| are over. You’re now like some kind of poisonous plant, it’s not safe to be anywhere near you, so it’s time to go, to leave France. You can refuse, of course, they will accept your answer politely, but, if it’s the wrong answer, if it’s No, I won’t, you’ll be dead in an hour. That’s how it has to be done, chéri, I’m sure you understand.’ Ricard thought it over, what it would mean to him, and then said, ‘If I have to run, Leila, will you run with me?’ ‘I will. I’m in love with you, Ricard, I won’t let you go.’ ‘And Kasia?’ ‘She must also leave, she’s being told as we sit here.’ ‘All right, Leila, we’ll run. Where will we be safe?’ ‘Spain, at first, then, in time, Istanbul. My family will take care of us, and Turkey is a neutral state, so you’ll be safe there.’ ‘And when do we leave?’ ‘Tomorrow. The doctor will let us stay here overnight.’ Kasia travelled west, crossing the frontier into Switzerland, in time reaching a chalet, deep in the mountains, where a very rich woman friend meant to wait out the war. Kasia was greeted warmly, by good friends from Paris, and given a glass of well-aged Burgundy. ‘Will you go back to Paris?’ her friend asked. ‘Maybe someday,’ Kasia said. ‘For now, I am very tired; is there somewhere I can rest?’ ‘Your bedroom is upstairs,’ her friend said. ‘Come, I’ll show you where, and I have |
lined with plane trees, trunks grey and knotted, crowns pollarded into round shapes, where the dying leaves rattled in the autumn breeze. On either side of the road the wheat had been harvested, leaving fields of brown stalks lit by the pale blue sky that followed a rainstorm. As the wagon passed a stone roadside marker – thirty miles to Rouen – a flock of geese flew overhead, migrating south in a vee formation, their honking loud above the quiet fields. It was famously beautiful here, in what was known as the Vexin, the Seine Valley: the valleys and hills in a perfect harmony of land. From time to time the road ran next to the river, flowing north, its surface churned by strong currents from yesterday’s rain. A gust of wind sent dead leaves rustling across the road, and Ricard felt, as the horse clopped along and one of the wheels squeaked, that he was home, Paris and its mobs of people left behind; the village of Saint-Denis quickly passed, he was now in France. As the paysan turned onto a dirt lane, also lined with plane trees, the horse quickened her pace, she knew she was home, and, around a gentle curve, a house appeared. At least a hundred years old. Colonel de Roux’s house, the curved terracotta roof tiles now crooked, the shutters’ green paint flaking away. When the paysan pulled up to the door, some French version of a border collie stood guard, barking at them and prancing |
