If they leant on Karim and Rashida to start talking, there was no telling where
it might end. Criminal damage to state property would mean an end to Karims
licence to sell tobacco, and the end of his café. He might not talk, but Rashida
would be thinking of the baby and she might crack. That would lead them to old
Joe and to the rest of the rugby team, and before you knew it the whole network
of the quiet and peaceful town of St Denis would face charges and start to
unravel. Bruno couldnt have that.
Bruno carefully slowed his pace as he turned the corner by the Commune notice
board and past the war memorial into the ranks of cars that were drawn up like
so many multi-coloured soldiers in front of the Crédit Agricole. He looked for
the gendarme Twingo and then saw Duroc standing in the usual line in front of
the banks cash machine. Two places behind him was the looming figure of Karim,
chatting pleasantly to Colette from the dry cleaning shop. Bruno closed his eyes
in relief, and strode on towards the burly North African.
Karim, he said, and swiftly added Bonjour, Colette, kissing her cheeks,
before turning back to Karim, saying, I need to talk to you about the match
schedule for Sundays game. Just a very little moment, it wont take long. He
grabbed him by the elbow, made his farewells to Colette, nodded at Duroc, and
steered his reluctant quarry back to the bridge.
I came to warn you. I think they may have the car staked out, maybe even tipped
off the gendarmerie, Bruno said. Karim stopped, and his face broke into a
delighted smile.
I thought of that myself, Bruno, then I saw that new gendarme standing in line
for cash, but his eyes kept moving everywhere so I waited behind him. Anyway,
its done.
You did the tyres with Duroc standing there!?
Not at all. Karim grinned. I told my nephew to take care of it with the other
kids. They crept up and jammed a potato into the exhaust pipe while I was
chatting to Colette and Duroc. That car wont make ten kilometres before the
engine seizes.
CHAPTER 3
As the siren that sounded noon began its soaring whine over the town, Bruno
stood to attention before the Mairie and wondered if this had been the same
sound that had signalled the coming of the Germans. Images of ancient newsreels
came to mind: diving Stukas, people dashing for aid raid shelters, the
victorious Wehrmacht marching through the Arc de Triomphe in 1940 to stamp their
jackboots on the Champs-Elysées and launch the conquest of Paris. Well, he
thought, this was the day of revenge, the eighth of May, when France celebrated
her eventual victory, and although some said it was old-fashioned and unfriendly
in these days of Europe, the town of St Denis remembered the Liberation with an
annual parade of its venerable veterans.
Bruno had posted the Route Barrée signs to block the side road and ensured that
the floral wreaths had been delivered. He had donned his tie and polished his
shoes and the peak of his cap. He had warned the old men in both cafés that the
time was approaching and had brought up the flags from the cellar beneath the
Mairie. The Mayor himself stood waiting, the sash of office across his chest and
the little red rosette of the Légion dHonneur in his lapel. The gendarmes were
holding up the impatient traffic, while housewives grumbled that their bags were
getting heavy and kept asking when they could cross the road.
Jean-Pierre of the bicycle shop carried the tricolore and his enemy Bachelot
held the flag that bore the Cross of Lorraine, the emblem of General de Gaulle
and Free France. Old Marie-Louise, who as a young girl had served as a courier
for one of the Resistance groups and who had been taken off to Ravensbruck
concentration camp and somehow survived, sported the flag of St Denis.
Montsouris, the Communist councillor, carried a smaller flag of the Soviet
Union, and old Monsieur Jackson and Bruno was very proud of arranging this
held the flag of his native Britain. A retired schoolteacher, he had come to
spend his declining years with his daughter who had married Pascal of the local
insurance office. Monsieur Jackson had been an eighteen-year-old recruit in the
last weeks of war in 1945 and was thus a fellow combatant, entitled to share the
honour of the victory parade. One day, Bruno told himself, he would find a real
American, but this time the Stars and Stripes were carried by young Karim as the
star of the rugby team.
The Mayor gave the signal and the town band began to play the Marseillaise.
Jean-Pierre raised the flag of France, Bruno and the gendarmes saluted, and the
small parade marched off across the bridge, their flags flapping bravely in the
breeze. Following them were three lines of the men of St Denis who had performed
their military service in peacetime but who turned out for this parade as a duty
to their town as well as to their nation. Bruno noted that Karims entire family
had come to watch him carry a flag. At the back marched a host of small boys
piping the words of the anthem. After the bridge, the parade turned left at the
bank and marched through the car park to the memorial, a bronze figure of a