Adam Foulds - In the Wolf's Mouth

The Field Security unit were given a fine seaside mansion to inhabit. They weren’t told who had been there before. It was simply now theirs, capacious and comfortable with a steep stony garden, grand vistas of the sea and an ideal policeman’s view of the town below to the right. The first sensation was of trespass. The tiled floors gave a clipped response, the high ceilings seemed to know something. It took the men’s loud appropriation, curses, thrown kitbags and slammed doors, to take possession of the place. They discovered a dining room with a long walnut table and mirrors, several bathrooms with baths on clawed feet, canopied beds and simple servants’ beds.

Will and a few others were sent back to the waterfront to collect motorbikes. They returned roaring up the coast after a couple of hours to learn that Draycott had found them a cook. That evening they sat around the long table and ate a meal that would have seemed a hallucination back home: fresh meat, wine from small tulip-shaped glasses, fruits — nectarines and peaches — and soft cheese. The fruit was so colourful, like a platter of tiny Chinese lanterns glowing golden and rose, and so full of juice and flavour. They sucked and gasped.

‘We’re being seduced,’ Will said. ‘They’re trying to soften us up.’

‘That comes later,’ Travis said. ‘With the dusky maidens.’

‘Not tonight it doesn’t, I’m afraid, chaps,’ Draycott said. ‘Meeting in the town hall. Everyone’s got to be there. Laying down the law sort of affair. Apparently I’ve got to make a speech.’

The town hall was filled with voices and different uniforms. With sidelong glances the defeated French assessed the free French, the town’s police, the military police, the Senegalese soldiers, the Arabs, the stiff Englishmen, New Zealanders and Indians. It soon settled into a dullness, however, as speech after tedious speech was made. Captain Draycott had the pleasure of informing the assembly that Field Security now represented the highest civil authority in the city. Whether this was understood was hard to determine although it seemed unlikely. To overcome the language barrier, Captain Draycott had decided to address the audience in carefully correct schoolboy Latin. Will looked around at the various bored, attentive or murmuring faces. He thought that they weren’t really there to find out how the town would be run. They were there to show themselves, to see the others and draw their own conclusions. Later, outside, they would find out the rest.

Despite Draycott’s Latin, enough of what he’d said had been understood for the Field Security office to be immediately busy with visitors. The first to arrive was a small man with short, dense, dark hair, as smooth as velvet, rippling twice over rolls of flesh at the top of his nape. He held a leather portfolio with both hands and spoke rapid French from a puckering mouth. With none of the French speakers in the office, it fell to Will to try to determine the reason for his presence. Possibly Will would have understood the man if he’d been able to slow the tempo of his speech but each time Will tried to staunch the flow of words with outspread hands the man fell silent, watched, and then started again with the same incomprehensible gabble. He ended by pointing at himself with his thumb and nodding with great sincerity, drawing up his shoulders, the pantomime of a dignified man denying some affront.

‘I didn’t understand a word of that,’ Will said loudly. ‘You’ll have to wait.’

The man raised questioning eyebrows.

‘Sit,’ Will said and pointed to a chair. The man understood. He sat down, arranging his portfolio square across his lap.

Will returned to unloading into cabinets the prefabricated filing system.

The next visitor was a Monsieur Girardot, tall, with a kindly, vicarish stoop to his shoulders and fingers dappled yellow with nicotine stains. He spoke excellent English and explained that he was a landowner in a small way.

‘I hope that what I say to you now,’ he went on, ‘will be treated as a matter of confidence.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Because you see, I want to tell you what it is here. There are not many people for you to trust in this town. The truth is that everybody, ev-er-y-bo-dy, in this town is pro-Vichy. Of course they don’t say this to you now because you are here and you have the guns. Fine. So, I can give you details of the people to watch, for reasons of security. I can give you evidence of every person of substance, including, I am ashamed to say, my own brother Guillaume Girardot, being in league with the enemy.’

‘Can you?’

‘I am afraid so.’

‘I think perhaps I ought to introduce you to my superior, Captain Draycott. I’m sure he’d be very interested in what you have to say. Follow me.’

Will led M. Girardot — who was expressing his pleasure at the moral superiority of the English — down the corridor to Draycott’s room. He knocked, heard ‘come’, and entered.

‘Captain, this is M. Girardot. He is sympathetic to our cause and has some very interesting information about the local inhabitants.’

An hour later, Will heard Draycott ushering Girardot out of the building. Will went out to see Draycott, his face hanging heavily with relief, returning up the stairs. He caught sight of Will and tutted. ‘Why on earth did you send that awful man in to see me? He sat down without asking and betrayed pretty much everyone he knew, immediately, incontinently, including close family.’

I’m sorry, sir. I thought he might have some useful information. Sir, I’ve just had a thought. Will you excuse me a moment? He can be of use.’ Will dashed out past Draycott and called out after M. Girardot, still just within sight, about to turn a corner between crumbling white buildings. Will beckoned him back.

‘Thank you. I wonder, could you possibly translate for us what this chap’s trying to say.’

‘Of course I will help you.’

Shown the small man with the portfolio, M. Girardot said, ‘But I know him.’ The two men chatted in French for a moment. Girardot turned and said, ‘This is Monsieur Dusapin. He has been trying to explain to you that he is an executioner. He built his own guillotine so it is his property. He can work for you, it’s not a problem. He has photographs with him of his work he can show to you.’

‘He has photographs?’

‘Yes, he has.’

Hearing the word ‘photographs’, M. Dusapin began fiddling at the strings of his portfolio. ‘Tell him to stop,’ Will said. ‘Tell him I don’t want to see his disgusting photographs. Tell him we won’t be needing his services. There are thousands of our soldiers in the vicinity. A firing squad won’t be hard to find. There’s no need for us to recreate the terror of the French Revolution.’

Girardot, with a pained expression, translated. Dusapin began objecting. Head tilted to one side, looking at Will, Girardot listened and conveyed the executioner’s meaning to Will.

Will stopped him. ‘I’ve said we don’t want him. It’s time for him to leave.’

When they’d gone, Will plucked at his uniform, pulling it straight. Nausea surged with the anger that rose in him. Obscene, that executioner — soft, ingratiating, ambitious, argumentative, delicate. The rich hair on his head was somehow particularly sickening. Deeply, sinisterly French. He was precisely why the French should not have an empire. They weren’t clean and decent. Their order was that of a petty, sordid regime.

Will’s opinion of the French was reinforced rather than challenged by each of the colonials he encountered in the town. With little to occupy them, they drank too much, fornicated in shuttered rooms and paid frequent visits to the office to denounce each other as traitors. They drank so much that occasionally one of them would fall from a bar stool and die on the floor. Draycott mentioned a couple of distressing recent incidences of this happening in a morning meeting and Samuels raised his hand to say, ‘It’s the anisette, sir. It’s not safe.’