But we’ve since noticed a large group of men, such as you, who don’t necessarily succumb. Your lungs are compromised, this is true, but they will function more than adequately. They already do. And perhaps they can get stronger still.’
‘What are you saying, Doctor?’ Jerome felt a tingling around his neck as a fresh tension gripped him with impossible optimism.
The doctor looked delighted. ‘There is no sign of tuberculosis in you, Lieutenant. I believe it is all about healing from now on. Onwards, my boy – to repatriation, if this war would only end. One day very soon I hope I shall be waving you on your way home.’
25
PARIS
August 1918
If only Louis hadn’t picked up the telephone. His was one of the few private homes in France that had embraced the device; most of his high-society friends still believed their close-knit lifestyle and position within a select part of Paris meant there was no need for the modern appliance that was overtaking their London circle like a plague.
Louis, however, considered himself influential and one of the urban elite, so he’d had one installed as soon as it became available, in spite of the fact that telephoning the majority of his friends was still impossible. For business, though, it felt like an advance as important as the industrial revolution. He rather delighted in the loud jangling, hoping all his neighbours had been disturbed by it and were right now wondering who could be on the other end of that telephone call.
It was from Switzerland, much to his surprise.
‘I apologise, I didn’t hear your name clearly,’ he said, frowning, trying to recall anyone he knew who hailed from Switzerland. ‘Did you say Lausanne?’
The woman on the other end, who sounded young, cleared her throat and tried again, louder. ‘I said I am a nurse based in Lausanne . . .’ and again he didn’t hear a name spoken, which seemed odd, but he gathered she was calling from a hospital. ‘Is this Monsieur Louis Méa?’
‘It is,’ he replied, wondering how on earth anyon
e in a Lausanne hospital could know him. ‘How can I help you, mademoiselle?’ He chanced that she was unmarried. What was this all about?
‘I have a message for you, sir.’
‘Oh, yes?’ He was intrigued now.
‘It is from a gentleman – a patient – called Jacques Bouchon.’
‘I think you have the wrong number,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anyone of that name. I’m sorry.’
‘He is an internee . . . a French prisoner from Germany.’
Louis blinked with bewilderment. ‘Again, my apologies. You surely have the wrong person.’
‘You are Louis Méa, sir?’
‘I am, but —’
‘I am calling on behalf of your brother, Lieutenant Jerome Méa. He is registered with us under the wrong name, he assures us. He wishes you to contact the hospital in Lausanne immediately. Let me give you the number.’
Louis imagined his skin had suddenly turned as white as the glass of milk he had just poured for himself in an effort to quell the acid of last night’s drinking. Bile began to rise, but it was nothing to do with his night at the pleasure palace of the Moulin Rouge. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Please write this number down, sir. I do not have much time and I am not officially authorised to pass on this information.’ She began reciting a telephone number, and although he reflexively wrote down the number she gave him, he did so with no concentration. It was as though his thoughts had been launched from a catapult and scattered in all directions.
‘Are you there, monsieur?’
‘You’re sure he calls himself Jerome Méa?’ His voice sounded dislocated from his thoughts, and higher than normal.
‘Yes, sir. He tells me he is a grower of grapes from a place called Avize in Champagne. He asked me —’
Louis replaced the handset, not slamming it but quietly returning it to its cradle and cutting off the young nurse from Lausanne, his mind racing to gather up those careening thoughts because his next decision was going to be vital.
Sophie had been invited to Louis’s apartment in Paris and found herself privately astonished at how close he lived to the famous opera house. She could swear that if she got herself to the top storey she would be able to see her favourite building’s glimmering rooftop. It struck her that although Haussmann’s elegant avenues were within an easy stroll, Louis was embedded in the city’s narrow, run-down and notorious playtime district of Pigalle. She’d never been allowed to roam this neighbourhood while her parents were alive but she knew about it.
In getting to know Louis better, she had come to realise that everything he did was by careful choice. They were opposites, these brothers: Jerome was as impetuous and spontaneous as Louis was considered and shrewd. The elder calculated his risks, whereas she didn’t think Jerome had stopped to consider any, which is how he had so easily rushed off to war. And Sophie imagined that Louis had chosen this district, this street, this very apartment so he could be near his beloved opera but also partake in the more lascivious side of Paris. His suggestion that they live their married life apart was not out of generosity to her, she now realised, or even a polite sensitivity towards Jerome. No, Sophie decided that Louis wished to keep his life separate from hers so that he could continue to live as he always had and not feel in any way answerable for the debauched lifestyle she sensed he enjoyed.
‘Where are you staying in Paris?’ he called from the kitchenette, which she suspected saw little activity.
‘There’s a small hotel near the opera,’ she called, taking off her hat.
He was busy making a pot of coffee and he appeared now looking flustered; in fact, for the first time since she’d met him, Louis appeared slightly nervous. She believed it might be because she was standing in his most private of spaces. Perhaps he desperately wanted her to like it and thus like him more.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to a café? It’s a beautiful day,’ he offered.
It was obvious he would. ‘All right,’ she acquiesced, keen to please, especially as she was here on a mission.
Within minutes, Sophie had her hat back on and they were seated at a pavement table outside a small café.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Now, isn’t this splendid?’ He turned his round face to the sun and sighed. ‘Better than being cramped in my apartment.’
There was nothing small about his apartment and she already spent plenty of time in the sunshine, but his pale skin suggested he rarely did. It even occurred to her that Louis would prefer to be inside the café, out of the sun, and that this sidewalk table out in the open was for her benefit. He was putting on a show of casual breeziness she couldn’t fathom.
Until she could work out what was going on, Sophie decided, she would remain neutral. ‘It’s perfect,’ she agreed as the waiter arrived.
‘Monsieur Méa, welcome,’ he said. ‘Madame,’ he acknowledged, thin moustache twitching above a brief attempt at a smile. ‘Coffee?’
‘Two, please, André,’ Louis replied, once again not bothering to check with Sophie, she noted. ‘And I’ll have a small Byrrh.’ He finally consulted her. ‘My dear, an aperitif for you?’
‘No, coffee is fine, thank you.’
The waiter nodded crisply and departed.
‘I’ve never favoured quinine,’ she remarked, pulling off her cotton gloves.
‘Don’t like its bitterness?’
‘I quite like that quality, if I’m honest. No, it’s more the medicinal taste that I don’t enjoy.’
‘I think that’s the point, my dear, and they certainly promote it as a health drink. The mistelle they add is simply to mask the flavour,’ he said, chuckling. ‘But in truth we’re all enjoying it for the alcohol.’
She joined in his amusement, which didn’t sound in any way mirthful, as two small cups of coffee appeared alongside a tiny triangular glass of syrupy liquor.
‘To your good health,’ he said, not wasting any time and tipping half of it into his mouth.
Sophie nodded and sipped the rich coffee as she watched him lick his lips and tried not to imagine them ever having freedom over her body.
Louis sucked his lips, not wishing to waste a drop of the Byrrh, and wondered if it was revulsion he saw darting across Sophie’s face like a crack of lightning or whether she was suddenly frightened. He rather hoped that he did scare her; he needed her to feel cornered. The telephone call three days before had rattled him, and it took plenty for Louis to admit to that. He kept reminding himself that all his high-level contacts at the Red Cross had assured him that Jerome was as ‘good as dead’. He’d even taken the precaution of menacing his friend Jean at the French Red Cross that he was, under no circumstances, to give Sophie even the remotest hope. All he was waiting on now was the army to confirm his brother’s death with a certificate. He hoped a call from a stranger in another country out of the blue was something he could easily dispel.
He’d tried ignoring the nurse’s phone call, and when that hadn’t succeeded, he’d deliberately got drunk, hoping distraction would help him to forget. But yesterday morning he had woken to a riot of nausea and a pounding headache, both fuelled by the knowledge that his brother might be alive and living under a different name. His memory remained intact, sadly, and the Lausanne-based nurse’s words continued to haunt him.
The news, if it was true, couldn’t have been more ill-timed. His financiers were beginning to lose patience. Louis needed the instant security offered by his brother’s vineyards, not to mention the Delancré estates.
The bank’s recommendation that he move from the Pigalle apartment to one in a less desirable arrondissement was ludicrous . . . and the whispered suggestion from his personal banker that he consider selling up in Paris, perhaps moving back to Avize for a while, consolidating his funds, was heinous.
All he needed was time. And time equated to Sophie. To be engaged, to give him even the sense of access to his brother’s property, would likely be enough to send the bank hounds scarpering back to their kenne
ls. And if it turned out that Jerome was indeed alive and languishing in some Swiss hospital – he couldn’t imagine how or why – then nothing would be truly lost.
His brother could return, Louis would magnanimously let Sophie off the hook, take back his mother’s ring, celebrate the reunion of the happy couple, look forward to the children that would no doubt come forth in a few years and keep the name going, but in the meantime, his skin would be saved. He just needed a little time to shore up the investments that had taken such a beating during the war. Nothing that time and a little additional funding couldn’t fix. It all sounded so reasonable in his now calm, calculated thoughts.
He needed that ring on Sophie’s finger and some sort of little soirée to celebrate a formal agreement between them – to which he would invite a senior financier who had the ability to influence those who wished to foreclose on him. As to the call from Switzerland, he would deny it. Who could prove it? Who would bother to try? If Jerome really was alive, he would surely be repatriated when the war ended. Until then, Louis had no intention of following up the stranger’s call. That was that.
He looked at beautiful Sophie sipping her coffee and imagined how pleasant it would be to sire a child with her . . . or at least attempt to. All of the fun was in the attempt, anyway.
The Champagne War Page 30