Jean-Claude Mourlevat - Winter's End

Jahn was not used to opposition and was left speechless by the angry woman now already on her way to the door and about to march out of it.

“I am not staying in this hole!” she went on. “Nor is Milena. We’re not dolls to be taken out to make the place look good and then put back in the cupboard once the visitors have gone.”

“I just wanted to make sure you avoided any risks,” Jahn pointed out calmly. “You two are very valuable to the cause, as you well know, Dora.”

“Save your breath, Jahn,” Dora interrupted him. “I’m very fond of you, but it’s no use arguing. This discussion is now closed. Come on, Milena.”

Bartolomeo was torn between astonishment and admiration. He had never before heard anyone speak to Mr. Jahn so fiercely.

After this outburst, oddly enough, the atmosphere in the car was more cheerful and relaxed. It was as if Dora’s anger had done everyone good, first and foremost herself; it had been on her mind for a long time. Jahn too, for he was tired of secrets and the necessity for silence. And finally Bart and Milena, who would now be able to stay in the fight together.

The two men replied freely to questions now, describing the hundreds of meetings that had been held over the last few months in cellars and garages, the underground work of thousands of invisible but determined partisans. Their supporters were waiting only for the signal, they revealed, and then the revolt would begin. It was a matter of days now, no more.

The two cars had turned back and then branched off on a road going north. Bartolomeo soon recognized the moorland landscape and the moss-grown rocks. This time it seemed only a short way to the horse-men’s village.

Faber and his wife had waited up late to welcome their visitors. They were upset to think they had received them so grudgingly last time and were determined to make up for it. They succeeded. Roberta was wearing a pretty flowered dress and pink lipstick. Her husband was barely recognizable in a suit that could have accommodated two men of normal size. A comb had left shining furrows in his black hair.

Seeing the gigantic horse-man appear before her, Milena felt that she was suddenly in one of the stories she had read as a little girl, tales in which peaceful giants held children in the palms of their hands. Bart hadn’t been able to keep from telling her how Faber had crushed the Phalangists in his kitchen. She had doubted the story, but now that she saw the colossus in front of her and the new ceiling above their heads, she had to believe it was true. Jahn made the introductions. As soon as he said that Milena was the daughter of Eva-Maria Bach, Roberta clasped her hands, saying breathlessly, “Oh, how like her mother she is! Oh, my God, she’s so like her! And can you sing too, Miss Bach?”

“I’m learning,” Milena modestly replied, to the great amusement of those who had heard her a few hours earlier.

They sat down at the table — a new one, like the ceiling — and Roberta brought in beer. Faber dispensed smiles all around, delighted to have all these people in his house. The gradual revival of the leader of the horse-men was complete now, and it was a pleasure to see the change in him.

“Well, Faber?” said Jahn. “Have you managed to assemble your men?”

“I think so, Mr. Jahn. There are groups all over the country, ready to fight. A good number here in this village. I don’t know quite how many, but a lot. You’ll see them tomorrow morning.”

Then Lando, the head chef, raised a particular problem: how to bring this fighting force of horse-men to the capital when the moment came? None of them could drive.

“Walking’s best,” replied Faber. “A pair of legs never breaks down. It’ll take three days; that’s nothing.”

“Three days is far too long,” growled Lando.

“No, Faber’s right,” Bart put in. “If they go on foot and separately, it’ll be harder to pick them up than if they’re traveling by bus or car. They’ll be on all the roads coming from the north, the south, everywhere. And the rest of the population will join them. It’ll be a human tide converging on the capital. The Phalangists can’t intervene everywhere. They’ll be overwhelmed.”

He went on in this vein, picturing the irresistible advance of the horse-men while all the other supporters of a free society rallied to them. His black eyes were blazing. Milena looked at him with love and admiration. He might be only seventeen, but he wasn’t afraid of arguing with older men, and they treated him as an equal.

“I’ll speak to them tomorrow,” he added, without waiting for anyone to agree with him. “I’ll explain what’s at stake, and they’ll listen to me.”

“Yes,” Faber confirmed. “They’re expecting you to speak to them anyway, Casal.”

Now Jahn spoke, but gradually Milena realized that she was no longer following what he said. His words echoed around in her head without making sense. She felt dizzy, lost consciousness, and came around in the powerful arms of Roberta, who was laying her down on the bench, pushing the men aside.

“White as a sheet, poor little thing! Has she had anything to eat recently?”

The others realized that in fact Milena had eaten nothing the evening before, nor indeed had Dora. A long day’s work, all the emotion of the recital, the drive, the cold, and a glass of beer on an empty stomach had been too much for her.

“You great brutes!” the tall horse-woman scolded them all, cutting a slice of cake. “There you go, starting revolts, and you don’t notice a girl fainting under your very noses! And Miss Bach at that! I won’t let you forget this in a hurry!”

The incident brought the evening to an end. The visitors were to sleep in the nearby houses. Milena and Dora, after having something to eat and drink at last, were given the Fabers’ huge double bed; its owners were staying the night with relatives at the other end of the village. Bartolomeo and Lando went to the house of one of the horse-men who had been on the drive with them. The enormous Jocelin flatly refused to leave Jahn and insisted on putting him up at his own house. “I’ll protect you day and night, Mr. Jahn, that I will!”

When they woke up, Dora and Milena heard the staircase creaking. Still drowsy, they emerged from under the eiderdown to see the large figure of Roberta coming upstairs with a tray in her hands.

“They tell me musicians and suchlike artists have breakfast in bed, so here we are! Coffee, bread and butter, jam. Anything else you ladies would like?”

“This is more than enough for us ladies!” said Dora, laughing. “It’s paradise!”

“Now, you mustn’t make fun of us. I’m sure you’ve stayed in the best hotels.”

“I’m not making fun, Roberta. This is much better than the best hotels. You’re very kind.”

“Mitzi didn’t bother you too much?”

“Not at all,” said Milena. “She slept in her own chair like a good kitty. Look at her.”

The large cat twitched one lazy ear to greet her mistress. Curled up in the chair, she looked like an enormous ginger cushion.

Roberta put the tray down on the bed and opened the shutters. Cold air and white light invaded the room. “There’s fog and frost this morning,” said the horse-woman. “You’ll need to wrap up well to go out. There now, I’ll leave you to eat your breakfast.”

Sure enough, the two women couldn’t see more than five yards ahead of them in the village square, where they joined a group of some twenty men, including Faber, who towered half a head above everyone else; Bartolomeo, muffled in his black scarf; the head chef, Lando, who was freezing; and Jahn, with the faithful Jocelin still beside him.

“What’s going on, Bart?” Milena asked.