‘Stop that,’ snapped Barbusse.
Joliot grinned. ‘In the morning, a man should be allowed to piss.’
‘I know that,’ said Barbusse. ‘But, stop it all the same. I’d rather you saved it. It might be useful later.’
‘Sorry,’ chuckled Joliot, ‘but don’t despair. I might have something better soon.’
The dust clouds were nearer. Now it was possible for all of the defenders to see the trucks as they bounced over the rocks, ruts and potholes. Barbusse could distinguish the driver of the front vehicle holding on to the steering wheel as the bounding vehicle sought to toss him from the cab. Barbusse could picture the men inside, sitting in two grim and uncomfortable rows - on either side of the vehicle. There were two trucks. Therefore, there were probably twenty-four men, plus an officer or two.
‘To arms, to arms!’ shouted Barbusse as the lorries stopped fifty yards short of the chasm. His defensive team leant over the battlements and watched the police dismount. When they were in three lines, an inspector ordered them to stand easy, then he turned towards the village. He strode resolutely to the very edge of the steep drop to the valley, and stood, his hands on his hips, looking up at the unshaven figure sitting on the gate arch sixty feet above.
‘You up there. Yes, you. Open the gate.’
‘No,’ replied Barbusse. ‘Go away and leave us in peace.’
‘Amen,’ added Father Benoir, crossing himself.
‘You’re being very foolish,’ shouted the police inspector. He had to lean so far backwards in order to see Barbusse that his kepi slipped off the back of his head. He picked it up, put it on - and it fell off a second time as he looked up again. ‘All I want to do is to talk to your Mayor,’ he said, at last. ‘Either I should be allowed across, or your mayor should come out.’
Barbusse grinned. ‘I can see the difficulty you’re in,’ he called down. ‘If you’re close to us, so’s we can hear you, your hat falls off. If you go further away, then we might as well be deaf.’
The police inspector shook his fist at him.
Yves d’Arle pushed his face close to Barbusse and whispered. Barbusse laughed, then turned back to the police inspector again. ‘Okay, we’ll be reasonable. Suppose we agree to let you speak to one of our senior citizens - through the keyhole of the main gate - will that satisfy you? Will you then go away and leave us alone? ‘
The police inspector pondered. If he retreated now, he would have to admit total failure to his superiors. At least the interview would look better in his report. He held on his kepi with one hand, and strained his head back. ‘I won’t promise,’ he yelled. ‘But I welcome the chance to have a sensible discussion.’
‘Then you may come as far as the gate,’ shouted Barbusse. The inspector turned to his men. Barbusse watched as they broke ranks and ran back to one of the trucks, to reappear a few moments later with a long ladder. They carried it to the edge of the chasm and balanced it vertically. It obviously would not reach up the walls.
‘Let go,’ ordered the inspector, and Barbusse and the defenders of St Pierre-des-Monts watched as the ladder dropped in a long arc. Its top clattered against the oak door. The ladder bounced dangerously against the narrow rock ledge that was all that remained of the bridge, then settled into the dust, forming a narrow catwalk across the gorge. The officer walked forward and tested the ladder with his foot. It sprang like a diving board as it bore his weight.
‘The man could be killed,’ said Father Benoir.
‘It would be his own fault, Father,’ grunted Alphonse Joliot.
‘No matter,’ said the priest. ‘I do not want a death of this nature on our consciences. Throw him down a rope as a safety line.’
‘Father ...’ began Barbusse.
‘A rope,’ insisted Father Benoir. ‘Wait!’ he called down to the inspector. ‘Let us help you.’
A thin coil of rope unwound as it was tossed off the top of the battlements towards the far side of the chasm. The inspector saluted a curt acknowledgement and tied it round his waist. Then, using the ladder rungs as stepping stones, he walked confidently across to the oak door.
Barbusse knelt on the pavement of the battlement and put his face to the gutters that the original castle builders had intended as chutes for molten lead. He could just make out the figure of the inspector standing before the oak door below, trying to balance himself on the narrow ledge that had no handhold. ‘Be careful not to laugh,’ called Barbusse. ‘The shaking of your body may dislodge you.’
The kepi below nodded.
‘The senior citizen will be there any minute now.’ The inspector heard the words echo hollowly from the square holes in the overhanging battlement. He pressed his eye to the keyhole of the oak door, and jerked back in surprise. Watching him from the other side was another eye. He staggered to regain his balance.
Above, Barbusse breathed as silently as he could in order to hear the inspector’s words.
‘Be reasonable,’ he heard the man say. ‘After all, you are only a small village and you cannot hope to defeat the authority of a complete nation. It is a question of civil discipline. All we demand is that you allow official entry and exit into St Pierre- des-Monts.’
There were long pauses between sections of the inspector’s speech as he awaited replies. None appeared to come, for Barbusse heard him mutter and then exclaim, angrily. ‘I know you’re there. This sort of behaviour will not in any way help matters.’
‘Inspector!’ shouted Barbusse down the gutter. ‘May I suggest something?’ The kepi nodded again. ‘If you want a reply, then say peanut to him. He’s a little eccentric.’ The kepi moved again. Barbusse heard a long fart tear through the still morning air, then the familiar rendering of ‘I’ll kiss your little hand, madame’. There was an angry movement below Barbusse.
‘Very funny,’ shouted the inspector. ‘You are just wasting my time, and trying to make a fool of me.’ The police inspector edged his way round carefully, until he was again facing the ladder. He walked stiffly and slowly across the rungs till he was back on the other side of the chasm. Then he turned to face Barbusse and the defenders standing on the battlements, grinning.
‘You will regret your action,’ he shouted up at them, his kepi falling to the ground behind him. ‘Now it is a matter for the military. They will not be so understanding.’
Barbusse made a rude sign with his fingers. The inspector turned and gave an order to his men. They dragged back the ladder and loaded it on to the truck. The inspector began to loosen the safety rope from around his waist. He picked up his kepi, and took a couple of steps towards the truck. He paused and thought for a second, then turned once again to the battlements.
‘I am grateful for one thing,’ he shouted. ‘That there was one of you with sufficient humanity to see that at least there was no possibility of a regrettable accident. Thank you for the rope.’
‘It was nothing, inspector,’ laughed Barbusse. ‘We hadn’t fastened it to anything this end, anyway.’
‘What’ll happen now?’ asked Father Benoir. He peered over the tops of his glasses at the police trucks, their reverse gears whining as they bumped backwards down the mountain track.
Colonel Lorraine twirled his cane and looked at the villagers gathered around him. ‘It is quite predictable. First we will be visited by members of the Press. It is also predictable that they will arrive shortly. You can be certain that at least one of those policemen augments his salary by passing information to local newspapermen.. .’
Constable Chaminade spluttered in the background.
‘But we don’t want any publicity. It would bring appalling problems,’ said Father Benoir.
Colonel Lorraine adjusted his monocle. ‘They will come. We will ignore them. No one will cross the gorge.’
‘And afterwards? When they go away, what then?’ asked Joliot.
‘The journalists will simply write that something is happening in a small French village. There is nothing for them to write, if they know
nothing. And then, we will be attacked.’
‘Attacked? Seriously attacked? ‘ Father Benoir was horrified.
‘Your forces of evil, I’m afraid, Father,’ replied Colonel Lorraine. ‘Knowing the military mind, and the mentality of local government, we will certainly be attacked.’
‘Guns? Tanks? Bombers?’
Colonel Lorraine smiled grimly. ‘I doubt it. Remember, this is Admiral Dordogne’s village. No, they will do what I would do if I were in their boots. First, a diplomatic approach, which we had yesterday. Then if that failed, which it did, a small show of force, which we’ve just had. Finally, the military . . . stone shields, face masks, steel helmets, perhaps even a whiff of tear gas. They will expect us to surrender immediately.’
‘But why?’ asked d’Arle. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong. There are no criminals here. No demonstrators. This is no hideout for a Martin Bormann.’
Colonel Lorraine coughed. ‘Regrettably, authority is a pyramid. And we are the bricks at the bottom of the pyramid. If we are allowed to remove ourselves, a brick above us will slip, then another and another until authority itself ceases to exist. It’s unfortunate, but that is how it is. And that is why authority must interfere with us, why it interferes with hippies and those who don’t conform. It likes to keep the bricks of the pyramid secure. Unfortunately for authority the world over, we are in the happy position of knowing that its time is drawing to an end.’
‘There is only one authority,’ cried Father Benoir. ‘And it is for that superior authority that I must fight, for which we must all be prepared to fight.’
‘Amen,’ said Mortimer Moreau, the village undertaker.
Exactly as the Mayor predicted, the Press came. They drove up the mountain in a variety of vehicles, parked them before the chasm and shouted questions to those standing on the battlements above. And, also as Colonel Lorraine had said, they waited, pleaded, cajoled, threatened. But no one spoke so much as a single word to them.
Long lenses propped on rocks below the town walls took a thousand photographs of the defenders above. A few journalists tried bribes to get entry to the town. Others tried subterfuge. None was successful. As the evening became chilly, they climbed back into their vehicles and drove away.
Saint Peter waved a sheaf of papers at God. ‘I’m worried,’ he said. ‘It’s a matter of future population.’
‘You think that’s a problem?’ asked God. ‘You should be here on this side of the desk. My problem is one of depopulation. How many thousands of millions of gallons of water to sink New York? The height above sea level of Mexico City and what do I do about that? Shall I melt one, or two ice-caps? Do I need vast electric storms to swell the currents, or will it be enough to just wobble the odd Continental Shelf? You have problems? My boy, everybody has problems!’
‘Did you know there are less than a hundred people in your chosen village?’ queried Saint Peter, raising his eyebrows, huffily. ‘And most of these are nearing the limit of child-bearing age, anyway. Their chances of repopulating the earth are out of the question, unless some miracle happens.’
‘Tish, tosh and poppycock,’ said God. ‘You’re panicking. All will be well, you have my word for it. Now stop fussing about and go and get me a cup of coffee.’
‘It’s bad for your nerves, Lord,’ said Saint Peter.
God thumped his hand on his desk top. ‘Peter,’ he roared. ‘You’re doing it again! Denying me!’
Saint Peter blushed, and turned to leave.
‘No, wait, Peter,’ said God, quietly. ‘Don’t get your feathers in a twist, it really will be all right. I’ve taken steps to see that the population increases as quickly as possible.’
‘Thank you,’ smiled Saint Peter.
‘There’s a good lad, then,’ grinned God. ‘Now go and get me that drink... And, remember, no sugar...’
The concrete eyes of Grand Admiral Dordogne’s statue peered sightlessly into Josephine’s bedroom. Barbusse looked at them and shuddered. He picked up Josephine’s frilly brassiere, leant out of the window and hung it across the Admiral’s face, the straps over his ears, the cups, like blinkers, in front of the inquisitive eyes.
‘Much better,’ he grunted, turning towards Josephine who reclined on her great bed. Josephine pouted. Barbusse shrugged. ‘I am a man of considerable modesty,’ he informed her. She raised an eyebrow. ‘What occurs between lovers is a matter of great privacy. It is not for the eyes of outsiders,’ continued Barbusse, loosening his belt and tearing the flies of his trousers open with one sweep. He stepped out of one camouflaged leg and balanced himself while he removed the other.
‘You are wasting your time,’ said Josephine, as Barbusse began to unbutton his shirt.
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Barbusse, abandoning the operation, and walking urgently towards the bed. Josephine rolled herself to the far edge, and pulled the sheets up to her chin.
Barbusse jerked the bedclothes and tried to climb in beside her. She pushed him out again with her foot. He grinned. ‘Aha, my little chicken. Tonight you intend to make your Barbusse struggle for his supper . . .’
Josephine frowned. ‘Tonight, my Barbusse is going to bed hungry.’
Barbusse scowled. ‘Hungry . . . you tease your big Barbusse. How can a strong man like myself exist without his daily ration? ‘
‘You are about to find out,’ said Josephine, primly. ‘You have been taking advantage of my generosity for far too long.’
‘Me? Taking advantage? But . . .’ Barbusse considered the row of bottles in Josephine’s cellar that made his own bar appear ill-stocked.
‘You starve me of affection . . .’ said Josephine, pulling the bedclothes more tightly around her.
Barbusse stuttered. ‘Starved? Of affection? But, but ... here ... every night ... for two hours or more ...’
‘For two hours or more, you great clown, you parade yourself in front of me . . . feasting yourself on my reactions . . . while ... in order to please you ... I remain hungry ...’
‘I... er ... well ... but ...’
‘Sit down, Barbusse,’ ordered Josephine. ‘You look ridiculous standing there in only your shirt and socks. The time has arrived when we must have a sensible talk.’
‘Yes?’ Barbusse sat heavily on the side of the bed.
Josephine sat up, carefully arranging the bedclothes so that they covered all of her apart from her face. ‘I have been reading my Bible ...’
‘It doesn’t say that you can’t fu--’ began Barbusse.
‘Be silent,’ said Josephine. ‘The hour of retribution is at hand ...’
‘Oh, my God,’ groaned Barbusse. ‘Would you like me to go out and make you a placard? ‘
Josephine silenced him with a cold and haughty stare. ‘You sit on a bed, Barbusse, which has supported bodies of such aristocracy, that it is a wonder it does not personally take you by the scruff of your neck and toss you into the street again . . .’
‘Oh, good Lord,’ grunted Barbusse. ‘The woman has been possessed ... I shall go and get Father Benoir . . .’
‘Be still ...’ snapped Josephine. ‘Barbusse, I have given much thought to the matter. You are assisting towards my eternal damnation as much as any other ...’
Barbusse’s eyes widened. ‘I... er... I am? ‘
‘Yes,’ said Josephine. ‘Should I find myself floating through an eternal Hell, pursued by a million devils, then you, Barbusse, will be responsible.’
‘Me? What in Heaven’s have I done? ‘
‘You have contributed to my downfall.’
‘Downfall, woman?’ Barbusse frowned at her. ‘I haven’t done anything to you that others haven’t done. Perhaps I may have done it better ... and more often, but … ‘
‘Exactly! But you had no cause to do it in the manner you chose.’
‘But... I only did it norm -- ’
‘You are single,’ said Josephine, sharply. ‘The others are married. In their case it is excusable. In your case, it is dishonest.’
‘You . . . yes, you, Barbusse,’ said Josephine, accusingly. ‘You could have asked me to marry you.’
‘Marry? ‘
‘Yes,’ said Josephine, firmly. ‘And the others could not.’
‘Brilliant . . . brilliant reasoning,’ he sighed.
‘And so, if I go to Hell, it will be your fault.’
Barbusse tapped his temple. ‘You have gone mad,’ he said. ‘Quite mad.’
Josephine pulled down the side of the bedclothes until her breast was showing. Barbusse looked at it. ‘That is my right breast,’ she said.
‘I know the difference between one of your tits and a watermelon,’ growled Barbusse.
‘Then remember what it looks like, because it’s going to be a long time before you see it again.’ Josephine turned her back on him.
‘Think ...’ ordered Barbusse’s penis. ‘Think hard before you say anything. It could be a long hard winter . . . several long hard and lonely winters.’
Barbusse sat and thought. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘You have me over a wine cask.’ Josephine turned her head a little towards him. Barbusse drew a deep breath. ‘Josephine ... I have decided that the time has come to make you an--’
Josephine shrieked, ‘You dare, Barbusse . . . you dare say what you are going to say and I’ll scratch your eyes out.’
Barbusse swallowed. The gentle Josephine seemed to have become a wildcat. He began again. ‘I, er . . . oh, God . . . will you marry me?’
‘No,’ snapped Josephine. ‘Certainly not. The women in my family have never married.’
‘Then ... but ... why? ‘
‘I will consider marriage,’ said Josephine. ‘I will give it thought... no more.’
‘Then, what? ‘
‘A woman needs time to make up her mind,’ said Josephine smugly. ‘I need plenty of time. Meanwhile, as you have asked me to marry you, and as I consider it a serious proposal, I will give it the correct amount of thought. I am prepared to be your fiancée during that period.’
Beyond The Rainbow Page 10