The Cyclist (22 page)

Brunner slapped him on the back. The man was a beast.

‘So. All is well then. Linz is avenged, the Maquis are discouraged and the townspeople will learn to hate them. A good day’s work. Come, let us open a bottle of wine and celebrate.’

Auguste went inside with him. He climbed the steps with a mechanical tread. Following Brunner to his office he stood, numbed by what they had forced him to witness. All his wishes to leave, to run and to escape, hung by a thread, and the name of that thread was Bernadette.

2

There was a chill in Bruner’s office. It was as if the warmth of humanity had escaped through the door when they entered. Auguste shivered. It was involuntary but he understood what he felt and equated it with the presence of the Devil himself. He wondered if he had come into a nightmare world, presided over by Satan, and Brunner was the embodiment of that very evil.

Brunner said, ‘Come, sit my friend. We must have wine. Beautiful French wine. It is the one thing you French do well, compared to us. Of course, it is the climate; what do you call it? Terroir; isn’t it so? If Germans lived here of course the quality would no doubt be even better, but your wines are of course, entirely acceptable.’

Brunner buzzed through to the outer office. It was such a familiar sound, Auguste almost expected Édith to appear with a file. Instead, the tall fair-haired SS officer appeared.

‘Ah, Schultz, there you are. Go down to the basement and fetch a bottle of the ’23 Malartic Lagraviére, would you? And bring two glasses. My friend and I are celebrating the demise of the Maquis. Isn’t it so Auguste?’

‘If you say so Helmut,’ Auguste said.

Animated, Brunner seemed to be even more disgusting than before. He was cheerful and almost expansive. Auguste still had homicidal thoughts but the impossibility of those thoughts brought a kind of apathy and hopelessness. How could he ever engineer a situation where he could trap this evil man?

And then it came to him. Wine. It loosened tongues; in vino veritas; it made men tell the truth. Yes, it could perhaps be a godsend if they drank enough.

He said, ‘Helmut, only one bottle? Are you becoming selfish? I never normally get such wine. We are celebrating.’

‘Of course, there is nothing else on the agenda today. Schultz. Oi. Schultz.’

Schultz returned and Brunner asked for two bottles.

 Auguste said, ‘Oh by the way. The night Linz was so cruelly murdered; I think we got off on the wrong foot entirely. I hope you didn’t think I have a problem with anything you do. I am, as you pointed out, at your disposal Helmut. We work well together.’

Brunner looked at Auguste. A flicker of doubt appeared in his eyes. In moments however, as far as Auguste could tell—and he was sharp, the look faded and Brunner smiled.

‘Of course not, my dear friend. We do work well together. I must admit though, I had doubted whether you had the Arian strength of will. I wondered if you would disobey me over the reprisals. You have proven yourself to me this afternoon.’

‘It should not have been necessary. You know I am a loyal servant of the Government. There is no other role for the Vichy Police but to facilitate the smooth running of the country.’

‘Of course. I just had the impression you disapproved, if you take my meaning.’

‘No. Disapproved of what?’

‘Well, the difficulties we have in gaining information from your stubborn countrymen. They don’t like to part with their secrets, do they?’

‘No I suppose not. Whatever is needed for the state security, as you say, must be the most important factor to us all.’

‘You are a Catholic aren’t you?’

‘What?’

‘A Catholic.’

‘Yes. I was brought up as one, but I hardly practise any religion now. I have lost my faith long ago. I only go to church because it is expected.’

As he spoke, he could almost hear the words, ‘you will deny me three times before the cock crows.’

‘Well, sometimes a little religion does no harm. Ah here you are, Schultz.’

The arrival of the wine interrupted them. Auguste noticed Schultz had only opened one of them to breathe.

‘Perhaps open both. It will be interesting to see if the difference in timing will affect them in different ways.’

‘You think half an hour would make a difference?’

‘Naturally. The wine is a living thing. It needs to breathe whether the drinkers are thirsty or not.’

‘Schultz, open the other bottle.’

Brunner poured some and they drank. Presently, Auguste sniffed his glass, he set it down on the desk and swirled it around, then again savoured the aroma.

He said, ‘This is beautiful and subtle. There is a little cedar and tobacco box on the nose.’

Brunner sniffed his wine with an air of desperation, ‘Really?’ he said.

‘Yes, peppery in the mouth and a clean fruity finish. You have wonderful taste.’

‘Er... thank you. I know what I like, though I don’t bother with the snobbery of terms.’

‘No, of course not,’ Auguste said and he poured them both more wine.

‘My mother likes wine.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes Mutti consumes great quantities of German wine. She prefers the Auslese, they are sweeter because the grapes are picked late.’

Brunner smiled as he spoke. Auguste wondered whether he had been wrong about him and the man had a heart after all.

‘Really?’ he said.

‘Yes, she is a wonderful woman. When my father died, she was strong too. I miss her.’

‘My mother died...’

‘She always wanted me to be a train driver. I was out of work a long time in the early thirties. Happily I have found my calling.’

‘It is nice to see a man who enjoys his work. It is rare these days.’

‘Rare? You must enjoy your work too, do you not?’

‘Of course. What can be better than serving one’s country?’

‘Yes, you are right. Here’s to serving one’s country,’ Brunner said, raising his glass. Auguste clinked his glass against Brunner’s and he realised an outsider would have thought they were friends. It filled him with revulsion after the scene he witnessed outside half-an-hour before.

Auguste made small-talk for the next hour. They discussed the forthcoming internments and the logistics of transport and personnel. Brunner poured the last of the second bottle. His hand was a little unsteady, Auguste noted.

‘Such a shame to finish now, so early,’ Auguste said.

He raised his eyebrows at Brunner across his almost empty glass and the implication was obvious even to an inebriate. Brunner banged on the desk and shouted for the long-suffering Schultz, who came with no apparent reluctance or irritation.

‘More wine waiter,’ Brunner said and he laughed.

Schultz said, ‘Yes sir.’

Auguste looked at Schultz. A trace of intolerance crept into the eyes this time and he wondered if it was something to work on. The thought of having the power to cause dissent among the Germans seemed attractive.

Brunner seemed drunk. His head wagged from side to side when he spoke and a trace of spittle appeared in the corner of his mouth from time to time.

‘Your mother, Auguste, what was she like?’

‘My mother? She was plump, feminine and she loved me. Like my father, she struggled in their early life bringing up two children on a farmer’s income, but I have no doubt she loved us, me and my sister.’

‘I did not have that kind of life as a child. My parents struggled too in the years after the last war. My father had no job and he was always away seeking work. I think it killed him in the end.’

‘That is very sad, Helmut. But your mother was there for you?’

‘Well yes. She is not a—how do you say it—a demonstrative woman. No hugs, no kisses but times were hard for her in those days.’

‘Of course they were,’ Auguste said. His responses became mechanical. He felt only anger.

‘Do you think a man’s parents shape his adult life?’

‘I suppose it is so in many ways. Why?’

‘I often thought as I grew up how I wanted the normal expressions of affection from my mother. Longed for it in fact. She was not emotional, more formal than most I suppose. It caused a kind of pain at first you know? No, maybe you don’t. You had a very different life, after all.’

‘Yes. My parents were always there for me. Never a raised hand, seldom any beatings like my friends at school.’

‘Ha! German discipline. It is why I am so different to you. Had it not been for my father’s discipline at home I would never have appreciated the things I do now in life.’

‘Discipline?’

‘Yes. When a child misbehaves, he needs beating. My father was very good at that, I can assure you. It made me the man I am now, rigorous, disciplined and loyal to the Fatherland and the Party. He was a noble sort.’

‘I don’t beat my daughter and never have. I think children respond better to being shown the way, rather than punished for transgressions.’

‘No. The German way is the right one. It enforces the laws of society and makes a child understand how to conform to its rules.’

Sick of the German’s soliloquising, Auguste said, ‘So Helmut, tell me the truth.’

‘Truth?

‘Yes, can pleasure be gained from another’s pain and suffering? You strike me as a man who enjoys his work’

‘Yes, but I do it because it is my duty. For the Party and my Fürer. I feel I stand guard against the ungodly forces of racial mixing, protecting the purity of the Aryan race.’

‘You really enjoy it though?’

‘You really want to know?’

‘Yes, it is beginning to interest me. I puzzle over it sometimes and I must confess to being curious.’

‘Well. Where should I start? There are two types of inflicted pain. One is to gain information; it is what my men do downstairs. Linz was good at that though unlike him, it gives me no pleasure at all. The other, I hesitate to admit, comes from the admixture of pleasure and pain.’

‘Pleasure?’

‘Yes, it can be sexually arousing. Do you never slap your wife’s rump when you make love?’

‘Of course I do,’ Auguste lied, ‘the harder the better.’

He tried to offer a nonchalant laugh but all he could conjure up was a choked giggle. Auguste realised Brunner had to drink most of the next bottle and knew he had to slow down his own consumption. He would make it happen.

‘It is something special to hear a whimper from a young woman as you give pleasure and mix it with pain, is it not?’

‘Yes, but I am a married man and there is so little time for lovemaking when you have young children in the house.’

‘It is not a problem I am burdened with now I am in France. Here I feel I can indulge myself a little.’

‘Fascinating.’

‘That is not all; the power of life and death is equally fascinating. Linz understood. He was a man who showed keenness and understanding.’

‘Yes poor Linz. They did terrible things to him.’

‘I thought you were unconscious?’

‘I saw the body as they lifted me out of that terrible place,’ Auguste said with haste.

Brunner’s eyes lit up. He became animated again. The subject now stimulated him and Auguste for his part, felt only deeper revulsion if such were possible. It was like poking a snake. One moment you experiment to see what it will do, the next, you jump away in case it bites.

Halfway into the third bottle, Auguste enjoyed the sensation of being over-refreshed but he had all his faculties, if not his reflexes.

‘I often wondered what it would have been like to make love to that girl Bernadette. You know, the singer in the restaurant, the one who died.’

‘Her? Why do you bring her up?’

Brunner’s eyes narrowed.

‘Well, she was beautiful. I bet she wouldn’t have minded a bit of pain.’

‘Her? No. Too young. Stupid girl, no sense of fun. She made me angry. I don’t tolerate rejection by girls like that who have no morals. The way she moved when she sang, even when she walked was provocative.’

‘All the same, a beautiful body.’

Auguste’s mind wandered back to the mortuary and the last glimpse he had of Bernadette’s body. It had been a mortal shell, emptied of love. Emptied of life as well as the organs making life. Despite his revulsion, he continued.

‘Whoever killed her must have enjoyed her. I wish it had been me.’

‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew the truth.’

‘But it could only have been a sweet fuck.’

‘She fought. She cried and there was no pleasure at first.’

‘You know?’

‘What?’

‘You know how it was?’

‘No, no. I am only using my imagination.’

‘Of course. All the same, my imagination tells me it must have been an exquisite pleasure with a young beautiful body like hers.’

Brunner was silent. He stared into the distance for a few moments then seemed calm and cold.

‘I tell you it was no pleasure. The girl fought tooth and nail all the time. As soon as I released her wrists to tie them above her head, she bit me. You saw how she scratched me. She had no capacity for pleasure yet she taunted men with her body. I would have let her live had she just once expressed interest in me. Her death was the only way I could obtain anything other than screams and crying. To be honest, I didn’t mean to kill her. I just wanted her to stop screaming.’

‘But Helmut, why did you not confide in me before? What did you think I would say?’

‘You seemed so keen to arrest the killer. It hardly seemed a sensible move to explain then.’

Brunner stood up. His chair toppled over with a dull thud; he waved his arms.

‘If that is all France can offer in the way of women, then you,’ he leaned across the desk, scowling to Auguste, ‘can keep your French whores.’

Auguste said nothing. The wine dulled him enough for him to react with a slow, careful line of thought. He finished his glass.

‘Helmut, it’s been a really pleasant afternoon but I simply must be going back to the Prefecture. We must have this discussion another time over some more of your excellent wine.’

‘What?’

Brunner swayed back and forth. A greenish colour began to evolve on his face and it gave Auguste a deep satisfaction and pleasure to imagine the wine jettisoning from the German’s gullet. It was as if such a beautiful, living thing might have the power to reject Brunner and not the converse. It would be symbolic; the wonderful wine of France rejecting the German.