An Officer and a Spy

writing: placed together the two look very different. Mathieu has already paid for these posters to be plastered all over Paris. That was quick work! ‘Where Is the Proof?’ demands the headline. A reward is offered for anyone who recognises the original.
    He is not going to give up , I think, not until his brother is either free or dead . As I stow my suitcase in the overhead rack and settle into my seat on the crowded eastbound train, that thought, at least, gives me some hope.

PART TWO

16
    THE SOUSSE MILITARY Club looks out from behind a screen of dusty palms across an unpaved square, past a modern customs shed to the sea. The glint from the Gulf of Hammamet is particularly fierce this afternoon, like sunlight on tin: I have to shield my eyes. A boy in long brown robes passes, leading a goat on a length of rope. The glare melts both figures into tarry black silhouettes.
    Inside its heavy brick walls, the Military Club’s decor makes no concession to north Africa. The wooden panelling, stuffed armchairs and tasselled standard lamps are of the type that might be seen in any garrison town in France. As is my custom after lunch, I am seated alone beside the window while my brother officers of the 4th Tunisian Rifles play cards or doze or read the four-day-old French newspapers. Nobody approaches me. Although they are always careful to treat me with the deference owed to my rank, they keep their distance – and who can blame them? After all, there must be something wrong with me – some unspeakable disgrace must have ruined my career: otherwise why would the youngest colonel in the army have been transferred to a dump like this? Against the sky-blue tunic of my new regiment, the scarlet ribbon of my Legion of Honour draws their fascinated eyes like a bullet wound.
    As usual, at about three o’clock, through the high glass-panelled door comes a young orderly carrying the afternoon’s post. He is a pretty boy in a rough street-urchin sort of way, a musician in the regimental band who goes by the name of Flavian-Uband Savignaud. He arrived in Sousse a few days after I did: dispatched, I am fairly sure, by the Statistical Section, with orders from Henry or Gonse to spy on me. It is not the spying I resent as much as the incompetence with which he goes about it. ‘Look,’ I want to tell him, ‘if you’re going to search my belongings, make sure you put them back as you found them: try to make a mental picture in your mind before you start. And if your job is to ensure my mail is intercepted, at least go through the pretence of putting it in the box normally rather than handing it direct to the post office official – I have followed you twice now and observed your sloppiness on both occasions.’
    He stops beside my chair and salutes. ‘Your mail, Colonel. Do you have anything to send?’
    ‘Thank you. Not yet.’
    ‘Is there anything else at all I can do for you, Colonel?’ The remark carries a hint of suggestion.
    ‘No. You may go.’
    He sways slightly at the waist as he walks away. One of the younger captains puts down his paper to watch him pass. This is something else I resent: not the fact that Henry and Gonse think I might be tempted to go to bed with a man, but that I’d be tempted to go to bed with a man like Savignaud.
    I inspect my mail: a letter from my sister and another from my cousin Edmond; both have been opened by the Statistical Section and then resealed with telltale over-firmness using glue. Like my fellow exile Dreyfus, I suffer the intrusion of having my correspondence monitored – although not, as in his case, actually censored. There are a couple of agents’ reports of the type that continue to be forwarded to me as part of the fiction that I am only temporarily seconded from my job; these too have been opened. And then there is a letter from Henry: his schoolroom handwriting is familiar – we have exchanged messages often since I left Paris more than half a year ago.
    Until recently the tone of our correspondence has been friendly ( Here, the sky is blue and the heat is sometimes too much in the afternoons; it is certainly nothing like Paris ). But then in May I was ordered by the High Command in Tunis to take the regiment to Sidi El Hani for three weeks and instruct them in target practice. This entailed a day’s march south-west to pitch camp in the desert. The native troops were difficult to teach, and the heat and the boredom of the featureless stony landscape stretching