Citadel (19 page)
He looked across the Place des Armes towards the cathédrale Saint-Michel, golden in the light of the setting sun. Official tape had been stretched across the entrance to the Garden of Remembrance and two armed officers were keeping guard.
Authié turned right, following the road along the back of the Caserne Laperrine, mulling everything over in his mind. Pelletier and the girl and Déjean. What was the link between them? Was there any link at all?
‘
C
ome on,’ whispered Sandrine.
Raoul’s edginess was contagious. Every sound, however innocent, was laden with threat, with danger. The empty streets she knew so well no longer felt safe.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘Rue du Palais, it’s not far.’
Raoul stopped. ‘Not this way.’
‘But it’s quickest.’
‘We can’t go past the Palais de Justice,’ he said. ‘And that building opposite’ – he pointed to an elegant white building past which Sandrine had walked a thousand times – ‘that’s the local headquarters of the Deuxième Bureau and where the Kundt Commission sets up shop when they’re in Carcassonne.’
‘What’s the Kundt Commission?’
‘Gestapo,’ he said.
She hesitated, then nodded. ‘We’ll go via the rue de Lorraine then. Avoid the area altogether.’
Sandrine led him through the narrowest alleyways and short cuts, Raoul half carrying, half wheeling the damaged bike. They emerged opposite Square Gambetta. Between the fountains and lakes and stone balustrades and trees, the white marble statue of a warrior angel shone gauzy in the haze of the setting sun.
‘After my father died, I got into the habit of sitting here and looking at her,’ she said quietly. ‘She’s called
Y Penser Toujours
– Never Forget.’
‘I didn’t know she had a name,’ he said.
They continued in silence through the square and into the rue de Lorraine. Raoul suddenly stopped, rummaged in the front pocket of his rucksack and produced a rather twisted and bent home-made cigarette with tobacco spilling out of both ends.
‘I forgot I had it,’ he said, striking a match.
Sandrine watched as he pulled hard once or twice, until the paper sparked and started to burn. He exhaled a long white cloud of smoke, then offered the cigarette to her. She hesitated, then accepted.
She put it between her lips, aware of the taste of him on the paper, and took a puff. Heat hit the back of her throat as she inhaled, then immediately doubled over. Choking, as the smoke went down the wrong way. He thumped her on the back, until she stopped coughing. When she looked up at him, through streaming eyes, she saw he was trying not to laugh.
‘First time?’
Sandrine nodded, unable to speak. She handed the cigarette back.
‘Filthy habit anyway,’ he said, though he was smiling. Then his expression grew thoughtful again. ‘Before, you asked me why I didn’t stay yesterday.’
‘It’s all right, you don’t owe me an explanation.’
She wanted to ask him if he’d taken the chain, but she didn’t know how to bring it up in case the man she’d tried to save was his friend.
‘The thing is . . .’ she began, but Raoul carried on.
‘No, I want to explain.’ He paused. ‘You must have thought badly of me.’
Sandrine tilted her head to one side. ‘And that bothered you?’
‘I suppose it did.’ He shrugged. ‘I kept wondering if you were all right. You were on my mind – my conscience – all day.’
Sandrine glanced at him, then away again.
‘You kissed me,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, then added: ‘Did you mind?’
‘No,’ she said quietly.
She heard him sigh. ‘Well . . . good.’
They walked a little further, until they came to the corner of the rue Mazagran, where he stopped. Sandrine stopped too. Feeling as if she was watching the scene from the outside, she felt his hand on the back of her neck. Then he was drawing her gently towards him. She was aware of the steady pace of her breathing, in and out, in and out. The texture of his skin against hers, then the imprint of his lips on her forehead. Sandalwood, the memory of heat on his skin, tobacco.
‘Since you didn’t mind,’ he said, when he released her.
They kissed again, then stood still for a while longer, bound together by stillness, by the calm of the moment. Raoul traced the line of her neck, over her shoulder, running his fingers down the length of her bare arm, over her elbow and wrist and hand, to empty air.
‘We should keep going,’ he said.
Time accelerated, catching up, returning Sandrine to the Bastide. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
They walked on through the square until they reached the crossroads.
‘We can go in through the back,’ she said, pointing at the side gate.
Her voice sounded thin, high, even to her own ears, but Raoul didn’t seem to notice. He followed her into the garden, then propped the bike against the wall. For a moment, she couldn’t see him.
‘Raoul?’ she whispered, terrified suddenly that he’d changed his mind.
He was standing beside the fig tree, half silhouetted in the fading light.
‘I’m here,’ he said.
R
aoul followed Sandrine into the house. Through a mesh screen door, the hiss of steam and pans clattering, a wooden spoon being banged against the side of a mixing bowl.
As they walked in, a medley of smells hit his senses – wild thyme and tarragon, sweet mashed turnip, even sausages. His heart tightened a notch. It reminded him of his mother’s kitchen in the old days. An elderly woman, dressed in old-fashioned sabots and a long black dress beneath a patterned housecoat, looked up.
‘Marieta, this is Raoul,’ Sandrine said, her voice falsely bright. ‘He’s the one who helped after my . . . accident at the river.’
The housekeeper’s expression didn’t change. ‘How does he come to be here now?’
Raoul was not surprised by the old woman’s hostility, but he could see Sandrine was taken aback at her abrupt tone.
‘We ran into each other in town, outside the post office,’ Sandrine replied defensively. ‘Can supper stretch to one more?’
‘Madomaisèla Suzanne is still here. Madomaisèla Lucie too.’
‘I’d like him to stay,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to put anybody out . . .’ he began.
‘I invited you,’ Sandrine said quickly, now evidently embarrassed.
Marieta continued to stare, but then turned and walked towards the table.
‘In which case, I will lay an extra place.’
‘I don’t think she likes me,’ Raoul said under his breath.
‘Marieta’s like that with everybody at first,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t take it to heart. She’s a lamb really.’
‘She’s looking out for you,’ he said, touched Sandrine was trying to make him feel better. ‘I don’t blame her for that.’
They were standing close together now, close enough for him to smell the scent of her skin. His heart tightened another degree. There was a clatter of plates, then Marieta emerged from the larder carrying a wooden board with a large cut of ham in one hand, and the remains of a white loaf in the other.
Raoul stepped forward. ‘Can I give you a hand?’ he asked.
‘I can manage.’
He swung the rucksack off his shoulder. ‘I have some wine. It’s not much, but I’d like you to have it.’
He took out the bottle and put it on the table. For the first time, Marieta looked directly at him. Then, finally, she nodded. Sandrine smiled with relief and Raoul stopped caring about anything else.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll introduce you to everyone.’
‘Is there anywhere I could clean up?’ he said.
Marieta stood back from the sink. Raoul quickly put his hands under the tap and splashed water on his face, the worst of the grass stains and dust of the day. When he was ready, he followed Sandrine down a long dark corridor towards the front of the house.
The last of the day’s light filtered through a large patterned glass window on the half-landing, illuminating three small black and white framed photographs. Raoul stopped and looked up. All were views of the countryside: the first, a village set high on a hill; the second, two or three odd flint huts, like tiny stone igloos. The third was a shot of a ruined castle.
‘Where were they taken?’
Sandrine smiled. ‘Coustaussa. We have a summer house there.’
‘What are those strange buildings?’
‘Our
capitelles – castillous
, the locals call them. They’re actually quite famous. Visitors come from all over the place to photograph them.’ She paused. ‘Well, they did before the war.’
‘What are they used for?’
‘My father said they were a form of very old shepherds’ shelter, for those taking their flocks south over the mountains in autumn and back again in the spring after the snows had melted. Truthfully, nobody even knows how old they are. When my sister and I were little, we used to play hide and seek in them, though we weren’t allowed.’
In the darkness of the corridor, their fingers found one another. Just for a moment. Sandrine squeezed tight, then let go of his hand. Briefly, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. His face was gaunt, but for the first time in a very long time, he looked happy. Then he remembered the events of the day, remembered César and Antoine, and his eyes clouded over once more.
Behind a closed door to the left, he heard women’s voices and the sound of a wireless in the background.
‘Come on,’ Sandrine said. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
‘
A
rrêtez!
’ Laval shouted. A single bulb illuminated the long, dark corridor that led to the holding cells in the gaol in Carcassonne. ‘You, stop.’
This time, the guard turned round. Sylvère saw him take in his uniform, his rank. Confusion, then belligerence clouded his obdurate features.
‘Are you talking to me?’
Laval’s eyes slipped to the prisoner. The man’s hands were cuffed behind his back, his knuckles were purple, swollen, and the thumb of his right hand was bleeding.
‘Is this Max Blum?’
The prisoner raised his head and stared at Laval.
‘What if it is?’ demanded the guard.
‘I need to question him.’
‘You have no jurisdiction here.’
Laval strode along the corridor. The guard’s hand slipped to his revolver, a spurt of defiance on his bovine face.
‘I’ve no orders to release him into your custody.’
Laval stared at him. ‘And somewhere private to have our conversation.’
‘Unless you have written orders,’ the guard spat the words out, ‘I’m taking the prisoner to the cells, with all the others.’
Laval held his gaze for a moment longer, then, without warning, drove his fist into the guard’s soft stomach. The man grunted and doubled over, but went for his gun. Sylvère grabbed his wrist and slammed it against the wall, once then again. He yelled and dropped his pistol, which skidded along the concrete floor. Before he had time to recover, Laval circled his arm around the man’s fleshy neck and jerked his head back, then again. His cap fell to the ground. The guard’s eyes bulged and the gasping sound grew fainter.
‘Will this do in lieu of written orders?’ said Laval, jerking his victim’s neck back again. ‘Yes?’
‘Yes,’ he choked.
Laval pushed the guard away from him, then crossed the corridor, picked up the weapon. He cocked it open, removed the bullets from the drum, clicked it shut again and threw it at the guard’s feet.
‘And somewhere to have the conversation,’ he repeated.
Rubbing his throat, the guard put his cap back on his head. Without meeting Laval’s eye, he walked a couple of steps back down the corridor, took a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened a door. Laval grabbed Blum by the arm and pushed him into the room.
‘Wait outside,’ he ordered the guard, taking the keys from the man’s hands and shutting the door.
‘Sit.’
Blum didn’t move. ‘Who are you?’
It was the first time he’d spoken. He was tall, but slight, so Laval was surprised at how deep his voice was.
‘Sit down,’ he said again, forcing the prisoner down into one of the chairs set either side of a plain wooden desk.
Laval sat on the corner, then leant forward and removed the glasses from Blum’s face. This time, he saw clear protest in the prisoner’s eyes, though still he didn’t complain.
‘Why have I been arrested? My papers are in order.’
‘Are you long-sighted or short-sighted?’
‘What?’
‘Answer the question, Blum.’
‘Short.’
‘Your sister, Liesl, where’s she tonight?’
Laval saw a flicker of alarm in Blum’s eyes, though he hid it well. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, now I know you’re lying, Blum. Because it says here . . .’ he made a show of pulling some papers from his pocket and looking at them, ‘that you keep a close eye on her. So, I have to ask, why you were out? Leaving her on her own.’
‘There’s no curfew,’ he said shortly.
‘Not for us, Blum, but for you?’
He saw the man struggle not to react to the provocation. He dropped his eyes to the papers again.
‘We’ve had five or six complaints from your address. Even so, you left your sister alone?’
‘The last time,’ Blum said, ‘those thugs were outside for three hours. Throwing stones at the window, shouting abuse.’
‘High spirits.’
‘Criminals.’
‘The police aren’t there to protect your kind, Blum.’
‘French police are supposed to protect French citizens. All French citizens.’
Laval leant forward again. ‘Tell me about Raoul Pelletier.’
‘Who?’ Blum said immediately. He sounded genuinely surprised.
‘You heard me. Raoul Pelletier.’
‘I don’t know anybody of that name.’
From the look on Blum’s face, Laval was certain he was telling the truth, but he needed to be sure. He drew back his arm and hit the other man on the side of his head with his open hand, taking him by surprise. Blum’s head snapped back and his legs shot out in an attempt to stop the chair from toppling over.
‘Raoul Pelletier,’ repeated Laval. ‘Who is he?’
‘I’ve never heard of him.’
