Graeme Burnet: The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

Anaïs liked to tell Manfred the story of how she and his father had met. Gottwald had crossed the border for the Bastille Day celebrations. There was a fete in the square next to the Restaurant de la Cloche. It was an unusually hot day, even for July. Anaïs was seventeen. She and a friend wandered round the stalls sampling the wares on offer. They had drunk two or three glasses of rough cider, which had gone straight to their heads. Anaïs’s friend, Elisabeth, spotted Gottwald. He was standing at a stall, drinking a glass of beer and blatantly appraising the girls who walked by. Elisabeth insisted that they go over and talk to him. Anaïs was reluctant. She had no experience with men, but Elisabeth was already on her way. She stood shyly at her friend’s shoulder as she introduced them. Gottwald kissed their hands and said, ‘ Enchanté, mademoiselles,’ in a heavy accent that made them both giggle. Soon they were strolling through the crowds together, Elisabeth gaily telling Gottwald all about herself. She was a striking, self-confident girl who, Anaïs suspected, had already had her share of men. Anaïs studied Gottwald closely. He was not handsome in the conventional way — he was too short for that — but there was something in his demeanour and in his twinkling black eyes that fascinated her. It was clear that Gottwald did not understand half of what Elisabeth was saying, but he kept his eyes intensely fixed on her. Anaïs found herself wishing that her friend would stop wittering so that Gottwald could turn his gaze on her.

They paused at a stall and Gottwald bought them each another cider. Elisabeth had to excuse herself for a moment. As soon as she was gone, Gottwald looked Anaïs straight in eye and said, ‘I’m glad she’s gone. She talks too much, but I’d like to see you again.’

Anaïs felt a quickening in her throat. The idea that this swarthy foreigner preferred her to her more beautiful, charming friend was intoxicating. Before she knew it, she had agreed to meet Gottwald the following day. Nothing was said when Elisabeth returned.

That next day Gottwald and Anaïs went for a walk in the woods. It was cool beneath the foliage. They didn’t talk much. Anaïs had no idea what to say to a man, but before the afternoon was out, Gottwald kissed her. She had her back to a tree and felt overwhelmed by the weight and powerful odour of the man. She almost fainted with passion, she told Manfred. The relationship continued in secret — Gottwald was not the sort of man Anaïs would dream of introducing to her father — until it became impossible to conceal. That was when Gottwald asked her to marry him.

Anaïs finally died when Manfred was fifteen. She had not left the house for two years and had grown as thin and papery as an old woman. Manfred’s grandfather came to talk to him one evening shortly after the funeral. At a certain age, he explained, a man had to make his own way in the world. Two years later, after Manfred had failed his baccalauréat , his grandfather summoned him to his study. This was a room on the first floor of the house which Manfred was normally forbidden to enter. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with legal volumes and in the centre of the floor was a large antique desk. There was a fireplace, but M. Paliard did not approve of unnecessary heating and even in the depths of winter he refused, as an example to the other members of the household, to light a fire, preferring to sit over his papers bundled in a hat and scarf in a fug of frosted breath and pipe smoke. Manfred was summoned to the study only to discuss matters of grave import.

Upon entering, Manfred remained standing in the centre of the room for a good five minutes while his grandfather reached the end of the document he was reading. This did not trouble Manfred. It was a matter of indifference to him how his grandfather treated him. M. Paliard removed his reading glasses and indicated with a gesture of his hand that Manfred should sit. He had a long, craggy face, with narrow pale blue eyes set under a heavy forehead. He was almost completely bald and had a wiry grey beard. Manfred had difficulty recalling an occasion on which he had seen him smile.

‘I have spoken to an associate of mine, a Monsieur Jeantet,’ he began without preamble. ‘Jeantet is the manager of Société Générale on Rue de Mulhouse. He has agreed to take you on, which, under the circumstances, is most charitable of him. You begin on Monday and will be paid after two weeks. I suggest you begin looking for an apartment right away. I will loan you the first month’s rent and deposit.’

At the end of his little speech, M. Paliard did something he had never done before. He rose from his seat and poured two small glasses of sherry from a decanter sitting on a silver tray in the window recess. Manfred had never noticed the decanter there before and wondered if his grandfather had had it brought in specially for the occasion. Not only had Manfred never been invited to share a drink with his grandfather, he had never seen him pour a drink for himself. Normally the maid would be summoned for such tasks. Nevertheless, M. Paliard not only poured the drinks, but handed Manfred’s to him, before resuming his seat. The two men (for the gesture was clearly intended to mark Manfred’s passing into manhood) sipped their sherry in silence. Ten minutes later, M. Paliard stood up to, somewhat awkwardly, indicate that the audience was over.

The following day, Manfred’s grandmother took him to Mulhouse to be fitted for a suit. As the tailor fussed around with his measuring tape, Mme Paliard insisted, to Manfred’s embarrassment, that the suit should leave some room for growth. Nevertheless, Manfred took some pleasure in the experience. Wearing a suit bestowed gravitas. The image that looked back at him from the tailor’s mirror was not the gauche schoolboy he so despised. Afterwards they went for lunch in a smart bistro. Mme Paliard chatted cheerfully through the meal about what a splendid opportunity his new job was. Manfred knew that in reality she was disappointed in him, but he said nothing to contradict her. They shared a bottle of wine, something they would never have done if Manfred’s grandfather had been present, and at the end of the meal Mme Paliard burst into tears and told Manfred that he must still come to the house for his meals whenever he wished and that his room would always be there for him. Manfred was fond of his grandmother and pitied her being left alone with his grandfather. He thanked her and promised to visit regularly.

When Manfred arrived at the bank on Monday morning, M. Jeantet immediately ushered him into his office. He was a round man with a red face and mutton chop whiskers. He wore an old-fashioned herringbone suit over a moth-eaten green cardigan. M. Jeantet cultivated an air of genial bonhomie. He greeted his clients with a vigorous handshake and much backslapping and fussed over them like long-lost friends. He habitually patted the female members of staff on the behind and enjoyed making saucy insinuations about their appearance or how they spent their weekends. This he did without discrimination of age or beauty, no doubt to avoid offending anyone he left out. At first Manfred was surprised at the good humour with which his new colleagues tolerated this behaviour, but he soon realised that behind his back they had any number of unflattering nicknames for the boss. It was difficult to believe that Manfred’s grandfather regarded this man as an ‘associate’.

Jeantet guided Manfred into his office by the elbow and towards two leather armchairs, uttering a series of proclamations about how delighted he was to have such a bright young man on board.

‘Sit down, my boy, sit down,’ he exhorted. ‘That’s a fine suit you’re wearing. A little loose if I may say, but that’s the way you young chaps are wearing them these days. I’m old-fashioned myself, or so my wife tells me. But I say quality never goes out of style, eh? What do you say? Ha ha.’