‘And where are the owners?’
‘Madame Henderson has been in a retirement home for a long time.’
‘Henderson? That wasn’t the name on the advert.’
‘That’s their business.’
‘It’s not a local name?’
‘No.’
‘I see, and how old is she?’
‘Not far off ninety-eight, maybe even a hundred.’
‘But then who placed the advert?’
‘Her daughter – she’s in America or somewhere. That’s why we have the keys. Otherwise do you think I’d bother with all this?’
‘And Singapore, why is the telephone number for Singapore?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Sorry, Madame Dauclercq, I just want to make sure I understand. It is you that looks after the gîte?’
‘We help out, that’s all. My husband mows the fields, and believe me, you have to mow them every month at the moment, otherwise it would be a jungle up there, a jungle, I tell you. I hope you’re not expecting a beautiful lawn. You’ll see as you go up. Even when we cut it, it grows back straight away.’
Franck gestured to the barn and mischievously replied, ‘But I imagine that works out well for you; all the grass you mow for them makes hay for you, right?’
‘In a way … Let’s just say it suits everybody.’
‘And has anyone rented the gîte before us?’
‘The girl used to come for a bit in the summer, but they live a long way away. And then with children it’s impossible. I hope your children are older – or your grandchildren, I don’t know …’
Lise and Franck never knew what to say in this situation. As if they were at fault for not having children, as if it weren’t possible to not have children.
‘We don’t have children,’ said Lise, as casually as possible.
The woman found this strange, as strange as the big black car that had thrown up so much dust when it came into the yard, dust that was still floating in the air.
‘Then you’ll be fine, but it’s tough living up there; there’s no telephone, no heating and no pressure in the taps. And I should warn you that there’s a big open water tank behind the box trees, but you mustn’t drink from it or you’ll get cholera.’
‘I hope you’re joking …’
‘I’m telling you because that’s what everyone used to say. In any case, I wouldn’t give that water to my goats.’
‘Is it deep?’
‘Of course, it’s huge! It’s only animals that drink there – it attracts them. You’ll hear them at night, trust me, and sometimes they fall in. A drowning animal makes a lot of noise … Right, well, I have three rows of beans to pick, and I’m behind, what with the heat today …’
Lise answered with disconcerting good humour: ‘But that’s great! You know what, we’ll do our shopping with you. Can we get some beans from you?’
The woman was not won over but was tempted by the offer, though she did her best to hide any satisfaction she might have felt. Her bad mood quickly returned, and she told them to come back tomorrow as the beans were yet to be picked. Lise, with an eagerness that was remarkable in the circumstances, asked if she had eggs by any chance. The farmer stared at the Parisian the way you might weigh up an enemy, as if asking, ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘We’ll see tomorrow. I’ll save you some, I promise.’
Franck didn’t know what to say or do to make his exit. He watched Lise approach the woman to shake her hand. He admired Lise’s natural warmth and profound empathy. Although he didn’t really know what had kept their relationship going for the more than twenty years they had lived together, what was certain was that he envied her way of always seeing things in the best light and finding the good in the most dislikeable people. She would have found some humanity in even a murderer or a monster.
The Audi again threw up a thick dust as they left the yard. Franck surreptitiously examined the kennel. He could see it now in the rear-view mirror; it went back a long way, as if it were the opening of a passage to hell from where enormous animals emerged, huge dogs with rabid bites.
August 1914
At all significant moments in history there are freethinkers prepared to swim against the tide. The lion tamer was one of them. Wolfgang Hollzenmaier. That was the name written in gold lettering on the circus wagons. Years before the church bells had rung out, he had taken the decision to stay silent. Other than his interior monologue, he would speak only to give orders to his lions and tigers. He had worked with them for the past fifteen years in the biggest and best circuses in Europe and directed them with peremptory commands in German. Even though he was a performer, a lion tamer and German, the mobilisation applied to him too.
In the preceding few years, travelling shows had reached a peak of popularity. Circuses brought joy almost everywhere they set up their big tops, whether on the outskirts of a city or in a remote market town in the country. But the moment war broke out, travelling troupes were forced to disperse and cease performing, becoming bankrupt overnight. The artists and handlers mostly found themselves conscripted, like other civilians, and so did the clowns, jugglers and acrobats, who were pressed into service in the infantry.
Faced with this sudden catastrophe, the lion tamer had only one thought – to save his animals. He didn’t want to abandon the big cats in their cages, but nor did he want to release them into the wild, leaving the world to cope with their possible cruelty, adding animal savagery to the chaos of war. He decided to ask the mayor for permission to hide up there on the rocky hill above Orcières. As well as his wild animals, which stayed well hidden, the lion tamer had a large dog of a kind that had never been seen in those parts before. It was a black and tan sheepdog; the mayor told everyone it was called a ‘German shepherd’. People thought that the Germans mixing breeds to create dogs that were huge and haughty, muscular and ferocious-looking, was proof of their arrogance.
Animals were requisitioned from everywhere, including the circus. Horses and donkeys were taken first, but also elephants, which were used for earth-moving or to stand in for oxen sent to the front. In Lot-et-Garonne, where Wolfgang was when war was declared, the Pinder Circus’s three elephants were recruited to work the fields the very next Tuesday. They were put into extra-long harnesses and replaced the beasts requisitioned by the military authorities.
After a few days there started to be food shortages. Over most of Europe people abandoned their principles and began to kill animals in zoos to ease their hunger. People ate buffaloes and sea lions, camels and llamas; in Prague two giraffes and some kangaroos were eaten. In a world where nothing made sense, news of these things travelled fast, partly because they were shocking, and partly because they provided some distraction.
As the murderous spree continued, some donated their own animals to the war effort. But in border areas when some people refused to slaughter their domestic pigeons, it was decreed that those who did not empty their dovecotes would be liable to the death penalty. A few weeks later, hundreds of huskies were taken from Alsace to the front, to provide support for the mountain infantrymen who were dealing with early snow in the Vosges. In this mad war, it seemed as if the entire animal kingdom were being called up – but there was no place for big cats. The lion tamer understood that the fascination his lions and tigers had always exerted over crowds was very likely to count against them now. They were no longer sought after for their astonishing beauty, but because they would make a very tasty meal.