witness how his compatriots made obeisance to the Germans evoked nothing but disgust in Auguste and he realised his whole thinking had changed in only two days.
The three men sat at a small table with a chequered tablecloth and a half-burned candle, perched somewhat askew in the end of an empty bottle of Chateau Malartic Lagraviére. Auguste wished it were full. Such wine was hard to come by these days. All of it was destined for German palates not French.
Bernadette sang behind him. He questioned what any passerby might have thought of the local police inspector, dining with a German wolf and a French giraffe. The description in his head made him smile. He thought it apt. His life was becoming a circus.
Brunner said, ‘We are having champagne, then we can get to the more serious wines. I love this country. You have the best of everything. Wine, women, food and angels to sing for us too.’
Bousquet said, ‘You are a man with excellent taste then, Helmut. Is he not Inspector?’
‘Yes, excellent,’ Auguste said.
Brunner leaned towards Auguste and said in confidential tones, ‘That girl, the one singing, she has a wonderful voice.’
‘Yes, her name is Bernadette. I have known her since she was a child. Her father died in a car accident and her mother cannot walk through the same disaster. She studies fine art at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts.’
‘Then you must ask her to join us. She is beautiful. Such wonderful women you have here.’
Auguste said nothing. He could not imagine Bernadette would be anything but horrified.
They ate duck. Brunner had cassoulet of duck and the others had confit of duck leg. They ate in silence preferring to listen to the music. The wine was a local one, since any others were scarce. The label said it was a Bergerac but the best in the house and Auguste began to feel drunk. He was unused to alcohol nowadays and after sharing two bottles of champagne and two of red wine, he began to become incautious. He slapped Brunner on the shoulder
‘Well isn’t this a wonderful French meal. Better than sauerkraut eh?’
Brunner looked at him. The expression was one of distaste mixed, Auguste thought, with contempt.
‘You think there is anything in your country matching mine? One German is worth ten Frenchmen any day of the week. We proved it when the Fürer took France almost with just a telephone call. The Vichy Government is his theatre and Pétain is his puppet. You would do well to recognise the fact. I can have anything in this room only for the asking. Can you?’
Auguste knew he could have said, ‘I’m sorry, I did not mean to offend,’ or he could have said, ‘Of course you are right.’
He felt a sudden surge of anger. He controlled it but he realised his pride in his country and in himself too, was gripping him by the throat and it felt like it squeezed the life out of him with every moment he spent in Brunner’s company. He had a sudden urge to shoot the man.
He said, ‘I meant only the food.’
Brunner looked at him; his eyes cod-cold.
Bousquet said, ‘I travelled to Germany before the war. I visited Bavaria. I found the food and hospitality second to none.’
Brunner said, ‘My mother is from Bavaria.’
‘Indeed? Such lovely people,’ Bousquet said.
‘Ah her cooking is wonderful, I miss home nowadays. Mutti makes a lamb stew with sauerkraut men would die for.’
Auguste looked at Bousquet with gratitude. He was uncertain where the conversation might have taken him and for the first time in his life realised he was slipping out of control. Whether it was the strain of what Odette had made him take on, or whether it was the question of the internments, he did not know; he had such a turmoil wheeling in his mind, the wine served only to confuse and bring these thoughts closer to the surface.
He was aware of Brunner and Bousquet conversing about the beauty of the German countryside but it took the proprietor’s presence to bring him back to reality.
‘Of
The three men sat at a small table with a chequered tablecloth and a half-burned candle, perched somewhat askew in the end of an empty bottle of Chateau Malartic Lagraviére. Auguste wished it were full. Such wine was hard to come by these days. All of it was destined for German palates not French.
Bernadette sang behind him. He questioned what any passerby might have thought of the local police inspector, dining with a German wolf and a French giraffe. The description in his head made him smile. He thought it apt. His life was becoming a circus.
Brunner said, ‘We are having champagne, then we can get to the more serious wines. I love this country. You have the best of everything. Wine, women, food and angels to sing for us too.’
Bousquet said, ‘You are a man with excellent taste then, Helmut. Is he not Inspector?’
‘Yes, excellent,’ Auguste said.
Brunner leaned towards Auguste and said in confidential tones, ‘That girl, the one singing, she has a wonderful voice.’
‘Yes, her name is Bernadette. I have known her since she was a child. Her father died in a car accident and her mother cannot walk through the same disaster. She studies fine art at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts.’
‘Then you must ask her to join us. She is beautiful. Such wonderful women you have here.’
Auguste said nothing. He could not imagine Bernadette would be anything but horrified.
They ate duck. Brunner had cassoulet of duck and the others had confit of duck leg. They ate in silence preferring to listen to the music. The wine was a local one, since any others were scarce. The label said it was a Bergerac but the best in the house and Auguste began to feel drunk. He was unused to alcohol nowadays and after sharing two bottles of champagne and two of red wine, he began to become incautious. He slapped Brunner on the shoulder
‘Well isn’t this a wonderful French meal. Better than sauerkraut eh?’
Brunner looked at him. The expression was one of distaste mixed, Auguste thought, with contempt.
‘You think there is anything in your country matching mine? One German is worth ten Frenchmen any day of the week. We proved it when the Fürer took France almost with just a telephone call. The Vichy Government is his theatre and Pétain is his puppet. You would do well to recognise the fact. I can have anything in this room only for the asking. Can you?’
Auguste knew he could have said, ‘I’m sorry, I did not mean to offend,’ or he could have said, ‘Of course you are right.’
He felt a sudden surge of anger. He controlled it but he realised his pride in his country and in himself too, was gripping him by the throat and it felt like it squeezed the life out of him with every moment he spent in Brunner’s company. He had a sudden urge to shoot the man.
He said, ‘I meant only the food.’
Brunner looked at him; his eyes cod-cold.
Bousquet said, ‘I travelled to Germany before the war. I visited Bavaria. I found the food and hospitality second to none.’
Brunner said, ‘My mother is from Bavaria.’
‘Indeed? Such lovely people,’ Bousquet said.
‘Ah her cooking is wonderful, I miss home nowadays. Mutti makes a lamb stew with sauerkraut men would die for.’
Auguste looked at Bousquet with gratitude. He was uncertain where the conversation might have taken him and for the first time in his life realised he was slipping out of control. Whether it was the strain of what Odette had made him take on, or whether it was the question of the internments, he did not know; he had such a turmoil wheeling in his mind, the wine served only to confuse and bring these thoughts closer to the surface.
He was aware of Brunner and Bousquet conversing about the beauty of the German countryside but it took the proprietor’s presence to bring him back to reality.
‘Of
Similar Books
