“Of course you can go,” said Colonel Gray. “This is supposed to be a civilized war now. And we shall know where to find you. Just don’t let young Ellis here lead you astray, that’s all.”
Stephen nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
Gray picked up his book and swung his feet back on the desk. He was already a page further into Thucydides by the time Stephen and Ellis left the house that was acting as battalion headquarters.
The next day the train took them into a countryside almost buried by the debris of conflict. To begin with Stephen had found it strange to look up from a shelled trench and be able to make out normal country life a few miles back from the line, but after almost three years of fighting the ground had become littered with the light-industrial detritus of war. Gasoline cans, shell cases, wooden boxes, tins, the packages of all kinds of supply goods and ammunition lay on either side of the tracks.
After ten minutes they saw their first green tree, the first trunk not blasted and blackened by shells, but still covered with brown bark and crowned with branches in which pigeons and thrushes were gathered.
Ellis offered him a cigarette. Stephen took the packet and looked at it. ” ‘The Flag.’ How do you get these things, Ellis?”
“I’m trying to see how many different brands I can get through. Apparently there’s some called ‘Kitchener’s Small Size’ that I haven’t had yet.” The cheap smoke filled the compartment.
Since Ellis had first mentioned Amiens, Stephen had allowed himself to weaken slowly. He had thought he would never return, but he had come to believe that what had happened there was so long ago and was an experience of so peculiar a kind that it had no real bearing on the life he was living. Perhaps there was something dangerous about revisiting places from an earlier time, but he did not feel open to any sentimental feeling. He had only a certain curiosity to see what had happened to the town. Gray told him it had been “knocked about” by shells.
“Tell me something, sir,” said Ellis. “You know those cards the other night. Did you–“
“You don’t have to call me sir, you know. As for the cards… what do you think?”
“I think you fixed them.”
Stephen smiled. “Of course I did. Even Weir knows that.”
“So why does he want you to do them?”
“Because he’s frightened.”
Ellis looked puzzled.
“Yes, it’s strange, I suppose. Weir doesn’t believe in anything. He needs something to sustain him. He tries to believe that his own survival is something to fight for. Something to die for, you might almost say.”
“And the cards help him?”
“Perhaps. He’s a very scared man. He can probably trick himself.”
“I see,” said Ellis. He spoke with a clipped, abrupt voice. “And when did he first get the wind up?”
Stephen said very gently, “I don’t think it’s fear in that sense. He’s not afraid of gas or shells or being buried. He’s frightened that it doesn’t make sense, that there is no purpose. He’s afraid that he has somehow strayed into the wrong life.”
“I see,” said Ellis doubtfully.
The train rattled on toward Amiens and Stephen felt his pleasurable anticipation increase. Ellis was not the man he would have chosen as a companion but he was determined to be kind to him. Weir was resting in a rehabilitation centre near Arras. He had hoped for a trip home, but injuries like his had been viewed with suspicion since the early days when the infantry had taken to sticking their arms in the rapidly unwinding winch gear in the hope of serious damage.
Ellis took out a writing pad and began a letter home. Stephen gazed from the window. The sounds of war were leaving him. Unlike Weir, who stood imprisoned by imaginary shell sounds in the quiet bedroom of his parents’ house, Stephen found himself able to forget.
What had he been like seven years ago? What world had he lived in, what heightened, dazed existence? It had seemed coherent at the time; the powerful feelings it had set loose in him, inflamed each day by the renewed pleasure of his senses, had appeared to make up something not only comprehensible, but important. In his life at that time he felt he had come close to understanding, even proving something, though what that thing was he could no longer say.
“What are you going to do in Amiens?” he asked Ellis.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been on leave before. I don’t know how much of normal life goes on. I’d like to go to a theatre, perhaps. What ought I to do?” Stephen shrugged. “Most people want to get drunk first, then go to a brothel.”
Ellis frowned. “I don’t think I should like that.”
Stephen laughed. “Which? The getting drunk?”
“No, the… other.”
“I think you’re supposed to. The army thinks it’s good for your health to go with a_ _woman regularly. The brothels are sanctioned by the military police.”
“Well, will you go?” said Ellis challengingly.
Stephen shook his head. “No. I’ve no interest at all.”
“Well then. Neither shall I,” said Ellis.
“Who are you writing to?”
“My mother.”
Stephen smiled. “I probably asked you at the wrong moment in that case. But I shall definitely go to a bar. You must let me buy you some champagne. That’s how we’ll start.”
Stephen did not at first recognize the station as the train slunk in. He was braced for memories, but none came. On the platform he looked up at the vaulted roof and then down toward the concourse. He and Isabelle had left from another platform on the far side of the station. He remembered a green door he had stared at from the carriage window as they waited to depart. He looked across the tracks and saw it, just as it had been.
It was midafternoon when he and Ellis emerged on to the cobbled forecourt of the station. It was an overcast day, but with the first signs that the six-month winter might be starting to relax its grip. It had stopped raining, and the breeze did not sting them with cold.
They walked up toward the cathedral. Some of the buildings bore the marks of shellfire. Only a few miles behind allied lines, Amiens had suffered according to the tide of the war. The recent allied advances had made it safe for the first time: there were no bombardments, and the local businessmen were trying to profit from the new calm in the Somme region. Shops were reopening; the eight o’clock curfew on bars and restaurants was lifted.
Stephen looked with fierce interest at the streets he remembered. Despite the occasional missing wall or patch of blackened masonry, they remained for the most part unchanged. He had not actively recalled them in the seven years he had been away; he had thought little about the town. Yet as he walked up the familiar ways, the streets remembered themselves in his mind.
At a corner was a half-timbered building through whose open window Isabelle had once heard a tune that had excited her, though not her husband’s friend Bérard. To his right, down a narrower passage, was the restaurant to which he had so often gone for lunch. Perhaps his favourite seat would still be in the window; it was possible the same Parisian would be behind the bar.
“Ellis, do you mind if we go down here? There’s a café I remember.”
“As long as it has champagne. Is it the Gobert? That’s the one that was recommended to me.”
“I can’t remember what it’s called. It was run by a man who used to have a café in the Place de l’Odéon in Paris.”
They stood outside and Stephen peered through the window. The wooden stalls had gone. There was a bare counter on one side, and on the other some cheap-looking tables and chairs. He pushed open the door, a light piece of wood with netting over the glass that grated on the stone floor as it turned. There was no one inside. They went up to the bar, behind which were some understocked shelves. A bald man with a lined, exhausted face and a greasy apron came stiffly downstairs and through a small door at the end of the room. He had a cigarette attached to his lower lip. He grunted a greeting. Stephen ordered two beers.
“Do you know what happened to the man who used to own this place?” he said.
“He’s in Germany. A prisoner. They were rounded up in nineteen fourteen.”
“Who were?”
“All the men in Amiens. When the Germans occupied the town.” Stephen took the beer. “You mean every man in the town was taken to Germany?”
The man shrugged. “Only the stupid ones. And the cowards. The rest made their own arrangements.”
Stephen said, “And what about you?”
“I was too old to be of interest to them.”
“What’s he saying?” said Ellis.
“He says the man who used to run this restaurant was deported to Germany. It’s a bleak little place, isn’t it? It used to be very lively, full of students and so on.” Stephen put down his beer glass among the uncleaned rings on the zinc counter. He had suddenly understood what had happened to all the students who used to shout out their orders and fill the air with their strong cigarette smoke. Those who had not died at Verdun would now be gathering for the attack on the river Aisne under their inspirational new general.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Let’s find somewhere else.”
“Why? I was just beginning to–“
“It’s too sad. Come on.” Stephen left some coins on the counter. It was beginning to grow dark outside and Stephen was anxious not to blight Ellis’s first leave with his own thoughts.
“You pick somewhere,” he said, “and I’ll buy the drinks.” They walked past the cathedral, which was sandbagged to the level of the lower windows. The stone was intact, though some of the glass was missing. Stephen noticed how many of the women in Amiens seemed to be in the black clothes of mourning.
They stopped in a bar called Aux Huîtres, though there were no oysters for sale inside. It was full of soldiers of all nationalities: English, French, Belgian, Portuguese. Stephen bought champagne and filled Ellis’s glass. He raised his own and they drank each other’s health. Stephen had a desire to reach oblivion quickly. He was finding it harder than he had thought to adapt to this relatively normal world. It was the presence of so many soldiers that was disconcerting. He knew that many of them had been waist-deep in mud, crawling among the rats the day before. He looked at their polished belts and smoothly shaved faces. If they could laugh so genially now, of what other deceptions could they not be capable?
The women of Amiens who were not mourning for their dead husbands seemed well disposed toward the foreign soldiers. They accepted drinks and sat at the tables, where they made attempts to understand the stilted French of the English officers.
Before he had finished his second glass, Stephen found that Ellis had volunteered him to help with some interpreting. There was an embarrassed major of about thirty who was drawing down lungfuls of pipe smoke to conceal his confusion as a fellow officer from a Scots regiment tried to forge some intimacy between him and a loud Frenchwoman who was drinking red wine.
“Tell her he’s keen to show her round his dugout,” said the Scot. Stephen translated, then replied, “She says she thinks he’s a very handsome fellow and wonders if he would like to take her to dinner somewhere.” This was rather more forthright than what the woman had actually said.
The major tried to make a stammering answer of his own, but his French went no further than _”Est-ce que possible pour,” _after which he returned to his pipe with various chivalrous gestures in the direction of the woman.
“I think she’d like a drink,” said Stephen.
“I see. I’m terribly sorry, I–“
“Don’t worry, I’ll get her one. You carry on chatting.”
The Scot then attempted to explain why what Stephen had said was funny on the grounds that in the army “chatting” meant trying to kill lice; he did not know the word for lice or for kill, so relied on insectlike gestures of his fingers and a smashing motion of his fist on the table. The woman shook her head in confusion, so he took a lighter and held it against the seam of his tunic, then lay on his back on the floor kicking his legs in the air.
Stephen returned to find the woman laughing uproariously. Ellis looked up at Stephen a little uncertainly, but on seeing him smile back, also began to laugh and bang the table. Others from around the bar looked over tolerantly in their direction. Stephen closed his eyes and drank quickly. He had bought a bottle of Old Orkney whisky at the bar, a tumbler of which he now washed down with the champagne. When he opened his eyes again, he felt a melting of warmth toward the other men. He was relieved.
The Scot said, “Tell her he’d like to take her to Paris for the weekend on his next leave. He wants to go to the Moulin Rouge.”
“Moulin Rouge,” echoed the woman, laughing. “Very good.” She was congratulated on her English. She said to Stephen, “Tell him I learned English from a general who was staying in the town.”
“She says she thinks you’ll soon be promoted to the rank of general.” The major shook his head in modest embarrassment. Something of his gaucherie reminded Stephen of Weir, and he felt a pang of pity for his absent friend. He wished he had been there, poor, strange Weir, who was so unworldly and yet, in the last way he wanted, experienced beyond dreams.
It was clear that it was the Scot himself who, under the guise of helping his English friend, was hoping to impress the woman.
“Ask the lady if she lives in Amiens, will you? Ask her if she’s a spare room for two well-behaved officers of one of the finest Highland regiments.” The woman looked toward Stephen enquiringly. She had brown humorous eyes and a rosy colour to her skin. “Well,” she said, “I suppose he wants to sleep with me?”
Stephen checked a smile. “I rather think so.”
The woman laughed. “Tell him to find a house with a blue light. Or red, if he wants something cheaper. I will offer three men a first-class dinner, a room with clean sheets, and fresh eggs and coffee in the morning, all for a reasonable price. But nothing else, I’m afraid. You can come if you like.”
“Thank you. Are there bars in the town where the local people go to drink? Not the soldiers, just the people who have always lived here.”
“Yes, there are two or three up that way, toward the rue de Beauvais, or what’s left of it.”
“Come on, pal,” said the Scot. “What does she say?”
“She says there are facilities for what you want.”
“Good heavens,” said the major, exhaling powerfully, “she sounds like the oracle at Delphi.”
The Scot suddenly looked unsure, and Stephen was worried that he had dampened his enjoyment. “No, no,” he said. “She was very friendly. She’ll give you a bed for the night and… I’m sure she wants to carry on with the party.” The Scot looked relieved. “Good, that’s fine. Let’s get some more drinks. Anderson, it’s your turn.”
Stephen leaned across and said quietly in Ellis’s ear, “I’m going out for a moment. It’s too hot in here. Just in case I don’t come back, will you be all right? Have you got money?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m enjoying myself.”
Stephen poured him a glassful of whisky, then put the bottle in his pocket.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
It was winter again on the street, though Stephen was glad of the cold air against his face after the heat and smoke of the bar. He pulled his coat round him and turned up the collar. A dog was sniffing at the kerbstones. It moved smartly down an alley, its white tail high over its back in the weak moonlight. It had business to do; most of the town had business to do, and although the shops were closed and dark, Stephen could see through their windows to the silent counters behind which were the draper’s bolts of cloth or the chemist’s bottles. There would be the same exchange of formalities at the baker’s the next day; the regular good morning from each customer to the owner and then to the other customers; the bread politely bought with thanks on both sides. A stoical eyebrow or shrug might indicate that all was not quite as it should be, but that was understood. For the rest, their lives would go on as before, for the simple reason that they had no choice. Next to the baker was a butcher offering three grades of horsemeat. In the roads and ditches of the support lines there was certainly no shortage of the raw material, Stephen thought, though he tried not to imagine the quality of the lowest grade. He heard singing from a bar on the far side of the street, and crossed over to inspect it. He went through the door and found himself again surrounded by soldiers, though these were almost all British subalterns. Their young faces were flushed with drink and many of them made a noise somewhere between speech and laughter, a kind of roar. Having stepped inside, he could not turn round and leave without seeming offensive, so he pushed his way to the bar and ordered a drink. One of the young officers was playing a piano in the corner, though not all the men were singing the same song. A young man’s face loomed up close to his.
“I haven’t seen you in Charlie’s before. What’s your regiment?” Stephen felt the man take and inspect a button on his tunic. He seemed unimpressed. “Seen any action, have you?”
“Some.”
“Poor old donkeys. Always under the guns, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Usually our own.”
“Don’t take it like that. I’m most awfully sorry. I think I’m going to be sick.” The young man pushed past Stephen and staggered to the door.
“You’d better go and look after your friend,” said Stephen to a lieutenant next to him.
“Oh God, not again. Been sick, has he? He’s got the wind up, that’s his trouble. Excuse me.”
Stephen felt himself pushed backward and forward by the packed wave of bodies at the bar. They began to sing all together in loud, confident voices. Eventually he extricated himself, and managed to fight his way to the door. He walked briskly toward the rue de Beauvais.
He found a quiet bar with white curtains in the window. A couple of men were standing at the counter, resting their feet on the rail. They looked at him suspiciously, but nodded and returned his greeting.
Stephen took a drink and sat in the window. It was quiet and cool, and he was able to collect his thoughts. He closed his eyes and tried to relish the quiet, the absence of guns, but his mind was still too alert. He wondered whether, if he drank some more, it would bring the necessary degree of relaxation. What he really needed, it occurred to him, was the closeness of human contact, not forced by the proximity of war, but given willingly, from friendship.
When he opened his eyes and looked up, he saw that a woman had come into the bar and was buying a bottle of some green cordial. She had her back to him and wore a dark scarf over her head. When she turned, holding the bottle in her hand, Stephen felt his stomach tighten as shock waves passed through him into the palms of his hands.
As the woman looked round, she saw his agonized expression, and put her head a little on one side, defensively, but also in some concern. Her eyes met his then slid away as his gaze locked desperately on to hers.
She made for the door of the bar in some embarrassment, taking quick short steps that rang out on the wooden floor. Stephen, his mouth hanging open, scraped back his chair and staggered after her, leaving the barman to call out that he had left no money.
Stephen ran over the cobbles outside until he had drawn up alongside the woman.
“Excuse me.”
“Monsieur, please leave me alone or I shall call the police.”
“No, listen. Please. I think I know you. I mean you no harm, I promise.” Reluctantly the woman stopped and looked cautiously at Stephen. His “Is your name… Forgive me, this may seem ridiculous if I’m wrong. Is your name… Jeanne?”