If there had been no war, he would have had a quiet pee, would have shaved, would have woken her up with a kiss on the neck, would have put on any old shirt, would have opened his bistro with a slight lift of the damp-warped door, switched on the radio, silly songs would have got him whistling along, today’s Sunday, so they would have been off for a swim in the Saône.
In the truck taking him to Royallieu, he thinks only of what would have happened had this war not tripped up their lives in such a monstrous way.
When the tarp lifts a few centimeters, he glimpses a bit of road, of sky, of seagull, or of tree. And like an artist, he redraws the days as they might have been by patching over the last few years.
There would have been no Simon turning up at the back door, no Simon the godfather and violinist, there would have been no living as a trio, without a child to fill Lucien’s days with pride. In the cellar, there would only have been bottles stacked on top of each other, goat cheese, and cured ham, which he would have sliced thickly, with no fear of going without.
If there hadn’t been this war, Simon would never have looked at Hélène, would never have lowered his eyes in her presence. He wouldn’t have slept in the room of the child to come, or ended up on a mattress in the cellar. They wouldn’t have eaten together every evening, for one year, two years, then three. If there hadn’t been this war, Hélène wouldn’t have spent hours down in the cellar when German planes were flying over Milly. If there hadn’t been this war, she wouldn’t have gradually opened her eyes to watch Simon playing the violin during bombings. And without Simon, she would have remained seated on a bottle crate, ramrod straight, eyes closed, hands pressed over ears, praying to her tin-pot God. If there hadn’t been this war, she wouldn’t have spent hours closely watching the violinist’s hands, his arms, his profile, his body moving. If there hadn’t been this war, she wouldn’t have knitted that sweater, gripping her needles. That sweater the musician never took off anymore, and was forever lightly stroking with his fingertips. If there hadn’t been this war, she wouldn’t have altered the trousers Lucien no longer wore, to fit Simon.
If there hadn’t been this war, Lucien wouldn’t have heard men banging on the door of the bistro at five in the morning, then storming down to the cellar and grabbing hold of him. He wouldn’t have seen the despair in Simon’s eyes when they opened the trapdoor and his body fell to the ground like an empty potato sack, he was so thin. Lucien wouldn’t have seen them kicking him with the toes of their boots, and shooting him like a dog. In fact, he’d never seen anyone shoot a single dog. If there hadn’t been this war, there wouldn’t have been this morning that left Hélène on her own. He wouldn’t have gone down to the cellar to talk with Simon.
He wouldn’t have seen him praying by candlelight, eyes closed, mouthing silent words. He wouldn’t have wondered what he was saying to God. Whether he was talking to Him about Hélène. And Simon, sensing his presence, wouldn’t have opened his eyes, or smiled. And Lucien wouldn’t have hated Simon’s smile because it was both strength and beauty. And because he was increasingly drawing Hélène to the cellar. If there hadn’t been this war, Lucien wouldn’t have become that total idiot who allows his glass to be filled with adulterated liquor, his mind gnawed by unspoken jealousy, and who tells Dominique Latronche, the village Judas, that a person can be hidden in his cellar, inside a false ceiling built by the father of old Louis thirty years ago. And then repeats it, repeats it, repeats it straight into the eyes of Latronche, who pours him more liquor and makes him repeat it again. If there hadn’t been this war, Lucien wouldn’t be sitting in this truck, his body covered in bruises, weighed down with self-disgust and despair, thinking that if the seagull flies over his convoy of prisoners, it means Hélène is in love with him.