Maud cleared the table and washed the dishes in cold water in the hollowed-out stone that served as a sink. She bluntly refused help from the older girl, who ran to her sister on the far side of the room, in a dark corner.
Maud was sorry to be so hard but she was desperate to hide her emotion and the tears she felt welling inside. It was not disappointment in Marc’s behavior she felt. In a way she understood it. Her distress was deeper, more irremediable. More complex, too, full of contradictory feelings she was trying to untangle.
Everything she had always fled from she found now in this hut.
All day long she had turned herself into a homemaker, or, worse, a devoted servant. She could not stop thinking about Marc, taking every opportunity to be thoughtful and attentive, forgetting her fatigue and her own desires. But she could see that this show of submission had inspired neither pleasure no surprise. Not a single word of thanks, not a single tender gaze. She had sworn long ago she would never fall into such a trap.
What she had not foreseen was the irrepressible desire, the love that both appalled her and took over her life, like a pushy visitor who plunks down his suitcases in a house where he’s not welcome. And when she dried her calloused hands on the rough rag, and turned around and saw this man seated with his back to her, and those shoulders where she could picture, beneath the folds of his shirt, the inky blue arabesques, while she thought she could feel the texture of his black hair in her fingertips, it was all she could do not rush over to him and offer her lips and her entire body.
The little girls had gotten ready for bed: they had taken out and unrolled a mat stuffed in a chest. They lay down next to each other beneath a red blanket full of holes. Maud felt a rush of pity, and went to kiss them good night.
The children were exhausted by their busy day. They fell asleep quickly, the little one almost immediately, the older girl after a brief struggle against sleep, probably because she was curious to go on watching these strangers who had moved into her house.
When she was sure the girls were sound asleep, Maud got to her feet. To be honest, she was in no hurry to be alone with Marc. He was still sitting by the window with his back to her. She could tell the evening was going to be very long and tense.
She went back to the big table that she had cleared and wiped with the rag. The wood around the candle shimmered with a tawny glow. She took two glasses from the sink and filled them with wine. Then she pulled up a chair next to Marc and sat down. She was at a slight angle to him and could see his profile. He took the glass without saying anything. Maud let the silence continue. She drank her wine slowly, taking little sips. Somehow the bitter taste of the cheap wine was what she needed. She wouldn’t have wanted a rounded, smooth wine. Anything that was an irritant to her body strengthened her self-awareness and self-preservation.
They had to get out of there. Then she would be able to get away. Not see him anymore. Make him suffer. But was he even capable of suffering for someone?
The silence was absolute, a genuine silence of snow and countryside. The cow must have fallen asleep on her bedding as well. Time had come to a standstill and yet, it was time that they were actively letting pass, like a fisherman watching his line spool out in the wake of his boat.
Marc seemed attentive only to the silence. His vigilance was focused on the slightest cracking sound, the slightest whistling of the wind through the windows.
A bit later, Maud got up and went to unroll the other mat on which Alija usually slept. She lay down without removing her clothes. An icy draft snaked along the floor between the front door and the one leading to the stable. It was a sign of discomfort but also of life, an invitation to freedom and movement. Instead of letting herself go to sadness or even tears, she began daydreaming about this puff of air that had come from the Adriatic. It had been laden with snow and now it was seeking warmth, like some prowler stealing through the tepid air of the hut before it would rush down the mountain and slip renewed and livelier than ever all the way to Italy. Riding on this wintry will-o’-the-wisp, she fell asleep.
Alija wasn’t afraid. The cell where they put him was completely empty. He would have felt more disoriented if the paramilitaries had put him somewhere very different from the hovel where he lived with his sisters.
It wasn’t exactly a prison, but in this war nothing retained its usual function. Houses became shelters for snipers, post offices were staff headquarters, schools were hospitals. So it was no surprise that this cellar was a dungeon.
The Croatian soldiers didn’t believe a word of his story. The only thing they understood was that a Muslim child had suddenly appeared in the night, on his horse: that was suspicious. And as they couldn’t consult anyone about it before daybreak, they had put him here in the meantime, once they’d made sure he wasn’t carrying a weapon.
A big lad with round cheeks, scarcely any older than Alija, wearing a baseball cap, brought him a piece of bread and some shriveled yet juicy apples. They had talked for a while and they realized that they used to live in the same town before the war. They even found some mutual friends. The boy’s name was Franko and he was very proud to announce that he was personally responsible for this makeshift prison. He had to confess they didn’t have many prisoners. It was more usual now, in these parts, not to take any prisoners . . .
Alija told him, as he had told the paramilitaries, about the message he had to deliver to Colonel Filipović.
“Filipović? He’s not a colonel! He’s a general!”
The fat kid spoke with particular respect. Alija asked him if he knew him.
“Of course I know him! He’s my uncle.”
He wouldn’t say whether the general was in town just then. No one must know where Filipović was, since he was the commander for the entire region. However, it increased his own importance if he implied that he had the means to get in touch with him at any time. And when he went away again, he promised to speak of it personally to his parents.
Alija fell peacefully asleep. In the early morning, another jailer brought him some barley porridge.
Several hours went by. Alija was particularly worried about what they had done with his horse. But no one came to see him, and he had to keep his worries to himself.
It was almost noon when the door to the cellar opened abruptly. Franko came in, with a solemn air, and ordered Alija curtly to his feet.
“Fix yourself up a bit. The general is coming.”
Before long a man came into the cell and stood in front of the prisoner. He was wearing a gray uniform streaked with black, and a military beret cocked slightly to one side. The man was as thin as the boy was chubby. To be honest, they didn’t look at all alike, and Alija shot a questioning glance at his young warder.
“General Filipović,” trumpeted Franko.
The former doctor, now general, had retained from his former profession pleasing manners and a certain gentle way. As if he might suddenly ask, “Where does it hurt?” He inspired trust.
“Well then, young man,” he said tranquilly, “apparently you have a message for me?”
“Yes, General.”
“Yes, sir,” corrected Franko.
“Yes, sir.”
Alija hunted in his pocket and pulled out the paper the paramilitaries had ignored. Filipović turned toward the bare light bulb hanging above the door and read the note Marc had written. Then he turned back to Alija. His eyes were narrowed, and his gaze, all of a sudden, was hard and wary.
“What does he look like, the man who wrote this?”
Alija didn’t really know how to go about describing a stranger. He was a stranger, that was all. The doctor helped him. Was he tall? What color were his eyes, his skin, his hair? Did he have any tattoos on his body? The boy replied as best he could.
“There are two of them, are there?”
“Yes, two.”
“What is the other one
like? Is his name Alex?”
“I don’t know her name. But she’s kind of small.”
“What do you mean, ‘she?’ He’s not with another man?”
Alija was pretty sure that Maud was a woman, but given the general’s self-confidence, he was beginning to wonder.
“I think she’s a woman but . . . ”
Filipović was getting impatient.
“You think, or you’re sure?”
“I think . . . ”
“Is her skin black?”
This time the boy protested. He might have his doubts about the person’s sex, but he was categorical regarding her skin.
“Not black at all. On the contrary, this person has very white skin. She is blonde with very blue eyes.”
Filipović reread the note attentively.
“Did you see what kind of car they came in?”
“It’s not a car. It’s a big truck, and the back is all torn up.”
“All torn up?”
“The side of the truck was kind of smashed in, torn off.”
“Did you see the load?”
“Yes, there’s still a lot of stuff. This jacket, for example, they gave it to me. I think they must have lost about half of what they were transporting. But toward the front there are still plenty of boxes.”
Franko turned to his uncle to check his expression and decide whether he ought to believe what this so-called messenger was saying. But the general wasn’t giving anything away, so he looked sternly at Alija.
There was a long moment of uncertainty, while Filipović went on thinking without speaking.
“Where is the farm?”
“In the mountains.”
“Far from here?”
“On horseback, I could take shortcuts and it didn’t take long. But by road, with this weather, it will take longer. When my father drove us there, it took four hours, roughly.”
“There’s no I address, I suppose.”
“Not that I know of.”
“Can you see the house from the road?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll have to come with us.”
“And my horse?”
“Leave him here. We’ll bring him back to you.”
3
It hadn’t been all that easy. Once they were through the checkpoint, Vauthier had to fight with his teammates to convince them to go back.
This time, Lionel felt he was in a position of strength. After all, they had managed to make it over the mountain, and whatever the damage to the convoy, they were nearly home safe. Down in the valley they could see the lights of the first villages. Kakanj was one of them. It was out of the question to go back up the mountain just to seek a confrontation with Marc.
Alex, too, was relieved. He was feeling better, and for some miles now, he couldn’t stop thinking about what he would do if Vauthier found himself face-to-face with his former comrade. He had seen Vauthier’s weapon but he knew that in the other truck Marc also had a pistol and ammunition enough to defend himself.
Earlier on, neither Alex, weakened by his injury, nor Lionel, in particular, would have had the strength to stand up to Vauthier. But now they had gone through the roadblock and the paramilitaries would not make it easy for them to go back again. This eventuality reinforced their own determination.
In any case, by the time they got to the checkpoint, it was too dark for them to imagine any immediate return. They stopped for the night a bit farther along, in the shelter of a shed made of sheet metal where there was still a bit of fodder. A dozen or so yards away stood a few farms scattered along the road. Without saying anything to his two teammates, Vauthier disappeared in that direction. Good riddance! They were glad he was gone and they had a relaxing dinner with what remained of the food in the truck. They talked and gave each other courage. If they had to, they would ask the soldiers at the roadblock for protection. Then they got out their sleeping bags and dozed off on a bed of hay, sheltered from the snow that was still falling silently on the roof.
By dawn it had stopped snowing. They could see luminous patches of clear sky. Lionel got up first and lit the camp stove to make some coffee. Alex was still in his sleeping bag. The warmth brought some comfort to the pain he still felt here and there. It was not even seven o’clock when a mountain tractor stopped outside the shed. It was a sort of miniature truck that had been painted red until the rust, over time, fringed it with brown spots. The rear was a sort of wagon that could transport an animal or bales of fodder. The tiny cab in front could fit only one person. An old peasant was driving the vehicle. At the last minute Lionel and Alex saw Vauthier sitting in the back, in the empty wagon.
“It’s all settled,” he said, jumping down and walking over to them. “Officially, I’m going to go and repair the truck that stayed behind. Are you coming with me, yes or no?”
“No,” said Lionel, without even waiting to hear what Alex had to say.
“In that case, happy trails, guys.”
He went back to the tractor, climbed into the wagon, and knocked on the cab to tell the old man he could get going.
They heard the wheezing sound of the engine heading away down the road.
Alex got out of his sleeping bag, wincing with pain.
“He’s going to kill him!”
“And?”
“What do you mean, and? You’re going to let him?”
“What can we do?”
It wasn’t mere resignation in Lionel’s tone. Alex could also perceive the hint of a certain satisfaction. After all, wasn’t this the best outcome for Lionel? He wouldn’t have to get involved, the truck was safe, the mission, or what was left of it, would be intact. By fleeing, Marc had chosen to be an outlaw; he would get what he deserved and, in any case, Vauthier would take the rap for it on his own. But Lionel’s old jealousy would be vindicated, too. Basically, he’d be glad to see Maud pay the price for what he still saw as a betrayal: she would witness her lover’s death at Vauthier’s hands.
“Well, I don’t agree.”
“Then you go get a hay wagon, too, and go catch up with them,” grumbled Lionel.
Once again he had the self-confidence of the weak man who knows he is protected.
“No. We’re going together, with the truck.”
Lionel snickered.
“You think it’s funny?”
“Kind of.”
Alex was not in any physical shape to threaten him and he knew it. Lionel went on calmly sipping his lukewarm coffee. There was a long silence. Alex sat down, painfully, in the hay, to think. Finally he got back up and went to stand in front of his companion.
“You think you’ll get away with it, just like that?”
Lionel gave him a nasty smile.
“You’re mistaken.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Listen carefully. If Marc gets killed, I swear there will be consequences.”
“Such as?”
There was an expression on Alex’s face Lionel had never seen. The look in his eyes was earnest, grave, and frightening.
“When we get back, I’ll need a few days to recover. But then . . . ”
“Then?”
“I will kill you.”
Lionel let out a little laugh, but Alex was implacable, gazing fixedly at him.
“You want to spend the rest of your life in jail?”
Alex didn’t answer. Lionel studied the black eyes staring at him. There was something indefinable about them, a wild yet rational strength, and he was shaken. His only hope was that it would all be over with quickly. And he had just one wish: to get back to France, to the peace and safety he cherished more than anything. Now here was this imbecile delivering threats he was perfectly capable of carrying out someday. Lionel understood that, even after his return, he would never be completely safe. He w
ould always be in thrall to this mad verdict, which was all the more dangerous for its very madness.
“Come on,” he said, trying to sound as friendly and rational as possible. “Be reasonable. What could you possibly gain?”
But his words rang hollow, betraying his fear. Alex still said nothing.
So Lionel got up and decided to voice his anger, although this was hardly any more convincing.
“What the hell is the matter with you all? You really are a bunch of loonies! Why did I have to get stuck with your filthy business? I’ve never seen anything like it in a humanitarian organization.”
His last words sounded particularly ridiculous and as he said them, Lionel could see for himself how inept they were now to describe their tragic undertaking. They had not been on the side of peace or charity for a very long time. They had all succumbed to hatred and infighting. Remembering the reasons why they had come to Bosnia merely emphasized how far, how irremediably they had drifted from those reasons. Lionel had hoped that on reaching Kakanj things would go back to normal—to neutrality, to simple aid work. Now he could see that such hope was utterly in vain.
He sat back down.
“Well, what do you want?”
“We’re going to take the truck and catch up with that bastard before it’s too late.”
“The paramilitaries will never let us back through,” said Lionel absently.
“Let me deal with them.”
Sure enough, half an hour later, they were driving along the road toward the mountain. It had been fairly easy to persuade the soldiers that they had to go to repair the other truck, probably because Vauthier had already prepared the terrain, by giving them the same excuse.
The snow was beginning to melt, and the tracks from Vauthier’s vehicle had left two furrows of dirty mud; that was just like him.
The little girls woke up first and when she heard them starting the fire and boiling the water, Maud opened her eyes.
Marc wasn’t there. She looked for the raincoat he’d left to dry on the back of the chair and didn’t see it. He must have gone back to his lookout post above the road.
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