*
He laid the map out on the kitchen table. His mother was still in bed, fast asleep. Yes, there it was – the lake. Too small to have a name but still, large enough to be quite clear on the map. There was no sign of Kafka’s island but, thought Pierre, it was probably too tiny to show. Taking a piece of string he found in a table drawer, he measured the distance as the crow flies – six kilometres. Half on the road, half through the woods. With all the bends and curves in the road and through the forest, it was likely to be twice that distance. It’d take, what, two hours?
He never thought he would have to return to the lake. Not wanting to, he cast his mind back six years, entering a dark place he’d spent his whole youth trying to blot out. He realised he could remember every last detail of it. He walked over to the photograph of the young boy in the flat cap. Taking it off the wall, he sat back down. Rubbing the dust off with his sleeve, he ran his finger across the glass. He’d never done this before, had never wanted to look at him. The boy was smiling, acting up for the camera. He looked so happy, so full of cheekiness, yet Pierre saw his vulnerability. ‘I’m sorry, Michel. I’m sorry.’
* * *
I remember every last moment of that day. I wish I could forget the details, but no, they are part of me, ingrained. I tell myself we had a nice day that day. But we hadn’t. Not from the moment Papa called us over from the house and asked whether we wanted to go fishing with him. He often went out fishing but always on his own. He’d never asked us before, so I suppose we felt it was a special treat.
The day started off well. I remember. Like I said, I remember every last moment. Michel and I are playing in the field behind the house. On the other side of the field, the edge of the woods, a dark, forbidden place Michel is frightened of. He is only six, after all. I’m not afraid – but then, I am ten. Double figures. It’s about nine on a chilly February morning. The grass is wet; the whole world smells damp. The clouds move quickly in the wind. I have an idea. I fetch a kite from the house, a kite as purple as the foxgloves that grow in the hedgerows nearby. Michel is desperate to have a go by himself, but, I tell him, it’s easier when there are two of you. Papa says it’s a good kite-flying day – a ‘medium wind’, he calls it, enough of a wind but not too much. Michel, in his funny shorts that fall below the knees and the clunky shoes he always insists on wearing, whatever the weather, runs around in circles, his arms outstretched, pretending to be an aeroplane. He’s skinny, my brother, dark hair, almost black, like mine, but a little longer, curls at the front. Maman says it’s a cowlick which always makes him laugh. Aeroplanes don’t sound like that, I tell him.
How do you know?
Come on, do you want to hold the kite?
He leaps over, his cardigan flapping. Here, I say to him, hold the kite while I unroll the string.
With my back to the wind, I tell him to walk with the kite. After about twenty metres I shout stop.
Right, throw the kite.
Now?
Yes, now, go on.
He throws it up. Quickly, I pull on the string, hoping the tension will help it launch. It doesn’t. It falls.
Michel stamps his feet. That’s rubbish, he shouts.
We’ll try again.
After twenty minutes or more, Michel and I have had little joy with the kite. Once, we managed to get it air bound. Michel leapt with excitement, clapped his hands. The next moment it plummeted faster than a stick thrown from a bridge. It is a relief when we spy Papa at the yard gate, waving at us. We run over. Michel, with his heavy shoes, falls over in the long grass. He doesn’t hurt himself. Pity.
You boys want to come fishing with me today?
Oo, yes please, we both reply.
If only we had said no.
*
Papa takes us in the car. We have everything we need – the rods, a tin with an extra line and hooks, the bobbers and sinkers, a horrible box of worms, our coats, boots, gloves and rain hats, and, most importantly, a packed lunch each. Maman had packed it all, a haversack for Papa and a smaller satchel each for Michel and me. But I was cross. I had wanted to sit in the front and, as I’m the oldest, felt it was only right. Michel put on his trembling lip act and Papa fell for it, as always, and allowed him to sit in the front, while I sat crossly in the back, arms folded. We hardly ever get to go in the car. Maman doesn’t drive because ladies don’t, and Papa only uses it for work and things. But he loves his car, as we all do – it’s a 1928 Daimler, C class, he says. He inherited it from my Uncle Jacques, the tightrope walker, who was killed by a car. I don’t remember him.
It’s a fair walk, though, boys.
But we’re driving there, says Michel.
Papa laughs. No, I mean from where I park the car.
It’s not through the woods, is it?
Yes but don’t worry, my little cabbage. I’ll look after you. Papa slaps Michel’s knee.
Oo, I say from the back. Think of those dark woods, Michel, anything could be–
Stop it, Pierre. Leave your brother be.
After a few minutes, Papa takes a turning off the main road, and down a smaller one and finally comes to a stop. Here we are, he says, rubbing his hands excitedly. Let the day begin.
Papa, it’s raining.
Come now, Michel, you’re not going to allow a little rain get between us and our lovely fish.
And it’s cold.
Leaning forward from the back, I make a suggestion. We could wait in the car, until it stops.
Not you as well. Nope, come on, the rain’s good for you, and you’ll soon warm up.
And so, reluctantly, we leave the warmth of the car, both my brother and I regretting our earlier show of enthusiasm.
We follow my father through the woods. Michel is trying not to show that he’s frightened. At first, I laugh at him, jeering him. But now I feel sorry for him. You can take my hand if you want, I say, offering it to him.
Thank you, he says in a little, quiet voice. He takes my gloved hand.
Papa races ahead. Papa, wait for us. Papa, we can’t keep up.
He stops, waits for us. Come on, boys, he says. By the time we get there, the fish will have gone to bed.
Do fish have beds? asks Michel.
Of course.
How much further?
Oh, not so far now.
I can tell he is lying. We carry on. I can also tell Papa is regretting bringing us.
Who’s got the worms? asks Michel.
Papa.
Good.
Do you want me to take your bag?
Yes, please.
We walk in silence for a while getting further and further behind again. Eventually, Papa stops and waits for us. For goodness sake, Michel, pick up your feet. You can walk faster than this; a girl could walk faster than this. He stomps ahead.
You OK, Mickey?
He looks up at me and smiles. He likes it when I call him Mickey, like Mickey Mouse. It cheers him up for a few moments.
Papa, I shout. Are we lost?
No, I’ve done this hundreds of times. We’re almost there now.
Almost there, I repeat for Michel’s sake.
I want to go home.
I know. So do I.
* * *
Pierre placed his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes. For so long now, he’d managed to file away the memory in a locked compartment in his brain labelled ‘Do not open’. But now, like Pandora’s Box, the lid had opened and it all came flooding back in all its dreadful, sickening detail. But he had to close it again, had to think of the present, of how to save his father – from Kafka, from the Germans. He remembered more of his father’s words: I believe God looks over us, takes note of our actions and our inactions. Yes, thought Pierre, God will look over me; He’ll look after me.
*
This time, Pierre decided to take some provisions – the map, a bottle of water, a hunk of cheese and an apple. And this time, he did leave a note for his mother: Just popping out. Back soon. He heard her stir;
she was waking up. Quickly, he slipped out of the house, quietly closing the front door behind him. He didn’t want to see her.
Ten minutes later, cycling hard, he’d reached the top of the hill, outside the town. He stopped and looked back on it. How peaceful it looked from up here, just a normal, rather quaint French town with its comings and goings. People lived here all their lives. He hoped he wouldn’t be one of them; there had to be more to life. For them, a trip to Saint-Romain constituted the height of cosmopolitanism. He’d heard someone say that, now, without cars, the kilometre had returned to what it had been in the nineteenth century – a fair distance. How lovely it would be, he thought, to escape this place, to stroll through the streets of Paris, hand in hand with Claire; to sunbathe together on the beaches in the south. He had to tear himself away from his daydreams. A part of him felt as if he was saying goodbye to his town, goodbye to his life as he had known it; something told him he would return a changed person.
Remounting, he pushed on. It was two o’clock. Twenty-two hours left. A while later, he took a left fork, onto a smaller road, no more, really, than a dirt track, uneven and potholed. The sun was strong now, his shadow on the track in front of him. On the bend, up ahead, he spied a vehicle. He slowed down. It was parked up on the verge. Approaching it, he realised he recognised it – it was the truck used by the cemetery boys. He peered inside – nothing untoward, nothing to give an indication why it was here, seemingly abandoned. He tried the door handle. Unlocked. The keys had gone. The glove compartment contained various bits of paper and rubbish. Had the cemetery boys given the major a lift to this point? But then, why hadn’t they taken it back to town? Why leave it here, abandoned? He’d seen them, two hours earlier, in the town square. Its presence here meant something. The back of the truck was empty save for a tarpaulin, a couple of spades and a plank of wood. He took a sip of water. It was time to move on.
* * *
And here we are! bellows Papa from far ahead. We’ve made it; plant the flag.
Why do we have to plant a flag? Michel asks me.
It’s just Papa being funny.
Oh.
Yes, we’ve come to a lake. I thought we were getting close, by the way the trees were thinning out. We catch Papa up standing on a stretch of sand, gazing across the water. Now, out from the trees, the rain comes down harder.
It’s lovely, don’t you think?
No, says Michel.
What’s the matter with you two? I always used to go out fishing with my old man. Loved it.
Is this a beach? I ask.
Looks like it, doesn’t it? We could come back with your mother during summer and sunbathe. She’d like that. Come on, we can’t fish from here. We need to get to a bank just over there, he says, pointing vaguely to his left.
Not more walking, says Michel.
It’s not far. Just a bit further.
That’s what he said last time, I say quietly to Michel.
And the time before that.
I heard that, says Papa.
We seem to go be going back into the woods. But now, we re-emerge next to the lake a bit further on. There’s a wall, like a harbour wall. Grey stones. It’s not long, perhaps twenty metres or so, and wide. This is it, boys! says Papa, swinging off his haversack.
I peer over the edge. There are bunches of reeds. The water comes up high. It looks deep and dark. I don’t like it. Michel joins me. Get back, Mickey, it’s dangerous. He does as he’s told.
Right, let’s get started, says Papa.
Can’t we have lunch first? asks Michel.
Papa spins around in a way that makes us step back. Look, you little nincompoops, stop complaining. I’ve had enough, got it? One more moan and I’ll throw you in the lake.
He is angry now. He unties the top of his haversack and throws out everything from inside, muttering things Michel and I can’t hear but don’t like. Michel’s chin disappears into his collar.
Papa calms down a bit and gets everything ready – the rods and lines and the rest of it. We empty our satchels too and put our lunchboxes to one side.
You’ve brought Munchie?
Hmm.
Munchie is Michel’s old teddy. He wears a yellow waistcoat and green trousers. Michel likes to take it on expeditions. Why did you do that? He’s all scrunched up now.
He shrugs his shoulders. I don’t know.
Let’s put him back in your bag. He’ll keep dry there.
It’s strange, I think; most of the time Michel gets on my nerves and I get annoyed that I have to play with him so much. It’s not playing; it’s looking after. But out here, with this horrible lake, and the dark skies and the rain, and that scary wood, he looks so small. I feel sorry for him.
*
We sit with Papa for ages, our feet dangling over the wall, the wind blowing round our heads, the rain in a steady drizzle. Papa casts the line and lets us have go at holding the rod. He tries explaining things to us, like how much worm we should use, how to attach the sinkers and things, but it’s too complicated for Michel and I am too cold to concentrate. We’ve had our lunches; ham sandwiches and cheese, so we don’t even have that to look forward to any more.
We’ve been here, sitting on this wall, for a while now, and my bottom is starting to get cold. I’m too frightened to ask if we could get up and move around. I hope Michel will ask – being younger he’ll be more likely to get away with it.
Michel sits there stirring the worms round with a stick. Papa won’t like that, I think, but Papa hasn’t noticed it yet.
Oh, I think we’ve got something.
We sit up, peering across the lake, trying to find where the line meets the water. I can’t see it.
Papa, Papa, squeaks Michel. Can I hold the line; can I hold it? Please.
Papa hesitates. I know what he’s thinking – he wants to encourage him but knows if he does, we will certainly lose the fish, I mean, the catch. We’ll hold it together. There, put your hands over mine. That’s it. Now, all we have to do is... Wait a minute. Oh, no, I don’t believe it. Shit. We’ve lost it.
Papa.
Yes, Michel? he snaps.
You said...
Yes, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t use words like that. Thank you, Michel. Look, why don’t you two go and have a wander. See if you can find any wolves.
Wolves? cries Michel.
He’s joking, I say.
Are there wolves in the woods?
I’m on my feet. What a relief. No, there are no wolves around here. It’s too cold for them. Actually, I have no idea if that’s true. Maybe they like cold weather but it sounds good and Michel believes me.
I don’t want to go into the woods without Papa.
Don’t be silly. Come on, we might find a unicorn, and unicorns are nice. I head the opposite way from the one we came.
Unicorns don’t exist, silly.
Go on, Michel, says Papa. Follow Pierre. He’ll look after you and by the time you get back, I’ll have caught a fish so big it could be a whale.
He’s joking again, isn’t he?
Yes, Papa’s always joking.
Don’t go too far, boys.
Come on then, Mickey Mouse; let’s find ourselves a unicorn.
He could give us a ride.
Good idea. Where would you like to go?
He thinks about this for a while. The moon, he says.
Yeah, the moon. That’s a good idea.
* * *
The road petered out and soon came to an end at a hedge and a gate. Beyond it, the woods lay ahead. Pierre dismounted and left the bike against the hedge. How daunting the woods looked, the hider of so many secrets. He followed a path, either side of which lay a carpet of bright purple woodland flowers. He followed the path into the forest where, to begin with, the trees were few and far between. A couple of dragonflies whizzed by. The woods soon became denser, more foreboding. But at least it was cooler.
He followed the path until it split into two. Consulting the map, he decid
ed to take the right fork, heading due north. It was only now, now that he began to feel confident that he would find the lake, that he realised he had no idea what to expect and no idea what to do once he got there. Surely, with Claire and the others due to be shot, Kafka would listen to reason. But part of him knew that Kafka was probably beyond reason.
After a further twenty minutes of walking, Pierre came across another fork in the path. This one, however, he recognised – the tree with the engraved initials, ‘RJ’, next to the fallen tree blocking the pathway. The map showed that he should continue north but he knew if he took a brief detour on the left fork, heading northwest, he would soon come across Kafka’s hut. The temptation was too much. Having taken another swig of water, he followed the path that he knew would end at the hut.
It was a steep descent. The sudden appearance of a magpie made him jump. Looking ahead, he saw a dark plume of smoke drifting up into the air. This, he thought, was not a good sign. Picking up pace, he strode forward, his chest fizzing with anticipation. Approaching the clearing, he heard voices. German voices. He stopped, wondered whether to continue. The sensible part of his brain told him to walk away, that he would gain nothing by venturing forward. But he did. He crept forward, his eyes and ears fully alert for danger. Creeping closer, he came across a scene of devastation. He saw that Kafka’s hut had been set on fire, the wood audibly crackling as the flames did their work. On the patch of ground in front, where Pierre had done his target practice, a number of German soldiers, wielding spades, were digging. Nearby, lay two German corpses plus another. With a jolt, Pierre recognised the corduroy jacket, now heavily stained with dried blood, with its leather collar, the spectacles glinting in the sun – it was Monsieur Dubois, still wearing his blue beret. From their uniforms, it was obvious that the German dead were privates. Pierre looked round, hoping to see the major. But no, the most senior man here was a corporal. The men under his charge were digging graves while he, the corporal, kept an eye on the fire, smoking a cigarette. The diggers, stripped to the waist, did their work in fine spirits, flicking clods of mud at each other. How could they be so light-hearted in such a grim scene? Gravediggers from hell. The corporal flicked his cigarette into the fire and turned, his eyes scanning the woods. Pierre ducked behind a tree. Surely, he was too far away to be seen. Inching his head from behind the trunk, he saw the corporal urging his men to hurry. Pierre had seen enough; it was time to go.
The White Venus Page 24