Five Quarters of the Orange (23 page)

I
t was then that the letters began to arrive. Three of them, scribbled on thin blue-lined notepaper and pushed under the door. I found her in the act of picking one up, and she crammed it into the pocket of her apron, almost screaming at me to get into the kitchen, I wasn’t fit to be seen, get that soap and scrub, scrub. There was a shrill note in her voice that reminded me of the orange bag, and I made myself scarce, but I remembered the note and later, when I found it pasted into the album between a recipe for
boudin noir
and a magazine cutting on how to remove boot polish stains, I recognized it at once.

We now what you’ve bean doing
, it read in small, shaky letters.
Weve bean watchen you and we now wat to do with colaboraters
. Underneath she has written in bold red letters:
learn to spell, ha ha!
but her words look overlarge, over-red, as if she is trying too hard to appear unconcerned. Certainly she never spoke to us of the notes, though in retrospect I realize that her abrupt changes of mood might have been related to their secret arrival. Another suggests that the writer knew something about our meetings with Tomas.

Weve sene your kids with him so dont try to deny it. We now wat your game is. You think youre so good better than the rest of us well youre nothing but a
Boch
whoar and your kids are seling stuff to the germans. Wat do you think of that.

The writing might belong to anyone. Certainly the script is uneducated, the spelling atrocious, but it might have been written by anyone in the village. My mother began to behave even more erratically than usual, shutting herself in the farmhouse for most of the day and watching any passersby with a suspicion verging on paranoia.

The third letter is the worst. I suppose there were no more,
though she might simply have decided not to keep them, but I think this is the last.

You dont deserve to live
, it says.
Nazi whoar and your stuckup kids. Bet you didnt now theyre selling us to the germans. Ask them wear all the stuff coms from. They keep it in a place theyve got in the woods. They get it of a man calld Lybnits I think hes calld. You now him. And we now you.

One night someone painted a scarlet C on our front door, and
NAZI WHOAR
across the side of the chicken hut, though we painted over it before anyone could see what had been written. And October dragged on.

P
aul and I came back from La Mauvaise Réputation late that night. The rain had stopped, but it was still cold—either nights have got colder or I’ve begun to feel it more than I ever did in the old days—and I was impatient and bad-tempered. But the more impatient I got, the quieter Paul seemed to be, until we were each glowering at the other in silence, our breath puffing out in great billows of steam as we walked.

“That girl,” said Paul at last. His voice was quiet and reflective, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “She looked very young, didn’t she?”

I was annoyed by the seeming irrelevance. “What girl, for heaven’s sake?” I snapped. “I thought we were going to find a way to get rid of Dessanges and his grease wagon, not to give you an excuse to ogle girls.”

Paul ignored me. “She was sitting next to him,” he said slowly. “You’ll have seen her go in. Red dress, high heels. Comes to the
wagon pretty often too.” As it happened I did remember her. I recalled a vague sulky blur of red mouth under a slice of black hair. One of Luc’s regulars from town.

“So?”

“That was Louis Ramondin’s daughter. Moved to Angers couple of years ago, you know, with her mother, Simone, after the divorce. You’ll remember them.” He nodded as if I’d given him a civil answer instead of a grunt. “Simone went back to her maiden name, Truriand. The girl would be fourteen, maybe fifteen, nowadays.”

“So?” I still couldn’t see the interest in this. I took out my key and fitted it into the front door.

Paul continued in his slow thoughtful way. “Certainly no older than fifteen, I’d say,” he repeated.

“All right,” I said tartly. “I’m glad you found something to liven up your evening. Pity you didn’t ask for her shoe size too, then you’d
really
have something to dream about.”

Paul gave his lazy smile. “You’re actually jealous,” he said.

“Not at all,” I said with dignity. “I just wish you’d go dribble on someone else’s carpet, you dirty old lecher.”

“Well, I was thinking,” said Paul slowly.

“Well done,” I said.

“I was thinking maybe Louis—being a
gendarme
and all—maybe he’d draw the line at his daughter being involved—at fifteen, maybe even fourteen—with a man—a
married
man—like Luc Dessanges.” He gave me a little look of triumph and amusement. “I mean, I know times have changed since you and I were young, but fathers and daughters, specially policemen—”

I yelped.
“Paul!”

“Smokin’ those sweet cigarettes too,” he added in the same reflective tone. “The kind they used to have in the jazz clubs, way back.”

I stared at him in awe. “Paul, this is almost
intelligent
.”

He shrugged modestly. “Been doing some asking round,” he said. “Thought something might come to me sooner or later.” He
paused. “That’s why I took a little time in there,” he added. “Wasn’t sure if I’d be able to persuade Louis to come over and see for himself.”

I gaped. “You
brought
Louis? While I was waiting outside?”

Paul nodded.

“Pretended I’d had my wallet taken in the bar. Made sure he got an eyeful.” Another pause. “His daughter was kissing Dessanges,” he explained. “That helped a bit.”

“Paul,” I declared, “You can dribble over every carpet in the house if you want to. You have my full permission.”

“I’d rather dribble over
you
,” said Paul, with an extravagant leer.

“Dirty old man.”

L
uc arrived at the Snack-Wagon the next day to find Louis waiting for him. The
gendarme
was in full uniform, his usually vague and pleasant face wearing an expression of almost military indifference. There was an object in the grass beside the wagon, something that looked something like a child’s trolley.

“Watch this,” said Paul to me from the window.

I left my place at the stove, where the coffee was just beginning to boil.

“Just you watch this,” said Paul.

The window was open a crack, and I could smell the smoky Loire mist as it rolled over the fields. The scent was nostalgic as burning leaves.

“Hé là!”
Luc’s voice was quite clear where we stood, and he walked with the carefree assurance of one who knows himself to be irresistible. Louis Ramondin just stared at him impassively.

“What’s that he’s got with him?” I asked Paul softly, with a gesture toward the machine on the grass. Paul grinned.

“Just watch,” he advised.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Luc reached in his pocket for his keys. “Must be in a hurry for breakfast,
hein?
Been waiting long?”

Louis just watched him without a word.

“Listen to this.” Luc made an expansive gesture. “Pancakes, farmhouse sausage, egg and bacon
à l’anglaise. Le
breakfast Dessanges. Plus a big pot of my very blackest, very meanest
café noirissime
, because I can tell you’ve had a rough night.” He laughed. “What was it,
hein?
Stakeout at the church bazaar? Someone molesting the local sheep? Or was it the other way around?”

Still Louis said nothing. He remained quite still, like a toy policeman, one hand on the handle of the trolley-thing in the grass.

Luc shrugged and opened the Snack-Wagon door.

“I guess you’ll be a bit more vocal when you’ve had my breakfast Dessanges.”

We watched for a few minutes as Luc brought out his awning and the pennants that advertised his daily menus. Louis stood stolidly beside the Snack-Wagon, seeming not to notice. Every now and again Luc sang out something cheerful at the waiting policeman. After a time I heard the sounds of music from the radio.

“What’s he waiting for?” I demanded impatiently. “Why doesn’t he say something?”

Paul grinned. “Give him time,” he advised. “Never quick on the uptake, the Ramondins, but once you get them going…”

Louis waited fully ten minutes. By that time Luc was still cheery but bewildered, and had all but abandoned any attempt at conversation. He had begun to heat the cooking plates for the pancakes, his paper hat tilted jauntily back from his forehead. Then, at last, Louis moved. Not far—he simply went to the back of the Snack-Wagon with his trolley and vanished from sight.

“What is that thing, anyway?” I asked.

“Hydraulic jack,” replied Paul, still smiling. “They use them in garages. Watch.”

And as we watched the Snack-Wagon began to tilt forward, ever so slowly. Almost imperceptibly at first, then with a sudden lurch that brought Dessanges out of his galley quicker than a ferret. He looked angry, but he looked scared too, taken off balance for the first time in the whole of this sorry game, and I liked that look just fine.

“What the fuck d’you think you’re doing!” he yelled at Ramondin, half incredulous. “What is this?”

Silence. I saw the wagon tilt again, just a little. Paul and I craned our necks to see what was going on.

Luc glanced briefly at the wagon to make sure it wasn’t damaged. The awning hung askew and the trailer had tilted drunkenly, like a shack built on sand. I saw the look of calculation come back into his face, the careful, sharp look of a man who not only has aces up his sleeve, but who believes he owns the whole pack.

“Had me going there for a minute,” he said in that cheery, relentless voice. “Hey, you really had me going. Knocked me sideways, you might say.”

We heard nothing from Louis, but thought we saw the wagon tilt a little more. Paul found that from the bedroom window we could see the rear of the Snack-Wagon, so we moved for a better view. Their voices were thin but audible in the cool morning air.

“Come on, man,” said Luc, a flicker of nerves in his voice now. “Joke over. Okay? Get the wagon back on its feet again and I’ll make you my breakfast special. On the house.”

Louis looked at him. “Certainly, sir,” he said pleasantly, but the wagon tipped a little farther forward anyway. Luc made a rapid gesture toward it, as if to steady it.

“I’d step away if I were you, sir,” suggested Louis mildly. “It doesn’t look very stable to me.” The wagon tipped another fraction.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” I could hear the angry note in his voice returning.

Louis only smiled. “Windy night last night, sir,” he observed gently, with another touch at the hydraulic jack at his feet. “Whole bunch of trees got blown down over by the river.”

I saw Luc stiffen. His rage made him graceless, his head jerking like that of a rooster getting ready for a fight. He was taller than Louis, I noticed, but much slighter. Louis, short and stocky, had spent most of his early life getting into fights. That’s why he got to be a policeman in the first place. Luc took a step forward.

“You just let go of that jack right now,” he said in a low, threatening voice.

Louis smiled. “Certainly, sir,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

We saw it in a kind of inevitable slow motion. The Snack-Wagon, perched precariously on its edge, swung back as its support was removed. There was a crash as the contents of the galley—plates, glasses, cutlery, pans—were suddenly and violently displaced, hurled into the far side of the wagon with a splash of broken crockery. The wagon continued to move backward in a lazy arc, propelled by its own momentum and the weight of its displaced furniture. For a moment it seemed as if it might right itself. Then it toppled, slowly and almost ponderously, onto its side into the grass of the verge with a crash that shook my house and rattled the cups on the downstairs dresser so loudly that we heard it from our lookout in the bedroom.

For seconds the two men just looked at each other, Louis with an expression of concern and sympathy, Luc in disbelief and increasing fury. The Snack-Wagon lay on its side in the long grass, sounds of tinkling and breakage settling gently inside its belly.

“Oops,” said Louis.

Luc made a furious dash at Louis. For a second something blurred between them, arms, fists moving too fast for me to see properly. Then Luc was sitting in the grass with his hands over his face and Louis was helping him up with that kind expression of sympathy.

“Dear me, sir, how could that have happened? Taken over faint for a moment, were we? It’s the shock, it’s quite natural. Take it easy.”

Luc was spluttering with rage. “Have you—any—fucking—
idea
what you’ve done, you moron?” His words were unclear because of the way he held his hands in front of his face. Paul said later that he’d seen Louis’s elbow jab him neatly across the bridge of the nose, though it all happened a bit too quickly for me to catch. Pity. I’d have enjoyed seeing that.

“My lawyer’s going to take you—to the fucking
cleaners
—be almost worth it to see you—shit, I’m bleeding to death—” Funny, but I could hear the family resemblance now, more pronounced than it had been before, something about the way he emphasized syllables, the thwarted squeal of a spoiled city boy who’s never had anything denied him before. For a moment there I could have sworn he sounded just exactly like his sister.

Paul and I went downstairs then—I don’t think we could have stayed indoors for another minute—and out to watch the fun. Luc was standing by then, not so pretty now with blood dribbling from his nose and his eyes watering. I noticed he had fresh dogshit on one of his expensive Paris boots. I held out my handkerchief. Luc gave me a suspicious glance and took it. He began to dabble at his nose. I could tell he hadn’t understood yet; he was pale, but he had a stubborn kind of fighting look on his face, the look of a man who has lawyers and advisors and friends in high places to run to.

“You saw that, didn’t you?” he spat. “You saw what that fucker did to me?” He looked at the bloody handkerchief with a kind of disbelief. His nose was swelling nicely, and so were his eyes. “You both saw him hit me, didn’t you?” insisted Luc. “In broad daylight? I could
sue
you for every—fucking—
penny
—”

Paul shrugged. “Didn’t see much myself,” he said in his slow voice. “We old people, we don’t see as well as we used to—don’t hear as well either—”

“But you were watching,” insisted Luc. “You
must
have seen…” He caught me grinning and his eyes narrowed. “Oh, I understand,” he said unpleasantly. “This is what it’s all about, is it? Thought you
could get your pet
gendarme
to intimidate me, could you?” He glared at Louis.

“If this is really the best you can do between you—” he pinched his nostrils shut to stop the bleeding.

“I don’t think there’s any call to go casting aspersions,” said Louis stolidly.

“Oh, you don’t?” snapped Luc. “When my lawyer sees—”

Louis interrupted him. “It’s natural you should be upset. The wind blowing over your café like that. I can understand you didn’t know what you were doing.”

Luc stared at him in disbelief.

“Terrible night last night,” said Paul kindly. “First of the October storms. I’m sure you’ll be able to claim on the insurance.”

“Of course it was bound to happen,” I said. “A high-sided vehicle like that by the side of a road. I’m only surprised it didn’t happen earlier.”

Luc nodded. “I see,” he said softly. “Not bad, Framboise. Not bad at all. I see you’ve been hard at work.” His tone was almost coaxing. “But even without the wagon, you know there’s a lot more I can do. A lot more
we
can do.” He tried a grin, then winced and dabbed at his nose again. “You might as well give them what they want,” he continued in the same almost seductive tone. “
Hé, Mamie
. What do you say?”

I’m not sure what I would have answered. Looking at him I felt old. I’d expected him to give in, but he looked less beaten at that moment than he’d ever been, his sharp face expectant. I’d given it my best shot—
our
best shot, Paul and I—and even so Luc seemed invincible. Like children trying to dam a river. We’d had our moment of triumph—that look on his face, almost worth it just for that—but in the end, however brave the effort, the river always wins. Louis had spent his childhood by the side of the Loire too, I told myself. He must have known. All he had done was get himself into trouble too. I
imagined an army of lawyers, advisors, city police—our names in the papers, our secret business revealed…. I felt tired. So tired.

Then I saw Paul’s face. He was smiling that slow sweet smile of his, looking almost half witted but for the lazy amusement in his eyes. He yanked his beret down over his forehead in a gesture that was somehow final and comic and heroic at the same time, like the world’s oldest knight pulling down his visor for a last tilt at the enemy. I felt a sudden crazy urge to laugh.

“I think we can…ah…sort it out,” Paul said. “Maybe Louis here got carried away a little. All the Ramondins were a little…ah…quick to take offense. It’s in the blood.” He smiled apologetically, then turned to address Louis. “There was that business with Guilherm…who was he, your grandmother’s brother?” Dessanges listened in growing irritation and contempt.

“Father’s,” corrected Louis.

Paul nodded. “Aye. Hot blood, the Ramondins. All of ’em.” He was lapsing into dialect again—one of the things Mother always held most against him, that and his stutter—and his accent was thicker than I ever remember it back in the old days. “I remember how they led the rabble that night against the farmhouse—old Guilherm at front with his wooden leg—and all for that business at La Mauvaise Réputation—seems it’s kept that bad reputation all this time—”

Luc shrugged his shoulders. “Look, I’d love to hear today’s selection of Quaint Country Tales from Long Ago. But what I’d
really
like—”

“’Twas a young man started it all,” continued Paul inexorably. “Not unlike yourself, I’d say he was. A man from the city,
hein
, from the foreign…who thought he could wrap the poor stupid Loire people round his finger.”

He gave me a quick look, as if checking an emotional barometer somewhere in my face. “Came to a bad end, though. Didn’t he?”

“The worst,” I said thickly. “The very worst.”

Luc was watching us both, his eyes wary. “Oh?” he said.

I nodded. “
He
liked young girls too,” I said in a voice that sounded dim and distant to my own ears. “Played them along. Used them to find out things. They’d call that corruption nowadays.”

“Course in those days most of those girls didn’t have fathers,” said Paul blandly. “’Cause of the war.”

I saw Luc’s eyes kindle with understanding. He gave a small nod, as if marking a point. “This is something to do with last night, is it?” he said.

I ignored the question. “You
are
married, aren’t you?” I asked.

He nodded again.

“Pity if your wife had to be involved in all this,” I went on. “Corruption of minors…nasty business…I don’t see how she could avoid getting involved.”

“You’ll never get that one to stick,” said Luc quickly. “The girl wouldn’t—”

“The girl is my daughter,” said Louis simply. “She would do—say—whatever she felt was right.”

Again, the nod. He was cool enough, I’ll give him that.

“Fine,” he said at last. He even managed a little smile. “Fine. I get the message.” He was relaxed in spite of everything; his pallor came from anger rather than fear. He looked at me directly, an ironic twist at his mouth.

“I hope the victory was worth it,
Mamie
,” he said with emphasis. “Because come tomorrow you’re going to need every bit of comfort you can get. Come tomorrow your sad little secret is going to be splashed across every magazine, every newspaper in the country. Just time for a couple of phone calls before I move on…. After all it really has been
such
a dull party, and if our friend here thinks his little bitch of a daughter even
began
to make it worthwhile—” He broke off to grin viciously, at Louis and gaped as the policeman’s handcuffs snapped sharply over first one wrist, then the other.