Dark Summer in Bordeaux (26 page)

‘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 respectable 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.

‘I still don’t get it,’ he said. ‘When you looked at me as you came out of the station, I thought, maybe he really does want to have me and just has a taste for elaborate games,’

‘Don’t be impertinent,’ Lannes said.

Moncerre would have given him a blow on the chops and knocked him off his chair. He would say, ‘It’s the only language types like that understand.’

Lannes said, ‘You’ve got your nerve back, haven’t you? Which isn’t very bright. Or is it all an act? At least you kept our appointment.’

‘Didn’t have much choice, did I?’ The tone was sullen now. ‘I’ve heard what the cops do to boys like me.’

‘Some cops,’ Lannes said. ‘Let me spell it out. Again. If I don’t satisfy the Boche, Jules’ bar and the two or three others like it in Bordeaux are going to be flooded with the Gestapo. Jules and the boys and any customers will be taken in for questioning. Questioning’s a polite way of putting it. How long do you think you would last in the Gestapo’s hands? An hour? More like five minutes, I would say, and you’d be squealing like a pig having its throat cut. Only you wouldn’t enjoy the luxury of a quick death like the pig.’

All at once Karim looked the way he had when Jules ushered him into his back room, perplexed and frightened.

‘I’m spelling it out, Karim,’ Lannes said. ‘So you understand your position, understand it fully. You took Schussmann home with you, let him do whatever the poor sod wanted, and took his money. I don’t care what he paid or whether it was in francs or Reichs-marks.’ ‘Francs,’ Karim said in a voice that was now scarcely more than a whisper.

‘You’ve got yourself in trouble, deep trouble. Nobody else is responsible, but I’ve made arrangements to get you out of it. With luck, that is. This is what you do.’

He gave him directions to Fernand’s brasserie.