The Mad and the Bad

20

For the second night in a row Julie had not slept at all.

Peter woke up at six in the morning after sleeping for seventeen hours. From about midnight his sleep had gradually become more normal. When he awoke he cried out. Julie leapt from her bed and hurried over to the little boy. He was sitting up and gazing uncomprehendingly into the gray half-light of the room.

“I’m here. Don’t be afraid.”

Peter flung his arms around the girl’s neck, squeezing with all his might and almost strangling her.

“Where are we, Julie? Where are the bad guys?”

“Shh! We’re in a hotel. We got away.”

“Are they chasing us?”

“No.”

“Did the police catch them? Did you tell the police?”

Julie disentangled herself, shivering. The boy looked around the room. It was a very large room, with white roughcast walls, an old-fashioned rustic wooden washstand with a built-in bowl and a pitcher, and a large oval mirror mounted lengthwise between two wooden uprights.

“The police!” Peter repeated. “What about them?”

“I didn’t go to the police.”

“Why?”

Julie shook her head in exasperation and her dark hair swirled about her white neck.

“You’re all naked,” noted Peter with interest.

“I’m getting dressed. You get dressed too. We’re going to have breakfast.”

“What about the police?”

Oh, the little devil! The rotten little devil! thought Julie. But then she thought: No, it’s me that’s screwy.

“I didn’t go to the police because I’m afraid of the police. I hate the police. Police! Police! Police! That’s why! Now you know!” Sotto voce, Julie was ranting.

“Why?”

“Oh Christ!” the girl exclaimed, and she sat down on the edge of the bed.

She did not know whether to cry or burst out laughing. She was still in doubt as she slipped on her shorts and sweat-soaked T-shirt. After abandoning the Peugeot 204, she had walked for kilometers and kilometers with Peter in her arms, following lanes and back roads and cutting across fields. Ten, twenty kilometers-she was not sure. Her head weighed heavy and all her joints ached.

“I used to be a criminal,” she blurted, and she looked at Peter to see what effect her words had on him.

He gulped. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’ve been in prison.”

“What for? Murder?”

“Get dressed.”

Beyond the window shutters it was daylight. Ever since Peter had uttered the word “police,” Julie had been feeling stifled in the dimness.

“I want you to tell me!” cried the boy. “When did I go to sleep?”

The girl took his head between her hands.

“Do you really want to know? Really see things the way they are? Listen, I’m an escaped prisoner. Do you believe me?”

“Sure I do. You mean like in Branded. And you have to prove your innocence?”

“That’s right.” Julie sighed.

“What are you supposed to have done?”

“Murder. Okay?”

“Well, I trust you,” Peter said firmly.

“Get dressed then.”

The girl helped the little boy get dressed.

“How are you going to prove you are innocent?”

“We’ll go and find Uncle Hartog,” said Julie, “and I’ll explain everything to him.”

She stood slack-jawed for a moment or two.

“No, what am I talking about? I’m such a fool. I’m horribly confused, it’s stupid. We have to go to. . the police. I don’t know what to do.”

“Tie my laces,” suggested Peter.

From outside, audible through the slots in the shutters, came the discreet sound of a car slowing down and coming to a halt in the sandy hotel parking lot. Julie ran to the window. Through the gaps she could see the roof of a black Peugeot 403. Figures in light blue raincoats were getting out. One of them looked up to inspect the hotel’s facade. He was a young man with a crew cut. He had his hands in his pockets. He was smoking a cigarette.

“Everyone’s sleeping,” the man said.

“Shit,” said another raincoat. “The sun is up. I’m up. Let’s go.”

The young man lowered his head. The two raincoats left Julie’s field of vision. A moment later the girl heard the front-door bell downstairs ringing for a long time.

“The cops,” said Peter.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Julie.

She took the boy by the hand. They went out into the hallway. The ringing was louder now. Footsteps resounded from the ground floor.

“Okay, okay,” said a voice, “we’re coming.”

Julie was bathed in sweat. She raced down the hallway past closed doors. At the end was a window giving onto a corrugated metal roof. In the distance bulky green mountains billowed up, densely wooded and pied by patches of mist. Julie jumped down onto the tin roof. The boy was laughing. The two of them slid down. The lean-to was not very high. Julie leapt off holding Peter and almost sprained her ankle as they landed in a farmyard bordered by cowsheds. A rooster crowed in a horrible way. The fugitives slithered through the mud, followed a path between low stone walls, and debouched onto a slope covered with broom. Closely mown grass, slick from dew, was greasy underfoot. Julie slipped and fell, rolling down through the broom with Peter. They got up, passed through a line of trees, and found themselves at a loop in the road just below the hotel. A big Chausson motor coach appeared from round the bend. Julie signaled. The bus braked and stopped. Julie and Peter climbed in.

“Lucky for you you’re so cute,” remarked the driver, who was wearing a white work smock.

The door closed with a pneumatic din and the bus went on down the hill. The inside smelled like wet dog. Country folk snoozed on the tatty seats with hats on their heads and baskets on their knees. Julie took a seat. She felt dizzy. There was a metallic taste in her mouth. The bus was juddering through an endless succession of hairpin bends. .

. . The driver was tapping Julie on the shoulder.

“Are you all right?”

The girl cast a stunned glance at the tree-lined square where the bus was parked.

“I fell asleep,” she said in a daze.

“Last stop. Five francs fifty.”

Julie paid. They got off, she and Peter. They walked away, left the square, spotted a deserted café, and took a table outside. Julie ordered a large café crème and a large hot chocolate. The place had no croissants.

“Wait here a minute,” said Julie to Peter.

There was a bakery nearby and a tobacconist almost next door to it. The girl soon returned to their table with croissants, cigarettes, and newspapers. As Peter ate, Julie frantically lit a Gauloise and began paging through the papers. She still merited a small headline but the accompanying story was brief. Clearly the journalists had no fresh information. There should be a headline such as THE NET TIGHTENS, but, of course, thought Julie, when it really is tightening, they don’t say so. Her lip tensed slightly. The back of her neck hurt.

The newspaper people embroidered a good deal on Hartog: “young financier,” they wrote, and “meteoric rise,” and “not a few envious rivals.”

“At present it is impossible to reach the industrialist,” Julie read. “According to some sources, M. Hartog, who returned hastily from Munich upon learning of the disappearance of his nephew, has left Paris once more so as to avoid publicity as the search goes on.”

“It’s obvious,” murmured Julie. “He has to be at his Moorish Tower.”

She felt more confident now, more sure of her plan. She could not be very far from Hartog’s fabulous house, his mountain labyrinth. She would get there. Throw herself at his feet. She could see the scene now, and she was excited. A scene worthy of Delacroix. The rich man would help her to her feet, understand her, forgive her, congratulate her, and seat her at his right hand on a cloud-wreathed mountaintop overlooking the Massif Central-far from the world of men, as the saying went. The girl stood and pulled Peter up, then turned back to pay for the breakfast. She was trembling. She asked the way to the station. She came to a grade crossing with a view of the platforms, bordered by dusty privet in cement planters. BOEN, said a kind of sign above the platform, blue letters against a white background-a hollow, boxlike sign supposed to light up at night like the signs outside police stations. The name BOEN meant nothing to Julie. She turned back. Peter trotted along beside her, finishing off a croissant. He observed his surroundings with curiosity; he was calm. They went into some shops, and Julie bought a rather hideous gray raincoat that came down to her knees and some Michelin maps. As they came out of the bookstore, she noticed an immense white poster on the other side of the street bearing a text in scarlet letters:

LAW AND ORDER

CAN WE LIVE WITHOUT POLICE?

WITHOUT GENDARMES?

THE BATTLE OF THAT GREAT DAY

OF GOD ALMIGHTY (REV. 16:14)

WHICH MEANS THE DISSOLUTION

OF VALUES?

IN THE LAST DAYS PERILOUS TIMES

SHALL COME (2 TIM. 3:1)

PAUL ZWICKAU

With her Michelin maps under her arm, holding on to Peter with the opposite hand, Julie crossed the street and went through a doorway just beneath the poster. In a little anteroom with a tiled floor country people wearing hats were talking in hushed tones. Beyond them was a conference hall. A sparse audience was seated on benches. Old people and children were in the majority. A guy on a stage was talking in front of a trompe l’oeil rendering of red-and-gold curtains. As Julie went to sit down, the guy gestured towards the wings.

“Paul Zwickau!” he announced in a high-pitched voice.

A young man came running from the wings. He wore a black suit and a tan polo-neck shirt. He had glasses and a part in his hair.

“Would you like to live,” he cried, “under a system that freed humanity from crime, violence, injustice, and poverty?”

The audience did not seem opposed. Zwickau began striding up and down the stage. He frequently tossed his head back in a violent manner. It was not hard to fear for his neck.

“Law and order reign in the Universe!” he exclaimed. “When we contemplate the vault of the heavens, so much is obvious. Even though the deepest meaning of the movements of the heavenly bodies may escape us, we must respect the views of the greatest scholars, astronomers, and nuclear physicists, who tell us how, night after night, season after season, year after year, and century after century the stars hew fast to their course in space and follow their orbits in so regular a fashion that it is possible to predict eclipses centuries in advance!”

The orator cleared his throat.

“My brothers, my sisters, listen! Our Eternal God has established a harmonious order in the Universe. Do you really believe that He is incapable of imposing that order and harmony on our planet, on this wretched little lump of dirt whirling through interstitial space?”

“I have seen His name!” shouted a fat woman in black.

Zwickau ignored the interruption.

“What do we see?” he cried.

“I have seen His name!” said the fat woman again.

A muscular steward grabbed her arm and whispered something in her ear. She immediately took on a guilty air.

“What do we see?” Zwickau insisted with a derisive smile. “Has man himself been able to institute law and order, an end to violence, injustice, and poverty? No! Would you like to know what happens in a big city when there are no more police? That is what occurred in Montreal on October 7, 1969. The police were on strike. Did citizens respect the law once they knew the police were no longer there to make arrests? Not at all! Right away Montreal became the scene of rioting, arson, looting, and fighting among taxi drivers. The rioters armed themselves with clubs and rocks and engaged in an orgy of senseless destruction. They smashed the windows of the Queen Elizabeth Hotel and stole merchandise. They vandalized the fine IBM Building. They plundered the Windsor and Mount Royal hotels. Without police, respect for law and order completely vanished. According to government spokesmen, the city was ‘on the verge of anarchy’!”

Zwickau stood for a moment on tiptoe, arm raised, to underscore the horror of it all.

“What do these events mean?” he went on. “Why this riotousness? And above all, what is to be done about it? Man has striven mightily and in all sincerity. He has tried every kind of regime. But he has never turned towards his Creator! His Creator who knows man’s problems better than anyone, because He has been observing everything that happens since the beginning of time.”

“Yes!” cried many voices.

“Hallelujah!”

“Hallelujah! Schmallelujah!” cried Julie.

“Be quiet, my sister,” said the muscular steward.

“I’m not your sister,” retorted Julie. But she was quiet.

“He is the Creator!” Zwickau continued. “It is our God who will bring order here below by instituting the state that we need. It is written that ‘the God of heaven shall set up a kingdom, which shall never be destroyed; and the kingdom shall not be left to other people, but it shall break in pieces and consume all those kingdoms, and it shall stand for ever.’ Daniel two, forty-four.”

Julie stood up.

“Pig! Disgusting pig!” she shouted.

Zwickau leapt down from the stage.

“Listen to me!”

Julie grabbed Peter and hoisted him onto her shoulders. The preacher pursued them out into the street. The girl raced towards the station. Zwickau gave up the chase. Julie was in the station. She had to get rid of all these bastards who were out to destroy her. This was no time to lose her head. She would have loved to open fire with a machine gun and create a bloodbath.

“Answer me, for heaven’s sake!” complained Peter. “What are we doing? Where are we going?”

“We’re running away. We’re going to Hartog’s place. His magnificent house over the horizon.”

Julie consulted the departures board, and with help from her road maps she eventually figured out where she was: sixty-odd kilometers west of Lyon. It was another sixty kilometers or so to the canton of Olliergues and the magnificent house. A local train drew in. Julie bought two tickets for Saint-Étienne. The train bore the fugitives away. It was hot. Julie was sweating under her formless raincoat. Peter was silent, remarkably well-behaved, gazing at Julie with eyes wide, green, and suspicious. Julie began looking at her maps again.

“We’re going to be traveling in the mountains,” she told Peter. “In the mountains no one can catch us. We’ll go into the mountains and we’ll find the magnificent house.”

“You already told me that.”

They got off at Montbrison. It was half past one in the afternoon. This surprised Julie. It should have been earlier. She and Peter crossed the sweltering esplanade fronting the station and had lunch in a sort of brasserie.

“When are we leaving?” asked Peter.

“We’re not in a hurry.”

“Yes, we are. We are hunted animals,” observed the boy.

“Do you wish we were there already?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you happy just to be with me?”

“Oh yes, I am.”

“Would you like me to buy you some toys?”

“I don’t know. If you like. What kind of toys?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you like.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Listen, Peter,” said Julie, “we could stop in the mountains and live as a mother and her son. No one would ever find us.”

“The police always find criminals.”

Julie grimaced. “Finish your dessert.”

“Not hungry anymore.”

Julie paid the bill. She counted the money she had left. Less than four thousand francs. How fast it went!

“Come on,” she said.

“Where to?”

“Let’s go.”

They wandered through the town. It was market day. The center of the little place was completely clogged with crowds of people and multicolored stalls. Julie bought the boy an ice cream. She was vaguely looking for a bus station. Was there even a bus station? At last, on a sort of circular avenue, near an empty café, she came upon a blue post bearing the words COACH STOP. No timetable was in evidence. Map in hand, taking her bearings by the sun, the girl tried to work out which way buses stopping there would be headed. At that moment a black Simca 1500 passed by, and through its open back window Julie saw Coco looking straight at her.