Birdsong. Part 25

He crossed to the southern end of the boulevard and began walking. He could not believe that the house would be there; it had the same unreliable quality as his memory of dying, when his life had lured him back with uncertain promises, or of his recollection of pa.s.sages of battle, when time had seemed to collapse. Then he saw the red ivy that crept up to the stone balcony on the first floor; the formidable front door with its ornate ironwork; the grey slate roof that plunged in various angles over the irregular shape of the rooms and pa.s.sageways it covered. Its solid, calm facade had an unquestionable solidity.

The taste of those days returned to his mouth. He could smell the polish on the wooden floors applied by the maid whose name was... Marguerite; the wine Azaire habitually served at dinner, a dry tannic red, not cheap, but thick and dusty; then the sounds of footsteps, their deceptive ring seeming closer or farther than they really were; the smell of pipe tobacco in the sitting room; and the clothes that Isabelle had worn, the hint of rose, their stiff cleanness and the sense she gave of having not merely dressed, but dressed up, as though in a costume that suited not the house but some other world she inhabited in her mind. They came back to him with pressing clarity, as did his own feeling at the time that Isabelle's withheld, inner life would in some way accord with his own. As he stood in the dark street, looking over at the house, he remembered too the rapturous urgency with which he had found that he was right.

He crossed the street to look more closely. The gates were locked and there were no lights inside. He walked on a little so that he could see the side of the house. A long sheet of tarpaulin was held in place at the back, and there were signs of repair work, with piles of brick waiting to be cleared. From what Stephen could see, it appeared that a large section of the rear of the house had been destroyed. They would have been using heavy guns in any case, and this must have been a direct hit, or possibly two. Stephen calculated that most of the main sitting room was destroyed, and several lesser rooms downstairs. Above them had been the back bedrooms, including the maids' quarters and the red room.

He sat down at the edge of the road, beneath a tree. He was overcome by the power of his memory. It was all clear again in his mind, as though he was reliving it. The fire laid ready to be lit in the red room, the medieval knight, the clematis against the window... He tried to keep back the flood of complete recollection, yet at the same time he felt revived by it.

He stood up and began to walk away from the house, toward the town and then along the banks of the ca.n.a.l. He briefly wondered if Ellis would be all right on his own. There were plenty of billets in town, and friendly officers to show him where to go. He himself had no desire to sleep. He was close to the river gardens, the fertile enclosures through which he had punted one stifling afternoon with Azaire and his family and Monsieur and Madame Berard.

Throughout the night he walked, occasionally stopping to rest on a bench in an attempt to clear his mind. When dawn came he was in the Saint Leu quarter, where he heard the first signs of the day's activity as bakers lit their ovens and metal milk churns were brought clanking down the street on hand-pulled wagons. At seven o'clock he ate fried eggs and bread in a cafe; with a bowl of coffee. He washed and shaved in a small room at the back indicated by the owner. He was so used to not sleeping that he felt no ill effects from the night. Perhaps he could find a place where they were showing a film; if not, he would buy a book and read it in the gardens by the cathedral.

He pa.s.sed the day in fitful expectation. During the afternoon he slept more deeply than he had expected in a room he took in a small hotel. In the evening he changed his clothes and prepared to meet Jeanne. As he walked toward the bar he noticed that his clean shirt, like his old one, had lice in it.

Shortly after nine Jeanne came into the bar. Stephen put down his drink and stood up. He pulled out a chair for her. He was barely able to go through the formalities of offering her a drink and asking after her health as his eyes searched her face for some indication of her news.

"And did you speak to Isabelle?"

"Yes, I did." Jeanne, having declined the drink, sat with her hands folded on the table. "She was surprised to hear that you were in Amiens. Then she was even more surprised to hear that you wanted to see her. She wouldn't answer until this evening. It's very difficult for her, Monsieur, for a reason you'll see. Eventually she agreed. I am to take you to the house tonight."

Stephen nodded. "All right. There's no point in delaying." He felt quite cold, as though this were a routine matter, like a trench inspection.

"All right," Jeanne stood up. "It's not far to walk." They went down the dark streets together in silence. Stephen felt that Jeanne would not welcome questions from him; she seemed dourly set on her mission, about which she clearly had private doubts.

They came at last to a blue front door with a bra.s.s handle. Jeanne looked up at Stephen, her dark eyes glowing in the shade of the scarf wrapped around her head. She said, "You must make of this what you will, Monsieur. Be calm, be strong. Don't upset Isabelle. Or yourself."

Stephen was moved by her gentleness. He nodded his agreement. They went into the house.

There was a dim light in the modest hallway, which had a table with a bowl of daisies beneath a gilded mirror. Jeanne went upstairs and Stephen followed. They went along a small landing and came to a closed door at the end.

"Wait here, please," said Jeanne as she knocked at the door. Stephen heard a voice answering from inside. Jeanne went in. He heard the sound of chairs being moved and of low voices. He looked around him, at the pictures on either side of the door, at the pale distemper of the walls. Jeanne reappeared. "All right, Monsieur. You can go in."

She touched his arm in encouragement as she went past him and vanished down the corridor.

Stephen found his mouth had gone dry. He could not swallow. He put his hand to the door and pushed it open. The room was very dark. There was only one lamp, on a side table, beneath a heavy shade. On the far side of the room was a small round table, of the sort people might play cards on. On the other side he could see Isabelle.

He took a few steps into the room. This is fear, he thought; this is what makes men cower in sh.e.l.lholes or shoot themselves.

"Isabelle."

"Stephen. It's good to see you." Her low voice was the same he had first heard fill the room under Berard's boorish prompting; it slid along each nerve of his body.

Stephen went closer so that he could see her properly. There was the strawberry-chestnut hair and wide eyes; there was the skin, if it had been bright enough to see it properly, in whose changing patterns and colors he had seen the rhythm of her inner feelings.

And there was something else. The left side of her face was disfigured by a long indentation that ran from the corner of her ear, along the jaw, whose natural line seemed broken, then down her neck and disappeared beneath the high collar of her dress. He could see that the flesh had been folded outward. It had healed and dried; the ear had been well repaired. The altered line of the jaw, however, gave an impression of the great impact that must have struck her, and although the wound was closed, the sense of this force made it still seem immediate. The left side of her body was awkwardly held against the chair, as though it lacked independent movement.

Isabelle followed his tracking eyes. "I was injured by a sh.e.l.l. I expect Jeanne told you. First the house in the boulevard was. .h.i.t, then the place we'd moved to in the rue de Caumartin. It was unlucky."

Stephen could not speak. Something had closed his throat. He raised his right hand with the palm toward her. It was supposed to indicate that he was glad she was alive, that he had seen much worse, that he felt sympathetic, and many other things, but it conveyed little.

Isabelle seemed to have prepared herself much better. She continued calmly, "I'm happy to see you looking so well. You've gone a little grey, haven't you?" She was smiling. "But it's good that you've survived this awful war." Stephen was grinding his teeth. He turned away from her, his fists clenched. He shook his head from side to side, but there was no voice. He had not expected this sensation of physical impotence.

Isabelle went on speaking, though her voice began to falter. "I'm glad you wanted to see me. I feel very pleased that you've come. You mustn't worry about this injury. I know it's ugly, but it gives me no pain."

The words went perilously on, addressing Stephen's back. Slowly he began to a.s.sert himself over the feelings that raged inside him. The sound of her voice helped him. He drew on all the strength of mind he had, and gradually a.s.sumed control of himself.

It was with relief and some pride that he heard a sound at last issue from his throat as he turned to face her. He was saying, like Isabelle, simple, empty things. "I was fortunate to run into your sister. She's been very kind."

He met her eyes and went over to the table, where he sat down opposite her.

"I was lost for words. I'm sorry. It must have seemed rude." Isabelle stretched out her right hand across the table. Stephen took it between both of his and held it for a moment. He withdrew his grip, not trusting himself to keep it there.

He said, "Isabelle, would you mind if I had a gla.s.s of water?" She smiled. "My dear Stephen. There is a jug on the table in the corner. Help yourself. Then you must have some English whisky. Jeanne went out specially for it this afternoon."

"Thank you."

Stephen crossed to the table. After he had drunk the water he poured some whisky into the gla.s.s. His hand barely trembled and he was able to compel a_ _smile as he turned back.

"You've kept safe," she said.

"Yes, I have." He took a cigarette from a metal case in his tunic. "The war will last another year at least, perhaps more. I can hardly remember a life before it. We don't think about it, those of us who have survived."

He told her how he had been wounded twice and how he had recovered on each occasion. Their conversation seemed quite pa.s.sionless to him, but he was content that it should be.

Isabelle said, "I hope you're not shocked by the way I look. Really, I was lucky compared to some others."

Stephen said, "I'm not shocked. You should see what I have seen. I won't describe it to you."

He was thinking of a man whose face had been opened up by a bullet, a mere rifle shot. A neat triangle was made, with its apex in the middle of his forehead and the two lower corners on the midpoint of each jawline. Half of one eye remained, but there were no other features left except for some teeth buried at an angle; the rest of the face was flesh turned inside out. The man was conscious and awake; he could hear and follow instructions given to him by the medical officer. Compared to his wound, Isabelle's was discreet.

And yet he had lied. He was shocked by it. As he grew used to the light he could see where the skin at her left temple was stretched, so that it pulled the eye slightly out of shape. It was not the severity of it that appalled him, it was the sense of gross intimacy. Through her skin and blood he had found things no exploding metal should have followed.

Eventually, when some rapport was established, she ventured to tell him what had happened to her. She moved quickly over references to their life together, even to St.-Remy or other places they had visited.

"So I returned to Rouen, to the family house. It was like being a child again, but there was no innocence, no sense of many possibilities ahead. In some ways it was kind of them to take me, but I felt imprisoned by my failure. Can you imagine? It was as though I had been sent back to begin again because I'd been no good.

"My father gently introduced the idea of my returning to Amiens. I didn't think at first he could be serious. I imagined that Azaire would never want to see me again--to say nothing of the scandal. But my father is a shrewd negotiator. He dealt with it just as he had dealt with the marriage in the first place. He brought Lisette and Gregoire over to see me. I wept with happiness when I saw them again. Lisette had grown up so much, she was a young woman. She didn't need me to come back, but she was kind when she might easily not have been. And Gregoire pleaded with me. I was overcome by them. I couldn't believe they were so forgiving after what I'd done to their father. They just said it was forgotten. I think having lost one mother they would do anything not to lose another. And they forgave me. They forgave me because they loved me, just for who I was.

"Then there was the meeting with Azaire, which I dreaded. The strange thing was that he seemed quite ashamed. Because I'd left him for another man, I think he felt diminished. He was quite meek with me. He even promised to be a better husband. I couldn't really believe all this was happening. I had no wish to return. What decided me was how unhappy I was at home--something my father cleverly exploited."

"You went back?" said Stephen. It did not make sense to him; it was inconceivable, unless there was some part of the story that Isabelle had withheld.

"Yes, Stephen, I went back, not willingly, but because I had no choice, and it made me very unhappy. I regretted it the moment I stepped inside the house. But this time I knew I could never change my mind. I would have to stay. Within a few months what they call 'society' had taken me back. I was asked to dinner by Monsieur and Madame Berard. It was the old life, though even worse. But I was saved by the war. Perhaps that's why I'm philosophical about this." She touched her neck with the fingers of her right hand. Stephen wondered what it felt like.

"That August, British troops came through the town. I watched them, halfexpecting to see you. People sang 'G.o.d Save the King.' Then things began to look bad. At the end of the month the army decided not to defend the town. They left us to the mercy of the Germans. I wanted to leave but Azaire was a town councillor and he insisted on staying. We waited for two days. It was agonizing. Eventually they arrived--they marched in down the road from Albert, up the rue Saint Leu. For a moment or two there was a festival atmosphere. But then we learned of their demands. The mayor had two days to provide them with an enormous amount of food and horses and equipment. As a guarantee he wanted to be given twelve hostages. Twelve councillors volunteered. My husband was one of them.

"They'd come to the house on the boulevard du Gange and taken it over to accommodate a dozen German officers. My husband was kept in the council chamber that night. They were very slow producing all the food, and the Germans threatened to kill the twelve men. They trained a huge battery of guns on the town. The next day we heard that the hostages had all been freed, but then it turned out that the mayor had not paid enough money, so four of them, including my husband, were held. After three days of this uncertainty, the Germans agreed that their terms had been met, and all the councillors were free to return. But the city under this occupation was a different place."

Isabelle moved quickly over the next part of the story. It did not reflect well on anyone involved.

All men of service age were required to present themselves for deportation. Many took the chance to leave town, but four thousand willingly gave themselves up. The Germans were embarra.s.sed by their docility. They lacked the capacity to deal with such numbers. They released all but five hundred willing prisoners whom they marched out of town. By the time they reached the suburb of Longueau, the less fearful saw that there were no effective restraints on them and went quietly home. At Peronne those who had not made their own arrangements were put into requisitioned French cars and driven to Germany. Azaire, who saw his duty as a councillor to lie with the men of Amiens, went with them. Although his age made him the object of several informal offers of release, he was steadfast in his determination to be with the wronged people of his town.

For Isabelle the city under occupation was certainly a different place; though to her in the house on the boulevard du Gange the occupation brought freedom. The German officers were punctilious and good-humoured. A young Prussian called Max paid special attention to Isabelle's two-year-old daughter. He took the child into the garden and played with her; he persuaded his fellow-officers that care of the girl should excuse Isabelle from looking after their needs, which could be done adequately by the army servants. Isabelle was allowed, at his insistence, to keep the best room for herself.

When she recounted the story to Stephen, Isabelle made no mention of the child. It was for the baby's sake that she had agreed to return first to Rouen and then to Amiens: the child needed a home and family. She could not bring herself to mention the girl to Stephen, even though she was his daughter. She had kept her pregnancy a secret from him and had made Jeanne swear not to tell him. She believed that if he knew about the child it would make matters more painful and complicated between them.

For the same reason that she withheld the fact of the child's existence, however, she did tell Stephen about Max. She thought it would make things simpler and more final for Stephen if he knew.

The occupation lasted only a few days, but in the compressed time of war it was long enough for Isabelle to fall in love with this soldier who played with her infant daughter and made her own comfort his special charge. He was a man not only of great courtesy, but of imagination, stability, and humour. For the first time in her life she felt she had met someone with whom she could be happy under any circ.u.mstances, in any country. He was dedicated to her well-being and she knew that if she returned that simple fidelity, no circ.u.mstances, no alterations, not even wars, could disrupt their simple, enclosed contentment. Compared to her pa.s.sion for Stephen it was a muted affair, and yet it was not shallow; it made her profoundly content, and confident that at last she would be able to become the woman that she was meant to be, unhampered by restraint or deceit, and within a life that would be calm and helpful for her child.

Max appeared gratifyingly excited by what he described as his great good fortune. To Isabelle's modest surprise he seemed barely able to believe that she should return his feelings. His incredulity brought a lightness and brilliance to him in the short time they were together. The only darkness in Isabelle's mind concerned his nationality. At times when she lay awake at night she thought of herself as a traitor, not once or even twice now to her husband, but three times over, and most significantly, to her country and her people. She could not understand why she seemed to have attracted this strange fate when she remained in her own eyes such an uncomplicated creature, the same little girl who had wanted merely some love or attention, some natural human exchange as a child in her parents' house. Why was it that her simple desires had turned her into so extravagant an outcast? This was the problem that stayed knotted, intractable, whichever way she drew it or examined it inside her. It brought misery to her when she dwelt on it; yet she had also a developed instinct for the practicalities of survival. Max was a man of flesh and blood, a good man, a human soul, and in the end this was more important than the accident of nationality, even at such a terrible time. Isabelle's natural feeling for the enduring, hard choices of daily living made her able to drive onward to what she felt was right, regardless of what she thought of a larger, but ultimately theoretical consideration.

She corresponded with Max. She travelled secretly to Vienna to see him when he was on leave. Their long separation did nothing to diminish her feelings; they enforced her determination. This was her final chance to redeem herself and create a life for her daughter.

In June 1916 Max's regiment was moved to reinforce a previously quiet sector on the river Somme near Mametz. Isabelle received Stephen's letter from the line. For six months she could not bring herself to read a newspaper. The thought of Max and Stephen fighting was unendurable. She wrote to Max from hospital. The news of her injury redoubled his devotion. The more difficult it became, the more important they both knew that it was for them to honour the pledges they had made to each other.

"It isn't easy," said Isabelle. "These choices are all very, very difficult. But the longer the war goes on, the more determined we have become."

She finished speaking and looked over at Stephen. He had said nothing during her account. She wondered if he had really understood it all. Because she had made no mention of the child, it had seemed much harder to explain than she had expected. She was aware that he seemed puzzled.

He had changed almost beyond recognition, she thought: certainly much more than he appeared to know. His hair was shot with grey, as was his untrimmed moustache. He was badly shaved, and he scratched his body all the time, apparently without knowing it.

His eyes had always been dark, but now they seemed sunken. There was no light in them. His voice, which had once reverberated with meanings and nuances, with temper and emotions held in check, was now alternately toneless or barking. He seemed a man removed to some new existence where he was dug in and fortified by his lack of natural feeling or response.

Isabelle was greatly moved by the sight of these changes, but feared to reach out more than a hand to whatever world he now inhabited. She would shed tears for him when he had gone, but not until the practical business of his enlightenment had been completed.

Stephen took another cigarette from his case and tapped it slowly on the table. He smiled, surprisingly, a wide, sardonic movement of his lips. "You've certainly not taken any easy path, have you?"

Isabelle shook her head. "Though I didn't willingly ask to face any of these difficulties. They seemed to happen to me."

"How is Lisette?"

"She's married. Much to my husband's irritation she married Lucien Lebrun. You remember, the man who organized the strike."

"I remember. I used to be jealous of him. And is she happy?"

"Yes. Very happy, except that Lucien is in the army. Gregoire will join up next year if the war's still going on."

"I would like to see Lisette. She was a nice girl."

"She lives in Paris."

"I see." Stephen nodded. "What's that noise?"

"It must be the cats. Jeanne has two of them."

"It sounded like a child."

They heard footsteps in the corridor. A door opened and closed.

Isabelle was aware that beneath Stephen's expressionless manner there was some powerful urge or desire.

He said, "Isabelle, I'm glad of all these things you've told me. I don't wish to see you again now. This was all I needed to know. I wish you well with your German friend."

Isabelle felt unforeseen tears welling up in her eyes. Surely he would not leave on this muted note of downcast generosity. She had not wanted to see him so broken.

He leaned forward across the table. He said with a slight catch in his voice, "May I touch you?"

She looked into his dark eyes. "You mean...?"

"Yes." He nodded slowly. He held out his right hand. She took it in hers, feeling the large, roughened fingers. Slowly, with a little tremor in her own grip, she guided it across her face and laid it on her jaw, just below the ear. She felt his fingertips gently run down the cleft in her skin. She wondered if they were soft enough for him to feel the quality of her flesh or whether they were too calloused to register the different texture of what they touched. She was overcome with desire as his fingers probed the abrasion. It was as though they were not on her cheek, but were opening the flesh between her legs; she felt again the soft intrusion of his tongue; she reexperienced the ecstasy of abas.e.m.e.nt and possession. Her skin flushed with blood; there was a melting in her belly and a hot gush of liquid. She was blushing with arousal, her skin beating and burning under her dress.

His head was quite steady, his eyes following the slow course of his hand through the turned furrow. When it reached the top of her dress, he left it for a moment, the fingers resting in the wound. Then he laid the back of his hand across the soft, unharmed skin of her cheek, as he had done so many times before. He stood up and left the room without speaking. Isabelle heard him talking to Jeanne at the head of the stairs, then his footsteps going down. She covered her face with her hands.

It was late afternoon and the light was already fading when Stephen arrived at the station concourse. He saw Ellis waiting at the head of the platform and walked over to him.

"What happened to you?" said Ellis nervously. He sounded annoyed.

"I met a friend."

They found two seats on the train and Stephen looked out of the window as the station slid back behind them.

Ellis lit a cigarette. "It's like that time of day on Sunday when you expect to hear the first bells of evensong," he said. "I'd give anything not to have to go back." Stephen closed his eyes. He no longer had strong opinions on what he wanted or did not want to do. The train would take them in its own time. The next day he went to see Colonel Gray at battalion headquarters. Gray put down his book as Stephen opened the door to his office, which was the converted parlour of a farm.

"Sit down, Wraysford. Did you have a good leave?"

"Yes, thank you, sir."

"I'm afraid your company's going back to the front line tomorrow."

"I don't mind," said Stephen. He crossed his legs and smiled at Gray. "We just go on and on. Until it's finished." He liked Gray because he was direct. Only his penchant for strange psychological theories worried him.

Gray lit his pipe. "I'm under pressure to put you in for a staff job," he said.

"This time you'll have to take it."

Stephen tensed himself. "I haven't gone this far to abandon the men now." Gray spoke quietly. "Which men?"

"The men I've been with for more than two years."

Gray shook his head in silence and raised his eyebrows. Stephen swallowed and looked down at the floor.

"They're gone, Wraysford," said Gray. "They're all gone. You can't name more than two from your original platoon."

Stephen licked his lips. There were tears in his eyes.

Gray said, "You're tired."