A Taste for Vengeance

by Martin Walker

  “You’re the father, aren’t you? Don’t bother to deny it,” Bernard snapped, so furious that bits of spittle were spraying from his mouth. He waved his fist at Bruno. “I’ll have you run out of town for this, seducing a helpless girl. You’re the one she’s been spending all this time with. It’s as clear as day.”

  “Calm yourself, Bernard. I’m not the father.”

  “And now you’re lying!” Bernard roared. He leaped toward Bruno, both arms outstretched, holding his clenched fists together like a battering ram.

  Bruno had never encountered an attack like it, the foolish assault of a man who had no idea how to fight. He simply swayed to one side, put out a foot to trip Bernard and let the man’s own momentum send him crashing to the ground. Bruno dropped onto him, his knees pinning the man down and his hands wrenching Bernard’s arms behind his back to immobilize him while Bruno waited for the curses to cease.

  “We’ll stay like this until you calm down,” Bruno said, still finding it hard to believe that the overweight little shopkeeper would have dared to attack him, let alone make such an absurd accusation. He’d have been tempted to laugh, but Bernard was a decent enough man who deserved to be allowed to keep his self-respect.

  “I wouldn’t struggle, if I were you,” Bruno added, his tone professional. “You could dislocate your shoulders. Now, once again, I am not the father of Paulette’s child and I’m sure she’ll confirm that when she sees fit to talk to you. Right now, given your current state of mind, I’d advise her against it. You have to get a grip on yourself. Do you understand me?”

  More curses met Bruno’s question. He increased the pressure on Bernard’s arms and noticed that Balzac was sitting near Bernard’s head, staring quizzically at his master, perhaps wondering if this were some new game he had yet to fathom.

  “I repeat, Bernard, we’ll stay like this until you calm down. Then if you like we can go and see Father Sentout together.”

  “Where is Paulette? Are you keeping her here?”

  “No, I’m not, and you are free to search the place once you calm down,” Bruno replied, noting that at least Bernard had stopped cursing and the body beneath him seemed to relax.

  “Get off me,” Bernard said. “It’s all right, I won’t hit you again.” He paused and then added, “Please.”

  Bruno fought down the urge to laugh. “You didn’t hit me the first time. If you had, I’m in uniform so you’d be under arrest.”

  He released the pressure on Bernard’s arms and heard him groan with relief. Bruno rose to his feet and stepped back, still watchful although sure that Bernard’s arms would be of little use for the next few moments. Bruno opened his front door and left it ajar.

  “I’m going to see to my chickens,” he called back to Bernard. “Feel free to look around, but she’s not here.”

  “She was supposed to arrive on the six o’clock train,” Bernard said, shuffling toward Bruno, his arms crossed in front of his body as though hugging himself. “And she won’t answer her phone.”

  He followed Bruno, who filled the water bowls for his ducks and chickens and his two stately geese, Napoléon and Joséphine. He scooped some crushed maize from the bin and scattered it over the ground of their run. As the birds darted off to eat, Bruno let himself into the coop and came out with his uniform cap full of fresh eggs.

  “You want some eggs?” he asked Bernard. “They’re being prolific this week. I can let you have half a dozen.”

  “If it’s not you, do you have any idea who the father is?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. That’s entirely up to Paulette.”

  “She’s still a child.”

  “No, Bernard. She’s your daughter, but in the eyes of the law she’s not a child. She’s an adult, over eighteen, and wholly responsible for her own life and her own actions. And my job is to enforce the law. So if you try to deal with her as though Paulette were still a child, you’ll have me to reckon with. As it is, I could take you down to the gendarmerie right now, put you in a cell and charge you with assault.”

  As Bruno went into his kitchen to find an egg box, Bernard grunted something that might have been an apology. Then he added, “She’s going to have to get married.”

  Bruno put six eggs into a plastic box and then put it on the passenger seat of Bernard’s van before turning to face him.

  “No, she is not going to get married unless she does so of her own free choice. There’s no shame in being a single mother, if that’s what she wants to be. Whatever she decides, I’ll support her choice and so should you.”

  “The shame of it, those graffiti…” Bernard mumbled.

  “The only shame involved here is the way you’re behaving. This isn’t about you, Bernard, it’s about your daughter. Now, do you want to come and see Father Sentout or can I get on with my day? If by any chance I happen to see Paulette or hear from her, I promise I’ll advise her to get in touch with you. And if she asks me to come along, I will, in case that temper of yours bursts out again.”

  Bernard slumped against the side of his van, his arms still wrapped around his chest. “Ah, merde, Bruno. This is such a shock. My wife’s beside herself. She won’t show her face in the shop or outside the house.”

  “These things pass,” said Bruno. “Are you fit to drive home yourself?”

  Bernard stood and swung his arms. “I suppose so. Thanks for the eggs and I’m sorry about, er, you know.”

  “I understand, and drive safely.”

  Bruno saw him off and then went indoors to shower and change and to feed Balzac. He took a can of his homemade pâté from the pantry and from the freezer a plastic container filled with boeuf Bourguignon, then picked a head of spring lettuce from his garden. He put the food into a large bag with a bottle of Château de Tiregand red from his cellar and another of a dry white Bergerac from the fridge. Once Balzac had scrambled onto the front seat of the Land Rover, Bruno headed, cautiously, into town. He kept stopping and looking down side roads to be sure Bernard wasn’t trying to follow him. He then checked that Bernard’s van was parked outside the flower shop before driving on to Florence’s place, where he parked his vehicle at the rear, out of sight.

  “She’s here,” said Florence as she answered the door. “She helped me bathe the children before we put them to bed. But they wanted to wait up to see you. Paulette doesn’t want to go home. She was very upset when I picked her up at the station. Her mother had called her and wept and ranted that she had to get married and claimed that her first grandchild was being sacrificed on the altar of rugby.”

  “Bernard was waiting for me in a rage, even took a swing at me. But I think I calmed him down,” Bruno said, glancing at the door to the kitchen and keeping his voice too low for Paulette to hear. “Has she said anything?”

  “She can tell you herself.”

  Florence led the way into the kitchen, where Paulette was sitting on the floor and reading to Dora and Daniel, one on either side of her. Bruno couldn’t see the book’s cover, but with a flood of childhood memory he recognized it from the words Paulette was reading.

  “Voici mon secret,” she read. “Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu’avec le coeur. L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.”

  “Here is my secret. It is very simple. One only sees well with the heart. The essential is invisible to the eye.”

  Bruno saw some paper and crayons on the table. Rather than interrupt the rapt children, he put down his bag of food and wine and quickly sketched a long tube with a large bump in the middle. At one end of the tube he placed a small dot. Then he waited for the children’s attention to flag. At the end of the passage, Paulette closed the book firmly, looked up at Bruno with a familiar smile and said, “Bonjour, Bruno.”

  As if released from a spell, Dora and Daniel jumped up and each clutched one of his legs until he bent down and picked them up, on
e in each arm, and held them where they could see his drawing.

  “What’s that?” he asked. “Is it a hat?”

  “No, it’s the boa constrictor who swallowed the elephant!” Dora cried out. Then Daniel demanded, “Have you read Le Petit Prince? Is that where you got your drawing from?”

  “I read it when I was a bit older than you are now and I never forgot that story. It made me want to be a pilot,” he replied.

  “I’m going to be a pilot and have adventures,” Daniel said. “So am I,” echoed Dora. Their childish delight was so catching that Bruno found himself laughing aloud, and Paulette and Florence joined in. For a moment Bruno wondered whether the charm of the children might seduce Paulette and affect the decision she was facing. At the same time, he knew there was another element that could influence her decision. He had expected to learn today whether or not she’d been picked for the national squad.

  Bruno knew that the names of the thirty young women to be chosen would be placed on the website of the national rugby federation at midnight. But newspapers would be informed earlier, under embargo, so that they could arrange for photographs and brief biographies of those chosen in time for the following day’s papers. Bruno had arranged with Philippe Delaron that Philippe would call him the moment the embargoed news release reached the sports desk of Sud Ouest.

  So far, Bruno had heard nothing from the reporter, and he was aware that time was running out. But his faith in Paulette’s special talent for the sport remained strong. He was certain that if merit were the criterion, Paulette would certainly be picked. So he told himself that Philippe might have been sent on some other story, or that the sports desk had bridled at informing Philippe, or that something had come up to delay the announcement. Bruno knew he was torn between his own doubts over abortion and his hopes for Paulette. This was new for him. Bruno seldom felt such conflict over ethical questions, and when he did, he could usually take refuge in the laws of France. This time the law was silent.

  “Thanks for coming, Bruno,” said Paulette. “I’m sorry to cause all this trouble for you and Florence.”

  “I’m sorry that this has triggered such a breach between you and your parents,” he said. “Your dad came to see me. He’s really upset, accused me of…” He broke off, thinking of the two children, and chose his words carefully. “He thought I was responsible for your condition.”

  Paulette grinned at him. “And that I might have won for myself the most eligible bachelor in St. Denis? That’s what my mom calls you. I think she was quietly hoping it was you, despite our age difference.”

  Bruno had to smile at her comment. Florence interrupted, saying it was time for the children to go to bed and, as a special treat, Bruno could tuck them in and kiss them good night. Bruno put the boeuf Bourguignon into the microwave and said he’d better first peel the potatoes.

  “I’ll do that,” said Paulette. “Let me set the table and make the salad. Where’s the corkscrew for the wine?”

  The children were already sleepy, and once he and Florence had kissed them both good night they settled down quietly in the bed they shared. Bruno thought the time might be coming for him to build them a bunk bed. It shouldn’t be difficult; he’d need only some wood and a ladder. He’d have to make a sketch, he thought, as he went back into the kitchen, where Paulette handed him and Florence each a glass of wine. The potatoes were already bubbling in hot water, the salad had been made, the baguette cut into thick slices and Bruno’s pâté had been opened and turned onto a plate.

  “I don’t think there’s room for me to stay here, but I don’t want to go to my parents’ place tonight,” Paulette said, as the pâté disappeared.

  “Normally you’d be very welcome to stay at my place, but in the circumstances, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bruno said. “I’ll call Fabiola. She and Gilles have a spare room and I can drop you off. But you have to see your parents at some point. Maybe if Father Sentout were there…”

  “Absolutely not,” said Paulette. “I’m fond of him but I can’t stand the idea of the priest and my father going on about the teachings of the church and the law of God. I had enough of that in my childhood. I’d like to meet them somewhere public, and I’d be grateful if you and Florence could be there. I feel that I ought to tell them what I intend to do. They have a right to know but not to stop me.”

  “Perhaps you could let them know before you meet, a phone call, even a letter,” said Florence as Bruno called Fabiola, who said that Paulette was welcome to their spare room for the weekend.

  “A phone call would be brutal,” Paulette said. “I’d have to tell them and then refuse to discuss it and simply end the call. Do you have some notepaper?”

  “Let’s eat first,” said Bruno, taking the boeuf Bourguignon from the microwave and stirring it to be sure it had warmed through. He poked a fork into the potatoes to check that they were done.

  As he served the food Florence went into her own bedroom, which she used as a study, and came back with some writing paper and an envelope. She handed them to Paulette. “Do you know what you’re going to say?”

  “I was hoping you two might help me draft something.” Paulette bent her head to her plate. “Mmm, this smells good.”

  “The simpler you write it the better,” said Bruno. “Tell them that you love them but this is a decision you have to make for yourself and suggest that you meet somewhere. I wouldn’t propose St. Denis; you’d have too much of an audience. I’d suggest that place in St. Cyprien, Le Chai. And don’t mail the letter. I’ll put it in their mailbox.”

  “Should I not add something about regretting the embarrassment this has caused them?”

  “If you like,” said Florence, fanning her hand before her mouth as if the food were too hot. “That’s not a comment, Bruno. It’s very good. I always have to let food cool down a little.” She turned to Paulette. “You don’t have to apologize for anything, although it wouldn’t hurt to add something like that. But I wouldn’t say what you intend to do. That’s your own affair.”

  Paulette looked down at the table and bowed her head so that her hair fell forward and hid her face. “They were badgering me about the father and why I couldn’t just marry him and have the baby.”

  “Again, that’s your own business,” Florence said.

  “What do you think?” Paulette asked Bruno, her voice muffled.

  “I think that you and I know who the father was,” he replied, and then corrected himself. “Who the father is.”

  “Florence told me that you thought you knew who it was, and that his wife had another baby on the way.”

  “About six weeks to go, she told me,” he replied, wiping his plate clean with a hunk of bread and avoiding her eyes.

  “I didn’t know you’d met her.” Paulette sounded almost amused, but then her voice hardened and she raised her head to look Bruno in the eye. “And him?”

  Bruno shook his head. “I saw him by chance when you and he were arguing in Périgueux. I saw his car’s registration number. As simple as that.”

  “So you jumped to conclusions,” she said, half-smiling, but her eyes were glittering with some very different emotion. “Had you considered that I might have turned to Gérard Bollinet for advice, as a friend, as a teacher I respected? Simply because you saw us arguing doesn’t necessarily mean he’s the father.”

  Bruno felt himself blushing as his surprise turned into a sensation of hollowness in his stomach. Could he have been so wrong, so arrogantly convinced of his own intuition that he had made such a foolish mistake?

  “So it isn’t him,” he said, thinking that Paulette hadn’t directly denied that Bollinet was the father. She had only questioned his suspicion, but Bruno thought it better to go along with her half denial. “I’m sorry for my misjudgment.”

  Paulette nodded. “I know you’re trying to help, but please don’t put me
on some kind of pedestal because I’m good at rugby. Don’t you think I’m capable of making a fool of myself, drinking too much at a party and taking a silly risk with someone I really didn’t want to see in the morning? You were young once, Bruno. Or did you never have a one-night stand?”

  Ouch, thought Bruno, that’s putting me in my place.

  “I’m grateful for the support from you and Florence,” Paulette went on. “And I think you have a right to know that I saw the gynecologist, made a decision and that I have an appointment next week to terminate this pregnancy.”

  “Would you like me to be there?” Florence asked her, as Bruno sat back in his chair, wondering why he felt no instant reaction of relief or even of sadness.

  He took a sip of his wine, trying to absorb this rush of news. So he’d been wrong about the father and whoever it might be was no longer relevant—Paulette had made her choice. It did nothing to ease the turmoil in his mind even if it meant she could play for France. Then the thought struck him again that he’d heard nothing from Philippe Delaron about the announcement of the team. And with that came a sense of relief that Paulette had made the decision without considering her future in rugby.

  “No, thank you,” Paulette said, reaching out a hand to place it on Florence’s arm. “I have a friend at the lycée who’s been close to me through this, another girl. But I’ll stay in touch.”

  At that point, Bruno’s phone vibrated in the pouch at his waist. He looked at the screen and saw that the call was from the regional radio, France Bleu Périgord.

  “I’d better take this,” he said and headed out to the balcony as he answered.

  “Bruno, it’s David from the news desk. We’ve been trying to call Paulette but her phone’s turned off. Do you know where we might reach her? We want to do an interview for the morning show.”

  “She’s on the list for the national team?”

  “She sure is. Isn’t that great news? And she’s the only one of the thirty who comes from this département. Can you get her to call us?”

  “Give me a couple of minutes to check where she is,” Bruno said. “I’ll call you right back.”