Malediction

by Sally Spedding

  XXXV

  “Well, Father Jean-Baptiste, it’s good to see you again.” Madame Noiret beamed as she opened the door of the Coiffeuse de l’Aube before Vidal had finished shaking his umbrella. And now he stood in a widening puddle, the object of mother and daughter’s undisguised admiration.

  “Jacqueline, a towel. Vite.” The tiny, black-haired woman clapped her hands then lifted the new trench coat from his shoulders. She noticed the label. A priest who was clearly doing well, who was a week earlier than usual for her attentions.

  “Thank you. Most kind.”

  Jacqueline returned, her mouth as usual agape, her enormous eyes like marbles whose sealed twists of blue never left her face. He rubbed his hair into a damp confusion and sat down in his customary place, directly underneath his father François’ apartment.

  Killing two birds with one stone. Useful stuff, hein?

  The girl was behind him in the mirror. Sixteen years old but not grown in the normal way. Instead of hiding her daughter in the back room, Madame Noiret allowed her to wash heads, set curlers and occasionally apply blue rinses to the retraitées. But today, she and the propriétaire were going to see to the most beautiful head of all.

  “How’s your papa, then?” she asked, her fingers raking his hair back under the mini-hose’s warm spray.

  Colette had been the last woman to touch him. The last woman to betray him. That much he knew.

  “Not seen much of him, I have to say. Usually he comes down Mondays and Wednesdays for his cigarettes and some shopping, but not this week. Have you noticed him, Jacqueline?”

  The girl nodded, neither yes nor no. He watched her reflection in the misty mirror.

  “I’ve tried phoning,” Vidal lied. “But he must have been out or asleep.”

  “Well, you’re a busy man now, from what we hear,” said Madame Noiret, taking over.

  “What have you heard, then?” The priest inclined his head to let water out of his left ear.

  “Now that poor old Moussac’s with the Almighty, you’re going to be seeing to all the choirs and another recording. Quite a star. Everyone says.”

  “Dead man’s shoes, Madame Noiret. Is that what you’re really thinking?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that, Father, believe me, not at all.”

  “Well, let me tell you, it’s a rare honour. To me, music is the only real way to catch the ear of God. Now does that sound heretical to you?”

  “Not at all.”

  The hairdresser’s hand wavered and she let out a nervous laugh as her comb ploughed a temporary side parting.

  His eyes are on guard, flecked dark like some creature of the night...

  They were suddenly too penetrating for that small salon done out in vert sorbet with its delicate white wrought-iron work.

  She excused herself, pretending to need new scissors. Usually there’d be Madame Zafara, and Julie Lemaille who sang Piaf in the Bar Rivoli and liked her roots done before she looked a cheat. But today for some reason, they’d deserted, just when she needed them.

  The rain doesn’t help, mind you; but I’m not afraid. Goodness, no. Though there is something different about him, more tense than usual. Better watch what I say and keep Jacqueline busy...

  Madame Noiret looked through the plastic striped curtain into the salon and saw with relief her daughter sorting hairpins. She crossed herself and returned bearing the same scissors which he noticed. His soft black hair fell in sharp patches on to his shoulders as she cut along the comb edge.

  “Not so much this time,” she remarked.

  “No indeed.”

  His hair was unusually fine for a man, and later, she would save a piece and mount it on scotch with the day’s date. How could she be blamed for wanting a memento? Others did the same for less good reason. But by secreting it in her mock Fabergé egg, she knew she was elevating these bits of the priest from Lanvière to relics.

  “Well, Madame, what else have you gleaned from the redoubtable locals of Eberswïhr?” the lover of Pérotin suddenly asked without moving his eyes.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Father Jean-Baptiste. People here are just trying to keep a spoon to their lips.”

  “I’m not a halfwit. Now please enlighten me.” He swivelled round, because to face her in the mirror wasn’t enough. For a moment she stopped cutting and let a segment of hair fall to the floor.

  “It’s not my place. I’m just a hairdresser.”

  “But you’re a woman, Madame Noiret, and I’ve always found women to be very keen observers of our human condition.”

  From the Confessional or from your bed?

  “So, what else do you know?”

  She backed away, looking for Jacqueline. Suddenly the handsome ‘renard’ had become a darkly menacing wolf, and she was a child again, lost in the penumbral Forêt des Singes, deep in the deepest Vosges with the echo of her parents’ voices faltering, victim to the night.

  “It’s nothing really. Just that my brother’s sister-in-law has started working at Medex.”

  “Medex?”

  ”Yes. As a Laboratory assistant, part time. Not very well paid, but it is a second income, and in this day and age, she’s grateful of course.”

  “And?” His pupils contracted to slits. No more reflection and Madame Noiret was beginning to regret her garrulousness.

  “As I said, it’s none of my business, but Amélie – that’s her name – says that your friend has gone missing.” She’d said the word ‘friend’ delicately, feeling her way, and watched as she gave that friend a name. “Colette Bataille. A lovely lady. Her son too, an only child. Maybe they just wanted to start a new life somewhere. He had no job, no prospects, what was to stop them? But her...”

  “Yes?”

  “She was very well thought of. Apparently the Directeur Général wanted to take her with him to New York for a meeting. Expanding, they are... despite the dreadful Natolyn business. There. Finished.”

  She held a hand mirror so he could see all round his head, and waited for approval like a garçon in a bar with a newly-opened bottle. But she could tell he wasn’t interested. “Amélie also told me he’s got on to the police. Yesterday. That’s the last I heard.” She peeled the towel from his shoulders, then busied herself with the trolley. “We’ll just have to pray.”

  “My dear Madame Noiret, with all my heart I wish I could be as forthcoming as you. However,” he stood up and brushed off his sleeves, “your guess is as good as mine. Madame Bataille was, I mean, is, a great supporter of Ste Trinité, especially with the Masses for the old and infirm and our plans for the Millième Anniversaire.”

  Especially between the sheets is what you mean.

  “As you say, we can only pray. Now, is it the usual?”

  “One hundred, Father.”

  He gave her a two-hundred note.

  “Give the change to Jacqueline.”

  The girl had come in with the broom and begun to sweep round them both in slow motion.

  “Say thank you to Father Jean-Baptiste,” said the hairdresser.

  But her daughter frowned instead. She’d sensed her mother’s fear and wanted the man to go.

  “Jacqueline…”

  “What’s a hundred francs? The Mammon of Unrighteousness,” he patted her head, making her flinch. Then unexpectedly he took her mother’s hand as it left the till. “Please keep an eye on papa for me, Madame Noiret. I’m off to Rome for the next few weeks.”

  “Oh, I’ve always wanted to go there, haven’t I, Jacqueline? The Vatican, the Coliseum...”

  His touch was unsettling, his skin warm as new bread, so she reclaimed her hand, pretending to sort coins instead.

  “It’s not a holiday, I can assure you, Madame. I’ll be studying in detail the Christifideles Laici and the Sacerdotalis Caelibatus amongst other things.” He checked to see if she knew what he was talking about, but her face looked up as blank as that of her daughter. “Quite fortuitous, actually, while La Sainte Vierge’s
closed for repairs.”

  “Mary no head,” Jacqueline said suddenly.

  “Hush, child.” Madame Noiret whispered.

  “She’s right. So much for those who press for our churches to be left open. That is another matter I’ll be discussing, and,” he lowered his voice, “how I can hopefully become a better padre, or rather, a more holy one.”

  “That’s impossible, surely?”

  “Thank you. You’re most kind.” His smile came and went. ”And by the way, Father Anselme will be taking the Eucharist and choir rehearsals at Monzeppe. If there’s any problem with papa, Madame, do let Bishop Toussirot know. Thank you again.”

  The dutiful son, the hard-working curé, but all the same she was relieved when his raincoat was back on his arm.

  “My number. Don’t hesitate.” He gave her his card – discreet, laminated, with a black cross down the side. Address and home phone number only.

  “I won’t. But there’s something you should know.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was going to tell you straight away, Father, but trying to find the right moment wasn’t easy.”

  She noticed Jacqueline had gone.

  Those eyes again. My God, they’re burning into my soul...

  “It was last week. Youngsters, you know how headstrong they can be, well there’s a group of them here, Les Flammes. Anticipating the elections probably, opposing the F.N. and Extrême Droite...”

  “And?” Vidal closed up his umbrella and secured it, avoiding her eyes.

  “They want Chêvenement to deal with the sans-papiers problem.”

  “Ah, yes. The sans-papiers. Of course.”

  “And the growing number of attacks on Jews.”

  “So what’s all this to do with papa?”

  “They tried to make him answer the door. Apparently they wore Devil’s masks with flames not horns. Made a terrible noise.”

  “When?”

  “Last Thursday. They probably knew I was closed.”

  “It makes no sense.” But a dark line divided his forehead, adding years.

  “Exactly, Father. But you’ll soon see what they’ve done.”

  Vidal slammed the door, his pulse quickening. Felt the wind around his shorn head before leaping up the stairs to the apartment’s foyer.

  FASCIST PIG! JEW HATER! VICHY PAWN!

  Revulsion spelt out in red aerosol, one word on another covering the walls. His heart stopped. His stomach suddenly leaden as he took it all in. All the rotten secrets leaked out into the light of day. And to the police.

  Merde.

  They’d been the plain-clothed strangers at Moussac’s funeral, he was sure of that.

  “Papa! It’s me, Robert!” He called out.

  “Leave me be,” came the growl from inside.

  “I’m here to help.”

  “You make things worse. Go.”

  Vidal knew there was no other way in. No fire exit, just the small square landing and the one blue door. He looked round to see if Madame Noiret had followed him. All clear.

  “I’m coming in.”

  “Damn you.”

  Vidal stepped back to lunge sideways at the door. No joy. It hurt and he had diving and other important things to think about. “Stupid man, I’m all you’ve got.”

  “I thought everyone had God.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “So? I’d rather go without.”

  His son scoured the thin blue paint and the slicks of metal showing through it. No point in trying for another key, there were bolts on the other side.

  “You need to get out of here.”

  “I pay my taxes. I’m, staying and I’m fighting.”

  “What for? Tell me?”

  “La Patrie. To keep the shit out of France.”

  Vidal checked the stairs again. Saw a woman’s legs go into the Coiffeuse. Rain powered against the Velux overhead and he thought he heard thunder.

  Doom aka Publicity. How wonderful. The neo-Nazi has a son – ah, yes. Let’s take a closer look, just as Opération Judas gets into gear and the second generous payment will be sitting in the pocket on September30th.

  The wetness from his mac had reached his skin. He shivered. 11.06 a.m. Then he took a deep breath. “I said, I’m coming in, whether you like it or not.”

  The Browning’s silencer fitted snugly, and the first shot took the lock with a sound like a cough. He waited, heard the bolts released, one by one. He scanned the room. It was more like the inside of a tent with a formica table, three metal chairs and a TV skewed on a pile of books. The bed was a mountain of blankets under a display of Hitler’s 100th anniversary souvenirs.

  François Vidal stared at the pistol, clearly shocked.

  “Where did you get that thing from? Priests and guns, Jesus wept.”

  “My own protection, OK?”

  “You’ll have to repair that lock.” His father, shrunken in just a month. His face pickled in bitterness.

  “I’ll see to it and that crap on the wall.”

  With a backward kick the door was shut. Vidal lowered his voice.

  “You’re coming with me.”

  “No.”

  “It’s for your own good. I’ve two bedrooms. It’s a quiet neighbourhood, nobody would guess.”

  “You don’t understand. You deserted when you went into the bloody church. Someone’s got to keep things going.”

  “You’re a fool, papa. Behave yourself.”

  “Everyone must know. How can I be silent when the whole fucking show’s in the fat greasy hands of the Yids. They’ve crawled in everywhere and all we get is to lick their arses. The Protocols are the truth I tell you. The tip of the bloody iceberg.”

  Vidal felt a tremor creep up his spine at his own echo.

  “Now I tell you something,” the priest’s voice hardening to brittle. “I’m making a go of my life, with the music, my choirs. Some people, important people, believe in me. I don’t want any cacas in the nest. Compris?” He pocketed the pistol.

  The sixty-six-year-old looked nearer eighty running his hand through his hair, making it stand up on end. Grey to white above his ears.

  “You have a short memory, son. That’s all I can say. Have you forgotten how the Cordonniers still live like pigs? Your own flesh and blood. Your maman’s mother and father use leaves to wipe themselves. Their light is string in goose fat, and Jesus Christ only knows what they put in their bellies. All because that begging whining pair of Rosenbaums turned up. Two months of lying low courtesy of the Mas des Cailles, then buggering off when it suited them. Thank you very much.”

  “The Milice took everything?”

  “Everything except our fucking walls. And when your mama died...” the pearl of a tear grew in his eye corner, “I gave mamie and papy what she’d left for me, and you, of course. Listen, son,” his voice hardened, “when you next have a collection for the poor and needy, send them the money. Charity begins at home, hein?”

  Vidal listened. Just to hear the words, Mas des Cailles was enough.

  Hidden from the road by the breast of land and edged by oaks – my tree, my Paradise – its arms still outstretched. Still waiting, guarding the hectares of Henaménil in the forêt de Parroy. The wood store, high as the stable wall, and that room done out in pink roses as big as heads, where maman was born, overlooking the Lac des Cygnes. She must have seen it often as a child, where my boat, La Princesse had keeled over, just like that. I remember now, reaching down trying to touch it as it sank, then because I couldn’t imagine living without it, I dived in but there was nothing. Nothing but the dead cold. I must have been nine, ten? Anyhow it was the last time I ever went there. I could never go again after that. Soon, there’ll be another boat. Another Acte de Dieu. Quel dommage…

  “I have to go to Rome tomorrow. Jus Canonicum etcetera,” he said. “You must decide now, papa. You stay and I am disgraced, or you come with me and I continue my vocation. In the name of God, do you want me to join the chômeurs? Be anot
her statistic for the cocos? What else could I turn my hand to?”

  “You’re still young. You have your strength. Why not use it with me?” The same brown eyes had suddenly widened alive with possibilities. The unruly eyebrows risen halfway up his forehead. “Fight with me, Robert. Pourquoi non? We won’t have to run anywhere. More than half the country wants Jews out, Arabs out. Jobs for the French, Égalité for the French and Fraternité for us who are fighting the next war. The real one. The climate is right, I’m telling you.”

  “Fine words, papa. But it’s life or death for me. Now get your coat, a few things. Five minutes, no more.” Words hard as the edge of rock. His gun now pointing as François Vidal scuttled round the room collecting this and that into carrier bags. The photo of ‘Bijou’ didn’t fit so his son kicked a holdall from near the bed into the middle of the floor.

  “Try that.”

  11.40 hours, with the taxi due at any minute, the train in thirty. Vidal went to the landing and froze at the conspiracy of voices down below. Madame Noiret and a middle-aged man were looking at him up the stairs.

  “Papa’s coming with me for a change of scene, Madame. I’ll sort it with old Léonce about the damage to the door. Looks like someone tried to break in.” He saw her hands cover her face, the driver check his watch. “Pretty bad, eh? No place for a retraité.” He ushered his father out. Ricard and cheap aftershave reached his nose, reminding him of Plagnol. He’d scribbled a note and now passed it to her.

  I’ll organise repair to the lock, erase graffiti, and see the police. Leave it to me.

  She stared after him, then folded the paper into her overall pocket.

  ***

  Through Eberswïhr’s sloping streets to the station, neither father nor son spoke, giving the rain sole monopoly on power and despair.

  XXXVI

  Tuesday August 26th

  Nelly awoke tired after a night of dreams and apparitions that stalked her semi-conscious until the alarm at seven. Those two strange women on the train, enlarged, mocking. Butchers’ carcasses dotted with flies, and worse, Colette and Chloë shrouded, tied up below the chin, suspended like them, from black, iron hooks…

  ***

  Having arrived at Libourne, instead of going straight to the Refuge as originally planned, she’d decided it was best to reconnaître the surroundings at different times of the day. This loss of nerve was costing an extra 150 francs on a room over the Bar des Chênes, but she’d convinced herself it would be the best option for an early start after a good breakfast.