Malevil, Page 53

  “Yes. They’re still afraid of Vilmain.”

  “Why ‘still’?”

  “Well, let’s say they’re less afraid of him since last night.”

  “Since Bébelle was killed?”

  “Bébelle and Daniel Feyrac as well. That’s quite a slice of the hard core gone. At least that’s how I see things.”

  And he saw them clearly, I suspected. I went on: “If Vilmain were killed, would there be anyone to replace him?”

  “Jean Feyrac.”

  “And if Feyrac were killed?”

  “No one.”

  “It would all fall apart?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Breakfast was ready. The bowls steamed on the polished walnut. What a peaceful domestic picture, and only a few miles away, lying in a farmyard, those six corpses, one of them very tiny. We were chilled and stupefied by our horror. What a terrible prestige cruelty must have in men’s eyes for them to pay it the tribute of such sentiments! Contempt would suffice. And what struck me even more than the sadism of their massacre was its stupidity. Men savagely intent on the annihilation of human life, destroying themselves in destroying their own species.

  I drew my bowl toward me. I didn’t want to think about Courcejac any more. I needed to concentrate my thoughts on the battle ahead. We ate in silence, a silence disturbed only by the irrepressible chattering of La Falvine, back from her milking. It’s true she hadn’t heard the story of the butchery at Courcejac, so she could not know what was going on in all our minds. But that morning, in any case, it was worse than ever before. On her good days La Menou compared this Falvinian chatter to a mill, to a waterfall, to a power saw; and on her bad days to diarrhea. After what we had heard, minds full of that little farm we most of us knew well, we ate on in silence. And La Falvine’s infinite gush of verbiage, addressed to no one in particular, was multiplied by the silence and doubly unstoppable because no one could or would answer her. It was a noise entirely external to the community, like a trickle of water falling from a roof onto cobbles, or the builder’s concrete mixer in Malejac, in the days before, or the ribbon saw of a sawmill. Although this verbal flux was composed of words, some French, some patois, there was ultimately no human content in it. It was the opposite of communication, because it wasn’t flowing in answer to some expectation, because all our ears rejected it, and because it kept streaming out for no reason, for nothing, unwanted by any of those present.

  In the end, perhaps tired by the night just past, and already tensing at the thought of the one to come, I said, at the risk of putting fresh weapons into La Menou’s hands, “For goodness’ sake, Falvine, keep quiet! You’re stopping me thinking!”

  That was all it needed! The tears now! One way or another something had to flow! And if only the tears had flowed in silence. But no! Now all we could hear were sobs, sighs, sniffs, nose blowings! I couldn’t see her because I had my back to her. But I could certainly hear her. And the whining and whuffling going on now was even more intolerable than her interminable chatter. On top of which, I was now being treated to a constant muttering from La Menou, and although I couldn’t make out the actual words, no doubt La Falvine could, and they were undoubtedly acid in her wound, if I knew La Menou.

  If this went on, Catie would intervene. Not that she exactly adored her grandmother. She too pecked at her on occasion. But after all, she was her grandmother. Blood ties had to be respected, she couldn’t let her be plucked before her eyes without a few retaliatory blows of claw and beak to rescue her. And she enjoyed it anyway. She was quick and vicious. And she knew where to aim. I must have been mad, throwing my pebble in the hen run like that! The cackling, the flying feathers, the battering wings, the blood spurting! And to think all I wanted was just a little silence! Thank you, Miette, for being dumb. And thank you, too, little Evelyne, for still being enough afraid of me (it won’t last long) to hold your tongue when I hurl my thunderbolts.

  First things first. I nipped Catie’s imminent counterattack in the bud. “Catie, have you finished your breakfast?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you, Falvine?”

  “Well, yes, as you see, Emmanuel, I’ve finished.” One word wasn’t enough for her, unlike Catie. She had to use eight.

  “All right then. You’d both of you better go and clean out the stables. Jacquet won’t be able to do it this morning.”

  Catie obeyed immediately. She was on her feet in a flash. She was keeping her promise: a real little soldier.

  “And the dishes?” La Falvine said, very conscientious and determined that all should know it.

  “La Menou can do them with Miette.”

  “And me,” Evelyne said.

  “It’s just that there are such a lot this morning,” La Falvine said, feigning hesitation.

  “Go, can’t you!” La Menou flared. “I can certainly manage to do a few dishes without you!”

  “Are you coming, Grandma?” Catie said, equally irritated.

  And Catie was out of the door, slim and swift as an arrow, dragging behind her that vast dumpling, rolling and yawing on its gigantic legs.

  So at the price of a stint over the sink, La Menou was left mistress of the field. But it was a price she was only too glad to pay. As she let it be known unequivocally in a last bout of furious muttering, gauged carefully both as to duration and volume so that it made her point without actually driving me to some retaliatory remark that would destroy her advantage. And at last, even that sank by degrees into inaudibility, then silence. I could think again.

  The battle was no longer so unequal. Vilmain had lost three veterans, and two of his recruits had defected. His seventeen men of two days ago were now reduced to twelve. And on my side, with Hervé and Maurice, I now had ten combatant personnel. Moreover my arsenal had been enriched by the addition of three .36 rifles.

  If I was to believe Hervé, Vilmain’s authority had been shaken. With the three recent casualties, the morale of his troops was low. It would sink even lower with the defection of Maurice and Hervé, who would also be assumed killed in action.

  So I had three problems confronting me:

  1. To fix upon a disposition of my forces that would enable me to exploit the advantages of the terrain to the full.

  2. To devise some stratagem to accelerate, if possible, the adversary’s process of demoralization.

  3. To ensure, if he withdrew from the battle, that whatever happened he was prevented from regaining the safety of La Roque and pursuing a guerrilla war against us.

  And of the three, it was the last that seemed to me of paramount importance.

  There had been a continual coming and going in the gate-tower kitchen since I had sent La Falvine and Catie off to the stables. Thomas had left to take up his post of yesterday, keeping watch on the La Roque road, and Jacquet had come in to eat. Meyssonnier had gone to check up on Peyssou and Colin, then he came back with them before setting out with Hervé to bury Bébelle.

  I was only waiting for Hervé’s departure to question Maurice. I wanted him out of the way because I needed to check that his friend’s story corroborated his own.

  Maurice was Eurasian. Although I would say he wasn’t more than an inch taller than Colin, he appeared much taller because he was so slim, with narrow hips and buttocks no bigger than two clenched fists. On the other hand, his shoulders were relatively wide (even though the bones were delicate), which gave him the elegant outline of an Egyptian bas-relief. His skin was amber. His hair deep black, falling in a stiff fringe all around his head in a Joan of Arc style and framing a delicate, serious face, animated every now and then by a smile of unshakable politeness. And polite he was, polite to the tips of his fingernails. You got the impression that even if he were to do his absolute damnedest, he could never succeed in being coarse or rude.

  He explained to me that he was the son of a Frenchman married to an Indochinese wife from Sainte-Livrade in the Lot-et-Garonne. His father ran a small business outside Fumel, and Hervé had
come to visit with them for a few days at Easter when the bomb exploded. Apart from that, his story corroborated Hervé’s on absolutely every point, despite all my efforts to catch him out. The only difference was that Maurice seemed to have a much more vivid memory of his friend René’s death and to harbor a more savage hatred of Vilmain. Not that he expressed that hatred in words. But when he described René’s murder, his jet-black pupils suddenly hardened, and the slanting eyes narrowed dangerously. Like Hervé he made a good impression on me. Better even. Hervé talked well and easily, he had the natural actor’s gifts and verve. Maurice, without being so impressive at first sight, was a man of finer mettle in the end.

  I turned to Peyssou. “Peyssou, when you’ve finished eating I have a job for you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “We have some iron rings in the store. I’d like you to cement them into the cellar wall with Maurice’s help. I want to tether the bull, the cows, and Bel Amour down there during the fight. I’d also like you to construct a temporary sty down there for Adelaide.”

  “Only Bel Amour?” Peyssou said. “What about the other nags?”

  “They can stay in the Maternity Ward, we may need them. When you’ve finished, tell me, and we’ll all help to carry a stock of hay from the Maternity Ward up to the cellar.”

  Nose stuck in his bowl, eyes only just visible above its brim, Peyssou gazed across at me with an anxious look. “You think we’re going to lose the outer enclosure?”

  “I don’t think anything of the kind. I am simply taking precautions.” I stood up. “Menou, can you leave your dishes a moment and come with me?”

  Pausing only to take the dish towel from Miette and wipe her sinewy little arms, she followed me immediately. I towed her along in my wake (with her taking two steps to every one of mine) as far as the inner wall, then I led the way up to the machinery room above the drawbridge.

  “Do you think, in case of emergency, you could manage this alone, Menou? Or would you prefer to have La Falvine help you?”

  “I don’t need that great tub of lard,” Menou said.

  I showed her what to do. And after two or three practice runs, arching her thin little body and gritting her teeth, she was able to maneuver the capstan arms perfectly. It was the first time I’d had the winch working since that day just before Easter when we had discussed the 1977 local elections with Monsieur Paulat. The muffled grating of the huge oiled chains took me back with extraordinary vividness to that time past. Forget it. No time for reminiscences and sad thoughts.

  I advised La Menou to hold the capstan arms back more when she lowered the drawbridge again. It must sink onto the the stone edging of the moat gently in order to avoid any damage. Through the little square window of the machinery room, I saw Peyssou and Colin appear at the gate-tower door and look up in our direction. The sound of the chains must have been reviving memories in their minds too.

  “This is your battle station, Menou. As soon as things begin to get hot, you come up here and you wait. If things go badly and we have to withdraw into the inner enclosure, you wind up the bridge. Do you want to try it once more? Will you remember?”

  “I’m not an idiot,” La Menou said. And suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

  I was shaken, because she didn’t cry easily. “Come on now, Menou.”

  “Leave me be,” she said through clenched teeth.

  She wasn’t looking at me, she was staring straight ahead of her, very upright, head held high, not moving. The tears ran down her tanned face (only her forehead was white, because in summer she protected her head with a big straw hat). With her two hands gripping the bars of the capstan, standing so tense, she looked as though she was steering a ship through a sudden squall. It was Momo who had worked the winch that day, the day of Paulat’s visit. He had been wild with excitement, dancing with joy. I could see him still, and she could see him too. She wept, jaw clenched, not loosening her grip on the bars. She didn’t give way to her grief. She wasn’t going to feel sorry for herself. It was just a bad moment, that was all. She would have steered her ship through in a second or two, the squall would be over. I turned away so as to save her embarrassment and looked out the window. But out of the corner of one eye I was still aware of that indomitable little figure, head high, weeping with wide open eyes in total silence. Then I caught sight of her reflection in the glass of the open window, and what drew my eyes above all were those tiny fists, clenched with such determination around the capstan arms, as though, little by little, she was reaffirming her grip on life.

  I left her there. It was what she wanted, I think. I strode quickly over to the keep and up to my room. I sat down at my desk, and there in the drawer, which I hadn’t really looked in much for a long while now, I found what I was looking for: two felt-tipped pens, one black and the other red. I also found something I wasn’t looking for: the big policeman’s whistle that I had given to Peyssou once, in a moment of insane generosity, one day when we had all laid into him to cure him of the idea that he ought to be our Club leader. Why did I still have it then? Because the next day, taking advantage of Peyssou’s good nature, I persuaded him to sell it back to me for a good price. Even now it was with pleasure that I sat turning it around in my fingers. It was still as magical as ever in my eyes. Its chrome had stood up to the years, and the piercing scream it emitted could be heard at a really amazing distance. I slipped it into the pocket of my shirt. Then sacrificing a quarter of a large sheet of drawing paper, I got down to work.

  I had been at it for barely five minutes when there was a knock at the door. It was Catie.

  “Sit down, Catie,” I said without raising my head.

  My table was set obliquely out from the wall facing the window, and Catie had to walk around it in order to sit opposite me, with her back to the light. As she passed, she let her left hand drag absent-mindedly across the back of my neck. At the same time she glanced down at what I was doing. I tried to conceal the effect her presence was having on me. But she wasn’t taken in. She sat down, slumped back in the chair, stomach stuck out, staring at me insistently through half-closed eyes, a half smile on her lips.

  “Are the stables finished then, Catie?”

  “Yes, and I’ve even had time for a shower.”

  Not an idle remark, I felt sure. But I kept my eyes lowered over my paper. The best listener isn’t always the most attentive. “Did you want to speak to me?” I asked after a moment.

  “Of course,” she said with a sigh.

  “What about?”

  “About Vilmain. I have an idea. You said if we have any ideas we’re to come and tell you.”

  “Quite right.”

  “Well then. I’ve had an idea,” she said modestly.

  “I’m listening,” I said, eyes still intent on my task.

  Silence.

  “I don’t want to disturb you,” she said. “Especially when you seem to be working so hard. And honestly! How nicely you write!” she said, screwing her head around, trying to read the big letters I was printing with my felt pen. “What are you doing, Emmanuel? Is it a poster?”

  “A proclamation for Vilmain and his band.”

  “And what does it say, your proclamation?”

  “Some very unpleasant things as far as Vilmain is concerned, and some much less unpleasant things for his men. If you like, I’m trying to exploit the band’s low morale and drive a wedge between them and their leader.”

  “And will it work, do you think?”

  “If things go badly for them, yes. Otherwise no. But in any case, it will only have cost me a sheet of paper.”

  There was a knock on the door behind me. I shouted, “Come in,” without turning around and carried on with my printing. I noticed that Catie had pulled her tummy in and was sitting up straight, and since the silence remained unbroken, I swiveled around to look and see who my visitor was. It was Evelyne.

  I frowned. “What are you doing up here?”

  “Meyssonnier has come back
from burying Bébelle, so I’ve come to tell you.”

  “Did Meyssonnier ask you to?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you volunteer to help with the dishes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are they finished?”

  “No.”

  “Then go back and help till they are. Once you’ve begun something you don’t just drop it to follow the first fancy that comes into your head.”

  “All right,” she said, not budging an inch, her great blue eyes fixed on mine.

  Ordinarily, this refusal to move would have earned her a sharp reprimand. But I wasn’t going to humiliate her in front of Catie.

  “Well?” I said, more with a smile than a frown.

  Her determination melted suddenly at that. “I’ll go back,” she said, on the verge of tears as she closed the door behind her.

  “Evelyne!”

  She reappeared.

  “Tell Meyssonnier I need him up here. Immediately.”

  She threw me a luminous smile and closed the door again. Three birds with that particular stone: I really needed to talk to Meyssonnier; I had reassured Evelyne; and it meant I could politely get rid of Catie—whose proximity was not without peril. It’s true that my dominant emotion, a very urgent one, was certainly not fear; but I needed to keep my head. Some things were still more urgent than others.

  Catie had returned to her provocatively slouching pose. Not that I raised my eyes to look at her, or at least not as far as her face. I had returned to my task. Luckily, all I needed to do now was copy my proclamation out, since I had already prepared a draft of the text on a piece of scrap paper. Catie let out a little chuckle.

  “You saw how quickly she got here! She’s crazy about you!”

  “It’s reciprocal,” I said curtly, glancing up at her.

  She gazed at me with an exasperating smile on her face. “In that case,” she said, “I don’t see what—”

  “In that case, why don’t you tell me your idea?”

  She sighed, she wriggled on her chair, she scratched her calf. In short, she was very disappointed at having to abandon the fascinating subject of my relations with Evelyne.