The White Venus

by Rupert Colley

  He felt himself trip; felt himself fall as if in slow motion, flying through the night air. He landed in a heap at the base of the tree – the very tree he had lain against with Xavier earlier in the day, so long ago; the tree where his friend was supposed to meet him. The side of his head had hit the trunk, the bark scrapping his ear, which now throbbed in pain. Panting heavily, lying on his front, he knew he was done for; finished. There were more panicked shouts in German – two or three of them, then several more, it seemed. He could hear the pounding of footsteps, boots on tarmac, a whole bloody battalion of them coming his way. In a rush of certainty, Pierre knew he had come to his last few moments. All he felt was a deep irritation that his final mark on the world should be a misspelt act of graffiti. Then came the unmistakeable rev of a German motorbike, more shouts, orders, rifles clicking, men ready for action. He almost laughed at the amount of effort they seemed to expending on his behalf. They came running – dozens of them. He closed his eyes, preparing for the bayonet in his back at any moment. But they were running past him; they’d missed him. Peering up from the grass, he felt as if they weren’t making much effort to find him. He watched, bewildered, as they rushed by, making room for the motorbike and sidecar which roared through them and raced ahead. He lay on the grass, his ears pounding, and watched as perhaps a dozen soldiers disappeared into the distance, past the library and beyond, the sound of their boots fading away. His eyes remained rooted to the spot where they had disappeared from view. The burst of activity had left in its wake an eerie silence, an imagined echo of boots. Looking around he realised he was very much alone. Not a German in sight. Pierre’s relief was tempered by a hint of anti-climax; a faint sense of disappointment that he hadn’t been the focus of their attention. He told himself not to be so ridiculous. He wondered where they were going, what had seized them so utterly? There was nothing in that stretch of town apart from the railway line. Oh good God, he thought; someone was attacking the railway line. Someone had the gall to trump his graffiti. The swine.

  The town hall clock struck half nine. It had been quite the longest half hour of his life. He rolled over and lay on his back, exhausted. But it wasn’t over – a rustle of footsteps on grass had him scrambling to his feet, preparing for an attack.

  ‘Pierre, Pierre,’ came the familiar voice. ‘It’s me.’

  Pierre breathed; realising he’d been holding his breath. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he said, sitting back down.

  ‘Keep your hair on,’ said Xavier, crouching. ‘I’m bang on time. Half past nine.’

  ‘I said nine.’

  His friend was wearing his father’s beret. Far too small for him, the fool; it made his ears stick out. ‘You said half nine.’

  ‘No, I said nine.’

  ‘This could go on for a while.’

  ‘You idiot.’

  ‘What happened to your ear?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Anyway, we’ve been beaten to it,’ said Xavier, looking round. ‘Someone had the same idea and painted all over the town hall door. But you never guess what?’ He laughed as he said it, ‘The suckers have gone and misspelled France. Put an ‘m’ instead of an ‘n’. I mean, how stupid can you get? What bloody idiots.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Pierre, feeling his whole body sag. ‘What bloody idiots.’

  *

  Someone had locked his bedroom window. As well as meaning he couldn’t get back in, it meant someone, probably his mother, had been in his room. Anything beyond a cursory glance and they would have realised that it was a pile of clothes in his bed. He deposited his bag in the shed, closed the door and wondered how on earth he was going to get back inside. He heard the chickens cluck within their pen. Leaning against the wall, the Algerian’s headstone. His father had done more than he thought, even as far as half the wording. He laughed at the thought of his father engraving ‘France’ with an ‘m’.

  If his parents knew he’d gone, they’d be waiting up for him, however long it took. Circling round the house, he tried the front door. Locked. Creeping past the major’s bedroom, he knocked on his parents’ window. No answer. He hadn’t expected one. He had no choice; he would have to knock on the kitchen door and hope to God the major didn’t answer. He swore in frustration.

  He tapped gently on the kitchen door. Not even a mouse would have heard that, he thought. Stealing himself, he knocked a little louder, then louder still.

  ‘Who is it?’ It was his mother. How lovely to hear her voice.

  ‘It’s me,’ he whispered back.

  The door opened and Lucienne almost pulled him into the darkened house, into the kitchen, lighted by just a couple of candles. ‘Where in the blazes have you been?’ she shouted, taking Pierre by surprise.

  ‘Maman, keep your voice down!’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry – no one’s here. I mean no one. First your father went out, then the major, someone called for him, and then I discover you’d gone too.’

  ‘What? Where did they go?’

  ‘You think they told me? No. You all leave me and I’m left alone worried sick.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Maman, I’m sure the major will be back soon.’

  ‘Don’t try to be funny. So where were you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. Where were you?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. Business.’

  ‘Funny that; that’s exactly what your father said. It’s not a game all this, Pierre, it’s... What’s happened to your ear?’

  ‘I fell over,’ said Pierre, rubbing it.

  ‘On your ear? And what’s that blood on your fingers?’ She took his hand and turned it over. ‘It’s paint. Why have you got... OK, you’re right; I don’t want to know.’ With a heavy sigh, she went to the sink to wash her hands. ‘Did you see your father?’

  ‘No.’ She looked at him accusingly over her shoulder. ‘No, really; I promise.’ After a while, he asked, ‘Is there a power cut?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why the candles?’

  ‘Your father told me. Wants the world to think we’re in bed.’

  ‘The world? It’s empty out there; no one will notice.’

  ‘I’m only obeying orders. Anyway, it’s not empty – out there somewhere is your father and the major, and I don’t imagine for one minute they are together.’

  Chapter 6

  Pierre laid on his bed, the curtains open, a hint of sun shining through, motes of dust dancing in the air. He fancied a cigarette. It was still only seven. In the distance, he could hear the rumble of several trucks – he’d learnt that the Germans always went out on exercise at this time, always at seven. He dreamt of Claire, as he often did first thing in the morning. He was kissing her, always kissing her, only the location changed with each day. Today, he was kissing her at her work, in the library; next to them the pile of banned books, his hand on her breast. It seemed sacrilege to be fondling the librarian’s breast in front of such greats – Flaubert, Shakespeare, Proust. He really could do with a cigarette. The sound of his parents talking filtered into his consciousness. So at least his father had made it back. The tone of their voices sounded normal; they weren’t arguing. His father had already been forgiven. Back to Claire. He groaned. He dreamt of her nibbling on his ear – no, that hurt too much. ‘Kiss me,’ she whispered while pushing away Proust. She had such lovely lips. Pierre realised he had an erection.

  ‘Pierre – breakfast time.’ Claire vanished in an instant. ‘Oh, dear. I do apologise.’ His mother backed away from the door. ‘I should’ve knocked,’ she said, now knocking. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  He grunted.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she said, still hovering outside the door. ‘I didn’t quite catch that.’

  ‘Nothing, Maman. Nothing.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  If you must, he thought. ‘Yes,’ he said, readjusting his blanket. ‘OK.’

  She slipped into his bedroom and, glancing surreptitiously behind
her, closed the door. She was wearing an apron – a rarity these days, since the major moved in. She opened her mouth to say something but stopped as she registered the state of his room – the poster of Rita Hayworth which she always regarded as provocative; his bureau scattered with books and papers; the overflowing bin full of pieces of rolled-up paper; his dusty mirror, partially obscured by a French flag; the chest of drawers covered with statuettes, a chisel, and model aeroplane and goodness-knows-what and, leaning against it, a guitar he no longer played. She didn’t have to say it, he needed to have a tidy-up.

  ‘Pierre,’ she said, sitting down gingerly on the edge of the bed. As soon as she sat, she shot up again. ‘Oh, sorry; do you mind if I sit?’

  He shuffled up against the wall. ‘Yes, what is it, Maman?’

  She checked the door. ‘Listen, Pierre, about last night. I haven’t told your father you went out; he doesn’t know.’

  ‘And you think we shouldn’t tell him?’

  ‘Yes, I think it’d be for the best. At least for now, for a while.’

  ‘Fine. Is the major in?’

  ‘Yes, he’s having breakfast.’

  ‘Good. Can I get up now?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb your... I mean, your... well,’ she added, cheerfully, ‘breakfast is ready.’

  *

  Pierre ate his boiled egg in silence next to his mother at the table while his father and the major, opposite, discussed violin concertos. No one mentioned the railway. Pierre could tell that the major’s musical knowledge was far superior but he was going to great lengths to play it down, not wanting to embarrass his host. Why, the major said, he had seen the great Furtwangler conduct. Pierre had never heard of Furtwangler but the name sounded grand and his father was certainly impressed.

  ‘Sleep well?’ his father asked him, spreading jam on his toast.

  ‘All right,’ he replied, wondering why, of all days, he’d ask a question he’d never asked before.

  ‘What happened to your ear?’

  ‘I fell.’

  ‘When? It was all right when you went to bed last night.’

  ‘I just fell.’

  ‘Leave him be,’ said Lucienne, quietly. Georges shrugged and bit into his toast.

  ‘I passed through the square late last night,’ said the major, a coffee mug in his hand. ‘Someone had painted a slogan over the big doors of the town hall.’

  ‘Delinquents,’ said Georges.

  ‘Petty vandalism; it was nothing.’

  ‘What did it say?’ asked Lucienne.

  ‘It said Vive La France in big red letters.’

  Georges laughed. Pierre concentrated on his egg and soldiers aware that his mother had shot him a look.

  ‘Silly thing,’ continued the major, ‘is that somehow they misspelled France.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Georges. ‘How do you misspell France? Ha, it must’ve been the work of a German. No true Frenchman would have misspelled the name of his own country, for goodness sake.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid it will be a Frenchman who will have to scrape it off.’

  Pierre grimaced as he swallowed down his spoonful of cod liver oil.

  ‘Are you all right, Pierre?’ asked Georges.

  *

  After breakfast, Pierre went to the yard and, having gathered his tools from the shed and donned his goggles, began work. The yard was still bathed in shadow; it would be another hour or so before it caught the sun. His father had already been out and unlocked the chicken pen. He watched them pecking at their seed, uncomfortably aware that news of his graffiti would be spreading through the town by now. He took no pleasure that everyone would be wondering who had done the deed. No one could ever know – the shame would be too much. He wanted to go and see it, see his work in the daylight but decided to wait; thinking it best not to rush out. Instead, he would spend a little time with his White Venus.

  He’d been chiselling away for ten minutes or more when the major appeared, as he knew he would. ‘It’s progressing, I see,’ said the German. ‘She’s beginning to take shape.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘It’s lovely to see; a work of art being created before our very eyes.’ He sat down on the rocking chair but then promptly got up again, disturbing the chickens from their pecking. ‘I admire your dedication. When Joachim was young he used to paint. He wasn’t bad. He doesn’t paint any more; doesn’t have the time, poor boy. I received a letter from him yesterday. The army’s keeping him busy. He tells me they’ll be on the move soon. Of course, he can’t tell me where. Could be Poland, North Africa, Holland. Perhaps even France. I would love that. I miss him, you know. His mother is very proud of him, I’m sure. I know you are French and he German but you would like him, my Joachim. You’re very similar in many ways.’

  Pierre watched him from the corner of his eye. The man seemed on edge, pacing up and down, hands behind back, kicking little stones with the toe of his shiny boots.

  ‘It does seem very young to put a boy in uniform. He’s nineteen, but nonetheless. You’d have thought we would have learnt from the last war, but no. I know he couldn’t wait to play his part, to fight for the Führer. But it’s a cause of constant anxiety. I’m sure you understand.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘It’s another fine day. Not a cloud in the sky. A fine day for the beach. Do you ever go to the beach here? I suppose it’s quite a distance. When I was a boy... Listen to me. I talk too much. I ought to go.’ He paused, deep in thought. ‘It’s times like these,’ he said, eventually, ‘that you think back to your childhood and it all seems such a long time ago. My father had a little shed like this. He used to sit at the door after dinner and smoke his pipe, staring up to the sky, looking at the stars. My mother, bless her, wouldn’t let him smoke indoors.’ He laughed, peering inside the shed.

  Pierre wished he would go. He had enough to think about without this foreigner unburdening himself.

  ‘What a lot of paint in here.’ Pierre tried to focus on the work in hand. ‘Red paint too, I see.’ The major readjusted his cap. ‘Well, Pierre, time I was leaving. It’s been lovely talking to you. Keep up the good work.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Pierre watched him leave, watched him as the major paused at the kitchen door. Without turning, the German said, ‘Be careful, Pierre. It’s a dangerous place out there. Just... just be careful.’

  And with that he was gone.

  *

  A while later, Pierre was joined in the yard by his father, wearing his overalls, a pencil behind his ear, a damp cigarette between his lips. Without acknowledging his son, he pulled out his little stool from the shed and sat down in front of the headstone. He looked at it for a few minutes, checked the wording written for him on a sheet of paper by the mayor, and set to work on the headstone, delicately engraving the letters.

  The two men, each with a chisel and hammer, worked in silence. After a while, the temptation to go see his graffiti became too much. Laying down his tools, Pierre removed his goggles and wiped the dust from his trousers. He left without saying anything. His mother was doing the washing, having pulled out the mangle, despite the warmth of the day outside. The kitchen smelt of damp linen. He washed his hands batting off questions from his mother asking whether he was feeling OK. ‘You’re very quiet this morning, Pierre,’ she said, holding one of Georges’s shirts, her head tilted to one side as if to emphasise her concern.

  ‘I’m fine, Maman,’ he snapped.

  *

  A small crowd had gathered in front of the town hall, sniggering at the slogan on the doors, shaking their heads as if in disbelief. Standing back, too afraid to mingle among them for fear they would sense his guilt, Pierre couldn’t help but agree – it looked ridiculous. Nearby, a couple of soldiers watched them, little smiles on their faces. Pierre recognised Fritzes One and Two.

  Vive la Framce. The letters were not as big as he thought. ‘What must the Germans think of us,’ he heard someone say. ‘I
t’s embarrassing,’ said another. Pierre recognized Madame Picard, a baguette poking out of her basket. ‘If I find out my son did this, I’ll put him over my knee.’ ‘But he’s nineteen.’ ‘I don’t care; this is a disgrace.’ The town hall doors opened. People stepped back. It was the major accompanied by a policeman, a Frenchman, with, thought Pierre, unusually long sideburns, a folder under his arm.

  Pierre felt ridiculously pleased to see his German, pleased for the distraction. ‘Hello, Major,’ he said, brightly.

  Striding past, the major saw him, looked straight at him with cold eyes, but made no acknowledgement. Pierre watched the two men go. Maybe, he thought, he had had the sun in his eyes. The major shouted something at Fritz One who saluted in return. Fritz One approached the gathering and said something in German. He repeated it, this time more loudly. ‘I think he wants us to move on,’ said Madame Picard. ‘Let’s hope they catch the little bugger who did this,’ said someone. Slowly the crowd dispersed. Pierre watched the major and the policeman enter Café Bleu on the far side of the square, taking a table outside. A new sign had appeared above its door – We welcome our German guests.

  ‘Hey, you.’ Pierre heard the soldier shouting in German. ‘Oi, are you deaf?’ said Fritz One, poking Pierre in the arm.

  Pierre turned to see the German holding out something in his hand. ‘What?’ It was a strip of sandpaper. Motioning with his head towards the door, the penny dropped. ‘You... you want me to...?’