Caravaggio's Angel

by Ruth Brandon

  Ridiculous! But then – that, ahead – surely that was a shadow? And that whistle – surely no animal ever sounded quite that shrill, that loud – that mechanical?

  The path, which until now had descended steeply down-hill, flattened out as the trees began to thin into the remembered clearing. And all at once, paranoia morphed into bizarre reality. I hadn’t imagined those whistles, nor those shadows: the helicopter had indeed been tailing me. For the clearing was full of men: on one side, the grim-looking security police I’d last met beating up North Africans near the Voltaire and kicking my camera to bits, on the other a group dressed as protesters, in student gear or what they took to be such. And behind them, talking to one of the police, the umistakable figure of Jean-Jacques Rigaut. For a moment our eyes met. Expressionless, he turned away and resumed his conversation.

  Looking neither to left nor to right, I continued on my way. Whatever Rigaut’s intentions, and whatever this event might be, it surely hadn’t been arranged for my benefit. The police had not picked this spot in order to trap passers-by but because it was unfrequented; the helicopter had merely wanted to make sure I was out of the way before whatever was due to take place – simulated riot? ritual killing? – began.

  Walking at a steady pace, I emerged from the wood and crossed the stream. Above me the helicopter finally swung away. In the field, five brown cows chewed obliviously on. In the small road that bordered it three blue buses were parked, and behind them, a red BMW. I crossed the road, and began to climb the hill. Halfway up, I stopped and looked back. The clearing was screened by trees that hid whatever might be happening there. Faintly, on the breeze, I heard whistles and shouts. Whatever it was, was under way.

  Logically, that was it. I was through the worst; I hadn’t been killed; and as for Rigaut – he was Minister of the Interior, and these were his special troops. If he was in the vicinity, what more natural than for him to review an event such as this? Perhaps that was why he’d decided to visit La Jaubertie today. But my knees knew nothing of logic. Finally and irredeemably, they sank beneath me. At least for the moment, I couldn’t go on.

  How long that moment would last, I had no way of knowing. Perhaps not too long. But that wasn’t the only problem. Before I got back to Les Pruniers I’d have to traverse another wood; and that, in my current state, I knew I could never do. Forward was out.

  So, though, was backward. As for sideways, I could take the road – in the end, it would lead somewhere. But it, too, was liable to go through a wood. And in any case, even if I reached the somewhere, it probably wouldn’t help much. I only knew four places round here – Meyrignac, St Front, Les Pruniers and La Jaubertie. All were more or less close, but how they all joined up I had no idea. Roads, in this part of the world, meandered from one isolated house to another, and rarely followed the direct route.

  I looked at my watch. Almost three o’clock; all I’d eaten since breakfast was a muesli bar. There were blackberries in the hedgerows, but some chocolate would be more to the point. It struck me that there might be some in my bag – I sometimes bought a bar and didn’t finish it.

  There wasn’t; what there was, though, was my mobile phone. And somewhere – with any luck – a bit of paper with the Les Pruniers number on it. Feverishly I scrabbled among the old till receipts and dead handkerchiefs. And yes – there was the card Delphine had given me along with my receipt last time I’d been here.

  At the other end the phone sounded shrilly, but no one picked it up, and after eight rings the answering machine clicked on. Naturally. On an afternoon like this they’d all be at the river, or round the new pool.

  Hadn’t Olivier given me a card? If so it would have his mobile number. I scrabbled again – yes, there it was.

  He answered, as I’d hoped he would – no journalist is ever far from his phone. He sounded cross. Probably thought it was the office, after him even on holiday. ‘Oui, allo?’

  ‘Olivier, it’s Régine. I’m stuck.’

  ‘Stuck?’ Annoyance became surprise. ‘How, stuck?’

  ‘Too long to explain. If I told you where I was could you possibly come and find me?’ My voice wobbled, and to my horror, I realized I was beginning to cry. Control, control. If he couldn’t understand what I was saying, this would be a wholly pointless exercise. I swallowed hard, then described the field, the cows, the stream, the road, the hill.

  Olivier said, ‘I know exactly. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  I timed it, and in fact it took him seven. The Peugeot approached at speed – from the left, I noticed: lucky I hadn’t tried the road, my instinct would have been to turn right – slowed abruptly and parked behind the BMW. Olivier got out and looked around. I shouted and waved; he waved back, and started up towards me.

  The relief at his arrival set my tears flowing in unstoppable floods. He sat down beside me, put his arm around me, and waited quietly until I calmed down. Then he said, ‘Tell me what happened,’ and I did, leaning against his shoulder, while he stroked my hair. After that I burst briefly into tears once more, blew my nose on one of the disgusting old tissues which formed the main contents of my bag, and said, ‘I’m so sorry to have brought you out like this.’

  ‘Ma pauvre Régine, don’t be silly.’

  ‘It wasn’t the tile. That was an accident, it could happen to anyone. It was Rigaut. I’ve never met anyone so scary.’

  ‘Scary? Why, what did he do?’

  ‘Nothing. But then after that helicopter, finding him there in the woods . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can see that. Still, here you are. In spite of everything.’ His arm tightened around my shoulders, and he smiled, and then, as though it was the most normal thing in the world, we began kissing, as if the bizarre circumstance had finally freed us to admit that this was what we’d been wanting to do ever since we’d set eyes on each other. Olivier smelt of sweat and soap and Gitanes – I remembered him saying, in the Voltaire, that he smoked them out of solidarity, because so many of his friends and family grew tobacco.

  I don’t know how long we went on kissing – it felt like an instant, but it might have been hours. Eventually, though, we stopped, and looked at each other. Olivier raised his eyebrow in that annoying way he had and said, ‘Régine.’

  Who knows what we might have said or done after that? What actually happened was that some of the rioters began emerging from the woods. We abruptly let go of each other (as though any watcher, had he been so inclined, could not have seen us plainly from the cover of the trees). Olivier said sharply, ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The practice riot I was telling you about. They must have finished.’

  ‘Shit! Come on, let’s go.’

  We began to make our way down the hill, self-consciously separate, Olivier so concerned to maintain airspace between us that despite my still-wobbly condition he could hardly bring himself to help me over the stile that led to the road.

  I could understand that – no one wants to be caught passionately embracing a woman who is not his wife on a hill-side five minutes’ walk from the family home. What I couldn’t understand was why he seemed in such a hurry to reach the car, plunging forward as though it was a mat-ter of life and death, at a pace I found it almost impossible to match. Eventually, however, we made it. Olivier got in the driver’s side, and opened the passenger door for me. But before I could shut it, a voice from behind said, ‘Well, well. Olivier Peytoureau. What a surprise to see you,’ and there was Rigaut.

  Olivier said evenly, ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Rigaut.’

  ‘Just taking a walk?’ Rigaut glanced at me and gave a perfunctory nod, acknowledging my presence but pointedly not including me in the conversation. ‘You two are friends, I see.’

  Olivier said, ‘And how was the exercise?’

  ‘Impeccable.’ Rigaut nodded again, then turned towards the red BMW. One of his aides was waiting there, a great big fellow with a three-day stubble and a crew cut so short you could see the scalp through it, so that the whole
of his head, back and front, seemed to be covered with a menacing veil of spiky black hair. He opened the front passenger door for Rigaut, then took the driving seat. I said, ‘I wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night.’

  Olivier didn’t reply. His mind was elsewhere. ‘Shit,’ he said.

  ‘Do you think he saw us?’

  ‘Probably.’ He seemed sunk in gloomy thought.

  ‘Well, why should he care? I’m sure he must have more important things to think about.’

  He didn’t reply, but started the car. To break the silence I said, ‘I still don’t know what all that was about, in the woods.’

  ‘Oh, it’s the CRS. They have a training centre near here, and it’s a good place to practise manoeuvres. Rigaut likes to pay a visit when he’s over. I told you, they’re his pet boys.’

  After that he remained silent until we pulled into the court. Then he said, ‘Did you want to tell Delphine?’ adding hurriedly, ‘About what happened at La Jaubertie.’

  ‘Not particularly,’ I said. ‘I’m going back there tomorrow.’

  ‘Going back?’ His alarm was almost comical.

  ‘To see Juliette.’

  ‘Does Rigaut know?’

  ‘Yes. That’s probably why he was so angry.’

  ‘That bastard, he thinks he owns the whole world to do as he likes with.’

  I said grimly, ‘I’m neurotically counter-suggestible. I’d go back there even if it killed me.’

  He shook his head, a small smile on his lips. ‘Don’t be too sure it won’t.’

  11

  La Jaubertie, August

  The day’s events, already dreamlike, now took on the differently unreal quality deception adds. I told Delphine I’d twisted my ankle; and although (given that I was clearly able to walk) this couldn’t have been very serious, she insisted I take it easy. On no account was I to go out for dinner, as I’d intended: this evening I would eat with the family. In the meantime I pleaded exhaustion, which was real enough, and retired to my room, where I fell into a deep sleep.

  By the time I awoke, it was after seven. I lay with my hands behind my head, wishing I didn’t have to get up. The last thing I felt like was an edgy evening of pretence. Abstract moral rules have never been my thing, but I do have one or two, and the first is: in a conflict between sex and sisterhood, sisterhood wins. Which, translated, boils down to: keep off your friends’ husbands. It seemed a little soon to count Delphine as a friend. But between her and Olivier – no contest. Friendship wasn’t his forte – he was too ambitious, too driven, for that. Perhaps that was one of the things that so irresistibly drew us together – like calling to like.

  I showered, put on a long-sleeved shirt and trousers to ward off hungry insects, and sallied forth. Delphine was in the kitchen, cutting the small, sweet local melons in half. I asked if I could help, but she shook her head. ‘Why don’t you sit down and talk to me? Olivier took the kids swim-ming and they’re not back yet. They love it when he’s home. We’re hoping he won’t need to stay in Paris too much longer.’

  I couldn’t help wondering whether Olivier hoped this as much as Delphine did. ‘Would he be able to get the right sort of job near here?’

  ‘He keeps looking. Something’s sure to turn up some-time.’ She smiled her mischievous, thin-lipped smile and nodded towards the fridge. ‘Drink? There’s some cold white wine in there. Why don’t you pour us a couple and tell me about this project of yours?’

  As we sat and chatted in the shady kitchen amid the heavy perfume of ripe melons, I thought again how much I liked Delphine. I should find some excuse to leave – now. Olivier and I would simply have to call off our collaboration, and pursue our stories without each other’s help.

  I stayed.

  At five to eight, the Peugeot drew up in the court and the children, still in their bathing suits, rushed into the kitchen. They’d been to swim in the local river, where the water always stayed cool however hot the weather; tomorrow they planned to take the boat and spend the day there. Delphine packed them off to put some clothes on, and dispatched Olivier to lay the table in the garden. By eight fifteen we were seated around it en famille.

  After we’d finished eating, the grown-ups sat on drink-ing a last glass of wine and picking at strawberries while the children rushed off to play. We didn’t say much, enjoy-ing the balmy evening while Olivier and I did our best not to catch each other’s eyes. At ten, when the children were packed off to bed, I too took my leave. The pretence of normality, with its attendant side-games, was too exhaust-ing. In any case, it had been a long day. With any luck tomorrow should be less exciting; even so, it promised to be effortful in other ways.

  I was tired out, but sleep did not come quickly. The day’s events replayed endlessly in my head: Juliette and Rigaut, the crash of the tile, the bizarre encounter in the wood. And then those minutes – or hours – on the hillside, the feel of Olivier’s arms, his taste, his tongue on mine, the smell of his hair. I told myself it wasn’t just wrong, it was ridiculous – he was ten years younger than me, he wasn’t an impulsive man, he must have something else in mind. But then I remembered him in the restaurant saying ‘Marriages end’, and Delphine’s evident dissatisfaction with his constant absences. I wondered whether he’d creep round to see me now. He shouldn’t – it would be too demeaning, too squalidly deceitful – yet at the same time I wanted him to, so much that my body actually ached. However, he didn’t appear. And eventually I fell asleep, awaking only when sunlight on my face told me it was morning, and that last night I’d forgotten to close the shutters.

  I’d been alternately dreading and longing for the moment when I’d see Olivier again, but when I went in to breakfast, he was not there. Delphine ran breakfast on a buffet system – a comprehensive array of yoghurts, fruit, cheese, ham, cereals, hardboiled eggs, bread, butter, jam, croissants, thermos jugs of coffee, hot milk, and hot water, and a variety of teabags laid out on a sideboard. By the time I arrived, used cups and plates showed that most of my fellow guests had already been and gone. Only the Dutch couple were visible, eating cheese. They nodded politely and chewed on while I helped myself to corn-flakes, greengages, a croissant and milky coffee. After yesterday’s experience, I wasn’t going to leave without stoking up.

  The morning was exquisite. The previous evening there had been another electric storm, and although once again it hadn’t rained the air was no longer so heavy, and the sun shone from a clear sky of deepest blue. I could hear the sounds of children playing in the orchard, and eventually went out there myself. The trees were loud with wasps and bowed down with plums, a small, black variety that Delphine had told me were mostly used to make eau de vie de prune, the honey-sweet green Reine Claudes I’d sampled at breakfast, and tiny pinkish-yellow mirabelles. The children – Magali, Fabien, and the two English children, who had finally lost their shyness – had left the swing where they’d been playing earlier and were now concentrating hard on something they’d found near the back hedge. How delightful it would be to spend the day in the orchard, to loll in a hammock watching the sky while greengages fell into my mouth! And how deeply I didn’t want to set foot in La Jaubertie again!

  I was thinking this when Olivier appeared. Despite the untoward ending of our unexpected afternoon, I hadn’t been able to stop myself wondering if there might be a sequel, and if so, what it might be. My heart somersaulted; I smiled politely and said, ‘Bonjour.’

  He replied equally politely and went straight over to the children. For a minute I felt irrationally hurt. Then he turned and gave me a brilliant, conspiratorial grin, and I was happy again.

  Feeling ashamed on many counts, I went into the house. Delphine was in the breakfast room, clearing up. She looked up, smiled, and said, ‘Régine, don’t think I’m try-ing to get rid of you or anything, but I was wondering – do you have any idea how long you’ll be staying?’

  ‘I’ve got an appointment at La Jaubertie this morning,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how long it’ll g
o on. Would it be OK to stay tonight? I’ll take myself out, obviously.’

  She nodded. ‘That’s fine. Just so I know.’

  ‘Are you full for the rest of the week?’

  ‘Absolutely, and the tourist office just rang with more people. That’s why I need to know.’

  ‘That’s excellent,’ I said politely.

  ‘It is good, though I sometimes think it’d be nice not to work so hard when Olivier’s here. Still, I like to be inde-pendent. And this was my idea, after all.’ She gave a wry little smile. Evidently it wasn’t the first time she’d rehearsed this argument.

  When I got to La Jaubertie Juliette was sitting out on the lawn under the big cedar tree, in a high-backed wooden chair at a slatted teak table; another chair stood vacant – presumably for me. Apart from the builders, who were still pushing out tiles this Saturday morning, she seemed to be alone in the house – neither the Renault 4 nor the BMW was there. She was reading a paper with the aid of a magnifying glass and, until my shadow fell across the page, had not registered my presence.

  ‘Régine! You gave me a fright.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Well. Now you’re here, why don’t you go in and get us some water? I get so thirsty in this heat. The kitchen’s to your right when you go in.’

  ‘What about Amos? Will he let me in?’

  ‘He’s not here, he belongs to Babette and she’s having a few days off while her son’s home.’

  The kitchen was cool, small and comparatively modern, with a white ceramic double sink, a small gas stove and a big larder fridge containing several bottles of Perrier and a number of labelled plastic boxes presumably left by Babette: Déjeuner samedi, Diner samedi, Déjeuner dimanche . . . Armed with a bottle and two glasses I returned to the lawn and poured us each some water.