Beauloye's daughter? The girl in dark lipstick. How old was she, anyway? Fifteen?
Antoine parked his bicycle behind the church. Henri did the same. Antoine knew how to look around and see everything without moving his head. They would go in separately, Antoine first, then a minute later, himself. Smoke a cigarette, lean against the wrought iron railing, stub it out, sigh, curse maybe, as if you were thinking of having to go home to a woman like Antoine's wife. The heavy wooden door squeaked open. The gloom was blinding.
Shivering already. Fear or cold? He didn't know. He swore the stone was set. High stone, a small candle flickering in the distance. He touched the water in the font, crossed himself, genuflected. He moved toward the altar, genuflected again, slipped in next to Antoine, Léon just beyond them.
Base Bail.
The words said precisely in English behind him. Emilie Boccart. It was the cigarettes, that voice. He didn't turn, but he wanted to. She was what, forty, forty-live, and still he wanted a look at her. Long, low-slung breasts; her nipples would be erect in the cold. Her coat was open, he had seen her from the back coming up the aisle. If he turned, he could look at the outline of her breasts through the cloth of her blouse. She was Jauquet's lover. Jauquet, who had a wife and five children.
It's a game. An American game, she said. Léon coughed.
Then Léon whispering to Antoine, so that Henri could hear too. And any minute the words could change to a prayer. Emilie would be watching, begin to pray in an audible voice. Hail Mary, Mother of God … A simple signal.
Lehouk found two of the Americans already. One has a wound to the arm. The other's in shock, no memory of anything, not even his name. They've already been taken to Vercheval.
And the wounded man from the plane? Antoine speaking.
With Dinant. She's keeping him. He's too badly hurt.
Antoine angry now. She was told …
Léon raising a hand. There's no persuading her, Chi-may. I tried.
The other?
With Bastien.
Where's Jauquet?
St. Laurent.
Telling the Germans, Henri thought, shifting his weight.
Again the hoarse voice behind him.
He's afraid he'll never play
Base Ball.
Who's afraid?
The man with the broken arm. He says he's a
Base Ball
player.
We don't have much daylight, Antoine said. We've got to cover the woods.
I’ll go. A thin voice from behind and the left. Dussart. The boy with the missing car. An accident in the quarry. Pale and thin and blond, the hair grown long to cover the bad ear. He volunteered for everything. A wild streak in him that bore some watching. If it hadn't been for the war, Henri thought, the boy would have fled Belgium, gone to Marseilles, Amsterdam.
Dussart. Then Henri. Then Dolane, another dairy farmer. Van der Elst, the butcher. Van der Elst hid Jews above the shop. Once he had been raided, but his wife, Elise, had sent the refugees over the roof to Monsieur Gosset.
Any other planes? Antoine again.
No, just the one. The pilot was trying for the Heights.
Antoine considered. Antoine could kneel only on the left knee, the right injured in an accident with explosives. A tiny candle in a red glass. Jesus hanging from the cross, the blood in exaggerated drops on the Saviour's side. As a kid, it made him ill. The smell was mildew, he was sure of it. Even in the summer, the place was damp.
Emilie, tell Duceour and Hainaert. Léon, go back to the hotel.
I can't.
Why not?
I sent Chiméne this morning to say I was sick.
Tell them you're better.
Léon coughing and rising. His breath making small puffs on the frigid air.
Antoine turning now to Henri. Can you take another? He meant in addition to the old woman from Antwerp. Henri nodded. The old woman was going to die anyway. Maybe even today. A scuffle of shoes behind him. Emilie, Dussart, Dolane leaving. He heard the sharp report of high heels on the stone floor; he loved that sound. It was worth the Mass on Sundays.
The candle still flickering. Who had
Antoine parked his bicycle behind the church. Henri did the same. Antoine knew how to look around and see everything without moving his head. They would go in separately, Antoine first, then a minute later, himself. Smoke a cigarette, lean against the wrought iron railing, stub it out, sigh, curse maybe, as if you were thinking of having to go home to a woman like Antoine's wife. The heavy wooden door squeaked open. The gloom was blinding.
Shivering already. Fear or cold? He didn't know. He swore the stone was set. High stone, a small candle flickering in the distance. He touched the water in the font, crossed himself, genuflected. He moved toward the altar, genuflected again, slipped in next to Antoine, Léon just beyond them.
Base Bail.
The words said precisely in English behind him. Emilie Boccart. It was the cigarettes, that voice. He didn't turn, but he wanted to. She was what, forty, forty-live, and still he wanted a look at her. Long, low-slung breasts; her nipples would be erect in the cold. Her coat was open, he had seen her from the back coming up the aisle. If he turned, he could look at the outline of her breasts through the cloth of her blouse. She was Jauquet's lover. Jauquet, who had a wife and five children.
It's a game. An American game, she said. Léon coughed.
Then Léon whispering to Antoine, so that Henri could hear too. And any minute the words could change to a prayer. Emilie would be watching, begin to pray in an audible voice. Hail Mary, Mother of God … A simple signal.
Lehouk found two of the Americans already. One has a wound to the arm. The other's in shock, no memory of anything, not even his name. They've already been taken to Vercheval.
And the wounded man from the plane? Antoine speaking.
With Dinant. She's keeping him. He's too badly hurt.
Antoine angry now. She was told …
Léon raising a hand. There's no persuading her, Chi-may. I tried.
The other?
With Bastien.
Where's Jauquet?
St. Laurent.
Telling the Germans, Henri thought, shifting his weight.
Again the hoarse voice behind him.
He's afraid he'll never play
Base Ball.
Who's afraid?
The man with the broken arm. He says he's a
Base Ball
player.
We don't have much daylight, Antoine said. We've got to cover the woods.
I’ll go. A thin voice from behind and the left. Dussart. The boy with the missing car. An accident in the quarry. Pale and thin and blond, the hair grown long to cover the bad ear. He volunteered for everything. A wild streak in him that bore some watching. If it hadn't been for the war, Henri thought, the boy would have fled Belgium, gone to Marseilles, Amsterdam.
Dussart. Then Henri. Then Dolane, another dairy farmer. Van der Elst, the butcher. Van der Elst hid Jews above the shop. Once he had been raided, but his wife, Elise, had sent the refugees over the roof to Monsieur Gosset.
Any other planes? Antoine again.
No, just the one. The pilot was trying for the Heights.
Antoine considered. Antoine could kneel only on the left knee, the right injured in an accident with explosives. A tiny candle in a red glass. Jesus hanging from the cross, the blood in exaggerated drops on the Saviour's side. As a kid, it made him ill. The smell was mildew, he was sure of it. Even in the summer, the place was damp.
Emilie, tell Duceour and Hainaert. Léon, go back to the hotel.
I can't.
Why not?
I sent Chiméne this morning to say I was sick.
Tell them you're better.
Léon coughing and rising. His breath making small puffs on the frigid air.
Antoine turning now to Henri. Can you take another? He meant in addition to the old woman from Antwerp. Henri nodded. The old woman was going to die anyway. Maybe even today. A scuffle of shoes behind him. Emilie, Dussart, Dolane leaving. He heard the sharp report of high heels on the stone floor; he loved that sound. It was worth the Mass on Sundays.
The candle still flickering. Who had
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