My grandmother gazes at the pleasure-seekers thronging the waterside and says bitterly: ‘As for these, they ought to be locked up.’
We began these walks in the years before Papa died, when I was still a child and when Grand-mère’s only worries were that I would dirty my white dress or eat too many apricots. That is to say, before she decided that I had become a woman and was thus a danger to myself and others. I have always thought it strange that my grandmother should worry so much about me and so little about my uncle. I wondered how, with her strong simple faith, she managed to cope with Uncle Claude’s wish to polish off God. Gradually I realised that however much they might have disagreed about some things, mother and son came together in their political feelings: both wished to do something very violent to someone else. And quite possibly my Uncle Claude was careful to keep his dream of deicide to himself. He was, as they taught me to say at the North London Academy for Girls, a canny bugger. Grand-mère also quite happily ignored his attempts to molest me with his loose talk of subatomic particles. It really got him going, did the talk of particles, he was the only man I knew who would come out in goose-flesh when he tried to explain to me how a phototube in a bubble chamber detects the arrival of a particle called a pi-zero. To talk of the neutrino gave him a patch of extremely bumpy and not very pretty goose-flesh stretching from his collar to his earlobe in which the little hairs stood up like anaemic grass. And merely to mention quarks made his lips tremble and excited a curious circular motion in the area of the knees and thighs, which as a young child used to amuse me, until I grew up and then it frightened me.
My grandmother’s method for deciding that I had passed from my girlhood was pretty clinical. She had a checklist. I had menstruated? I had breasts? I had lost my father? Very well, it remained only for me to think of Joan of Arc and all that she had already accomplished by the time she got to my age, and I would willingly grasp my destiny. Joan had already heard her ‘voices’ commanding her to save France from the accursed English. Before her lay glory, martyrdom, sainthood. Quite how I was to achieve this great goal was not made clear, though the expectation was there.
The men in the cars at the front gate of the Priory Hotel look hard at me but make no attempt to stop us. André is behind the desk when we enter.
‘Madame, how pleasant! Can it be that a whole year has passed since you took tea with us? And look at Miss Bella! My heavens, she is a young lady. I fear they are like clocks, Madame, these children, they measure the diminishing years of their elders.’
‘She lived in England for a time,’ my grandmother replies drily, as if this is a far worse fate than the mortal ruin which we fleshy chronometers are said to measure. André and my grandmother examine me, their eyes sweeping my face like searchlights, or telescopes probing the black, cold and empty sky (empty of everything, if my Uncle Claude is to be believed, and warmed, if at all, only by the human imagination).
Our meeting with André is to be a contest, a trial, an excoriation, an inquisition; Grandmama is to thread his soft pink body with her spiky enquiries, he is to her now what the English were for Joan of Arc and she intends to do to him what they did to her. For his part, André is soft, smiling, charming sociability and his face gleams like a wrapped Easter egg. He orders a rather sullen Tertius to bring us coffee and insists that we sit beneath the chestnut trees in the garden. The wooden beach is clear now of its human freight, swept bare of golden, oiled bodies, and a few swans drift past with their poised, fastidious air of investigation. It is too hot to be out of doors and the guests are up in their rooms taking siestas. On the second floor, which Monsieur Brown occupies, all the green shutters are closed. Only the watchers at the gate in the Renault, the Citroën and the Deux-Chevaux are awake. In the face of my grandmother’s coldness, André’s smile deepens and warms: there is really something wonderful and terrible in his need to spread amiability and kindness, to make others feel better, stronger; to encourage, cheer and support wherever possible as if kindness were a kind of paint which you need only apply liberally to make the human picture smile and glow. As if by sheer will, by application alone, you can bring into the world the good, the right and the happy.
So we sit under the chestnut tree which throws grey shadows across the white iron table and coffee is served by Tertius who, it seems, is as tired and as grumpy as Hyppolyte was earlier. He now wears a pair of sky-blue shorts and his dark hair has been peroxided in patches which gives it a kind of basket-weave effect.
‘He’s a good boy at heart, but he tires easily,’ says André, as Tertius places the tray on the table. ‘These little confections you see are something that he has prepared for us. He is very clever that way.’
I can see by the expression of surprise on the boy’s rather yellow face, which he does not bother to hide, that this compliment is unexpected and quite untrue.
André looks after him fondly, as Tertius slouches away. ‘I trust you had no trouble getting in?’
‘Who are the men at the gate, André?’
He shrugs unhappily. ‘They don’t tell me, Bella. In fact we are not supposed to know about them. The man with the red ears, he is the one in the Renault, he said to me: “Just ignore us. We’re invisible.” I don’t know, I don’t ask and I try not to see, but I can hardly be unaware of the fact that they won’t let anybody pass the gates, except you, Bella. You seem to have the key, for some reason. Why they should let you pass and nobody else, I can’t imagine. Mind you, you look lovely. Perhaps you appeal to their aesthetic sense? Pure peppermint you are today!’
But my grandmama has no time for pleasantries. She bangs her stick on the ground: ‘Why should anyone try and stop me? I saw no one, I would have stopped for no one. I have been walking this village for half a century – who would dare to stop me? This is still a free country, I believe, praise God. And it will remain so while there are men such as Monsieur Cherubini determined to protect the lovely heart of France! What I do know is this: last night a deputation called on you made up of Monsieur Cherubini, as well as the Mayor and Father Duval. They came to pay their respects to this new guest of yours, this Nubian, or Ethiopian, or Arab, or whatever he is. But you refused to allow them to see him. I don’t understand. It was discourteous, it was unimaginative, it was unnecessary! Now it turns out that this man is connected to some African kingdom where my dear son lost his life, Bella’s papa, trying to bring civilisation to the savages who inhabit that place. And yet we, his relatives, are not permitted to see this African chief. It seems you have in your house one of the last people on earth to see my son and yet you forbid us to meet him.’
She scans the closed shutters. ‘He’s out of sight again. No doubt locked away in the thirty rooms he occupies, with his wives and his goats and his chickens and his hateful food.’
André, always anxious to please, seizes on the word food and pushes the plate of pastries towards me. ‘These are called Rigo Jancsi Squares. Try one.’ He turns to Grandmama. ‘But I didn’t prevent them, Madame. My guest refused to see them. He said he wouldn’t receive delegations of officials. He’s here on a private visit. I can’t force him to see your son and his friends. Though I must say I am surprised that they wanted to see him. From what I learn of Monsieur Cherubini’s new party, my guest is exactly the sort of man he doesn’t want to see any more of in this part of France. And in this instance, and only in this instance, Cherubini and I see eye to eye, because I can assure you that the sooner I get rid of him the happier I will be. Anyway, your information isn’t correct. Someone from your family has met my guest. And at his request. Isn’t that so, Bella? You met him for tea.’
‘For chocolate.’
Now up to the front gates comes Clovis mounted on his new green bike. It is no faster than the others and more flatulent, but it is also somehow flashier, trimmed with chrome and blinking with mirrors, and he arrives in his perspex boot with Ria sitting on the pillion, her long bare legs stuck out on eit
her side of the bike like a compass, in an apricot skirt and a dill-green bandana, shrieking and giggling, hanging on to him, and somehow she looks fatter with her clothes on. Clovis doesn’t try and pass the guard at the gate but lets her off and watches admiringly as she flounces up the path and into the hotel.
‘Bella, is this true!’ Grand-mère is scandalised. ‘You’ve seen this man – again. After we discussed the dangers? After your uncle spoke to you of Leda!’
Terrified now that he has given something away, André pushes over the plate of chocolate cakes towards me. ‘I can see you like them. Have another. See how she tucks in, Madame? I must tell Tertius, he’ll be so pleased. Do you know the story of these cakes? They’re named after a Hungarian violinist called Rigo Jancsi who played so beautifully and seductively that a princess eloped with him! They take simply ages to make and need the very best bitter chocolate, double cream, rum and vanilla. Yes, take another! Please, Madame, won’t you try one?’
Grandmama, to my surprise, does so. She lifts the solid creamy cake to her thin blue lips and bites. There is so much violence in the action that I half expect to see blood spurt from her mouth. She turns to André.
‘You remember stories, of another hotel, some years ago? The Hotel Terminus in Lyons. Yes, I see you remember! It looked across the square, the Cours de Verdun. It was in this hotel that your late father, Monsieur, opened the Lyons branch of his offices. It’s a chapter in the career of your family that few of us old enough to remember will ever forget.’
Suddenly he is hurt, angry and frightened all at once. But mostly he is angry. I watch as the fragile eggshell of his forehead fractures, he makes fists of his hands and rubs his fists across his pink shirt in an agitated manner. I can hear his nails clipping his shirt buttons.
‘Why do you bring this up?’
‘You wouldn’t let my son enter your hotel. You insulted the village priest. You offended Monsieur Cherubini, the best friend our village has ever had. And now I discover that you have allowed my daughter to visit the Nubian. Why should I consider your feelings?’
‘You speak as if I were a dictator. I’m not a god to give permission or to refuse access. I am an hotelier, who has been told to accommodate this man. So why should I be blamed? If you want to spread stories then let me say, Madame Dresseur, you had better be careful. You of all people shouldn’t talk of collaboration with the enemies of France. Or I may tell my story.’
Grandmama gets up. Her hand is on her heart and her lips are blue. She takes my arm and she shakes her silver-headed walking-stick in André’s face.
‘Shout out your story! I glory in it!’
‘I can’t think why. It’s as shameful as mine. Please, Madame, let the dead sleep, let’s not lay their corpses by the lakeside.’
‘Don’t you dare mention your father in the same breath as my husband. What your father did was to lick the boots of the German monsters.’
‘And what did your husband do, Madame?’
My grandmother’s smile of triumph is terrible.
‘He gave his life for France, for his beloved chief and for his faith!’ And then, suddenly, she clutches her chest and seems to faint.
I run to stop her falling and I shout at André: ‘You’ve killed her!’ My cry brings Tertius running.
It’s not true but I can’t help myself. I want it to be true. The watchers at the gate regard us steadily. Strangely, it is Tertius who keeps his head. ‘She’s not dead, she’s breathing. Get the doctor.’
‘Shall I call Dr Valléry?’ André’s eyes are wide with anguish.
Grandmama opens her eyes. ‘No. Call my son. Or Monsieur Cherubini. I wish to go home. I don’t want to pass away in the garden of the Carthusians. Her face is chalky white and she grimaces with the pain in her chest.
A few minutes later Monsieur Cherubini arrives in his Mercedes with Father Duval. The watchers at the gate make no attempt to stop them. But nor do they make any attempt to help us. They must be under orders never to leave their posts, no matter what happens.
‘We were just about to leave for the rehearsal. For Saturday’s rally,’ says the priest. ‘You caught us just in time.’
We carry my grandmother to the car. Her reaction at seeing Monsieur Cherubini is profound. By the time we reach the house her colour is better and the pain seems to be easing. Her breathing is regular.
‘You are feeling a little easier, Madame?’ asks the Angel.
‘Certainly. Though your rescue was only just in time, patron. I had my little talk with the owner of the hotel but possibly I did not allow for the evil atmosphere of the place. It affected me. However, I was determined that they had claimed enough victims, that family, with their offices in Lyons. They were not going to get me as well. Never!’
‘Bravo, Madame!’ says the Angel.
Grand-mère’s smile is pure delight, open and adoring. The miracles of faith are more awesome in our day-to-day business than anything the saints could comprehend.
Chapter 9
We gather in the dining room. As the sun sinks, the lake grows dark and heavy, closing down for the night, taking on a deserted, shuttered look like the old houses above the little lakeside road. Grandmama is helped to a chair by Father Duval. I want to call Dr Valléry but she won’t have it.
‘My confessor is here, my family is here. And my patron! Enough. Onwards into battle, let’s ride the English down, at last we have a general in the field!’ She turns a softly affectionate glance on Monsieur Cherubini.
‘The patron has such information as makes the ears curl,’ says Father Duval, ‘little scraps of knowledge, even if one needs to put on gloves before handling, the sort of thing that may help us to understand his game.’
‘I don’t want to understand it,’ Grandmama says. ‘The thing to do with Monsieur Brown is not to understand him, it’s to get rid of him.’
‘Spoken like a philosopher!’ Monsieur Cherubini approves.
Father Duval is dressed tonight like a master of ceremonies, or a campaign manager, which is one thing as sure as hell he wants to be. He’s wearing a snappy dark wool suit and cream shirt with terracotta tie and ivory cuff-links. Tonight he’s ringmaster, television floor manager and warm-up man rolled into one pink rotundity.
It is Monsieur Cherubini’s gift and perhaps his genius that he applauds in others all the parts they wish to play. He stands now and acknowledges the applause he hears, though we do not, and acknowledges it with a modest wave and a smile. Part of him is already on the platform receiving the adulation of his followers.
‘I call on Monsieur Cherubini to speak to us!’ announces Father Duval.
‘How pleasant to think that an angel should be deemed worthy of his own annunciation.’
This little jollity so entrances Father Duval that he can’t help applauding. ‘Bravo, Monsieur! Bravo, chief!’
‘But where is the Mayor? We cannot begin without him,’ the Angel says.
‘Upstairs catching comets,’ says Father Duval. It seems that the weather will be perfect for viewing tonight. ‘Bella, please call your uncle. The patron is about to speak. The North African secrets of the funny guest at the Priory Hotel are to be revealed to us, one and all, tonight.’
Up in his attic laboratory at the top of the house, Uncle Claude takes an age to open his door to me. It has at least three locks on it and he makes a tremendous fuss before letting me in and even more of a fuss when I tell him he’s wanted and he looks remarkably distracted, a little shy, almost angry, and oddly embarrassed.
‘Bella, I can’t be disturbed. Tonight, two or three hours after sunset, will give me my best chance in years! I’m on the track of a comet, I think. I really do. I’m pretty sure it’s not a globular cluster or just a faint elliptical galaxy. In a region around 36° of the western horizon. It doesn’t have a tail, as far as I can see. But then on the other hand you don’t always h
ave to see a tail straight off because really what you’re looking at is a kind of chalk mark on the blackboard of the heavens. If you’re looking at a comet at all. But I’ve checked my sky atlas and there’s nothing marked there. So who knows?’
‘Listen, you had better come down. Grand-mère was taken ill at the hotel.’
‘What? You see, I told you she should not have gone there. I knew it! What happened?’
‘She had words with André. She got really mad. I don’t understand exactly what they were talking about, except that they both have stories about each other they’d rather not tell. Or hear. I don’t know which. But they clashed, and then she collapsed and we called Monsieur Cherubini and he came and fetched her in the car. She’s downstairs now and I think she must see the doctor but she won’t let me call him. And now the Angel’s going to tell her more stories about Monsieur Brown. It’s bound to upset her because she thinks of Papa. Come down and put a stop to it.’
‘But Bella I must set up.’
‘Uncle Claude, she might die!’
‘Very well, I’ll come down – but no one can stop this. It’s a reaction which has to run its course. We must face the consequences. But I blame André. He will suffer for it.’
‘Something bad is going to happen.’
‘The truth is never bad.’
Here are his fat telescope, his books, his calculations and his experiments. In particular the thoroughly nasty job of work which stands in the corner and has stood in the corner for as long as I can remember. Some people have pot plants, Uncle Claude has his soup, his secret solutions in glass jars, his garden of molecular surprises, conspiracies of simple sugars, nucleotides and phosphates out of which he hopes to grow a living cell, the solutions changed every week according to a new formula, every week a little closer to the secret of life. It is, if you like, Uncle Claude’s very own, very early version of the primal cosmic gruel out of which the microbes came that became us. Bionic fishtank aglow with hope. All Uncle Claude’s life spreads before him in this den. Here he spies out comets, believing that it was in the tails of the comets, or in the arrival of meteorites, that the organic compounds and the lively molecules first migrated to our planet maybe three and a half billion years ago and the magic ingredients fraternized and became life, viruses, microbes. Inanimate salts combining, as he hopes they are combining even now in his fishtanks, tubes and retorts in the corner, and eventually these lucky organisms will grow up to be able to understand the secrets of the universe, relativity, the speed of light, gravity and the Grand Unification Theory which one day (‘I’m utterly confident of this, Bella. Mark my words. You watch and see’) will satisfactorily describe, in mathematical form, the forces which bind the universe: gravity and electro-magnetism, as well as the strong and the weak nuclear forces. (‘Then you just watch and see what will happen to that old figment!’) And my uncle dances across the room, boasting about the figment’s fate, waving his fists like some skinny George Charpentier of the cosmos. My boring, bloody, abysmal, murderous Uncle Claude.
My Chocolate Redeemer Page 17