Read Online The World at Night by Alan Furst - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alan Furst
Ads: Link
himself, he would make his way to the military airfield at Vouziers, not all that far away, and request reassignment.
Meneval said he would leave immediately for home, just outside Paris. His family needed him, especially his wife, who’d been absolutely certain that he was gone forever.
“You understand,” Degrave said, “that the fighting is going in that direction.”
“Yes, probably it’s not for the best,” Meneval said gloomily. “But, even so.” He shook hands and said good-bye and headed for the road.
Degrave turned to Casson. “And you, Corporal?”
“I’m not sure,” Casson said.
“What I would recommend,” Degrave said, “is that you make your way to Mâcon. There’s a small army base north of the city—it’s the Tenth Division of the XIV Corps. Ask for Captain Leduc, mention my name, tell him you are an isolée— a soldier separated from his unit. They’ll give you something to eat and a place to sleep, and you’ll be out of the way of, of whatever’s going to happen next.”
He paused a moment. “If the Germans ask, Corporal, it might be better not to mention that you were recalled to service. Or what you did. Other than that, I want to thank you, and to wish you luck.”
Casson saluted. Degrave returned the salute. Then they shook hands. “We did the best we could,” Degrave said.
“Yes,” Casson said. “Good luck, Captain.”
Casson headed for Mâcon. Sometimes, in a café, he heard the news on a radio. Nothing, he realized, could save them from losing the war. He left the roads, walked across the springtime fields. He ate bread he found in a bombed bakery in Châlons, tins of sardines a kind woman gave him in Chaumont. He was not always alone. He walked with peasant boys who’d run away from their units. He shared a campfire with an old man with a white beard, a sculptor, he said, from Brittany somewhere, who walked with a stick, and got drunk on some bright yellow stuff he drank from a square bottle, then sang a song about Natalie from Nantes.
As Casson watched, the country died. He saw a granary looted, a farmhouse burned by men in a truck, a crowd of prisoners in gray behind barbed wire. “We’ll all live deep down, now,” the sculptor said, throwing a stick of wood on the fire. “Twenty ways to prepare a crayfish. Or, you know, chess. Sanskrit poetry. It will hurt like hell, sonny, you’ll see.”
The villages were quiet, south of Dijon. The spaniel slept in the midday heat, the men were in the cafés at dusk, the breeze was soft in the faded light that led to evening, and the moon rose as it always had.
THE ADE PAGODA
20 August, 1940.
The silence of the empty apartment rang in his ears. The bed had been made—the concierge’s sister coming in to clean as she always did—and the only sign of his long absence was a dead fern. Still, he felt like a ghost returning to a former life. And he had to put the fern outside the door so he wouldn’t see it.
The heat was almost liquid. He opened the doors to the little balcony but it wasn’t all that much better outside. Hot, and wet. And still—as though all the people had gone away. Which they had, he realized. Either fled before the advancing Wehrmacht in June, or fled to the seashore on the first of August. Or both. Practical people on the rue Chardin.
He sat on the edge of the bed, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. The man who had lived here, the producer Jean Casson, Jean-Claude to his friends, little jokes, small favors, a half-smile, maybe we should make love— what had become of him? The last attempt at communication was propped against the base of a lamp on the bedside table. A message written in eyebrow pencil on the inside cover of a matchbook from the bar at the Plaza-Athenée. 34 56 08 it said, a phone number. Signed Bibi.
He’d spent a long time walking the roads, a long span of empty days in the barracks of a defeated army, and he’d thought, every day, about what had happened up on the
Meneval said he would leave immediately for home, just outside Paris. His family needed him, especially his wife, who’d been absolutely certain that he was gone forever.
“You understand,” Degrave said, “that the fighting is going in that direction.”
“Yes, probably it’s not for the best,” Meneval said gloomily. “But, even so.” He shook hands and said good-bye and headed for the road.
Degrave turned to Casson. “And you, Corporal?”
“I’m not sure,” Casson said.
“What I would recommend,” Degrave said, “is that you make your way to Mâcon. There’s a small army base north of the city—it’s the Tenth Division of the XIV Corps. Ask for Captain Leduc, mention my name, tell him you are an isolée— a soldier separated from his unit. They’ll give you something to eat and a place to sleep, and you’ll be out of the way of, of whatever’s going to happen next.”
He paused a moment. “If the Germans ask, Corporal, it might be better not to mention that you were recalled to service. Or what you did. Other than that, I want to thank you, and to wish you luck.”
Casson saluted. Degrave returned the salute. Then they shook hands. “We did the best we could,” Degrave said.
“Yes,” Casson said. “Good luck, Captain.”
Casson headed for Mâcon. Sometimes, in a café, he heard the news on a radio. Nothing, he realized, could save them from losing the war. He left the roads, walked across the springtime fields. He ate bread he found in a bombed bakery in Châlons, tins of sardines a kind woman gave him in Chaumont. He was not always alone. He walked with peasant boys who’d run away from their units. He shared a campfire with an old man with a white beard, a sculptor, he said, from Brittany somewhere, who walked with a stick, and got drunk on some bright yellow stuff he drank from a square bottle, then sang a song about Natalie from Nantes.
As Casson watched, the country died. He saw a granary looted, a farmhouse burned by men in a truck, a crowd of prisoners in gray behind barbed wire. “We’ll all live deep down, now,” the sculptor said, throwing a stick of wood on the fire. “Twenty ways to prepare a crayfish. Or, you know, chess. Sanskrit poetry. It will hurt like hell, sonny, you’ll see.”
The villages were quiet, south of Dijon. The spaniel slept in the midday heat, the men were in the cafés at dusk, the breeze was soft in the faded light that led to evening, and the moon rose as it always had.
THE ADE PAGODA
20 August, 1940.
The silence of the empty apartment rang in his ears. The bed had been made—the concierge’s sister coming in to clean as she always did—and the only sign of his long absence was a dead fern. Still, he felt like a ghost returning to a former life. And he had to put the fern outside the door so he wouldn’t see it.
The heat was almost liquid. He opened the doors to the little balcony but it wasn’t all that much better outside. Hot, and wet. And still—as though all the people had gone away. Which they had, he realized. Either fled before the advancing Wehrmacht in June, or fled to the seashore on the first of August. Or both. Practical people on the rue Chardin.
He sat on the edge of the bed, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. The man who had lived here, the producer Jean Casson, Jean-Claude to his friends, little jokes, small favors, a half-smile, maybe we should make love— what had become of him? The last attempt at communication was propped against the base of a lamp on the bedside table. A message written in eyebrow pencil on the inside cover of a matchbook from the bar at the Plaza-Athenée. 34 56 08 it said, a phone number. Signed Bibi.
He’d spent a long time walking the roads, a long span of empty days in the barracks of a defeated army, and he’d thought, every day, about what had happened up on the
Similar Books
