Читать книгу The Spy Quartet - Len Deighton - Страница 38

The road was straight. It cared nothing for geography, geology or history. The oil-slicked highway dared children and divided neighbours. It speared small villages through their hearts and laid them open. It was logical that it should be so straight, and yet it was obsessive too. Carefully lettered signs – the names of villages and the times of Holy Mass – and then the dusty clutter of houses flicked past with seldom any sign of life. At Le Chateau I turned off the main road and picked my way through the small country roads. I saw the sign Plaisir ahead and slowed. This was the place I wanted.

The main street of the village was like something out of Zane Grey, heavy with the dust of passing vehicles. None of them stopped. The street was wide enough for four lanes of cars, but there was very little traffic. Plaisir was on the main road to nowhere. Perhaps a traveller who had taken the wrong road at St Quentin might pass through Plaisir trying to get back on the Paris-Brussels road. Some years back when they were building the autoroute, heavy lorries had passed through, but none of them had stopped at Plaisir.

Today it was hot; scorching hot. Four mangy dogs had scavenged enough food and now were asleep in the centre of the roadway. Every house was shuttered tight, grey and dusty in the cruel biting midday light that gave them only a narrow rim of shadow.

I stopped the car near to a petrol pump, an ancient, handle-operated instrument bolted uncertainly on to a concrete pillar. I got out and thumped upon the garage doors, but there was no response. The only other vehicle in sight was an old tractor parked a few yards ahead. On the other side of the street a horse stood, tethered to a piece of rusty farm machinery, flicking its tail against the flies. I touched the engine of the tractor: it was still warm. I hammered the garage doors again, but the only movement was the horse’s tail. I walked down the silent street, the stones hot against my shoes. One of the dogs, its left ear missing, scratched itself awake and crawled into the shade of the tractor. It growled dutifully at me as I passed, then subsided into sleep. A cat’s eyes peered through a window full of aspidistra plants. Above the window, faintly discernible in the weathered woodwork, I read the word ‘café’. The door was stiff and opened noisily. I went in.

There were half a dozen people standing at the bar. They weren’t talking and I had the feeling that they had been watching me since I left the car. They stared at me.

‘A red wine,’ I said. The old woman behind the bar looked at me without blinking. She didn’t move.

‘And a cheese sandwich,’ I added. She gave it another minute before slowly reaching for a wine bottle, rinsing a glass and pouring me a drink, all without moving her feet. I turned around to face the room. The men were mostly farm workers, their boots heavy with soil and their faces engraved with ancient dirt. In the corner a table was occupied by three men in suits and white shirts. Although it was long past lunchtime they had napkins tucked into their collars and were putting forkfuls of cheese into their mouths, honing their knives across the bread chunks and pouring draughts of red wine into their throats after it. They continued to eat. They were the only people in the room not looking at me except for a muscular man seated at the back of the room, his feet propped upon a chair, placing the cards of his patience game with quiet confidence. I watched him peel each card loose from the pack, stare at it with the superior impartiality of a computer and place it face up on the marble table-top. I watched him play for a minute or so, but he didn’t look up.

It was a dark room; the only light entering it filtered through the jungle of plants in the window. On the marble-topped tables there were drip-mats advertising aperitifs; the mats had been used many times. The bar was brown with varnish and above the rows of bottles was an old clock that had ticked its last at 3.37 on some long-forgotten day. There were old calendars on the walls, a broken chair had been piled neatly under the window and the floor-boards squealed with each change of weight. In spite of the heat of the day three men had drawn their chairs close to a dead stove in the centre of the room. The body of the stove had cracked, and from it cold ash had spilled on to the floor. One of the men tapped his pipe against the stove. More ash poured out like the sands of time.

‘I’m looking for Monsieur Datt,’ I said to the whole room. ‘Which is his house?’

There was not even a change of expression. Outside I heard the sudden yelp of a frightened dog. From the corner came the regular click of playing cards striking the marble. There was no other sound.

I said, ‘I have important news for him. I know he lives somewhere in the village.’ I moved my eyes from face to face searching for a flicker of comprehension; there was none. Outside the dogs began to fight. It was a ragged, vicious sound: low growls and sudden shrieks of pain.

‘This is Plaisir?’ I asked. There was no answer. I turned to the woman behind the bar. ‘Is this the village of Plaisir?’ She half smiled.

‘Another carafe of red,’ called one of the men in white shirts.

The woman behind the bar reached for a litre bottle of wine, poured a carafe of it and pushed it down the counter. The man who had asked for it walked across to the counter, his napkin stuck in his collar, a fork still in his hand. He seized the carafe by the neck and returned to his seat. He poured a glass of wine for himself and took a large gulp. With the wine still in his mouth he leaned back in his chair, raised his eyes to mine and let the wine trickle into his throat. The dogs began fighting again.

‘They are getting vicious,’ said the man. ‘Perhaps we should do away with one of them.’

‘Do away with them all,’ I said. He nodded.

I finished my drink. ‘Three francs,’ said the woman.

‘What about a cheese sandwich?’

‘We sell only wine.’

I put three new francs on the counter-top. The man finished his patience game and collected the dog-eared cards together. He drank his glass of red wine and carried the empty glass and the greasy pack of cards to the counter. He put them both down and laid two twenty-old-franc pieces on top, then he wiped his hands on the front of his work jacket and stared at me for a moment. His eyes were quick and alert. He turned towards the door.

‘Are you going to tell me how to get to Monsieur Datt’s house?’ I asked the woman again.

‘We only sell wine,’ she said, scooping up the coins. I walked out into the hot midday sun. The man who had been playing patience walked slowly across to the tractor. He was a tall man, better nourished and more alert than the local inhabitants, perhaps thirty years old, walking like a horseman. When he reached the petrol pump, he whistled softly. The door opened immediately and an attendant came out.

‘Ten litres.’

The attendant nodded. He inserted the nozzle of the pump into the tank of the tractor, unlocked the handle and then rocked it to pump the spirit out. I watched them close to, but neither looked round. When the needle read ten litres, he stopped pumping and replaced the nozzle. ‘See you tomorrow,’ said the tall man. He did not pay. He threw a leg over the tractor seat and started the motor. There was an ear-splitting racket as it started. He let in the clutch too quickly and the big wheels slid in the dust for an instant before biting into the pavé and roaring away, leaving a trail of blue smoke. The one-eared dog awoke again as the sound and the hot sun hit it and went bounding up the road barking and snapping at the tractor wheels. That awoke the other dogs and they, too, began to bark. The tall man leaned over his saddle like an apache scout and caught the dog under its only ear with a wooden stick. It sang a descant of pain and retired from the chase. The other dogs too lost heart, their energy sapped by the heat. The barking ended raggedly.

‘I’m thinking of driving to the Datt house,’ I said to the pump attendant. He stared after the tractor. ‘He’ll never learn,’ he said. The dog limped back into the shade of the petrol pump. The attendant turned to face me. ‘Some dogs are like that,’ he said. ‘They never learn.’

‘If I drive to the Datt house I’ll need twenty litres of the best.’

‘Only one kind,’ said the man.

‘I’ll need twenty litres if you’ll be kind enough to direct me to the Datt place.’

‘You’d better fill her up,’ said the man. He raised his eyes to mine for the first time. ‘You’re going to need to come back, aren’t you?’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘And check the oil and water.’ I took a ten-franc note from my pocket. ‘That’s for you,’ I said. ‘For your trouble.’

‘I’ll look at the battery too,’ he said.

‘I’ll commend you to the tourist board,’ I said. He nodded. He took the pump nozzle and filled the tank, he opened up the rad cap with a cloth and then rubbed the battery. ‘Everything’s okay,’ he said. I paid him for the petrol.

‘Are you going to check the tyres?’

He kicked one of them. ‘They’ll do you. It’s only down the road. Last house before the church. They are waiting for you.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, trying not to look surprised. Down the long straight road I watched the bus come, trailed by a cloud of dust. It stopped in the street outside the café. The customers came out to watch. The driver climbed on to the roof of the bus and got some boxes and cases down. One woman had a live chicken, another a birdcage. They straightened their clothes and stretched their limbs.

‘More visitors,’ I said.

He stared at me and we both looked towards the bus. The passengers finished stretching themselves and got back aboard again. The bus drove away, leaving just four boxes and a birdcage in the street. I glanced towards the café and there was a movement of eyes. It may have been the cat watching the fluttering of the caged bird; it was that sort of cat.