He did not like Captain Dubois. Not that it mattered. The captain was a martinet. He was also vain. A few days at the front had ruined his appearance, something he irrationally blamed on his subordinates.
 
Alphonse was tired. His boots had been sodden for a long time and his feet were rotting. With any luck his condition would worsen.
 
Morning came like any other. Alphonse was awake, uncertain if he had slept. He could hear the lonely song of a bird as the sky filled with gloomy light and the few remaining splintered trees were revealed, beautiful as the skeletons of ghosts. There were still pleasures to be had. He drew on his cigarette.
 
Captain Dubois picked his way along the trench with careful steps.
 
“We're going over in six minutes.”
 
His different coloured eyes were startling.
 
“Fix bayonets.”
 
There was an ominous silence after the barrage, which had ended some twenty minutes earlier, just enough time for the German machine gun crews to get back into position. There were a few seconds to go. The captain climbed up on to the parapet—gun in one hand, watch in the other, a whistle between his teeth.
 
Alphonse looked at the men around him. They were huddled on the firing-step. No one talked. Then he looked up at Captain Dubois. Their eyes met and forged a bond. Dubois knew that this time Alphonse would refuse to go over. Alphonse knew that Dubois would shoot him.
 
The captain's hollow cheeks moved a little, as his teeth tightened on the whistle. Alphonse shouldered his rifle. Dubois' weapon was already raised. Alphonse felt his finger about to tighten on the trigger. The whistle was just about to sound, and then Dubois suddenly toppled forward into the trench, blood pouring from his head, the victim of a sniper's bullet.
 
After that, there was confusion and a momentary loss of purpose. Some of the men went over. Others, including Alphonse, stayed where they were. They were later charged with mutiny.
 
Alphonse was also charged with the attempted murder of an officer. He was imprisoned while awaiting his court martial and was visited by the chaplain a few times, which was an annoyance. It interrupted his daydreams in which he often lay on his stomach at the edge of a pond. He would watch damselflies and dragonflies, larvae twisting just below the surface, and insects skating across it, enthralled by this alien form of life coexisting with his own.
 
He was sentenced to death by firing squad. The irony was so great it did not seem real—to survive the war only to be killed for a crime that chance had forestalled. Knowing the time of his death was disorientating and reduced him to despondency, casting him adrift.
 
The day before the sentence was to be carried out, Alphonse had a visitor—a dapper man who said he was a police inspector. This man said that due to extenuating circumstances, his death sentence would be commuted to government service for an unspecified period of time. He would be required to do covert work as an informant. The choice was his: agree to these arrangements or face the firing squad. An immediate decision was required. “Sign here.”
 
He presented no credentials and there was no way to tell if he actually was who he claimed to be but it was not a concern. If the life and freedom he had offered were real, and not just some cruel trick or desperate hallucination, Alphonse would have signed anything.
 
That was how he had first met Ferdinand.
 
He was released the next day and discharged from the army. Ferdinand had given him an address in Paris, along with a key and a small amount of money, and told him to wait there until contacted.
 
“What am I supposed to do?”
 
“Re-acclimate yourself to civilian life. Look for work. Start painting. You want to be an artist, don’t you?”
 
It took him two days to reach the apartment on Rue Tourlaque. By the time he arrived he was feeling feverish. He made a few attempts with the key before he got the door open. The apartment was completely empty. It consisted of three small rooms. There was a sink against the wall in the middle one, below a window overlooking the street. He was glad to find a bathroom. It was cramped but at least not a shared facility out in the hallway. By this time his teeth were chattering and he lay down on the floor, covering himself with his army coat, alternating between shivering and sweating.
 
He stayed there for almost a week. It was hard to gauge the passing of time, just light and darkness. Sometimes he would heave himself up to the sink and drink from the tap, then crumple back down again, drifting in and out of sleep. His head frequently ached. His thoughts were confused and he was unable to follow them. It was a state of dreaming where there were no dreams. Occasionally he wondered if he was talking to someone, and if that person was himself. His tongue felt thick and gummy, his mouth like the floor of a bird cage.
 
One day he got up to drink and realized he was hungry. He rummaged around and found he still had a little money, so he went out for something to eat.
 
It was chilly outside and he was still very weak. He walked until he saw a café. Over a cup of coffee and a croque monsieur, he learned that Germany had been defeated and the war was over. His food was free. The woman who served him told him it was a small token for the sacrifices he had made.
 

***

 
Ferdinand was holding a bunch of flowers when he visited Alphonse at 39 Rue Tourlaque. He had come by the week before, and knocked on the door. When there was no answer he had let himself in. Alphonse was lying delirious on the floor. Ferdinand nudged him with his foot but there was no conscious response. He only stayed a few minutes, fearing exposure to the rampant influenza pandemic and covered the door handle with his handkerchief as he left.
 
Now, as he stood outside the door again, he didn’t know what to expect. The bouquet seemed absurd, so he propped it in a corner and gave the door a sharp rap. There was motion within and the door opened a crack. Alphonse was still alive.
 
“Are you going to let me in?”
 
Alphonse opened the door fully and stepped back to let him pass. Ferdinand had intended to set out the parameters of their relationship, and to explain the role Alphonse would play in rooting out bolsheviks and social degenerates. He would give his usual pretext—the government was concerned with the spread of Bolshevism due to the repatriation of troops disillusioned by the war. It was credible enough. Christianity had moved from Palestine with the Roman legions. All kinds of dangerous ideas came back with soldiers. It was a legitimate concern. But as he looked over Alphonse’s gaunt shoulder into the empty room beyond, and breathed the stale air, his intentions lost their relevance.
 
Instead he pulled an envelope from his jacket and handed it to Alphonse.
 
“Here’s some money. Consider it an advance on the work you’ll be doing for me. Get some furniture. Set yourself up. This is a one-time payment. Don’t assume you’ll be getting more.”
 
Alphonse held the envelope without opening it.
 
“Thank you. And what am I supposed to do for this?”
 
His face was drawn. He was wearing his army coat and nothing much else. He was a pathetic sight. Their proximity made Ferdinand uncomfortable. Alphonse seemed to be an embodiment of abject weakness—his condition, his predicament—yet Ferdinand had the impression of a furtive strength, cowering but resilient, and his contempt was tempered by desire.
 
“You will give me information.”
 
“About what?”
 
Alphonse swayed slightly on his thin legs. His pallor was offset by the dark stubble on his chin.
 
“About whatever I like. You will spy on your friends.”
 
Ferdinand had made sure to wear gloves this time. He had always recoiled from sickness of any kind.
 
“We will meet from time to time. Not here. You’ll receive instructions about where and when. First, pull yourself together. You’re going to have to pay me rent for this place. And don’t get any ideas about moving, if you know what’s good for you.”
 
He straightened his jacket and turned to leave.
 
“I’ve made a considerable investment in you and I expect a return.”
 
When the door closed behind him, he retrieved his bouquet.
 

***

 
“Leave the flowers on the table. The girl will find a vase.”
 
At least she knew who he was today.
 
“How was your week, Mother?”
 
“The servants in this place are all second rate. Where were they recruited? From the prisons?”
 
“There are no servants here, Mother.”
 
“Well they lack respect, whoever they are.”
 
His mother had spent her formative years in Algeria as the daughter of a colonial official. The house had been full of servants. Sometimes when he visited she mistook him for a butler.
 
“What is it you do?”
 
“I'm a police officer, Mother.”
 
“A policeman? You?”
 
She never bothered to hide her disdain. It made him feel like a child—just not her child. He could not understand why he came back each week. It was perhaps a morbid attraction. Ever since he could remember, his mother had retreated into a world of dubious fantasy. He had always been a reminder to her of everything she had hated about her life and she had done her best to avoid him, even when they lived together. Now she was his dependent. Perhaps that was what kept him coming back. He came here to savour his power and the reversal of their roles, knowing that the assistance he provided could be withdrawn at any time he chose.
 
“I thought you were a lawyer like your father.”
 
It was true, his father had been a lawyer—a seedy backstreet lawyer, who had squandered whatever talent he might once have had through excessive drinking. He had been struck off and reduced to making a living from criminals and the dregs of society. Occasionally he was prone to fits of uncontrollable anger and violence. He was a lecher. Ferdinand had never liked either of his parents and assumed he was the product of rape—his pregnant mother coerced into marrying her abuser and then ostracised by her family. Her disinheritance had not precluded some family money from being provided for his education. They regarded him as an unfortunate unmentionable. He felt no particular gratitude for their generosity. It had only reinforced his opinion of himself. He was a prime mover, unencumbered by friendship or by the need for love.
 
His father had introduced him to the Parisian underworld. He had learned first hand of extortion, protection and prostitution. They were exciting possibilities but the introduction was to be short lived, as his father was convicted on racketeering charges and sentenced to seven years hard labour in the penal colony Bagne de Cayenne. His sentence was mandatorily subject to the doublage—when he had done his time, he would have to spend another seven years in the colony. He never returned. Ferdinand was left to his own devices in the underworld. What better way to reap its benefits than to become a policeman?
 
“My work is to protect society, not to engage in sophistry.”
 
This place smelled of death.
 
“I must leave soon.”
 
“I thought you only just arrived.”
 
“I'm on duty.”
 
“Nobody wants to visit me. Even your sister does not come anymore.”
 
“I don’t have a sister. At least not one that I’m aware of.”
 
His mother, Millicente, seemed to be reaching for a memory. She gazed for a long time through the window at the grey sky, as if she might find it there.
 
“Until next week then, Mother.”
 
“Tell the girl I will be dining alone in my room this evening. That is all for now Hillaire. You are dismissed.”
 
 

© Tom Newton 2021
 
These are chapters 7 and 8 of Revolution in Dreamtime, from Voyages to Nowhere by Tom Newton, Recital Publishing 2021.