Dark Summer in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  Alain arrived at the bookshop first. He looked pale and out of sorts. There was a moment of embarrassment between them, Léon couldn’t think why. Then it occurred to him: this is the moment of commitment, that’s what Jérôme has arranged for us, and we are both nervous.

  Alain said, ‘I’ve just had a row with my brother. He intends to go to Vichy. It’s intolerable. I was so angry, I nearly told him we were heading for London.’

  When Jérôme came in and smiled, the mood lightened. They all three embraced, musketeers again.

  ‘We’re going to have lunch with my godfather,’ Jérôme said. ‘He’s promised to help us.’

  The butler showed them into a salon. Léon was conscious of the poor quality of his suit, and abashed by the room, the paintings and the furniture.

  ‘It’s like something out of Balzac,’ he said to Alain. ‘And I’ve never encountered a butler before.’

  ‘Me neither, but courage.’

  The count entered, embraced Jérôme and extended his hand, first to Léon and then to Alain. He wore a light-grey flannel suit, double-breasted, with an orchid in his buttonhole. His gaze was penetrating. Léon thought, this is madness, I don’t belong here.

  Lunch was served by the butler and a footman. They ate asparagus – Léon watched Jérôme to see how to deal properly with it – followed by langoustines, also a problem for him, and gigot of lamb with new potatoes. There was a salad and Roquefort cheese. No evidence of rationing. They drank a very dry Graves with the fish and a bottle of the St-Hilaire claret with the lamb. When coffee was served – real pre-war coffee – the servants withdrew. Throughout the meal the count directed the conversation. He spoke of literature and history. He asked no personal questions, apart from enquiring about their taste in books.

  Now he lit a cigar, after offering the box to the boys. Only Jérôme took one. Alain said he preferred cigarettes.

  ‘Jérôme has told me that the three of you want to get to England, to join General de Gaulle,’ the count said. ‘I approve your ambition, but sadly . . . ’ He paused and smiled. ‘Sadly I am not a magician. I can’t therefore help you to do that. I am sorry to disappoint you. To attempt to reach London from Bordeaux – well, it would have been possible in the days around the Armistice, before the arrival of the Occupying Army, but now, without connections which I no longer possess, it would be foolhardy. You would most probably be taken and shot. That would be undesirable. However, it’s not, as they say, the end of the world, for I can set you on your way.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Alain said.

  ‘We have an empire in North Africa.’

  ‘But North Africa is Vichy.’

  ‘Quite so – but how reliably Vichy? An interesting question. I have friends there whose allegiance to Vichy is – shall we say? – at best provisional. Some of them are Royalists, which is foolish, others Gaullists, which is dangerous. Certainly you will find people there who are waiting only for the war to turn – as it must, though the fools in Vichy do not understand this. I take it your papers are all in order? Very well.’

  He rang the bell for the butler, and, when he appeared said, ‘Jean-Pierre, will you please go to the desk in my study. In the top right-hand drawer, you will find a large white envelope. Please bring it to me.’

  The boys looked at each other, none daring to speak. The count leaned back in his chair. When the butler returned with the envelope, the count restored his monocle to his eye, and laid the envelope before him.

  ‘You are all certain?’ he said. ‘Have you spoken of your intentions to your parents? No? Your mother, Jérôme, will find it hard to forgive me. I have here three Ausweis – that is, the pass which permits you to travel from the Occupied to the Unoccupied Zone. You need not ask how I came by them. It’s enough to know that I retain a modest degree of influence. There are rail tickets for Marseilles and then air tickets and a booking which will enable you to fly to Algiers. You should have no trouble at the airport. Flights are regular and generally reliable. If you are questioned, which is unlikely, you are going to stay for the summer with my cousin, General Mercillon. He will confirm this, if asked. I have seen to that. He is a loyal officer at present – that is to say, a dutiful one – but his inclinations are not towards Vichy. Like many patriotic Frenchmen he is biding his time, training the troops under his command, committed to renewing the war when the hour is ripe. Once in North Africa he will, at my request, put you in touch with others who think as you do. The flight booking is for this day week. There is also a hotel booking for you, in my name, in Marseilles. The bill will be sent here. This is the most I can do for you. Please do not thank me. Think instead that I do this, not only for you, but for France. I wish I was your age. I think that is all.’

  He handed the envelope to Alain whom he had recognised as the leader.

  ‘What you tell your parents, whether you tell your parents, these are matters on which I cannot advise you. One other thing,’ he said, laying his hand on Alain’s shoulder, ‘I would be grateful if you would tell your father – oh yes, I know who he is – that it would give me great pleasure if he would be kind enough to pay me a visit. My request is not, I must say to put your mind at rest, related to your departure. Now, be off with you, and good luck. No, no more, I detest prolonged farewells as I detest being thanked.’

  XXXVIII

  Fernand was one of the people Lannes trusted. There weren’t many: Marguerite of course – even if they now found it so difficult to communicate and their marriage often seemed a hollow shell, they were bound together, for better, for worse; Henri, certainly; Moncerre and young René, because they were his team and had shared successes and failures; Miriam, because he respected her and was comfortable in her presence especially now that his desire had faded; Jacques Maso also. But he had known Fernand since childhood, since they had played truant from school together and stolen apples. In summer holidays Fernand had come with him to his grandfather’s farm in the Landes where they had shot duck at first light and in the evening. Consequently when they were alone, they usually spoke in the Landais dialect, which Lannes’ grandparents had always spoken with him and which Fernand had been happy to learn on his visits. It was another bond between them. Later, as adolescents, the pair of them had set off together in pursuit of girls. Now in middle age the irony with which Fernand addressed life was comforting. Nothing surprised him, very little impressed him.

  It was still the cool of the morning, with swifts and martins flying high, and the brasserie was not yet open. He rang the bell. Jacques, the young waiter who was Fernand’s illegitimate son – one of several indeed, for Fernand, who had never married, had always been a skirt-chaser – admitted him. The tables were bare. An old woman was polishing the tiled floor. At this hour the restaurant was like a theatre before the curtain goes up. Jacques said he would fetch Fernand who was busy in the kitchen. Lannes took a seat at a corner table. Fernand appeared, his blue shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist and a gold medallion dangling. They shook hands. Fernand told Jacques to bring them coffee.

  ‘And a nip of marc,’ he added. ‘So?’

  ‘So.’

  They didn’t say more till Jacques had brought his father’s order.

  ‘He’s quite a good boy,’ Fernand said, ‘but he says the trade isn’t for him. He’s decided he wants to join the police.’

  ‘Tell him on no account,’ Lannes said.

  ‘Have already.’

  ‘It was bad enough before the war. Now . . . ’ Lannes spread his hands and turned his thumbs down.

  ‘We don’t know where we are,’ he said.

  ‘Must be difficult. How are your boys, Jean?’

  ‘It’s difficult for them too. It’s difficult for everyone and it’s worst for the young. They know they’ve been betrayed and that’s all they know. Or so I think sometimes.’

  It was restful. The old woman finished her polishing and disappeared. In a little they would start to lay the tables, but for the moment it was quiet exce
pt for voices coming from the kitchen, and Lannes felt some of the tension leave his body.

  He said: ‘We’re both trapped in collaboration, aren’t we? You feed the Boches and I take orders from them. Neither of us likes it, but . . . ’

  ‘What do you expect me to do? Show the bastards the door or poison them?’

  ‘The chap whose job was to liaise with me shot himself.’

  ‘That’s one fewer, but it’ll be a long occupation if we have to rely on them topping themselves, one after the other.’

  ‘Resistance?’ Lannes said.

  ‘You must be joking.’

  ‘Yes, I’m joking. He wasn’t a bad chap really – unlike his successor who’s by way of being a bastard – but he was a bloody fool. A queer, pederast really, and one of our spooks set him up. He couldn’t face doing what was demanded of him – I suppose he was a German patriot in his way. Now the Gestapo want his boy-friends.’

  ‘And you’ve been told to deliver them?’

  Fernand smiled. There was mischief in his smile. There had always been mischief in his smile.

  ‘I’ve got to give them something,’ Lannes said. ‘My boss seems quite happy with it.’

  Fernand whistled, got up, and crossed to the bar. He was a big man but he moved lightly. He hummed a little dancing tune as he collected the bottle of marc, brought it back to the table and refilled their glasses.

  ‘Vichy and collaboration,’ he said, ‘do we drink to them or call them a bad joke?’

  ‘We don’t drink to them.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘Better days?’

  ‘That’ll do. I’ve always had a taste for the improbable.’

  They clinked glasses.

  ‘There are two boys,’ Lannes said. ‘I want to get them out of Bordeaux. If I can do that, get them safely away, then I can give their names to the Boches. But they have to be out if it. They wouldn’t last twelve hours if the Gestapo got hold of them.’

  ‘Which of us would? And a couple of fairies, no chance.’

  ‘It’s even worse,’ Lannes said. ‘One’s a Jew, the other’s half-Arab.

  I wondered, your smuggler friend? Spain? Could he get them over the border? Do you trust him?’

  ‘If he’s paid well enough. But Spain? I don’t know. A farm in the mountains, perhaps.’

  ‘How much?’

  Fernand laid his hand on Lannes’ arm.

  ‘I’ll take care of that. Don’t worry. It’ll be Boche money. The prices are higher on my German menu.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Not exactly, because one or two might have the sense to compare that with the French one, but when they buy champagne or brandy, I tell them they are getting a special bottle at a special price. Bloody special it is too. Rooking the Boches is my only form of resistance, and one that pays me well. However, if it’s cheating the Boches of them, getting these kids out will be another pleasure. It’ll take a few days to set up. Are the kids safe for the time being? If not, send them over here. They can work in the kitchen and doss down in the attic. It’s time we began to fight back, even if we are not actually doing any fighting. Besides, to be cynical, it’s in my interest too. The day may come when it will be good to have evidence of putting a spoke or two in the Boche wheel. . .’

  The claim to cynicism didn’t surprise Lannes. It was in character for Fernand to cover a good deed with such a cloak.

  He went from the brasserie to the rue des Remparts. The bookshop was closed, and it was several minutes before Henri answered his ring. He was bleary-eyed and unshaven and his breath was sour with last night’s white wine. He stumbled as he turned away and Lannes thrust out his hand to prevent him from falling over. Henri led him up the stairs to the apartment, holding tight on to the rail and swaying. He was panting heavily when he reached the top.

  ‘Léon seems to have deserted me,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen him for two days. You haven’t come to tell me something’s wrong? I worry about him. I worry about everything and I wake in the night even when I have gone to bed drunk.’

  He sank back on to his couch. He was sweating freely and mopped his face with a handkerchief.

  ‘I’m going to pieces,’ he said. ‘Breaking up. I’m ashamed of myself, and then, I think, what does it matter? Is Léon in trouble? In danger? Do you know?’

  Lannes went through to the kitchen and made coffee. Henri had to hold the cup in both hands to get it to his lips.

  ‘What a mess I’ve made of things,’ Henri said.

  ‘What a mess France has made of things.’

  ‘Do you know, Jean, it’s strange, as long as Gaston was alive and needed me to support him, I could be strong, but now . . . there’s nothing to live for. I think of him more often than of Pilar. She seems so long ago. We were happy for a little though. If it wasn’t for Léon I would close the shop. Where is he? Do you know? Perhaps he’s ill.’

  What could Lannes say? That the boy wasn’t ill, but ashamed and afraid? And that he had reason for the fear, though not for the shame? But where was he? Perhaps Alain would know.

  Henri said, ‘Would you mind taking Toto out? I can’t face the streets. Léon usually does it these days, but since he’s not here . . . ’ ‘Of course.’

  He clipped the lead on the little bulldog, and locked the shop door behind him. When he returned, Henri had fallen asleep, His mouth was open and he was snoring. It was half-past eleven. Already it seemed like a long day. His cheerful mood of the morning had darkened. He scanned the bookshelves, and took a volume of Le Vicomte de Bragelonne, and settled to lose himself in it. Kordlinger might be seeking him out to ask what progress he had made. He was better off here. He came to the passage in which d’Artagnan’s old servant Planchet said: ‘Monsieur, I am one of these good sorts of men whom God has breathed life into for a certain time in order that they may find everything good throughout their sojourn on this earth.’

  And so: ‘D’Artagnan sat down by the window, and, Planchet’s philosophy seeming solid to him, reflected on it . . . ’

  To find everything good throughout one’s sojourn on this earth . . . Dumas himself had been a happy man, despite all that assailed him. It was his generosity of spirit which Lannes found both comforting and invigorating, his sense of honour which saw him approve the ability of a man to cling to what was left of even his most severely damaged qualities. For more than three hours Lannes, reading while Henri continued to sleep, escaped from the urgency of his anxieties.

  The boy was leaning against the wall outside the station. A cigarette dangled from his lips, screen gangster-style. He looked a stylised picture of boredom; he had learned how to present himself, open for trade, though no doubt it came naturally to him. When he saw Lannes, he straightened up, but didn’t remove the cigarette, and waited for Lannes to approach him. Instead Lannes walked past him and into the station. He went to the bookstall and stood for a couple of minutes pretending to examine the titles on display. A couple of times he lifted his head and scanned the concourse. He crossed over to the buffet, which was full of German soldiers. They carried kitbags and looked cheerful; he supposed they were going home on leave. He ordered an Armagnac and leaned with his back against the bar. Then he went through to the toilets and washed his hands, glancing up at the mirror in front of him. He left the buffet and walked out of the station. Karim hadn’t moved. Lannes turned right towards the river. When he had gone fifty metres, he paused and turned round. The street was deserted. He jerked his head. Karim detached himself from the wall. Lannes resumed his walk. He turned right at the first corner and waited. In a minute the boy joined him.

  ‘All right?’ Lannes said.

  The boy smiled.

  ‘Why not? I’ve been on this game before, you know. Customers are often shy.’

  For a moment Lannes felt resentment – the boy had regained his self-possession and now seemed more assured than he was himself. It was as if this was indeed a pick-up and Karim in control, while Lannes was like the respectabl
e middle-aged man embarking with mingled eagerness and shame on what he had long desired but feared to do. Which was ridiculous. He was on edge. There was no reason to think he was being shadowed, but he couldn’t shake off the suspicion that Kordlinger didn’t trust him. He told himself it was only because he was taking a first step into the unknown, the first small step that was transforming him from a policeman performing, however reluctantly, what he was required to perform, into a man leading a double life, collaborating as he was ordered to collaborate, and at the same time engaging in subversion and resistance. He had made his choice and he couldn’t deny that it frightened him. What would become of Marguerite and Clothilde if . . . He led the boy into a little bar.

  The proprietor came forward and shook his hand.

  ‘Superintendent, a pleasure . . . ’ ‘And for me, Gustave. How’s the family? All well?’

  ‘As can be. Even Paul. You taught him a lesson.’

  Lannes had arrested Gustave’s son a couple of years before the war for a botched burglary, given him a good talking-to, and dismissed him without a charge.

  ‘Mind you,’ Gustave said, ‘he couldn’t be climbing over any roofs now, even if he hadn’t learned his lesson. He got a bullet in his knee in the first week of the war and will be lame, they say, for the rest of his days.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. Maybe it would have been better if I had sent him where he deserved to go.’

  ‘No, you showed him the road he was on. What can I get you?’

  ‘An Armagnac, if you please, and for you?’

  He turned to Karim who asked for a lemonade.

  ‘Can I use your back room? There are things I have to put this young fellow straight on.’

  ‘As you did Paul? Certainly.’

  Karim leaned back in his chair. He ran his fingers up and down the glass in front of him.