An Officer and a Spy (37 page)

The Sousse Military Club looks out from behind a screen of dusty palms across an unpaved square, past a modern customs shed to the sea. The glint from the Gulf of Hammamet is particularly fierce this afternoon, like sunlight on tin: I have to shield my eyes. A boy in long brown robes passes, leading a goat on a length of rope. The glare melts both figures into tarry black silhouettes.

Inside its heavy brick walls, the Military Club’s decor makes no concession to North Africa. The wooden panelling, stuffed armchairs and tasselled standard lamps are of the type that might be seen in any garrison town in France. As is my custom after lunch, I am seated alone beside the window while my brother officers of the 4th Tunisian Rifles play cards or doze or read the four-day-old French newspapers. Nobody approaches me. Although they are always careful to treat me with the deference owed to my rank, they keep their distance—and who can blame them? After all, there must be
something
wrong with me—some unspeakable disgrace must have ruined my career: otherwise why would the youngest colonel in the army have been transferred to a dump like this? Against the sky-blue tunic of my new regiment, the scarlet ribbon of my Legion of Honour draws their fascinated eyes like a bullet wound.

As usual, at about three o’clock, through the high glass-panelled door comes a young orderly carrying the afternoon’s post. He is a pretty boy in a rough street-urchin sort of way, a musician in the regimental band who goes by the name of Flavian-Uband Savignaud. He arrived in Sousse a few days after I did: dispatched, I am fairly sure, by the Statistical Section, with orders from Henry or Gonse to spy on me. It is not the spying I resent as much as the incompetence
with which he goes about it. “Look,” I want to tell him, “if you’re going to search my belongings, make sure you put them back as you found them: try to make a mental picture in your mind before you start. And if your job is to ensure my mail is intercepted, at least go through the pretence of putting it in the box normally rather than handing it direct to the post office official—I have followed you twice now and observed your sloppiness on both occasions.”

He stops beside my chair and salutes. “Your mail, Colonel. Do you have anything to send?”

“Thank you. Not yet.”

“Is there anything else at all I can do for you, Colonel?” The remark carries a hint of suggestion.

“No. You may go.”

He sways slightly at the waist as he walks away. One of the younger captains puts down his paper to watch him pass. This is something else I resent: not the fact that Henry and Gonse think I might be tempted to go to bed with a man, but that I’d be tempted to go to bed with a man like Savignaud.

I inspect my mail: a letter from my sister and another from my cousin Edmond; both have been opened by the Statistical Section and then resealed with telltale over-firmness using glue. Like my fellow exile Dreyfus, I suffer the intrusion of having my correspondence monitored—although not, as in his case, actually censored. There are a couple of agents’ reports of the type that continue to be forwarded to me as part of the fiction that I am only temporarily seconded from my job; these too have been opened. And then there is a letter from Henry: his schoolroom handwriting is familiar—we have exchanged messages often since I left Paris more than half a year ago.

Until recently the tone of our correspondence has been friendly (
Here, the sky is blue and the heat is sometimes too much in the afternoons; it is certainly nothing like Paris
). But then in May I was ordered by the High Command in Tunis to take the regiment to Sidi El Hani for three weeks and instruct them in target practice. This entailed a day’s march southwest to pitch camp in the desert. The native troops were difficult to teach, and the heat and the boredom of the
featureless stony landscape stretching in every direction, and above all the constant presence of Savignaud, combined to wring from me at last a cry of protest:
My dear Henry, Let it be publicly admitted once and for all that I have been relieved of my duties. I have no reason to be embarrassed by that fact; what embarrasses me are all the lies and mysteries that have been spread about me in the course of the last six months
.

I assume Savignaud has brought me Henry’s reply. I open it quite casually, expecting the usual soothing reassurances that I shall be returning to Paris very soon. Instead, the tone could not be colder. He has the honour to inform me that “an inquiry” within the Statistical Section has concluded that the only “mysteries” I can be referring to in my letter are the three I perpetrated, to wit: (1) running an illicit operation “unconnected to the service”; (2) suborning false testimony from serving officers “that a classified document had been seized at the post office and came from a known individual”; and (3) “the opening of a secret dossier and examination of its contents, leading to certain indiscretions taking place.” Henry ends with sarcasm:
As for the word “lies,” the investigation was unable to determine where, how and to whom this word should be applied. Yours respectfully, J. Henry
.

And this man is supposed to be my subordinate! The letter is dated a week ago, Monday, 31 May. I check the envelope for the postmark: Thursday, 3 June. I guess at once what will have happened: Henry will have written this letter and then sent it over the road to Gonse for his approval before dispatching it. So his clumsy threat almost certainly carries behind it the force of the General Staff. I feel a momentary chill on my skin, despite the African heat. I read the letter again. But then my anxiety slowly vanishes and in its place a tremendous feeling of anger begins to build within me (
Yours respectfully
?), reaching such a level of intensity that it is all I can do not to cry out loud and kick the furniture. I stuff my mail into my trouser pocket, jam my cap back on my head, and stride towards the door with such fury that I am aware of a sudden silence and of heads turning to follow my progress.

I clump across the wooden veranda, almost knocking aside two majors who are smoking cigars, down the club steps, past the flaccid
tricolour, across the wide boulevard and into the Marine Garden, where every Sunday afternoon the regimental band plays familiar melodies to the French expatriate community in a tuneless parody of home. Here I pause to gather myself. The two majors are staring after me from the veranda in open bewilderment. I turn and walk on through the little park towards the sea, past the bandstand and the broken fountain, and along the harbour front.

For months I have been going into the Military Club at lunchtime and scanning the stale newspapers in the hope of finding fresh revelations about the Dreyfus affair. In particular I have counted on the likelihood that sooner or later someone will recognise Esterhazy’s handwriting from the
bordereau
and approach the Dreyfus family direct. But there has been nothing: the case is not even mentioned anymore. As I walk past the fishing boats, my head down and my hands clasped behind me, I reproach myself furiously for my cowardice. I have left it to others to do my duty. And now Henry and Gonse believe I am so broken down by exile, so crushed by their ruthlessness, that they can intimidate me into complete submission.

There is a fish market on the dockside at the southern end of the quay, close to the walls of the old Arab city, and I stop for a minute to watch as a catch is brought in and tipped over the counter: red mullet, sea bream, hake, mackerel. In a nearby pen are half a dozen turtles, their jaws tied shut with string, still alive, but blinded to prevent them escaping. They make a noise like cobbles being cracked together as they clamber over one another, desperate to regain the water they can sense but no longer see.

My quarters are in the military camp on the other side of the medina—a single-storey brick-built hut on the edge of the parade ground, with two rooms, their windows blanked by mosquito mesh, and a veranda with two chairs, a table and a kerosene lamp. In the torpid heat of the late afternoon the parade ground is deserted. Satisfied that I am unobserved, I drag the table to the edge of the veranda, climb up onto it, and reach up to push aside a loose rafter. The great advantage of being watched by an incompetent spy, and
the reason I haven’t asked for Savignaud’s removal, is that he misses things, such as this. I move my fingers in the empty space until they encounter metal—an old cigarette tin.

I pull out the tin, replace the rafter, drag the table back to its original place, and go into my quarters. The larger room serves as a sitting room–cum–office; the curtains are drawn against the sun. I pass through this into my bedroom, sit on the edge of my narrow iron cot, and open the tin. It contains a photograph of Pauline taken five years ago and a bundle of letters from her:
Darling Georges … My dearest Georges … I yearn for you … I miss you …
I wonder how many hands they have been through; not as many as the Dreyfuses’ correspondence, but doubtless quite a few.

I don’t need to read them again; I know them off by heart.

Also in the tin is a photograph of my mother, seven hundred francs in cash and an envelope on which I have written:
In case of the death of the undersigned, please deliver this letter to the President of the Republic, who alone should know of its contents. G. PICQUART
. Inside is a sixteen-paragraph report of my investigation into Esterhazy, written in April. It goes through all the evidence in detail, relates the attempts of Boisdeffre, Gonse and Billot to block my researches, and comes to three conclusions:

From the minarets of the Arab town comes the wail of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. It is Asr, the time when a man’s shadow is twice his height. I slip the letter into the inside pocket of my tunic and go back out into the heat.

Early the following morning, Savignaud brings me hot water in my bedroom as usual so that I can shave. Naked above the waist, I bend to my mirror and lather my face. Instead of leaving, he lingers, watching me from behind.

I look at him in the mirror. “Yes, soldier? What is it?”

“I understand you’ve made an appointment to see General Leclerc in Tunis, Colonel.”

“Do I need your permission?”

“I wondered if you wanted me to accompany you.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“Will you be back in time for dinner?”

“Go away, Savignaud.”

He hesitates, salutes and sidles out of the room. I return to my shaving, but with greater urgency: I have little doubt that he has gone off to telegraph Paris the news of my trip to Tunis.

An hour later, suitcase in hand, I wait beside the railway line in the central town square. A mining company has recently laid the track from Sousse to Tunis. There is no station: the locomotive simply passes through the streets. The first sign of its approach is a column of black smoke which I see rising in the distance above the flat roofs against the brilliant blue sky. A steam whistle shrieks nearby and a crowd of children erupts around the corner, scattering in all directions, screaming with excitement, pursued by an engine pulling two flatbed trucks and three carriages. It slows to a crawl until its momentum expires altogether in a loud exhalation of steam. I heave my suitcase into the carriage and clamber up the ladder after it, glancing over my shoulder to check if I am followed. But there is no sign of men in uniforms, just Arabs and Jews and a lot of livestock—chickens in crates, a sheep and a small goat with its hooves tethered, which its owner crams beneath his seat.

We pull away, gathering speed until our escort of excited children is left behind. Dust blows through the open sides of the carriage as we rattle out into the monotonous landscape—olive groves and hazy grey mountains to the left of us, the flat glare of the Mediterranean to the right. Every quarter of an hour or so we stop to pick up figures, always accompanied by animals, who seem to rise out of nowhere, shimmering up ahead beside the tracks. I slip my hand inside my tunic and feel the sharp edges of my posthumous letter to the President.

When at last we arrive in Tunis, around the middle of the afternoon, I push my way across the crowded platform to the taxi rank. The heat in the city feels almost solid. The air holds soot and spices—cumin, coriander, paprika—and tobacco and horse dung in a humid suspension. Beside the taxis a boy is selling
La Dépêche tunisienne
, which for five centimes offers an overnight compilation of the previous day’s news as telegraphed from Paris. I skim it on the drive to army headquarters. Yet again there is nothing about Dreyfus. But it is within my power to change all that. For the twentieth time I touch the letter, like an anarchist checking his dynamite.