The Selected Stories

ORLÉANS, THREE KILOMETERS

Whenever she asked, “Is Orléans very far?” he was filled with a dull rage that surged upward till it reached his throat and choked him, causing him to cough. At least he spared himself from responding. They were entering a town. A group of people were gathered in front of a house, and they crossed the street to speak to them.

“What town is this?”

No one paid any attention to the couple. Everyone was anxiously standing around two men in shirtsleeves who were distributing wine. Like the rest of the town, the tiny tavern was abandoned. Smoke billowed from a window, and the air carried the smell of gunpowder.

“Bring bottle, give you wine. Give wine from cellar. Everything abandoned, wine go bad, better to drink it.” The person had no more than imperfect French. He was a tall, thin black man, middle-aged, dressed presentably. A poppy was stuck in the lapel of his jacket; only one petal remained, the others had been winnowed out by the wind.

“Hey, take a look at that suitcase,” the woman exclaimed as she elbowed her husband. The black man was carrying a small pigskin suitcase. It was new, its locks gleaming in the sun.

“Quiet, woman. If he hears us—”

“If you’re afraid he’ll understand us—”

Addressing the Negro, the husband asked, “Would you know the name of this town?” The man raised his hand (dry with long fingers, the color faded from his palm) pointing it upward. A sign was perched on the top of a pole with the name of the town marked in shiny, black letters. Artenay.

“There’s some wine left. Who wants more?” offered one of the two men who were moving back and forth between the cellar and the doorway. Their trousers and shoes were drenched in wine. A woman approached them with a ladle.

“Look what I found. In the house on the corner. The door was blown away and the kitchen’s full of all kinds of utensils. They must have just abandoned it, because the milk on the alcohol burner was boiling over.”

“You got nothing to put wine?” the Negro asked the couple who had arrived last. “No? I look for vase or bottle.” With a smile, wishing to be helpful, he had moved over to the couple. He held out his arm as if he were going to ask them to keep the suitcase for him, but changed his mind. His body stiffened as he tightened his grasp, and the suitcase was fixed to his body, like a continuation of his arm. Calmly he left the group and sauntered along as if he were made of cloth or his arms and legs were broken. One of the men distributing wine came up from the cellar, filled one more bottle and the woman’s ladle, then announced that the wine was all gone.

“Planes, planes!” Everyone looked up. The sky was limpid with the sweet color of blue that the sky takes on in France. Not a cloud. Suddenly there was absolute silence, as if the dozens of people in the street had magically vanished. You could hear the airplanes but couldn’t yet see them.

“Look! There they are, behind the chimney on the white house, directly above.” An old man with a white mustache and eyebrows pointed to the house opposite. Suddenly five gleaming specks of silver flashed across the sky, growing larger and larger.

“Down to the cellar. Everybody down the stairs!”

“I can’t move.”

“Don’t be afraid. They aren’t coming for us. They’ve been bombing Orléans since last night. They’ll pass right over us.”

The drone of the engines drew nearer, and the planes took on the appearance of swallows. The men and women started down into the cellar, serious and silent. Their eyes were steady, as if they already held death. The cellar gave off an unbearable stench of wine, and the floor was muddy. Someone had drawn wine from a full cask and left the valve open. The men who were distributing wine had gone into the cellar and found the cask half empty, the floor flooded. After the brightness of the street, the cellar seemed like a skyless night. The last night of all. A child began to cry. A ray of light filtered down the stairs. Once their eyes became accustomed to the dark, they could make out rows of barrels lined up across the room. All of a sudden the ceiling shook as if it were going to collapse, and a furious clamor resounded through the cellar as it filled with dust. The child abruptly stopped crying, as if he were holding his breath. The women screamed. A man’s trembling voice kept saying, “Keep calm, calm, calm.” Silence returned. Then two or three distant, less violent explosions could be heard.

One of the men risked going outside, then leaned back down the stairs, calling, “It fell in the middle of the street; there’s a crater large enough to hold us all.”

Everyone hurried up to the street. The light blinded them. Everything was brighter than before: the day, the sun. The woman who was carrying her baby was weeping.

“Come on, let’s get going.”

“I’m dying of thirst. I feel like my mouth is full of gunpowder.”

“The problems will be over when we reach Orléans.”

“Is it very far?”

They followed along the streets, first to the right, then to the left, until they reached the village square. In the center stood a fountain. It was dry. The bombings must have cut off the main water line. A few tall, leafy plane trees, very green, cast bluish shadows on the sun-drenched ground and the church façade. A tavern, larger than the one they had just left, stood in front of the church. Au bon coup de rouge. Its wrought iron door, with the sinuous design, was broken off the hinges. They entered. At one end of the counter was a vase with fresh daisies and cornflowers. They stepped over the broken glass. Not a single bottle remained on the shelves. Most of the chairs and tables were broken, their legs pointing upward. Not a glass or mirror was intact. Through the open door at the back you could see a vegetable garden in the bright sunlight, to the right of which lay a lettuce patch and a fat, round daisy surrounded by a swarm of bees. They returned to the room. On a shelf beneath the counter they discovered a half-empty bottle of anise. They downed it as if it were water.

“Are you sure this won’t hurt us? We haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning.”

“Don’t worry about such a small thing.”

•

Wheat fields fanned out on both sides of the road. The stalks were full and ripe, bent to the point of bursting. A breeze sent golden waves rippling through the land. The evening was misty as the crimson sun began to set, throwing mauvish tones across the countryside. An occasional poppy raised its head among the wheat stalks, tired of being still for so long. The road was flooded with people who didn’t know where they were going. Wagons passed, piled high with furniture, cages filled with thirsty, famished poultry, mattresses, kitchen utensils, tools.

“Will you give us a lift?”

Invariably, the owner would be walking alongside the wagon, striking the animals’ haunches from time to time, encouraging them to continue. He would always respond:

“The horses are exhausted. They’re already carrying too much weight and haven’t stopped moving day or night for a week.

“We haven’t eaten in two days.”

“This is the war.”

The stern man knit his brow and continued on his way, his entire fortune piled onto the wagon.

A military truck had broken down and pulled off to the side of the road.

“Can I help out?”

A barefoot soldier in shirtsleeves glanced at the couple.

“Hey, you, pass me the wrench,” came a voice from beneath the truck as a hand stretched out.

“The wrench?”

“It’s behind the seat, wrapped in a bag.”

“Where?”

“Wrapped up, behind the seat.”

“Ah, I thought you said. . Come here and take a look at the motor.”

The soldier came out from under the truck. First his head, his torso, his legs, then he jumped to his feet. He was blonde with steely blue eyes and enormous hands and feet.

“If I give you a hand, will you take us to Orléans?”

The man who had been under the truck glanced at them. His companion replied:

“I wouldn’t mind. But we don’t know if we will make it. Right now, this hippo has broken down on us. We only have gas for about two kilometers, and the Germans have probably reached Artenay by now. You’d better keep moving. Don’t hang around here.”

People began to shout. The horses pulling the wagon stopped, their ears straight up. A dull sound traveled along the road, a mixture of voices and shouts of fear.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. A bunch of silly people must have seen a plane. It never fails. They scream; the plane appears. There it is, I can see it now, but it’s a reconnaissance flight. They’ve been pestering us all morning. Watch out: they use those machine guns.”

As they approached Orléans, the road grew more and more crowded as people streamed into it from the neighboring towns. Every road, every path was overflowing with people who were fleeing. The road dipped gently, and in the distance you could see houses on both sides.

“You can’t get through, you can’t,” shouted a boy on a bicycle headed in the direction of Artenay.

“Why not?”

“The bridges’ve been bombed. All Orléans is on fire.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s a spy. A spy.”

“Everything’s burning.”

“It’s true, everything’s ablaze. They kept bombing, all through the night.”

But people and wagons continued toward the city. The houses on either side of the road were empty, their doors and windows open. Some roofs had been ripped apart by the bombs, displaying the inner beams and canes. An old woman dressed in black, a scarf around her head, was seated on a low chair in the doorway of a house.

“We have to help her.”

“She’s enjoying the fresh air, like in the old days.”

“She’s dead. Shut up, she’s dead.”

As they passed, everyone stared at her, leaning down to see her face. They kept repeating, “She’s dead.”

Orléans appeared on the horizon. Tiny and gray, enveloped in smoke.

“If we don’t sit down for a moment, I won’t be able to walk any more.”

They sat on the ground, in the ditch alongside the road, watching the mass of people streaming past. Tied to the top of a wagon were a sewing machine and four sad children with plump cheeks sitting on a mattress. The muzzles of the horses pulling this tiny world were covered with a thick, greenish foam.

“It’s going to be night soon, and we won’t know where to go.”

A quiet, sickly light began to fall across the scene. The asphalt was still warm from the sun. They stood up and began walking. Some soldiers were standing in the middle of the road, their bayonets pointed downward. They were directing the avalanche of wagons and people toward a path to the right.

“At the end of the path you’ll find the road to Tours. This morning they bombed the bridges of Orléans. It’s impossible to get through. To the right, all of you, to the right. The bridges are down.”

The path winded past well-tended gardens filled with vegetables; the earth was rich and dark. Everybody walked slowly, mechanically. Everyone walked without knowing why. Suddenly the crowd flattened against one side of the path, and a group from a colonial cavalry unit rode by. A horse reared up with a desperate neigh.

“Stand right up against the fence and hang on tight. You don’t want to fall under the horses’ hoofs.”

From the gardens came the scent of green, of fruit. Some wilted sunflowers gave the appearance of being asleep. A man was stretched out on the ground, his hands swollen, his face covered with a blue and white checkered handkerchief. His chest and the handkerchief were stained with blood.

“Close your eyes. Don’t look.”

“I’m going to fall. I can’t go any farther.”

“We’ll enter the first house we come across and spend the night.”

“The Germans have been in Paris for days now. I saw the flag with the cross at the Arc de Triomphe.”

“The Germans in Paris?”

“Yes, yes, Paris.”

“You must mean Artenay.”

“Those are just tall tales from people who aren’t getting any sleep. The Germans will never get to Paris.”

“Watch out they don’t catch up with you in Tours.”

“Our army would never allow it.”

“Take a look at our army,” a man said, pointing at three soldiers who stumbled along, holding each other up. They were barefoot, weaponless, their epaulets ripped off.

•

A house appeared between the dense foliage of the trees. It lay isolated, outside the town, surrounded by a large tract of land, flat as the palm of your hand. In front of it stood some linden trees and a garden full of tulips and rosebushes, the last roses of June. At the gate by the road was a wall of oleander with pink and red flowers. As if trapped by the enclosed garden, a thick scent of honeysuckle and privet reached them. To the right of the house stretched a huge field, so large you couldn’t see the end of it. Long rows of very short pear trees had been planted, trees no taller than a man’s arm, cultivated like a vineyard, their branches tied to a wire espalier. It was a two-story house, the front facing Orléans. Behind it stood a garage, a shed for washing clothes, tools, wood already cut and stacked. Beneath the roof was a sundial. The windows on the second floor were beginning to turn pink with the burning of Orléans.

It was dark when they reached the house. They pushed the gate; it creaked as it swung open. They crossed the garden slowly so as not to run into the trees. A cat slipped between their legs, frightening the woman, making her heart pound. A wave of heat rose from her throat to her forehead.

“Let’s go,” she said, tugging at her husband’s jacket.

“Leave me alone.”

They reached the massive wooden door with two lion heads for knockers. They pushed. The door didn’t give. Again, using their shoulders, they pushed as hard as they could. The door shook but didn’t open.

“The wood’s swollen, but we’ll get in. You’ll see.”

“I help.”

They gave a start. Behind them a shadow was leaning over, wanting to be helpful. The man commenced shoving the door with his shoulder. Hard. All at once the door opened, and they almost fell inside.

“Me too enter. Legs no good. Tired, tired.”

Roca lit a match and the man’s teeth and black eyes shone in the flame.

“Look for the switch.”

“There’s no electricity.”

A dank sickening odor of garbage, smoke, humidity, and putrid food hit them. The match went out and Roca lit another. On the table stood a plate of rotten meat and a few empty bottles of what had been good wine. The large room must have been the dining room. On the ledge above the fireplace a row of copper pots cast a dark gleam. Beside a glass tube with a pansy was a photograph of a young couple. He was wearing the uniform of a French officer, she a white dress. She was holding a bouquet of little flowers.

“Hungry, go look for something good.”

When they were alone, the woman grabbed her husband’s arm anxiously.

“It’s the Negro from Artenay.”

“I’m scared.”

“He looks like a good man. Want to go upstairs and see what we find?”

“And if we run into him on the stairs?”

“Stop worrying. Come on.”

They went upstairs. You could see all of Orléans ablaze, as if the furious fire had waited for night before igniting. The light from the flames flooded the room. They could move from one room to another without needing matches. In a small room, beside a bed covered with a crocheted spread, was a shiny, sticky area.

“Someone spent the night here and vomited.”

There were two more very large rooms, connected to the smaller one through a barely visible door that had been wallpapered over to look the same as the wall.

“Can you hear that? It’s a duel: artillery. They’ll never stop. It’s getting louder and louder.”

“And the Negro?”

“He probably got lost.”

“I hope so.”

“Wonder what he’s carrying in that suitcase. When he went to get us a bottle of wine in Artenay, did you notice he didn’t want to leave it?”

“He was right. What if he had to hide during the bombing?”

Neither the main door nor the bedroom doors had locks. They stretched out on the bed. The legs of the bed were broken and the mattress dipped.

“Do you really think we’ll get some rest here?”

“I’d be able to sleep on a bed of brambles. You’ll see.”

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“Planes. Listen. They’re really close. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t sound like canons.”

The red glow enveloped Orléans like a throbbing halo licking the sky. At short intervals a tongue of fire circled into the air, straightened up like a sword above the roofs, then disappeared mysteriously into the heart of the immense forge. Soon after, another appeared, higher and brighter.

“The planes are dropping bombs.”

The house shook and the open window banged shut. You could hear the sound of breaking glass.

“Cover your face, cover it!”

He stretched his hand out, feeling for the floor. Bits of glass lay all around the bed. The artillery battle continued, without stop.

“I’m dying of hunger. Not found anything.”

They hadn’t heard him enter. The Negro was standing at the foot of the bed, looking like an abandoned ghost. The metal locks on his suitcase gleamed in the bright flames, casting fleeting green and red reflections.

“Don’t think any more about food. Just go to sleep.”

“I don’t want to think, but—” he dropped the suitcase on the ground with a loud metallic sound and leaned down to pick it up. “But hand scraped, not let me sleep.” He sat down at the foot of the bed, causing the wood to creak. “My name is Wilson. When little, picked cotton in America, poor parents, servant rich folks. Was alone in Paris when war lost, bosses on summer holiday.”

“You’ll find a bed in the next room.”

“Feel lonely, very scared. Can I sleep near you, on the floor near you?”

The night seemed drunk with stars, sound, and fire. A never-ending stream of people and wagons passed the house.

“I drag cabinet from dining room, place behind front door. Nobody comes in to bother.”

It was hot, not a leaf moved in the garden. The Negro stood before them, between the bed and the window. They looked at him, and the Negro returned their look. Suddenly a breath of air made a branch from a linden tree dance across the wall.

“You might die there, if you keep standing.”

“Wilson want to sleep near you.”

“Do whatever you please, but shut up.”

He lay down on the floor, right by the bed, hugging his suitcase. Roca ran his hand through the space between the mattress and the bedpost and discovered a bottle. He smelled it: wine that was slightly off. He waited a long while, until the Negro was asleep. When he thought the man was no longer in this world, he drank slowly and silently, then handed the bottle to his wife. The blasts sounded as if they had calmed somewhat. He was falling asleep when his wife leaned over and whispered in his ear:

“See if he has the suitcase.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe he’s carrying jewels.”

“Go to sleep.”

“I’m wide awake. I can’t stop thinking about this man. We don’t know who he is or where he’s from. Do you hear me?”

“If you were as tired as me, you wouldn’t be talking nonsense. Go to sleep.”

•

He suddenly jumped straight up, screaming and running from one side of the room to the other.

“What is it, what’s the matter?”

“Maybe we should have just thrown him out the window.”

“Shut up. What’s the matter?”

“Oh, oh, there’s rats. House full of rats, bring bad luck. Run over face, slowly, over face, like Wilson was dead and worms begin to eat. Eat cheek, eat nose, eat strength, rats.” He was standing in the center of the room, moaning, his body swaying from side to side as he made a low squeal, like the lament of a night animal. “I like quiet, very quiet. Noise terrible. Want to return to America.”