Maud drank the coffee the elder girl had made. It was much too strong but the child was waiting proudly for Maud’s reaction. She forced herself to drink it with a smile.
But she had no desire to go back to the games they had played the day before. She gestured to the little girls to leave her alone.
She sensed things were coming to a head. She was waiting for resolution, not knowing whether to hope for it or dread it. The Croatian soldiers would come for their cargo. She didn’t care whether it changed the war or not. As far as she was concerned it was over. As soon as she could she would get out of there, as quickly and as far away as possible.
The night had banished her uneasy feelings from the day before. She could see things more clearly now. Never until this morning had she been so acutely aware of being fiercely on the side of life. In this cold, dark hovel, wasn’t it life she had put all her energy into restoring the day before? All she had to do was see the love in the eyes of the two little girls when they looked at her.
As she thought about them she realized she must have hurt them, getting up in such a bad mood. They were hiding on the other side of the room, looking at her, not understanding. She gave them an affectionate little wave. They instantly rushed over to her, full of joy. The little one climbed on her lap and shyly touched the burn on her cheek, her eyes full of pity.
“Dolly?” asked Maud.
The two little girls looked at each other blankly. Maud made signs to try to explain to them.
“Do you have dollies?” she said again.
The older girl nodded and went to rummage in the chest where they put their mat in the morning. In the meantime Maud rocked the little one in her arms and followed her thoughts once again.
She had no grudge against Marc; she was even grateful to him. Without knowing it, without meaning to, he had freed her from fear.
The little girl came back to her, proud to show her what she had found in the chest.
“Dol-ly,” she said, trying to pronounce the word correctly.
Maud burst out laughing. In her arms the little girl was holding an entire collection of hats, among them an old beret, a moth-eaten sheepskin cap, and a felt hat faded from years of rain and snow.
Maud gently conveyed to her that these were not dolls. The child seemed somewhat disappointed, but did not lose heart. She went over to the sink and began searching underneath it. From a distance she showed Maud a horsehair broom, a chipped enamel pot, a plastic basin. Every time, Maud shook her head with a smile. Then the little girl seemed to have another idea. She hesitated, looked over toward the window as if to make sure no one could see her, then began pushing the big table to one side. Maud doubted that she would find dolls underneath it but she let her go ahead. The table was on an old coarse flax carpet which with the years had begun to look like a huge floor cloth. When she had moved the table far enough, the child rolled up the carpet and a trapdoor with a wooden shutter appeared in the floor. She raised the shutter, grimacing, and reached in to pull something out of the hiding place. It was long and rigid, wrapped in rags. She brought it over to Maud, holding it in both hands like a precious offering. It was clearly not a doll. Maud, out of curiosity, nevertheless took the bundle and began unwrapping it. The shining butt of a rifle appeared, then a well-oiled barrel. It was an old Mauser that must have dated from the Second World War. She wondered why Alija, to protect his sisters, had resorted to a club rather than this considerably more powerful weapon, which seemed to be in good condition. Probably their father, when he left them on their own, had instructed them not to go around with such a weapon, which might suggest the boy was a combatant.
Maud maneuvered the breech, careful to aim the barrel at the wall. The mechanism was in perfect working order, but there were no bullets in the chamber. The space for the cartridge was empty. She showed the hole to the little girl, who immediately went back to the trapdoor. She brought out another bundle. It was a supply of ammunition, carefully stored in a waterproof box.
Maud thanked the little girl, who seemed pleased to have figured out at last what the word “dolly” meant. Then she motioned to her to put everything back where it belonged.
She would have to find something else to amuse the children because it was clear they didn’t have any toys. Maud looked around for a piece of paper and started drawing to distract her two protégées.
She was just finishing up the outlines of a house, with the door, windows, and a smoking chimney, when Marc burst into the room.
“There’s a tractor coming up the road,” he said. “Get ready.”
“Is it your Croatian friends?”
“I have no idea. It doesn’t look like it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Wait for them lower down.”
He had his gun in his hand and the children stared at the weapon, fear in their eyes. They were not afraid of the rifle hidden under the table, because it was a familiar object, and they knew they mustn’t use it. But Marc’s huge Manurhin, with its black metal and short barrel, evoked danger and death to them.
“Is the tractor still far?”
“It’s not going quickly but in ten minutes it will be here.”
“Have a coffee in the meantime.”
“No,” said Marc, “I’m going back.”
He opened the door and an icy gust blew into the hut. It was snowing again. Maud stood on the threshold and watched him disappear into the mist with the strange impression that it was her duty to imprint this moment on her memory.
4
Marc had spent so much time watching the place that he had eventually acquired a fairly precise knowledge of that patch of forest and mountain pasture. He had noticed a sort of track that wound down through the trees, probably an old trail that was used in summer for rolling bales of hay. He followed it and reached another bluff located just above the road. From there he could observe the clearing, and the track they had come up on arrival. The only disadvantage was that he could not see the actual turnoff from the main road. And that was just where the tractor had stopped. Marc could clearly make out the regular sound of the engine idling. Less distinct was the sound of voices. Someone must have gotten down from the tractor to study the tire tracks. Then the engine began to run more quickly. The vehicle made a maneuver and finally drove away in the direction it had come.
Once again the silence was heavy, shot through with resonant flurries of wind whirling a light snow. Marc tensed his entire body, listening to this silence he had come to know so well, but which seemed different now somehow. He couldn’t hear any particular sound. However, he sensed a human presence. He went down flat on his stomach on the icy ground and crawled to the edge of the bluff. It was there that he suddenly saw Vauthier.
He was at the edge of the fir trees, moving forward without a sound, not twenty yards away from Marc. His little eyes were studying the ground and the woods all around. But he didn’t think of looking up at the rocky ledge where Marc was hiding. He was careful not to make any noise, lifting his feet to avoid stepping on a branch or stumbling in a hole. Clearly he wanted to take the hut by surprise. He had his right hand deep in the pocket of his jacket, and Marc was sure he was holding a gun in his fist.
Marc had the advantage of location, which he knew in detail. Very quickly he decided to head for another point in the forest, still high up but not as steep, where he could easily creep up on Vauthier with his gun aimed at him. He withdrew and moved soundlessly up to the new bluff. When he got there, Vauthier the intruder had also climbed and was only ten yards away. Marc decided to call out.
“Get your hands out of your pockets, Vauthier, and above your head!”
Vauthier hardly seemed surprised. He did as he was told, pretending to smile.
“I didn’t think I’d find you out in this weather,” Vauthier said calmly. “You’ll catch cold.”
“What are yo
u doing here?”
“We are part of the same convoy, aren’t we? Didn’t you want us to come and find you?”
“What have you done with the others?”
“They’re waiting for me a bit farther along. I guess they’re not as eager to see you as I am.”
The situation was increasingly absurd. The snow was gently falling, covering their hair and eyelashes with white flakes. Marc’s pistol looked like a marzipan figurine covered with icing sugar. For a moment he felt like lowering his guard, and holding his hand out to Vauthier. After all, nothing had destined them to be enemies, nothing justified Vauthier’s violence. But he immediately regained his self-control. Since childhood, he had known that things are not like that, that nothing explains hatred, that weakness merely exacerbates it, that there can be no forgiveness without force or without victory. This brief moment where Marc was lost in troubling reflection sufficed for Vauthier to leap behind a trunk, and a moment later he fired. The shot raised dust from a tree’s bark just next to Marc but didn’t hit him. He barely had time to hide in turn behind a fir tree.
Maud, in the hut, heard the shots. She put the little girl down and went out, not taking the time to put a coat on. She could not see more than ten yards ahead through the curtain of snow; the shots must have come from higher up the slope. Two more rang out. She went back into the hut.
Vauthier was extremely agile, in spite of the snow. He jumped from one tree to the next and Marc couldn’t get him. At one point he saw him spring between two fir trees and he fired. But the bullet landed in wood, with a dull thud. A moment later, as he was heading toward the place he thought his aggressor was hiding, a shot rang out behind him and barely missed him. Vauthier had managed to go around and must now be somewhere behind him.
It was as if everything was in suspense, ominous. The inert whiteness of the landscape seemed to be waiting for blood to come alive. Two lives on borrowed time, stalking beneath the shroud of snow and fog.
Marc took off the long coat: it was making it hard for him to run, and the dark color was too visible. Underneath he was wearing a light gray fleece which blended better with the landscape. He hung the coat on a tree before springing to the next one. From there he heard another shot and saw the coat swing. A bullet had gone through it, fired from higher up.
The two duelists circled around the woods, each one trying to surprise the other by taking him from the rear. It looked as if neither would win at that game: Marc’s training and Vauthier’s cunning canceled each other out. In the beginning, Marc fired in self-defense: he wanted to neutralize his adversary, to shoot him in the arms or legs but spare his life. But it didn’t take him long to realize that Vauthier was shooting to kill. When his bullets lodged in the bark of the fir trees, it was at eye level. A rage to kill came over Marc.
There could be no truce, only victor and vanquished.
The silent duel unfolded to the rhythm of the danger, at times rushed, when one of them thought he’d nabbed the other and fired; extremely slowly in the interludes when the threat was once again invisible and they moved silently to change position.
Until there came the sound of an engine on the road. This was yet another danger, because it distracted them from their vigilance and directed their hearing elsewhere. In comparison with the almost imperceptible rustling as they brushed against branches, or the snow crunching as they leapt from one tree to the next, the chug of the diesel seemed like a vulgar din, crushing every other sensation.
Marc did not know what to make of the sound. Was it his Croatian friends, and if so, should he be pleased? Or was it Lionel and Alex coming to lend Vauthier a hand? Should he wait, play for time and count on some help from outside? Or should he precipitate the outcome, to avoid having to confront any new adversaries?
Vauthier had been following the same line of thought, and he decided to intensify his craftiness and aggression. He fired more frequently, more precisely. Marc escaped one of his bullets only because of an involuntary move he made while preparing his next leap. The bullet landed in the tree trunk he thought he was hiding behind, and missed him by only an inch or so.
The truck on the road was drawing nearer, and before long it stopped. A door slammed. Then the silence returned.
Just then Marc saw Vauthier from behind, crouching on the ground. He hadn’t even realized that his adversary had circled around him. He was at some distance, and Marc had the time to take precise aim. He held the 9 mm with both hands, and lined up his foresight on the target, like during practice.
It all happened very quickly. A voice rang out, lower down, on the path leading to the hut. It was Alex. Vauthier turned around, pivoting on himself. Marc was distracted by the voice, and his aim was off. The shot went wide. As he got to his feet, Vauthier fired blind, with one hand.
Alex heard the shots and headed straight for them, up the slope. Branches tore at him; clumps of snow fell on his face.
When he reached Marc he found him lying facedown. He turned him over. A bullet had gone into his shoulder. There was a clean little hole in his gray fleece. The blood must be flowing on the inside because on the surface all you could see was the cloth with its clean cookie-cutter mark.
In the same instant, another shot rang out. It came from much higher up and it wasn’t the sound of a pistol. A few yards away Alex saw Vauthier’s head where he was lying on the ground, behind a tree, inert.
Lionel arrived in turn, after struggling up the steep slope. He looked at the scene, failing to understand.
“Go see to Vauthier, I’ll take care of Marc,” shouted Alex.
He had opened his friend’s jacket and was trying to see how serious the wound was. As he had thought, there was blood all over his chest, his scarlet, warm, living blood. The shock had winded him momentarily. His breathing was uneven. Alex slapped him on both cheeks and he opened his eyes.
Lionel had reached Vauthier. He turned him over: Vauthier had collapsed facedown in the snow.
“Jesus Christ,” shouted Lionel, “he killed him!”
But when he opened his blood-soaked jacket, he saw that Vauthier was still breathing. He had a bloody wound just above his belly.
From the road came the sound of vehicles. Doors slammed. Before long an entire group began climbing up the track leading to the hut. Alex called out for help. Two Croatian soldiers in uniform appeared beyond the fir trees. Several others followed, officers among them. Alex didn’t take the time to find out who they were. The most urgent thing was to get the wounded men to shelter.
He grabbed hold of Marc, who was moaning, and the soldiers lifted his legs. Others went over to Lionel and helped him carry Vauthier, who was still unconscious. The two groups went back to the track and slowly up to the hut.
“They’ve killed each other,” said Lionel, pale and distraught.
“I don’t think so. Marc was already hit when someone fired on Vauthier.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely, I saw him fall. He was lying on the ground when the other shot was fired. It couldn’t be him.”
“But who, then?”
As they continued up the track they found the truck parked under the low-hanging branches of a larch tree, protected from the snow. Lionel was dismayed to see how damaged it was. A futile thought, given the general catastrophe, but he could not help but think of what his bosses would say: after all, they had entrusted him with this materiel.
Alex was staring at the door to the hut, which had not been closed properly and was creaking with every gust of wind. He motioned to the Croatian soldiers who were helping him carry Marc to put him on the ground for a moment. Marc had regained consciousness and was moaning. Behind them, Lionel also stopped and lowered Vauthier to the ground.
There were footprints in the slush outside the hut but there was no one in sight. Off to one side a long object lay in the snow. Alex approached it cautiously and ben
t down to pick it up. It was an old Mauser rifle. Droplets were forming along its well-oiled barrel from the humidity. He handed it to Lionel, who took it awkwardly, aghast.
Then he kept walking. He’d had the presence of mind to retrieve Marc’s pistol and he held it out in front of him. His military reflexes had come back to him, and he wedged himself against the door frame and kicked the door open. The room was dark; holding his weapon out toward the interior he stood for a long moment in the door, the time it took for his eyes to get used to the dark.
The room was silent, but with his senses on the alert Alex perceived a soft, intermittent sound, a sort of irregular breathing, not even a whimper. The first thing he could make out in the darkness was the eyes of a little girl. She was standing in the middle of the room, staring sternly at him. He went in.
There was someone he could see only from behind, who seemed to be sleeping, their upper body slumped on the table. As his eyes adjusted, he recognized Maud’s hair. At first he thought that she was dead, too. But gradually he made the connection with the faint sound he could hear and he saw that beneath her fleece she was breathing. She was not asleep. Her breathing was jerky, irregular, and with each exhalation there was a sort of hiccup. He went closer and realized she was sobbing. When the little girl saw him approach Maud, she pressed herself against her and put her thin arm around her.
Alex realized he still had the gun held out in front of him and he lowered it.
Lionel had followed him inside, and when he spoke his voice shattered the thick silence enveloping the scene.
“What’s wrong with her?”
Alex motioned to him to be quiet. He squatted next to the table and the child, reassured by his gentle movements, stepped back.
“Marc is here, outside.”
Her initial reflex was to push him away with her hand, so he would leave her alone. She even shot him a brief, indignant look, as if his desire to show her Marc’s body was sickening and cruel. But when she met his gaze she saw nothing there but gentleness and surprise. She sat up, slowly, and stared at him:
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