The Matchmaker of Kenmare Read online

“If I’m to fetch somebody—and that’s what I was asked to do—he has to live.”

  In French, the farmer spoke to the maquisard, and the Englishman also said something—they both spoke so swiftly that I didn’t catch any of it. But Miss Begley did and said, “Oh, sure. Fine. Send us back if you like. But that’d be your weakness, not ours. And anyway you can’t do this without us.”

  The maquisard smiled like a gracious host and said, “Why would we kill him? He is wanted for what he knows.”

  Miss Begley subsided; he had charmed the passion out of her.

  The briefing began. Nearby, in the town of Saint-Omer, the Germans had established a major communications facility. It aimed to get as much information as possible from across the English Channel. Along the coast, teams of German listeners and French collaborators gathered such radio signals as they could. They took them back to Saint-Omer, to the German official in charge of deciphering and interpretation. A civilian, he was considered one of the key operatives in the occupation of France and the monitoring of Allied intentions. He had been one of the many Germans who had first come to Ireland for the fishing, and then stayed, in love with the terrain.

  And by now I realized how deep a reconnaissance Captain Miller had made.

  “We know a lot about this man,” Hugo Barrive said.

  To which Miss Begley said, “Well, you’d have to, wouldn’t you?”

  A tussle developed between Barrive and Miss Begley, the Irish country girl who, in her way, had as much daring and originality as anybody in that room, and a great deal more than most.

  “His wife was very nice. They had no children,” said Miss Begley.

  “He wants to marry again,” said Barrive.

  Miss Begley laughed and shook her head.

  “Captain Miller is one smart fellow,” she said, and we laughed with her.

  “So you will do it?”

  She said, “Describe exactly what you want?”

  They told us the circumstances that existed and the scheme they had conceived. I was to pose as a writer, researching the travels of monks through Europe. Miss Begley was to pose as my cousin—we had our Irish passports—and we would stay in Saint-Omer and watch for Mr. Seefeld. They knew all his movements; they’d been tracking him for months.

  “He’s very German,” said Barrive. “He does the same things every day at the same time. It will be easy to bump into him.”

  “I’d know him anywhere,” she said. “Full head of hair. Big lips.”

  In the first meeting she was to reminisce with him and then arrange a drink or dinner, if possible for that evening. The rest of the operation would be handled by the men whom we’d just met in the farmhouse. They’d whisk him from Saint-Omer, and then we’d be taken back to the boat at Le Crotoy. They told us that Bawn Buckley knew to expect an extra passenger on his journey back to Ireland. Barrive thanked us and left the house with his companions.

  Was I still afraid? I’m not sure. They had arranged it as a placid event, easy to accomplish—or so they’d claimed. When I look back, it seems both ordinary and preposterous—but so do many of the events in all our lives, and most of us have never lived inside a war.

  47

  No sleep; friendly talk in the farm kitchen; food. In the early light, we saw more clearly the steep wooden staircase that we’d climbed a few hours earlier. When we looked back from the water, the place seemed more like a house from a Chinese fable, with trailing willow branches masking the hidden corner of the lagoon. I wondered how many of the neighbors knew that the farm possessed this secret waterside entrance.

  Madame Annette Larbaud of the curly hair took us to a different part of this inlet. Wooden steps led up to a roadway, and she told us that a few hundred yards to the right was the place where we must wait for the bus to Abbeville. Two other people waited there—an elderly man and a child who held his hand.

  Something about the elderly man felt familiar but I couldn’t place it and put it down to fancy. He and the child boarded the bus ahead of us and never looked in our direction. They sat in the seats just inside the door. It was, of course, Hugo himself; the child, his nephew, was the prop to his disguise.

  Throughout this escapade, I was managing to keep the observer in me hard at work, and I watched Miss Begley closely. She was gliding through it all—and looked so determined that I could imagine nothing would distract her.

  At Abbeville, we caught another bus. When we arrived in Saint-Omer, we found our hotel and checked in; once again we’d been expected. Then we went to the bibliothèque for the first of my fake research inquiries. Hugo had warned us that we’d be tracked by the occupying Germans, and we could expect questions from them—the library also had spies, he said, tasked with informing the authorities if new faces arrived.

  And with true German efficiency, they showed up inside an hour—an officer and a female civilian assistant. They strode into the library and, without a glance in any other direction, marched to our table. The man was uniformed, armed, and nervous; the woman, much cooler, spoke English.

  “Your names, please.” A command, not a question, and we gave our names with smiles. She didn’t soften and asked, “Do you have papers?”

  Miss Begley, as briefed, looked mystified. I produced—forewarned—my passport and letter of employment from the Irish Folklore Commission, in effect the Irish government.

  “Why are you here?”

  I explained. “I’m tracing the footsteps of the Irish monks who came through France on their way to Rome and the Holy Land.”

  The German lady official said, “But don’t you know there’s a war?”

  Miss Begley said, with some surprise, “We were told that in France the war is over. That Germany had won. And anyway Ireland is neutral.”

  The German lady translated for the officer, who looked as though he’d been praised. They went away with half-smiles, and we sat down to our “researches.”

  Some time later, Miss Begley tugged my sleeve and pointed to the tall window. On the street outside, a small group of soldiers had surrounded a man in dungarees, a farmer by the look of him, frightened hair the color of sawdust. They stood him back against the wall, his hands raised above his head; they reached into his pockets, took out papers, and perused them. They turned him around to face the wall, searched him—and found a handgun.

  On an order, two soldiers—each under twenty years old—spread-eagled the man, face forward to the wall. Another soldier, and he was no older, produced a knife and cut away the man’s dungarees, shirt, and undershirt until he was stripped to the waist. There he stood, helpless, half-naked, his nose against the faded red brick of northern France.

  People drifted past, crossing the street to keep out of the way, yet hesitating, halting, watching. The officer ordered the members of his platoon to form a line. He directed them to shoot. The impromptu firing squad raised its guns and riddled the Frenchman’s naked back. His flesh bumped in little spasms as each bullet hit, and he fell like a red sack of wet grain.

  Miss Begley said, “We have to go now.”

  We didn’t look across the street as we quit the library; we turned sharp right and walked hard. She moved stiff and quick beside me, and I had to keep my head raised to keep from throwing up. The skin under my clothes went from cold to hot to cold. A few minutes after I’d lain down on my bed, someone rapped hard outside. I jumped to my feet, opened the door—and Miss Begley flung herself at me, into my arms. In utter silence, she pressed her face into my chest and tightened her grip on me. It speaks to the horror of the occasion that I never thought of the only other woman I had held so close.

  48

  We ate a somber dinner. I drank a glass of wine, and when the patron came across to pour another, Miss Begley put a hand over my glass.

  “If you were never to be sober again,” she said, “I need you sober now.”

  I said, “You need me sober always.”

  To which she said, “My God, I do.”

  After a mome
nt she asked, “Did you think me very forward today? When I threw myself into your arms?”

  I said, “My worry is that I’ll never get that poor man out of my mind.”

  She said, “Would you object if I was in your bed with you tonight?”

  So, Miss Begley slept with me—but I stayed awake with her. She arrived, demure as a nun, in a long white nightgown.

  “I’m ready, brushed and clean,” she said. “Which side of the bed do you want?”

  Growing up an only child had meant years of sleeping alone. My parents had given me the best room in the house, the biggest, the widest, with the most appealing view over the garden and out to the mountains. I loved my bed; it jingled when I jumped into it; it had brass quoits on the bedposts.

  When Venetia and I first meshed, I never stopped to think about bed sharing and its necessary principles. In any case, we had usually become such a tangle by morning that nobody could tell who had started out where. Now, in France, despite all that was going on, I was fazed for a moment at how to conduct this unexpected arrangement. Within seconds I ceased to worry, because Miss Begley climbed into my bed and settled down as though for the rest of her life.

  And she slept thus too; she didn’t move, and she didn’t kick me, didn’t fling an arm in my direction—she couldn’t have been more natural or unaffected; she even snored a little. I, however, in my self-imposed celibacy, and fearing being misinterpreted, took the greatest care not to lie too near her, lest a sleeping arm gone astray or a nudging leg in a dream might give a wrong impression.

  But that’s not to say I wasn’t supernaturally aware of her. My heart flashed and my mind roared, yet I stretched there like a plank, sensing the body that lay inches away. It might have been a bomb. I could feel its radiated warmth, and I had enough light from the street outside to watch the rise and fall of her body as she breathed. And I listened, because Miss Begley muttered in her sleep, mumbled and sighed, and made little whispered announcements into the night.

  Did I want her? What a question—but I asked it of myself: Do you want her as you wanted Venetia? I couldn’t get a straight answer; vacillations, hesitancies, no clear voice came through. And I evaded the answer by returning to the awfulness of that day’s street scene, and in its tragedy I associated it with my years of searching, my loneliness. Slowly, I shook off the blood images, tried to focus on the task ahead and keep my fear under control. And my desire.

  Next morning, Miss Begley made one—and only one—reference to our having shared a bed.

  “You’re more peaceful than I thought,” she said.

  It never occurred to me to ask what she might have expected, and whether she had a scale of comparisons, and if so how she had acquired it. And she had no idea that I hadn’t closed an eye.

  49

  Now began the most frightening phase thus far. Today, we all know that Miss Begley and I weren’t alone in an action such as this—how many war stories have you heard about kidnappings of generals, or glamorous female spies? Back then, we knew none of that; as far as I was concerned, nobody had ever done this before. And although I knew that I was opening a door into the dark, I didn’t think about it. Maybe that was a sign of my own damage. Or maybe that’s simply a human condition—to leap into danger without measuring it in advance.

  A long and muted breakfast helped us to recover from the street atrocity. Not until almost eleven o’clock did we feel able to stand or walk. I distinctly remember the sweetness of the church bell chiming the eleven strokes somewhere.

  Miss Begley said, “I hope it’ll wake up God.”

  Precisely at noon, Mr. Seefeld would leave his office. So they’d briefed us. He’d “amble” (their word) to his lunch. This would be the moment. Miss Begley would intercept him. She’d recognize and greet him. After that, luck owned the game.

  At first it went as planned—the surprise didn’t come until later. We ambled too, that was our decision: Stroll in Saint-Omer like tourists, pretend there isn’t a war. Along the rue Gambetta we wandered. The locals stared at us, unable to believe that people would visit France at that time.

  We found the basilica. I stood there, making notes. The bell rang twelve. Miss Begley whispered, “There he is.” I turned to look. A large man came down the steps of a building on the far side of the street. Walking like a very big, fat bird, he turned in our direction.

  She moved.

  “Excuse me!” she called. As she crossed the empty street, I heard her say, “I know you!” This sad, awkward man stopped, and she speared him with his name—“Hans-Dieter!”

  Heavy, his arms loose on their hinges, uncomfortable in his shambling body—that’s the man I saw. He had sleepy eyes and a mouth like a snowman’s. He peered at Miss Begley.

  “Oh! Oh! Kate! What are you doing in Saint-Omer?!” He stood a little higher, burnished himself.

  Perfect English, full idiom. Miss Begley rushed to him and held out her hand: “I can ask you the same question!”

  They laughed. Phase One was up and running.

  “Great to see you, Hans. Let me look at you.” She stepped back. She reached in and straightened his tie. She patted him a little.

  I viewed him as though I were his hangman. A part of me wished not to, because I feared for him. I feared that I’d be the agent of his destruction, no matter what assurances we had received. He had the demeanor of a sad and powerless professor, and he kept licking his bulbous lips.

  “Have you come all the way from Kenmare?” he said.

  Miss Begley said, “You never met Ben, did you? This is my cousin, Ben MacCarthy. He’s with the Irish Folklore Commission, and he’s researching the Irish monks of the Dark Ages, their path to the Holy Land.” She didn’t show an iota of fear.

  He said to me, “You need to go to Péronne.”

  “Tomorrow,” I said.

  To Miss Begley he said, “There was a resting place for pilgrims in medieval Péronne.”

  Miss Begley asked, “How are you? I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  His eyes filled with immediate tears.

  “The anniversary was last week,” he said. “It is so difficult.”

  “They’ll all be delighted in Kenmare when I tell them I’ve met you,” said Miss Begley. “Your mother-in-law especially.”

  “I’m on my way to lunch. Will you join me?”

  Miss Begley—as directed—shook her head. “I’m afraid we can’t. But we could this evening.”

  “I have nothing to do this evening,” he said. She gave him the name of the restaurant that Hugo had chosen.

  We parted. Miss Begley and I went into the basilica. We almost fell into the silent pews under the pressure of the stress.

  50

  He had changed his clothes since midday—a white shirt, a plaid bow tie. His face was sometimes young as a boy’s, and sometimes creased with mourning. The talking began well—Ireland and fishing. We all liked one another. I gleaned further knowledge of his late wife.

  “She had the blackest hair you ever saw. I mean, when you looked into it very close. Black as black can be.”

  With his grief, his daily, hourly sense of loss—this man could become my friend.

  I ventured to ask about the war.

  “If we weren’t Irish and neutral, what would have happened to us by now? Here in France?”

  He looked around, to see whether anyone watched. A few people sat at tables in local clothes. He relaxed—and drew his hand across his throat.

  Miss Begley took back the conversation. “If this is painful,” she said, “say so, and I’ll stop. But would you tell me a little about Ann’s illness.”

  Once again his eyes became glassy. He gathered some composure and shook his head in refusal. With a smile, he asked her, “Are you still making ‘matches,’ as you call them?”

  Miss Begley replied, “They even call me the Matchmaker of Kenmare now. My grandmother’ll be thrilled to hear that I met you. She was very fond of Ann.”

  Mr. Seefeld put dow
n his cutlery. He took Miss Begley’s hand.

  “And you are not married?” To me he said, “Are you in love with her? I know you’re her cousin, but you could be in love with her.”

  Miss Begley said, “I’m not married. And I’m just about ready to marry somebody nice.”

  Mr. Seefeld looked at her the way a lush looks at a bottle—and I noted the ambiguity of her words.

  “As nice as yourself?” he asked. Miss Begley laughed. He said, “But there’s this damn war,” and she said, “But that’ll end one day.”

  I asked him, “Are you, in fact, a soldier? Even if you don’t wear a uniform?”

  “Civilians—we have the same rules. Very harsh.”

  In the chair beside mine, a change came over Miss Begley. Her body altered its place in the world. She sat higher and more rigid, two feet planted side by side. I came to see this feature of her being, her spirit of determination, again and again. She seemed to change everything that was going on inside herself—and brought about change in the moment’s task.

  Now she leaned forward and said, “We came over by boat and we’re going back by boat. The nets are being mended out on the coast.”

  How shrewd she was that day. I had long known how it feels to need urgent change. Moments come in men’s lives when we must alter everything or we feel we’ll die. It happened to me, quite some time after Venetia’s disappearance, and I did change everything. I took to the road. That’s how I helped myself to survive. It’s terrifying in some ways, but it’s essential. We’d met Mr. Seefeld just as he’d reached that awful inner place—and she had sensed it in him. She knew that we could become—as he would see it—the agents of his urgently needed change. And she knew that we didn’t have to kidnap him. That was the surprise I mentioned earlier. He wanted to come with us.

  Later we agreed that we had both seen it happen. The quickening of the eye, the lifting of the head, the long glance all around, the dropping of the head again—they led to the confidential, unfinished remark: “How I’d love to … ”