take it....”
“A bike!” Ennis exclaimed, he had been thinking of something more rapid, more reliable, solid.
“Yes, you’ve had a little practice, like that you’ll pass unseen, remember they are not playing games, their methods are brutal. You’ll have to change your clothes, I have an old djellaba in the garage,” he smiled, “it’s not very chic but it’ll help to hide your foreign appearance.”
He leaned over the map, it dated from the French period, it was a Michelin regional road map, well detailed with all departmental routes.
“There,” he said pointing to the other maps he had selected, “they are IGN maps, very detailed, they are used by cross country hikers, 1:25000 scale. Once you reach the mountains you should take the old foot paths, today they are forbidden to hikers and tourists, though the local peasants use them to bring their cattle to grazing pastures.”
The Bike
La voyage c’est la recherché de ce rien du tout, de ce petit vertige pour couillons Céline
David showed him the quickest and safest way out of Marseille, then the secondary roads along which he would be relatively safe. It would not be easy, the region was mountainous and difficult for a bike, and especially as he was not in that good a condition for such sport. First he was to follow avenue du Prado, then continue east in the direction of Cassis and La Ciotat.
“When you arrive there, you should make your way north to the frontier, there’s a pass and on the other side you’ll see the bus station,” he said tracing a line on the map with his nicotine stained finger, which Ennis had difficulty to follow in his nervous state.
David then collected together the things Ennis would need, money, half a loaf of French bread, a lump of saucisson, a couple of tins of sardines, maps and a pocket torch, stuffing them into an old khaki shoulder bag.
“I’m really sorry, I don’t have the time to set you up like a Boy Scout, but you have the most important things, the maps and money, you should be able to manage with that!”
Ennis changed into an old tee-shirt and jean jacket keeping the same trousers, those of David’s were too small, and a scarf he wound around his head Bedouin style. They took the lift to the underground garage level where David produced a bike, at least twenty years old, but in working condition.
“Here’s the pump. I normally go for a ride on Sundays, it should be alright, if you go easy it will get you to the frontier at Sospel. There’s not many people there once you pass the Col de Brois.”
He in an after thought David rummaged in the cardboard boxes piled up against the wall of his garage and pulled out what appeared to be an old brown blanket.
“Here, the old djellaba, put it on, it will hide your clothes.”
Ennis slipped it on, then they made their way up the ramp to street level where David punched in a code opening the garage door onto a backstreet.
“Good luck my friend, telephone me, but only if you are in dire need, speak in English, about your holidays, okay!”
Ennis wheeled the bike out onto the street, it was not in that good a condition and after a few yards of wobbling he pedalled off, following David’s instructions in the general direction of Aubagne and Toulon.
He passed his first night in a small pine wood near to Trets, where he ate a sparse meal of bread and sardines whilst studying his options with David’s map. There were three possibilities, Monaco the closest, Italy and the route David had suggested through France.
The Kingdom of Monaco was about one hundred kilometres distance with the frontier at Port Grimaud, but it would be too dangerous there, both sides no doubt heavily guarded.
David had suggested Italy, but Ennis spoke no Italian, knew little about the country and even less about Italians. France on the other hand offered several different possibilities, in spite of the risks for an American citizen not only because of the poor relations it maintained with Washington, and of course he spoke the language. To the north the nearest border crossing point was just a few kilometres from Carpentras near Venasque, from there he could reach Lyon, but he would be far from any friends and an escape route to London. To the southwest was Montpellier, where perhaps he could find help with the aid of an old friend, Elliot Stone.
Elliot Stone was not too young, but he was a man of imagination. With his help he could find a solution, either to Paris or through Spain. His immediate problem was getting to Montpellier, the direct route would be dangerous, too many people, too much traffic and too many police controls.
If he took an elliptical route towards Pertuis then Apt and Mur, he could reach Montpellier from the border crossing at Venasque, near to Carpentras. He plumped for the Pertuis route and the next morning headed north.
In spite of his fatigue he passed a restless night. Endless thoughts and images of the last days continued to run through his head. The next morning, after eating the last of his small supply of food, he continued his route towards Pertuis. It was difficult uneven road rising steeply at points. At the first village he made his first contact with the locals buying a galette of flat bread in a small Arab baker shop.
His appearance attracted less attention than he would have imagined, he was unshaved and his hands were dirty after sleeping rough in his djellaba. His European features were no problem either, there were many who French people who had opted for the new territory rather than leave the home of their birth.
The baker showed no sign of misgiving. He took the money and gave back the change without even saying good morning. Ennis felt more despised than being suspected of being a fugitive.
He passed through the occasional village with his djellaba pulled over his head, like a protection from the morning chill, as did the local peasants and old people of the country, no one took the least notice of him.
A little before Apt the front tire went flat. He continued on foot slowly pushing the bike. The morning mist had lifted giving way to a clear blue sky. He transpired under the hood, but kept it pulled down afraid to show his face.
Arriving on the outskirts of the small town he saw an SNS garage, Société Nationale d'Enérgie, with hydrogen, natural gas and petrol pumps. It had a neglected air, the forecourt was deeply stained with oil and grease, in a corner empty oil cans and drums were piled on a jumble of old tires. He wondered to himself why people kept old tires.
“Salem alekum mon frère, you have a problem?” The attendant, a boy of about sixteen or seventeen, wished him good day, pointing with a greasy finger at the flat tire.
“Alekum salem, I’ve a puncture. I’m in a hurry, can you repair it?”
“You’re in a hurry! You have a meeting with the President?” the boy said in a malicious and mocking tone.
Ennis had forgotten his appearance.
“I mean I have to meet my brother this evening, he lives not far from L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue.”
“L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue! You’ve got a good way to go! You, you don’t have an accent from here?”
“No, I was brought up in Germany,” Ennis replied without thinking.
The boy was already taking off the wheel, it seemed evident that the garage did not have that many customers.
“You got money?”
“I’ve got what it takes. Where can I buy a newspaper?”
“You want to check up on the stock market?”
Ennis ignored the boy’s sarcasm, who pointed with a screwdriver to a couple of dinghy shops further down the road. He wanted to keep his cash in case of emergency, there was no question of drawing money, his biodata and the locality would be immediately identified by the police, in any case cash would be of little use in France and would draw attention.
In the tiny self service store he bought bread, tinned tuna, a few cans of Heineken and a box of Vache Qui Rit, amused that it had survived the changes. He also picked up a copy of Le Matin at the check-out.
Back in the garage he avoided conversation with the boy who was to talkative for his liking and sat waiting for his a bike on a small wall a short distance
away and unfolded the newspaper. The headline out ‘American sought for murder of girl’, below it was his photo, he closed it instantly looking around himself, nothing had changed, only a thin mangy dog sniffing in a pile of old rubbish.
He waited five more minutes and made his way over to the garage.
“There you are, like new!” the boy said leaning over the bike.
“Great, how much?”
“Twenty five.”
It was expensive.
“Plus ten for the patches.”
He paid and took the bike hoping that the repair would hold. He regretted having told the boy he was heading towards Orange.
“Hey, another thing, don’t hang around in Apt, they don’t like strangers here.”
Ennis got on the bike and peddled off slowly. He remembered the Midi when he was young, it had been a rich easy going region of France, old men playing bowls under the shade of plane trees, the camping sites and the small auberges. He could not help thinking that the French of the Midi at that time did not like the Arabs either.
He skirted around the centre and once on the départementale road for Carpentras he stopped, leaving the bike against a tree and then sitting on an old stone wall pulled out the newspaper.
The paper, of the previous day, reported an American, John Ennis, was sought in connection with the murder of a young woman aged twenty, found dead floating in the port the two days before. He was described as being of British origin and suspected of