Текст книги "Wolf Hunt"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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CHAPTER 7

LEFINE was furious. He was pacing back and forth under the roof of branches rigged up by Saber and Piquebois, near their tent.

‘We were almost killed by the partisans!’ It was the tenth time he had said that, as if he couldn’t get over it. This inquiry – it’s his battle, not ours!’ he exclaimed for the nth time.

Margont was leaning against a tree trunk. This was the miracle of being an officer: the Isle of Lobau was being transformed at speed into a fortification but here he was enjoying free time! Lefine, meanwhile, was covered in sweat.

‘What on earth did you want to get involved for? Is it because of that Austrian woman? That Luise Mitter-something ... Why go hankering after a beautiful girl with problems when you could easily find two without? Oh, it’s not only for her, is it? It’s those magnificent revolutionary ideas of yours again, that drive you to take crazy risks!’

He took off his shirt to change it. His right shoulder bore the scar

of a sabre blow, a souvenir of the Spanish campaign courtesy of an English light dragoon, and his stomach was scored with a gash from a bayonet attack badly parried. His collarbone had been shattered by a Prussian musket butt. The bone had knitted together strangely so that a bony ridge bulged under the skin as if trying to break free from his body. A pattern of burns carpeted his back, caused by fiery splinters from the explosion of a munitions box. The whole saga of the Empire could be read on the scarred skin of its soldiers.

'Being a Good Samaritan is not a quality, it’s a defect.’ He tugged on the new shirt so angrily he almost tore it.

Margont was cooling himself using a book as a fan. Assuredly, literature had many uses.

‘It’s not that. It’s not just that.’

‘Yes, it is, it’s always that! “We have to take the principles of the Revolution to the peoples of other countries!” “Down with monarchy, long live Liberty!” You’re always going on about it. You’re a product of the Revolution, but it’s not relevant any more. We were all so naive! Yes, I believed in it all too: liberty and equality for all, peace, progress, a constitution guaranteeing the same rights for everyone ... It’s utopia, and you’re still fighting for it! This army is full of soldiers who want to liberate the world. That suits the purposes of the Emperor who—’

Lefine stopped short mid-sentence, while Margont hastened to assure him that no one had heard. Criticising the Emperor was the quickest way of being taken for a subversive spy, a royalist, an agent of the Vendeens or a Jacobin plotter ... For the past few years freedom of expression in France had become more and more restricted.

Lefine went on more quietly: The Emperor abuses the army! Why is half our army in Spain along with the Spanish, the Portuguese and the English, all butchering each other? We only had to set foot in Spain for us to be mired there up to our necks. When will there finally be peace? When we’re all dead? And now there’s you embarking on this search! All because it arouses your pity and you still believe you have to help those around you! After four or five

more years’ war, when everyone else will have been killed or will have abandoned all hope, you will be the last republican humanist.’

Lefine spoke those last words with derision. He burst out laughing and leant one hand against a tree trunk, sneering.

The world has gone mad, but you are maddest of all!’

Margont was irritated. He was not easily offended, but even so ... In fact, yes, he was easily offended, and now he was cross.

‘I do as I please! Some people go and look after lepers or plague victims, others give all their money to the poor ... I don’t know, some people live just for themselves and others think a little about other people.’

‘You’re right, I agree. We just don’t agree about where the happy medium is. Let’s leave it to the Austrian police.’

‘I’ve thought of that. But where are they, the Austrian police?’

A fair point. They were on the other side of the Danube, with Archduke Charles. Or in the woods, keeping a lookout for any French who dared to venture there ...

‘It’s not as if the case will be solved if there’s peace,’ continued Margont heatedly. ‘You heard Relmyer as well as I did! No one cares about the lives of a few adolescent orphans! Better to botch the inquiry so as not to cause waves because some people prefer it that way. Life is so much simpler when one closes one’s eyes! And you, you ask me to do the same? Well, no, I’m not going to! Who stepped forward to help me when my family had me imprisoned against my will in the Abbey de Saint-Guilhem-le-Desert to force me to become a monk? I was six years old and I spent four years of my life there! Four years!’

Lefine was dismayed.

‘You’re comparing your story with Relmyer’s? Oh, now that’s dangerous! That’s catastrophic!’

‘Lots of people knew, but they said to themselves, “It’s nothing to do with us.” One day I appealed to the wine merchant who supplied the abbey. He told me, “I can’t help you, kid, you’re not my son.” But the problem was, my father was dead. So who was I supposed to turn to, God? Anyway, it wasn’t God who freed me, it was

the Revolution.’

Margont stopped shouting but his tone brooked no negotiation. ‘So I am going to involve myself in this matter; it will help me resolve some unfinished business, even if only indirectly. I’m convinced it will help me bury certain memories in drawers that I can finally close and forget.’

Now Margont smiled, laughed even. He felt better, having been able to formulate clearly what he felt in his deepest soul.

‘You’re not obliged to help me, Fernand. As you can see, I’m involved for very personal reasons.’ He rose and tried to straighten his uniform. ‘So, it’s not because I’m a Good Samaritan,’ he remarked. ‘Can I count on you?’

‘Of course. Because you’re my best friend. I’m not as selfish as all that ... unfortunately for me.’

Margont was openly delighted. His relationship with Lefine was complicated. Margont was too idealistic, too fond of dreaming and trying to make those dreams into reality. Lefine was the complete opposite. He was pragmatic, resourceful and his common sense rooted him firmly in the everyday. Margont needed Lefine; he helped him keep his feet on the ground. In exchange Margont provided the intoxicating excitement of his changing impulses and the grandeur of his Great Schemes. In short, together they found the balance between whimsy and reality, a balance that neither managed to achieve on his own. Several years of war had consolidated their friendship, especially since each had saved the other’s life.

‘So let’s go and find Relmyer, and get him to take us to his former orphanage,’ decreed Margont.

‘But I still say it’s dangerous to confuse this with your own personal history.’

CHAPTER 8

PART of the army was camped on the Isle of Lobau – IV Corps and also the reserve for General Lasalle’s cavalry. As Relmyer served in the latter, he was just a short walk away from the 18th of the Line. But it was not actually possible to walk there because the artillery convoys blocked the way. Lobau and the surrounding islands bristled with cannon. There were cannon on the Isle of Massena (each of the islands was nicknamed after a hero of the Empire, or an ally), on Saint-Hilaire, on Lannes, on Alexandre ... six-pounders, twelve-pounders, even eighteen-pounders, and howitzers, not to mention the gigantic field guns seized in Vienna from the arsenals that the Austrians, in the haste of their retreat, had forgotten to sabotage. Altogether there were thirteen hundred mortar cannon acting as a deterrent to the Austrians. For them to attack would have been suicide. Napoleon was manoeuvring his resources to protect himself, but doing it in such a way that he would also succeed in foiling his enemies and regaining the initiative. For now

Archduke Charles was obliged to wait for the French to mount an assault. He was, however, ready to receive them unflinchingly; he was well dug in around Aspern and Essling.

As usual Relmyer trained hard. But unusually, there were spectators watching him from a distance. One of these was Saber. Margont went over to him.

‘What are you doing?’

In reply, Saber murmured admiringly, ‘I’m learning. So young and already so gifted ... He’s like me.’

Margont, who was accustomed to his friend’s overweening vanity, contented himself with watching Relmyer again. It was true that his attacks seemed to be devilishly precise. But were they extraordinarily so? Saber was also a very fine duellist and, until now, Margont would have assumed that he was better than Relmyer.

‘Is he more gifted than you, Irenee?’

‘He would lay me out stone dead in less than ten seconds. He’s much better than me,’ Saber conceded. ‘Only in duelling, of course.’

Margont could not get over his surprise. Saber never complimented other people (except women, whom he flattered in the hope of seducing them, assuming them to be as avid as he was for a bit of love-making). Relmyer was truly a remarkable man – he seemed to make an impression on everyone.

The young hussar lunged, beat a retreat while parrying a storm of imaginary thrusts, suddenly attacked again, feinting, dodging ... To Margont it all seemed like a Gregorian chant: very beautiful, but incomprehensible. Saber, on the other hand, had the necessary expertise to form a judgement and he was marvelling at what he saw, even going so far as to tap his thigh to prevent himself from applauding.

‘He lives only for the art of the sword,’ he said under his breath, ‘without looking to left or right.’

That was totally untrue. Most people did not see past the image Relmyer projected. It was a brilliant image, so people looked no further. His violence covered up his suffering.

‘He has natural talent and the compulsion to learn. He’s nicknamed “The Wasp” ... Bezut took him on as a pupil, but alas they fell out.’

Bezut? Probably another renowned master of military arms. Saber knew the most illustrious of them. He would have been their biographer had he not had it in mind to dedicate himself solely to his autobiography.

‘I heard that from one of his cavalry regiment,’ explained Saber. That would definitely have been Pagin. Especially as he was one of the spectators.

‘Why train so hard with a sabre when you can use a pistol?’ Margont wondered aloud.

‘When a pistol is empty, you’re done for,’ replied Saber. ‘Pistols are also unreliable, imprecise and rarely fatal. In any case, I understand that Lukas Relmyer is also an extremely good shot.’

Relmyer caught sight of Margont and, interrupting his training, saluted him with his sword. Saber stood up straighten ‘I knew he had heard of me.’

Relmyer came over to Margont, sword still in hand. Did he never lay it aside? In spite of his intensive training, he still looked energetic, not showing the slightest sign of fatigue.

‘Dear friend! Can I talk to you a moment in private?’

Saber stiffened, trying not to show his disappointment and jealousy. The other two men moved off together, leaving the admirers to rejoin their battalions.

‘Before you say anything, I must warn you, you’re in danger,’ declared Margont. ‘If it is indeed the man we’re looking for who set fire to the ruins of that farm, he is being exceptionally careful. If he knows that you went back there, he might well try to kill you. So you must always have an escort when you leave camp.’

Relmyer sheathed his sword, noisily clanging the hilt against the scabbard.

‘I am my own escort.’

‘I hope you’ll take me seriously. Can we go and visit your old orphanage now?’

‘Unfortunately I’m not welcome there. They were very angry with me for stirring up trouble before I left in 1804. It has to be said that, out of frustration, I did become aggressive. I actually struck the man in charge of the investigation. I was angry with everyone.’ His words plunged him into despair, and his hand came to rest on his sabre, his support.

‘We’re conducting an inquiry – that gives us rights,’ decreed Margont.

Relmyer’s eyelids drooped tiredly. ‘Of course, but it’s not as simple as that. Madame Blanken, narrow-minded, insensitive old witch, is still the director of Lesdorf Orphanage. As I’ve told you she has connections with the Viennese aristocracy. If you go ferreting around in her back yard, she won’t be content with whacking you with her broom. Her outcry will bring down much more serious consequences on us.’

Relmyer went on in a tone that anger rendered as cutting as sword strokes, ‘The Emperor wants Vienna to continue undisturbed, so anyone who causes trouble is heavily punished. If a dozen countesses and wives of Austrian nobility complain about us, accusing us of sowing panic in an orphanage, we’ll be summarily arrested. Believe me, La Blanken has a long arm and an effective fist.’

Margont backed down. Better to take time to inform yourself about a potential enemy before confronting them.

‘In any case, without Madame Blanken’s co-operation, our investigations will be fruitless,’ Relmyer emphasised. ‘That’s why I propose that we take a different approach. I sent one of my hussars to Luise with a note, asking her to try to organise a meeting with Madame Blanken for us. She has answered saying that her parents are giving a ball. Napoleon is pressurising the Viennese to organise receptions. The Emperor wants to divert his officers and to show that he is so confident of victory that he regularly allows them to waste time in worldly discourse. He even invited actors from Paris to appear in the theatre of Chateau de Schonbrunn, where he has taken up residence. The Mitterburgs agreed because, like many Austrians, they are trying to have a foot in both camps. If Archduke Charles wins, they will be able to say they were forced to give the soirée, which is true. And if it’s Napoleon who wins the war, the Mitterburgs’ business will continue to flourish ...’

Margont nodded.

‘Franco-Austrian relations certainly seem to be complex, no one can make head nor tale of them! During the Revolution and the Consulate, Austria and France were enemies. Then after Austerlitz they were reconciled and French soldiers were told they must not criticise the Austrians because they were our friends. Today Austria is at war with us again. But no doubt, if Napoleon triumphs, Austria will hasten to ally herself with him once more, to soften his anger and limit the extent of his sanctions!’

Relmyer appreciated the irony of these constant reversals of alliance.

‘Many Austrians are patriots,’ he declared, ‘but there are others who run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. And those last are only following their emperor, Francis I, who turns his coat after each defeat.’

At that, he started to laugh at the insolence of his own behaviour. ‘But let’s get back to our investigation. Madame Blanken will be invited. She is always to be found at that type of reception. What's more, Luise tells me she’s one of those whose allegiance goes both ways. During the ball we will be able to talk to her. Perhaps you will succeed in buttering her up and interrogating her? Are you still listening?’

‘Absolutely,’ replied Margont.

He was listening to Relmyer, but at the same time thinking about Luise. So he was going to see her again. Would she have the same effect on him as the first time he met her?

The soirée is going to be on 31 May. We will just about have time to prepare our ceremonial uniforms. I would be delighted if Lefine could also come. Without him, we—’ He did not finish the sentence. ‘And the famous Piquebois!’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s a former hussar, so I say he’s one of us. Apart from those two, do you have any other friends?’

Margont looked over at the figure hanging about under a weeping willow.

‘Lieutenant Saber, who’s kicking his heels over there, and Medical Officer Brémond.’

'They will all be welcome! You'll see what Viennese balls are like. They’re pure magic.’

CHAPTER 9

MARGONT went to the soirée accompanied by Lefine, Jean-Quenin Brémond and Relmyer. Saber and Piquebois were already there, having been released from duty earlier.

Their nocturnal journey across Vienna was slightly surreal. The darkness accentuated the majesty of the buildings and Margont thought he could make out the ghost of the Holy Roman Empire, which had been mortally wounded at Austerlitz but had lingered on until July 1806. Napoleon had finished it off by dismembering it, thus weakening Austria and creating the Confederation of the Rhine, a constellation of German states that orbited around France. Vienna was occidental clearly, yet the Orient also manifested itself without it being clear exactly how. The Turks had long since left Vienna, but the city still bore their trace, the imprint of their extraordinary culture. The long grandiose succession of facades was interrupted at regular intervals by enormous black holes. The streets and avenues bore the scars of the almost two

thousand cannonballs and shells that had rained down on them during the night of n May. The capital had resisted as best it could with its fifteen thousand soldiers and some of its population. Napoleon was adept at showing magnanimity towards those who surrendered to him, but he was fearsome in the face of any glimpse of resistance. After the first deluge of missiles and their fiery aftermath had branded the night like red-hot iron, the Emperor had set himself to annihilate the city in thirty-six hours of widespread bombardment. Vienna had capitulated. Napoleon immediately had a proclamation read to his soldiers announcing that he was giving the ‘good inhabitants’ of Vienna his ‘special protection’. The text further stipulated that ‘wicked troublemakers’ would be subject to ‘exemplary justice’.

Vienna was a strange mixture of past and present, West and East, monuments and ruins, grandeur and war damage – a melting pot propitious for every sort of concoction.

The Mitterburgs’ house stood in a garden enclosed by an iron railing. The vast edifice, with its ochre facade, was reminiscent of a Venetian palace washed by a lagoon. Relmyer explained that the Mitterburgs had made their fortune in the coffee trade. The grandfather, now dead, was so fond of the beverage that he had made it his career. He had taken the trouble to learn Turkish so that he could negotiate his imports more easily, between the two Austro-Turkish wars. The drink became increasingly popular. Cafes sprang up across Europe and soldiers were annoyed when they were unable to get hold of it...

Lefine listened avidly. What a good strategy for getting rich! To guess today, before everyone else, what would become indispensable tomorrow. And he was indeed trying, trying to think of something ...

They entrusted their horses to the servants, who hurried from carriage to carriage to greet the guests. A stiffly formal footman invited them to follow him. His tight white stockings made his legs appear spindly and his shoes grated on the inlaid parquet. They crossed a dark corridor bathed in the echo of music, laughter and conversation, and emerged into the light, noise and life of a large gallery.

A glittering crowd filled the long, wide room. Dresses with trains mingled with the sumptuous uniforms of Napoleon’s Empire. Allegorical frescoes decorated the enormously high ceiling. The two long walls were adorned with large mirrors, amplifying the space and making the people appear more numerous. There were so many French windows in the wall overlooking the garden that the people appeared to move in a white luminous universe with gold panelling against a backdrop of green and darkness. Colossal crystal chandeliers, strewn with candles, hung low on astonishingly fine cords as if in reminder that even the largest and most brilliant worlds hung also by only a thread.

‘Here’s to coffee!’ was Lefine’s enthusiastic verdict.

To Margont, there was something strange about the dancing couples gaily bounding under a forest of raised arms, and the beautiful women installed in blue brocade armchairs decorated with gilt. Officers were everywhere: colonels, a few generals and some members of the general staff. Had Margont not seen the catastrophe of Essling, if he had just arrived in Vienna, he would have said to himself, ‘What a party! What joy! Why are people saying the situation in Austria is so worrying? They must really have exaggerated the defeat at Essling.’ Napoleon was a master of propaganda; he excelled at projecting the right image, at using the right symbols. The balls and plays that he propagated in Vienna were a demonstration to Europe that the setback at Essling was so insignificant that he was not even going to interrupt his worldly pleasures. So Prussia and England waited instead of involving themselves actively in the war, wary of an adversary who, even when hurt, continued to dance and smile. The joyous melodies of violins were as intimidating as cannon fire and bought Napoleon some time. It would not last and the Emperor knew it. Everything depended on the next battle.

Margont and Relmyer started to look for Luise while Lefine and Jean-Quenin Brémond went over to the buffet while studying the cartouches of mythogical scenes scattered over the walls.

Margont’s glance wandered over the crowds in uniform. There were geographic engineers in their blue coats and bicornes, their eyes exhausted from drawing up maps of the exact topography of the interminable semi-islands littering the Danube; aides-de-camp serving one general and criticising all the others; Bavarians in light blue coats with breastplates in their regimental colours and tall black helmets bulging skywards; cuirassiers who had left their armour behind, and looked ill at ease, like crabs without their shells; hussars as colourfully attired as their reputation warranted; Polish Light Horse in blue and scarlet, who hated the Austrians almost as much as they hated Russians and Prussians, and who delighted in tormenting the Austrian nobles by ‘accidentally’ knocking into them; the élite police force in leather breeches and blue coats with red lapels, often in conflict with the French soldiers who rebelled against their authority; colonels with shakos topped with plumes or crests; bicorned generals whose importance could be measured by the sycophantic crowd that gravitated towards them ... And finally, at the summit of the pantheon of the imperial mythology, reigned the grenadiers of the Old Guard, giants made still taller by their enormous bearskins, which their terrorised enemies could spot from afar. These praetorians, who had never lost a battle and whose appearance signalled the death sentence for all those who stood in their way, were Napoleon's most trusted élite troops, which he called on only as a last resort. All the various soldiers chatted, drank, paid court, danced ... At the back of the gallery a monumental Dresden china clock dominated the scene, impossible to ignore. Its presence seemed to murmur, 'Hurry up, time is passing and life is short,’ a message known and much repeated but none the less true. And especially true for these soldiers, who would perhaps all be dead in a month.

The Austrians were equally numerous: sympathisers of the French Empire, proponents of an Austrian revolution, or those simply wanting to mingle with important people.

Margont finally caught sight of Luise just finishing a conversation, but he was careful not to greet her or to point her out to Relmyer.

She was sublime. Her white dress with puff sleeves was elegantly pleated in the manner of a toga, and seemed to diminish her pallor. She wore long gloves to the elbow. Her dancing slippers beat time, as much to the rhythm of her impatience as to the rhythm of the waltz. Round her waist she wore a red bow, where others had chosen golden or cream belts. The scarlet attracted attention and was emphasised by the flower pinned to her bosom. White and red, the colours of Austria, with the red on her heart. Luise was declaring her patriotic convictions. She must have been annoyed to see her parents welcoming the French into their home in this way. Her hairstyle had not changed and Margont was delighted because the new fashion for the Titus cut, very short and frizzy, left him cold. He did not understand why people longed to live in the manner of eight hundred years ago. And, happily, neither was she wearing one of those ridiculous crowns of wilting flowers straight out of an embroidered fantastical picture of the Muses. Luise had not spotted them yet; she was still looking about. How delicious it was to be able to observe a woman you were attracted

to! Margont could have continued to watch her longer than was seemly. He wanted to savour the moment when she finally noticed him. He wanted to catch that instant of condensed time when the anxious quest ended and just before social niceties took over. That second of truth, when emotion and surprise make you briefly drop the mask that society obliges you to wear. Alas, Relmyer waved to Luise and when her expression changed to one of intense joy, Margont could not tell how much of that was for Relmyer and how much for him.

Margont and Relmyer skirted round the dance floor where couples, hands joined, arms raised, sketched complicated patterns in agreeable but artificial harmony. They passed in front of the orchestra, all powdered wigs, ochre livery, silk stockings and aggression muzzled by propriety; unleashed a storm of tut-tutting and fan-waving as they brushed past a group of young ladies in search of partners and reached Luise, who had walked over to meet them. She looked at Relmyer, her eyes shining with tears. Her distress, misinterpreted, earned him withering looks from scandalised ladies nearby.

‘You’ve grown.' she stammered humbly.

Relmyer was equally moved. Thousands of phrases came to mind but they did not manage to say any of them. They were unable to express their evident joy, because their reunion emphasised the loss of Franz. Their couple was an amputated trio.

Margont did not exist for Luise at that moment and it pained him. Yet again, the past displaced the present and he did not belong to their past. Colour returned to Luise’s cheeks and her voice grew firmer.

‘I have so much to reproach you for, Lukas! You’re lucky that I have forgiven you, you traitorous French hussar. You abandoned me, never wrote to me or sent me news, and you were too pigheaded, stupid and selfish even to let me know you’d returned to Vienna!’

She took his hand tenderly, to assure herself that this reunion she had so often dreamt of, although not in these circumstances, was in fact real. And also so as not to lose her brother again. Relmyer gently freed his fingers. Luise turned towards Margont. She looked radiant.

‘You’re very elegant in your enemy uniform. But I class you separately in a strange category of “enemy friends”. I am delighted to see you, even though I would have preferred you in civilian clothes.’

‘I would have preferred that too. Your colours are more reminiscent of a uniform than a ball gown.’

Relmyer turned his back on them.

'The old bat isn’t here yet,’ he murmured.

He was watching for her so avidly that he forgot about Luise and Margont. The latter hastened to take advantage of that.

‘Luise – I can call you Luise? – there’s something I’ve been dying to ask you. What did you mean exactly when you said that you had guessed that, in a way, I was an orphan?’

Luise had expected that question.

‘Tell me about yourself and I’ll answer you.’

Her tone was teasing but her expression serious. Margont entered into the spirit of the game.

‘My father died when I was small. My mother couldn’t support us any longer so sent me to live with one of my uncles. He took it into his head to make me a monk. A calamitous idea ...’

Luise tried to imagine Margont as a monk. It was a disturbing image.

‘He must have wanted to redeem his sins,’ she hazarded.

‘And I paid the price. I was shut up against my will in the Abbey of Saint-Guilhem-le-Desert, in the south-east of France. I wasn’t allowed to see my family any more, nor to leave the abbey. I thought that I would never leave the place again. I felt utterly abandoned, like an orphan. I stayed there from the age of six until I was ten.’ Margont had presented his account in an orderly fashion. His summary resembled a report. But rage and sadness boiled within him, like pus in an abscess that would neither burst nor reabsorb itself, so could never heal.

‘How did you escape? You must have driven those poor monks mad.’

‘Actually that was one of my favourite tactics. However, it was the Revolution that liberated me – by suppressing by decree all religious communities.’

Luise shook her head. ‘No, you liberated yourself. Someone can let you out of a prison, but your spirit can still remain a prisoner. I’m the same – I freed myself. It took me years and years ... One day, at Lesdorf Orphanage, they taught us about earthquakes. I was terrified for weeks; I had nightmares. I kept thinking the earth was trembling. I imagined a country where the ground shook all the time, where houses collapsed and people walked about in streets devastated by every strong trembling ... In fact it appears that these phenomena only last a few seconds. Humans can tremble for a lot longer than the earth can. Of course, my adoptive parents genuinely love me. But do you know why they chose me and not someone else? It’s because I was good – very important, that -because I was in perfect health and I was a conscientious student.

I read, wrote and sewed well and I had good manners. Sometimes when I get angry with them because we don’t agree about something, I wonder if they’ll send me back to Lesdorf for “breach of contract”. Oh, I’m talking too much! It’s your fault! And now you’re going to think I’m ungrateful. But it’s not true! I love my parents with all my heart. It’s just that I’m frightened. Frightened of losing everything a second time, of living through another earthquake.’

She tried to shake off the sadness that had come over her and added cheerfully: ‘Please excuse me. It’s the gaiety here. Sometimes excessive jollity makes me melancholy; distress, on the other hand, has a galvanising effect. I often say that I’m like an inverse mirror that transforms black into white and vice versa. Which is lucky, since the world is much more often dark than light.’