Barbusse raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Very wise,’ he said, weakly. ‘You are now my fiancée.’
Josephine turned back to face him. She smiled. ‘Of course, I shall have to give up all the others
‘But of course! You’ll be mine, and mine only. And that at least three times a day.’
‘Yes, I will keep myself only for you ...’
‘Good.’
‘A fiancée has certain privileges ... beyond those of others.’
‘Good,’ said Barbusse again, his voice tired.
‘You may therefore come to bed and take advantage of my good nature,’ said Josephine, sweetly.
Barbusse stood and began unbuttoning his shirt again. ‘I am amazed that the army never considered using a recording of a woman’s chatter instead of bromide,’ he said, sadly looking down at himself.
Grand Admiral Dordogne liked only one thing that was British - cereals, bacon and eggs, toast and chunky marmalade, and tea for breakfast. It was a habit he’d developed while in exile in London during the war, and, although he dearly loved his English breakfast, inevitably, it made him testy and unapproachable for an hour afterwards. ‘Indigestion,’ whispered his colleagues, wisely. ‘A totally unsuitable beginning to a day.’ In a way, they were right, but it wasn’t the food that made the Admiral testy - it was guilt at enjoying something British.
The sculptor who had fashioned the statue in the village of St Pierre-des-Monts had not only been a devoted worshipper of Admiral Dordogne, he had been a flatterer as well. The statue’s ears were prominent; masculine and substantial. In life, however, when viewed from behind, their proportions made the Grand Admiral’s head look like a mounted butterfly. In his early days, his ears had been the butt of many jokes in the naval academy. ‘Never sail the Indian ocean, Midshipman Dordogne,’ his fellow students warned. ‘If you sail into a whirlwind, you’ll have your head screwed off.’ Midshipman Dordogne had laughed politely, but had mentally catalogued the names of his tormentors. Now, more than four decades later, all who were still in the service were in singularly disagreeable posts.
It was dawn when the Grand Admiral entered the breakfast room of his Paris apartments. As usual, he had been awake for over an hour and had bathed and shaved carefully. Now, already dressed as though expecting a visit from another head of state, he sat elegantly at the table and made his first important decision of the day - should he have cornflakes, or porridge?
Beside the breakfast table was a long trolley. It stood, positioned exactly one third of a metre from the President’s left hand. On it, in neat array, were copies of all the French daily newspapers. Below, on another shelf, in an order of importance decided years before by the President, were the foreign journals.
Admiral Dordogne raised an eyebrow. The barely detectable signal indicated to his maid that he had decided upon cornflakes. As she curtseyed and passed a bowl from the serving table, the President reached out his hand, without even looking, and picked up the morning’s copy of Le Monde.
‘Armies massing on Sino-Russo frontier,’ read the Admiral. He already knew all the available details on that one - indeed, he’d been up until two a.m., discussing the possibility of France’s mediation between the nations.
‘New American underground nuclear test.’ The Admiral smiled. He’d have to make an official protest about that now that France’s own series of experiments had been completed.
‘French aid to starving Indians.’ Admiral Dordogne nodded to himself. He alone had found a way to solve their population problems. His Deuxième Bureau officials had mixed contraceptive pills shaped like rice granules to the million kilos of grain despatched to the disaster area. The Admiral was able to do it with a clear conscience. After all, the Indians were Hindu, not Catholic.
‘Lockout by Admiral’s home village.’ The Admiral crunched his way through a spoonful of cornflakes. Amazing how the Press and the whole of France loved the small community where he was born. Yet, when he was a child not a soul fifteen miles from the village even knew of its existence. He smiled. Good old Lorraine. A staunch man, Lorraine. He’d proved a loyal and trustworthy friend. A pity he’d retired now. ‘I was abused from the battlements, claims Police Chief.’ Admiral Dordogne’s smile died. He snatched at the newspaper with his other hand, and brought the news item closer to his nose. The milk from the spoon he was holding trickled unnoticed down his sleeve to his elbow, where it dripped out through the cloth of his blue suit.
Admiral Dordogne’s ears glowed a vivid scarlet. He tossed aside the copy of Le Monde and snatched another newspaper from the trolley. He scanned the front page then threw it down angrily. The cornflake spoon clattered into a corner.
The President picked up his telephone and pressed a button beside it. ‘Hello ... hello. Ah ... Duprès. Good God, man, have you seen the papers, yet? My village. Some sort of revolt. You knew? Oh, good morning, Madame Duprès ... Yes, I suppose some might think it early. Duprès, damn you, get back on the line . . . Ah, Duprès. Get over here at once. With an explanation.’
The President tossed down the receiver.
‘The sun is shining, the birds sing, and all is good in the village,’ said Father Benoir to Mayor Colonel Lorraine. The two men stood at the top of the church steps watching the villagers at work in the square. Beside them, the pigeons strutted and displayed themselves.
‘The women surprise me,’ agreed the Mayor. ‘Look at them. Every one with a smiling face . . . and more colour. Rosy cheeked - perhaps the spring sunshine.’
Father Benoir laughed. ‘Even Madame d’Arle. Look at her ... have you ever seen her eyes sparkle like that?’
‘Even more surprising,’ said the Mayor. ‘Not five minutes ago, I saw Madame Laplace kiss Henri ... it is truly the work of the dear Lord. That really is a miracle.’
‘The women are the Lord’s barometer,’ smiled the Priest. ‘I remember being told that at college: “Watch them, while you speak your sermons . . . they’ll soon let you know if all is not well!” ‘
‘You have an old head,’ said the Mayor. ‘And that makes you a wise leader.’ He stopped speaking and listened for a moment. ‘Hear them laughing and chattering? I’ve never known the women of this village so contented - all of them.’
‘It is indeed God’s work,’ said Father Benoir, happily.
‘It’s all your bloody fault.’ Farmer Joliot clumped into Barbusse’s bar at lunch-time, scowling and ill-tempered. He leant across the counter and glared into the barman’s face. ‘You’re a stinking bastard, Toto,’ he added.
Barbusse looked surprised. ‘Me ... a bastard? What the hell ... ?’
‘Joliot’s right, for a change,’ chimed in Yves d’Arle.
‘Well, thanks,’ grunted Barbusse. ‘I put myself at risk organizing the defence of the village, and suddenly, I’m the local cesspit.’
Henri Laplace slid his empty glass across the counter for a refill. ‘I’m surprised, at a time like this, you, Toto, should feather your nest at our expense.’
‘Yes, I’ve been having to screw my own wife,’ announced Yves d’Arle, flatly.
Barbusse scowled at him. ‘What do you expect me to do ... help you celebrate? Pay for a round of drinks? Buy cigars for everyone? ‘
‘And what about me?’ asked Henri Laplace. ‘Why d’you think I’m here, drinking? I’m getting up courage because the thought of what I’ve got to do tonight has been frightening me all day.’
‘It’s been worse for me than anyone,’ grumbled Farmer Joliot. ‘I’ve been spending all week putting my herd to the bull. Fifteen of them this morning, groaning and moaning with enjoyment. God, it’s made me so horny.’
‘And you call me a stinking bastard!’ exclaimed Barbusse. ‘You’re just a perverted voyeur.’
‘It may be better for all of us if we don’t speak to Barbusse any more, in view of the fact he’s set himself up outside our circle of friends,’ said Henri Laplace.
Yves dArle turned his back to the bar. ‘That suits me.
’
‘Me, too,’ said Farmer Joliot. ‘From this second onwards, Barbusse will cease to exist, as far as I am concerned. Just because he’s cornered the crumpet market, he thinks he’s something special.’
‘Oh . . .’ groaned Barbusse. ‘So that’s it!’ He thought of the flag outside Josephine’s window that now flew, permanently, at the top of the flagmast - a sign that she was unavailable. He had been so occupied with his own thoughts of his unexpected engagement that its effects on the other men of the village hadn’t occurred to him. He sighed.
Joliot grunted, then belched. ‘As far as I’m concerned, Barbusse has gone and hanged himself. He is dead ... buried. His name will never be mentioned by me again.’
‘It’ll be as though he was never even here,’ said Henri Laplace, firmly.
Barbusse reached for the bottle again. ‘Does anyone here care to have a free drink with the non-existent Barbusse?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ the three men answered, simultaneously.
The plastic cockpit cover was long and narrow, and the sun seared through it, turning the interior into a miniature hothouse. Morry Cohen wiped the back of his glove across his face and looked at the rear of the pilot’s head. From either side of the flying helmet, Morry could see whiskers sprouting. They twitched as the pilot spoke through his intercom.
‘Why are you here? ‘ asked the metallic voice.
‘Newspaperman,’ said Morry. ‘Morning Star of David’
The aircraft juddered violently, sideslipped and jerked back into line again.
‘Sorry,’ said the pilot. ‘I got drunk last night. The air show. Always get drunk at air shows. We all do. So bloody boring.’
‘Boring? ‘ asked Morry.
‘Like taking kids for donkey rides ... ‘ The aircraft dropped twenty metres. ‘Air pocket... not booze. Is it any good - newspapers, I mean? ‘
‘Maybe, if you don’t work for my one - and pick one that isn’t run by your uncle.’
‘Same trouble as me ... family business. No good.’
‘This is a family business? ‘
‘Sort of,’ said the pilot. ‘The Chief of Fighter Command and my mother ... You know.’ He waggled his head. ‘Puts me in an unique position, really. I suppose you want to go faster than sound, and all that jazz? A few rolls and loops maybe? Beat up a farm cart or two ... ? ‘ He flicked the aircraft sideways into a screaming dive that rammed Morry’s stomach against his spine and made him swallow hard to restore his hearing.
‘Hey . . .’ protested Morry.
‘You like it?’ asked the pilot. His voice sounded surprised. The aircraft was now travelling along upsidedown and when Morry lifted his head, he could see the distant earth above him. Sweat now ran up his face.
‘This is a good trick,’ continued the pilot. He swung the aircraft the right way up again, and hurtled it skyward almost vertically. The engine began to stutter. ‘Damn,’ said the pilot. ‘If I get it just right, I can get the engine to go bom, tiddle, bom-bom ... bom-bom ... before it cuts right out. Maybe we’ve got a sparrow or something in the jet.’
The aircraft’s nose dropped. Morry had an uncomfortable feeling that everything was sliding the wrong way. The pilot allowed it to continue dropping until it was in a steep dive, then the motor picked up and he accelerated into a level flight before making a series of victory rolls.
‘I feel ...’ began Morry.
‘I thought you might,’ came the pilot’s voice. ‘You’ll upset the technicians, though, if you are. They hate having to clean the things out afterwards. Bloody airshows. I would have been at St Tropez with my bird today.’
‘Where . . . ? ‘ spluttered Morry.
‘Saint Trop... oh, you mean that where? There’s a compartment by your left ear. The white handle . . . there’s a paper bag in there. I’ll keep the bus lev . . .’
Morry stretched out blindly and pulled a handle. Had he looked he would have seen it was red.
There was a loud bang above his head, and the rear half of the cockpit cover was torn away. A cloth blind smashed down over Morry’s face, and there was another explosion, this time beneath him. Wind shrieked past him and tried to pull his arms from his shoulders. He somersaulted backwards. ‘Stop it . . . stop it!’ he tried to shout through the cloth. ‘You said you’d fly level ... oh, my God . . .’
There was a jerk, so severe that it seemed as though he had been struck under his seat by a steam hammer. He was rapidly joggled, twisted and shaken. The cloth blind tore away. The noise died ... all the noise except for a gentle whine of wind. Morry opened his eyes ...
And screamed ...
There was no pilot in front of him - and no aircraft around him. He looked down, and was relieved to find he was still in his seat. Below, however, were clouds. He shook his head and looked above him. There, billowing, and almost sexual in appearance, was a huge, white parachute.
Father Benoir sat contentedly on the steps of the church and looked up at the flat stem of the ark. It reared vertically before him like a huge wooden wall. He couldn’t see the bows from where he sat, as the hull stretched diagonally across the village square to the corner where Barbusse’s bar stood, but he knew that even from the front the vessel looked just the same, flat- ended, like a long wooden box.
Strange that, thought Father Benoir. Nothing like the ark he’d always imagined Noah had built. No sharp bows to cut through the flood waters . . .
Still, he was overjoyed. There wasn’t much more work to do now. He listened happily to the hollow sound of men hammering as they worked on the cabins and animal stalls inside the hull.
‘Praise be to the Lord our God,’ murmured Father Benoir, raising his eyes to the sky. His mouth opened, shut, then opened again. A strange sound came out.
‘What’s wrong, Father?’ Yves d’Arle’s voice was filled with concern.
The young priest seemed in the throes of a convulsion. He gave up trying to speak and pointed upwards with a wavering finger.
Yves dArle’s eyes followed the direction indicated, and they widened in astonishment. But he swiftly recovered, and ran out into the square. ‘Invasion! Invasion. Parachutists.’
It was only a few seconds before his cry was taken up and echoed round the whole village. Women and children poured into the streets and stared upwards.
The villagers watched breathlessly as the parachutist swung away towards Right Tit, caught an air current and swung back again until he appeared to hover over the centre of the village.
’My God!’ shouted Toto Barbusse, lowering his binoculars. ‘He’s coming down in an armchair. It never used to be like that.’
‘Peacetime soldiers,’ grunted Colonel Lorraine. ‘And stop shouting, Barbusse. Just capture him when he lands.’ Barbusse grabbed a pike from the racks that had been placed by the battlement steps . . . ‘Just a minute,’ ordered Colonel Lorraine. ‘I want him alive . . . Barbusse.’
Barbusse nodded, and reluctantly lowered the point of the pike.
Morry was no longer feeling sick. However he now had hiccups. He had become used to the gentle dropping motion of the parachute, and was even beginning to enjoy the sensation a little. He had passed, shivering, through a thin layer of white cloud and had been quite surprised to see the village below him. At first, he had thought he would smash into one of the nearby mountain peaks, but now it was clear he would land on the town. He wondered where - there were some uncomfortable looking high-ridged roofs below him . . . approaching with seemingly increasing speed.
There was a coffin in the village square, he noted. It had, at first, seemed like a normal-sized coffin, surrounded by midget houses. Now, it was growing into one of monolithic proportions, sandwiched between full-sized buildings.
He wondered whether it was part of a pageant. Morry shuddered. One never knew with small mountain communities . . . werewolves and vampires and monsters. Such a superstitious lot, villagers.
The coffin was getting closer and larger, and so was the red-tiled roof of the
building directly below Morry. He tried wriggling, in an attempt to miss it. He was just wondering what else he could do, when he hit it. Fortunately for him, it was only the frame of the ejector seat that struck the tiles. He bounced clear, and continued his downward journey, his parachute scraping the edge of the building. There was a blur of movement around him. Everything seemed to happen at once. His seat thudded into a cobbled square, rocked a little, but remained upright and the ‘chute settled slowly around him, like a white tent.
‘He’s in there somewhere,’ said a voice.
‘Don’t touch him, he might explode. Could be a booby trap,’ said another.
Morry felt himself being poked in the chest with something sharp. ‘I’m a journalist . . .’ he shouted through the muffling folds of cloth. ‘Morning Star of David. Help me. I’ve fallen out of a plane.’
Someone lifted the edge of the parachute. ‘Come out,’ ordered Barbusse, poking again with the pike. ‘And one false move and I’ll make you think you’re a kebab.’
The parachute was pulled completely away. And Morry Cohen sat there before the villagers, like a pale king on a throne.
‘This ... this ... and this ...’ said Toto Barbusse. He threw a handful of Morry’s belongings on to a pile of wood in front of Colonel Lorraine. ‘And . . .’he said, with finality, ‘this Press card.’ He turned to Morry who was being held by his arms, by Yves d’Arle and Alphonse Joliot. ‘I suppose you think you’ve been clever getting into our village like this.’
‘It will make no difference,’ said Yes d’Arle, coldly. ‘You will be thrown outside, like the others.’
‘Only we may throw you from the battlements,’ said Joliot.
Colonel Lorraine looked at the Press card, examined the fountainpen, and counted the small change. ‘Nothing else? ‘ he asked Barbusse.
Beyond The Rainbow Page 11