My arms stayed bruised for days. I thought, that was not something a good mother would do. I decided she must be jealous. Roland had my father’s full attention and I had captured his. In effect, I had them both. I resolved to keep out of her way. From then on we continued as if nothing had happened, though when she looked at me from the corner of her eye, I caught the rage. Oui, Maman, I know the facts of life, how easy it is to lose your reputation, slip into misery, ruination, etc., etc., etc. I had no intention of making the common mistake, if that was her fear. The ferocity of her attack hinted at worse, as though my behaviour carried the threat of destruction to us both.
Only after the war, months, years later, did we realize the real horror, such terrible suffering. The camps, decimation of Jews, gypsies, communists. And so many millions of young men slaughtered on all sides. Those desperate Japanese people caught and burned at midday. Our little sufferings seemed insignificant. And now, I sit here writing, warm and safe. What personal malady cannot be quickly diminished by remembering how much other people have endured? The temptation lingers, one’s own small woes must be resisted.
For a few years after the war, thoughts of humanity suffering so much weighed on me. I wanted to escape to Africa or the Far East, where people were hungry and sick and without relief, but for many reasons, my mother, etc., I stayed back. We all had to put things out of our minds, in order to get on with life. The French, Germans, Japanese too, even the Jews, so I’ve heard, we put it all behind us. Took pains to forget.
If memories are to endure, they must be seen to on a regular basis, like plants and dogs. Otherwise they disappear. Some experiences are good to forget. It is late, I feel old.… Written down, the past seems small. Looking at the page I see this one is ruined by rambling. Writing directly without revision is a mistake. Stop now, begin again tomorrow ...
Head resting on her arms, she slept for a while. Waking, she saw that it was still dark outside, and turning to a fresh page, started in again.
As the wind turned against the Germans, they put pressure on Vichy France, declaring all able-bodied men would be sent to work in German factories, on the war effort. Of course, there were few volunteers, so as an incentive they offered an exchange: one French prisoner of war would be returned for every four working men who agreed to go. Needless to say, the pressure from desperate mothers and wives was great. My brother Didier was among the prisoners, so we all hoped and prayed. My prayers included a secret postscript: take anyone but Roland. A selfish prayer, but it was answered: the Resistance leadership decided that to give up their best men was unthinkable when the real battle for liberation must be near.
The fall of 1943. Roland was one of a dozen essential members of the movement sent into hiding. We weren’t told where. Christmas passed without a sign of life. My father, who had survived Verdun, was not hopeful about the direction the war was taking. His gloom was contagious; our life became an ordeal of waiting. I began to hate Ste. Cécile, its empty streets whipped by wind. I was stuck in the middle of nowhere. I woke up every morning wishing the day were over.
Soon enough, news came that made me long for an hour of innocent waiting. On the night of March 2nd, one of the twelve, Mallet, passed through Orange on his way south to Marseille, and he spoke to someone in Ste. Cécile. I heard the news later that week, third-hand, from my father whose duty it was to tell the families. His indifference to my feelings came as a shock. But that’s a selfish thought. Wives lost husbands, mothers, their sons. What was Roland to me? Only I knew the answer to that.
According to the man who met Mallet, the twelve had made it to a camp in La Roque du Buis, an abandoned village west of the Mont Ventoux. They were living in a chapel, existing on sparse provisions provided by locals, staying out of sight during daylight for months on end. But they were found out anyway. Someone tipped off the Germans. Two were hanged immediately in the town square, as a warning to local sympathizers. The others were forced to walk to the next village, pulling heavy carts filled with the guns, ammunition and equipment they’d amassed in preparation for the final battle.
The youngest, Renard, tried to escape. He was shot. Thomas and Roland took turns carrying him. This encouraged the men to think they might be taken prisoner. Why else bother to save a wounded man? But it was a false hope. Nazi trucks were waiting to take the equipment. As soon as they were loaded, the commanding officer appointed a firing squad, and headed for the local café.
As the commander turned, Mallet seized his moment and bolted, tearing through an orchard along a route he’d worked out carefully from the day they’d left La Roque du Buis. The plot had been discussed as far back as the chapel. Four men followed suit, thinking it was better to be shot in the back than face a firing squad.
The man who passed this information to my father had no idea how many men escaped, or which of the others had made it out. Mallet heard shots as he ran. He could not look back.
The next day, a party was organized to go after the bodies. To my mother’s chagrin, I begged to go along, and was allowed. The journey took all night. By the time we arrived, a half-centimetre of snow had fallen on the village, a cold, white shroud covering a heap of familiar forms. Roland’s body was not among them.
All my strength went into making a brave face. I had to hide my relief. A few minutes later, a woman came over to where we were standing and in front of everyone, including my father, asked if they knew of a woman named Murielle. My secret name! The men looked at me. I nodded, and she handed me a crumpled piece of paper. It was a letter found under a stone in the chapel, ripped into tiny pieces. She’d glued them together.
The first word I saw was a bold signature across the bottom of the page: Roland. I started shaking. I could feel my father’s eyes on me, a fever of shame rising in my face. The man standing next to me took the note, read it to himself, and sighed. “Nothing of importance,” he said, handing it back. Then he nodded to the others, and they started loading bodies into the truck.
Standing there in the snow, I read the crooked lines slowly, then once more, certain they were a dead man’s last words. All that he had never said to me in person was on the page — a complete and absolute declaration of love, in the spiritual and physical sense. He regretted that we had been too careful and now might never know each other intimately. He asked for my prayers.
I could see the men glancing my way. They’d already been informed of the letter’s intimate contents. Even my father! I folded the page and tucked it out of sight, trying desperately to keep in mind the fate of those poor wives and mothers for whom the loss was tragic, and beyond all doubt.
SEVEN
MAGALI CLOSED A TEXTBOOK and began her nightly routine, counting deep-knee bends under her breath. At a hundred and one she tossed the sweaty t-shirt aside and crawled onto the mattress. The house was draughty. Nelly kept the nighttime temperature low but insisted on installing a mobile petrol heater in Magali’s room “because young girls are prone to chills.” It was so hot she could still sleep naked in November.
After a swig of water from the bottle next to her mattress, she turned off the light and started counting back from a hundred, relying on numbers to empty her mind. But on the verge of sleep, her bladder muscles flinched. Relief was a long, cold walk to the end of the hall. Plucking a flannel nightshirt from the floor, she peeked out the door to be sure the way was clear.
In the darkness, the small piece of paper pinned to the WC door was illegible, but she could easily imagine the message, the familiar nervous handwriting, formal French reminding Dear Occupants not to flush intrusive objects down the toilet or leave the tap dripping or running and upon departure from the water closet please turn out the light. Notes from Nelly appeared mysteriously and frequently, reminders of how things worked and how they did not; generous notes too, offering yoghurt on the verge of expiration and ripe plums that must be eaten.
She had expected dutiful conversation an
d long boring dinners, but after the first few days she was quite alone. Piers slept all day and Nelly was either rushing off, watching television, talking on the phone, or shut away in the sitting room with her books. There was always food in the kitchen, yet apart from breakfast no one seemed to eat a proper meal. Nelly’s notes were the strongest evidence of her presence, impersonal signs that someone was watching, and no doubt judging.
So I’ve left the light on again, she thought, crumpling the note. She flung the bathroom door open. Piers Le Gris was standing under the glare of a naked light bulb, his hand on a chain dangling from the ceiling.
“Pardon!” he said, and gave the chain a nervous jerk, leaving them standing in the dark. Light from a tiny window to the street formed a halo, his face in shadow.
Magali had been carrying her nightshirt, and raised it to cover her breasts, a graceful, listless motion Piers would later recall as perfectly beautiful. Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she stood motionless for an instant, then brushed past, murmuring, bonne nuit, as though there was nothing at all unusual in their meeting.
He bolted down the hall, veered toward the stairs. There was a light on in the dining room, but the door was closed. Reaching the entrance foyer, he found the front door locked. He had no key. Then he realized he was wearing slippers and his bathrobe. He’d been working, had no plans to dash out of the house on a chilly night. As he slipped into the darkness of his room and closed the door, still dazed by the potent afterglow of naked shoulders, bare arms and breasts, his heart was pounding. I need a whiskey, he thought.
Someone was turning the handle from the other side. He stepped away. The door opened. Magali walked in, and tossing him a puzzled look, said, “May I ask what you’re doing in my room?”
She was wearing a nightshirt that stopped above her knees and clunky shoes that made her seem ridiculously tall, as though walking on stilts. Her hair was damp. Only when he had fully taken in this new version of the girl who made the room dance did he catch what she’d said and verify with his own eyes that, yes, this was her room and he was in it.
“My mistake,” he shot back, hoping it sounded ironic.
“That’s all right.” She picked up a package of cigarettes. “Do you smoke?”
“No! Well, I did but I’ve given it up.”
“Shit. I’m out of matches.”
“I have matches!”
She tilted her head to one side and smiled. “Would you mind?”
Relieved to be charged with a simple task, he headed back to his room. She followed.
While he rifled through drawers, she surveyed the room with the detached curiosity of a museumgoer, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other waving an unlit cigarette. Yesterday’s shorts and socks lay in a heap on the floor. He kicked them out of sight.
“So this is where you write your books,” she nodded appreciatively. “How can you stand these fungus green walls?” “I didn’t choose the colour.”
“You could have taken my room. It’s bigger.”
“I need this magnificent table.”
He ransacked the dresser and a nightstand by the bed, but no matches were to be found. As he started to go through various jacket pockets, she said, “Never mind. It’s not important. I’m not addicted or anything.”
“Could I offer you something to drink?”
She brightened. “Sure.”
As he poured two shots of whiskey, hoping she wouldn’t ask for mix or ice, he watched her from the corner of his eye, a perfect contraposto, one knee slightly bent, shoulders back, chin thrust forward. He was beginning to appreciate the clunky shoes, how easily she transcended their awkward shape. Handing her the glass, he imagined an urn balanced on her head, held gracefully with one lithe arm. She will be a beautiful woman, he thought. She knows this already.
“Cheers,” she said, in English, raising the glass.
“Saluté,” he replied.
She took a sip and winced. Suddenly it struck him that she was far too young for hard liquor, definitely under the drinking age in every place that had one.
“You don’t have to drink it,” he said.
“I love it, really! What is this?”
“Glenfiddich.”
She tried to say the word. Her accent made him think of Campari, soda, fresh strawberries.
He wheeled the swivel chair around in her direction. Clearing old newspapers and sweaters from a wicker armchair, he sat down carefully, hoping it would support his weight.
“Is there something wrong with that chair?” she asked, pointing at the horsehair recliner.
“It’s for napping. Certain chairs have their function. I don’t violate functions.”
“So what’s the function of the chair I’m sitting in right now?”
“That’s my writing chair.”
“Ah! You’re not writing.”
“No.”
“Am I keeping you from writing?”
“Not at all.”
“What would you be doing right now, if I were not here?”
She crossed her legs, which were long and smooth and covered with fine golden hairs. They’ve never been shaved, he thought. A shade between pink and brown, like the colour of her room, the word was flesh, not naked or even nude. By the light of the reading lamp, they were simply bare, a wholesome natural state that left him feeling strangely calm, because she was calm. The shock of naked beauty almost in his arms had worn off and he was deeply relieved to have her here, sitting in a familiar chair.
“You sure have a lot of books,” she said, taking in the wall of shelves.
He nodded. “This is a fraction of the collection.”
“Really? Where are the rest?”
“In storage.”
“Where?”
“Various places.”
“Such as?”
“London. Montreal, mainly.”
“Do you have furniture too?”
“A few pieces.”
“How long are you planning to be away?”
“Away?”
“From your stuff.”
“Oh. I don’t know,” he shrugged, his voice trailing off.
“… So you’re English?”
“No, Canadian. But I’ve been away for years.”
“But you are planning to go back someday?”
“Yes, definitely. I will return to my books at some point.”
“What are you waiting for?”
When he didn’t answer, she pulled her knees up under her chin, wrapped her arms around them. Noticing goosebumps had formed on her legs, he reached for a wool blanket from the bed and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” she said, tucking the blanket around her shoulders so that it formed a tent. Her toenails poked out under the edge. They were painted purple with silver sparkles.
“Your aunt said you’re studying business,” he ventured.
“Yes, and languages, so I can get a good job and make lots of money. I had a talk with my father. It seemed to be the best choice. Actually, the only choice. He’s paying.”
“What would you rather study?”
“That’s the problem, I don’t know. I’ve always been good at math, though you don’t need that for business. They have machines.”
“So what do you need for business?”
“A nice smile, nice ass. Lots of clothes. I’m not really interested, but we’ll see.” She sighed, and took another sip of whiskey, a big one this time. “Not too fast. That’s powerful stuff.” Ignoring him, she leapt up, and wearing the blanket around her shoulders like a cape, went over to the bookcase and surveyed the contents.
“I’d like to read one of your books. I’m studying English, you know.” Then she added in carefully articulated English, “I am told I speak the language rather well.”
He laughed. The
arch construction, its combination of French pronunciation on a plumy British base, surprised him. He hadn’t meant to insult her, but she blushed. Just as well, he thought. As long as the conversation remained in French, a wall existed between them, but if she dipped into broken English, the urge to help would be irresistible, and once he held out a hand, there was no telling what would happen next. But she didn’t; a boast about her high marks in the subject seemed to settle the matter.
“Why do you have so many books on ancient history?” she said, taking a volume off the shelf. He leapt up, went over to check on what she might have found.
“Not ancient,” he said. “Medieval.” She was leafing through a picture book of the Papal Palace. “The Popes in Avignon, right. I’ve studied the period. What are you reading now?” “Now?” He was standing beside her, so close he was sure he could feel the heat from her breath. “The Book of Daniel.”
“A novel?”
“No, the Bible,” he blurted out, realizing he must have sounded sarcastic. “Re-reading it, that is. Strange story. Gabriel the Archangel tries to help Daniel interpret his dreams and ends up confusing them both. Totally mysterious, like there’s a message encoded in the text that we can’t yet understand. Or else, the winged vixen is losing his grip, and that hardly seems likely. You know Gabriel has had quite a hectic career: wrestling with Jacob, the voice from the burning bush that saved Isaac’s son, Joseph’s guide on his flight from slavery, helping Noah load up the ark.” He knew he was babbling but couldn’t seem to stop. “And that was only the old testament, the Jewish part. The same Gabriel told Mary she was preggers with the messiah.” Magali laughed. “Didn’t mention the boy’s fate, did he? And Mohammed: do you realize it was the same Gabriel who tapped an illiterate desert merchant on the shoulder and told him to write down the Qur’an? Well, I’m not sure he wrote it down right away. I think they memorized it for a few decades and then somebody else took notes, but don’t quote me. Anyway, it was the same Gabriel. So why are these religions at each other’s throats?”
Piers' Desire Page 7