J. Janes - Kaleidoscope

He was in silhouette sharply defined and he wanted her to walk out there to him. That, she could not do. ‘My name is not Delphane!’ she shrilled, trembling with sudden anger. ‘How can you say such a thing?’

She was up in the seats of this little forum she thought a theatre or perhaps even a colosseum. St-Cyr thanked that boyhood intuition that was still with him after all these years. Think as a child, and a child you will find.

Again he tossed an indifferent hand. ‘All right, mademoiselle, then is it Buemondi who fathered you and your sister? Come, come, I need to know the answer and must hear it from yourself.’

She rested her arms on her knees and saw him along the sight of the crossbow and above the shaft of the arrow. She could kill him easily.

‘Carlo made the mask of me and the body casts, Monsieur the Detective from Paris. Carlo has allowed me to see myself as I really am. Wanton, monsieur. Lustful and with no shame for the urges of my body. Ah yes, Inspector, I have slept with my father many times and enjoyed it immensely!’

Ah Nom de Dieu! ‘And your sister?’ he shouted but knew the girl had vanished.

Picking his way through the blocks of stone, St-Cyr came out on to a broad avenue and looked uncertainly along it towards the walls that surrounded the citadel. Instinctively his shoulders flinched and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

She was behind him and he knew that if he turned, she’d fire that thing at him. ‘And your sister?’ he asked again, lowering his voice to a calmness he did not feel.

The girl’s voice grated. ‘My sister loathes the very sight of me, Inspector. She’s always hated me because Alain Borel is mine ! Alain could not divide one heart among two lovers. Oh for sure, Josette-Louise, she envies me. She even let Carlo make the mask of her and lay naked under his hands while the body casts, they were made. She exposed herself to him many times and tried to let him have the use of her body, but it was no good. I was not present. Me, I refused absolutely to be a witness to it. And the face you see in her mask, Inspector, is the lie of her outgoing self, for she has failed miserably at everything she ever tried to do except be the virgin she is.’

‘A dancer,’ he said – it was not a question.

‘Yes!’ she answered. ‘Actress, designer’s mannequin and artist’s model – even at prostituting herself, she could not succeed.’

‘Then why didn’t you go to Paris?’ he asked, fearing the iron-tipped bolt of that thing in her hands; feeling he had asked too much.

There was no answer.

Just before dawn the boy, Bebert Peretti, came up to the ruins with bread and a bowl of caf e blanc made with real coffee and milk.

‘It is to be a treat for her, monsieur,’ he said gravely. ‘It is because grand-mere wishes to tell her the agony will soon be over. The soldiers, they have the guns and they ring both the village and the fortress.’

St-Cyr threw up his eyes to the heavens above. He could not help but cry out from the soul, God, why have you not allowed us to prevent it?

Only silence gave answer. Eventually he filled his lungs, catching the breath of sage, thyme and mimosa.

‘Bebert, today is to be your day and me, I know exactly how much you and your grandmother love the Mademoiselle Josianne-Michele. She is the sweetheart of your dreams, and by your silence, you are trying not only to protect the village but her also. This I understand and admire because I’ve been a boy myself. But now you must go down through the village that is your home. Walk right through it, eh? Speaking to no one. Tell the Gestapo Munk that the leader of the maquis is in the citadel among the ruins and agrees to negotiate only with the Inspector Jean-Paul Delphane. Please, you may give the Inspector this. That one, he will understand.’

St-Cyr placed the kaleidoscope in the boy’s hand and closed his fingers over it with a gentle clasp and the terse shake of comrades. ‘Now go, and may God go with you.’

‘And the other one, monsieur? The Inspector from the Gestapo?’

‘Ah, yes, Hermann. Hermann, he must not try to join us. Tell him that we part as friends, knowing each respects the other for what we are. Men first, and detectives second.’

‘But he must not come.’

‘Hey, listen, my friend. That one is stubborn beyond belief, but this time absolutely, he must bend to my wishes. I do not wish to see him crucified.’

The boy raised the hand of farewell and the detective from the Surete watched as he threaded his way through the ruins and went down to the village.

Then he left the cafe blanc and the bread on a slab of stone and beside them both, placed a single piece of Roman glass and the scent bottle the two girls had found so long ago.

It was enough. It would have to be enough.

They were gathered on the road just below the ramparts of their village, about 200 souls in all. And the Abbe Roussel, gaunt, an old rook in flight, hastened down the narrow passageways to be with them.

Most were on their knees; some stood like cattle, dumb before the hammer that would kill them. Three were dead. Their bodies lay in the streets above on trampled snow where the bullets had caught them or one of the dogs. A woman had lost her baby; blood and brains were on hands that shook so hard, she could barely clasp them in prayer.

It was the morning of 23 December 1942. The dogs were being put back on the leash for a final pass through the village. Anyone found hiding would be shot on sight.

Kohler, freed of the handcuffs that had held him all night, clasped and then favoured first one bony wrist and then the other. Ludo Borel and the weaver stood with him, the woman constantly searching the heights and desperate.

Carlo Buemondi, lost and ludicrous in his black uniform, had finally realised what it all must mean for him.

Apart also, and alone, Jean-Paul Delphane drew on a cigarette in the frosty air, hiding whatever thoughts he might have.

The sun was sharp and it made oranger still the flame-coloured roofs of the village.

‘Buemondi is about to die in the battle for that hilltop,’ said Kohler quietly. ‘Oh for sure he’ll die the hero’s death and valour will be nailed to his tombstone, but he’ll die all the same.’

‘The Gestapo Munk will take over the Villa of the Golden Oracle and either sell or live in it,’ said the weaver emptily.

‘All that Anne-Marie wanted so much to keep for herself will be lost.’

‘And Buemondi’s heirs won’t get a sou,’ breathed Kohler, watching her intently. ‘Heirs that might have had a rightful claim will not be able to raise their voices in objection because they, too, will be silenced, as will this hillside.’

‘ Viviane, tell him! ’ seethed the herbalist, his fists doubled in frustration.

‘ I can’t, Ludo! Don’t you see, I can’t ?’

Still she hadn’t turned to face them. ‘There’s only one of your daughters up on that hilltop, Mademoiselle Viviane,’ said Kohler firmly. ‘With Madame Buemondi dead, that daughter stood to have a life of financial freedom because, though bastard and lecher he is, Carlo Buemondi would have kept her.’

‘Josette was suicidal,’ said Borel, uneasy at the turn of things. ‘Mademoiselle Viviane took her many times to Paris, to Zurich and to Chamonix for treatment.’

‘Who paid for it?’

Ah merde , must this Gestapo betray such a harsh inquisitiveness? ‘Me, I never knew, monsieur, and she never said.’

‘Listen, my friend, don’t be an idiot and hold out on me now. Delphane paid up, eh? The village … Gott im Himmel , think of the village.’