B’s family owned the farm next to ours. The two properties were separated by a barn we shared during the war. I needed an excuse to go there at night so I picked up the egg basket. Why would anybody be collecting eggs after midnight? My alibi didn’t go that far.
I was lucky, no dogs barked, no roosters crowed. But as I stepped into the stable, one of the milking cows started bawling. I rubbed her swollen udder until she began to chew calmly. When it was safe, I went through the door that led into the haystack.
I did not want to know about what would happen on the other side, yet I had to know. I dreaded knowing. Dread, and its most unsettling opposite — I was pulled through the door by a fierce desire as strong as any sensation aroused by a man. Roland! I knew he was on the other side, and yet he was not. He had returned, and not returned.
I took my place behind a stack of wooden crates, which offered a protected view of a certain place where the hay was flat. I did not have to wait long.
They came in through the outside door, whispering. B’s familiar throaty laugh filled the darkness. He must have hushed her. She turned quiet and started kissing him, a picturesque embrace straight from the movies. He didn’t kiss back for long. He reached for her blouse and pulled it off. Her hair was loose. She was wearing a full skirt and gathered it up around the waist. She was naked underneath. She laughed and began to do a little dance in the hay, lifting one foot at a time, her fleshy thighs and big milky breasts swaying, like a stout gypsy. Who could have imagined? From an open window, moonlight fell on her bleached skin. She kept her eyes on him, excited by her power.
Suddenly he stepped back, leaned against a pillar. He was looking straight at the crates, staring. For a moment I thought he’d seen me. Then he turned away as if he would walk out the door. I held my breath, hoping he’d recognize his mistake and run. I sent my wishes like invisible spears but she came up behind him, pressed herself against his back, reached her arms around and undid his trousers. He gave in, and pulled her down onto a bed of straw. He was on top of her. His shoulders heaved. Such urgency, a kind of panic! I wanted to shrink into a tiny ball and disappear into despair but my whole being defied good sense and entered into the force of his desire. B moaned. I thought it must be me. I put a hand over my mouth to stop myself from crying out. I was weak with fear and shrinking deeper into the corner until it was no longer possible to see them. I didn’t want to see them. Hurried whispers, sounds of dressing, they ran off almost immediately. When I was alone I couldn’t move. The image of him standing naked from the waist would not leave my mind. How many times I’d felt him next to me, but never inside, he would never let himself go or even let me look at him. Every time we were together, he was half ashamed, as if he was afraid. No, no, we have to wait, he’d say. Wait until all of this is over and it’s safe. He said he couldn’t leave me in trouble with a war to finish. So this was what I’d missed? Aroused and naked, he looked so greedy, as though a strange force had taken hold of him and he had no choice but to fall on his knees and submit. From the angle of a girl hidden behind the crates, the act of copulation seemed less like pleasure than hard work in the service of an animal urge. His foolish bobbing sex. The experience left me confused and drowsy. I cried, I fell asleep.
They married. Six months later, a son was born. They named him Paul.
A life was stolen. The thief paid no price. On the contrary, she lived long and well and died at a respectable old age, surrounded by family without suffering much, or so they said. The man who came home had changed. Let Brigitte have her way. He was someone else.
I made up my mind to forget about Roland. I decided he had died in a German prison.
TWELVE
AS SHE HURRIED TOWARDS THE Grand Café, Magali tried to think of an excuse for being late. She settled on a story about being held up at the university, but facing the three of them staring at her, it was all she could do to mumble, “I’m sorry.” Sliding into the seat opposite Nelly, she kept her hands under the table so no one could see they were shaking.
As the waiter handed her a menu, conversation resumed, something about a castle in Scotland and the labour of restoration. The table was small, their elbows almost touched. Nelly’s attention seemed to float between Léonce and Piers. Magali tried to catch her eye but it was impossible, almost as if she was making an effort to avoid contact. The velvet bouquet of Nelly’s perfume, irises with a hint of musk, seemed nothing like the scent of a girl who had forged ahead into life and emerged years later with so many secrets. How many more must there must be, she wondered.
Nelly had dressed up for the occasion in a serious suit and pearls, her hair swept up in a roll held tight by pins. An expert at good behaviour, yet so unpredictable, unlike Grandma Brigitte who’d been stout and laughed a lot, a simple person. She remembered her brother’s comment: Nelly’s a strange bird. Marc watched other people’s lives closely, especially men with women, checking up on the quality of their love. He said some people were meant to be together, and you had to watch them, get the sense of how love works. How much did he know about Nelly and Léonce? She tried to picture her grandfather as Roland but could not at all imagine him the hero who’d landed in a moonlit meadow.
When the waiter came to take her order she was tempted to ask for Scotch but lost her courage and settled on Perrier. The entrées arrived, tarte aux olives for Piers, salmon marinated in dill for Nelly, rabbit pâté with sweet onions for Léonce. Unable to decide, she’d ordered the same and, ravenous, ate three pieces of bread while Nelly picked at thin slices of salmon. Piers Le Gris looked strangely out of place, as though he didn’t quite know what was happening. The St. Cyrs are like that, she could have told him. A sociable situation might be excruciating or completely phoney and yet everyone will laugh and talk as though it’s all quite normal.
The subject moved from Scottish castles to Britain. Piers was telling them about the Druids, pagan priests before the Romans came north. The Celts’ main festivals revolved around the solstices. She accepted a glass of red wine with her lamb and apricots and tried to relax. On her way to the restaurant, she’d imagined making some clever, subtle remark that would tempt Nelly and Léonce to talk about their past, bringing on an eruption of reconciliation, joy, relief. But now she saw the idea was ludicrous. The evening would disappear in a blur, not a word worth remembering.
And then, without warning, the conversation seemed to enter a lull. Fearing the opportunity would get away, she took a deep breath and to no one in particular said, “I’ve decided to change my program of study next year. I hope you won’t be disappointed, Grandpa.”
“Why would I be?” he said. “You’re not leaving university, are you?”
“Oh no.”
“Well then, do tell us more.”
“It’s just that I don’t much like business. I mean, I— That was all pretty much Daddy’s idea, because I didn’t know what I wanted to study. Now I do. At least I’ve been thinking it over.”
She had hoped to disguise the impulse as a wellconsidered change of plans. For the first time since she sat down, all three were listening to her. “I’m going to study history. Modern history. World War Two.”
Léonce kept his eyes on the glass of wine, apparently lost in the colour red, as deep and rich as the taste. Nelly remained still as stone. As if she had slipped into a well of silence, they let her fall.
Finally Piers came to the rescue. “Well, it’s a fascinating period. I did a bit of work on the Resistance while I was at university. Jean-Pierre Azéma came over to give a lecture. He’s at the Sorbonne, or at least he was then. He might be dead. I can recommend his books, though.” Léonce frowned. “History?”
Magali nodded.
“Where are you planning to study? Here?”
“Well,” she hesitated, “I don’t know. Maybe Paris. I’m not sure they offer modern history in Avignon.”
“Of course they do!” Nelly sputt
ered.
“I’ll have to look into the details. It’s, it’s just something I would like to know more about. History, in general. But especially the Second World War in France.”
“I must say,” Léonce said, picking up the bottle to replenish their glasses, “I have difficulty thinking of the war as history. Of course it is, but when you’ve lived through a time and hear it called history — well, it certainly makes you feel old. Don’t you agree?” His question was directed at Nelly.
She replied with a bemused smile. “Of course we are old. How we feel is another question.” Turning to Magali for the first time all evening, she said, “A great deal more information is available about the period today than any of us could have known at the time. Yes, I think this would be the perfect moment to study that particular history. You have the benefit of distance, yet there are still people living who remember. Might I ask what prompted your decision?”
Magali felt the colour rise in her cheeks. Clearly, her sudden interest in history had been a clumsy ruse. Her aunt knew she’d read the diary. It occurred to her that she’d known all along. The first time she’d peeked, the diary had been sitting on the dining-room table; after that, on top of a pile of books, and finally on a chair in the lavender room. Left out on purpose! With a picture of the writer as a young girl tucked between the pages, meant for discovery. Still, she doubted her own judgement. She glanced at Nelly, who seemed to be smiling. Her thoughts raced forward to the possibility that if she said anything more, Nelly might explode and accuse her of stealing secrets. Yet if the conversation slipped away onto some ordinary subject, the moment would be lost forever. She might never know more than one person’s side of the story.
Hoping they didn’t notice her voice shaking, she pressed on, “You did live through exciting times, Grandpa. And yet I’ve never heard. Well, no one ever …”
Léonce was twirling a dessert spoon in his fingers, as if transfixed by the gesture.
Nelly finished the sentence. “No one talks about the past?”
“Not in this family,” Magali blurted out. “At least, not to me.”
Nelly looked away, at a point in the room above their heads. The silence was uncomfortable, as though the subject of secrets must itself be kept secret. Piers seemed to notice too. He shifted position slightly in his chair, brushing his knee against hers. Magali caught his eye and knew he’d done it on purpose. The gesture gave her confidence. “Grandpa, were you part of the war?” In a flat voice, as though it was a simple fact that everyone surely must know, he said, “Yes. I spent time in a German prison camp.” Then he leaned ahead on his elbows and sighed. “You might be better to ask Nelly. She was around too, you know. I’m sure she has a few stories to tell.”
“Only at the beginning,” Nelly said, as though answering an accusation. “I lost touch.”
“Yes. Everything happened so quickly in those days,” he replied. “It’s hard to imagine now, how it all happened so fast, it was a blur. Though at the time, we didn’t live it that way. Each day was … an adventure.”
The air around them crackled. Piers’ leg was now resting firmly against hers. The silence seemed to paralyze them. She knew nothing more would be said, at least for now, yet a great deal had been revealed. She wondered if Piers knew the details. Had Nelly told him the story of Roland and Murielle, their secret names? How they were in love but Roland ruined it all. A mistake, meaning her father should have been Nelly’s child, Nelly her grandmother. Her thoughts whirled and she thought of Brigitte, a big, cheerful, utterly loveable woman. She had great memories of sitting on her grandmother’s soft lap in the rocking chair. But what an awful thing to do! How could she steal Nelly’s love?
She could feel tears rising and bit her lip, but just then the cell phone rang, startling them all. It was sitting on the table beside Nelly. Léonce took the call. Murmuring a few words, he jotted down an address on a table napkin and stood up.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “There’s someone I have to meet. I’m afraid it’s quite important. I hope you will excuse me.”
“Oh, Grandpa, please!” Magali pleaded. “We haven’t finished our meal.”
Léonce apologized but remained firm. He insisted on paying the bill, promising Piers an opportunity to return the gesture.
With Léonce gone, Magali and Nelly began to relax. Piers signalled for the dessert menu and the women embraced the decision with enthusiasm. Nelly weighed the choices and settled on a rich pastry which, as always, she would nibble and abandon. Magali ordered a chocolate mousse and savoured it to the last morsel.
“So, history,” Piers began, hoping the subject could be revisited with greater insight now that a mysteriously tense mood had lifted. But Magali said she’d have to give the idea more thought, and Nelly started on about the exhibition at the Petit Palais, telling Magali she should pay a visit. Don’t you agree, Monsieur Le Gris?
As they walked back to rue des Griffons, it occurred to Piers this night would surely be revisited in his mind’s eye. At moments during the meal, he’d felt like a stranger lost in the spaces between words. Despite their pretence at conversation, on the walk back, both women seemed deep in private thoughts and had no intention of letting him in. He said goodnight at the door, claiming he needed a walk.
THIRTEEN
ALMOST MIDNIGHT, THE STREETS WERE empty, shutters closed, shop blinds pulled down and locked. A battered instrument case slung over his shoulder, Mouloud followed the side streets, dodging bright lights, keeping in the shadows. He was sure his old man must be gone by now, back to his vines and grief. A friend had tipped him off to his father’s unannounced visit. He’d stayed out of sight all afternoon and spent the evening in the basement of an abandoned building on rue Roi René, playing music with a chaabi band.
Entering Place de la Principale at a fast clip, he was thinking about Selim and how lucky he was to be in on the action. It was all so simple when somebody showed you the ropes. Selim knew the music scene in Marseille and had offered to give him connections. There would, of course, be favours to return, but for the first time in ages a road stretched ahead. Avignon was a hole. Once he got to Marseille, everything would change.
Lost in thought, he didn’t hear the clop-clop of hard-soled boots approaching from behind. A hand grabbed his arm and twisted, yanked him into an unlit alley, shoved his face against the wall. The instrument case clanked and fell to the ground. He caught a glimpse of the thick-necked stranger with a switchblade in one hand, gripping the back of his neck with the other.
“You’ve got something for the boss,” he growled, jamming Mouloud’s head against the stone. “Hand it over.”
“I did!”
“All of it.”
“Marco— Marco took everything,” Mouloud gasped. “I didn’t—”
“Shut up, liar,” the thug hissed. “You’re stupid, kid. You thought Selim wouldn’t notice? Well he did, and he wants his shit back, all of it.” He tightened his grip and slammed him again, as if he were barely holding back from crushing him like a flea. A stab of pain, blood gushed from his forehead into his eyes. From somewhere behind, shouts in a language he didn’t understand and the thug released his grip. Mouloud slid down the wall, wiped the blood from his eyes in time to see the attacker backing away. His face was scarred, eyes wild with hateful glee. He had deeply bowed legs and massive shoulders. From a distance, somebody shouted at him to follow.
“You’ll hear from us,” he snarled at Mouloud, and took off.
Mouloud staggered over to pick up his case and started walking. He could hardly see for blood. Leaning on the side of the building, he bent over, gripped by a wave of nausea.
A voice from the shadows called his name. He looked up. It was Piers Le Gris.
“You all right?”
Mouloud turned away, but Piers blocked his path. The pool of water at his feet was red. The sight of his own blood
made him dizzy. His head throbbed. He began to sway, felt a hand on his elbow. As if his feet no longer touched the ground, he was floating down the narrow rue du Chapeau Rouge. The storefronts were blurry.
Finally the strange dance stopped outside an open door. Peering into the gloom, he saw the place was crowded, some kind of bar with music in the background. Piers gave him a shove and they lurched ahead, through the crowd, toward the back of the room. A woman with masses of stiff blonde hair and big earrings was on her way out. She shrank along the wall when she saw them, as if the mess might rub off. Piers dragged him into the toilet, turned on the tap and pulled down a handful of towels. It hurt like hell, but a few minutes later Mouloud’s face was presentable.
They took a booth at the end of the room, Piers sliding in with his back to the wall. The last of the jazz spots to close, Bazou Bar had a murky warmth, candles in jars on each of a dozen thick wooden tables and spots focused on a makeshift stage along the side wall. A rag-tag band was playing a sloppy kind of improv to a handful of fans, most of them crowded around one large table next to the stage. The centre of the action was a buxom woman stuffed into a shiny white tube dress, enthralled by the delusion she could sing like Billie Holiday.
“What’s your position on drink?” Piers said. Unsure of what he meant, Mouloud said nothing. Piers caught the waiter’s eye, held up two fingers, and a few minutes later, two glasses of Stella Artois arrived at their table. He took a sip and sat back, closed his eyes, lost in the music. Mouloud didn’t much like the taste of beer but he was thirsty. Glancing at the door, he considered leaving but hesitated, wondering if the thugs would be waiting. The encounter had left him dizzy, confusion far worse than the gash on his head. What did the lout mean: Selim wants his shit back? He’d delivered the parcel, as agreed. Marco had tipped him. Maybe he’d lied, kept it himself and thrown the blame back. Fear of Selim’s anger made his stomach tighten. He was counting on Selim. Everything depended on their deal and Selim’s help.
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