The White Venus

by Rupert Colley

  'That's good.'

  'Pierre, Claire knows what to do. Go speak to her.' Pierre nodded. 'Off you go, then, boy.'

  Conscious of being watched, Pierre made his exit. It was only after he closed the door and was half way down the stairs that he realised he hadn't said a word.

  Back in the library, Pierre saw that Claire had customers – two German privates leaning on the counter, their helmets pushed up their heads, grinning. The three of them spoke animatedly in German. Pierre headed straight out, still carrying his book.

  *

  Later that afternoon, Claire appeared at Pierre’s house. Lucienne had been outside, watering the plants and flowers in front of the house, and showed Claire in.

  'Claire,' she said, bringing her into the kitchen, 'what a lovely surprise. Can I get you a glass of water? It's so hot, don't you think? Is it Pierre you've come to see?'

  'Yes. And thank you, a glass of water would be lovely.'

  Lucienne grinned at Pierre, making no attempt to disguise her delight that her son had attracted such a pretty girl into the house. Pierre and Claire exchanged embarrassed glances, both aware that Lucienne had misread the reason for Claire’s appearance.

  ‘It is very hot still, isn’t it?’ said Pierre, feebly.

  ‘Mm. What’s the helmet?’

  ‘Oh that. It’s my father’s. From the war. Well, the last one, that is.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Here’s your water, Claire. That’s a pretty outfit.’

  Pierre groaned – his mother was trying too hard.

  ‘Oh, yes. Thank you.’

  ‘The red suits you. And that hat...’

  ‘Maman, didn’t you say...’

  ‘I’m sorry? Oh, yes; you’re quite right. If you’d excuse me, Claire, I have to pop out.’

  ‘That’s fine. Thank you for the water.’

  Lucienne picked up her handbag and hovered at the door. ‘How long should I pop out for?’

  ‘Half an hour,’ said Pierre.

  ‘Five minutes,’ said Claire at the same moment.

  Lucienne raised her eyebrows. ‘I’ll be back in fifteen minutes then.’ She gave Claire a self-conscious little wave. ‘Yes. Well. Have fun,’ she said, closing the door behind her.

  Claire sipped her water, peering at Pierre over the rim.

  Pierre shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Mothers are all alike.’

  ‘Yes. Mine has been on edge since... you know.’

  ‘Understandable.’ She looked round the room, taking in her surroundings. ‘How did your meeting go?’

  ‘The meeting, yes. It went well, I think. I, er, made my case – you know, why they should trust me. I think they were impressed.’

  ‘Really? Strange, it’s usually impossible to know what Kafka’s thinking.’

  ‘No, no, he said I’d made a useful contribution.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘I... I don’t know. Anyway, he said I was to speak to you.’ He tried desperately not to think of the major fucking Claire on the library counter. He tried to make the image disappear, shaking his head.

  ‘You all right?’’

  ‘Yes. What? No, I’m fine.’

  She looked at him as one might look at something peculiar. She placed her glass on the table. ‘He’s set us an assignment. We’re to have a day out together.’

  ‘Great!’ Immediately, Pierre slunk back from his overenthusiasm.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘Together. As a couple. Even though I’m almost four years older than you.’

  ‘That’s not such–’

  ‘Pierre, please. I think...’

  Pierre felt himself sag. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Listen, you’re a nice boy, but I’m twenty years old, and I have a....’

  ‘What?’ A boyfriend?’

  She removed her hat, placing it on the kitchen table. ‘Yes, if you like, a boyfriend.’

  ‘What’s he–’

  ‘Pierre, we’re got a job to do. It’s important, and we have to do it properly.’

  The image returned – the major’s trousers down at his ankles. Pierre clenched his eyes shut, despite knowing he looked ridiculous.

  ‘Please, don’t get upset.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. What... what is it we have to do?’

  ‘A day out – you and me, to the seaside. You have your papers, yes?’ He nodded. ‘All we have to do is take a single sheet of paper with us.’

  ‘And it takes two of us to do that?’

  ‘Normally, no. But Kafka’s sees it as training. I’m there to watch you. Make sure you cope with it.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound that difficult. Have you got this piece of paper?’

  ‘Not yet, no.’

  ‘When do we go?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Ten o’clock from Saint-Romain. So we need to catch the nine twenty bus. Is that OK with you?

  ‘Yeah. Can’t wait.’

  ‘Good’ She stood up. ‘Bring some money – not much. And perhaps get your mother to do a sandwich or something. I’ll see you tomorrow at the bus. Don’t be late.’

  Claire was at the door, adjusting her hat, when it opened. She gave out a little shriek, stepping backwards. It hadn’t been fifteen minutes yet, thought Pierre. But it wasn’t his mother returning – it was Major Hurtzberger.

  The major stood at the door looking like a person who had walked into the wrong house. No one spoke. The three of them hovered awkwardly, unsure what to say. Eventually, it was the German who broke the silence, ‘Am I interrupting something?’

  ‘No,’ said Claire breathlessly. ‘I’d just popped by. I was worried about Monsieur Durand. Georges.’

  Pierre watched them intently, determined to spot any tell-tale signs of affection in their body language.

  The major looked slightly flustered, thought Pierre with a degree of satisfaction. ‘Ah yes, poor Monsieur Durand. Well, don’t go on my account,’ he said. ‘I’ve just returned for something I’d forgotten.’

  ‘I was leaving anyway. Goodbye, Pierre. Send my regards to your father – if you should see him.’

  The major clicked his heels as Claire squeezed past him. ‘Au revoir, Mademoiselle.’ He watched the door closing. Turning to Pierre, he said with a wink, ‘Pretty girl.’

  ‘She’s only nineteen,’ said Pierre, reducing her age to make his point.

  ‘Ah. Nineteen? Bit old for you, then.’

  Yes, and a bit young for you – how he wished he had the nerve to say it. The major disappeared into his room and returned, seconds later, with his buff-coloured folder.

  ‘So, as we seem to be alone perhaps we should have a chat.’

  ‘About girls?’

  The major laughed. ‘I’m flattered you should think of me as a man who can advise you on such things, but sadly, no.’ In a flash, his face hardened. ‘I think you know what I mean. I had a meeting with Colonel Eisler, and he informed me that you may have something to report to me.’

  Pierre’s insides tensed up. He swallowed, hoping his mother would choose this very moment to return. This was the conversation he had been dreading. He thought of his father, the reason why he was doing this. ‘No,’ he said, as firmly as he could muster. ‘I have nothing to report.’ He resisted the temptation of addressing the German as ‘sir’.

  The major looked at his wristwatch. ‘The colonel mentioned five days. I think we’ve had some forty-eight hours already. Still – plenty of time. But, listen,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘don’t try to cross the colonel. He’s not the sort of man you can play games with. He’s a seasoned soldier who knows how to get what he wants. And he’s ruthless. I won’t ask what Claire was doing here, apart from enquiring about Georges, of course, but please, I beg you, be careful. You’re a good boy and I like you, I think you know that, and I wouldn’t want to see you – or your father – come to any harm. Anyway,’ he said, returning to his normal tone, waving his folder, ‘I must go.’
/>   *

  Pierre stepped out into the yard. The White Venus looked pitifully incomplete. He sunk in the rocking chair and rubbed his eyes. I have a boyfriend. Her words rang through his head. Yes, you have a boyfriend. He so wanted to hate the major, felt that it was his duty to do so – he was a bloody Kraut and he was fucking the girl he loved, even if the girl had made her feelings perfectly clear. But what he really hated was the fact that he liked the man, despite everything, he admired him. There was something about him. He was authoritative, strong, at times intimidating but... but he was also kind. He thought of Joachim, somewhere faraway, proud to be his father’s son, proud to be wearing his new uniform. He realised how envious he felt – how he would love to don a uniform, to play a proper part in defending his homeland, instead of embarking on trips to the seaside with a girl he loved but who viewed him below contempt. But, more than this, he envied Joachim having a father like the major. He looked skywards and watched a cloud the shape of Corsica drift by, briefing obscuring the sun. He gazed at the white stone, and her clumpy features – her bendy figure, ill-defined and rather awkward, unsure of her place in the world, dependent on others.

  His mother had returned – he could hear her pottering round in the kitchen. He decided to ignore her. The Corsican cloud had passed; the sun returned. Lucienne came out to find him. ‘Ah, there you are. How did it go with Claire?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What was it she wanted?’ she asked, shielding her eyes from the sun.

  ‘Nothing really.’

  ‘No? She’s never called on you before. Are you OK? She’s a lovely girl is Claire, so pretty, but... oh dear, how do I say this? Pierre, don’t you think that perhaps she’s a little old for you? After all, she is twenty-two, I believe, and you’re only–’

  ‘For the love of God, why does everyone talk about her age?’

  ‘Pierre,’ said Lucienne, straightening her back. ‘Please don’t use the Lord’s name so–’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how old she is – she’s not my girlfriend.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lucienne huffed, annoyed to have misread the situation.

  ‘Maman, do you miss father?’

  ‘What sort of question is that?’ She began fanning herself with her hand. ‘Of course–’ A loud knock on the yard door interrupted her. ‘Who could–’

  ‘Bonjour? Madame Durand?’ came a voice from the other side. Pierre recognised the voice – it was one of the cemetery boys.

  Lucienne opened the door. ‘Oh, hello. My, what–’

  ‘It’s heavy, Madame Durand, let us through.’ Lucienne stood aside as the two old chaps carried in a rectangular slab of marble.

  Pierre got to his feet. ‘Is this for me?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure is, sunshine,’ said the first. They placed the stone down on its edge leaning against the yard wall and straightened their backs. The first one removed his beret and wiped the perspiration from his brow. ‘Good day, Madame Durand,’ he said with a small bow.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

  ‘It’s getting hotter every day, don’t you think?’ said the first.

  ‘Must be German weather,’ said the second.

  ‘Is this for Monsieur Roché?’ asked Pierre.

  ‘Yes, indeed, God rest his soul.’ Both men crossed themselves in unison.

  ‘Poor man,’ said Lucienne.

  ‘Have you got the paper, Albert?’

  ‘No, Hector, I gave it you to, remember?’

  ‘Did you, my God?’ Both men searched their pockets but found nothing. ‘Wait, I may have left it in the truck. Excuse me.’

  Lucienne, Pierre and Albert stood in the yard, Albert rocking on his feet. An embarrassed smile passed his lips. He eyed Pierre’s sculpture. ‘So, how’s it going with your Botcha-whatsit?’

  ‘Botticelli.’

  ‘Do you approve, Madame Durand?’

  ‘Of what, Albert?’

  ‘Your son depicting the female nude.’

  ‘He’s learning his art, aren’t you, Pierre?’ she said. ‘One day, he’ll be a famous sculptor.’

  Thankfully, Hector returned, waving the piece of paper. ‘It’s your instructions,’ he said, passing it to Pierre. ‘Monsieur Roché was a widower and had no next of kin, so the instructions and the text have been written up by the mayor.’

  Pierre scanned his eye over the sheet of paper. ‘He’s kept it simple for you, lad,’ added Albert. ‘What with your father not...’ He glanced worriedly at Lucienne, unable to finish the sentence.

  ‘You’ll be paid the full rate,’ said Hector, ‘so no worries on that score.’

  ‘That’s very good of the mayor,’ said Lucienne.

  ‘We’ll tell him.’

  ‘When’s the funeral?’ asked Pierre.

  ‘Three days’ time but don’t worry, lad, it doesn’t have to be done by then. Anytime, really. Right, we’ll leave you to it.’

  Lucienne thanked them and closed the yard gate behind them. ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? We could do with a little money.’

  ‘Yeah, great.’ I caused his death, he thought, and now I get to earn some money from it. He folded the paper and slipped it into his back pocket.

  ‘Is everything OK, Pierre?’

  ‘Yeah, great,’ he said again. ‘I’ll make a start on it later today.’

  Chapter 12

  Pierre and Claire waited in line, trying to board the front of the train at Saint-Romain. The time was a few minutes to ten. There were, it seemed, hundreds of Germans milling about, most of them very young, perhaps just a year or two older than Pierre. The train was huge – an old steam locomotive brought back into service, its pistons spitting hot water and steam, its funnels churning out dense clouds of smoke which swathed the platform. Most of the carriages were reserved for the Germans, large signs announcing Für die Wehrmacht, allowing only the first two for the locals. Pierre and Claire managed to squeeze on and found a pair of seats together in a compartment. Both had haversacks containing their homemade lunches, a flask, a book and a magazine each given to Claire by Kafka. Claire’s magazine was called Carrefour, and Pierre’s Signal. Both were pro-German, pro-Pétain and his collaborationist government. Folded into Pierre’s book, alongside the mayor’s instructions for Monsieur Roché’s headstone, was the piece of paper. Monsieur Bouchette, arriving on his bicycle, had slipped it to him at the bus stop in the town. No words were exchanged. Pierre didn’t dare look at it, thus he still had no clue what was written on it and why it was so important. Part of him fancied it wasn’t important at all, and it was all part of his initiation test. What exactly he was to do with this piece of paper, he had no idea. But Claire did. She knew precisely.

  The train compartment was stuffily full: Pierre, Claire and four others. Opposite Pierre sat a large, middle-aged couple with an Alsatian dog. ‘Toby, sit,’ roared the man, wearing an old jacket with elbow patches.

  ‘Speak to him nicely, Claude,’ said the woman.

  Unseen to his wife, Claude dealt Toby a swift kick.

  The woman asked Pierre to open the window. He was glad to oblige.

  On the other side of Claire sat an older gentleman, dressed in a suit and tie, a newspaper on his lap, his frail-looking wife opposite him, her hair in a hairnet.

  Pierre gazed outside and watched the comings and goings of more passengers, of soldiers, of the train guard in his black uniform and green flag, the grey smoke hovering under the rafters of the station roof. The time was now ten – time for departure. They had a ninety-minute journey ahead of them. They heard Germans shouting at one another, and the sound of train doors slamming shut. The guard, waving his flag, blew his whistle. Slowly, with more puffs of smoke, the train crept forward and edged out of the station into the morning light.

  As soon as the train was out in the open country, picking up speed, the woman opposite brought out two hard-boiled eggs from her bag, passing one to her husband. They sat, peeling their eggs, with a sheet of greaseproof paper on her lap on whic
h the woman had sprinkled salt. Pierre had his own hard-boiled egg in his bag but he hadn’t thought of asking his mother for salt. He tried not to watch them as they dipped their eggs. Toby lay on the floor, licking his chops constantly.

  Pierre had hoped to talk to Claire, to get to know her a little better, but he felt too self-conscious to strike up a conversation now. Anyhow, Claire, sitting next to him, was engrossed in her book, fanning herself. He wondered whether the fan was to keep herself cool or to flap away the stench of egg that, despite the open window, was now permeating the compartment.

  Pierre noticed the man, Claude, wipe away his fragments of eggshell, half of which landed on the dog. He needed a shave, thought Pierre, specks of grey clearly visible in his stubble.

  Pierre wanted to read but the heat of the compartment and the early start had made him feel drowsy.

  He was woken up by the opening of the compartment door. A French ticket inspector leant in. ‘The Boche are acting odd this morning,’ he said quickly. ‘They’re searching everyone’s bags, and being very thorough about it.’ Pierre’s heart punched him from within. The dog, Toby, growled. Then, looking down the corridor to make sure he wasn’t overheard, the inspector added, ‘Just as well they don’t check the toilets. And mind that dog.’ Then, just as quickly, he was gone, sliding open the door to the next compartment.

  Claire looked at Pierre, her eyebrows knotted. But it was Claude, opposite, who spoke. ‘I think I need the toilet,’ he said.

  Claire nodded. ‘Yes,’ said Pierre. ‘So do I.’

  ‘Let’s go, then,’ said Claude, picking up his haversack.

  Together, with their bags, they headed to the toilet at the front of the train. Fortunately, no one had beaten them to it but there was only the one. ‘After you,’ said Claude.

  Claude locked the door behind them. With the smell of the filthy toilet pan overwhelming them, they squeezed in together. ‘Christ, open the window.’ Pierre tried but it was stuck. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Pierre.’

  Claude offered his hand. As rough as sandpaper, thought Pierre. ‘Claude. Nice to meet you.’ His breath reeked of egg.

  ‘And you.’

  ‘Question is, should we trust the inspector. This might be a trap, you know.’