Marc came in late, followed shortly thereafter by Lucien, whose turn it was to do the shopping, and who had the day before asked Marc to get hold of two kilos of langoustines, if they looked fresh and if it looked easy to steal them.
‘It wasn’t easy,’ Marc said, putting the big bag of langoustines on the table. ‘Not at all easy. In fact what I did was pinch the bag belonging to the man ahead of me in the queue.’
‘Very ingenious,’ remarked Lucien. ‘You really do deliver, don’t you?’
‘Next time, try to have a craving for something simpler,’ said Marc.
‘That’s always been my problem,’ said Lucien.
‘You wouldn’t have made a very effective soldier, then, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Lucien stopped short in his preparations for supper, and looked at his watch. ‘Shit!’ he exclaimed. ‘The Great War!’
‘What about the Great War? Have you been called up? Does your country need you?’
Lucien put down the kitchen knife, with distress written all over his face.
‘It’s June 8,’ he said. ‘This is a disaster. I can’t cook the langoustines. I’m supposed to be at a commemorative dinner tonight, I can’t not go.’
‘Commemorative? Some mistake surely? It’s World War Two you commemorate at this time of year, and anyway it’s May 8 not June 8. You’ve mixed it up.’
‘No, no,’ said Lucien. ‘Yes, of course, the 1939-45 dinner was supposed to be on May 8. But they wanted to ask two veterans of the First War, so as to give it a more historical dimension, see? But one of them was ill. So they put the veterans’ night off for a month, so it’s tonight. I can’t miss it, it’s really so important: one of the veterans is ninety-five but he’s absolutely all there. I must meet him. It’s a choice between History and the langoustines.’
‘Guess it’ll have to be History then,’ said Marc.
‘Of course. I’m off to get changed.’
Lucien gave a final glance full of genuine regret at the kitchen table and went upstairs. Then he left the house at a run, asking Marc to save him a few langoustines for when he got home later that night.
‘You’ll be too drunk to appreciate this gourmet stuff,’ said Marc. But Lucien was out of earshot and running towards 1914-18.
XXVI
MATHIAS WAS ROUSED FROM SLEEP BY A SERIES OF SHOUTS. JUMPING out of bed, he went to the window. Lucien was standing in the street calling his name and Marc’s. He had climbed up onto a big rubbish bin, it wasn’t clear why; perhaps he thought his voice would carry better from there, but he looked very precarious. Mathias picked up the broom handle and knocked on the ceiling to wake Marc. Hearing no response, he decided to do without his help and reached Lucien just as the latter was tottering from his perch.
‘You’re completely pissed,’ said Mathias. ‘What is it with you, yelling at the top of your voice in the street, at two in the morning?’
‘Lost my keys,’ said Lucien indistinctly. ‘Took them out of my pocket to open the gate and dropped them. Really, I promise you. Just slipped out of my hands. Passing the Eastern Front. Couldn’t find them in the dark.’
‘You’re the one who’s lost. Come on in, we’ll find them in the morning.’
‘Noooo, I want my keys!’ Lucien wailed, with the childish petulance and insistence of someone who is seriously drunk.
He escaped Mathias’ grip and started fumbling around uncertainly, nose to the ground, in front of Juliette’s gate.
Mathias saw Marc, who had woken up in turn and was coming up the path. ‘What took you so long?’ said Mathias.
‘I’m not a caveman,’ said Marc. ‘I don’t jump at the first sound of a wild beast. But do get a move on. Lucien’s going to wake the whole neighbourhood, he’ll wake Kyril. And Mathias, do you realise you’re walking about stark naked? Not that I’ve anything against it, I’m just telling you.’
‘So what?’ said Mathias. ‘This idiot got me out of bed in the middle of the night.’
‘You’ll catch your death.’
In fact Mathias felt a warm glow in the small of his back. He couldn’t understand why Marc felt the cold so much.
‘It’s OK,’ he said, ‘I’m feeling quite warm.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ said Marc. ‘Come on you, take one arm and I’ll take the other, and we’ll get him indoors.’
‘No, no!’ cried Lucien. ‘I need my keys.’
Mathias sighed and went a few yards along the cobbled street. Perhaps the idiot had dropped them long before he got home. No, there they were, between two cobblestones. Lucien’s keys were easy to spot. They were attached to an old lead soldier with red trousers and blue cape. This kind of thing left him cold, but Mathias could see why Lucien was attached to them.
‘Found them,’ he said. ‘OK, now we can go in.’
‘There’s no need to hold on to me,’ said Lucien.
‘Just get going,’ said Marc, not letting him go. ‘We’ve still got to get you up to the third floor. There’s no end to this.’
‘Military stupidity and the immensity of the sea are the two things which convey the idea of infinity,’ said Mathias.
Lucien stopped short in the middle of the garden. ‘Where did you hear that?’ he said.
‘From a trench newspaper called Making Progress,’ he said. ‘It was in one of your books.’
‘I didn’t know you read my stuff,’ said Lucien.
‘It’s a good idea to know who you’re living with,’ said Mathias. ‘And meanwhile, let’s get cracking. I really am starting to feel cold now.’
‘Ah,’ said Marc. ‘What did I tell you?’
XXVII
NEXT MORNING AT BREAKFAST, MARC WAS AMAZED TO SEE LUCIEN tucking into the leftover langoustines with his morning coffee.
‘You’ve completely recovered, I see,’ he said.
‘Not entirely,’ said Lucien, pulling a face. ‘My head’s shot to bits.’
‘That should please you,’ said Mathias. ‘War wound.’
‘Ha ha, very funny,’ said Lucien. ‘These langoustines are excellent, Marc. You must have chosen a good fish shop. Next time take a salmon.’
‘What did your veteran have to say?’ asked Mathias
‘He was great. I’ve got a date to see him, week Wednesday. But I can’t remember much else about the evening.’
‘Shut up,’ said Marc, ‘I’m listening to the news.’
‘Why, what do you expect to hear?’
‘About the storm in Brittany. I want to hear what’s become of it.’
Marc was fascinated by storms, though he knew that was not very original. At least it gave him something in common with Alexandra. That was better than nothing. She had said she liked the wind. He put on the table his little transistor radio, covered with spots of white paint.
‘When we’re grown up, we’ll get a TV set,’ said Lucien.
‘Oh, can’t you shut up!’
Marc turned up the volume. Lucien was making an appalling din with his langoustine shells.
The morning news bulletin was being read. The French Prime Minister was meeting the German Chancellor. The Bourse was in a gloomy mood. The storms over Brittany were abating and moving towards Paris, but in less severe form. What a pity, Marc thought. Agence France Presse reported the discovery of the body of a man, in the car park of his hotel in Paris. The murdered man was named as Christophe Dompierre, aged forty-three, unmarried, no family, a delegate to the European conference. Was this a political crime? No other details had been released to the press.