Red rainbow, p.16
Red Rainbow, page 16
“It could be dual motive. The question is, do you want more?”
“That’s a hard one. I’ve wondered if he’s come back ever since they landed in Normandy. Then I think of how he’s likely to have been put in the worst spots because of his colour – he told me terrible stories of how our people are treated over there in the home town he wanted to take me back to – I don’t even know if its love, Marcella, or me just creating a story out of nothing. From my end too, I don’t know what I feel for him.”
“You hope that he’s alive and you still think about him a lot. That’s decent foundations. Did he not give any inkling as to why he wanted you to go to America?”
“I shut it down very quickly because of my father. He was concerned for my safety, he said that much.”
“Now you’re concerned for his. If he’s got the patience and skill to master an instrument, he’ll be okay with a gun.”
“A bit different.”
“Yeah, but it shows skill with his hands, precision – don’t write him off yet. Have you tried with your writing? To contact him, I mean.”
Patience shook her head. “I’d sooner not know. It’s not as though I’ll ever be informed unless I hunt down the information. I don’t know, Marcella. Everything is so heightened you don’t know whether to trust your own feelings even if you do know them.”
“It could be worse. I don’t know if I really love my man or if I’m just following the herd, so at least you haven’t got that headfuck to deal with.”
“Do you want to talk about that?” Patience asked, feeling she was being self-indulgent harping on about a long-dead fling with a travelling musician when Marcella had that to process.
“The Love Phantom and I have talked about it a lot. I’ve always cared more about being loved – most men haven’t managed that for me. I’d sooner not think about him too much today, more to do with Florence than what follows. Bartholomew,” Marcella said, Patience’s cue to carry on.
“It hurt like hell when he cheated. He didn’t seem the type. I look at my father, who would never, ever have done that to my mother, and he comes across very poor in comparison.”
Marcella instantly broke her own rule about not talking about him. “The Love Phantom comes across sensationally if I compare him to my Pa. The schism between me and my parents came when I was 14. It was nothing special before then, which was why I kept my pregnancy a secret. The miscarriage wasn’t something I could keep quiet about. Bad, real bad. I was lucky to be alive. I needed their support. Long story short, I didn’t get it, not at all.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Both Patience and Scrambler had their problems, but both at least came from a happy home, which was clearly not the case for poor Marcella. She’d been a rock for Patience these past few weeks, and she wanted to offer that same support to her, but she was not that easy to reach. Marcella was friendly and keen to help her, but there seemed to be a block imposed when it came to returning that favour. The miscarriage felt like it was only the tip of the iceberg, Patience barely able to imagine the experiences the stripping exposed her to. Only Plague sounded more lost, Patience unable to meet her due to her ‘gift’ making everyone she came into contact with ill, as well as herself. Patience was willing to risk it but wasn’t given the option.
Interlude II
Sick Girl
Nadine Tasse was praised for her curly locks from a very young age. Her hair had been very light blonde then, a little darker now, and while she’d often wished it was straight like her friends, she saw some advantages to it now. It didn’t need that much maintenance and, thankfully, did not require looking in her smashed mirror to arrange. It wouldn’t comb straight, she could get away with tying it back and having the odd trim. The very odd trim, Nadine barred from most hairdressers within the Paris district.
Cutting her hair meant coming into close contact with her, something nobody was keen to do twice. Her groceries were delivered to her at no extra cost, the delivery boy knocking at the door to her basement flat, old servants’ quarters, and fleeing before she opened it. She did not have to pay extra for this service for the shopkeeper preferred this over having her come anywhere near his store. Nadine took no offence, grateful that he didn’t outright bar her and refuse her service like most traders did. She had food and drink, a roof over her head, essential things for her welfare.
What she did not have, and she had not enjoyed for 14 years, was her health. She sometimes wondered if she’d have been better always being sick. She wouldn’t know any different then. The memories of healthier times were not much consolation as they were so long ago and seemed unlikely to be recaptured.
Nadine only had herself to blame for her illness. She was 13 and travelling with her friends on the Metro. They’d seen the dishevelled old woman on multiple occasions on the platform, never boarding a train. She always looked a state, sick as a dog, shivering, a stained hanky returning to her mouth after throaty coughs doused in spittle and who knew what else.
Nadine walked over and sat next to her as her friends watched. She commented on what a beautiful dress the lady had on, asking her where she’d bought it and if anyone would be taking her out soon as she looked ready for a ball. The fake sincerity must have been transparent, in retrospect, Nadine laying it on with a trowel, making her out to be a fashion and beauty icon with her words while her friends sniggered.
Two days’ later, Nadine felt most unwell. She put the blame on getting close to the old bag, the viral infection the worst she’d ever known. Vomiting round the clock, shitting through the eye of a needle, shivering as though in a freezer...
14 years later that virus hadn’t gone. She’d learned how to cope with it, how to keep the grossest parts in check, but she was still gravely ill constantly. As was everyone she came into contact with. Breathing the same air was enough for anyone to be struck down for a week or two, depending on their constitution. Everyone wised up to it quickly. She was unclean and nobody wanted to be near her. That included her family, months of relentless sickness wearing them down. Hospital stays didn’t help. She got sympathy there, though even here this became distant. One nurse was lovely to her throughout, choosing to sit with her on her bed and hold her hand when she needed it, even when it made her violently ill. That nurse was the reason Nadine ultimately discharged herself, because she was taking her down with her.
Being a member of the Foundation didn’t help her health. It made it worse if anything, wandering the streets to find the haunts of the Germans or anyone else the Love Phantom or Marcella told her about. He phoned her on occasion with coded messages, but the majority of her contact with them came through notes Marcella posted through her letterbox (she wisely never knocked or came in for coffee). One thing it did was ensure the Love Phantom continued to financially support her in the form of large lump sums to cover her for all expenses for a calendar year. He started doing this before the group even began (from practically their first meeting, a generous gesture considering she had made him as sick as everyone else), so while it was not tied to her membership, it did make her more inclined to help him. She was able to hold back her vomiting and her diarrhoea enough to walk around without the plague within being immediately apparent in others. She missed the effects of her presence provided she was gone within 20 minutes.
The Love Phantom had suggested other aliases for her over her own choice of Plague. They were all sickly characters from novels – Tourvel, March (apparently he read the book she was in to his young sister) or Nana. These were never under consideration for her, Nadine having no time for cryptic literary references that meant nothing to her. She wanted something suitably horrendous that summed up the wretchedness of her existence – Nausea was the only other name she entertained (though she darkly mentioned Vomit, Diarrhoea and Gastroenteritis to César for a reaction), Nadine opting for Plague as it conveyed the contagious nature of her curse better. By venturing out on her bicycle every day and trying to limit her proximity to her countrymen and women and the duration of it and just staying close to Germans, she was infecting the invaders a man at a time. She did it without hate, without enthusiasm. It was just something to do to help her country and to pass the long, long days.
Chapter 13
Prisoners
César remained in custody and would do so until the stalemate was breached. Strohkirch accepted that much, that César had to at least give them some names. Yet he seemed to respect him for his silence, his loyalty to his contacts. He was incarcerated but he was fed well, allowed to bathe, treated very well considering he was defying them.
Gehring kept his distance from his cell and only joined in the interviews when Strohkirch asked him to. It wasn’t worth the aggravation, being the voice of reason swimming against the tide. Interviewing him on a friendly basis would never work. César wouldn’t reveal anything he didn’t intend to this way. Gehring had had a complaint made against him by the prisoner that Strohkirch took him to one side about. ‘Kind’ César didn’t want to make a formal complaint but did want assurances that no correspondence would be sent to his mother. Gehring wanted to go through with it even more after this, though assured Strohkirch (who was dead set against the idea as poor form) he’d never had any intention of doing so, though could not resist a barb against the prisoner, commenting that it produced the closest he’d come to an unrehearsed reaction.
César’s complaint had made no mention of his threat of torture. Gehring had not gone far with this. The message had permeated still, a notable shift of composure in the prisoner when he ordered him to present his bare arm to him. The paintings in his house, in his bedroom especially, an obscene picture of a nude woman’s reclining torso, her legs spread, confirmed Gehring’s opinion of this man. He was a sensualist, which was why physical pain was the method to break him. His hands were soft, César having lived a charmed life with no hard labour. Even his short army stint sounded easy. It was hardly the Russian Front, and that was the case for both sides, the Geneva Convention in full force here. His POW tenure was so brief it could not have left any impression on him. A different story for his smitten guards, of course. Released early due to ‘concerns over the effect imprisonment could have on his psychological state,’ i.e., the guards had gone soft. There was no physical ailment they could justify releasing him on so they went the mental health route – while making sure not to label him a nut or retard.
The more he read and learned about him, the more Gehring felt sick. The wall of silence regarding his friends didn’t even make sense. They weren’t after his friends to arrest them – they knew who plenty of them were anyway. They just needed the name of every person he spoke to about seeking out Florence. The plan was to lead back to her through them, that was all. He wasn’t dooming anyone, only Florence, who’d doomed herself. But he wouldn’t budge, and they weren’t doing enough to make him budge even though the solution was so easy. This softly-softly approach played into his hands. 10 minutes with a scalpel and Gehring knew he’d have a full statement with very minor injuries on the prisoner to show for it. And no career. That was if he was lucky, harming a hair on César’s pampered head potentially having far worse consequences.
An alternative way of reaching him presented itself. A young French woman came to them claiming to have information about César Vadeboncoeur. The pretty teenage redhead was shown to Gehring’s office. She could have looked better if she’d dressed up and had her hair loose instead of tightly tied back. It was understandable she hadn’t made more of an effort. She was stressed, this besotted young woman anguished at the object of her affection being incarcerated. She swore that César was innocent of all charges without even knowing what the charges were. She pleaded with Gehring to release him, offering him information to trade for his release.
“Does your information concern Florence Pascoe? Be truthful now, or there will be consequences for him.” He added this to ensure Alexia Fleischer (German name, that one?) told the truth.
She shook her head.
“Then we have nothing to discuss.”
“We do. This is important.” Alexia wanted this so badly she became defiant at hearing no, forgetting where she was. She wasn’t asking her father to stay out late for a party, but the tone was more fitting for such a request.
“By your own admission, you have no information about Florence.”
“I have information about multiple people going back years. You’ll get six arrests out of my information compared to one.”
“You clearly care a lot about him. Enough to say anything.”
Alexia nodded in agreement. “But I know that I’d be making things worse for him if what I was saying didn’t check out. Interrogate them, some will crack and reveal I’m telling the truth.” Again, the tone was off; she said this far too forcefully, another demonstration of immaturity.
“Is he your lover?”
“I wish. He barely knows I’m alive.”
This statement confirmed Gehring’s suspicions. For her to put her neck on the line for a virtual stranger – she was under his spell too. One of his slaves had come to free him. The way things were going here, his other subjects would be flinging the doors open for him and gently carrying him out.
“Give me one name now, and I’ll let you see him.”
Alexia instantly blurted a name out in response to this promise. Gehring wrote it down and told her to follow him. He’d get the full details about that name later. He led her down to the cells where the custody officer offered to take her off his hands.
“She’s visiting César.”
The guard frowned. He showed he was gone too by insisting on consulting with the prisoner first to see if he wanted to see anyone. The guard returned and said, “He’s going to bathe and shave first, then he’ll see you.”
“Give me strength...”
“Hey now!” the guard blasted back. “Bringing visitors here is most irregular, don’t start.”
“Check it out with your superior then. Don’t ask him for permission.” Damnit. He should have said ‘oh, you just did’ – it would be too clunky to add on now. Gehring complied, aware that this was a hill he could die on if he wasn’t careful. He told the guard to call him when César was ready for them. He did too, in person. He also loitered as Gehring led Alexia to the door of the cell. She was excited and shy, standing back as César scrutinised her, sat on his bed – with two pillows in sight!
“Do you recognise her?” Gehring asked.
“I think I may have seen the young lady around. She’s not involved in any of this, if that is what you are asking.”
“Alexia has risked her own damnation to try and free you. There are three letters that I’ve heard of, probably more, asking the same, for mercy, clemency. We have a cause célèbre in the making.”
“I didn’t send any letters,” Alexia said, unable to hold César’s gaze for more than a second as she spoke.
“No, you came in person. She betrays six of her people – your people – to try and save your skin. I imagine there will be more like her when the news of your arrest spreads further. You know how to make it all stop.”
“The names of my contacts is not the solution to this that you think it is.”
“If you won’t talk to help yourself, she’ll have to talk to help you.”
“I think he looked pale,” Alexia said after giving Gehring a full statement regarding the first name. She showed nous in wanting proof that he’d fulfil his end of the bargain before she’d reveal more. “Does he get to go outside?”
“We’re not a prison. We don’t have a yard.” He’d only been locked up four nights, hardly long enough to turn chalk white.
“Can I see him again?” She’d flunked the moment, hardly saying anything, turning coy and flushing.
“What would you say to him?”
“I have ideas in my head. I can’t say I’d get the words out. I applied for a job at his office. I didn’t make it to interview.”
“You heard what he said. You’re just another girl in the neighbourhood to him, one he’s barely noticed.”
“I don’t kid myself that he’ll rush into my arms when you set him free. I’m not doing it for that.”
You’re doing it because you’re obsessed. This cult was getting out of control. Gehring was hopeful that Kretschmer’s return would deal with the problem. He let Alexia go without getting any more names (and torturing her was a nonstarter; she’d endure anything for him). Kretschmer was the key. Gehring had been tempted to ask him over the phone for permission to terminate César. The idea was a nonstarter due to the risk – the order and the request had to come from Kretschmer alone. All Gehring had to do was make sure that Kretschmer didn’t see him. He instructed his juniors to notify him as soon as Kretschmer came back and told them to ask Kretschmer to come and see him as a matter of urgency. He should never have left Germany at this time in the first place; Gehring was unimpressed that he asked for dispensation to return home at such a crucial time, considering it unprofessional, but he’d leave that out of his welcome back speech.
César had two main concerns about Alexia’s visit. Her safety, of course, and also somebody from the outside seeing him looking less than immaculate. Maybe he needed to be locked up longer to lose those vanities, an Abbé Faria length stretch or two. They let him wear his own clothes still, the ones they had arrested him in. He was pleased he’d had a blue shirt on, the dirt at the sleeves and collar not quite so visible as it would have been on a white shirt. They took his tie, which instantly made him look less smart, the laces from his shoes too. He wasn’t going to hang himself – not unless they showed him a mirror and he’d gone to seed.
