Léon and Louise by Alex Capus, John Brownjohn Page B

gesticulating as she smoked one cigarette after another, would walk backwards in front of him to see if he understood and approved of what she was saying. Léon not only understood but approved of everything she said, simply because it was Louise that was saying it. He found her laughter entrancing because it was her laughter, and he loved her encouraging, searching gaze because it was her green eyes that seemed to be asking, again and again, ‘Tell me, is it you? Is it really you?’ And he found her errant strand of hair captivating because it was her strand of hair, and he couldn’t help laughing when she mimicked the mayor lighting his cigar because the mimicry was hers.
    It hadn’t escaped them, even during their first walk together, that the citizens of the little town were watching their every step from behind their curtains. That was why they kept well in sight in the street and spoke especially loudly and distinctly, so that anyone who wished could hear what they were talking about. Once outside the Café du Commerce, they always stopped and said goodbye without a kiss or a handshake.
    â€˜ Au revoir, Louise.’
    â€˜ Au revoir, Léon.’
    â€˜See you tomorrow.’
    â€˜See you tomorrow.’
    Then she disappeared around the corner and he went into the café and ordered a glass of Bordeaux.

 
5
    A t Whitsun 1918 Léon had a whole two days off for the first time. Contrary to his usual routine, he woke early in the morning and watched as his window exchanged the darkness of night for the pale light of dawn and the glow of sunrise. Having washed in the fountain behind the goods shed, he got back into bed. He listened to the twittering of the blackbirds and the creaking of the beams and waited until it was eight o’clock at last – time for him to go to the office and have his café au lait under the effusively affectionate aegis of Madame Josianne.
    After breakfast he rode his bicycle into town. A storm had swept across the countryside during the night, tousling the maize fields, ripping the last of last year’s withered leaves from the plane trees, and filling the canals and ditches with rainwater. Léon made a circuit of the Sunday-silent town, with its gleaming roofs, wet streets and gurgling drains. A gentle summer breeze wafted the scent of flowering jasmine from the gardens into the streets, and the sun proceeded to dry everything before the inhabitants emerged from their houses, blinking, and went to Mass.
    Léon got off his bike in the Place de la République, propped it against an advertising pillar and sat down on a bench that had almost dried off. He didn’t have long to wait. A few pigeons cautiously approached him, heads bobbing, before reluctantly strutting off when they found he had no breadcrumbs to scatter. An old man in a claret-coloured dressing gown and brown-and-yellow checked slippers shuffled past with a baguette under his arm and disappeared down the alleyway between the town hall and the savings bank. A cloud drifted over the sun and exposed it again. Then, behind Léon’s back, the morning silence was broken by a bicycle bell – rri-rring, rri-rring! – and a moment later Louise was standing in front of him.
    â€˜I’ve now got a bell on my bike,’ she said. ‘Do I owe you something for it?’
    â€˜Of course not.’
    â€˜I didn’t ask you for one, but thanks all the same. When did you do it?’
    â€˜Last night, after the café.’
    â€˜You happened to have a bell and a screwdriver with you?’
    â€˜And a box spanner that fitted.’
    Louise leant her bicycle against the advertising pillar, sat down on the bench beside him and lit a cigarette.
    â€˜You’ve got some funny odds and ends on your luggage rack again. What are they?’
    â€˜Four blankets and a saucepan,’ said Léon. ‘And a bag of bread and cheese.’
    â€˜Found them all on the