The Three Evangelists

XVI

LUCIEN DIDN’T WANT TO ADMIT IT WHEN THEY RETURNED ON MONDAY night, but the three days’ holiday had been an excellent thing. His analysis of the propaganda destined for the home front hadn’t made much progress, but everyone’s peace of mind had. They had supper peaceably and nobody got grouchy, not even him. Mathias had time to say a few words, and Marc constructed some long sentences about little things. It was Marc who took out the bag of rubbish every night to the main gate. He held the plastic sack in his left hand, the one with the rings, to counterbalance the refuse. He came back without the bag, looking preoccupied, and went out several times over the next two hours walking as far as the gates.

‘What’s the matter,’ Lucien asked him in the end. ‘Are you inspecting the grounds?’

‘There’s a girl sitting on the wall opposite Sophia’s house. She has a child sleeping on her lap. And she’s been there more than two hours.’

‘Leave her be,’ said Lucien. ‘She’s probably waiting for someone. Don’t be like your godfather, nosy about everything. I’ve had enough.’

‘Well, I’m worried about the child,’ said Marc. ‘I think it’s getting cold.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Lucien.

But nobody left the big room. They made some more coffee. Then a light rain began to fall.

‘It’s going to rain all night,’ said Mathias. ‘May 31. How dreary.’

Marc bit his lip. He went out again. ‘She’s still there,’ he said, coming back in. ‘She’s wrapped the kid up in her jacket.’

‘What’s she like?’ asked Mathias.

‘I didn’t go and stare at her,’ said Marc. ‘I don’t want to alarm her. She’s not in rags if that’s what you mean. But rags or not, we’re surely not going to let a girl and her child wait for God knows what, are we, all night in the rain? OK? So come on, Lucien, lend me your tie. Hurry up.’

‘My tie? What for? Are you going to lasso her?’

‘No, stupid,’ said Marc. ‘Just so’s not to frighten her. A tie is kind of reassuring. Come on,’ he added, holding out his hand. ‘It’s raining.’

‘Why don’t I go myself?’ asked Lucien. ‘It would save me taking my tie off. Anyway it doesn’t at all go with your black shirt.’

‘You’re not going because you’re not the reassuring type,’ said Marc, knotting the tie as fast as he could. ‘If I do bring her back here, please don’t stare at her as if she were your prey. Be natural.’

Marc went out and Lucien asked Mathias what he should do to look natural.

‘Eat something,’ said Mathias. ‘Nobody can be frightened of someone who’s eating.’

Mathias pulled over the breadboard and cut two slices, passing one to Lucien.

‘I’m not hungry,’ Lucien complained.

‘Just eat.’

They had started to munch their thick slices of bread when Marc returned, gently ushering in a young woman who said nothing, who looked tired, and who was carrying a child about five years old. Marc wondered briefly why Mathias and Lucien were eating pieces of bread.

‘Do please sit down,’ he said rather formally, trying to be reassuring. He took her dripping wet coat from her.

Mathias left the room without a word, and returned with a duvet and a pillow with a clean pillow case. He signalled to the young woman to put the child on the divan in the corner by the fire. Gently, he put the quilt over the child, and stirred up the flames. Quite the big-hearted caveman, thought Lucien, pulling a face. But Mathias’ wordless actions had touched him. He wouldn’t have thought of them himself. Lucien was easily moved.

The young woman seemed less frightened now and far less cold. No doubt the fire blazing in the hearth helped: it always works its magic on fear as on cold, and Mathias had made a good blaze. But after that, he didn’t know what to say. He squeezed his hands together as if to crush the silence.

‘Which is it?’ asked Marc. ‘I mean the child, girl or boy?’

‘Boy,’ said the young woman. ‘He’s five.’

Marc and Lucien both nodded gravely.

The young woman undid the scarf from her head, shook out her hair, put the wet scarf on a chair and looked around her. Everyone was taking stock. But in no time the evangelists registered the fact that the face of the refugee was subtle enough to tempt a saint. Not a regular beauty at first sight, she must have been about thirty. A luminous face, with a childlike mouth, a clear jaw-line, thick dark hair cut in a bob. Marc wanted immediately to take that face in his hands. He loved people who were thin and almost too delicate. He couldn’t work out whether the expression on her face was defiant, adventurous and darting, or whether it was fleeting, quivering, shadowy and timid.

The woman remained tense, glancing now and again at her son who was sleeping. She smiled a little. She didn’t know where to begin. Names perhaps. Should we say our names? Marc introduced everyone, and added that his uncle was on the top floor-an unnecessary detail perhaps, but useful. The young woman seemed more reassured on hearing this. She even stood up and warmed herself by the fire. She was wearing narrow cotton trousers that clung to her slender hips and thighs, and a shirt that was too big for her. Quite the opposite of Juliette with her feminine off-the-shoulder dresses. But above the shirt was the beautiful little face.

‘Don’t tell us your name if you don’t feel like it,’ said Marc. ‘It was just that it was raining, and with the little one, we thought, that is, we thought…’

‘Thank you,’ said the young woman. ‘It was kind of you to think, I didn’t know what to do. But I can tell you my name: Alexandra Haufman.’

‘Are you German?’ Lucien asked her abruptly.

‘Half German,’ she replied, looking surprised. ‘My father’s German, but my mother is Greek. I’m mostly called Lex.’

Lucien gave a little grunt of satisfaction.

‘Greek?’ said Marc. ‘Your mother’s Greek?’

‘Yes,’ said Alexandra. ‘But what’s so odd about that? Our family moves around a lot. I was born in France. We live in Lyon.’

There was no floor dedicated to antiquity, Greek or Roman, in the house of history. But inevitably everyone thought at once of Sophia Siméonidis. A young woman, half Greek, who had been sitting for hours opposite Sophia’s house. A woman with very dark hair and dark eyes like Sophia. A woman with a deep musical voice like hers, with fine wrists, and long slender hands, like hers. Except that Alexandra had very short fingernails, possibly because they had been bitten.

‘You were waiting for Sophia Siméonidis?’ asked Marc.

‘How did you guess?’ asked Alexandra. ‘Do you know her?’

‘We’re her neighbours,’ Mathias pointed out.

‘Of course, how silly of me. But Aunt Sophia has never mentioned you in her letters to my mother. She doesn’t write all that often, it’s true.’

‘We’re new to the neighbourhood,’ Marc explained.

The young woman seemed to understand. She looked around.

‘Ah, you must have moved into the empty house, the one they called “the disgrace” is that it?’

‘Spot on,’ said Marc.

‘It doesn’t look like a disgrace now. A bit bare perhaps. Almost like a monastery.’

‘We’ve done a lot of work on it,’ Marc said. ‘But that’s not very interesting. So you really are Sophia’s niece?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Alexandra. ‘She’s my mother’s sister. But you don’t look pleased about it. Don’t you like Aunt Sophia?’

‘Yes, actually, we like her a lot,’ said Marc.

‘Oh good. I called her when I decided to come to Paris, and she said she would put me up with my little boy while I was looking for a new job.’

‘You didn’t have a job in Lyon?’

‘Yes, but I walked out.’

‘You didn’t like it?’

‘No, that wasn’t it. It was a good job.’

‘You didn’t like Lyon?’

‘No, I liked Lyon.’

‘So,’ Lucien interrupted. ‘Why come to Paris?’

The young woman was silent for a moment, pursing her lips and trying to restrain herself. She folded her arms tightly.

‘The situation had got a bit sad down there,’ she said at last.

Mathias started cutting more slices of bread. After all, bread is always a good thing. He offered Alexandra a slice with jam on. She smiled, accepted and put out her hand. She had to look up to do so. Unquestionably, there were tears in her eyes. She managed with an effort to hold the tears in, not letting them spill down her cheeks. But her lips were trembling. It’s one or the other.

‘I don’t understand,’ Alexandra continued, eating her bread. ‘Aunt Sophia had arranged it all two months ago. She had enrolled my son at the local school. Everything was ready. She was expecting me today, and she was supposed to come and meet me at the station to help me with the little one and the luggage. I waited for ages, then I thought maybe after ten years she hadn’t recognised me, and perhaps we had missed each other on the platform. So I came to the house. But there’s nobody here. I don’t understand. I went on waiting. Perhaps they’ve gone to the cinema or something, but that would be odd. Aunt Sophia would surely not have forgotten.’

Alexandra wiped her eyes quickly and looked at Mathias. Mathias prepared another slice of bread and jam. She had not had anything to eat that evening.

‘Where’s your luggage?’ asked Marc.

‘I left it behind the wall there. No, don’t go and fetch it. I’ll call a taxi and go to a hotel, and I’ll ring Aunt Sophia in the morning. There must be some misunderstanding.’

‘I don’t think that’s the best solution,’ said Marc.

He looked at the other two. Mathias was looking down at the breadboard. Lucien was walking round the room.

‘Look,’ said Marc. ‘It’s like this. Sophia has been missing for twelve days. She disappeared on Wednesday, May 19.’

The young woman stiffened and stared at the three of them. ‘Missing?’ she murmured. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

The tears returned to those darting, timid, almond-shaped eyes. She had said she was sad. Maybe. But Marc was pretty sure there was more to it than that. She must have been counting on her aunt to help her to run away from Lyon, to run away from some disaster. He recognised the reflex. And she had travelled all this way, only to find that Sophia wasn’t there.

Marc sat down beside her. He tried to find the right words to tell her how Sophia had disappeared, how there had been a message with a star on it, and how she was thought to have gone away with Stelios. Lucien came round behind him and slowly took back his tie without Marc seeming to notice. Alexandra said nothing as she listened to Marc’s story. Lucien put his tie back on and tried to be helpful by remarking that Pierre Relivaux was not the greatest person in the world. Mathias lumbered round the room, putting more wood on the fire, adjusting the duvet over the child. He was a beautiful child with dark hair like his mother’s, except that it was curly. And so were his eyelashes. But all children look beautiful when they are asleep. They would have to wait for the morning to see what he was really like. That is, if his mother consented to stay.

Alexandra pursed her lips and shook her head, looking hostile.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Aunt Sophia would never have done that. She would have got in touch with me.’

‘Same story,’ thought Lucien. ‘She’s like Juliette. Why do people think they can’t possibly be forgotten?’

‘Something must have gone wrong. Something must have happened to her,’ Alexandra said in a low voice.

‘Nope,’ said Lucien, passing round wine glasses. ‘We went to some lengths. We even looked under the tree.’

‘You cretin,’ Marc hissed.

‘Under the tree?’ said Alexandra. ‘You looked under a tree?’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Marc. ‘He’s just talking nonsense.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Alexandra. ‘What did he mean? She’s my aunt, I’ve a right to know.’

Trying to keep his exasperation with Lucien out of his voice, Marc told her in clipped tones about the episode with the tree.

‘And you all decided that Aunt Sophia had gone swanning off somewhere with Stelios?’ said Alexandra.

‘Yes. Well, pretty much,’ said Marc. ‘I believe the godfather, that is my uncle, doesn’t really think so. And I’m still a bit bothered about the tree. But Sophia must have gone off somewhere, that’s for sure.’

‘But I tell you that’s impossible,’ said Alexandra, banging her fist on the table. ‘Even if she was on Delos, my aunt would have called me to tell me what was going on. You could count on her. And anyway, she loved Pierre. Something must have happened to her. I’m sure of it! Don’t you believe me? The police will believe me. I must go to the police.’

‘Look, do that tomorrow,’ said Marc, who was at his wits’ end. ‘Vandoosler will get Inspecteur Leguennec to come round and you can give him a statement, if you like. He will even start up the search again, if the godfather asks him to. I think my godfather can get Leguennec to do anything he wants. They’re old friends who used to play cards on board ship in the Irish Sea. But you need to know that Pierre Relivaux was not all that attached to Sophia. When she disappeared, he didn’t report it, and he still doesn’t intend to. It’s his right of course, to let his wife do what she wants. The police can’t interfere.’

‘Can’t we call them now? I’ll report her missing.’

‘You’re not her husband. And it’s almost two o’clock in the morning,’ said Marc. ‘We’ll have to wait.’

They heard Mathias, who had disappeared, slowly coming downstairs.

‘Excuse me, Lucien,’ he said, opening the door. ‘I had to borrow your window to look out of, because mine isn’t high enough.’

‘If you will choose lowlife ages of history,’ said Lucien, ‘you can’t complain about not being high up.’

‘Relivaux is home,’ said Mathias without paying any attention to Lucien. ‘He switched the lights on, went into the kitchen and now he’s gone to bed.’

‘I’m going round there, then,’ said Alexandra, jumping up. Carefully she lifted the little boy, resting his dark-haired head on her shoulder, and with one hand picked up her scarf and jacket.

‘No,’ said Mathias, barring her way to the door.

Alexandra was not exactly frightened. But she looked as if she were. She didn’t understand.

‘I’m grateful to all three of you,’ she said firmly. ‘You were very kind, but since he’s come home, I must go to my uncle’s.’

‘No,’ said Mathias. ‘I won’t try to keep you here. If you prefer to go and spend the night somewhere else, I’ll take you to a hotel. But you’re not going to your uncle’s house.’

He was blocking the door with his large frame. He looked at Marc and Lucien over Alexandra’s shoulder, more to impose his will than to ask for their approval.

Obstinately, Alexandra turned to face Mathias.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mathias. ‘but Sophia has disappeared. I don’t want to let you go in there.’

‘Why?’ said Alexandra. ‘What are you hiding? Is Aunt Sophia in there? You don’t want me to see her, is that it? You were lying?’

Mathias shook his head.

‘No,’ he said, deliberately. ‘It’s the truth. She is missing. Maybe she has gone away with Stelios. Or maybe, as you thought, something has happened to her. Personally, I think she’s been murdered. And until we know who did it, I won’t let you go next door to him. Not you and not the little boy either.’

Mathias remained standing in front of the door. He kept his eyes fixed on the young woman.

‘He’d be more comfortable here than in a hotel, I think,’ he said. ‘Give him to me.’

Mathias held out his big arms and without a word, Alexandra passed the child over to him. Marc and Lucien said nothing, digesting the masterful way in which Mathias was taking control of the situation. He came away from the door, laid the child on the bed, and put the duvet back over him.

‘He sleeps very soundly,’ he said, smiling. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Kyril,’ said Alexandra.

She sounded defeated. Sophia murdered? What did this big guy know about it? And why was she letting all this happen?

‘Are you sure, what you said just now? About Aunt Sophia?’

‘No,’ said Mathias. ‘But I would rather be on the safe side.’

Lucien suddenly heaved a sigh. ‘I think we should all bow to Mathias’ age-old wisdom. His instincts go back to the Ice Age. He knows all about wild beasts and dangerous open spaces. Yes, I think you should listen to this man, and accept his protection. He may be primitive and have rather basic reactions, but I think he’s right.’

‘Yes, I agree,’ said Marc, who was still feeling the shock of the suspicions Mathias had voiced. ‘Would you like to stay until things get a bit clearer? There’s a spare room here on the ground floor, where you could sleep. It won’t be all that warm, and it’s a bit… well, austere, as you said. It’s funny, your Aunt Sophia calls this room the monks’ refectory. We won’t disturb you, we each have a floor upstairs. We only come down here to talk, shout, eat or make a fire to keep away wild beasts. You could tell your uncle that in the circumstances you didn’t want to bother him. Here, whatever is going on, there’s always somebody home. What do you think?’

Alexandra had learned enough in one evening to wear her out. She looked round at the faces of the three men, thought for a while, looked at Kyril fast asleep, and shivered.

‘Alright,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Lucien, go and fetch her case from outside,’ said Marc. ‘And Mathias, help me take the little one’s, bed into the other room.’

They shifted the divan and went up to the second floor to find another bed which Marc had kept from happier days, as well as a lamp and a rug which Lucien consented to lend.

‘It’s only because she looks so sad,’ said Lucien, rolling up the rug.

Once the bedroom was more or less ready, Marc put the key on the inside of the door, so that Alexandra Haufman could lock herself in if she so wished. He did this tactfully and without a word. The discreet elegance of the impoverished aristocrat, thought Lucien. We should get him a ring with a seal, so that he can seal his letters with wax. He would like that, for sure.