The Cyclist Read Free Page B

Royal Danish china decorated the dresser on the opposite wall and some matching plates adorned the wall above. To the left was a French window, the door open a crack and Auguste could see the muddy green grass falling away to a stream a hundred yards from the doorstep. Memories of two boys fishing in summer sunshine came into his head.
    No fire burned in the grate and the illumination depended upon a small oil lamp set on a low table in front of a chaise-longue. Portraits hung on the walls adding an air of family history to the room. He noticed little of this, for he was familiar with this room. The roots of half his childhood memories were here, after all.
    ‘Wine?’ Pierre said.
    ‘You have wine?’
    ‘Yes. No law against it, is there Inspector?’
    ‘No Pierre, no law. I just wondered how you could afford it.’
    ‘Homemade. Have you forgotten?’
    ‘No not forgotten, just...’
    ‘What do you want?’
    ‘You broke the curfew this afternoon.’
    Pierre frowned. He was a tall, dark-haired man, broad in the chest and muscular. His face seemed created around his nose, with wide-spaced eyes and a broad balding forehead. Auguste pictured him laughing and could almost hear the deep cavernous sound in his head. He had not heard it for years.
    ‘Come to arrest me have you?’
    ‘Don’t be silly. I came to warn you, that’s all.’
    ‘Warn me? Like you warned me to register at the police station? Like you warned me to wear this?’
    ‘The yellow star is as distasteful to me as it is to you. You know that.’
    ‘No I don’t know that. You’ve forced so many others to wear them they must be a favourite decoration for you and your German friends.’
    ‘I didn’t come for this.’
    ‘And what did you come for then? To gloat?’
    ‘What did you do it for? This cycling I mean.’
    ‘A man has to have some courage. He has to fight sometimes, not just capitulate, cooperate and collaborate like you.’
    ‘Pierre, however much you want to fight them, you can’t. Think of Monique. If the Germans had taken you today, you would both be beaten and shut up in Drancy with wrongdoers and criminals.’
    ‘This isn’t why you came,’ Pierre said, pouring a glass of dark red wine. He proffered it to Auguste who took it, sniffed and sipped.
    ‘Nice,’ he said.
    ‘It’s filthy stuff. All I have. I haven’t tasted a good wine since the year Murielle died. What did you come here for?’
    Auguste paused and stared into the half-empty glass. He felt abandoned. He felt like a man alone in a hospital bed, surrounded by strangers, and all of them wanted him to die but he was refusing. He was a stubborn man. Looking up, he saw the candlestick on the mantel, nine candles. The photograph of a young woman in its silver frame, smiled back at him. It tugged at his memory. All those years.
    ‘Pierre, help me. What can I do? If I refuse an order, they will throw me out, maybe even try me for treason. Odette; my little girl.’
    ‘You come here bleating for absolution. You come here because you want me to say, “Don’t worry Auguste, we still love you! Don’t worry Auguste, it will be all right”. Well we don’t love you. It won’t be alright. The Germans plan to exterminate every Jew in Germany, Poland and France. And you? You close your eyes. You talk to me about workers’ camps and good conditions. You’re a fool.’
    ‘Brunner told me...’
    He knew it sounded lame. He knew telling his old friend an SD officer reassured him, was of itself, a kind of proof. It demonstrated the truth of what Pierre said and the emptiness returned.
    Auguste said, ‘Where is Monique?’
    ‘I sent her to Murielle’s mother in Beynac. I couldn’t witness the treatment she receives here any longer.’
    ‘And then you break the curfew?’
    ‘What have I to lose? Will you arrest me?’
    ‘Of course not. I came to warn you.’
    ‘Very well, you’ve warned me. I won’t do it again, Assistant Chief of Police.’
    ‘No. Not that. I received