Authors: Brian Moore
At the far end of the Rue Louis Le Blanc, she waited for the Number 86 bus. Her apartment on Rue Cochet was on the ground floor, and very dark but, now that Bobi was blind, to be on the ground floor was a blessing. Bobi was an Alsatian, and because he could no longer see the stairs she would have had to carry him up and down. For he still liked his walk. Not just to do
pipi
and his business, but he became excited as a puppy once he smelled the open air. And she, well the truth was, the only time she forgot her age and felt young again was when Bobi started pulling at the lead as they came into the park at the Place de Gaulle.
When Madame Maranne got out her key and put it in the apartment door she listened for the usual bark. Instead, a man’s voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
She had a moment of panic, then thought of the concierge. ‘Is that you, Monsieur Delisle?’ Delisle was the husband of Madame Delisle, the concierge. He had been working on the ball and chain of the toilet.
She heard the door unlock. The door opened. It was not Monsieur Delisle. It was
him
. She pushed past him. ‘Bobi? Bobi, where are you?’
‘I shut him up in the kitchen,’ he said.
‘Shit!’ She turned to him as if she would slap him, then went to the kitchen and opened the door. Poor Bobi clambered up on her skirt, licking her hand. ‘There, Bobi, there Bobi,’ she said. ‘I have something nice for you, don’t you worry.’
He came into the kitchen behind her as she took down Bobi’s bowl and mixed up the ground meat with a fork.
‘I have something nice for
you
,’ he said.
She paid him no heed. What was he doing here? What did he want, he wanted something, you could bet on that, it was always the same with him. It was over a year since he’d been back to pester her. In the old days he came for sex, but now he was getting too old for it, they both were. She hunkered down to watch Bobi eat his treat. ‘Good Bobi, good baby. You like that, don’t you?’
That dog, I tell you, there was never another animal like him. Imagine, hungry as he was, Bobi stopped eating, looked up at her with his poor eyes, white with glaucoma, and reached his head forward, sniffing her arm, then licking it before he went back to his treat. The other one came around behind Bobi, fanning out in his hand, like a pack of cards, a fistful of 500-franc notes. ‘Where did you get that?’ she said.
‘From a dead Yid. I’m superstitious. It wouldn’t be lucky for me to spend Jew money just now. So I decided I’d make you a nice present.’
She looked at the money in his hand, then looked away. There must be 5,000 francs there, maybe more. I said a long time ago that I’d not take another penny from him, even though there’s no reason I shouldn’t, he left me long ago, ditched me, told me lies, 5,000 francs, if he’s offering that sort of money he wants something special, of course he does.
‘I don’t want your money,’ she said. ‘Get out of here. I’ve told you, I don’t want to see you any more. You must have had a key made the last time. Give it to me.’
‘Come on, Nicole,’ he said. ‘6,000 francs. Take it. I’d like to stay a few days and I’ll need the key to get in and out.’
‘You’re not staying,’ she said. ‘I told you before. Give me the key.’
‘Sorry. No.’
‘I’ll change the lock.’
‘You won’t. You’re my wife. I have a right to be here.’
‘You have no right. We’ve been through all that.’
He sat down at the kitchen table as if he owned it. ‘It’s only for a few days,’ he said. ‘I have to get in touch with someone to find out my next move. In the meantime, nobody in the whole world knows I’m here. It’s the perfect place for me, just now.’
‘There isn’t any perfect place for you any more,’ she said. ‘Your picture was in
Le Provençal
last month.’
‘That? It’s a police photo, years old. Even you wouldn’t know me from it.’
He folded the 500-franc notes into a roll, put a rubber band around it and tossed it on the table. ‘There you are, dear,’ he said. ‘Now, why not go out and buy us a nice dinner. And get some more meat for our dog. Eh, Bobi? Come here, boy.’
Poor Bobi, blind, hearing his name, got up and came tail-wagging towards the sound. He reached down and fondled the dog’s ears. ‘What about a steak, Bobi? Let’s buy him a nice horse steak. Why not? Nothing’s too good for our dog.’
The liar.
Our dog
. ‘Bobi?’ she said. ‘Come here.’
Bobi ducked his head from under those false fondling fingers and came up to her, putting his nose in her skirt. She turned and went out of the kitchen, Bobi behind her. She went into her bedroom, shut the door, locked it, then lay down. Bobi clambered on to the foot of the bed and settled in at her feet. Poor Bobi, lying there, his muzzle between his paws. He’ll fall asleep now. When he sleeps, what does he dream? Does he remember the days when he was a little puppy? When Pierre first brought him to me in Hyères, sixteen years ago, you could pick him up with one hand. Does he remember those days? Does he remember the flat in Hyères? I’ll never forget the first time I saw him. Pierre came into the room and said, ‘I have something for you.’ And I said, ‘Whatever it is, I don’t want it.’
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘It’s in the car.’
I remember I went to the kitchen window and looked out. I thought: So he’s bought a car now that he’s left me. Him that wouldn’t go out in the daytime for fear someone would recognize him, now he’s driving around in a car. And sure enough, I saw a 2CV parked in the yard. I saw him reach into the car to get the present, whatever it was. I thought it would be flowers or chocolates and I was ready to throw his present back at him, but he came across the yard and up the stairs with this lovely little puppy in his arms. The bastard! Back in those days I’d said over and over again that I wanted a dog and, over and over again, he’d said no, we might have to move in a hurry, maybe the next place they wouldn’t allow us to keep a dog.
‘Where did you get it?’ I asked. Knowing him he could have stolen it.
He handed the puppy over to me. I remember thinking it had the most lovely, loving eyes. I could have kissed it.
‘It’s an Alsatian,’ he said. ‘I had six of those when I was in the
milice
. They’re police dogs. We can train him.’
‘Train him? What’s happened, the police haven’t stopped looking for you, have they?’
He shook his head. ‘I mean, when I come to visit.’
‘You’re not coming to visit, do you hear? I’m finished with you.’
‘What will you call him?’ he said. ‘He’s a boy dog. What about Putzi? One of the dogs I had in the
milice
was Putzi, he was a great dog, championship bloodlines, he’d belonged to Commander Knab himself, remember I told you about Knab. He’s the one who said I was a perfect Nordic type.’
‘You’re a perfect shit, that’s what you are. You and your Putzi! Anyway, I’m not taking him.’
She put the puppy down on the floor.
‘OK, I’ll let him off in some alley,’ he said. ‘I don’t want him. I bought him for you. You wouldn’t let him starve, would you?’
‘He’s not mine.’
‘He is, now. Listen, Nicole, I just couldn’t stay away any longer. I know it’s risky for me to come back but I’ve missed you. It’s been awful. I dream about you every night. Come on. Let me stay for a while.’
‘No.’
‘Just for a week, all right?’
‘I know why you came back. And after you’ve fucked me a few times, you’ll be off again. Where did you get that car? Did you steal it?’
‘Friends of mine lent it to me,’ he said. ‘Priests. I’m staying with them. They’re helping me. I’m learning to type. They’re going to find permanent work for me, typing up student theses for the Collège St Christophe in Aix. It’s not much but it will help.’
‘Help who?’
‘I’ll send you some as soon as I make some.’
‘I wasn’t asking for money,’ she said. ‘I’m finished with you. I don’t need you. I’ve got a new job.’
‘Aren’t you still working for the nuns?’
‘I left that. I’m working as a chambermaid at the Hôtel Majestic. Believe it or not, it pays better than the nuns.’
‘A chambermaid? My wife is a chambermaid. A chambermaid. My God, what next?’
‘I’m not your wife. You saw the name on the door. Maranne. It’s my name, not that false one you use. Pou-Pou-Pou – Pouliot!’
‘You call yourself Madame, don’t you?’
‘I have to. But I’m not Madame. I’m nothing.’
‘You’re my wife in the eyes of God. We were married in the church. That’s the only marriage that counts.’
‘Tell that to the
mairie
. You’re wanted by the police. You’ll never get a marriage certificate.’
‘All right, all right. Abbé Feren is working on that.’
‘Is he? Do you think I’m stupid? I happen to know that if Abbé Feren walked into the
mairie
today and told them he’d married us without a licence he’d go to jail for it.’
‘Who told you that?’
It was Jacquot, but I didn’t tell him. The puppy came across the kitchen floor, tail frisking, and rubbed its little head against my ankle. The puppy. Bobi. That was his clever trick. He knew I’d keep that lovely little puppy. I had to. He’d said he’d dump it in some alley. He would. And I was right, he’d come back for sex, only sex. I was young then and I was pretty. Two hours later he was pulling down my pants and showing me a hard-on like a steel bar. A week later he was gone. Sex was the big thing with him in those days, although he pretended to be fucking me because it was our duty before God to have a child. Oh yes, he wanted a child, but not for any normal reason. A child would be a way of holding on to me and proving to his friends, the priests, that he was a good family man, persecuted by the Jews, et cetera.
‘You’re not religious,’ I told him once. ‘It’s all an act with you.’
‘Is it? God forgive you for saying that. You don’t know me, you have no idea how much my faith means to me. You don’t know how hard it is for me that I can’t go to mass like anybody else, for fear somebody will recognize me.’
‘What are you talking about? You don’t go to mass now because you can’t stand seeing black people kneeling beside you in church, you can’t stand it when the priest faces you and prays in French instead of turning his back and mumbling in Latin the way it was when you were an altar boy.’
‘Well, that’s true enough,’ he said. ‘These left-wing priests have ruined the beauty of the mass, they’re ruining our religion. Not that you care, Nicole. You’ll never understand what these things mean to me. You’ve never had an ounce of faith.’
‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘You’re a liar. You’re the biggest liar I know. All that talk about how you’ve become another person since you met Monsignor Le Moyne, I’ll tell you what that is, it’s shit. Monsignor Le Moyne is just the latest dupe for your line of bullshit. “Father, forgive me, hear my confession. Only you can save me. Only you can bring me back to God.” You know as well as I do that you’re a con man with priests. Remember Abbé Feren?’
And it’s true. The very first time I met him he was with this priest, Abbé Feren, an old fool who was a chaplain to the
milice
. Talk about drama! Bursting in on me that night in my place in Marseille as I was eating supper, this old priest holding him by the one arm and Jacquot holding him by the other, and him bleeding away, the blood dripping down on the floor, this tall blond guy, I thought he was some German deserter. He didn’t look French. They put him down on my couch, he looked as if he was going to pass out, and Jacquot said, ‘Nicole, this is Pierre Brossard, he was my chief in the
milice
, so the FFI are after him. One of them recognized him on the Canebíre just now and took a shot at him. This is Abbé Feren. We went to him first and he’s going to help us but we can’t stay at his place.’
‘Good evening, Mademoiselle,’ says this old priest. ‘You’re Jacquot’s sister, aren’t you?’
‘I am, Father.’
‘The Abbé knows a doctor who’ll come here and take the bullet out,’ Jacquot said. ‘Nicole, we need your help. Pierre could sleep on your couch.’
It was Jacquot who’d got me that apartment in the first place, he got it for me in 1943, when the Rosenthal family was shipped off to Germany and the
milice
requisitioned their place: 171 Rue Paradis, Marseille, that was the address, it was the only nice apartment I’ve ever had and Jacquot, God rest his soul, always said, ‘I’m your big brother and there’s only the two of us and my job is to look after you.’ And he did. So if he asked me a favour there was no refusing him. I had to take this fellow in.
The doctor came later that night and took the bullet out and then Abbé Feren and Jacquot left me alone with Pierre and when I’d made up the living-room couch as a bed, and given him some soup, he thanked me, he wept, he could always turn the tears on, and later, when I looked in to see if he was all right, he’d got out of bed and was kneeling beside it, saying his prayers. And I knew what the
miliciens
were like and this wasn’t like any
milicien
I’d ever known. Including Jacquot. Making the sign of the cross. Saying prayers. And he was good-looking in that blond Nazi way. The truth was, I fell for his looks, I fell for his whole act. I nursed him for three weeks and he was smart, he didn’t try to fuck his friend’s little sister, he was all respect and gratitude and then he told me he’d fallen in love with me and in those days just after the war when everything had gone wrong and my own brother was sentenced to death
in absentia
and I was working like a nigger in the Fabrice Mounier, I wanted a man, I wanted a child, I wanted to be happy, to be ordinary, to be like everybody else.