Since the Perettis never spoke to the Borels and she was in the care of the former, if care is what it could be called, she might not have wanted them to know about it. Ah yes.
He walked away – did a wide sweep of the area, passing first up higher still, then coming downhill until he was well below the hearse and could see it standing out like God or the Devil, black and ridiculous against the bluest of skies, the orange of the tiles, and the glare from the ruins.
The gazogene that powered the hearse was, of necessity, on its roof. The cylinder for collecting the wood-gas was a cut-down water-tank salvaged from somewhere; the firebox, a small cast-iron stove whose chimney had been welded shut all but for its connection to the tank.
Copper tubing carried the inadequately compressed wood-gas to the engine, yielding perhaps at best sixty per cent of normal power.
If they hadn’t had the small pieces of wood to burn, the petit bois of green oak, they’d have removed the engine and hitched up the donkey or the horse. The roped-on wicker panniers for the wood only made it all the more ridiculous and pathetic. But why the smell? he asked. Bad sausage, eh? Bad something – Louis had known it too, but had said little about it. Indeed, the Frog was deep and quiet in these hills. It was as if he drove himself to commune with the dead, knowing the hills he had thought he might love so much held nothing for him but that same reward.
Kohler longed for a fag. He tried some rosemary, chewed on a bit of savoury, some wild marjoram and when he reached the olive trees, he saw the cottage as he tasted the forbidden fruit – fruit so black and bitter, he sucked on his cheeks but did not dare to spit.
The place was silent even in the ever-present wind. A pond, perhaps five metres in length and three in width at the most, was pale green and bordered by ferns and things that lived and died according to season. As if by some miracle of God, it was here that the water welled up to trickle past a weir and move the lily pads that had all but gone to sleep among the weeds that choked its floor.
Flagstones led round to the cottage. There were two short bits of wall, door-height, on either side of the small courtyard and all but covered with vines. Terracotta amphorae of Greek or Roman vintage stood near the unpainted door whose planks had been stained by the ages. A small casement window that opened outwards at the middle was half hidden by the nearest and shortest bit of wall. The roof was not of tiles but of slate, and the mortar between the stones had been newly pointed within the past ten or twenty years perhaps.
Another small window faced northward but was up high – in the loft perhaps, if there was one.
A stone wash-basin, rectangular and with three flower-pots at one corner, stood out in the small courtyard, a fishpond now perhaps.
There were clumps of greenery everywhere, whole draperies of it. Pines and cypresses nearby, and the olive trees.
It was verdant in a land of dryness. Louis would be ecstatic, but smoke issued from its chimney and the man from Bayonne had said he’d be waiting for them here.
Kohler paused to dip a hand and wash his face – one ought to freshen up before meeting the Establishment. Still, he drew the Walther P38 and, though feeling slightly off at having done so, went all the way and cocked it.
The aroma of sage-flavoured sausage and warm bread came to him, mingling with the pungency of the woodsmoke.
‘A moment, my old one,’ said Louis in a hush. ‘Please, I must see it as she must have done. Ah Mon Dieu, Hermann, it’s exquisite. Mistral could have written here; Balzac too. Fennel and chicory, shepherd’s purse, white nettle and wild celery.’
‘Cherries and olives and lemon trees.’
‘Yes, yes, figs too, and apricots.’ Louis took in a deep breath and held it.
‘And your friend,’ said Kohler only to see Louis give that quick little shake of the head.
‘The girl, I think. Delphane will have left us to discover what he, himself, was unable to find.’
The sausage was good, and with the cheese, the wine and soup, a repast fit for a king. St-Cyr broke off another chunk of bread. ‘Mademoiselle, you honour us in these hard times, eh, Hermann? All the food we want, while you sit like a starved cat watching us devour ten thousand ration tickets’ worth.’
‘Louis …’ began Kohler, stunned by the lack of tact in one who so often used it.
‘The “fork breakfast”, Hermann. One such as those who must labour all morning in the fields are given.’
‘It is … it is what I have thought you …’ The girl turned quickly away to hide her tears.
Kohler made a fist at his partner. ‘Louis, quit being a bastard,’ he said angrily. ‘The kid was only trying to make up for having bitten my thumb.’
‘Ah, forgive me, my old one. I thought she stole the food from Madame Peretti on the hill. But you are so pale and thin, mademoiselle, why will you not join us?’
‘Me, I have already eaten, monsieur! At dawn. The bowl of milk and the piece of bread, since there is no coffee.’
There were chicory and barley to roast – acorns too – but St-Cyr let it pass. Everyone was sick of the ersatz life, even here in these hills.
He cut off a fat chunk of the well-smoked sausage and, nudging her arm, offered the morsel. ‘Go on, take it. Madame can always make more, eh? Isn’t that what you thought when you stole these few things for us?’
Once she had tasted, she waited for more but was agonized by guilt perhaps and torn by fear – was it fear of reprisals? he wondered apprehensively.
Soon she was eating more than they and enjoying it. Ravenously!
With a sigh, she finally sat back. Not a crumb was left, though she searched for more. ‘Now perhaps, mademoiselle, you will tell us what has been going on here, eh? Your mother comes …’
‘My mother!’ she cried out, flinging a hand to cover her face and bursting into tears.
Both of them had to comfort her. St-Cyr found only hatred for himself but said, ‘Please, I know it is a terrible shock for you but we absolutely must know everything you can tell us.’
She shook her head. ‘I saw nothing. Nothing, messieurs! I was ill – all day the temperature, then the warnings I always get, then the spasms – twice, yes, yes, twice they came in the night, and then again.’
‘Who did your mother come to meet? That old woman on the hill? Come, come, Mademoiselle Buemondi, one would have to be an idiot not to notice the sausage mill and the goose livers for the pates.’
‘She … she …’
‘Was working a fiddle,’ sighed Kohler, loving it. ‘She was lugging food to Cannes and Bayonne, was that it?’ he laughed. ‘The black market, eh?’
‘Yes, yes, she was … was dealing in little things. One has to, isn’t that correct, Inspector?’
The rage was instant, the hatred all too clear in those dark, misty eyes. ‘She was doing it to buy the medicines for me, monsieur. Me! Her daughter who is ill.’
Kohler felt like a bastard. Louis said with all humbleness, ‘The phenobarbital, Hermann. A sedative and hypnotic’
‘The Dilantin, monsieur, the anticonvulsant, and the Diamox, the diuretic. Where, please, since you work for the Germans, are we who are so ill supposed to get our medicines if not on the black market?’
St-Cyr met her gaze, noting again how intense it was and how thin the face. ‘Even on the black market you would have no guarantee of what you were getting or of the strength,’ he said. A cold fish – he could see her thinking this. Her right eye appeared as if only slightly lower than the left. This hardened the expression and made it more remote perhaps than she wanted.
A small brown mole on the upper edge of the right cheekbone was just below the eye on the periphery of its hollow circle. The brows were wide and dark and extremely handsome, the nose exquisite – perfect in such a face, the lips … that slight pout of what? – iron discipline? he asked and said, Quite the finest lips. Given a little more meat on her bones, she would be absolutely beautiful, if in a haunting way. Yet now … now she was like a defiant angel, a paragon of virtue searching his dark soul and defying him to uncover her, but why?