Hunger Town (51 page)

I was disappointed but determined not to show it. ‘No, of course, you are wise.'

‘Perhaps you could fill in time with a visit to the Louvre. It might take your mind off things.'

I doubted whether I was in a mood for an art gallery, however great, but it was kinder to reassure her and pretend some enthusiasm.

As we walked back to our hotel we stopped briefly and leaned on a parapet overlooking the Seine. A girl sat on the parapet swinging her red-stockinged legs against the wall. They dangled there like a shock of scarlet creepers. She wore a red coat and hat and was alone. Beside the water a couple wandered arm in arm along the concrete walkway below us. Two little boys floated tiny boats of walnut shells in a shiny puddle. They were intent, immersed in their game just as I had seen children at home. I thought of the children Harry and I might have. It would be good to watch them play like this and talk about them growing up. I needed to believe that Harry and I had a future and that Marie and I were not too late.

We returned to the hotel and collected what we needed for the day. I looked rather doubtfully at my French money and Marie explained the value of the coins. Then she called two taxis and we parted.

The Louvre was a huge labyrinth of art galleries with arched ceilings. I was in no mood for concentrated and planned discovery and just wandered. At another time I might have revelled in the glories of the past but not today.

It was the 2000-year-old Winged Victory of Samothrace that arrested me. It stood at the end of a long gallery at the top of a flight of stairs and it dominated by its power and size. The goddess Nike stood on the prow of a ship. She thrust into the wind, her billowing carved draperies sucked between her legs and taut over her breasts and belly. The enormous pinions of her wings were bared for flight and the illusion of the sea rippled along the sculptured flying draperies. It was a woman's figure, powerful but headless. She could be any victory or a particular one. It didn't matter. Anonymity suited her. She was Nike, a symbol of triumph.

I stood in front of it and wept.

Victory was an illusion, a tale told by an idiot to lead stupid children to dusty death. None of us was fit or ready to cope with the evils of the world. How dare some artist centuries ago sculpt such an image of soaring inspiring beauty when its message was a lie. Artists should be truthful, not inveigle us into fantasies that would destroy us.

Before leaving London I had had a brief visit to the Kensington Gardens to see the statue of Peter Pan. It was a small work and whimsical. A pigeon had perched on his head as if he owned this fairytale character. Even James Barrie had depicted Peter as noble in death. To die, Peter had said, would be a big adventure. How glib from a boy who knew nothing about adulthood, nothing about the pain of love and the fear of separation. Another deception.

Only Wilfred Owen, whose poems about war had shocked so many people by their harsh realism, had written bitterly of the uselessness of noble death, the emptiness of victory. He had mourned the death of a young soldier in his words ‘Was it for this the clay grew tall?'

Artists should be truthful, not wrap us in impossible dreams.

So I stood with tears streaming down my face. I saw myself as another Winnie, and didn't care. Let whoever passed think whatever they liked. My sorrow and fear were my business. I couldn't bear to look at any more lies and left the gallery to sit outside on a bench. It was cold and the cold matched my desolate mood.

I returned to the hotel by taxi, having had the forethought to make a note of our address. Marie came in shortly afterwards. She looked tired.

She washed her face and hands in the basin and perched on the bed. I was resting with my feet up.

‘I've had a mixed day, Judith. First of all the arrangements for the car are OK. It'll be delivered here tomorrow morning and we can set out.'

‘And the comrades?' I asked. ‘Could they help you?'

‘No. They were vague. Deliberately so, I thought. They avoided answering me. Yes, they had met Nathan and Harry but after that they shrugged as only Frenchmen can. What is it to do with us? their expressions told me. I felt very dispirited.'

She sighed. ‘But there was no use pressing them when they had determined not to talk. I left them, at first unaware that one had followed me. He passed me casually on the stairs as if he were hurrying home. But his eyes met mine and I sensed they invited me to follow him.'

She giggled. ‘I felt a bit like someone in a spy thriller. He walked to the river and stopped, leaning on the parapet as we did this morning. I did the same a short distance away and he spoke quietly but without looking at me. It was an odd sensation to stand near someone who talked to the river when his words were for me. He remembered Harry, a happy young man, and Nathan very earnest. A good Party member. They had taken the train. Madrid was their destination.

‘Of course, Judith, I knew all this, but I didn't hurry him. I hoped there was more to come. He went on. He had heard later, on the grapevine, you know, that the two Australians had parted company in Madrid. There had been harsh words between them and the young bright one had stormed out. Shortly afterwards the other had left Spain. Everyone in the Party was talking about it.

‘Why would a young Australian remain in Spain after his comrade had left? It seemed suspicious. Then it was discovered that he had gone into the Asturias to Oviedo. Now the comrades were really concerned. What if this young Australian were a spy, reporting on Communist Party business to the anarchists? Everyone was worried. He had seemed such a nice chap. So friendly. Everyone had liked him. Was this his disguise?

‘I asked him what happened after Oviedo, Judith, because that was the news we wanted, and he hesitated. “I'm not sure,” he said. But he knew Harry was staying with one of the anarchists in a small village in the foothills. The Party kept track of him for some time. Then he mentioned the October 4 massacre. As you can imagine, Judith, I held my breath. I was cautious. I didn't want to frighten him. I asked him if there were reports of an Australian being shot. “I don't know,” he said again. “But a couple of weeks later we heard there was an Austrian in one of the villages. Sometimes our comrades are uneducated and we deduced that it wasn't an Austrian but an Australian”.

‘He said that was all he could tell me. It is not much but it was something. We do know that Harry was alive a couple of weeks after the massacre. It is a soupçon of hope.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘It is the first piece of news we've had and it is a lot better than nothing. Thank you, Marie.'

It was amazing how that minuscule piece of news that Harry had not died in the massacre revived my hope. And with hope my spirits rose. Somehow it seemed that Marie's good luck in meeting the one man who was prepared to help augured well for our search.

We would find Harry and we would find him alive. I cast off my despair.

But she still looked tired. I realised guiltily how difficult this was for her, what a burden she had taken upon herself for me and for Harry. She had made a lot of her happiness in returning to Paris but there were shadows under her eyes and worry lines on her forehead. I was aware that I had been driven by an urgency as if I were constantly setting my watch by what she did. I had begun to take her good-heartedness, her generosity, and her courage for granted.

‘I'm sorry, Marie,' I burst out, ‘so terribly, terribly sorry.' I felt like weeping again as I had in the Louvre but controlled myself. I had leaned on her enough. She didn't need an hysterical woman in addition to all the practical issues she was coping with. ‘I'm sorry,' I repeated.

She looked at me surprised. ‘Whatever for,
ma pauvre
? None of this is your fault. We must do what we must do. It's as simple as that.' And I wondered why in the past I had ever thought that Marie's behaviour was more play-acting than reality.

She spread a map on the bed. ‘We will take the road down the Loire Valley to Tours and then head towards the coast through Poitiers and Bordeaux. That way we avoid the Pyrenees in winter. Our Citroën is old and I would not risk the steep climb over the pass. There is the danger of being snowed in for days. The road through the Loire Valley is flat and the coastal plain will be more temperate. The road around the coast will wind and may be slow but I do not have so much fear of the weather there. From Biarritz it is only a short drive to the frontier. And then Spain, Judith.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘Spain.' And my heart skipped a beat. ‘How many days do you estimate?' I knew I shouldn't press her but anxiety drove me.

‘I cannot say. It's rural. I don't know the condition of the roads and we may be slowed by flocks of animals or slow-moving carts and horses.'

Next morning a young man delivered the dark-blue roomy Citroën. He grinned at Marie and ogled her. She was amused when he told her in halting English that she ‘pleased' him. ‘So hard to reject such an enticing invitation,' she chuckled, ‘but he was rather too young and green for me.'

I laughed with her and wondered what lovers Marie had had in France. She was no longer young and her charm often eclipsed her face. I surprised myself by seeing her as if for the first time as a beautiful woman. Her brown hair was lustrous and curled about her cheeks and brow. Her eyes were long and deep and of that extraordinary blue which is almost black. Her generous mouth drooped a little at the corners, so that in repose her rather long face reminded me of a Modigliani Madonna, but when she smiled the sadness of her face vanished and the sudden metamorphosis to a charming gaiety surprised and captivated.

She drove carefully, skilfully negotiating the morning traffic and then we were on the highway heading south along the Loire River.

‘You'll see many chateaux along the way, Judith. The Loire was the holiday resort for aristocrats before the revolution. Now they're retained for their heritage and tourist potential. If we had the time we could explore. You'd be bowled over by the luxury.'

The fields around us were barren and cold with an occasional stand of skeletal trees, leafless and bare-armed against the sky. There were no fences and this feel of unoccupied land increased the sense of desolation. I had never before seen a landscape that slept through winter. Marie said that I'd be surprised to see it in summer with the crops of grain, the grape vines heavy with fruit, the peaches, melons and strawberries. It was hard to believe her as I looked at the acres of gnarled writhing, leafless vines.

Marie couldn't drive for hours at a stretch without rest and I struggled not to urge her on when I knew she was exhausted. So although I fretted I concealed it from her with a reasonably placid exterior. I don't think she was deceived but tactfully she said nothing.

We bought some bread and cheese at a local market and ate our lunch in the car. Marie said she felt revived and we continued. At times the road ran side by side with the river and where we met a village the road squeezed between homes and water. Sometimes we needed to slow down for people who stepped out of their front doors directly onto the road. There were no front gardens or pavements. At other times mobs of sheep, or goats, or horse- or oxen-drawn vehicles lumbered ahead of us blocking our way. The slowness frustrated me but Marie remained calm.

As night approached we stopped at a small village and found a room over a cafe. Marie lay down to rest and I wandered out onto the street and strolled along it in the dusk. There was a small church I discovered. Inside it was very dim and cold from the stone walls and floor with a faint smell of wax from candles burning at the altar. My footsteps sounded hollow and echoed slightly.

I approached the altar and looked up at a painting of the crucified Christ. The candles lit the bottom reaches of the work but the rest remained shadowed as if the painter had intended the face to be lost in the dimness. But even in that light I recognised its rich beauty. It was not the work of an amateur. Over the years I had visited the Adelaide art gallery to glean what I could of painting and drawing skills. This painting had composition and skilful brush strokes. How strange to find such a thing of beauty in this poor village church.

Out the back I could hear the comforting domestic sounds of crockery clattering and I smelt the aroma of cooking meat. A priest appeared, flitting towards me like a comfortable bat in his long black robes. He spoke in French but I didn't understand.

‘I'm Australian,' I said, ‘just visiting.'

‘Austria?'

‘No. Australia.'

He looked puzzled.

‘I don't speak French. Only English.'

‘Good evening,' he said carefully and stopped. This was the extent of his English. He hesitated and smiled benignly on me. ‘
Joyeux Noel
,' he said before drifting away. I had forgotten that it would soon be Christmas.

I sat for a few minutes. I did not believe in the God that was supposed to inhabit this church but it was tranquil and I appreciated that it was a place of refuge for many who, like me, wondered if life might get too difficult for them.

It was good to be peaceful and pretend, if only briefly, that the affairs of humans, and that included their politics, were ephemeral matters we could discard for higher things. I don't think I would have had these thoughts in a great cathedral. It was the comfortable domesticity of this little church that prompted them.

Marie found me and sat quietly beside me. She, too, studied the painting. ‘
Mon Dieu
, Judith,' she said, ‘I do believe it is a Rubens.' She glanced about. ‘What a country this is. A Rubens here. Now you must come and eat.'

The villages we passed through were all the same with flat-faced, two-storey, steep-roofed cottages with dormer windows. Marie constantly worried about finding petrol and whenever we stopped at a garage to fill up she anxiously asked how far it would be to the next one.