The Foundling's War (32 page)

‘I was.’

The man scratched his armpit. Jean thought he must be infested with lice.

‘That’s the great problem: where have all the monsters gone? There’s one here. I’ve seen its tracks. Animals aren’t innocent. No more than men are. They’re nasty, brutish and cruel. We have to teach them.’

Jean was stirred: a few moments before he had pictured a monster lurking in these depths, and now this man was talking about it as if it was a reality. Between his beard and his eyebrows his eyes shone, sharp, mad, amused.

‘What do you feed your teal on?’ Jean asked.

‘I collect worms in the mud and mould them into balls.’

‘So really you’re encouraging their carnivorous tastes.’

‘Not bad! Not bad! Well thought through. No doubt about it, I’m a lucky man: the first human I’ve spoken to for two years is a thinker. He thinks! A miracle! Yes, Monsieur, it’s true, I sacrifice worms to teal, but the teal are innocent. You … you are not.’

‘And you?’

‘Me? You won’t be surprised: I was falling apart before I hid myself away in the forest. By the way, where are we with the war? Is Danzig still a free city? Has Poland pulled through?’

He scoffed and held up a hand to forestall an answer Jean hesitated to give him.

‘Don’t disappoint me! Don’t disappoint me, Monsieur!’

‘I shan’t disappoint you,’ Jean said. ‘Danzig remains a free city.
Poland is free, Austria has expelled the Germans. The Sudetens booed Hitler at a parade and, because they annoyed him, he gave them back to Czechoslavakia, which has returned to being a fine, proud republic with a socialist government. Italy has put good King Zog and his pretty queen Geraldine back on the throne of Albania. Mussolini has offered his apologies to Haile Selassie and given him back his throne at the same time as Victor Emmanuel renounced the title of emperor. General Franco has opened his borders to the remaining Republican army for a festival of reconciliation. Oh, I forgot to mention that Hitler has stepped down as Chancellor of the Reich to devote himself full-time to oil painting. The great dealer, Braun-Lévy, has signed him up exclusively for his first exhibition, which will take place this spring.’

‘Marvellous! I did well not to get involved and I was right to run away from these neighbourly disputes. I’d have been a complete spare part. I bet no one’s even noticed I’ve gone.’

‘It’s true; no one’s said a thing to me.’

The man smiled indulgently and sat down on a tree trunk mouldy with slippery brown mushrooms that squashed beneath his backside.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jean Arnaud.’

‘Arnaud with an “l”?’

‘No, without an “l”.’

He looked disappointed and subsided into a reverie that lasted two or three minutes, while Jean waited unmoving, the better to observe him. The man scratched himself and tugged on his beard with his thin and dirty fingers. It would have been interesting to see him shaved and his face revealed.

‘And my name is Pascal. Blaise Pascal. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Yes, but you’re not Blaise Pascal.’

‘What do you know about it?’

‘You don’t look like him. He was clean-shaven and neatly dressed.’

‘You’re talking about my physical appearance. What about his soul? I’ve run into his soul here, Monsieur, wandering in the damp woods of the Chevreuse valley, lingering by the noisome waters of these pools. I have merely given it a body, my own. His soul is warm there; it no longer wanders cold and alone, and I’d go so far as to say that it’s enjoying itself. I grant you it’s not inventing wheelbarrows, problems of geometry or pulley systems to draw water from a well, but it has other amusements. We discuss grace and the world’s folly and talk to the animals.’

He stood up and raised his hat, revealing his baldness and a dirt-encrusted scalp.

‘It’s been my pleasure, Monsieur Arnaud.’

‘Mine too.’

He took three steps and paused.

‘That’s not just a figure of speech. I have greatly enjoyed our conversation. Perhaps I’ve exaggerated to myself the inanity of intercourse with my fellow men. Where do you live? Oh … don’t worry … I’ve no intention of visiting … Purely curiosity.’

‘A Spanish friend has bought an old farmhouse behind the birch forest. He’s a painter.’

‘Are you talking about that tall hairy fellow always in his shirtsleeves? I’ve seen him sawing wood. A painter? Now that’s interesting. I find art to be window dressing. I mean the art of today. I once had a collection of paintings, can you imagine? And you have no idea how easily one can do without. Adieu! Or perhaps au revoir. Who knows? If you’re passing my house – a delightful Louis XIII hunting lodge – tap on one of the few remaining window panes. I’ll always be happy to see you. You have a pleasing face. We’ll talk of those “gentlemen”, of Mother Angélique
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and Saint-Cyran
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… What formidable intelligence! And we’ll speak ill of the Jesuits … I hope you weren’t raised by them …’

‘No. I was cast in the ordinary mould of village primary school and lycée.’

‘I detest the Jesuits. Well, cordially detest them.’

He made a comical gesture with his arms as if he was about to strangle the entire community. His laughter followed him as he plunged into the wood, where the hessian of his sacks camouflaged him instantly.

Jean clapped his palms together. The teal took off and spiralled up above the pool before hiding themselves again in the reeds.

Jesús was sawing the last log.

‘One hun’red! And Chris’mas mornin’! I am the only man in the worl’ who ’as sawed one hun’red logs today. Come inside. Lunch mus’ be on the table. The boy came to find you three times.’

Laura did not join them. Jesús said she did not want to make their lunch gloomy. She was not hungry. She had not cried but sat still in an armchair, next to the window, her eyes full of images. When he bent over her he could see her brother there, playing with her as a boy, a garden, a wide meadow where there stood ricks of hay that they sprawled on, a sandy Baltic beach, bordered by a curtain of mist hiding the boats whose anxious foghorns sounded at regular intervals. Jesús told himself that when she had reviewed these images she would feel quieter. They were her prayer for the dead, for a young infantry lieutenant buried beneath the snow.

Jean told the story of his encounter that morning. Cyrille wanted to talk to the scarecrow who did not scare away the teal. Jesús had never seen him, but knew of his existence. At Gif, in the cafés and shops, they discussed the man in the woods as if he was a legend. A few walkers had glimpsed him fleeing at their approach. A search by the gendarmes had produced no results. They had entered the hunting lodge, which was a true pigsty. Yet the man existed, and Jesús had
sensed him one day outside the front door, invisible in the bushes, spying on him. A sensation more than a certainty. A madman, without a doubt.

‘He’s not mad at all!’ Jean said. ‘Very sensible, actually, apart from the fact that he thinks he’s Blaise Pascal.’

‘Blaise Pascal?’ Cyrille said. ‘I know him. He plays every morning in the Luxembourg Gardens. He’s a little boy. He wears red. He’s got a submarine.’

‘So there are several Blaise Pascals. Why shouldn’t the man in the woods be one of them?’

Jesús admitted he did not know Blaise Pascal and that, being wholly ignorant of his personality, he did not see why the teal hunter should not call himself that. For one thing, the little boy in red with the submarine claimed that was his name and nobody thought he was mad, since they let him carry on playing in the Luxembourg Gardens.

‘What’s even more interesting than his name,’ Jean said, ‘is what he lives on. He doesn’t smoke or drink, and boasts about it, which would seem to indicate that he must once have smoked and drunk a lot. He also claims to have once possessed a collection of paintings …’

‘I can do him a drawing,’ Cyrille said. ‘Jesús showed me how.’

‘If you like I’ll take him one, and perhaps he’ll rediscover his taste for life when he finds out it’s the work of a small boy. Then I’ll know who he really is.’

‘I want to go and see him now.’

Jesús promised Cyrille he would take him.

After lunch Claude bundled up her son and he went out with Jesús. Jean stayed behind, standing warming himself at the fire. He watched Claude clear the table. She had not said a word during lunch.

‘Come here. I want to be alone with you.’

‘We are alone.’

‘No. The way we were yesterday.’

He took her hand and drew her to the stairs and then into the bedroom where she stayed standing by the window.

‘Take your clothes off,’ he said.

She did as she was told, indifferently, almost as if she was not there, and her nakedness felt all the more shocking to Jean.

‘Do you want me?’ she asked, her face pale, her eyes feverish.

‘Completely.’

She got into bed and he joined her. She was neither wanton nor reticent, just outside time. Then, as he caressed her, she seemed to come back to herself and wrapped her arms around him. Later she said again, ‘I love you.’

He felt like crying. He wanted to clasp her to him all his life, to never let her go more than a metre from his side. All of their misfortunes came from their not being able to live together.

‘I love you too,’ he said.

She kissed his neck. He stroked the back of hers. Their legs were intertwined so tightly that their desire, satisfied moments before, revived without a pause. Jean said nothing. He carried on holding her tightly, deferring until later, for ever, the questions and answers that would make him so unhappy that they might not see each other again. Claude fell asleep. He bent over her face, which still wore the traces of recent days. Her private suffering made her features, usually so peaceful, even more beautiful. Jean did not recognise her. An immense tenderness gripped him: it was a face full of pathos. Her courage had left her; she had surrendered. He realised that from now on he would have charge of her as she, for nearly two years, had had charge of him without his noticing, so discreet and restrained had she been in helping him to survive. It was thanks to her that from now on he would be a man and through her that he had known a happiness, before they made love, that no other woman would ever be able to give him again. He knew too that Claude’s deep generosity caused her problems and that mean spirits would always be tempted to do her
injury. It was a time to remember that he had wounded her himself on at least two or three occasions, and that he continued to wound her by his affair with Nelly. He looked for excuses. They were all too easy.

The front door slammed. He heard Cyrille’s voice and got dressed. Claude curled up under the sheets. He went downstairs.

‘Where’s Maman?’

‘She’s asleep.’

‘We didn’t see Blaise Pascal but we saw his house. It’s not nice.’

Jean realised that Laura was in the room, dressed and with a travelling bag standing ready by the door.

‘Where are you goin’?’ Jesús said.

‘To Paris, to ask for leave to see my parents in Germany.’

Jesús looked helpless at the idea of having to live without her.

‘Will you come back?’

‘Of course. My life is here now, nowhere else.’

Jean was struck by her choice of words, at odds with her forced smile.

‘Are you going away?’ Cyrille said. ‘That’s sad. Then I’ll stay with Jesús and make him feel better.’

Laura crouched down and held out her arms. The child ran to her. She raised her eyes, filled with tears, to Jesús.

‘A little boy is so sweet!’ she said.

Jesús did not answer. He had abandoned many sententious ideas about women but he still stuck to a number of firm resolutions about fatherhood, or at least was unwilling to admit that a crack was starting to show.

‘I’m goin’ with you to Zif. I’ll walk back. I need the exercise.’

‘You’ve just had some with me,’ Cyrille observed.

‘No’ enough! Cheeky boy!’

‘No, stay!’ Laura said. ‘It’s better to say goodbye here.’

She kissed Cyrille, then Jesús, and went out, her travelling bag in her hand. They heard the car’s engine as it came out of the barn and turned down the rough track. Jesús poured himself a large glass of
cognac which he drank in quick mouthfuls, facing the fire. Simply and without boasting he explained to Jean that until meeting Laura he had led a marvellous life. Nothing touched him; everything was like water off a duck’s back. But she had skinned him, and now he felt everything with an almost painful acuteness. He had learnt the anxiety of waiting, the sadness of going away, and on the nights he was alone, it grieved him not to make love. Everywhere she left signs for him, those small signs of care a woman lavishes on the man she loves. How do these things happen? he demanded. Who was trying to get at him through Laura, who wanted to destroy his artistic solitude? His voice broke.

‘Jesús,’ Jean said, ‘you’re talking nonsense. You’re drowning in words. Be careful or you’ll start to believe it … And I know you won’t believe it, but you’re going to listen to me tell you again that Laura has demolished your fixed ideas in order to uncover the artist you really are. Since she came into your life you’ve been painting for yourself, you’ve shown La Garenne the door, and you’ve started signing your pictures Jesús Infante, which is an exceptionally fine name for a painter. It makes me happy, Jesús, that you’re unhappy when Laura goes away. It’s good for you! In the past you were mostly getting away with a generous tip and a kick up the backside. You shoved all those girls unceremoniously out of the way to make space for Laura.’

‘You think so?’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘An’ who decided all that?’

‘That’s the big question.’

Cyrille had gone upstairs to see his mother. He was coming back. Halfway down the stairs he called to Jean.

‘Yes.’

‘You have to come upstairs, Maman’s crying.’

Jesús looked reproachfully at Jean. Claude was crying and someone or something was behind it, even if one accepted the notion that women easily became sad. The Spaniard shrugged. Jean met Cyrille on the stairs.