The First of July(14)

He stood up—how comfortable the boots were!—and walked toward the school. At the back of the schoolhouse, the schoolmaster’s bicycle was propped up against the steps. He and Godet had repaired it only weeks back. He took out the money the groom had given him for the horse and left it on a big stone on the step.

He wheeled the bicycle away, praying that the schoolmaster had oiled it. When he was well clear of the school, on the track leading between the vegetable fields and the river, he got on and almost immediately fell off. He tried again and lasted for longer, but the front wheel began to wobble so wildly that it would inevitably fall over. All the time, he was moving away from town. He still burned from shame for his mother. She was no better than a whore—except much cheaper and older. Didn’t she know that Vignon didn’t care where he stuck it—or was she so stupid that she believed he’d marry her? He came to a bit of sloping ground and let the bicycle freewheel down it while he sat, his feet hanging down, not attempting to pedal, only steering to keep away from the river.

He was approaching the place where Vignon kept his boat. It was so well disguised under the low branches of a willow that you really had to know it was there to find it. He stopped, dismounted, pulled back the canvas, and stared at it. Vignon had been giving it a new coat of paint. The paint can was in the boat with the brushes. The name Sans Souci was newly picked out in blue. He wanted to kick it as hard as he could. Instead, he stepped inside, and the small boat rocked on the mud. He opened the little hatch where he knew Vignon kept his fishing rod, cigarettes, and a small flask of brandy. As the lid slid back, all he could see was a blanket. The blanket, of course—he felt another wave of anger, looking at the dry grass caught in it. He felt under it for the precious rod, intending to throw it in the river, but his finger found a package wrapped in oilcloth. He sat down and opened it: inside he found a small book and a few tightly rolled-up papers. They were yellowing and, even as he held them, the corners curled up over his hands.

The first two were indecipherable official papers with something like Vignon’s name on them, or at least his first name, Felix, which he already knew, then Johannes and something that looked like Vignon but wasn’t. Felix Johannes Wiener, it said, and a small picture of a youthful, beardless but recognizable doctor was stamped with the imprint of a two-headed eagle. The very last document, although still in an unfamiliar language, was, he was almost sure, a birth certificate. He had seen his own, and this one was laid out similarly. There was a birth date, July 1, 1875, a mother, Hilde, a general-surgeon father, Wilhelm-Markus. Then a single word: Berlin.

The fact that Godet had been right all along, that Vignon was not what he said he was, had probably never even been to Paris, filled Jean-Baptiste with bitter joy.

“Bastard,” he said, aloud. “German bastard.”

He glanced at the book. It was expensive-looking with a soft red-leather cover, though worn at the edges. Jean-Baptiste could read well, had been the ablest in his class at school, but he couldn’t read a word of the title. Not only the words but the typeface were unfamiliar to him, although Felix Wiener was written in brown ink inside the cover. He opened the pages at random, but the queer lettering, very dark and angular, continued.

He was ready to throw the entire contents of the package into the river, but suddenly felt nearer to tears than rage. It was a beautiful book, no less beautiful because it belonged to a shit, and after a short time he replaced it under the blanket. He got out of the boat, taking the can of paint with him, and prised up the lid with his small knife. It came up easily. He dipped a stick in it and, over the carefully painted Sans Souci, daubed GERMAN ARSE in large, dripping letters. As he did it, he was shaking, with hurt and with the desire to pass on that hurt. He looked down at his handiwork, let the branches enclose the boat again, and picked up the bicycle. He got on, wearily, and started down the track.

After three further tries, he found that he could balance. Slowly, tentatively, he began to pedal, carefully at first and then, as he realized that if he went faster the machine was more inclined to stay upright, he gathered speed. If he could get to Amiens by evening, then he might catch the last train to Paris.





CHAPTER SIX


Frank, London,

June 1914


I’LL CERTAINLY NEVER FORGET JUNE 28, 1914. It was a triumph for Belgium. Their man, Philippe Thys, set out on his Peugeot-Wolber in the company of six fine French cyclists who had all won the Tour de France before: Lapize, Petit-Breton, Faber, Deffraye, Garrigou, and Trousellier. Heroes every one. I had a map of the course; it was a map of hell, and a burning fiery hell this year. They even stopped the race for a while for fear the heat would kill someone. Thys came through the ordeal a champion among bicyclists.