2002 - Any human heart

by William Boyd

  Yannick Lefrere-Brunot recommended Milau-Plage to me when I told him of my urge to be by the sea once more—on the condition that I told nobody else. He also told me to inform Yvette Pelegris, the proprietress of the hotel, that I was a friend of his. It made a marginal difference to her welcome, I think. Yvette is a buxom, hard-faced woman with vivid auburn hair who knows she runs the best restaurant on this section of the coast. Consequently she has hoiked her prices to deter the kids and the trippers, and her clientele is either well-heeled or ageing or both. I have had a good year with my bothy-rentals and I felt I deserved a treat. I booked in here for an initial week but I’ve already extended it for another. I sleep well and breakfast late on the terrace. Then I wander about the town, buy a newspaper and at lunchtime usually make my way up through the dunes to the beach and have a beer and a sandwich at one or other of die beach shacks. Dinner at 8.00 sharp Chez Yvette: invariably oysters, grilled fish, tarte du jour and a bottle of wine. The wine could be better, so I asked Yvette if she would mind if I supplied my own—no problem, she said, as long as I didn’t object to paying un petitsupplement.

  So now I sit in an umbrella’s circle of shade on the planked deck of a beach shack, a beer in my hand and a book in my lap, and I look at the people as they come and go and listen to the crash and hiss of the breakers as they curve in, flatten and explode on the sand. I must do this every year, while I have the money and the strength—good for the soul, a few days like this.

  §

  I had just achieved a neat solution to a complicated time-jump in Octet, lunch was approaching and I had just opened a bottle of wine, when Gabrielle telephoned.↓

  ≡ This places the entry in the summer of 1987. LMS had a telephone installed in March.

  She sounded very tense and asked if I would come over straight away. So I jumped on my mobylette and motored over to La Sapiniere. Gabrielle was standing on the road by the gates, smoking. We didn’t kiss hello—she merely pointed, wordlessly, to the wall.

  The plaque had been crudely defaced, as if struck hard by the spike of a pickaxe, five or six big gouges having been torn in the stone, leaving it entirely ruined. Gabrielle was red-eyed with angry tears and quivering with suppressed fury. ‘What kind of people do this, Logan?’ she said in English as if her French was not to be sullied by comment on this sad little outrage. Had she called the gendarmes? Of course. What could they do? Nothing. Kids, vandals—they see something new, they want to destroy it. Then she began to cry—which was very upsetting—and I put my arms around her and walked her back to the house. I stayed for lunch and she slowly composed herself, making plans to replace the stone—perhaps something cast in metal would be better. I applauded the idea.

  §

  Here’s a dark thought for a dark night: we all want a sudden death but we know we’re not all going to be provided with one. So our end will be our ultimate bit of good luck or bad luck—the final addition to the respective piles. But nature does offer some form of consolation, so it strikes me now, as I wonder how I will go. The more drawn out, painful and undignified our dying, the more we long for death—we can’t wait for life to end, we’re in a hurry, hungry for oblivion. But is that a consolation? When you’re comparatively fit and well you want to stay as long as you can and you fear and repudiate death. Is it better to be longing for the end?…Now I’m in my eighties—toothless, limping, the brown fog descending from time to time, but otherwise as well as I can expect—I find myself asking the universe for one more piece of good luck. A sudden exit, please. Just switch the lights out.

  §

  I suddenly started thinking of Dick Hodge today and I remembered a piece of social advice he gave me if I ever found myself at a dinner party, stuck for conversation. It’s incredibly easy, Dick claimed: in order to start chatting, Dick said, just tell lies. Say, to the woman on your right, ‘I suffer appallingly from insomnia, how do you sleep?’ Or confess that your wife’s ex-husband has threatened to kill you. Or that you were mugged the week before. It always works, he says. Say you knew someone in a recent air-crash, or that you’d heard that a member of the Royal Family was converting to Islam. Most dinner-party conversations are so boring that you’ll have an avid audience for the duration. Never fails, he said.

  §

  Interesting to observe that there is comparatively little sympathy in Sainte-Sabine for Gabrielle over the vandalization of her father’s memorial. Norbert shrugs—Lesjeunes. Didier and Lucette observe that these things happen. Only Jean-Robert says that maybe someone has a grudge against her father. Jean-Robert came to Sainte-Sabine in the 19505, and so knows nothing of the war years, but, by means of a series of eloquent inflections in his voice and little grimaces that he makes, he manages to imply that Sainte-Sabine has many dark secrets to reveal. He’s heard a few rumours: ‘Some people, the older men…’ He’ll go no further.

  Thus it is that I find myself, the next market day, looking at the old timers as they stand around and chat. 1940 to 1944—almost anyone in their sixties would be able to tell you something of life under the Occupation in Sainte-Sabine. I know some of these older people well but I’m very reluctant to introduce the subject—1 don’t want to raise the stone and see what etiolated terrified creatures might be squirming around beneath.

  I spoke to Lucien about it. He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared hard at the ground.

  ‘It’s a shame,’ I prompted. ‘She’s an extremely nice woman. She’s very upset.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lucien said. ‘But did she have permission?’

  ‘Permission for what?’

  ‘Permission to put such a memorial up in the first place.’

  ‘It’s her property, she can do what she likes. She doesn’t need permission to honour her father.’

  Lucien looked fixedly at me. ‘In my experience, when you’re a stranger it’s always better to ask permission.’ Then he smiled, showing me his fine silver teeth, and invited me over for dinner.

  §

  The winters here enchant in their own way almost as much as summer. First thing in the morning I come through and build a new fire on the embers of last night’s. I lay down a handful of sarments↓ and then some sticks of kindling—then a few huffs and puffs of the bellows and we’re away.

  ≡ Dried shoots from vines that are pruned in the winter and gathered into faggots. Excellent for starting fires and for summer barbecues.

  When the flames have taken, I place a couple of split logs against the fire back Hodge and Bowser like to sit and watch me start the fire and as soon as they see that it is going they wander off, as if the flames are a signal that the day is authorized to begin. We have heavy frosts here that can last for days—the landscape as white and frozen as if it had been snowed upon.

  §

  Winter reveals the massive, complex, muscular organization of the ancient oak. Like an old man stripped of his Savile Row, tailored suit—no less impressive in his mature nakedness.

  Last week Gabrielle had a new plaque—of embossed metal—set in her wall and this morning it was desecrated again with acid and tar. She was weeping uncontrollably when I went round and I offered to go and see the mayor on her behalf. She was very grateful and I made an appointment with Yannick Lefrere-Brunot for Wednesday. I am aware, though it does not concern me as directly, that I am almost as affronted by these two events as Gabrielle. I know that no community is perfect, but these attacks on Gabrielle’s memorial reveal another side of Sainte-Sabine that I find deeply unsettling. Clearly the village shares some dark and shameful secret that Benoit Verdel was involved in exposing—and possibly punishing—in 1944, and, equally dearly, the bitter resentment continues. I feel I am about to turn on friends and family: I don’t want to know what went on but it appears I have no choice.

  §

  My conversation with Yannick Lefrere-Brunot was not very satisfactory. He offered me a drink and I declined—I wanted this to be formal, official. I asked him if he had any idea who had damaged Madame D
upetit’s memorial and he said he had no clue—perhaps vandals? I said I didn’t believe him, said I was sure virtually everyone in the village knew who was responsible but they were covering up. I mentioned the word ‘collaborator’ and he shook his head wearily.

  §

  Y L-B: Can I give you some advice, Monsieur Mountstuart?

  LMS: I can’t stop you.

  ‘I L-B: Leave it alone. It doesn’t concern you. You are much liked here. Please, don’t be any more involved. It will sort itself out. LMS: Typical. But you’re wrong: you have to take responsibility in life. There’s no use turning your back.

  §

  He urged me again to leave the matter alone with a quiet vehemence that only increased my suspicions. I reminded him of my profession and suggested—a little vaingloriously, I confess—that this was the kind of story that a writer could easily propagate and embellish.

  §

  Yannick Lefrere-Brunot seemed genuinely aggrieved and pained at this course our discussion had taken and repeatedly urged me to step back—there was no need to consign anything to print, such a step would be wholly out of proportion. I saw in him all the petty and shameful compromises of political life, no matter how small scale and confined that life might be. Somebody, with some power and influence, is behind all this, and YLB is hopelessly stuck in the middle. Even he doesn’t dare risk ventilating the wartime secrets of Sainte-Sabine despite the fact he comes of a generation untainted by the period.

  As I left the mairie and walked home through the village I felt all eyes were on me, as if I were living in Sicily, dealing with some dark tale of Mafia murders and cover-ups and undying vows ofomerta. For the first time since I’ve come here I contemplate moving on.

  §

  Brilliant, ravishing sunsets marred by the perfect horizontal contrails of high-altitude jets.

  §

  Gabrielle and I formulate our plan. The plaque will be cleaned and restored and will be replaced with as much ostentation as possible. Then at night, after it has gone back on the wall, I will hide up in the small wood opposite the gates and observe the comings and goings. Gabrielle protests—I can see she’s thinking: you’re far too old for all this—but I’ll hear nothing of it. Between midnight and 2.00 a.m. should be sufficient. I’m confident we will catch the culprits—but what then?

  §

  This afternoon I found an ideal place behind a thick dump of brambles that gave me a good view of the gates, about thirty yards away across the road. I laid down a plastic groundsheet and hid half a bottle of brandy under a fallen tree. It’s dark by 9.30 or 10.00 at this time of the year↓ and the minimal temperature is forecast to be about 8 or 9 degrees. I’ll wrap up well.

  ≡ September?

  §

  The first night—nothing to report. In fact it was rather magical being out in the woods after midnight. It was a cool night but I stayed warm with the help of little burning sips of Cognac from time to time. I felt no tiredness: the adrenalin keeping me awake and alert. As a rudimentary weapon I had an old poker with me from the fire at home—not that I intended to use it, but it was reassuring, none the less. The woods were full of movement—crunchings, rustlings—and at one stage I was convinced there was someone walking around somewhere behind me. I was aware of a large presence parting the branches, pushing through the undergrowth, but I realized after a while it must have been a deer. Between midnight and 2 o’clock I counted seven cars and two motorbikes and the last half-hour was dead quiet. I could feel my old heart leap with excitement every time I saw the wash of lights from a car illuminate the trees. I remembered when I had felt like this before: my night drop into Switzerland in ‘44—a few months before Benoit Verdel liberated Sainte-Sabine.

  When I came home both Bowser and Hodge were waiting for me in the hall—agitated and irritated at my unorthodox behaviour. Hodge refused to let me stroke her, she was in such a sulk.

  §

  I called Gabrielle to report. Again she asked me to forget it: Logan, please, I don’t care what they do—I’ll just keep replacing it, they’ll get tired of their game. I said I would carry on for a few more nights. I think my sense of outrage is exacerbated by the affection I feel for this place where I’ve made my home—1 can’t believe that a little cancer of spite and vindictiveness can corrupt our community in this way, a community that is as tolerant, generous and long-suffering as any I’ve encountered. I want to know who it is in Sainte-Sabine who is so ashamed of the past that he (or she?) will attempt this symbolic besmirching of a good man’s name. We shall see.

  §

  The second night. Slightly colder with a light wind that set up a constant shushing and shifting in the treetops. Only four cars and a white van. I finished my Cognac. Bowser and Hodge did not deign to welcome me back.

  §

  Lunched with Gabrielle. She has a kind of melancholy beauty, with her long face and her perfectly white skin. I don’t know how the subject arose, but she told me a little more about her marriage. Gilles Dupetit was older than her and had been married twice before but, as she put it, ‘he was intellectually incapable of fidelity’. The marriage had been short and she had resolved, she said, never to put herself in a position where she could be hurt in that way again. That’s why she is so upset by this new anguish that Sainte-Sabine has visited upon her. I chided her gently, reminding her that you can’t make these unilateral pacts with life. You can’t say: that’s it, my emotions are securely locked away, now I’m impregnable, safe from the world’s cruelties and disappointments. Better to take them on, come what may, I said, see what strength you have within you. Was I mistaken but, when we kissed goodbye, was the pressure of her cheek on mine just a little firmer? Am I falling a little in love with Gabrielle Dupetit? I try to imagine her naked—that pale body, those soft breasts…You old fool, Mountstuart, you old fool.

  §

  It happened just: after 1 a.m. I was beginning to feel tired—three late nights in a row was too much for me and I felt my body stiffening up in protest. Suddenly I saw a flare of headlights from a car moving unusually slowly. Then it stopped and I heard the sound of a diesel engine idling for a few seconds and then it cut out and the lights were switched off. Soon I heard a mutter of voices and the sound of footsteps coming along the road towards the gate. It was not a dark night—there was enough moonglow to cast a faint shadow. I saw two men walking along the road, one of them carrying a bulky object in his hand. The first man took up a position of guard in the middle of the road, watching for oncoming lights, while the second approached the plaque. Too late, I realized what he was going to do, but I rose to my feet, poker in hand, and blundered out of the bushes, switching on my torch and shouting, ‘Right! I’ve got you! Stop what you’re doing! I’m calling the police!’

  §

  The one on the road began to advance on me threateningly but the man by the plaque said, ‘Stop. Leave him.’ I shone my torch in his face—I thought I recognized the voice. It was Lucien Gorce, my friend and neighbour. He had just painted a black swastika on Benoit Verdel’s memorial.

  MEMORANDUM ON BENOIT VERDEL↓

  ≡4. Compiled from newspaper reports and the transcript of Benoit Verdel’s trial. [LMS’s note]

  Benoit Verdel deserted from the French Army in October 1939 and joined the criminal underworld in Paris, where, with a certain Valentin M., he was involved in the running of a brothel in the i’ arrondissement. As the German armies approached Paris in the summer of 1940, Verdel joined the tens of thousands of refugees fleeing southwards, where he planned to make for Bordeaux and then the Spanish frontier. In the event he reached no further than Villeneuve-sur-Lot and later took up residence in Sainte-Sabine, where he briefly worked as a farm labourer. With France divided and the Germans secure in the north, there seemed no further need to run and Verdel decided to stay put—and also renew his former profession. He rented a house in Sainte-Sabine and opened it as a maison detolerance, staffing it with four prostitutes recruited from Agen and
Toulouse. It was shut down on the orders of the Mayor of Sainte-Sabine, Leon Gorce, with the backing of other local dignitaries—the cure (Monsieur Lasseque) and the doctor (Dr Belhomme). Verdel was ordered to leave the village and the girls returned to their respective cities.

  Nothing more was heard of Verdel until 6 June 1944, when, arriving in the main square of Sainte-Sabine with six other armed men, he declared the village liberated, on the orders of General Charles de Gaulle, and under the command and control of Resistance group ‘Renard’. The mayor, Monsieur Gorce, the cure, Monsieur Lasseque, and Dr Belhomme were arrested on suspicion of collaboration with the German occupying powers and were taken to a farm some miles off to be interrogated. On the night of 7 June all three were executed—shot in the head—and were buried in a nearby wood.

  In the confusion of the last months of the war Verdel effectively ran Sainte-Sabine and its commune as his personal fiefdom. Evidence of his ruthlessness kept the population both compliant and silent. Verdel used his power and his muscle to grow rich and bought a sizeable property outside the village, La Sapiniere, where, in 1946, he installed his new wife.

  However, in early 1947 a suit was filed against Verdel for murder by the sisters of Dr Belhomme and he was arrested and sent to Bordeaux gaol to await trial. Verdel was arraigned before a military tribunal and the trial lasted a full week and was extensively reported in the local press. Details of the exploits of the ‘Renard’ group were vague but Verdel’s defence was emphatic: that the three men had been collaborators and that orders issued by de Gaulle before the invasion encouraged maquisards to spare no efforts in bringing those who had given aid to the Germans to justice. What he had done in Sainte-Sabine was repeated throughout France—he was simply following orders. Verdel was found guilty and sentenced to eight years in prison, of which he served five before being released on good behaviour.