Checkpoint

by Jean-Christophe Rufin

  “Give me the binoculars.”

  Maud took them out of the glove compartment and handed them over. He got out and stood at the edge of the road. She watched as he stared for a long time at the horizon.

  Suppressing her pain, she managed to sit up and wipe the condensation from the windshield. From where they had stopped you could see a vast panorama, and if the weather had been better, they might have been able to see all the way to the Adriatic. With the falling snow they could still see most of the high plateau they had crossed. Without binoculars Maud could make out only a white expanse for miles around. Sometimes the road dipped into a hollow, and then it rose up again. They were stopped on a high point. To the south, the ruined towers of a medieval castle stood out against a leaden cloud filled with snow. Marc came back and tossed the binoculars onto the dashboard. More tense than ever, he turned the ignition.

  “What did you see?”

  “They’ve been through here.”

  Maud didn’t say anything. She could hear the spite in his voice. She was angry with herself for being injured and unable to drive. If their pursuers were able to take turns driving, Marc on his own would not be able to keep up the pace. He was certainly aware of this and must be evaluating the consequences of their failure: the inevitable confrontation, the discovery of the cargo, perhaps even death.

  Maud tried to move but it was hopeless. As soon as she held out her arms, she felt the pain in her back, so sharp she wanted to cry out.

  “How far ahead are we, do you reckon?”

  “Barely six hours.”

  “What can we do?”

  He didn’t answer and this angered her. As if she didn’t matter. He seemed so hostile she could not help but recall what she had thought during the night. When it came to action, he was alone. It was the hidden side of his strength, the rules of the game in his world.

  Maud felt like crying, and was annoyed with herself.

  They drove in silence for almost an hour. Suddenly Marc stopped the truck again. He gave no explanation and without a word he went back out onto the road. First she saw him squat down in front of the cab and touch the frozen ground. Then he went out of sight, around the back. When he returned, he was covered in snow. It was coming down hard now, and in the space of a few minutes the windshield was covered in a white film.

  Marc switched on the wipers and the landscape reappeared. It was then that Maud then saw the narrow track leading off to the left. It was covered in snow and she had not seen it initially. It was surely because of this track that Marc had stopped the truck at that particular place.

  “Do you want to go up that way?”

  He didn’t need to answer. He had already turned the wheels to the left and was heading that way. The track was fairly steep for a few yards and the truck struggled. Then it rose more evenly. It was certainly a dead end, leading to a field or a barn.

  “Do you think the snow will cover our tracks? Is that what you went to check?”

  He merely nodded.

  Then suddenly the track seemed to fade away. They were surrounded by whiteness and there was no indication of where they should go. Unfortunately they had not gone far enough from the main road to stop. Marc got back out and walked through the snow to try to determine whether it was possible to drive farther up. Maud saw him disappear behind a hedge that the snowflakes were covering in white pom-poms.

  She was at her wits’ end, filled with a sort of rage, and she did not know whether it stemmed from despair, anger, or shame. She felt as if she had been making the wrong choices for a long time; perhaps she had always been making the wrong choices. She should never have followed this man, should never have made an exception for him to the caution that had always protected her from humiliation and suffering. And now she was here, injured, betrayed, cast adrift. She screamed.

  Her long cry, initially shrill, then fading to a deeper note, gave her some relief. She tried again, but it wasn’t natural anymore. She felt self-conscious. Her determination was coming back, if not her strength. She would not give in so easily.

  Not long thereafter, Marc reappeared. At first he was only a shadow in the white shadow of whirling snow. Then she saw him, covered in snow, and he opened the door.

  “Did you find a way through?”

  As he did not answer, she ignored the pain that was searing through her back, and slapped him.

  IV

  DESTINIES

  1

  Marc didn’t move. Maud’s hand had hardly shifted his head. There was just that very particular sound of skin slapping against skin. It was the last thing he would have expected. He’d had his fill of smacks when he was a child, and he’d delivered plenty of his own since then. His primary reaction was astonishment. Perhaps that was what she wanted. Moreover, she seemed surprised by her own gesture.

  They stared at each other for a long time. She realized that, unwittingly, she had obtained what she wanted: for him to look at her.

  “I’m here,” she said, “even if I’m completely useless to you now. I exist. Do you know that?”

  That was when she understood. He really looked as if he were emerging from a dream. Danger, action, combat had held him in such a tight grip that everything else around him disappeared. He wasn’t treating her like an enemy; he simply did not see her. She was rather ashamed of her gesture, although she was pleased with the result.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He leaned over and kissed her. His rough stubble felt sore against her lips. It was a minor pain, and she liked it, and for a moment it made her forget the others. She was angry when she felt her eyes filling with tears. Why was she crying? Such stupid feminine weakness! Unless, on the contrary, it was the sign of a more subtle sensibility, one that enabled her to gauge the tragic dimension of their situation, the impending doom. She turned her head away.

  “Let’s not waste time. Have you figured out how to get out of here?”

  “It’s up there, through the undergrowth. There’s a little hut three hundred yards from here.”

  While he was starting the truck and focusing on the road she quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  Under the trees the snow was not as thick, and when they left the field they were back on a forest track covered with pine needles. They drove up to the little house. It was made of stone, all lopsided, with a thatched roof held together by wire mesh. The place would have looked abandoned but for the thin column of bluish smoke rising from the chimney.

  Marc switched off the engine. No one came out of the house. The silence was thick in the snow-covered clearing.

  “Do you have any idea who lives there?”

  “Not yet.”

  Leaning down to the floor of the cab, Marc opened a trapdoor Maud had never noticed. It was a little compartment for the battery. He slipped his hand inside and took out a big black pistol. He checked the magazine and cocked it. Then he opened the door, got out, and walked over to the hovel.

  There was only one window, and it was closed from inside with wooden shutters. The door was made of poorly joined planks, rotted at the bottom by rainfall. Marc could easily have knocked it down with one kick but he knocked softly several times, like an ordinary visitor who wants to show he has come in peace. He heard voices whispering inside. He put his face up to a gap between two planks and said a few words in Russian. A few more moments went by, without any apparent reaction.

  Then suddenly the door opened a crack. A child’s face appeared, hardly any higher than the lock. It was a little girl wearing a green kerchief. Marc hid the gun behind his back so as not to frighten her.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello, sir,” answered the child.

  “Are you all alone?”

  He tried to adjust his Russian words with what he knew of Serbo-Croatian.

  The little girl seemed to hesitate. She lo
oked over at the truck and saw Maud.

  “No.”

  “Are your parents here?”

  “My brother and sister.”

  She had opened the door a bit wider. In the darkness Marc could make out an adult figure in the background.

  “Can we come in? My friend is hurt.”

  The girl didn’t understand the word “hurt” and Marc pointed to Maud, mimicking pain.

  The little girl turned around, probably to see what her brother would say. He must have gestured to her because now she opened the door wide. Marc called to Maud and went inside the house.

  The interior was plunged in darkness but streaks of light came in through the poorly joined shutters. The room smelled of burning wood and rural poverty, with sour odors of junket and dried herbs. The little girl’s brother must have been around thirteen. He had already lost the round cheeks of childhood, and his bony face was framed by curly black hair. Once Marc’s eyes got used to the darkness he noticed that the boy was holding a sort of wooden club, something they must have used for stunning animals. It was probably the only weapon he had. Marc discreetly put the safety back on his gun and slipped it in his belt behind his back. Something moved in the darkest corner. He could just make out a very young child hiding behind a wooden chest. This must be the sister the little girl had mentioned.

  Maud had managed to get out of the cab, wincing with pain. Standing was actually less painful and she walked to the door. When she opened it, Marc noticed the boy tightening his hand around his club. When he saw Maud, he relaxed.

  Marc suggested he open the shutters to make a bit more light, and the boy did not object. A rough-hewn wooden table took up most of the room, with two benches on either side. Marc sat down on one of them, not to relax, but to put himself level with the children and seem less threatening. The three of them looked famished, and were pale with cold. The thin log smoking in the fireplace gave off almost no heat.

  “Where are your parents?”

  The children didn’t answer. Had they understood? They seemed above all fascinated by Maud, who was smiling at the little girl.

  “Papa? Mama? Where are they?” said Marc.

  “Zenica,” said the boy.

  “Father soldier? War?”

  Marc mimed shooting with a rifle. The boy nodded.

  “And your mother?”

  The boy looked at his sister and murmured something Marc did not understand.

  “I get the impression she’s dead, but maybe the little girl doesn’t know,” suggested Maud.

  Suddenly muffled sounds came from somewhere deep inside the hut, as if someone was banging on the ground. Marc stiffened and slipped his hand behind his back, ready to pull out his gun.

  “Is there someone back there?”

  The sound started again and this time they knew it for what it was: a large animal stamping its hooves on the ground.

  “You have animals?”

  The boy didn’t understand the question but he guessed what might be puzzling the visitors.

  “Cow,” he said. “And horse.”

  Looking around the room and at the children, Marc had quickly grasped the situation. A soldier must have brought his children to the sheepfold for shelter while he was fighting in town. The mother had been killed in the war, or had died from some disease. The eldest was looking after the younger children, and he had nothing but his club to defend himself.

  There was no telling from their appearance what community they belonged to. Then Marc noticed a little frame on the wall near the door at the back that contained some Arabic script. There was every reason to believe they were Muslim, unless they were staying in a house that didn’t belong to them.

  Having made these observations, Marc stood up and went out. A few minutes later he came back carrying two boxes he had taken from the load. He put them on the ground and opened them beneath the boy’s watchful gaze; he was still holding his club. Marc took chocolate bars and packets of cookies from the first box. The children looked at the colored packages, not daring to touch them. Marc tore them open and spread a pile of cookies and candies across the table. The little girl’s eyes were shining but she hesitated to take any. She waited until her big brother had cautiously picked up a cookie and begun to eat it. Then there was a mad scramble; the little girl helped herself greedily and stood her little sister on the bench so she could have some, too.

  In the meanwhile, Marc had sprung the straps on the second box. It contained a little bundle of clothing. Coats and jackets spilled out of the box the moment he opened it. Maud helped him find clothes in the children’s sizes. Taking a closer look at them, she realized how scantily and poorly dressed they were. She helped the little girl to put on a bright red fleece that went well with her kerchief. The little girl stroked the soft fabric, her eyes full of wonder. The boy had put down his club and was now hunting shamelessly through the box. He found a parka lined with synthetic fur. It was a khaki green, with a very military look: that was probably what he liked about it.

  Marc and Maud had gained the children’s trust. All they had to do was let them rummage through the boxes, laughing and eating their fill of sweet things. Maud was having fun with them, clapping her hands when one of the kids tried on a new outfit, and helping the younger ones learn to use the zippers.

  Marc stood in the light of the window. He had brought the road map in along with the boxes. Now he was studying it, trying to figure out where they were. Maud came over to him and stood behind his shoulder. He pointed at the dotted line on the geological survey map which must indicate the track leading to the sheepfold.

  “Are we going to stay here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure, what about the tire tracks . . . ”

  He shrugged, as if to say that was the risk they would take. The snow was falling steadily, and they had to hope it would cover the road. It was obvious he had made up his mind. Something else was worrying him now. He unfolded the map to study the opposite slope of the mountain, the one that went back down to the north, to Zenica. By road, the city was still quite a distance, because the road was winding. But the map indicated a sort of path that went straight down to the city. He measured the distance on the map, parting his thumb and index finger like a compass.

  He called to the boy. He came nearer, still glowing in his new jacket.

  “Zenica: twenty kilometers?”

  The boy spread his hands: he didn’t understand. Marc counted to twenty on his fingers.

  “Zenica. Kilometers.”

  “Zenica,” said the boy.

  “Horse?”

  “Yes, horse.”

  The boy gestured to Marc to follow him. He pushed open a door and they went out into a little yard. The stable was a simple awning protecting the animals from the weather. There was one very thin red-brown cow. It was her milk that fed the children. On the other side of a partition made of planks stood a workhorse; its sturdy pasterns were thick with dirt, but it still looked young and sturdy.

  “You, drive horse?”

  Marc illustrated his words, mimicking straddling the animal. The boy proudly confirmed that he knew how to ride. They went back in the house, and the boy stuffed a rag along the foot of the door.

  Maud had taken the youngest child on her lap and was playing with her. Marc and the boy went closer and sat around the table. It was obvious that the boy did not understand what Marc wanted.

  “You, go on horse, Zenica, now.”

  The boy shook his head. His father must have ordered him not to leave the house, and to keep watch over his sisters. Marc insisted, and as the boy still refused, he reached for his gun. The boy jumped. There was a moment of panicked misunderstanding. The young Bosniak thought that Marc was threatening him, but in fact his intention was to show him that he would protect the house and its occupants during his absence. Finally Marc
managed to get his point across, and the boy calmed down. But he did not seem altogether convinced for all that.

  “Show him what is in the truck,” said Maud. “There are still quite a few boxes of food and clothes. Tell him he can have it all, if he does what you ask him to do.”

  Marc led the boy outside. Maud saw them next to the truck, talking continuously. When they came back, the boy had winter hats for his sisters and he was wearing sturdy Gore-Tex hiking boots.

  “Got it. He’ll do it.”

  The boy called his sisters over to him and explained something in their language. The two girls did not look particularly worried.

  In the meantime, Marc took a paper and pen from his pocket. He wrote a message and folded it in four. Then he called to the boy.

  “Before Zenica,” he explained in Russian, “road to the right. Village of Lašva.”

  The boy nodded that he knew the place.

  “In Lašva, checkpoint.”

  The word was all too familiar in the region, and he did not need to explain.

  “At the checkpoint, you ask for Dr. Filipović.”

  “Do you think he’ll find him?”

  “He’s the head of the Croatian enclave. Everyone knows him.”

  “Doktor Filipović,” said the boy.

  Now he was filled with the importance of his mission. With his new parka and sturdy boots, he must have felt he looked the proper fighter. His own father probably wasn’t as lucky. He took the message and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket, which he closed again carefully with a Velcro strap.

  “Your name, Comrade,” said Marc.

  “Alija.”

  He shook his hand and the boy stood up straight, as if to attention. Then they opened the door leading to the stable, and Maud heard them saddling the horse. They went around the house. The boy was already in the saddle, his legs spread wide across the horse’s ample back. She watched him ride off, gradually covered by the snow that was still coming down steadily.