Stile Maus (9 page)

‘That’s better,’ he smiled
.   

‘What is it I can help you with, Lieutenant?’
Francis choked, desperately trying to settle the worry that had begun to muster within his stomach.  The Lieutenant was just about to announce the reason for his unscheduled visit when something caught his eye.  The words dissolved upon his tongue and he began to stride towards the corner of the barn.  Francis watched helplessly.  His heart raged so hard he was sure the investigating officer would hear it before long. 

‘What is this?’ said Lieutenant Jung, stopping at a jagged heap of cloth.  Words wrestled and fought at the heart of Francis’ stomach but none reached the dry tunnel that was his throat.  He was left speechless as the Lieutenant removed the glove from his left hand and stretched towards the dusty covers that had been spread over the contents below.  Francis glanced towards the cottage and then back into the dark corner of the barn.  His eyes shut.  He could feel the rolling beads of sweat trickle across his eyelids. 

‘Well, well Mr Dubois, I did not know you indulged in such matters?’  Francis braved the warm sting of sweat upon his pupils and opened his panic dazed eyes.  Through a blur of dread and perspiration he saw the young Lieutenant step aside revealing the shimmering handlebars of his motorcycle.  Relief healed his shaking body as though it were a proven antidote. 

‘Y-yes,’ he whispered heavily. 

‘Do you still ride?’

‘Not for a long time,’ Francis answered, still wary of how close the officer stood to the mound of formed material. 

‘May I?’ Lieutenant Jung asked, gesturing his gloved hand towards the sparkling showcase of black and silver bodywork. 

‘Be my guest,’ said Francis as he neared, his eyes fixed firmly on the Lieutenant.  The lantern stayed behind, sat upon the wooden workbench, its inclusion certain to cast a suspicious glare over the one thing Francis desperately needed to keep hidden from his curious visitor. 

‘Such a fine motorcycle,’ spoke the Lieutenant, running a glove kept finger over the spotless handlebars. 

Francis offered a polite grin. 

‘May I ask how you came across it?’

‘I used to race,’ replied Francis, ‘a long time ago, a life time even.’  He nodded towards the shrine of picture frames that lined the walls. 

‘Ah,’ Lieutenant Jung beamed as he approached the stem of rising photographs, ‘Quite the celebrity I see.’  Francis offered another grin however his smile appeared to be doused in the remorse of a newly discovered memory.

‘You must be a proud man.’

‘Like I said Lieutenant, it was a very long time ago.’  The two shadows bustled in silence for some few moments, as though each had entered a wonderful daydream. 

‘Apologies Mr Dubois it was not my intention to get distracted.’  Lieutenant Jung began striding back towards the rain swept entrance of the barn, his bare hand flexing into the soft confines of his leather glove.

‘That being so, I don’t suppose you would hear a price for that two-wheeled wolf?’

‘I- I…’ Francis stalled, unclear on how to answer the leering young man that stood before him. 

‘Don’t worry Mr Dubois you are inclined to say no, I won’t force you to part with it.’  Francis thanked him with a nod and a smile before murmuring,

‘Sorry Lieutenant but as you can imagine it has been a rather long day and I fear that my family will be waiting for me to begin supper.’

‘Completely understandable Mr Dubois, if you could just spare a further moment…’  Francis looked into the rafters of the second floor.  Sweat began to form between the hairs at the back of his neck. 

‘Of course,’ he spluttered. 

‘This morning one of my superiors informed me of a tragedy that he believes has taken place close to your home,’ Francis’ eyes widened, ‘the fall and crash of a plane to be precise.’  The panic that had riddled Francis with worry only moments ago returned, beating and pulling at his stomach, tugging and thumping at his heart. 

‘The plane was that of the German military, a
Messerschmitt ME 210 to be entirely exact.’ 

‘I see,’ Francis replied, concealing a great deal of worry and fret within his clenched fists which had fallen deep into his trouser pockets.

‘Judging by a distress call that was logged with the command centre sometime Tuesday evening it would appear the pilot’s lost control of the fighter a few meadows from here.’

‘
Pilots
?’ Francis retorted. 

‘Yes,’ said the Lieutenant, a caution had developed in his voice, ‘there were
two
pilots.’ 

‘So you say this happened during the evening?’ Francis enquired, quickly disguising his outburst of foolishness. 

‘Exactly,’ replied the Lieutenant.

‘I’m afraid my family and I sit down for supper at around six o’clock, Lieutenant, I doubt anyone would have seen anything.’

‘A plane plummeting through the quiet night sky is something you do not necessarily have to see,’ the Lieutenant implied. 

‘You obviously haven’t sat at a dinner table with a handful of children,’ Francis quickly replied with a slight chortle.  The two men laughed. 

‘I apologise once more for wasting your time Mr Dubois, it was a pleasure,’ Lieutenant Jung snatched his hat away from the door handle, ‘and should you change your mind about that beautiful motorcycle, make sure I’m your first call.’ 

‘You can count on it.’  Their palms met for a brief handshake and then parted, allowing the young Lieutenant to place his hat upon his slick gathering of golden hair and poke the nose of his umbrella out into the flickering downpour.  The umbrella twanged into a firm circular bend and was raised into the purple sky.  After straightening the bill of his hat Lieutenant Jung thanked Francis before stepping out into the tumbling showers and then disembarked upon the rain swept path until his cloaked figure vanished behind the yellow blast of the stalling headlamps.  Francis rubbed a sweat stained palm across the stubble that dashed across his chin.  His worry wouldn’t settle.  He looked towards the dark glow that settled upon the beams of the second floor.  His time had run out. 

Francis could not eat.  An unpleasant grumble stirred within his stomach.  The visitor, the boy with two faces, had unsettled him to an extent where food had no taste, no place in the jittery confines of his belly.  He wore Isabelle’s stare which was as cold as the supper that sat before him.  She knew something was wrong.  Francis looked around the table.  Every plate had been scraped clean, all but his. 

‘Come on children,’ mumbled Francis, ‘let your mother and I clean up, go to your rooms and play.’  One by one they shuffled away from their chairs and disappeared past the fire glazed living room, leaving behind a pile of sauce stained dishes and a heaped bundle of cutlery. 

‘What is it, Francis?’ Isabelle whispered, resting a hand upon her husband’s arm.             

‘The German’s,’ he sighed, ‘one of them came up to the barn.’  A bridge of tears formed in each of Isabelle’s eyes.

‘I told you, Francis, I told you this would happen,’ she pushed away from her chair, taking up her apron to dab at her sobbing face. 

‘It’s okay my darling,’ assured Francis, ‘he suspected nothing.’

‘Twice I find myself weeping into a basin full of dirty dishes, please Francis, do what is right.’

‘Isabelle, the current…’

‘I do not care,’ she said sternly, ‘all I ask is that you do what is right for your family.’  She threw the apron down upon the counter and stormed out from the room, leaving Francis holding her tears in his hands.  A sigh parted his lips. 

‘She’s right,’ spoke Pierre as he rubbed at his tired eyes, ‘we can’t wait for the current any longer.’

‘I know,’ Francis conceded
, his face fixed with thought.

‘What did they ask about,’ Pierre questioned, ‘the Germans, what was it they wanted?’ 

Francis let out a worried simper,

‘They were looking for a plane that had crashed not far from here,’ his words were blanketed in concern, ‘and the two pilots that were inside it.’  Pierre’s gawp raised slowly from the bottom of his wine glass to the wide eyed stare of his brother.

‘Two?’

Francis nodded, placing a hand over his furrowed brow.

‘What should we do?’ stressed Pierre.  Francis rested his head against the age bitten frame that surrounded the kitchen window and stared out into the on-going cascade of glittering rainfall. 

‘We stick to the original plan,’ Francis said, staring up towards the barn,

‘We send the German downstream, tonight.’ 

SUNSET OVER LE HAVRE

‘Again,’ he spat as another slither of warm scotch slid down his throat.  The bartender obliged, clinking the head of the bottle against the customer’s glass and smiling politely as more auburn liquor swirled out from within.  The drink had barely settled before an impatient hand snatched at the glass and gulped down the smouldering contents within.

‘That’s your fourth already, Sir.  Is everything alright?’ 

‘Everything’s fine my good man, couldn’t be better.  Would you mind?’  A finger tapped against the hollow glass.  The tender poured another shallow swill of scotch but not before looking over his customer with grand curiosity.  He appeared young, though his face wore the pale mask of fatigue.  His hunched shoulders sat beneath a medal glazed uniform, a mass of fabric that had endured many splashes of stray drink already this evening.  The glass hit the bar again, bubbling with emptiness.  The tender unfastened the scotch once more and set it against the brink.

‘You may as well leave that here,’ rambled the officer.  Nodding graciously the bartender parted with the bottle, offering its thin content to his sneering customer.  The bottle hit his lips.

‘What’s your name, my good man?’ said the officer, wiping a gathering of spittle away from the corner of his mouth.   

‘It is
Gustave, Sir.’ 

‘L-let me ask you something,
Gustave
,’ slurred the officer, ‘Do you know
my
name?’  The bartender shook his head, letting a nervous smile fall across his confused face,

‘I don’t believe
we…’

‘No one does!’ cried the drunken officer, swinging the warm spirit to his lips as he steadied his chortle,

‘That’s the joke! That is the joke...’  The officer ran a web of fingers through his dark hair and smiled, leaving the bartender standing amidst a cloud of utter confusion. 

‘Forgive me,’ the officer spat, ‘but what else is a captain to do other than enjoy the company of fine liquor while he is away from home?’  An empty bottle clunked down against the bar.

‘For your good service, Gustave,’ said the officer, fumbling a handful of coins out from his trouser pocket and chucking them carelessly onto the beer mat in front of him.

‘Good night, Sir,’
Gustave called out after him, smiling as he inspected the generous tip gathered within his palm.

His arrival came in a flash of dazzling blue.  A young valet was the first one to notice, breaking away from his chattering colleagues he skipped down the tumbling stairwell before standing to attention as the car came to a screeching halt beside his gloved hand.  His fingers met the silver bleached handle.

‘Good evening, Master Linder,’ the valet said, snatching the travelling bundle of keys that had been thrown his way.

‘Good evening, squire,’ the officer declared as he emerged from the sparkling cabin.  Their hands met, a tip exchanged.  The valet hopped quickly into the front seat, inspecting his beaming reflection within the finely polished mirrors before stepping on the gas and steering the Prussian blue wonder around the corner and out of sight. 

‘Captain Linder, I trust you had a pleasant evening, Sir?’ 

‘The best,’ the officer yelled, passing through the reception and into the pillar shadowed lobby.  His gleaming loafers clacked extravagantly across the finely polished floor as he proceeded towards the elevator shaft.

‘Your suite, Sir?’ enquired the operator.

‘I can’t imagine where else I would be going at this time,’ joked the officer, planting a folded note of appreciation into the ageing man’s top pocket.  Music filled the small golden box as they rose through the hotel’s hidden chambers, joyful melodies that promoted and encouraged merriness.  After a slight judder the elevator came to a halt, declared aptly by a loud ping. 

‘Good night Captain Linder,’ said the operator with a rather large smile.

‘And to you my good man,’ the officer replied, disappearing behind the closing doors.  The hallway was scarcely lit, appropriate for those sleeping inside their rooms, not so appropriate for a drunken officer searching for his highly luxurious top floor chamber.