It went on too long. People were tired and bored by the time the graveside business was reached: many of the downcast solemn faces had become perfunctory, were stretching with suppressed yawns. The cemetery smelt of life instead of death. The sand of the alleyways was moist and clung plastically to the shoe; the plane trees, pleached to give shade, full of freshly rinsed leaf. Arrows of afternoon sunshine shot gaps in the tall piles of cumulus cloud, and brought a wonderful scent out of the yews and cypresses, and the pile of crumbly, fresh-turned black soil. The over-varnished, over-ornate coffin slid down out of sight and Castang felt it was all wrong. He had not known Marcel, but had seen him on a number of occasions. The stocky figure bustled and bristled with vitality; one of those persons who brim with physical energy, have soup-ladles full of it ready to hand around to anybody who wants. To the last second one half expected the heavy lid to be pushed aside and the fellow to sit up, grinning and flexing his biceps. Even underground – he might burrow out sideways like a terrier. Be back at the pub, ready to lead the company in song, before anyone else had got home. As long as I want him alive, thought Castang, he’ll be alive.
People were already melting away around the edges before the grave was filled in. Castang strolled off like a tourist around neighbouring stones. He wanted to see whether anybody lingered.
Only one person did: a tallish, thinnish woman without a family look. He could see little of her but a curl of greyish dark hair at the forehead: middle-aged but the face was foreshortened and he could make little of it. Silk headscarf, navyblue raincoat covering her clothes. She did not linger any length of time, stood immobile with her hands in her pockets, looking expressionlessly across at the row of poplars bordering the main road. Turned and walked away with a quick light step. Long thin legs, bony but with an elegant shape. Large feet, neat in black and white shoes with a look of being Italian and expensive. On an impulse he walked after her, saw her stop outside at an emerald-green Alfa Sud, a bit dingy with a dented bumper and muddy wings. He saw Maryvonne loitering to be picked up, but when he did not look at her she turned well-trained away and made for the bus-stop. Most of the cars had already left.
Luck, fate, chance? Stage-managed in any case; when he reached his own car the little green one was just backing out. She might have stopped to change her shoes. Still on impulse he followed her: it wasn’t difficult. The traffic had thinned, the green car stood out brightly, she did not drive very fast. Erratically more than badly; the way a person drives who is preoccupied or absent-minded.
Certainly she didn’t notice him; he kept well back. She did not head into the town but skirted along the edges, keeping to main roads like someone who does not know the way well. When she turned off into side streets she was getting back to the quarter she knew: Castang sharpened his attention, risked creeping up a little closer. She whisked through a couple of the villages far enough outside the city still to have a villagey look despite housing estates mushrooming in the fields, reached a village some fifteen kilometres out and stopped on the main street to buy bread before the shops shut. He knew the place slightly. A bit of farming still went on but most of the houses had been bought up by bourgeois who went to great pains to modernise within and stay rustic without: a lot of self-conscious restoration. The street had kept centennial trees, was wide and quiet – an old marketplace. That had put the prices up… Pubs had become expensive restaurants; houses with vines or a wisteria across the old stone fronts, a pergola with roses.
She started the car again but drove it only a couple of hundred metres further. He caught a glimpse of her: fiftyish, well-preserved-looking. Pretty face and vivacious. The hair had gone grey early as that sort of coarse dark hair often does. She put her key in the door of one of the tiniest houses, a cottage a couple of hundred years old, door and shutters nicely done in a dark olive green with a transparent effect giving warmth and brightness. He wasn’t going to hang about: he turned and followed the main road back into the city. It was just to see where she belonged. Idle curiosity. There was nothing to do at the office, or nothing that he felt like doing. Let Maryvonne see what she made of it all. This old mole wasn’t going to work in any further earth today. Going home, and wondering whether he’d find his wife still there.
SIX
ALL AGLOW WITH PARENTHOOD
Vera was still there, lying on the sofa, imposing great calm upon herself. She levered herself up into sitting and said, "It’s begun." Abrupt finish to all the old moles.
"You’re sure?"
"Oh yes, I’ve been timing them. Quite regular now. In fact I’m awfully glad to see you. I phoned but you were out at that funeral."
"Death and birth, all sorts of excitements."
Only now did he notice her coat, mole that he was.
"My God we’d better get you moving."
"Look, stop panicking. Plenty of time." One would think she’d been doing this all her life. But all the features were sharpened by tension; she was looking very turned-on, and extraordinary pretty. Been getting steadily prettier these last six months, come to that.
"I seem to have arrived in the nick."
"I was thinking of ringing a taxi." She had the phone on the sofa. "But I held on, thinking with any luck you’d be back. In fact you’re nice and early." Well, he hadn’t forgotten… Other things on his mind, yes, but nothing vital. Vita meaning life, right?
"Shall I help you?"
"I can manage. Give me my stick just in case." Vera’s walk was a hobbly affair, but even carrying a heavy baby she walked. "Is it raining – do I need a scarf on my hair?"
"We’ll dodge between the showers. I’ve got your little case." Nobody clamouring for the lift, thank goodness. There wouldn’t have been room! But he felt disinclined for explanations… She stood on the step, looking young and extremely happy, while he turned the car; she got in with remarkably little trouble.
"You seem lighter already – sure you’ve still got it?" She giggled at this antique pleasantry.
"Oh yes; still hanging on."
The day concierge at the clinic, yawning through his last hour before going off, didn’t keep them hanging about. Every girl the first time was always convinced it would come popping out any sec. Your room’s all ready – find your own way up. The duty nurse, a quiet girl, young enough still to be amused at the excesses of young-fathers-in-labour, said placidly, "You can help me settle her in. What kind of rhythm are they coming in? Oh, lovely, plenty of time but I’m going to ring your gynaecologist because he wants to cast an eye, simply because you’ve had trouble with your pelvis in the past. Have you your card with the blood group and stuff? Fine; get into bed and make yourself comfortable: back in a sec."
"He told me there was absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t have a completely normal birth." Castang being pompous.
"I’m not in the least frightened. He’s conscientious that’s all. I feel pleasantly surrounded by experts, and I’m going to be one too."
The nurse came back and caught him looking useless.
"If you want to stay I can’t let you smoke."
"Uh…"
"Plenty old gynaeco-shnoks can’t abide having fathers under their feet, but yours doesn’t mind. Unless it’s a Caesar or something, which we’re not expecting."
Castang was embarrassed. He longed to stay. It had been discussed.
‘Begun together’ Vera had said ‘and I’d like to finish it together. I’m ashamed about this, but I want to do it all on my own. May I? – do you mind awfully?’ He’d yielded. It wasn’t so much, he thought, an idea of privacy, though she made a great thing of privacy. Had she a little fear of letting him down? He didn’t ask. But damn it, this snip of a nurse would think him one of those cowardly fathers.
"Not this time I think," said Vera placidly. "I’m not altogether sure about how I’ll cope with my stupid back. Next time he’ll come and do all the work himself – ooh, there it comes again."
The girl took her pulse, counted it and said, "Oh yes
, that was a nice one. Thirsty? Like some orange juice?"
"Well then, I’ll leave you in good hands," he said, lighting another cigarette to give himself a countenance. As long as she hadn’t got it all on her infernal card there – father’s profession: inspector of police – mm, probably wears his gunbelt in bed.
The night concierge had just come on; was doing his little housekeeping around the desk.
"You’ll give me a ring?" said Castang, deciding against a card, writing his phone-number on a bit of paper instead. He had thought he’d got over feeling ashamed of being a cop, by now.
"Of course. But don’t ring me – I’ll ring you." The classic!
"Always takes longer than the poppas expect, specially first time."
"Yes," humbly; furious. He went home. He was going to have a drink. Not orange juice. And smoke like a bloody chimney if he felt so inclined. The flat without Vera in it was horrible.
He surprised himself by going off to bed in the most normal way imaginable and feeling sleepy after reading for a quarter of an hour. And tumbling down asleep with no more than the tiniest twinge of guilt.
He wondered how many times the phone had rung. He had been disgracefully deep. Good Lord, two-fifteen.
"Monsieur Castang? – maternity clinic. All okay. Girl, you’ve got. Three kilo sixty. Your wife’s fine, and is going to have a good sleep. No problems at all, I’m told. All right? – best of luck then. Oh, and we ask you particularly not to come in before ten-thirty, okay? Give her time to have breakfast and get a wash, right? Good night."
"Thanks." And surprised again, falling straight asleep.
Shave. Looking at his face. Now, unaccountably, nervous. What about? Have to go and declare a birth at the Hôtel de Ville. A girl.
The only trouble about this was that he couldn’t remember what the girl’s name was. The water in the kitchen was boiling its head off. Will you please stop being struck by panic. He succeeded in not cutting himself: that would have been the final end in banality. You stupid little man, go to work.
He made a mess, filtering coffee: didn’t clear it up; Vera wasn’t there to see. Drank coffee. The idea of bread induced nausea. The idea of looking at the morning paper induced nausea. Everything induced nausea, this wasn’t at all what he had expected. Father left a great pigsty everywhere, telling himself he would have a good clean by and by, felt anxiously to see if he had any money. Sod it, where was Vera’s purse? She’d taken it with her. Resod it, now he’d have to go to the bank. Made up his mind he wasn’t going to say a word to anybody.
This all vanished the moment he got in at the office door. Maryvonne looking tidy and businesslike. Instantly he felt irrepressibly light-hearted and insanely proud.
"You are allowed to congratulate me; I’ve got a girl."
"Oh great. What’s her name?"
"Yes, this is less good. I’ve forgotten. It was all decided, at enormous length, and now I can’t remember."
"Oh, I think that’s quite normal."
"Tell anybody and I’ll bite your ass clear off, right? I don’t want any coarse humour from Cantoni. All right, now we’re going to do some work. What have you managed?"
"Here’s the family tree," producing two bits of paper, scotch-taped together. "Just a sec, I left my bag in the wash-room."
Nice neat work, nicely-formed handwriting, lines drawn with a ruler. All absolutely clear. This vast tribe – good, now he knew where he stood.
The door opened and Fausta came floating in cradling a champagne bottle. Oh damn these infernal women; wouldn’t you know it?
"What the fuck’s that?"
"Now tut-tut-tut. Don’t be unbearably stupid." He was seized by Fausta, unheard-of occurrence, given two large chaste kisses. "You’re a good boy and we’re proud of you." Infernal Maryvonne carrying a tray and three glasses.
"Where may all this have come from?"
"Fausta’s been keeping it in her little fridge where she makes God’s dinner. All among the tins of Kitty-Kat and the Mars bars," twisting the wire off with strong competent fingers. "Pop, goes the weasel."
"For Godsake shut that door and lock it before the whole neighbourhood appears."
"Just let me get through the keyhole," said Monsieur Richard, bland and abominable in the doorway. He picked up the telephone. "Hold my calls until I get back… Very nice. Bonds of discipline pleasantly relaxed, I notice. Well Castang, is Fausta to wear a blue ribbon in her hair today, or a pink one?"
"Or plaited into two tresses," suggested Maryvonne, the bottle meeting Richard’s outstretched hand, which had a glass between the middle fingers. He had put his spectacles on and was reading her homework.
"A pink one."
"Splendid," ambiguously. "You’ll be getting on with this then, in the intervals between drunken euphoria. That’s what I want. How nice then, Castang; what’s her name?"
"Yes, I’ve got to decide about that before getting down to the town hall."
"The twenty-fifth of May is the Sainte Sophie," said Fausta looking at the post-office calendar.
"Something Czech I think."
"Not I hope Ludmila."
"Why not Ludmila? – it’s pretty."
"This is plainly going to go on and on," said Richard. "Here’s to all three of you, dear boy, and my loyal and admiring regards to Madame, and let me know, won’t you, when it’s decided," floating out as elegantly as he had come in.
"Showing off," said Fausta. "I could have sworn he didn’t even know I had the bottle there. Always rummaging in my affairs; have to tell him off about that. Our love to her, then, and we’ll make a call of state when she’s had a rest. What clinic is she in? – right then, it’s noted. No, if I’ve more than one I’ll be tiddly, and the Absolute Monarch would be cross. See you later."
"There are a good many of them," said Castang, absently holding his glass for the last drops of foam, "so we’ll have to split them up. In fact I want them all covered two ways. No harm if the questions overlap to some extent. We’re navigating in the unknown; in those terms two bearings give one a fix, and it’s nice sometimes to know where you are." She was looking a bit dubious. "Small boat in the dark," said Castang, who was making most of this up as he went along; it might have been the champagne early in the morning. "Submerged rocks and stuff."
"The private life of Monsieur Marcel is what you might call a lee shore?"
"Rather, I’d guess."
"All right, but give me a general line to follow, so they won’t get mad at too many repetitions."
"Let’s try then," taking a bit of paper, "I take for a start the family house, and then this daughter. You start with the other son, the one that’s married, and the two brothers, that’ll mean the pub. Pub’ll be full of old pals, or claiming to be. He went there every day; it was a sort of headquarters.
"Brief outline of questioning," watching her fingers shorthanding on the pad, "you work at the chronology; we aim to establish the movements of friend Etienne over the last forty-eight hours."
"That long?"
"We don’t know what might prove important, assuming anything is. I want to go for the relationships: character, habits, whatever you like. You’re filling in as many gaps as possible in the physical employment of his time. It’s another metaphor, but warp and woof: we’d have a canvas; one can hold it up to the light and look at it."
"What about all his public activities?"
"That’s pretty tricky ground and Richard’s sector. Anything of a business nature crops up you make notes and write them up as a report for him. We’ve enough until tomorrow: I can’t see myself doing much before this afternoon."
Left to himself he did his homework on the ‘family tree.’
Etienne Marcel: fifty-five years old when cut off unexpectedly and, said the medical report, in robust health. Name, probably an unconscious coincidence, of a historic personage. Like most such, after whom streets in Paris were called, exceedingly vague. The Provost of the Something, in the reign of Somebody.
Both parents alive. Father, known as Pépé, named Florent, reputed gaga, did not come to funeral (Maryvonne had added little notes). In his eighties and shaky. Mother, named Reine, late seventies, said to be physically active but ‘didn’t feel up to’ funeral. Both live in the family house, Rue des Carmélites.
Living under same roof we find: – the wife. Named Noelle. Robust lady, shading fifty. Ex-barmaid. Ran the pub (foundation of family fortunes) many years, these last ten putting a distance, very much so. Goes to much pains to dress and act bourgeoise, gives an impression of not knowing what a pub is.
Unmarried sister: Thérèse. Early fifties (younger anyhow than Etienne). Faded and effaced impression: conventional front of one given to pious good works, churchy activities. ‘The housekeeper’ – big house; cooks and cleans (outside cleaning woman I gather for rough work). Eyes downcast, did not (does not?) utter.
Also son, second son, unmarried. Thierry, thirties. Black sheep? Apparently without occupation and does not desire one, but evasive (rather naturally?). Easygoing, smiling, agreeable, smells of drink. Appearance uncared for, smartish but down at heel. Forthcoming but glib? Source of much of this info. Income? – ‘rubs along’?
Outside the house: family circle: – Two brothers (Bonaparte brothers?) aptly named Joseph & Lucien. Some way younger than E (& Thérèse) but appear older: both like a drink… Both in small independent business, J as joiner (‘yr antique furn. restored’ – that sort) & L as small jobbing printer. Both married, some indeterminate children.
Eldest son, named Didier, 33-4. Independent house-agent business, ‘Agence Moderne’, appears prosperous, probably is (personal impressions suppressed). Married but divorced, two children custody mother. Lives alone (?) flat adjoining office.
Castang’s City Page 4