“What are they looking for?”
“Go figure!”
The strangest thing was that beneath the planes’ wings they could clearly see the long shape of air-to-ground missiles. The planes disappeared as suddenly as they had come, and Marc went back to staring at the road, where they were making slow headway.
“Whose zone are we in here?” asked Maud.
“The last checkpoint was Croatian, if I remember correctly.”
“Will there be any more ahead of us?”
“I’d be surprised. On the other side of the mountain but not before. There’s no one around here.”
Marc was more relaxed now that they had left the main road. The mood in the cab was almost joyful. Maud fiddled with the radio dial, and eventually found a station playing traditional Balkan music, with the sound of drums and clarinet.
“Shall I make some sandwiches?”
“Good idea.”
Rummaging in a crate behind the seat she found a last piece of ham and a stick of butter wrapped in wax paper. The peasant woman’s bread was soft and fresh. They ate without pulling over.
“Delicious.”
“You know what’s missing? Tomatoes.”
They both laughed. For the first time since the beginning of their solitary escapade, Maud felt her fear receding, making room for a sort of optimistic well-being that made her want to sing. A bit farther along she took the wheel. Next to her, Marc lapsed into a deep sleep, undisturbed by the bumps in the road.
She took the opportunity to remove her big glasses. To be honest, they were practically useless; she was only slightly nearsighted. As a teenager she had insisted on wearing glasses and deliberately chose frames that with each change were increasingly clunky, to make herself look ugly. Now she inspected herself in the rearview mirror. Marc would see her like that when he woke up; she hoped he would think she was beautiful.
From time to time she glanced over at him and studied his sleeping face. His features were relaxed, revealing another person. Gone was the tense warrior he played during the day; nor was he the man surrendered to desire she saw when they were making love. He seemed much younger and more vulnerable, almost frightened. His expression in sleep was that of a defenseless, unloved child who is hurt and sad. She was troubled by the feelings that came over her when she gazed at him like this. She had often imagined love but it was always as an absence, like a strength she felt inside but did not know how best to use. She would rather bury it where no one could see it—until she herself forgot about its existence most of the time. In their vacation chalet there was a room where no one stayed and which her parents referred to as the guest room. Her mother had gone to a lot of trouble with the decoration. But no one ever visited. That was what it was like, the compartment in her mind that Maud called love. Rather than see it empty, she would rather not open the door. And now a man had come in and everything in that secret space seemed ready to welcome him. Was it the same for him? She rather doubted it. What place did she occupy in his mind? Had he ever thought about it? He knew desire—but love? Was there a space inside him to welcome someone? She didn’t think so. Oddly enough, this notion did not diminish her own feelings—on the contrary. She felt sorry for him, because of what he was missing. He had built his mind into a fortress, and mobilized everything in order to defend himself against the outside world. He must suffer from this cruel emptiness more than anyone. But the gentleness of his sleeping face showed he hadn’t quite gotten over it. Basically, she concluded, they were not so different from each other, even if their lives seemed to have nothing in common.
“Do you really think they could have gotten away on that little road?”
A cold butt dangling from his lips, Lionel was staring at the road map.
“Where else?” muttered Vauthier. “I’m a real idiot not to have thought of it sooner.”
Lionel looked crushed. He had thought there would be an easy end to the matter, and now everything was up in the air again. Marc had managed to get away and everything would be more complicated now, by the looks of it.
After their conversation with Vauthier, Arkan and his cutthroats continued on their gruesome way, looking for new prey.
“They got a good head start,” said Lionel, his hands flat on the wheel, his shoulders sagging. “We’ll never be able to catch up with them.”
“On the road they’ve taken, no fear, they won’t be able to go very fast. Or very far. Start the truck.”
They set off again. A heavy silence reigned in the cab. Everyone was lost in thought.
Alex, still sitting on his bunk at the back, felt a wave of untimely anger. As long as Marc and Maud were in immediate danger, all he could think of was how to help them. Now that he knew they were safe, at least for the time being, he began to think of the double betrayal he had suffered. What angered him most of all was that they had left him behind. He had always been loyal to Marc: why hadn’t he included him when they ran away? The other betrayal was that Marc had switched the explosives and not said anything. Because of this, the mine in Kakanj would not be saved and the region would be ruined by the time peace returned, someday. Strangely, it even affected his feelings for Bouba. Alex still wanted to go to her, but something was diminished now, perhaps even broken. He understood that she represented more than just herself to him. He had embarked on this adventure with the idea of saving not just one person but an entire country. Clearly, that was ridiculous, but at the same time it meant a lot to him. It was as if he wanted, through his dangerous act, to appropriate that patch of earth and make it his own. But now, going back there could only ever be yet another exile.
Alex mulled over his anger and gradually it faded. Deep down he understood Marc, even if he didn’t share his commitment. They had two irreconcilable visions of war. There was no possible compromise. Marc had acted according to his convictions. Alex could not fault him for that. Similarly, from a practical point of view, given the urgency, it would have been impossible to organize an escape including all three of them. Not taking him along was also a way of leaving him out of something he did not support.
In the end, his mind was made up: he would continue with the others. Because he had promised Bouba; because she was waiting for him. And because he could not let these swine exact their revenge on Marc and Maud, whatever grudge they might have against them. But to continue, he had to restore a semblance of trust, and prevent them at all costs from dumping him at the first opportunity.
“What are you going to do if you catch up with them?” he asked.
“You really do worry about your little pal!” snickered Vauthier. “How touching. Particularly since he didn’t worry too much about you.”
Alex sat farther back on his bunk and shrugged.
“I know. I don’t care what you do to him. I’ve thought it over: he’s a bastard.”
Lionel glanced at him, astonished.
“Ah, but you see,” said Vauthier, nudging Lionel in the ribs with his elbow. “From time to time there’s some good news. You must never give up hope. Even soldiers . . . ”
It was late afternoon by the time they reached the turnoff leading into the mountains. They got down from the truck at the start of the road. The snow had melted here, too. But after a careful search, they found the tracks of Marc’s truck, still visible in the muddy ground.
“They want to cross the mountain on this road?” cried Lionel, observing the narrow track that disappeared into the hills. “No way, the trucks will never make it through there.”
“That’s just what I told you. They’re toast,” said Vauthier, with a wicked smile.
“Are we going there anyway?”
“You bet! But first of all, we’re going to have a nice dinner here and pitch the tents.”
“But they’re over a day ahead of us.”
“No matter. Sooner or later they’ll get stuck. We might
as well be in shape when we catch up with them.”
While they were setting up camp, Alex went on thinking about how he ought to behave. He concluded that he shouldn’t wait for the other two to hand him over to the UN. The best solution would be to abscond with the second truck himself. He wondered whether they were transporting any medication he could use to drug them, the way Marc had drugged him.
The first thing would be to get hold of the keys. As a rule they stayed in the ignition at night. They’d had trouble unblocking the steering one morning, and ever since they no longer ran the risk of removing the keys. But that evening Vauthier took them and kept them on his person. He walked past Alex, jangling the keys in his hand, shooting him an ironic look. Alex would have to come up with something else. He went to sleep right away after dinner, leaving the other two by the fire.
Lionel, too, since their encounter with Arkan, had been thinking things over. He had come around to the idea of letting the paramilitaries deal with the problem, but he was far more reticent to give chase himself. The whole idea of the chase was beginning to worry him. Up until now, as far as La Tête d’Or was concerned, his conduct had been irreproachable. Marc was to blame for everything, from the moment he altered the nature of the shipment to this flight, which was nothing but theft, pure and simple. But now, by sending his own truck down this hazardous route, by seeking a confrontation that could well turn violent, by going outside the perimeter within which his papers authorized him to travel, Lionel, as head of the mission, would have to answer for whatever happened, and he knew it would probably cost him his job. Vauthier let him smoke his joint to the end, not speaking.
“Don’t you think,” began Lionel, staring at the flames, “that we could just let them screw up all on their own?”
Vauthier was playing with his beer bottle, tilting it this way and that to vary the fluty sound the wind made in the bottleneck.
“Don’t you see where they’re headed?” continued Lionel; his teammate’s silence made him bold. “It’s a farm track! You don’t even know if it goes through. And anyway, it’s outside the zone we have permission to drive in. We have no idea what they’ll find there. They could even end up in the middle of a battle on a front line.”
Vauthier still hadn’t said anything, so he went on.
“I suggest we keep on the main road,” concluded Lionel eagerly. “As soon as we can, we’ll report them, and the UN will pick them up on the other side.”
Vauthier still didn’t speak, and Lionel eventually thought this meant he was willing to go along with it. At last he dared to look him in the eyes, wearing a broad smile. But what he read in the other man’s beady stare chilled him instantly.
“That’s right,” said Vauthier calmly, with a grimacing smile. “You go and tell the UN that one of your drivers has run off with a truck full of explosives. So that the entire world will know that France sends dynamite in its aid convoys.”
Lionel looked down. Vauthier patiently explained to him why they had no choice.
What Paris wanted was clear. Vauthier’s correspondents had given him a quick rundown: that truck must not reach its destination. It was a political issue, one that surpassed them all in importance. French intervention in the Bosnian conflict must be limited to providing UN peacekeeping contingents; the government absolutely refused to be drawn into the war. These military explosives, however, were clearly destined for fighters in the Muslim-Croat coalition. They intended to blow up a road, some barracks, a bridge, God knows what—and France would be held responsible for an act of aggression. It risked being drawn into the war. That would be a catastrophe, and Lionel’s association would be the first victim. If, on the other hand, they dealt with the problem in time, everyone would be satisfied, and Lionel would receive official congratulations, and so on and so forth.
“That’s the gist of it. How we go about it, that’s up to us, to choose our methods and means.”
Vauthier let his words sink into Lionel’s ever more tormented brain. Then he changed his tone. His broad face lit up with a malevolent joy.
“What could be better, in the end, since I have a score to settle with that gentleman, and you with his young companion.”
Lionel gave a weak smile. Vauthier’s tirade had convinced him that he had no choice but to engage in this manhunt, but his words had done nothing to assuage his fear. Even the thought of revenge no longer aroused in him the slightest enthusiasm.
Vauthier realized he was going to have to keep a close eye on Lionel.
The next morning they set off. The tire tracks were still visible and all they had to do was follow them. There were very few turnoffs, and hardly any risk of going wrong.
The air felt warmer: during the night the wind had veered to the south. It brought a breeze warmed by the Adriatic sun, not enough to heat up the ground, but the far-off hills were misty. High clouds scudded by overhead. If they burst, they might bring rain, but no more snow.
As night fell, Maud thought that Marc, who had rested during the day, would decide once again not to stop. So she was pleasantly surprised when he pulled over onto a flat space and turned off the ignition.
“We can’t keep going on a road like this without headlights,” he explained.
That was true, but she knew him well enough now to understand that he had not resigned himself to it spontaneously; he found it hard to let go of his daytime persona, so concentrated and tough.
“Even if you don’t need your glasses anymore!”
He looked at her with a smile and she saw he had understood. She burst out laughing, and pressed herself briefly against him.
They stayed for a long time in the silent truck, collecting their thoughts. Then, without knowing who had made the first move, they were in each other’s arms, kissing feverishly. They struggled awkwardly out of their clothes, banging against the dashboard, then made love on the rough fabric of the seat.
Afterwards, they stayed wrapped around each other, not moving, exhausted by passion. The wind whistled around the truck, and the snow reflected a silken, voluptuous, blue glow into the night.
Only when they began to shiver in the unheated cab did they find the strength to get dressed again and go out. They heated up a snack and pitched their tent. Then they slid into the same sleeping bag and fell asleep.
5
Before the danger, before the struggle, there would be that peaceful morning: for both of them, it would remain the happiest of all those strange days.
Initially, the mountains welcomed them. When Marc drove the truck into the first hairpin turns, there were not yet any trees near the road. They could see out onto the open snow-covered plain they had just crossed. The road was narrow, really more of a track than an actual road, and it would be impossible to pass any oncoming vehicles. But there must not be much in the way of traffic in that region. Moreover, if the map had not indicated that the road went over the mountain, anyone would suppose it was just a forest track, reserved for timber workers.
The engine chugged but did not seem to be struggling, and the slope was gradual. The sky was enigmatic, and gave no sign of its intentions: there was a bit of everything, clusters of black clouds, pale blue patches, and to the west, a yellowish glow that augured rain.
Maud went on dozing, or it least that was how she made it look, because she wanted to daydream. Not for anything on earth would she have shared her thoughts with Marc. Because she was imagining things that she was sure he would not like. Life with him, not her whole life long, just another life, the one that might come after this mission. They were so well attuned, in this strange world of discomfort and danger, that she wondered how they would be together in a normal environment. Did the word “normal” even have any meaning for Marc? Had his life ever been like other people’s? And she herself, what would she have thought of him in a banal, everyday setting? It was only in this atmosphere of danger and fighting that she
had opened herself to love, because here she could play her part, social and sexual roles were turned upside down, and she was free. But after this?
Everything they were going through was harsh and difficult, and even their love shared something of the violent nature of war. In a way, they had collided. Their union was stronger and more complete than if it had been preceded by a slow approach. Maud felt as if she knew this man in depth. But for all that, she still knew almost nothing about him.
She would have liked to question him about his love life; he hadn’t said anything about it. Had he lived with other women? Did he have children, commitments, female friends? But she didn’t dare ask him straight out. She felt more comfortable with more neutral subjects.
“What was it like moving to France and finding yourself in a military school?”
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason. I’ve been trying to imagine what it must be like joining the army at the age of five.”
Marc didn’t seem to like the question. Fortunately, the mountains put him in a good mood and for once he wasn’t wearing his usual daytime impenetrable face.
“I was cold all the time,” he said with a smile. “I had come from Beirut, so you can imagine Normandy . . . ”
“Did you make friends?”
“Friends?”
He shrugged. Maud sensed the question must seem absurd to him, but he hesitated to explain why. In all likelihood he would have to give a long explanation to make himself understood, and he didn’t like that sort of thing.
“When I got there,” he began, hunting for his words, “I didn’t speak French. I was shorter than the others, and my skin was darker because in Lebanon I was always out in the sun.”
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