[13]
"Lazarus, Lazarus, can you hear me?"
Thomas knelt beside the little man on the cobbles. Strangers were milling about behind him. Blood trickled incessantly from Alcoba's wounds. He had been hit by several bullets in the chest and stomach. He lay motionless now, his eyes closed. The nervous twitching of his lips had ceased.
"Lazarus ..." groaned Thomas Lieven.
At that the little hunchback opened his eyes. Their pupils
were already dim. But Lazarus had recognized the man bending over him. He murmured: "Get going, Jean, get going. That was meant for you ..." A torrent of blood poured from his mouth.
"Don't talk, Lazarus," Thomas begged his friend. But the hunchback whispered: "The bloke called out 'Leblanc!' before he .. . taking me for you . .."
Tears of rage and grief stung Thomas's eyes. "Don't talk, Lazarus. A doctor will be here in a moment . . . they'll operate. . ."
"It's ... it's too late . .." The hunchback looked steadily at Thomas. Then he suddenly grinned craftily and mumbled with an effort: "Pity, eh? We might have been able to pull a few more fast ones, you and I ..." Then the grin abruptly vanished. The eyes darkened.
As Thomas Lieven rose from the side of his dead friend the crowd parted to allow him to pass silently through their ranks. They noticed that he was weeping.
Through a mist of tears he caught sight of Chantal and Pereira, who were standing to one side of the excited onlookers. As he staggered toward the pair he stumbled and would have fallen if the painter had not reached him in time.
Two policemen and a doctor came running into the courtyard from the street While the doctor examined the dead man the whole crowd began talking at once to the policemen. More and more inquisitive onlookers arrived. A shrill jabbering of voices filled the ancient courtyard.
Thomas brushed the tears from his eyes and glanced at Chantal. He realized that if he did not act there and then it would be too late. In a split second, between the raising and lowering of his eyelids, he made up his mind.
Two minutes later the police had heard the evidence of the excited eyewitnesses, to the effect that a stranger had bent over the dying man and had been the last to speak to him.
"Where is the man?"
"He went over there," said an old woman. She pointed with a bony finger to the entry to the back premises. Pereira, the painter, was standing there. But now he was alone.
"Hey, you there!" called one of the policemen. "Where's that fellow who was talking to the dead man?"
"No idea," said Pereira.
The doctor was just closing Lazarus Alcoba's eyes. The hunchback's ugly face, in death, looked extraordinarily dignified.
It was cold in the Pyrenees. A piercing east wind swept over the barren, reddish soil of the range of mountains separating Aragon in Spain from the South of France.
At dawn on November 23, 1940, two isolated pedestrians, a young man and a young woman, were moving north toward the pass of Roncesvalles. They were both wearing mountaineering shoes, felt hats and padded wind jackets. Both carried heavy rucksacks. The woman walked ahead. The man followed her, through dense woods and undergrowth, uphill.
Never before in his life had Thomas Lieven worn such heavy shoes or a padded wind jacket. Nor had he ever before gone climbing up difficult and dangerous mountain paths. Like everything else during the last five days, this hour of daybreak, with its mists and gray shadows, seemed a fantastic nightmare, as he tramped on behind Chantal Tessier toward the French frontier with sore heels and blistered soles.
Chantal Tessier had behaved splendidly, like a true comrade, during those last five days. She knew Portugal and Spain like the back of her hand. She knew the customs officials and the police patrols by sight. She knew peasants who would shelter and feed strangers overnight without asking questions.
His trousers, shoes, wind jacket and hat had all been bought for him by Chantal. She had even given him the money in his pockets. Or rather "advanced" it, as she said.
From Lisbon they crossed by train to Valencia. There had been two "passport examinations, both of which she had helped him to evade. They had crossed the frontier into Spain by night, going by way of Vigo, Leon and Burgos. There had been many more examinations and many more police in Spain. Nevertheless, all had gone well, thanks to Chantal.
Now they were about to cross the last frontier. Then they would be in France. The straps of .the rucksack were cutting into Thomas Lieven's shoulders. Every bone in his body ached. He felt tired enough to drop. Thoughts flitted confusingly through his mind as he walked on, Chantal ahead of him.
Poor Lazarus Alcoba ... who had shot him? Who had ordered him to be shot? The British? The Germans? Would the murderer ever be found? Will another murderer find me? How long can I expect to live? Here I am slinking through this dark wood like a smuggler, like a criminal ... crazy,
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crazy it all is, an unreal and grotesque nightmare, a feverish dream . . . and yet it's the cruel truth . ..
The path grew less steep. The trees were being left behind. They reached a clearing where a weather-beaten barn stood. Thomas was just following the obviously tireless Chantal past this big open shed where hay was stored when three shots rang out in quick succession, quite close.
Chantal swung around in a flash. In a flash she was beside him, her breath in his face. "In here!"
She dragged him with her into the shed. Both sank into the hay and stared at each other, panting.
Another shot cracked, then another. The wind carried the sound of a male voice to them. But the words were unintelligible.
"Keep still," Chantal whispered. "Keep lying quite still. Might be frontier guards."
It might also be someone quite different, thought Thomas bitterly. Probably it was. The gentlemen in Lisbon would not have taken very long to find out what a regrettable mistake they had made. A mistake which would have to be corrected ...
Thomas could feel Chantal close to him. She lay perfectly still. But he could sense her excitement and the effort she was making to remain quiet.
At that moment he made up his mind. He had no business to endanger another human life. The death of the unfortunate Lazarus, he knew, would haunt him until he drew his last breath.
Enough, thought Thomas Lieven. I'm not playing this game any more. Better end with an instant of terror than endure this terror without end. You needn't look for me any longer, you murderous idiots. You needn't pursue me any longer, you idiotic murderers. I shall surrender and you can leave innocent people out of your dirty game.
He tore off the straps of the rucksack with a swift gesture and stood up. Chantal started up beside him. Her eyes burned in her white face. She hissed: "Lie down, you fool ..." She tried with all her strength to pull him down.
"Sorry, Chantal," murmured Thomas. He put a judo hold on her which he knew would knock her out for a few seconds. With a moan she dropped back into the hay.
Thomas walked out into the open.
Two men, with rifles at the ready, approached him across the clearing, over the dead grass, through the damp mist.
He went to meet them. He was thinking, with an absurd sense of triumph, that at least they wouldn't be able to shoot him in the back "while trying to escape."
As soon as they caught sight of him they leveled their rifles. Thomas took another step forward, then another.
The men dropped the barrels of their rifles and walked quickly toward him. Thomas had never seen them before. They both wore corduroy trousers, hats, wind jackets and mountaineering shoes like his own. Both were undersized and rather slightly built. One had a mustache. The other wore spectacles.
They came close up to him and stood still. The bespectacled one raised his hat and said courteously in Spanish: "Good morning."
"Did you see him by any chance?" asked the man with the mustache.
Thomas began to feel giddy. The men, the glade, the grass and the trees started going around and around. He asked almost inaudibly; "See w
hom?"
'The stag," answered the man with spectacles.
"I hit him," said the mustached one. "I'm positive I hit him. I saw him go down. Then he staggered away somewhere."
"He must be somewhere near here," said the other.
"I didn't see anything," said Thomas in broken Spanish.
"Ah, so you're a foreigner," said the bespectacled one. "On the run from over there, I suppose."
Thomas could only nod.
The Spaniards exchanged glances. 'Well forget we ever saw you," said the man with the mustache. "Good day and a good journey to you." Both raised their hats. Thomas raised his in return. The hunters walked on, disappearing into the woods.
Thomas drew a few deep breaths and then went back to the barn. Chantal was sitting in the hay groaning and rubbing her neck, which had turned red.
He sat down beside her and said: "Forgive me for what I did just now, but I didn't want ... I wasn't going to let them ..." He started stammering and at last blurted out shamefacedly: "They were only hunters."
Suddenly Chantal flung her arms around Thomas and hugged him tight. They both dropped back into the hay.
Chantal, bending over him, whispered: "You wanted to protect me, you didn't want me to run any risks, you were
thinking of me . .." She stroked his face tenderly. "No man ever did that for me before—ever ..."
"Did what?"
"Thought of me," whispered Chantal.
In the sweetness of her violent kisses Thomas forgot all his misery and fears. He thought no longer of the dark past or the dark future.
[15]
In 1942 six thousand German troops surrounded the old docks quarter at Marseilles and compelled the inhabitants, some twenty thousand people, to evacuate their accommodation within two hours, taking no more than thirty kilos of luggage. Over three thousand criminals were arrested. The entire quarter was blown up. In this way the most colorful breeding ground of vice in Europe, where the most dangerous criminal plots were hatched, disappeared.
But in 1940-41 the place was flourishing as never before. In the dark old houses behind the Town Hall lived representatives of all nations. There were refugees, black market dealers, murderers on the run, forgers, political conspirators and legions of prostitutes.
The police were helpless. If it were at all possible they simply refrained from putting in an appearance at all in the Old Quarter. The rulers of this sinister realm were the chiefs of rival gangs which waged implacable warfare among themselves. The members included not only Frenchmen but also North Africans, Armenians, Spaniards and many Corsicans.
Their leaders were known all over the quarter. In the narrow, colorful streets they were always accompanied by their bodyguards, two or three men to right and left of them, marching with their right hands in their jacket pockets and their forefingers on the trigger.
The municipality appointed a body called the Controle Economique to fight the prosperous black market trade. But the majority of the members of the Controle could be bribed and many of the rest suffered from cold feet. They declined to venture into the streets after sunset. But that was just when cheeses began to roll from one house into another and joints were dispatched from secret slaughterhouses to the restaurants.
It was from such obscure sources that Thomas obtained such delicacies as leg of lamb and French beans, from which,
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on the evening of November 25, 1940, he prepared a first-rate meal in Chantal's kitchen.
MENU -
cStfussels in White Sauce
(Roast Leg of Lamb with French (Beans and Small
(Potato Croquettes
Fruit in Caramel
25 NOVEMBER 1940
After sampling this menu a woman confessed her secret
Mussels in White Sauce
Fresh mussels are washed and scrubbed, then placed in a large pan in which there is a boiling solution of half water and half white wine. This is covered and allowed to stew, being frequently shaken. When mussels have opened, pour into colander and remove flesh from open shells, Meanwhile a white sauce is prepared from butter and flour. The liquid in which the mussels were boiled is added. More white wine is added, together with salt, pepper, lemon juice and some egg yolk. Then the mussels, with some chopped parsley, are placed in the sauce and it is brought to a boil again.
Roast Leg of Lamb
A fresh young leg of lamb is incised slightly at the knuckle end and a little garlic is inserted in the cut. The joint is placed in a baking tin, basted with plenty of brown butter and browned on the stove on all sides. It is then well seasoned with salt and pepper. Next, the tin is placed in the oven and given frequent basting.
Young French beans are topped and cooked until tender in a little water. They are then drained, placed in a saucepan with plenty of melted butter and kept hot. Before serving sprinkle with salt.
Boiled potatoes are mashed and mixed with whole eggs till they form a dough. Flavor with a little nutmeg. Small spheres
are formed and dropped into very hot fat until they swell and take on a rich brown color.
Fruit in Caramel
Loaf sugar is placed in a thick pan, melted over a flame and stirred constantly until golden-yellow. Water is added and the resulting caramel is boiled. Peeled and quartered peaches and pears, with fresh whole grapes, are placed in the boiling caramel and left until soft. The fruit is left to cool and is then placed in individual glass dishes decorated with blobs of whipped cream and sprinkled with chopped blanched almonds.
Chantal lived in the rue Chevalier Rose. The dirty water of the rectangular Old Harbor could be seen from the window, together with the many-colored lights of the countless cafes surrounding the docks.
Thomas had been surprised by both the size and the contents of Chantal's flat. Much of the effect was barbaric, as for instance when expensive ultramodern light fittings were associated with genuine antique furniture. Chantal had obviously grown up entirely neglected and uneducated, like a regular savage.
That evening she wore a fashionable, high-necked, close-fitting gown of embroidered Chinese silk, yet over it, most unsuitably, a heavy, wide leather belt. She was inordinately fond of undressed leather and its odor.
Thomas politely refrained from criticizing any of Chantal's tasteless errors. For the first time in his life he was wearing someone else's suit, though as a matter of fact it fitted him perfectly.
Immediately after their arrival Chantal had opened a big wardrobe filled with men's shirts, underclothing, ties and suits. She had said to Thomas: 'Take whatever you need. Pierre was about your height."
Thomas reluctantly took what he needed, which was really everything, if he were to look decent, for he had absolutely nothing of his own.
When he asked who Pierre was, Chantal retorted morosely: "You want to know too much. He was a lover of mine. But we quarreled. That was a year ago. He'll never come back. .."
In general, for the last few hours, Chantal had been behaving very coldly. It was as if their passionate affair at the fron-
tier had never occurred. Even now, while they were at supper, she sat in silence, a prey, apparently, to gloomy thoughts. She kept glancing up at Thomas while she ate her mussels. By the time they had reached the leg of lamb her left nostril had begun to quiver again. A church clock struck ten as Thomas was serving her with the fruit in caramel.
Suddenly she covered her face with both hands and muttered something he could not catch.
'What's wrong, my dear?" Thomas inquired, stirring his fruit.
She looked up. Her left nostril was still quivering. But otherwise her attractive features had hardened into rigid lines. She pronounced very quietly and clearly the words: "Ten o'clock." •
"Well—?"
"They're all ready on the ground floor now. As soon as I start playing the gramophone record Tai deux amours' they'll come upstairs."
Thomas laid down his little silver spoon. "Who?"
"Colonel Simeon and his mob."
Only her nostril quivered as she answered: "Yes. From the Deuxieme Bureau. I've squealed on you, Jean. I'm the meanest bit of muck in this world."
There was silence in the room, after that, for a while.
At last Thomas asked: "Would you by any chance care for another peach?"
"Jean! Don't go on like that! I simply can't bear it! Why don't you yell? Why don't you give me a sock in the jaw?"
"Chantal," he said, feeling as though drowning in a great wave of fatigue, "Chantal, why did you do that?"
"The cops here have got me in the bag. It's a pretty foul business, connected with Pierre. Big fraud . . . then suddenly this colonel fellow, Simeon, crops up and says: 'You get us Leblanc and we'll fix it for you.' What would have you done in my place, Jean? I didn't know you then."
Thomas was thinking: Well, that seems to be the truth about life. It goes on and on and on. Hunter and hunted. Traitor and betrayed. Kill if you don't want to be killed yourself.
He asked quietly: "Why does Sim6on want me?"
"He's acting under orders .. . apparently you've landed his people with bogus lists or something, is that right?"
"Yes, that's right," he said.
She rose, came over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "1 want to cry. But the tears won't come. Hit me. Kill me. Do something, Jean. Don't look at me like that."
Thomas sat quite still, thinking hard. Then he asked in a low tone: "What was that song you had to play?"
" 4 J'ai deux amours,* n she answered.
Suddenly a strange smile illuminated his pallid features. He stood up. Chantal shrank back. But he did not touch her. He went into the next room, where she kept her gramophone. A record was already in place. He smiled again as he read its title. He switched on the mechanism. He set the needle in the first groove. Introductory notes resounded. Then Josephine Baker's voice sang Tai deux amours" ...
Footsteps could be heard approaching up the stairs. They came nearer, nearer still. Chantal came close up to Thomas. Her breath hissed between her parted lips. The teeth, so like those of a tigress, glistened moistly. Her bosom rose and fell rapidly under the thin green silk of the tight-fitting Chinese gown.
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