by Allan Massie
‘Poor Aurélien. Such a pretty boy once, but a weak man always. And now you suggest he’s in the clutches of the advocate Labiche.’
‘You know him?’
‘Only by reputation, which is not good. He would never employ a Jew, not even as his physician. But I know enough of him to have sympathy with Aurélien, whatever he has done. And this girl you are looking for, she’s of good family, I take it.’
‘Yes,’ Lannes said. ‘But that’s not the point.’
‘There must be money involved.’
‘Perhaps. Do you know where Aurélien is to be found?’
The doctor lifted his glass and drained it.
‘Can you spare a cigarette?’ he said.
Lannes pushed the packet of Gauloises towards him and then litone for himself. For a moment neither spoke. The doctor drew on his cigarette and sighed.
At last, ‘It’s difficult,’ he said. ‘We haven’t spoken for years. We quarrelled. He thought it was my fault. Perhaps it was. I was arrogant, demanding, possessive, jealous. So I feel guilty, I wouldn’t want to get him into trouble.’
‘He’s there already. It’s a question perhaps of getting him out of it. I don’t believe he has been acting of his own volition. He’s a pawn, no more than that, I think. And in any case I’m sure Labiche took the girl away from him. I hope Aurélien can tell me why.’
‘And you really are suspended? You have no power of arrest?’
‘None.’
‘And your colleagues or former colleagues?’
‘Have nothing to do with it. This isn’t a police matter. I’m acting only on behalf of the girl’s family. If Aurélien answers my questions, that, I hope, will be the end of it, as far as he is concerned.’
Dr Solomons stubbed out his cigarette.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You have after all done me a service. That poor boy, Miki, I hate to think what would have become of him if you hadn’t been there – and if that stupid Jules had pulled the trigger. The man you want to speak to is a Russian, a White Russian who calls himself Count Peter, though whether he is entitled to do so I don’t know. He runs a gymnasium, popular with the sons of the wealthy and well-born. Perhaps you have already come across him? I believe he served time in the Foreign Legion. He and Aurélien. I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate. If anyone can lead you to him, it will be the Russian. And now … ’ he got to his feet and picked up his bag, ‘let me resume my profession. Take me to your friend. If it is, as you fear, cancer, I have to tell you there is nothing I can do, except alleviate her pain. I’ve brought a supply of morphine. Don’t please ask me how I came by it. But I’ll require payment, I’m afraid. Of course you may be wrong. Cancer is difficult to diagnose.’
XI
Dr Solomons hadn’t of course, as he had warned, been able to diagnose anything. He had examined Miriam, while Henri hovered beside him and Lannes waited below, with Toto, Henri’s little French bulldog, snuffling at his feet. It might, the doctor said, when they descended, be cancer; it might not. It might be her gallbladder; it might not. She should be in hospital but he realised this was impossible. Perhaps when they were liberated? The sooner the better of course. Meanwhile he had given her morphine, as requested, to dull the pain, and he left instructions with Henri as to the dose and frequency of administration. ‘There’s a danger she will become addicted,’ he said, ‘but it’s improbable. That would require a higher dose, more morphine than I could obtain.’ Yes, he was sorry, he would require payment, but only for the drug, not for the consultation. And he would call again if they wished, though, sadly, there was nothing really that he could do.
‘A good man, I think,’ Henri said when he had shown the doctor out. ‘I’m grateful to you, Jean, for finding him. I have felt so useless and guilty for being useless. And how are you yourself, Jean?’
‘I feel the same as you.’
‘And yet,’ Henri said, ‘the nightmare is surely approaching its end. It can’t be long now, and, as Dr Solomons said, we can get Miriam into hospital.’
‘I hope so.’
There was no point in speaking about his fears. Of course Liberation would be welcome – to see the Germans march out, perhaps even, preferably, in orderly fashion, without the need for an insurrection and street-fighting. And yet, what would follow? No doubt his suspension would be lifted but, back at work, what would he be faced with? He thought of that lieutenant in the Milice who had so proudly given him his name – which, for the moment, he couldn’t recall. Was it innate viciousness that had prompted him to attach himself to a cause that any reasonable person could see was now doomed? Or patriotism – perverted patriotism if you like? He remembered the contempt with which the lieutenant had regarded the boy Miki, a contempt that he supposed nine out of ten, or more than that, ninety-nine out of a hundred, of the respectable citizens of Bordeaux would share. If Lannes hadn’t lied to him, he would have taken the boy away, to be beaten up, tortured perhaps, and then shot in a cellar. That was the sort of thing the Milice did. It was revolting, but would the Resistance behave differently? Wouldn’t they exact an equally brutal revenge? And Lannes found, admitted to himself, that he had a strange respect for that young lieutenant who had committed himself to his cause. Perhaps because he knew himself to be incapable of any comparable commitment to anything, except, he thought, his vague and useless idea of what he called decency.
‘I must go,’ he said. ‘Give Miriam my respects. I only hope the doctor’s visit has been of some service. At least she’ll be in less pain now.’
‘I’m grateful to you, Jean, and so will Miriam be. I scarcely dare ask if you have any news of the boys, of Alain and Léon.’
‘None at all.’
‘I think of them often. I even pray for them though I have no belief in prayers. Silly, isn’t it? But I became fond of Léon while he worked for me. I saw what poor Gaston loved in him even though that side of Gaston’s life had always dismayed me. Even disgusted me if I am honest. I’ll see you out, lock up after you. It’s a comfort, I find, to be behind a locked door.’
They passed through the dark and musty shop where that mad spook who called himself Félix had raped Léon and compelled him to consent to be used as bait for the German liaison officer Schussmann,
‘Are you going home now?’ Henri said. ‘Give my respects, please, my affectionate respects, to Marguerite. It’s too long since I saw her.’
‘Of course,’ Lannes said. ‘When it’s over you must come to dinner.’
Empty words, but why not?
The air was still soft and warm when he stepped into the rue des Remparts where the advocate Labiche had once accosted him and asked, sneeringly, if he had been visiting his ‘pretty little Jew-boy’.
It was too early to go home, to be met with silence. Clothilde wouldn’t be back yet; there had been talk of a visit to the cinema with a girlfriend. He should make that promised call on Fernand, find out what was troubling him. He turned into a bar, asked to use the telephone and rang the number of his friend’s apartment in the rue du Port St-Pierre. No reply. Why is it that the sound of a telephone ringing in an empty house can be so sad?
Meanwhile there was the old Russian to be seen. Lannes knew a bit about him. At the age of fourteen or so Alain had gone to his gymnasium in an old building behind the Marché des Capucins, gone together with his friend Philippe whom Lannes disliked. Then he’d stopped, saying he just didn’t like it, it wasn’t for him, not his kind of place, and Lannes hadn’t inquired further. But Clothilde’s Michel had later been a regular there, and when he joined the Legion of French Volunteers against Bolshevism, the old Russian had called on Michel’s grandfather, the Professor, apparently in distress and uttering threats against Sigi de Grimaud whose influence had led Michel astray. Lannes remembered the Professor’s words: ‘He said he loved Michel with a pure love, which may of course be true.’ And he had said that the Russian’s impassioned speech, full of self-recrimination, was like something out of Dostoevsky whose nove
ls Lannes had never read.
The door was open and a little passage led into the gym. There was a boxing ring at one end and the usual pieces of equipment, mats on the floor, a wooden horse, ropes dangling from the rafters. But there was a layer of dust over everything and Lannes had the impression that the old Russian’s pupils – if that was what he called them – had deserted him. A couple of posters advertising boxing matches had half-detached themselves from the boards to which they were pinned, and dangled loose.
There was a light beyond a doorway at the end of the room and he approached it.
The old Russian was sitting on a stool in front of a stove on top of which stood a samovar. He wore a shabby grey suit and a dirty silk muffler round his neck. He looked up as Lannes entered. His eyes were red-rimmed and the tips of his moustache stained yellow. He held a glass of tea in his hand and there was a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
‘Mr Policeman,’ he said. ‘I remember you. You brought your son here once. It didn’t take. He disliked the discipline that is necessary. And now here you are again. Is he dead? Forgive me for asking bluntly, but so many are.’
Lannes found a chair and sat down. The Russian returned his gaze to the stove. Its door was open but there was no fire and the ashes were grey.
‘I don’t know,’ Lannes said. ‘I hope he isn’t, but I don’t know.’
‘So many are,’ the Russian said again. ‘I should be dead myself, but it seems the Lord isn’t ready for me. And there is something I still have to do.’
‘Sigi’s in Paris, when I last heard,’ Lannes said. ‘Others will take care of him. It’s not your responsibility.’
‘You know about my vow?’
‘Naturally.’
‘The hand of the Lord is raised against the evil-doer and I am his instrument.’
‘Michel isn’t dead,’ Lannes said. ‘My daughter who loves him tells me she would know if he was. Do you believe that?’
‘I don’t know. Some days I believe nothing. Some days I believe everything. I have prayed to the Virgin to protect the boy. My love for Michel was pure. I have lived a long time, often wickedly, but that love was pure, I assure you. In my old age I believe in goodness, in virtue. The man you call Sigi believes only in power, he sold his soul to the Devil long ago. That is why I must fulfil my vow. Do you think I am mad?’
Lannes lit a cigarette.
‘Not mad,’ he said, ‘miserable, wretched, all that, but not mad.’
‘You are wrong. One has to be mad today. How else can one live in this world?’
‘I don’t know. Is Aurélien mad?’
‘No. That is why he is afraid. Only the truly mad can escape fear.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Through there, in his cupboard. Asleep on his mattress. He sleeps most of the time because he is afraid, afraid of the day, afraid of the night. Go speak to him. I loved him once. That love was impure. It is why he is here. But I can do nothing for him because he is afraid. Nor can the Virgin. Go speak to him and take him away. He is already in prison in his own mind, so you can do him no further harm. There is no place for him here. I told him that, but he only wept. Take him away, Mr Policeman. Leave me alone in my madness. Leave me with my vow and my dream of revenge. It will better for Aurélien if you take him away.’
The man was indeed stretched out on a dirty mattress, but he was fully dressed in a high-necked jersey and thin trousers. Perhaps the voices had awoken him, for when he became aware of Lannes standing over him, he sat up and rubbed his eyes.
‘I’m a policeman, Aurélien. I’m taking you away. Count Peter doesn’t want you here any more, and we have to talk. So get up, please.’
The man pushed himself half-upright so that his back was against the wall.
‘You’ll hit me if I get up. I know what the police are like, and I can’t stand being hit. And I promise, I did nothing to the girl, I never even touched her, I swear.’
‘I know you didn’t. And nobody’s going to hit you. In any case this isn’t a police matter, though I am a policeman. It’s private business, and even if you had touched the girl – which, yes, I repeat, I believe you didn’t – she’s not a minor, but we have to talk. We’ll go to your sister’s pension, it’s not far, and talk there. And give you something to eat. When did you last eat?’
‘My sister’s?’
‘Your sister’s. She’s the only person who cares for you, Aurélien, the only one who cares whether you’re alive or dead.’
‘That’s not true,’ Aurélien said. ‘I’ve been threatened with death.’
‘You can tell me about that at your sister’s. Come on.’
XII
The door of the Pension Smitt was locked or bolted. Lannes rang the bell, knocked hard on the wood, and waited. Aurélien propped himself against the wall. It had taken them a long time to get there, though the distance wasn’t far. Aurélien had stopped twice, saying he couldn’t go on, couldn’t face his sister, wanted to die. But these were only words. His resistance was feeble, his will broken.
At last the door opened.
‘Oh, it’s you again.’
‘I’ve brought him back to you,’ Lannes said. ‘You may not want him, but it’s the only place for him. He’s in a bad way as you can see. I doubt if he has eaten since you threw him out. I have to talk to him, but he needs something to eat. Have you any food in the house?’
‘Food,’ she said, as if the word was strange to her, but she stood aside to let them in. She put out a hand and touched her brother, lightly, on the cheek.
‘There might be an egg,’ she said.
‘Anything,’ Lannes said, ‘and a bottle of wine. Here, I’ll pay for it.’
She took the note without a word and stuffed it into the pocket of the same flowered housecoat she had been wearing on his previous visit. Then she turned and led them into a little room where, in more prosperous times, she had doubtless served coffee and croissants or slices of bread and jam to her guests and lodgers. The shutters were closed and the room was lit only by a single low-wattage bulb dangling from the ceiling.
Aurélien sat at one of the little tables and buried his head in his hands. His sister, muttering unintelligibly, shuffled away in her carpet slippers. Lannes lit a cigarette. The smell in the room was horrible, as if there might be a dead rat decomposing under the floorboards. He waited. There was no point starting till she had brought her brother something to eat and drink. He had smoked three cigarettes before she returned.
‘The egg was bad,’ she said, ‘you can’t trust them in the market nowadays, but there’s some hard cheese. And bread.’
She put the plate on the table, alongside a litre bottle of vin ordinaire and a couple of smeared tumblers.
‘You’d better tell him what he wants to know,’ she said, ‘and then perhaps he’ll leave us alone. I told him the last time he was here it’s not my fault you are what you are.’
Lannes filled the glasses, pushed one towards Aurélien, and said, ‘Drink and eat. There’s no hurry. I’ve all the time in the world. But I’m not going away and you’re going to talk. You know that really. I’m not going to hit you. I told you I wouldn’t, but we’re staying here until you’ve told me everything. I know you’re afraid of Labiche. Well, that’s natural. I don’t blame you for that. Why did he want the girl?’
Aurélien shuddered and shook his head, but he stretched out his hand to the glass and made to lift it, paused, and said, ‘I can’t.’ Lannes picked it up, held it out to him and said, again, ‘Drink.’ This time Aurélien managed to take a mouthful, swallowed it, and leaned back in the chair. Sweat stood out on his brow.
‘That’s better,’ Lannes said. ‘We’ve all the time in the world,’ he said again. ‘It’s a strange business, isn’t it? You’re a queer, you’ve never fancied women, and Labiche is a pervert whose taste is for under-age girls, little girls who haven’t reached the age of puberty. Marie-Adelaide’s nineteen and yet you make her acquaintance, write love-let
ters to her – I’ve read them by the way, she left them behind for her grandmother to find – you persuade her to come away with you and bring her here to the pension your sister keeps. You can see why I’m puzzled?’
Aurélien made no reply, but this time he lifted the glass himself and emptied it.
‘You shared a room with the girl,’ Lannes said, ‘and I wonder what you talked about. Did she still think you were in love with her?’
‘No,’ Aurélien said, ‘it wasn’t that. It wasn’t ever like that. You’ve got it all wrong. I really did like her, she was sweet and innocent. No, that’s not true. She was sweet, but she wasn’t innocent, though I believed she was. But she liked me, she really did, and, as for me, well, what can I say? I hoped, yes hoped. You don’t know what it’s like to be me, to be what I am, what I’ve always been. You think I like being what I am, what you call a queer? That I haven’t always wanted to be normal? That I’m not ashamed?’
He paused and for the first time lifted his head and looked Lannes in the face.
‘Ashamed,’ he said again, dwelling on the word. ‘You despise me, don’t you, for being what I am?’
‘No,’ Lannes said, ‘I don’t despise you. I’ve met many worse men than you, and I didn’t despise them either.’
He lit a cigarette, passed it to Aurélien, and lit another for himself.
‘Go on,’ he said, ‘continue, please.’
‘She was unhappy. I liked that, not because I’m cruel, you understand, but because I responded to it. Do you understand that? She felt confined by her grandmother who watched everything she did. That’s what she said, it was like being a prisoner. That was what we had in common, I see that now. But it was no good, she was sweet, but it was no good. It wasn’t me she wanted.’
‘You’re going too fast,’ Lannes said. ‘Let’s go back a bit. How did you meet her and where does Labiche come in?’
‘Labiche? Why do you think her grandmother kept her so close, as a prisoner as she said? I didn’t know that then of course when he introduced me to her at a gallery private view. Don’t ask me how she came to be there, in view of what she said about how her grandmother watched over her, because I don’t know. I was an art dealer, you know, so it was natural for me to be there, and he was my lawyer who had, I confess, got me out of trouble in the past. So when he saw her there, he told me to approach her and make up to her. It seemed strange, I thought at first it was just for his amusement but I did as he suggested and, as I say, I found I really liked her. It wasn’t me who suggested we should be together, it was her idea. I don’t expect you to believe me,’ he drank some more wine, ‘because I’m accustomed to people not believing me, but that’s how it was. It excited me, I admit that, to be wanted by a girl, it had never happened to me before. I’m sorry, I need a pee.’