The Cyclist by Fredrik Nath Page A

course sir,’ Bernhard said.
    Jolted back to reality, Auguste said, ‘Sorry, what was that? I can’t eat another thing; your hospitality has been so generous.’
    ‘Hospitality? You don’t think SD officers pay for this type of lowly fare do you?’
    ‘Oh,’ Auguste said, ‘I hadn’t realised.’
    ‘On the house man. On the house. The proprietor is pleased to have us as guests and that means you too Auguste.’
    ‘What did you ask him for?’
    ‘We are having some brandy. Armagnac of course. It is much favoured in Germany. I also invited the singer to join us.’
    ‘I don’t think she is that sort of a girl.’
    ‘Nonsense man, all French women are at my disposal. See if they aren’t.’
    Brunner waved an expansive arm towards the rest of the tables. The wine seemed to have affected him too.
    ‘I promised her mother she would be home shortly after midnight. I agreed to take her home. If I do not, I will have broken my word to a sick woman.’
    Brunner was silent then. He stared into his glass and became serious.
    ‘Let us see if she wishes to go with me. I am often persuasive. You’ll see.’
    Presently, the brandy arrived and Bernadette followed behind. She drew up a chair, her face pale, she looked as if she was about to be shot by a firing squad.
    Brunner stood up and smiled a lascivious smile. He gestured for her to sit and the fool clacked his heels and bowed at the hips.
    ‘I am delighted to meet you. You sing wonderfully. Like a bird of paradise. My compliments.’
    She said, ‘Thank you. You are very kind.’
    Brunner sipped his Armagnac, never taking his eyes from her. Auguste thought the man was obsessed. He could see beads of sweat on Brunner’s balding forehead and he knew what the German was thinking. He recognised the thought had in some form, been buried in his own head. The drink made his thoughts muddled but he recalled his fatherly feelings for the girl. He would not allow Brunner anywhere near her and he knew it then.
    ‘Let me get you a drink,’ Brunner said.
    ‘No thank you. I don’t take alcohol.’
    ‘You don’t? And you work in a place like this? Nonsense, I’ll get you a brandy.’
    He summoned the waiter and ordered more drinks. He grabbed the bottle from the waiter’s tray and set it on the table. He waved the man away.
    Auguste had not finished the first one and he did not intend to drink more with Brunner. He detested the man and this performance confirmed his hatred. It was not as simple as revulsion, Auguste pondered. It was to do with his pride in being French. This man was a German interloper. A beast from the forests troubling his country since Roman times. He also recognised he felt protective of Bernadette and he knew he needed to get her away from Brunner.
    ‘Well it’s getting late I’m afraid,’ Auguste said, looking at his watch.
    Brunner said, ‘You entertain all these men with your mouth. Perhaps you would like to entertain me with it too? In private of course.’
    Auguste looked at Brunner. The man was oblivious. It was now beyond his control, he had to leave. He stood up before Bernadette could reply.
    ‘I’m sorry Helmut, but I have promised to take her home. I’m sure another occasion will present itself. I bid you a very good night and thank you for your gentlemanly company.’
    He stressed the word “gentlemanly” too hard and he realised it. Perhaps it was the drink but there was something more in his mind. It was impossible for him to hide his contempt.
    ‘But we have only just begun,’ Brunner complained.
    Auguste took Bernadette’s hand and led her away. He glanced over his shoulder when he reached the door. Brunner was scowling and talking to Bousquet. He leaned forward. His elbow slipped and he almost hit the table with his face. Auguste realised the SD officer was very drunk. He hoped he had not caused a permanent breach in relations, because he needed Brunner in the long term. But some things, he reflected, were beyond any