Blood Dark

by Louis Guilloux

  Cripure was still yelling about complaining to the police, to put them on trial. It was a repeat offense. “A repeat offense!”

  He shouted too loudly; he squealed too much. All this felt both unnatural and unjust. An anger in bad faith, thought Étienne, and in any case, pretty unflattering.

  Cripure was threatening: “I’ll, I’ll . . .”

  “Quit howling like that!” Maïa was sharp. “How’s this? Like the other time?”

  “Identical.” He pointed his finger, gesture of the victorious orator.

  “Talk so I get it. The bolts on the forks?”

  “Yes.”

  “On both bikes?”

  “Yes. Both of them.”

  “How do you know?”

  Cripure jerked his chin at Étienne.

  “Oh and how’d you know about it?” She seemed furious, as if she thought he was responsible for what had happened.

  “But . . . I didn’t know,” said Étienne.

  “It was a letter,” said Cripure.

  “What’s that you’re stuttering?”

  “Me, stutter? I stuttered, you see, that—” if she only knew how to read! He waved the note under Maïa’s nose. “It was a monitor, a friend of this gentleman’s who let me know . . . Right here, Maïa, there’s a warning: Check the bolts on your bicycle.” Cripure’s two long arms fell heavily along his body, and he let out a sigh. “And Madame Merlin’s as well.”

  “And just now he told you that?” said Maïa, puffing up her whole torso. “And it’s been more than an hour he’s been in there?”

  “I didn’t know, ma’am. I hadn’t read the note, you understand. It wasn’t addressed to me.”

  “He didn’t say anything to you?” Cripure asked.

  “Who?”

  “Your friend, the monitor. In giving you this letter, he didn’t give any indication of its . . . object?”

  “No.”

  “Ah!”

  Maïa was listening. “And him, how’d he find out?”

  Étienne shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “What! He don’t know? Oh I’ll get this cleared up, just you wait. Let’s go see ’em,” she said, walking out.

  They kept the bikes under the staircase that climbed to Amédée’s room, in a corner dark as a coal bin. That’s what had been stored there, during Maïa’s first marriage. But Cripure wanted the coal moved elsewhere, because of the noise Maïa made when she went to get some, the scraping of the shovel on cement, the avalanche of coal in the bottom of the bucket, the doors she slammed as if for pleasure as she came and went. All things that drove him crazy, kept him from thinking or dreaming. Maïa got out the bikes and brought them one at a time toward the door, under the light from the window. All three of them bent down, Cripure, calm, almost curious, holding his pince-nez between his thumb and index finger. But still, he held his breath.

  Under Maïa’s big finger, a bolt wiggled like a loose tooth. With a little poke of the thumb, it fell to the ground.

  “The others, check the others . . .”

  She repeated the procedure four times. They watched in deepest silence as one after another, the bolts fell to the ground at the slightest touch.

  “There . . .you see?” As if he’d ever doubted it was true! “You see? Nothing but a touch with the tip of a finger, the slightest tap, almost nothing—”

  Fists on her haunches, she stared at the bikes, then gave them a sudden kick with her clog. “Darned machines from h—” Polite, despite her anger, she didn’t say the word and addressed herself to Cripure, who had his back turned, scratching his chin. “What’re you planning now?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Hey you, I’m talking to you—what’s yer plan?” The words tumbled out of her mouth; with each one her fat shoulders rose, seeming to absorb her too-short neck almost completely.

  “Done for . . .” murmured Cripure without turning.

  “You can’t just sit on yer nest . . .”

  “Done for.” He stared at nothing and continued to scratch his chin. All of a sudden, he turned to Étienne, and in his polite, simpering voice, he explained, “The . . .vibration, you see, is particularly bad when coasting down a slope and would surely make the bolts pop off . . . In those conditions, the front wheel gives out, literally mowed down, and the fall is unquestionably fatal. Fatal. Because of the way we would have been thrown to the ground, head first, you see. Oh . . .those bastards. And this is the second time we’ve escaped from such an attempt. The first time, it was only because our ride was delayed. The second, thanks to you—and to your friend.”

  He spoke with a dull, flat voice that was toneless—nothing like his usual speech. “It was yesterday they did their wicked deed,” he said, turning to Maïa. “You remember? While we were having a drink. We left the bikes outside on the sidewalk . . .”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “They must have had a monkey wrench. They would have followed us for a while, planning their trick. Fourteen-year-old brats!”

  “But are you going to complain?”

  Cripure closed his eyes, a bitter wrinkle, a disillusioned mouth. With his fingers he brushed her off. “Bah! A complaint? To whom?”

  “Eh? To the police.”

  “The police! And against whom?”

  Maïa looked at Étienne. “You have no idea?”

  “No.”

  “He knows nothing, eh?”

  “But Madame . . .”

  “Bah, Maïa, let it go, let it drop. Poor Cripure,” he groaned, with a slow gesture of his arms, and he shrugged his shoulders, half closed his eyes. “Oh, oh, oh! They wanted to kill me!” he cried, lurching into his study.

  It sounded like he was having a seizure. The door slammed shut, and in the returning silence they could once again hear him cry, “Me! Me! Me!”

  Étienne bit his lips. At each of Cripure’s howls, he replied between clenched teeth, “Crook! Crook! Crook!”

  YESTERDAY, the hazards of war brought to Nabucet’s doorstep one Captain Plaire, a childhood friend he hadn’t seen for thirty years, whom he certainly wouldn’t have recognized on the street. They’d grown up next door to each other, but life had . . . separated them. While Nabucet was becoming a teacher—building, in his little town, a reputation for elegant intellect—Plaire, seduced by adventure, re-enlisted, went to the colonies, rose through the ranks, and was named a captain. In the meantime, like Nabucet, he’d become a widower, and when the war loomed, he’d returned to service. They’d just changed his garrison. Then, remembering his old friend Nabucet, he’d written to him.

  He’d been here since the day before—for pleasure and economy. All things considered, it was nice to stay with Nabucet. The house was large, comfortable, well heated, very well furnished. What good taste Nabucet had! Nothing crass in his house. You could see right away he loved beautiful things. Rugs, tapestries, paintings everywhere. And what a comfy bed had been made up for the captain! Real feathers your head sank into, so pleasant, so soft, you could smile just thinking about it. Yes, he certainly would’ve done well to establish his quarters here. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be. Anna, the elderly maid, didn’t seem at all receptive to the idea, and Plaire had noticed, on Nabucet’s part, allusions to certain hotels that were “completely dependable.” The captain wouldn’t press it. This evening, he would go to a hotel; it would be less nice, it was true, but he would have more freedom. They both had comforts and advantages.

  Captain Plaire made these reflections in front of a cup of hot chocolate that was beyond anything but the wildest dreams. The cream! He savored it, and, his cup empty, he took a stroll around the room, sucking on his mustache ends, which he wore long, drooping, and gray. What would life be like here? He wondered, lifting up a curtain.

  He frowned. Wasn’t life the same everywhere? Wasn’t it sad everywhere? The sky was gray, the garden naked and drowned. He thought of Indochina. And then, of the concubines. As for this place . . . Letting fall the curtain, he repeated the
story he had been telling himself every day, for years.

  It was a simple story, almost naive. The war would end, he would retire to a little town and live off his pension in peace, without getting involved in anything. He would rent a little house, rather out of the way so as not to be bothered, and—and here the tale really began—he would become friends with an inspector of public welfare. Real friends, close. And then voilà—he’d be free to take into his service, in that little out of the way house, some pretty girl of sixteen or eighteen. Just like that. He’d go to his old friend, say a couple words in his ear, and the inspector would trot out the prettiest wards in his care. The captain would have his pick. That little blond didn’t speak to him? Well then there was that brunette, who, once she was bathed—a dream. And Captain Plaire’s heart raced. He would bring the little brunette home. They’d be all alone together in the house. I’ll be like a father to you. And, truly, he would be kind, indulgent, reserved. Then he’d start giving the little one advice, he’d buy her a dress; one day, he’d do her makeup. If I put a little rouge on you! Wouldn’t that be fun! And the pretty thing would let him do it, delighted, happy, overcome with appreciation. And then from there to . . . Everything would be charming. No one would suspect a thing—a real pasha’s dream.

  It was a story he fell into as soon as he was alone—he walked with it in the street, took it to the café, the barracks, wherever he went. He had tried a hundred times to link himself to an inspector of public welfare. Without success. It was becoming odd—his inability to make friends with someone in that role. Almost as if there were a hostile will against his plan. “Bah! Bah!” he murmured, rubbing his eyes.

  He approached a mirror. Of course, he was aging, but he wasn’t so decrepit yet. His cheeks were soft, his eyes were starting to cloud, his hair and mustache were gray. But he wasn’t bald, his color was rosy, his teeth were good, and his energy was intact. Fifty-eight. It could certainly be said that old men of sixty still found ways to make girls of eighteen adore them.

  He arranged his tie, brushed his hair, combed his mustache, slapped a little lavender water on his cheeks, and went out.

  The previous day, Nabucet had shown him the house from cellar to roof. When they parted, he pointed to a door on the landing, saying, “Tomorrow, when you’re ready, knock at that door and you’ll find me in my room. Very simple.” The captain went to the door, knocked, and bent an ear.

  “Come in, come in, my friend,” replied Nabucet’s smooth voice, “come, turn the knob.” Like every morning, Nabucet was engaged in his “physical culture.” In pajamas, bare-chested, his hair and beard soaking wet, he stood in the middle of a rug. Respiratory exercises. He came over, shook Plaire’s hand with a smile.

  “You don’t mind if I continue?”

  “Why—I’m curious,” Captain Plaire replied, looking around for a seat. He found a footstool. “Go on, have at it.”

  “Just a minute—open that little cupboard in front of you. Yes. You’ll find a bottle of port in there and some glasses. Help yourself.”

  “With pleasure.” Port after chocolate? Why not?

  “Sleep well?”

  “Like a baby.”

  “Excellent.”

  And Nabucet continued his exercises.

  He was small but solid, muscled, hairy. He seemed, with the point of his little goatee, to be conducting the universe through his exertions. He looked not a day over fifty, but he was fifty-five. Three years younger. And he’s even more tanned than I am! Nabucet’s chest slowly swelled, the muscles in his arms flexed and relaxed with well-oiled ease. What health!

  The captain looked at him for a moment, then took a sip of port, dried his mustache, and got up to set his glass on a side table. “My dear Adrien, would you like a little tip, eh? Would you permit me to make a suggestion?”

  Nabucet crossed his arms behind him, put his shoulders back, crossed his legs. A resting gymnast. “Of course, dear Paul.”

  The captain tapped Nabucet’s chest with his index finger. “You’re not doing that at all like you’re supposed to, my friend.”

  “Oh?”

  “No . . .your rhythm’s wrong, my dear Adrien—either you go too fast or you go too slow. Permit me to say that it’s working against you. The rhythm, you understand? Otherwise the heart suffers, the lungs, the liver, the whole body. I go blue in the face telling them that,” he finished, planting himself in front of Nabucet, legs apart.

  “Telling whom?”

  “Why, the instructors. Would you allow me to . . .”

  “By all means.”

  “On guard!” the captain commanded, snapping to attention, hands on hips. They did the movement together. “Hands on your hips! Leg lifts—begin! One!” Slowly they raised their right legs, eyes locked. When his leg was about to be horizontal, the captain made a sort of grunt “Huh!” and let his leg down. Nabucet’s came down too.

  “At ease!”

  Nabucet crossed his arms.

  “You see what I mean now?” The captain asked. “With the rhythm. You want to do another set?”

  “Certainly.”

  “On guard! Good. Hands to the chest. There! Keep the head up, the shoulders loose. Tuck the tummy. Good. Deep breaths. Good, very good. Sideways extension of the arms—begin! One! Slowly, slowly! With the rhythm. Empty out your lungs. There! Halt! That’s perfect. You see, you get the subtlety, the method? Between us, my friend, you’re an extraordinarily well-preserved specimen. I’ve seldom seen arms like that at your age—not an ounce of fat, all muscle. Do you exercise a lot?”

  “Every day.”

  “No equipment, eh?”

  “Never.”

  “Don’t trust equipment. I go blue in the face telling them that too. We’re not trying to become acrobats, eh? Just calisthenics done with the rhythm, that’s all. Then there’s no need to fear old age.” He drained his glass.

  “That’s enough for this morning,” said Nabucet. “I’ve got a very busy day ahead. Do you mind if I dress?”

  “Shall I step out?”

  “Not at all. We can chat in the meantime.” Nabucet went behind a screen, the captain poured himself a second glass, took his place on the footstool, and the conversation continued.

  “Between us,” said the captain, “life is short. And what’s the point of this life, besides happiness?”

  “Carpe diem,” Nabucet replied from behind his screen.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve got to seize the days as they come.”

  “Hm!” Another sip of port. “How big is this town?”

  “Twenty thousand people.”

  “Is it a lively town?”

  “It’s not exactly lively. But it’s a town . . .you get attached to. Attractive. You’ll see if you stay among us for a while—you’ll succumb to its charm.”

  “A theater?”

  “Yes. And cinemas.”

  “Cafés?”

  “Goodness! Where do you think you are, my dear Paul? You’re not in the colonies anymore, you know. This is a town like any other, neither livelier nor more run-down than any other. You’re afraid you’ll get bored?”

  “Where does one not get bored?”

  “But here you’ll have the Officers’ Club, receptions at the prefecture, what have you. Do you shoot? Are you a swordsman?”

  At the mention of swords, Captain Plaire’s ears pricked up. “That,” said the captain, “is right up my alley.”

  I wonder if he’s ever fought a duel, thought Nabucet.

  “I’ve been involved in thirteen duels,” Plaire said, “which, it must be said, were all settled on the field. Two for my own honor.”

  Nabucet whistled. “Fancy that! You’re quite the swashbuckler.”

  “I’ve never compromised on a question of honor,” the captain solemnly agreed.

  “Oh! You’ll have to tell them that. The Fencing Club will be thrilled to have a recruit like you . . .”

  Captain Plaire didn’t say anything else a
nd neither did Nabucet. Secretly, Nabucet hoped that this brilliant recruit he was about to introduce to the Fencing Club wouldn’t stick around too long. If need be, he’d say a few words to the general. These childhood friends were charming, but they talked rather a lot. They knew too much about . . . origins. Yesterday, this one had a way of speaking about Nabucet’s father the carpenter, his mother who ran a small grocery store—hm! He would have to keep an eye on him. Nabucet had replied that, for personal reasons, he didn’t like to hear about his family. But this heavy-handed fellow was still capable of alluding to certain things which would reveal how Nabucet had lied when he pretended that his father had a “big business,” in the same way he had lied about his mother’s “receptions,” when all she’d really received were tirades from him and his father.

  On his part, Captain Plaire was also having second thoughts. The theater, the cinema, all that was well and good. These connections, receptions, the bridge parties at the Officers’ Club, sword bouts at the Fencing Club—he wouldn’t say no. But what about the secluded little house, the pretty girl . . .

  “I’ll be ready in a second. We’ll walk a little ways together, no? Where are you headed? The Square? I have to go by there as well, to hear news of the general. I heard yesterday that he was feeling better. We’ll see soon enough,” Nabucet said as he emerged.

  The captain widened his eyes and whistled. “Goodness! Dressed to the nines!”

  He certainly was. A fitted frock coat that was molded to his chest, a beautiful shirt, in perfect taste, the creases in his pants absolutely straight, his shoes polished so you could see your face in them. The outfit was elegant in a discreet and intellectual way. The tie alone was a marvel.

  “We’re decorating Madame Faurel this afternoon,” said Nabucet. “I think you know who she is, even though you’re not from here?”

  “The deputy’s wife?”

  “Exactly. They gave me the honor of organizing a little party, you see. I’ve even accepted the task of saying a few words,” he continued in a nonchalant tone. “I couldn’t refuse of course—I don’t know who else could have done it.”