Dark Summer in Bordeaux (25 page)

The boy shifted from one foot to another. Lannes told him to sit down. He was a slim boy with olive skin, deep brown eyes, long lashes and black curls tight to his head. He wore a white singlet and black trousers wide at the ankles. His fingers were long and thin and when he sat down they flew to his mouth as if his lips might betray him. Different hair, Lannes thought, nevertheless he looked a little like Léon. His hands left off fluttering like a moth and he made as if to speak, then didn’t. Lannes pushed Schussmann’s photograph towards him.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Karim.’

‘Karim?’

‘My father’s an Arab but my mother’s French. I’m a French citizen. My papers are in order. Do you want to see them?’

Lannes picked up the photograph and turned it towards the boy.

Then he laid it on the table just in front of him.

‘Where did you take him?’

‘Who says I took him anywhere?’

‘Where did you take him?’

‘All right then. I took him home.’

‘Home? Your home?’

‘Yeah, where else?’

‘And your parents?’

‘Dad’s in prison. Mum, sure, she calls me names – dirty little boy, filthy Arab queer – but she takes the money I bring in. We’ve got to live, haven’t we? And I need money to spend on my girl. I’m out of a job, so there’s nothing left but renting. What’s all this about then? Jules says you’re not Vice.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Who?’

‘Schussmann.’

‘That his name? It’s nothing to do with me, honest.’

‘I know it’s not. He shot himself. Suicide.’

‘Stupid sod. What’d he do that for?’

‘It’s a complicated story.’

Lannes told it from the beginning, omitting only Léon’s name.

‘If it wasn’t me,’ he said, ‘it would be the Gestapo here.’

The boy’s upper lip quivered. His eyes filled with tears and he turned his head towards the door as if calculating the odds on making a run for it.

‘You going to hand me over to them? But I’d nothing to do with it.’

Lannes went through to the bar, asked for a glass, brought it back and poured Karim a drink from the bottle Jules had left on the table. He gave himself one too.

‘Drink this,’ he said, handing it to the boy. ‘You’re not listening. I said, “If it wasn’t me, it would be the Gestapo.” And if they start asking questions here . . . So you mustn’t be here. Understand?

You mustn’t be in Bordeaux. You don’t understand? I’ll spell it out. I’ve got to come up with a story to satisfy the Boches. They discovered Schussmann was a queer. That’s why he killed himself. They want the boys who corrupted the honour of the German army – that’s how they put it. So I’ve got to give them an answer, names and description. They won’t be satisfied otherwise. Meanwhile I’ll get you away. Understand now?’

‘What about the other boy, the one that was used to set him up?’

‘I’ll see to him too. Meanwhile go home. Don’t come back here. Meet me tomorrow afternoon, 4 o’clock. The Buffet in the Gare St-Jean. All right?’

‘Why are you doing this?’ Karim said. ‘Are you . . . ?’

‘No,’ Lannes said, ‘let’s just say, I don’t like the Gestapo. Or the Boches.’

On the way out, he gestured to Jules to follow him onto the street.

‘We’ve a couple of days before I have to come up with my story. The Boches will want to check up on it, I’m afraid. So you can expect a visit. Probably not the Gestapo, a mildly less noxious bunch. Tell them Schussmann came here more than once, sat in the corner drinking and eying up the boys. One evening he left with a boy. Not one you know, never been here before. Give them a description, a bit like Karim – in case someone else saw them – but not exact. Then tell them that one night, but you can’t remember precisely, there was another German officer in here. When Schussmann saw him he left in a hurry. Meanwhile I’ll have got Karim out of Bordeaux. And don’t say I’ve landed you in the shit. You were there already.’

As he left the bar he thought, it’s my first act of resistance. And then: Yvette and Karim, how many kids were there like that in Bordeaux?

XXXVII

Léon now spent little time in the bookshop. He hadn’t been able to think of it as a refuge since the evening Félix walked in, not that he had had the word ‘refuge’ in his mind before then. But that’s what it had been, and now it wasn’t. Henri didn’t mind if he closed the shop; he was vaguer than ever and even more often tipsy. Léon was sorry for him, grateful too of course, and felt that by his absences he was in a sense deserting him; it was another burden of guilt. Yet every time the door opened he felt a stab of fear. It was no better at home. Ever since that night he returned late from the Hotel Artemis, he was oppressed by his mother’s anxiety on his behalf. She knew there was something very wrong, and didn’t dare to ask what it was. So they existed in uneasy and nervous silence. Often it seemed she couldn’t bear to be in the same room as him, then, would find herself saying, ‘What’s going to become of you, Léon?’ There was no possible answer. It would be like that in Jewish homes all over Bordeaux, all over France. You could never wake happy in the morning. It was no better when he called on his Aunt Miriam. The way she looked at him was full of painful knowledge. Once, she said, ‘Alain’s father . . . ’ and then broke off. It was enough, it was more than enough. So he spent hours walking the streets, or he would go to the railway station and gaze longingly on departing trains. Only visiting the old Jew, his great-uncle Léopold, was of any comfort, precisely because he offered none. Léon responded to his bleak refusal of hope.

He hadn’t seen Alain for days, not since that last magical moment when, hand-in-hand with him and Jérôme, they had danced by the river. But yesterday there had been a note from Jérôme, pushed under the bookshop door, and so today he had put on the suit he used to wear in the bank.

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 except 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?’