Anonymous: The Memoirs.
Part One: Francois.
‘’What brings you here then, eh? King and Country?” Francois had snorted at his words so as to draw extra attention to the implied insult directed at me. He was a fat man, rather disgusting by the typical English aesthetic I had quite clearly taken for granted. His engraved forehead stood out as a perspiring landmark in the dimly lit room, his off-white shirt beginning to stain in patches where he was quite clearly sweating under the effort of maintaining a steady breathing pattern.
“Wine and women, Francois, yet so far I see none.” I had answered, keen to maintain the humorous tone to the conversation so as to avoid any serious undertones to the question. I had suggested the meeting place for that exact reason, if I could get him drunk enough then I was certain that there would be no issue extracting information. Though Francois was by any standards frankly morbid, his presence was a necessary evil to my overall goal, he was a willing target, for now.
By the time I had heard the first of the columns marching through, Francois was already struggling to remain conscious, his breath drew heavy and his particular conversational skill of humour wore thin as he became restless.
“Francois, my man, do try to stay awake” I jested, quite hoping for the opposite, “Tell me of your homeland then, where were you born?” I could tell that Francois limited English was dulling quickly now as his interest faded in the conversation.
“Toulouse, my father was a farmer” His head nodded now, and he rested his glistening forehead on one of his chubby palms, his wrist fat overlapping that of his hand in quite a disgusting manner, if I remember correctly. “My father Xavier Bahli was killed by a highwayman when I was twelve years old”.
The maid who had been serving us our drinks had taken her leave through a side door I hadn’t noticed before, she had played her part as I had paid her to. I rose from my seat and struck Francois hard in the face with a set of brass knuckles I always kept on my person for close encounters such as these. He had reeled backwards with the force of the punch coming across his right side, he hadn’t had time to react before my fist was upon him again, sending him over his chair into an oversized commotion of noise on the floor.
He spat thick blood and I noticed a thick tide streaming from his nose. I had most certainly broken his jaw at least in the fray. The candles from our table had been caught in the commotion and I stamped out the small flame on the discarded table cloth as I drew my knife. Francois hadn’t have a clue what was happening. He needn’t worry, I had thought, it won’t last much longer.
“Francois, my man, pray tell me, where are your commission papers?” I had stared at him for a long while awaiting his answer, more violence towards him wouldn’t have done me any favours by this point in the game, Francois hadn’t known much before we had started this whole charade. One could have said he was the wrong person at very much the wrong time. “Francois” I had continued, “All I want are your papers, I’ll leave you in the treatment of the maid if you simply provide them for me”. He had looked at me, then, through the corner of his eye, blood quite clearly obscuring his vision. Speech seemed beyond him at this point, for he simply extended an oversized finger out toward his travel sack that had been rested at the side of our table. “Very good, old boy, now this won’t hurt a bit”.
**
I had approached the checkpoint rigidly, I remember, I was slightly nervous about my first encounter. I passed two horse salesmen who, when they noticed I wasn’t mounted, immediately started pestering me from the sidelines of the road. My resulting awkwardness in escaping their attention had attracted the attention of two of the camps outer guards who had approached me at pace.
“Quel est votre voyageur de nom?” The one on the right had asked me.
“Mon nom est Francois Bahli” I had answered, handing over my papers.
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