Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

‘I’m so pleased to see you again, Jean! A few days ago I was telling myself I’d probably never see anyone from Grangeville again. Deep down I was convinced I’d left it all behind, but this morning when Toinette came to tell me you’d telephoned I suddenly couldn’t wait; I wanted you to be there at once. Come and kiss me. We’re old friends — and I’ve always considered you as my son. Like a second son, one who might have loved me a little … because … the first … Oh, let’s not talk about it. It’s of no interest … See, I’ve become quite chatty, haven’t I? Spending four or five hours every morning in my little boat, all alone, I tell myself stories and when I set foot on dry land it all spills out. Then I shut up again. What are you looking at? Yes, it’s my garage, my workshop, my shed. I’ve got my nets, my lines, my tools … and there’s my last love — you’ll remember her …’

At the back of the garage a waxed tarpaulin covered the shape of a car. Antoine pulled on a rope that ran through a block and the tarpaulin rose, revealing the 3.3-litre Bugatti 57S in which he had driven away from La Sauveté.

‘Obviously she’s not really presentable, except to those in the know. I greased the chromework and the chassis’s up on blocks, so the wheels hardly touch the floor. I know it spoils her lines, but the tyres won’t rot so quickly. I’ve covered the inner tubes with talc. Twice a week I start her up … Wait …’

He sat behind the wheel and tugged the ignition switch. The engine started instantly, perfectly on song.

‘There,’ Antoine said, ‘a little treat for her. She’ll have started three times this week. Can’t afford to spoil her like that too often. I’ve only got two hundred litres of petrol in cans to last till the end of the war. You know that with the 57S you can do the same trick they do with a Rolls-Royce …’

He took a bronze two-sous piece out of his pocket, opened the bonnet, and balanced it on its edge on the cylinder head. The coin stayed upright for several seconds before a stronger vibration of the engine made it fall over.

‘Obviously,’ Antoine said, ‘that wouldn’t happen if it wasn’t on blocks.’

The tarpaulin descended, covering the Bugatti again.

‘They tell me you’re not on your own?’

‘No,’ Jean said. ‘Actually I left Paris to come here with a friend whose little boy badly needs some sun.’

‘Is she divorced?’

‘Not yet. Her husband’s in London.’

‘I look forward to seeing her.’

He said it with the indifference of a man happy with the few friends he had.

‘I haven’t got a lot of news to tell you,’ Jean said. ‘Antoinette’s written. Michel is in Paris. Last month a gallery on the Left Bank had an exhibition of his pictures.’

‘So he really wants to be an artist? It’s a case of spontaneous generation in our family.’

Antoine sat down on his stool to carry on winding his line. The lead weights lay on top of each other, and in the middle of the basket the line coiled up like a lasso.

‘I’m not bored,’ he told Jean. ‘I like this kind of work. You need two or three hours to get a line straight again, and then a few seconds for it all to uncoil into the sea. Time was, I had about thirty trawlers all working for me and never felt the slightest urge to go on board any of them. Now I fish on my own, grandpa out in his boat, and it gives me more pleasure than you can possibly imagine. I didn’t know it, but this was the life I always wanted. I don’t need anything, which is perfect because I don’t own anything, except for my lovely Bugatti that may never go again. There’s a risk that this war will last as long as the first one. It’s not my business … or hardly … Were you old enough to be called up?’

‘Yes, I enlisted in September 1939.’

‘I don’t suppose your father thought much of that. How is he?’

‘Fairly well, I think … I haven’t seen him since then. He works for Madame du Courseau. Antoinette sends me news.’

‘I say your father … it’s a manner of speaking, obviously, as we’re never going to know whose child you really are.’

‘I’ve found out.’

‘Ah!’

Antoine stood up and reached for a meerschaum pipe, carved in the shape of a Moor’s head with a silver lid, from a rack above a tobacco jar. He filled it with tobacco.

‘I’d be wiser not to smoke,’ he said. ‘Tobacco’s getting scarce and Théo, who keeps me supplied, must be paying a small fortune for it. You don’t smoke?’

‘Not very often.’

‘That’s good.’

Jean hesitated. Was he going to tell him? Here in this shed, with its door open onto a wide beach of sand soaked by the last few days’ rain? The sea was quieter now, and empty. Order reigned inside the shed: nets meticulously tidied, oars leaning against the wall, every tool hanging in its place. A three-horsepower diesel motor, well greased, was hooked onto a trestle. Antoine followed Jean’s gaze.

‘A good little motor. I made do with it very nicely before the war. Now there’s no more fuel. I stripped it down to wait for happier days. It doesn’t have reverse, so the trick is to cut the throttle at the right moment. You can brake with the oars too, of course. Now I row with all my might and have a lateen sail. I never go far, but I usually come back with about ten kilos of fish. We keep what we need and Théo exchanges the rest for olive oil and sugar. We have everything we need …’

‘Aren’t you curious to know whose son I am?’

Antoine relit his pipe.

‘The annoying thing about the tobacco you get on the black market is that the smugglers sell it by weight. So they soak it. The first thing you have to do is dry it. You’re left with about half what you paid for … You want to know if I’m curious to hear whose son you are? Perhaps. Is it someone I know?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah! Come with me. Let’s walk along the beach a bit. I like to stretch my legs. I’m almost always sitting down, in my boat or in my shed.’

They heard Marie-Dévote calling from the terrace of the hotel.

‘Antoine!’

He cupped his hands to his mouth.

‘We’re going for a stroll, we’ll be back.’

She gave a gentle wave and watched them go.

‘She’s a woman of complete, perfect goodness,’ he said. ‘A man as clumsy and demanding as me could have spoilt her, ruined her. She’s stayed the way she was when I met her. Better still, she’s improved. She had a good head on her shoulders and I didn’t even notice it. I only saw her body, only heard her lovely singsong accent.’

Jean was surprised to hear emotion in the voice of this man who had so rarely shown any. It was love: Antoine had stumbled on love, and love had not let him down. They took their shoes off and walked across the cool sand. The tramontana was shooing the last clouds towards the reddening horizon.

‘You know, it’s such a joy to walk barefoot, Jean. I learnt that here …’

He fell silent until they were at the far end of the beach, near a large grey rock.

‘Let’s go back now,’ he said. ‘So whose son are you?’

‘Geneviève’s.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as I can be.’

‘To tell you the truth, I had my suspicions, but I found it hard to believe that Marie-Thérèse would hide it from me. Idiotic woman! She kept us apart. In the name of what, I’d like to know! Propriety? Morality? Because of what people would say? It’s a disgrace, you know; I loved Geneviève. She led her life the way she wanted to, and so she should. Does she know you’re her son?’

‘She might have her suspicions too. I’m not sure. I have a feeling she might have decided, once and for all, that she never had a child.’