Vango

by Timothee de Fombelle

  She parked in the garage, next to the stable. She had driven very slowly so as not to make any noise.

  The car came to a halt.

  At the back of the garage, in the glare of the headlights, Ethel had seen someone.

  The young man was shading his eyes. He had come down from the manger that doubled as his bed. What was referred to as the garage was in fact part of the old stables, converted at the beginning of the century to accommodate cars.

  Ethel switched off the engine but kept the headlights on. She opened the door.

  “Good evening,” she said.

  “Good evening.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “My name is Andrew. I look after the horses.”

  Andrei had ventured the only two sentences he could manage without an accent.

  “You’re Russian.”

  “Yes. From Moscow.”

  He was covering his eyes with his forearm now. He was as dazzled as a rabbit in the headlights.

  “Lift your arm, so I can see you.”

  He did as he was told.

  “Did Paul ask you to look after the cars?”

  “No. The horses.”

  Andrei hadn’t yet been able to glimpse the young woman’s face, but he could tell it was her.

  Ethel. He had been expecting her for a month.

  “If you’re looking after the horses, why are your hands in that state?”

  He looked at his fingers, which were covered in grease. She switched off the headlamps.

  He didn’t answer.

  She took a few steps over the flagstones and turned on an electric bulb that hung over a workbench.

  At last, he could see her.

  She was wearing a navy-blue suit with white stripes, a short jacket, trousers that were too big for her, and, tucked under one arm, she was carrying a leather-lined gabardine bag.

  Her hair was tied back. She looked very tired.

  Ethel had driven for twelve hours from London, having spent the last three nights in places where people were more interested in dancing than sleeping.

  She was watching Andrei with her eyes half closed while keeping her finger on the timer switch that operated the light.

  “Well? Why are your fingers in that state?”

  Andrei was alarmed. This girl saw everything.

  She suspected something. He was sure of that.

  “I enjoy mechanics,” he said.

  “Why did he hire you?”

  “I stole a horse.”

  Mary had made him repeat this sentence as well, like a primary-school teacher making a child write out his mistake again and again. I stole a horse. I stole a horse. Andrew stole a horse.

  “Do you think that’s a good reason?” demanded Ethel.

  He didn’t know what to say. She went over to a bulky shape that was covered in a black cloth. Andrei was trembling, but this didn’t show in Paul’s clothes, which were too big on him and had been patched up by Mary.

  Ethel tugged at the black shroud like a magician revealing what lay beneath.

  “I hope you’re not messing around with my father’s car.”

  “I enjoy mechanics,” Andrei repeated.

  The car that had belonged to Ethel’s father was a white Silver Ghost Rolls-Royce, dated 1907. The best-looking automobile in the world. This particular car had been gathering dust for the last ten years. And Andrei had spent his nights restoring it to as good as new. He had cleaned each piece of the engine. It started up on the first try now.

  “Who asked you to do that?”

  “No one.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Yes.”

  Andrei took a step toward the vehicle. He wanted to show off his handiwork. He had done everything with this aim in mind. Mary had told him how attached Ethel was to the car. So Andrei had set to work.

  As instructed by Boris Petrovitch, he was keeping an eye on Everland, in the hope that one day Vango would pay a visit.

  To succeed in his mission, he needed to win Ethel’s confidence. Andrei put his hand on the hood of the car.

  “Stop!” Ethel shouted. “Take your hand away from there.”

  Her eyes were half shut. There was a lump in her throat.

  “I’m warning you. If you so much as touch that car again, I’ll throw you out!”

  Ethel went into Paul’s bedroom and revived the fire by putting a log on it. He was asleep.

  She sat in an armchair.

  One day, she would no longer have the right to open the door to this bedroom in the middle of the night. She knew that. In fact, she was almost impatient for the day. Paul would have his own family. Doors would have to be knocked on, private apartments would be designated in the castle, the rules of the game would be rewritten.

  At last something would change around here.

  Ethel stretched her legs close to the flames.

  For the two of them, the world had frozen on the day when their parents had died.

  There were people growing old around them, but they wouldn’t let anything or anyone else in. A dark shroud had been placed over their world, just as it had over the Silver Ghost Rolls-Royce. And no one had the right to touch it.

  Nothing had moved on. Paul’s airplane was a copy of the miniature one he used to play with as a child. And little Ethel had already learned how to drive, all that time ago, on her father’s knees.

  There was nothing new on earth.

  A single meteor had punctuated this long period, as far as Ethel was concerned. And that was Vango. She loved him. She loved him with all her heart.

  When she stayed in smoky cafés until daylight, when the faces, the music, the fast life made her feel intoxicated, she knew she was running away from something that was missing.

  It had all happened too quickly for her to catch him, for the world around her to warm up for good.

  Paul found Ethel asleep in the armchair when he woke up. Delicately, he lifted her feet and put them on a footstool.

  Soon she opened her eyes.

  He smiled at her. He had put on some music in the little study next door.

  “I didn’t want to wake you,” he said.

  “Me neither.”

  She stroked his forehead.

  “I saw your aviator friends in London.”

  “They’re very lucky to see you so often, Ethel.”

  “They’ve been wondering what you’re up to.”

  “Nothing, as you can see. I don’t do anything. And you?”

  “I’m trying to live.”

  “You look sad, Ethel. Are you thinking about him?”

  “Who?”

  They were silent for a while, and then she said, “Your aviator friends say you don’t like partying.”

  The music stopped. He shrugged.

  “Each to his own party,” said Paul.

  He got up to turn over the record in the study.

  Flying with wild ducks, steering his plane under the natural arch formations in the cliffs near to Duncansby Head lighthouse, crossing deep rivers on horseback. These were all parties in his eyes.

  He could hear Ethel’s voice coming from the bedroom: “Who’s the Russian looking after the horses?”

  “A vagabond,” he replied, coming back out of the study.

  “A vagabond?”

  “A vagabond who was looking for work.”

  “Don’t you find it surprising that a Russian vagabond would stray this far?”

  They started laughing.

  “Here you go again. Perhaps he’s a spy! A seventeen-year-old spy come in from the cold to watch over two orphans.”

  Ethel had been harboring these kinds of suspicions for a month now. She claimed that someone had searched her hotel bedroom at night while she was out, in Edinburgh. All she needed to do was be in her room at night, her brother had retorted.

  “You see people who don’t exist, Ethel, and you can’t even see the ones who are here. Take Tom Cameron, who’s always circling around you!”


  “He should stop circling,” she whispered, “because he’s getting dizzy.”

  Sure enough, the most recent visits from the Camerons had resulted in some surreal scenes. Tom’s parents had arrived in a fever pitch of excitement. They always looked dressed up. And they sounded muddled as they waffled on about “what we’re not supposed to know” and “having to feign ignorance.” The more the parents spun out of control, the more their son turned green, shrank from sight, and hid behind his hat.

  Most of the time, Ethel wasn’t there. Paul had to handle the situation alone. When they arrived for an impromptu visit, John the butler had gotten into the habit of announcing, loudly and clearly, “The asylum opposite!”

  They would troop in.

  Each time, Paul found a good explanation for his sister’s whereabouts. And Lady Cameron always answered with “Yes, yes, of course! Let her make the most of it while she can!” Which is what you might say about a hen that’s still prancing around when it’s got a date with the saucepan. Beth Cameron took the paintings off the walls to examine the signatures closely; she counted the crystal chandeliers and weighed the silverware.

  Ethel stretched in her armchair in front of the fire.

  “Are you honestly saying you don’t have anything to tell me about Tom?” asked Paul, taking his sister’s hand. “You haven’t spoken?”

  Ethel smiled.

  “No. I promise.”

  “Well, in that case, I think there must be a misunderstanding. Poor Tom!”

  “Don’t worry about him.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  Mary brought in a pot of tea. Ethel got up to give her a kiss and then wanted to dance a waltz with the housekeeper. Paul opened the study doors wide so they could all hear the music from the gramophone.

  John, the venerable butler, entered and viewed the scene with some consternation.

  Mary hadn’t even had time to put her tray down. She was spinning around the room, letting out little squeals of delight. Ethel wouldn’t let go of her. They were twirling around together. Paul caught the first cup as it flew through the air, then a second, then the teapot. John caught Ethel’s shoes.

  The sugar bowl ended up in the fireplace, and a smell of caramel wafted through the room.

  The music was making everyone feel giddy.

  Ethel eventually let go of Mary.

  “You’re all mad,” the housekeeper sighed ecstatically as she fell into Paul’s arms.

  Somewhere in France, a month later, November 1935

  A ribbon of white steam was winding its way through the gorges between the mountains. The train was hurtling through black pine forests, straddling streams and escarpments of scree.

  Voloy Viktor was squinting through the narrowest of openings at the landscape as it flashed past him.

  There were five armored train cars. It was impossible to tell which one held the prisoner.

  Troops occupied the rest of the train.

  Identical trains had left Paris a few minutes apart, with the same number of soldiers on board, but without the prisoner.

  The mastermind behind this operation was Superintendent Boulard.

  The prisoner would arrive at one of the three fortresses that had been made ready for him. One in the Alps, high up on a mountainside; one off the Île de Ré, on the Atlantic coast by La Rochelle; and the last one in the marshes of central France. Only Boulard knew which one had been chosen at the last moment.

  The plan was to rule out any possibility of escape.

  Voloy Viktor was breathing in the fresh mountain air. He approved of cold air. It was a fine day, and Viktor hardly noticed the numbness in his limbs.

  His hands were bound together on a cast-iron block, and his feet were soldered into the floor of his cage. This cage, with its heavy bars, had been placed inside one of the armored cars borrowed from the Bank of France. The train had been built to withstand attack from a tank or an air fleet.

  Boulard was standing on the platform of La Rochelle Station, accompanied by his faithful Avignon, two penitentiary divisions, and a blacksmith, who would cut Viktor out.

  The station was surrounded by military troops.

  So far so good. Boulard kept his hands in his coat pockets. He was wearing a dapper new hat from Mossant’s.

  The train was due to arrive in a few minutes. It had been reported at a level crossing outside Marans.

  “Have you received any news about the other two?” asked an anxious Avignon.

  Boulard gestured toward the stationmaster, passing the question on to him.

  “Yes,” came the reply. “And there’s nothing to report. The trains are due to arrive into their respective stations at exactly the same time. Their speeds were calculated with this in mind.”

  Boulard gave a satisfied smile.

  He had been organizing this day for some time. He owed this much at least to Zefiro. He had sworn to put Voloy Viktor in prison for the rest of his days. It was the only way of reducing the threat to the padre and his monks.

  The whistle of an incoming train could be heard. Boulard’s eyes lit up.

  “Here it comes,” announced Avignon.

  The locomotive pulled smoothly into the station. The five cars were lined up alongside the platform, which was briefly empty. Foot soldiers immediately surrounded them.

  “Time to play the guessing game,” joked Boulard. “Car four!”

  The small army moved toward the rear of the train. Avignon was sweating.

  “Here it is,” he called out.

  “Open up for me!” shouted Boulard.

  Two men emerged from the ranks with a set of keys. They opened several locks. Boulard gave them a five-letter code to release the final padlock, before declaring, “You can go in now, Avignon.”

  The blacksmith was getting his blowtorch ready.

  Avignon pushed open the sliding door with the help of three guards. He glanced feverishly at Boulard.

  “In you go,” coaxed the superintendent.

  Avignon disappeared inside. A cry was heard. Then he reappeared at the door.

  “There’s nobody in here!”

  “Search the whole train, you bunch of idiots!” boomed Boulard.

  They searched the four remaining cars. All they found were the soldiers who had been posted there.

  Avignon walked back toward Boulard, his knees gone weak.

  “He’s not here.”

  Boulard glanced up at the station clock.

  “Well, he should have arrived by now.”

  The superintendent put his hand on Avignon’s shoulder.

  “My dear fellow, you didn’t really think I was going to wait with my welcoming committee at the appointed station? What do you take me for? Call Lieutenant Rémi, at Bourges Station.”

  Avignon rushed away to make the phone call.

  “Excuse me, sir . . .”

  Someone was hovering shyly around the superintendent, who was busy trying to prize open a tin of candy.

  “Superintendent, sir . . .”

  “Yes,” said Boulard.

  It was the blacksmith. He suddenly felt redundant.

  “Can I go now?”

  “What do you think?”

  The poor man had no idea what he was supposed to say.

  “Ah . . . can I?”

  “Unless you care to redo my fillings for me?” roared Boulard.

  The stationmaster signaled discreetly that yes, the blacksmith could leave.

  Lieutenant Avignon swiftly reappeared, looking just as pale and washed out as he had earlier.

  “No, Superintendent, he’s not over there either. There’s nobody in the train that’s arrived at Bourges.”

  Boulard played at being astonished.

  “What a surprise! Is that so? He’s not at Bourges, you say?”

  Then he adopted the pose of a tragic actress, exclaiming, “Well, in that case I’m done for!”

  He pierced his heart with an imaginary dagger, before checking t
he station clock again.

  “Call Chambéry.”

  Avignon set off for the second time, his tongue hanging out. The small army was staring at the superintendent in bewilderment.

  This time, Boulard wasn’t quite so relaxed. He sucked nervously on a candy.

  He knew that nothing was in the bag yet, and he already regretted his little theatrical performance. Voloy Viktor was a subject for neither farce nor tragedy. He was a lunatic who could inveigle his way in anywhere, like those large flies that are found alive in the tombs of the pharaohs, despite the monuments’ having been sealed up for three thousand years.

  The engine had stopped spitting out steam.

  Avignon still wasn’t back.

  The station was perfectly silent.

  To pass the time, Boulard tried to set his watch by the station clock. The winder came off in his hand.

  “Go and get him for me,” he finally bellowed.

  They located Avignon in the station office, where he had passed out in a cold faint.

  Someone was trying to revive him by fanning him with a railroad timetable.

  “Out of the way!” the superintendent ordered before sitting down next to Avignon and slapping him twice.

  “Lieutenant!”

  “Sugar, I think he needs sugar,” proffered the manageress of the station’s café, bringing over a bottle of fruit cordial.

  “Thank you, Madame,” Boulard accepted politely.

  “Would you like a straw?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  Boulard raised the bottle high and emptied the entire contents over Avignon’s face.

  The lieutenant finally opened his eyes.

  “Hasn’t the train reached Chambéry?” demanded his boss.

  “Yes, of course. The train arrived bang on time.”

  “Well?”

  “Viktor isn’t in the Chambéry train.”

  Voloy Viktor was listening to all the noise outside. He couldn’t work out where he was exactly. The train had stopped. His narrow window offered a view of a yellow wall. A bit of a kerfuffle could be heard, a few cries outside the car. A dog was barking.

  He was thinking about Zefiro. He had always been suspicious of the monk’s death.