“I don’t know if I want to be in that room for a time, though,” Paul said. “Why don’t we make it somewhere else next week?”
“Fine. I’ll get back to you. Is that all right with you, Georges?”
He nodded.
“Okay, then,” said Paul, “see you later. Ciao.”
With that, he turned and started up the road. Georges and I decided to light up cigarettes, and so had not yet driven off when Paul stopped two hundred meters away. A man stepped out from behind one of the trees lining the road and spoke to him. At that distance, I could see nothing descriptive. Since Georges was facing me, he saw nothing; and so without saying anything I engaged the gears and began to move. When I glanced back, both men had gone.
We continued on to St. Etienne, content to remain silent. I was wondering about Paul; in fact, by this time, I was wondering about everyone.
“Do you have time for a drink?” I asked Georges.
“Always.”
We stopped at a small, dark bar, and each of us ordered a cognac. We sat near the door, watching over the car and its load.
“What’s your business here?” asked Georges.
“Oh, I’m supposed to see some people about a vine graft. In fact, with all this mess about Marcel, I’m afraid I don’t feel like doing any kind of business. I was wondering if I could help you in your deliveries. Tania has told me a lot about the factory, or asenal, here. Whatever it is. Her friend Maurice Ponty is the director, and I’d like to see it. Keep my mind from . . . from other things.”
“Delighted, Jules! I could use the company. Maybe Ponty could show us around. Normally I only deliver to the gates.”
“Oh, you’ve never been inside?” Somehow I was both relieved and disappointed.
“No. Tight security and all that. Normally Henri and I come down together and leave everything with the attendants.”
“Hmm . . .” I said, rather pointlessly.
We finished our drinks and returned to the car. After a few more minutes of driving, we reached our destination.
The St. Etienne Arsenal and Munitions Factory was indeed a large and modern affair. It covered several hundred square meters of land on the eastern edge of the city, bounded by what must have been a tributary of the Rhone that carried away much of the waste. When the day was clear, and the wind from the right direction, you could see the smoke from the stacks as far away as Valence; a thick, sulfurous cloud usually hung over the structure. Brick chimneys to a height of nearly thirty meters had been built to lift the smoke so that it wouldn’t settle on the nearby houses. The entire structure was surrounded by a fence of barbed wire and guarded every twenty-five meters or so by troops. The building itself was made of a kind of adobe, which was originally white, but even in the short time since its opening had turned a sickly, dirty yellow.
