You who know, p.4
You Who Know, page 4
“Good luck to you,” said Mr Mertens stolidly.
To abolish, or at least slightly disinfect those dreadful photos Castang’s eye has been roving around the office. In the corner was a sort of pie dish.
“What’s that?”
“The cat’s dish,” surprised. “Visker.”
“Visqueux?” Perfectly good French word; means something between sticky and slimy. Not very nice. Not like a cat.
“Visker,” irritably. Making a big effort, heavily aspirating, “Whhiss-kah.”
“Oh, sorry,” now the penny’s dropped. He was over in the corner, studying the artwork, written neatly in nail-polish “wisker”. Belgian police orthography.
Castang had only a postal address, and that the laconic Chemin-dela-Something known only to the villagers, but of course they could point out his way with relish: a Crime had taken place there. Nothing like a bit of blood-letting to liven up the neighbourhood, and what a disappointment not to be on television: the village would then have ranked as a tourist attraction for at least a week. As it was, a little Ardennes cottage, one of two or three along a path hardly more than a woodland ride, a bit rutted from car tyres, weedy in summer, dead-leaved and muddy in winter. Simple stone-built places, humble and pretty, picked up cheap by the bourgeoisie for weekending, but in summer. Only an eccentric, like Eamonn, would come here now, where patches of old snow lay in the shady bits. A little house in the woods, with a pretty view across the valley; stocky, shapely, with the traditional pile of split logs weathering under a lean-to, doorway and windows of dressed stone, a little box-hedged garden, the brook, behind; shuttered, closed, empty, with nothing to tell Castang except that a friend of his has died here.
Music is sounding in his head, strongly, so that he almost hears it. He is no musician; what can it be? Something intensely banal, so much so as to be whistled by the butcher’s boy. Something Vera sings, a simple joyous melody which he knows by heart but cannot put a name to, which he is himself whistling softly as he paces round the cottage—really he should have brought gumboots. Eamonn has left it quite primitive, even the outside lavatory. One could modernise here, “build out” on the sunny side. Terrace, patio, glass it in, modern conveniences, very nice. Perhaps he had intended to but the shears had snipped a life. Oh, what is it?
And then it resolves itself; a Viennese teenage girl, innocent and wicked, ingenuous and disingenuous, knowing nothing, teasingly pretending to be experienced the tempo must be alert, while remaining measured, steady-paced. No conductor but Kleiber has ever got it quite right, keeping the simplicity; Cherubino’s love-besotted little song.
Who is it sung by? Who is it for? Written for a light lyric soprano but she’s no lesbian; it’s the pageboy, madly in love with both Susanna, who is barely out of her teens, and with the Countess who is thirty, a woman ripe like an apricot against a sun-warmed wall.
Not that Cherubino cares! Horrid little boy!
Purely—that’s hardly the word, is it?—sheer sexual obsession, of the teenage boy, growing into virility. Castang, like Eamonn, belongs to a generation that knew the intense pain as well as the horrid frustration, of growing up. Is that why nobody, now, can ever get it right? The music is for Susanna, a ferocious carnal greed to get her clothes off. But the words are for the older woman because only she can understand them. You, who know, what a thing is love.
Any woman will do him, really—he’ll settle happily for Barbarina. Susanna would be terrif, but she’s been captured by that bastard Figaro. Since the Countess is both neglected and frustrated—what harm can it do, to make a try?
Does it only make us laugh, now, the greedy little hard-breathing boy? Is it possible to start from an eighteenth-century comedy of manners, and find there a tragic outcome?
He was standing with his hands in his pockets, his mouth making the ghost of a whistle; staring at a closed house. It didn’t tell him a damned thing. He had wanted to say goodbye to a friend, no more. Had Eamonn been a bad husband? Simply, this makes no difference. One is not about to start passing moral judgements on one’s friends; there aren’t enough of them.
Eamonn was tall and thin, with the face of an old horse. He had a lovely speaking voice; not the trained voice of an actor, more that of a poet. When we moved into our house—which he found for us—he did Louis MacNeice’s “Bagpipe Music” (another Scottish Irishman). When a bit drunker, Noël Coward’s “Parties” (it wasn’t a party but he made it so). A gifted mimic, who could do an Ulster or a Glasgow accent as readily as imitate John Gielgud; he possessed perfect pitch. Harold had a preposterous name for him—“Columcille MacCorquohodale”.
Vera asked him what he stood for. He laughed. A united Ireland, and since that is impossible, the cause of civilisation in Europe. What else are we all doing here, in Brussels? He would talk about the Irish monks who had done their bit in the past for that cause. He could unroll Irish history, with passion; the Wild Geese, the Flight of the Earls. But with no narrow fanaticism; he spoke of Scotland with the same love and knowledge. “I cannot write poetry. I do legal injunctions instead.” He wrote a fine English prose; like, said Harold, Jonathan Swift. Castang had not the pleasure of Mr Swift’s acquaintance, but could tell the praise was high.
Perhaps he was a poet after all. He had had plenty of secrets. Castang said now that he wanted to know. He had said goodbye to the friend. He would like to know more about the secrets. They played a role which seemed likely to increase, and be important. He walked slowly back to where he had left his car. He had stopped whistling.
NAMUR, FEBRUARY
Oops! One is surprised now and then by the unaccustomed speed of reaction. Knocking over a wine-glass, catching it before it spills; hadn’t known one could be that nifty.
Castang approached the Commissariat of Police ploddingly, with no enthusiasm. He would have to tell a lot of lies. Mr Delahaye was touchy about his prerogatives, no friend of Brussels (Vera, quoting Joseph Conrad, talks about “the sanguinary macacques in Santa Marta”). So that he had three or four stories, all cock and bull, and is mentally practising to get them a bit consistent even if none is convincing.
Mr Delahaye jumped up from his desk with a big beaming smile. “Why, hallo, Castang!” And gave him an enthusiastic clap on the shoulder. So that the mind had to work like Lightning. In fact, Greased Lightning.
It was the face which brought instant recollection; long sideburns and gold-rimmed glasses. How many years ago was it? Four? Five? He had still had his criminal brigade, on the confines of Picardie and the Pas de Calais. It wasn’t unheard of, a bit of business over the border in Belgium … Slap a bit of grease in, and boy, aren’t his synapses rapid when he least expects it. Why hadn’t the name warned him—it had meant nothing whatever. Castang had no recollection of being in Namur: no no, wasn’t it Dinant?
“Siddown then, old boy. Like a drink?” Young Louppes, that was it. He had gone across after a sly fellow dealing in narcotics who had slipped over the frontier. Made a balls of it, Castang had had to go himself—a boat on the Meuse, those steep twisty valleys of the Meuse at Dinant …
“Still over there then—where was it, Arras?” Now he remembered the man perfectly. A bit cracked on politics; the attach-Wallonie-to-France programme, to get rid of those detested Flamands! “Belgium doesn’t exist; what’s wrong with the old Department of the Ardennes, hey? All right in Napoleon’s time; be perfectly feasible now, hey?” Decidedly boring, but apparently he’d been polite, made the right noises.
“So tell me what you’ve got on your mind,” jovially, “and what brings you our way.” A lucky hit. One could do with a bit of Francophilia, right now.
“Well, no—not actually Kripo any longer.” That wouldn’t do; too easily verified; one phone call and he’d be exposed.
“Aha. Side-slipped, eh?” But one could let the fellow think he was RG. The parallel police is by nature more discreet and he could find some cover there. It is not in reality unheard-of for a Police Judiciaire officer to do a crawl sideways into “Renseignements Gen” (the rather sinister political police corresponding to “Special Branch”). And it could be made to fit the present circumstances.
“Well,” says Castang with that air of someone in RG (like the classic baby, brought in “falsely genial in a knitted coat”), “it’s a small affair, and one of those things one would rather do in person. Without a lot of signals traffic, you understand me.” Enthusiastic nods, and a bottle of cognac on the table with two glasses, gold-rimmed like the spectacles. “It’s just that a fellow, who I don’t know, but who seems to interest my masters in Paris, fellow seems to have been found dead in your district, donchaknow, and was wondering vaguely whether there was anything a bit funny about that?” So now he is a spy. That was fair enough because yes, he was a spy …
“Sure, sure sure.” Better and better; Monsieur Delahaye was thinking there wouldn’t be any harm at all in being in the good graces of the French government. In a discreet way, and one need not mention it in Brussels. “Why not? I mean, when it’s handled right. Informally between us, if you’ve got any dossier on the gentleman in question, it would be appreciated.”
“I’ve nothing myself—as yet. It would be a complementary thing, no doubt—any light you shed we’d return it. Might turn out chocolate, you’d giftwrap that for your people. If it’s zero all round, no harm done, because who’s to know? You see why I wasn’t making a lot of phone calls. Or going to Bruce first,” traitorously.
“Right you are. Might as well say, from the PJ angle, we’ve a lemon, the investigation’s pretty well stalled on the start line. So tell me, what exactly you want.”
“Oh, you know, a look-see at whatever you’ve got, just so I don’t put my big foot in anything you’re cooking, and I’d guess a shuffle through the house if you’ll give me permission. They’ve been pretty guarded, so my guess is they don’t really know what they want but they might know if they saw it, huh? All I know is that he was a Communauté functionary, Irish as you know, prob’ly they just want to open the cupboard, make sure there’s no trapdoor inside. As you remember, they got awfully burned about the IRA men in Vincennes, planting weapons and arresting them, big deal which went wrong because chap gets stroppy about the cans he’s left to carry. So my guess is, it’s a sensitive region, any shit that might fly they’d like to catch on the wing, right?”
“Give you what we have,” said Mr Delahaye with such generosity Castang felt confident that he had nothing. “Nothing much really except the sensational job. Highly professional; bang, drop the gun, walk away. Signed but who by? IRA? Could well be.”
“Gun?”
“Nothing about the gun. Straightforward model, like dozens around here, made in France, Saint-Etienne, fairly well-worn, could have been his only he wouldn’t have had it sawed. No, chap knocks at the door, t’other answers. “Hallo, good evening, here’s yours,” pop, straight in the face, both barrels of buckshot, from just far enough away not to get blood on his coat. There was some snow, snow melting, no decent footprint, tyre-tracks, eff-all. Nobody saw or heard nothing because nobody was in any neighbouring cottage that weekend. Nothing inside, chap was alone, nothing except What a Big Surprise. Sure you’d say political assassination, and I don’t see what I’m to do with it, because who by, unless one of your chaps finds a lead. Made my report to Central in Bruce, and washed my hands.”
“Okay to see the house?”
“Right now if you like. Everything’s as it was. Proc walked about, sniffed. Judge got nowhere; wife had left him but she’s in England, that’s proved. Beyond that, not a sausage to show for the trouble.”
Castang had to agree. Eamonn was a tidy man and kept things tidy. There was a desk with drawers. A few papers, stuff like electricity bills and repairs. A few books, a few clothes. Why had he come up, alone, that weekend? Was he expecting anyone? Nothing to show. A few old photos, including some of Jane. And of Eamonn himself. Holiday snapshots. Three or four showed him smiling, in a funny old hat, and these were different, because there was a background of mountains, with snow. Sharp-peaked jagged mountains, Alps by the look of them. Castang shrugged.
“Take these, can I? Nothing there I can see, but just for luck.”
“Oh, I suppose so. We can have them copied, back at the ranch.”
BRUXELLES, FEBRUARY
The United States is not, to be sure, part of the Economic Community, but is present in Brussels, very, and what does it do there? Spying on us, obviously. Even for Castang that’s a bit too superficial, but the truth is he’s pretty vague. Asked what all those trade delegations are, clinched in rude discussions about unpasteurised French cheese, he hasn’t the least idea. What’s Gatt? Nobody knows. There are enormous numbers of them in orbit, going round and round Waterloo.
Still, everyone knows about Nato. This immense, impressive fortress is now so full of tubby Russian generals being jovial in flying-saucer hats and managing to appear simultaneously over-shaved and hairy, that nobody is quite sure what its present purpose may be. Or so Castang’s argument runs; that they’re all in mortal terror of Senators saying “America First” and posting them all to Arkansas, to defend General Motors against the Japanese.
With this in mind he is brunching with a friend in Rick’s Bar on the Avenue Louise, on a sunny Sunday morning, laying into the muffins and the maple syrup, and conspiring. The friend is also called Rick. Vera, who likes him, says he ought to be called Burton G Cordwainer IV because he looks very Yale and dresses very New Haven, but he’s a gentle man with a soft voice, good for conspiring here, where bright-faced American students bring you weak coffee and clean-cut American food.
“Let me see them again.” Castang passed his snapshots across and splendidly, Rick took a magnifying-glass out of his breast pocket.
“Alps,” he said.
“Yes, but what Alps? There’s a lot of Alps, right? Uh, Carinthian and Carnatic and uh, thousands of the buggers.”
“These were taken with a pretty good lens,” said Rick, meditatively. “Blow them up, you’d get quite a lot of fine detail.”
“That’s what I thought. Can I have the glass a sec?” trying not to get either ketchup or maple syrup on it. “This looks to be pretty high up, judging by the background. Sort of a railing here and what seems a footbridge, and all that water, like a lake but looks kind of man-made.”
“What exactly d’you have in mind?” asked Rick patiently.
“Well, you have this bloody great collection of satellite photos. I don’t know how good they are, nor how close they get. The French go about boasting theirs come a lot closer and are a lot sharper. But you have them.”
“Inexact, but basically accurate. We don’t have a close-up of you sunbathing on the balcony.”
“No, that’s not very strategic. But you do have things that are thought to be strategic.”
“You’re edging a bit into the forbidden area, there. Can’t compromise military security.”
“What I was thinking was, suppose it were a reservoir? Water supply for some big town. Wouldn’t that be strategic, or do I mean tactical? Catastrophe scenario; Russians swoop down, no, not Russians, let’s say mad ayatollahs, and drop poison in the water.”
“Balls.”
“Yes, but there are people in Nato who worry about their balls; drink the wrong water and you’re impotent. I was wondering whether … maybe if you put these through the computer for me it might come up with where it is. You see, I’m wondering who took these photos.”
“This guy,” tapping the snapshots of Eamonn in his funny hat, “this is a wise guy.”
“Undoubtedly. We’re thinking, maybe he’s in with some other wise guys.”
“Who would that be?”
“We’ve a wide splendid choice. IRA, Mafia, mad ayatollahs, you name it. I’m getting very interested, I’m hot in pursuit.”
Rick put his knife and fork in a “finished with it” pattern amid the ruins of the muffins, snapped his fingers at the waiter, was mysteriously obeyed: he had authority. “I’ll say this; we’re also interested in the wise guys.”
“I’m only asking for a cross-bearing right now, to fix the position. I’ve no right to suggest more. I’m saying this much—this is a very interesting man. Beyond that point, all I can do is ask the favour.”
“Leave these with me, okay? I don’t guarantee any goddam result whatsoever.”
“I have always wanted to be able to say that!”
“D’you know, you’re a pretty good guesser? Ran that through from entry-point reservoir, and the thing lit up; you hit it! And as a result, we’ve got quite interested. Understand me—not the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation. But we’re fairly close you know—no, you don’t—to a number of security services. They’re getting a bit curious about your wise guy.”
“Tell,” signalling for another two beers.
“All right,” producing some extremely mysterious photographs of an infra-red geological-survey nature, meaning nothing to Castang.
“This here’s the Valtellina, okay? Valley of the River Adda. In Italy. Alps.”
“Alps … ”
“Up here at the top, Bormio. Winter sports resort. Above that, a pass. Important pass, not greatly used nowadays because it’s steep and it’s shitty. The Stelvio. Historic, okay? Now up here there’s a lake. Nice, pure, clear Alpine water. And what-d’you-know, yes it does supply the city of Milan with water. Eventually.”
“Very eventually.”
“Correct; what your wise guy is doing up there is sort of a rhetorical question. I wouldn’t say we were greatly interested, but who is—wait for it—is Brits.”
“Brits?” Numbly.
“Little lights lit up with the Brits. You better take it from there, because this is where my sun gets hid behind a cloud. But I’m grateful to you, because I just happen to have gotten a good mark out of this. Alert perspicacious Jake put his finger on a sore point.”
