Blow Up - 1. Blow Up

Lucien landed on his feet. He couldn't be stopped by a mere nine feet of smooth, dressed limestone, not even wet, mossy limestone. The lime trees that bordered the wall had proved handy to climb, allowing him to jump over the wall. He stood up slowly, his head up and his green eyes searching, making sure no one had spotted him.

No one knew he was there, and it had to remain that way for he dare not fail; the price for failure was best not contemplated. They were up against ruthless enemies; Lucien could only hope nothing really bad had happened to André yet, and act so no harm would come upon them. He combed his greased hair back so the fair brown strands stopped tickling his nose.

There were coppices spread around the park; he ran face down from one to the other as he moved closer to the manor. This was a typical seventeenth century building in their area, three stories of limestone and brick, and its slate roof glistened with the rain that had been falling for hours now. Hidden behind the thick trunk of a chestnut tree, Lucien assessed that he was thirty meters from the kitchen entrance on the right side of the mansion. Now wasn't the time to mess up his approach. He pulled up his pants so running would be easier and focused on the distance he'd have to travel unnoticed. He breathed in deeply, counting to thirty in his head before he made his move.

The faint drizzle that cooled him certainly had made his approach more secure. No goon lingered around in this weather; the place actually looked deserted. It was hard to believe this was a Sunday in July. His memories of the national holiday were laden with sunny weather and heat. Nevertheless, the gloom of a grey day fit with André's scheme of celebrating with a special kind of fireworks. A fitting highlight to the two days of turmoil they'd been through.

Lucien's life had changed drastically eighteen months or so earlier, on February 6, 1934. André brought the news of the riots in Paris, the attempted coup that had failed to defeat the Republic, which convinced Lucien to join the Communist Party.

André and Lucien had met in primary school; they had kept in touch even after André joined the railways on his fourteenth birthday. Lucien's family was well-off and could send him to the Lycée; running a good-sized grocery store in their small town one hundred and fifty kilometers north of Paris, his parents wanted him to go to university to become a lawyer.

There had not been chaos only because of the royalist leagues in February, 1934. Lucien and André were both fifteen and they had realized that they were more than just friends. One of André's older supervisors noticed the way Lucien behaved when he came to get his friend after work; there had been a small confidential manly talk, André was told that what he was going through could turn out to be "homosexuality", a word he heard for the first time, and that he should not shun his feelings. The last eighteen months or so had been a roller-coaster ride, as they had to manage this very strong friendship, André's job, Lucien's studies, and their political activism.

Lucien didn't need to ponder for hours where André could be on this wet July morning. "You're not with him handing out leaflets?" his friend's mother asked.

He had acted surprised, slapping his forehead as if he'd forgotten to go .

" Zut! How could I forget? I'm on my way; I might get there in time!" There was no one to hand out leaflets, since there was a big unitary rally in Paris of all the left-wing parties to celebrate the National Holiday and demonstrate the existence of the Popular Front, which was supposed to resist the rising fascist threat.

"Fighting the fascists by asking for bread, peace, and freedom? Why don't they go shoot Hitler instead?" André had grumbled, "I've got to work anyway; and I know of a more effective manner to fight the reactionary forces."

Lucien both loved the impish grin that came along with this statement and was afraid of whatever reckless plan his friend was making. He had been ranting about the de Doriville family for the last six months; the old degenerate nobility, still behaving as they had in feudal times in their textile plant, their goons beating up anyone attempting to organize and set up a union. André had a tangible enemy, these were people he knew and saw as real; they weren't some theoretical foe.

Lucien said goodbye to André's mother as he jumped on his bike, heading straight to the Doriville estate. It was nine; they were supposed to meet at noon and spend the day together. Lucien hadn't been able to wait; as he got up early, he was quite eager to come and get his friend. He also had a hunch something could go wrong if he didn't look after him; André had hinted at some mad plan on Friday evening when they parted. Seeing Lucien frown, he'd shrugged.

"Do you think I'm crazy enough to do this?"

Yes, Lucien knew he was crazy enough to undertake blowing his enemies' lair single-handedly. André loved dynamite.

Hence, here was Lucien, crawling over the drenched lawn, and then the gravel before he reached the kitchen door. He entered after casting a quick glance inside and seeing no motion anywhere. The door opened easily, and the hinges didn't creak. Good. It was a nice, big kitchen, the floor black and white tiles, the sturdy oak furniture, the heavy stove, the pure white sink. Lucien didn't dawdle; André was on his mind. He crossed a cool dark corridor leading to the service stairs with still no sign or sound betraying a human presence. What if he didn't find André? What if he was wrong and his lover was out hunting the Cagoulards, the thugs hell-bent on defeating the Republic?

No time for doubt now, it was too late. He could at least enjoy the visit. He strolled around the five or six big rooms. The parquet, the red velvet covered chairs, the stern faces of the various ancestors hanging on the walls. And all the signs that traditional conservative Catholics lived there: the fleur-de-lis, the Sacred Heart, the books and reviews, Charles Maurras, Léon Daudet and tens of other hateful polemists. All these fun-hating people; not to say that in the Party they didn't have their share of killjoys, but this would change. André and others in the Cell were so convincing, the old sticks-in-the-mud would have to change their minds.

Lucien was always a bit detached from the heated talks in which ego and ideology mixed so intimately. He did believe in "le Grand Soir" (the Great Evening), and in the glorious days that would follow an international proletarian revolution. There had been too many signs this day would come since he was born --the year after the Great War, which would be the last one-- of deep changes on the way. Today they were faced with this revolutionary threat.

He climbed the big stairway, remaining as stealthy as possible; there had to be someone, a butler, a maid… and hopefully André, whom he'd stop before it was too late. They didn't always agree on politics, as André favored violent action as a force of change whereas Lucien was more of an idealist. André had some unorthodox positions, which had brought many a frown to his comrades' faces, such as when he'd advocated military action against Hitler's dangerous expansionist policies.

He'd often made fun of his fired-up lover, as on one warm evening in May, after a long meeting, when they'd cuddled in the shed in Lucien's garden, and he'd say he'd love to try out "a dialectic based on the confrontation of new ideas and archaic values" that had turned into a pleasant sixty-nine.

Had André thrown himself into the lion's jaws, going against the Doriville family's shady activities? He would have dared; that's why Lucien looked up to André: he was bold, and his inner personality matched his good looks. Though he was shorter and younger by three months, André was a natural born leader.

Lucien explored all the empty rooms one by one, which led to only one possible solution: there was no living soul inside the building. Yet the exploration of the attic yielded an interesting discovery: a dark room had been set up in the back; it featured all the necessary equipment to forge various official documents, from passports to fake birth certificates. The stamps looked genuine, but these could always be bought from, or stolen by, infiltrated Préfecture workers. Lucien got to thinking; the mansion was empty, it had been left unlocked and though Lucien had found ample evidence of the Dorivilles' dubious leanings, there was no sign of what the count and his offspring were supposedly guilty of.

The cogs in Lucien's head were turning. There wasn't anything hidden inside since he'd made his way in so easily. The estate's farm was both too far from the mansion and too close to the road to host the suspected seditious activities. A single possibility remained, the hunting lodge on the edge of the wood.

Of course, he could search the place for more evidence incriminating the Dorivilles, but it was more important to find André. He headed back downstairs, still cautious not to be heard or seen. Were he caught, he'd be handed to the gendarmes for entering illegally; if André's accusation was right, his corpse would then be disposed of in a pond or left to rot under a couple feet of humus.

This optimistic train of thought led him to grab a huge pastry roller as he crossed the kitchen to get back outside. He dropped it a few seconds later as he crossed the threshold and two pairs of calloused hands grabbed his arms. He had sneaked a quick look, but the recess on each side of the door hid two of the most unsavory brutes roaming around in the district.

"J'te l'avais dit , Maurice! I told you I saw the little vermin getting inside!"

"Roger! Anselme! C'est bon! We got him, come!"

Lucien was experiencing some very powerful emotions: shame, anger, and ultimately fear. He squirmed and wiggled, but the grip on him remained strong. Maurice and Joseph—the one who had boasted having seen him—held him firmly. The feet running over the gravel got closer and soon Roger and Anselme appeared around the corner. Now the four men gloated over him.

"Saloperie de rouge! Little communist scum! We're gonna teach him a lesson!" Anselme picked up the pastry roller and waved it threateningly, "We should fix his smile by removing a few teeth, no?"

"Lâchez-moi! Leave me alone, you bastards!"

"Alright, friends, we'd better get done with this pest quickly," Maurice said, "let's bring him to the hunting lodge. The boss will be glad to have a little talk with him. Skinning a Bolshevik alive on a day of shame like this damn fourteenth of July brings good luck for a full year."

Guffawing and cackling as only men with a serious amount of alcohol running in their bloodstream can, they pushed and kicked him for a five-hundred meter walk. Lucien was afraid, but his pride prevented him from letting this scum know of his fear. He gritted his teeth and prepared himself to take any opportunity to turn the tables on them.

Lucien was surrounded by an atmosphere polluted with onion breath, spiced with cheap wine, stale sweat and vile, thoughtless comments, implying his untimely demise through various violent ordeals. As they came into view of the hunting lodge, a small, unsophisticated brick cube covered with orange tiles, he tried to make his escape.

To no avail, as he was immediately caught by Joseph, who punched him in the stomach, cutting off his breath and throwing him to the nearest of his accomplices, Anselme, who pulled his hair viciously as he hissed, "you're gonna die, and you won't even become a martyr for your kind; no one will know whether you died bravely, so quit it." He dragged him inside the lodge, passing by a van, its platform covered with a tarpaulin.

"André ! Ca va? "

The count, Bernard de Doriville, was standing next to André, whose arms were stretched above his head and tied to a beam. His friend appeared unhurt except for a black eye; the count's cold grey eyes lit up, a thin smirk making his fine features handsome for a tenth of a second as he saw that his men had caught another commie terrorist. Behind him, kneeling, someone was busy tying up André's ankles.

"Lucien? What are you doing here?"

"Ils sont mignons! Aren't they sweet," the count sniggered, "did you know, my friends, that comrades mean 'who share the same room'? I wouldn't be surprised if these two were sodomites!" Bernard de Doriville turned to his henchmen, who chortled stupidly, even Joseph who wondered what a sodomite was. Since everybody laughed, he joined the mob…

"Comrades also never do anything without the Party knowing!" Lucien lied, his angry eyes throwing daggers to the count, "And you won't get away with it."

There was a second of silence. Lucien took in the scene. A hard-earth floor, a few chairs, a chimney, some stuffed boars and deer's heads hanging as trophies; the room was conspicuously empty. The crates of weapons André had talked about had certainly been moved in the van outside.

The person who'd been busy restraining André stood up. It was Charles, the count's youngest son. He didn't dare look Lucien in the eyes, or his father for that matter.

"Charles, my son, today you're going to prove you're a man. This time you won't have to deal with pheasants or rabbits, but with real enemies. I hope I can be proud of you. C'est l'honneur de la famille qui est en jeu." He frowned, "Son, look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Lucien saw the humiliation inflicted on the other boy’s face; he couldn't feel sorry for him, but was appalled by the tone his father used.

"Are you ordering him to kill us? You can't possibly…"

He was cut short by the count's hand viciously slapping him. André yelped as if it was him and not Lucien who'd been hit.

"Shut those pipsqueaks up and make sure they won't give Charles too hard a time," Bernard de Doriville ordered his goons, casting a disdainful glance to his son, as if he couldn't be trusted to handle the simple and common task he was assigned.

Lucien struggled to no avail, as the henchmen's greasy paws grabbed him; he soon was facing André, merely two feet away, trussed up with his arms stretched above his head, a dirty rag stuck in his mouth, which was now the case for André too. Both young men looked at each other, bidding farewell with their eyes, as they knew they had only minutes to live.

They wouldn't flinch in front of these bastards, and wouldn't give them the satisfaction to be seen breaking down. Lucien couldn't help but notice the dirty looks the count cast on André. Despite his previous remark, the dastardly noble was undressing the young railroad worker with his gaze, and enjoying the black cropped hair, the smooth round face and the big brown eyes.

"Il faut y aller. We have a delivery to make, people. Charles, I expect you to do a neat job; when we come back, we'll help you to clean up. Come get the tools you'll need."

As the little troop of criminals left Lucien and André on their own, they struggled. Lucien remembered having played games in which he'd been tied up; he'd even fantasized about André tying him up, but this was no longer a game or a fantasy. They would disappear if they didn't manage to get free. He felt the noose trapping his wrists getting loose; if he had enough time he'd escape.

"Don't forget this book about Spartan boys your uncle gave you for your birthday," they heard the count telling his son before the van's engine roared, signaling the thugs were on their way. Lucien turned around to find out what André was staring at wide-eyed.

The dagger Charles held was long and of the finest polished steel. Their time had come; Lucien and André both felt it would all go black soon. They hoped it would be quick and they'd be the first to be murdered, so as not to witness their loved one's death. As Charles walked past him heading toward André, Lucien grabbed the rope above him and kicked out with his trussed up legs. Charles' legs nearly gave way under him from the blow but he didn't fall.

"Hold on, I don't have much time…" he said in a pleading tone, which infuriated the two lovers. Their slaughter would serve as an initiation rite for a wimp, which was the final insult.

Charles kneeled behind André, having grabbed his legs strongly to prevent another kicking attempt. All of a sudden, the ropes at his knees were cut, then those at the ankles.

"Arrête de gigoter. Don't move, I'm setting you free."

André couldn't believe this was happening; his gag was next, but he didn't go into praises and thanks as Charles started cutting the wrists rope.

"Merde! What the hell is going on?"

"This is a test my bastard of a dad gave me."

"Thanks, we're not stupid. Give me the knife, I'll free Lucien."

André didn't feel reassured. With these degenerate nobles, there was always the possibility of a sick mind-game. Charles entrusted him with the dagger, however.

" Bon, je vous explique: I'm just sick and tired of all the so-called manly stuff I'm supposed to pull. And now he wants me to turn into a cold-blooded murderer. You heard the stuff about the 'sodomites' my dad said? It was aimed at me. I'm quite sure he saw me with Victor."

"Victor Ledoux, Joseph's son?" Lucien asked, having recovered the ability to speak.

"Oui, Victor. You know him?" Charles brightened up.

"We went to school with him. What's with Victor, then?"

"My dad forbade me to play with him because I'm too old to play with employees' children. That's what he said at least. I think he saw us, though."

"He saw you doing something you weren't supposed to?" André piped in, "like kissing him on his lips?" He felt like helping out the blushing kid, who was about to stutter some half-hearted denial. "C'est pas un problème. As if we cared."

He grabbed Lucien and gave him a relieved kiss, to the surprise of Charles. André cut off the embrace, much too soon to his taste, but they had business waiting.

"D'accord. Your father is a bastard. That's no news. Now, what's he gonna do to you if he finds out you let us go?"

"He'll kill me. I mean, really. I've got to escape. I'll flee to America. I can catch a train to Le Havre quickly. There's one leaving at noon."

"Can you help him getting on the train without being seen, André?"

"I've got a better idea. I heard they were going to Saint Odulphe." Lucien pictured the little chapel in the woods, four kilometers away. It had been—the legend said—built where the revered Saint Odulphe had lived. His big feat had been to live as a hermit and to talk to the frogs living in the nearby swamps (they made too much noise at night, preventing him from getting enough sleep to get up early enough to go to mass). The chapel was secluded, and a perfect spot to meet without anyone knowing; Lucien and André knew well enough.

"J'ai un plan. I think I can make sure you won't have to take the train."

The church's bells rang, signaling the end of the High Mass. It was ten thirty.

"Charles, go wait for us in old man Lavoine's barn. See you there in one hour. There's no time to waste. Lucien, you come with me, we've got one hour to act. We've planned to spend the afternoon together, remember?"

Lucien was flabbergasted. "Didn't we have enough adventures like this?"

"Do you think Charles' father and his mates will leave us alone? Certainement pas! We have to strike first. And I know just how," André asserted.

He went to the chimney, leaned over and retrieved a package hidden up in the shaft.

"Attendez voir. Maybe I'll reset the timer," he said casually as he went out with Lucien.

They left the estate, retrieved their bikes from where each had hidden them and headed towards the forest and Saint Odulphe. On the way, André explained his plan. They dropped the bikes when they got close. They had a five-minute walk to the chapel. They kept on talking, but they whispered.

"You're crazy, André, but you know what? I love it! These bastards, we're gonna teach them a lesson."

Lucien was no daredevil, but fear, anger, and determination combined to make him support André's plan, the beauty of which lay in its simplicity. The configuration of the chapel's surroundings allowed them to approach it stealthily from the back.

Actually, André would go alone, Lucien posted as a sentinel from the top of a slope where he'd see any motion. As the count's crew’s attention was focused on the road, they didn't suspect anything. Soon, André was back, as some vehicle approached.

"Ah! Quelles andouilles! The more, the merrier!" André chuckled, happy that another faction would be there in ten more minutes; had there been even more Cagoulards gathering to traffic in weapons to get their factions armed and ready for another coup, he'd have been even happier. "I suggest we get away from here, and fast!"

They carefully stepped away, cautious not to end up face to face with any unpleasant individual. André looked at his watch. "Now, I think we'd better run if we don't want to become deaf. Catch me if you can!" He joked as he sprinted forward. Lucien followed him, and they ran across the woods like crazy. After a long and exhausting run at full speed, they jumped inside a ditch, where they got their breath back. They laughed, more out of nervous relief than because there was anything funny.

"Cover your ears, Lucien," André said eventually; he counted down, his eyes riveted on the dial of his watch, his ears carefully protected, "four, three, two, one, ign…"

The explosion was heard over ten kilometers away. Had there been only the four sticks of dynamite André had aptly planted, maybe a wall of the chapel would have remained standing. However, as was the case, Bernard de Doriville had brought some explosives too. André and Lucien felt the blow passing over them, the whole forest shaking as their foes had just been erased from the surface of the earth. The silence that ensued was impressive. Lucien leaned over his friend.

"André, t'es fou, mais je t'aime."

He took the initiative to kiss André this time. They rolled and cuddled in the damp dead leaves, wet from the rain, as if blowing up nine men into oblivion was just another nice schoolboy prank.

The End

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