“But not with my brother as one of the principals. Wait. Listen.” We stopped before the door of a cafй/bar within which a group of old men were singing in the plaintive high warble of Basque song with its haunting harmonies. “What a sad melody,” she said, after listening for a time.

“All Basque songs are tugged towards the minor key.”

“Do you know the song?”

“Yes. It’s a traditional ballad: ‘Maritxu Nora Zoaz.’ I should warn you that it’s considered a little off-color.”

“Oh? How do the words go?”

I had to consider for a moment, for I had no experience in translating Basque. When I spoke Basque, I thought in Basque; and I found it difficult to find French equivalents for—not the words, as they were simple enough—but for the meanings and implications of the words. “Well, literally the song asks: Marie, where are you going? And she answers: To the fountain, Bartholomeo. Where white wine flows. Where we can drink as much as we want.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“It doesn’t sound very off-color to me.”

“Perhaps not. But any Basque would know that the fountain isn’t a fountain, and the wine isn’t really wine, and the act of drinking is… well, not the act of drinking.”

“You’re a devious people, you Basque,” she said with a comic frown.

“We’d rather view ourselves as laudably subtle.” We had reached the edge of the village and were approaching the bridge leading to the meadow in which carts and carriages were awaiting the merrymakers, a regular trickle of whom were leaving the fкte. “Shall we cross the stream and walk in the meadow?” I asked.

She laughed. “So long as the bridge is a bridge, and the meadow is a meadow, and a walk is a walk.”

The late-rising gibbous moon lay chubby and cheese-colored on the mountain horizon, softly illuminating the meadow as at early dawn, but with silver rather than gold. Perhaps inspired by the young couples in the square, I had slipped my arm around her waist, doing thoughtlessly what I would not have dared to do with premeditation. I shortened my stride, so that we walked in rhythm, and I was warmly aware of the sensation of our casual contact. We walked slowly around the ring of horses standing sleepily in their traces—thick-bodied workhorses, for these peasants could not afford the luxury of an animal useful only for transportation and show. Katya hummed a swatch of “Maritxu Nora Zoaz,” then stopped in midphrase and fell pensive.

For the first time that evening, save for an icy moment when the Drowned Virgin brushed past us, I permitted my thoughts to touch on the dark events back in Paris that had driven the Trevilles to Salies, and which were now driving them yet farther. I still could not accept the thought of Monsieur Treville as a madman capable of killing. That gentle old pedant who was even then drinking with Basque peasants and absorbing their rambling folktales? How could it be?

I felt the warmth of Katya’s waist in my palm, and I recalled that, in return for Paul’s permission to speak with her later that night in a last effort to persuade her to stay with me and let her father and brother flee alone, I had promised never to attempt to see her again.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Why so distant?”

“Oh,” I shrugged, “it’s nothing. You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes. I haven’t had such fun since… well, I don’t believe I’ve ever had such fun. You are very lucky to be Basque, you know. You must be proud of it.”

I smiled. “No, not proud. I never thought of it as an advantage. In fact, quite the opposite. I used to be ashamed of my accent, and of the fun others made of it. Then too, there’s a darker side to the Basque character. They can be narrow, jealous, superstitious, tight-fisted. And when they feel themselves wronged, they never forgive. Never.”

“But they have such a love of life!”

“That they have. And of land. And of coin.”

“Oh, stop it. You are very lucky to be… something. Most of us are cut from the same bolt of cloth. We’re modern educated French… all alike… all informed by the same books… all limited by the same fears and prejudices. We’re interchangeable… identical, even in our shared belief that we are particular and unique. But you—even if you’re not proud of it—you come from something. You are something. You participate in traditions and characteristics that are a thousand years old.”

“A thousand? Oh, much more than a thousand!”

She looked at me quizzically. “You’re quite sure you’re not proud?”

I laughed. “Trapped, by God! Yes, I suppose there’s something in what you say, but I— Oh-oh. What have we here?”

“What is it?”

We were passing the motorcar where it was stationed under a tree. On the padded and buttoned leather seat were four bright brass objects: the headlamps, which had been wrenched from their sockets and broken off, then carefully deposited there in a row.

Katya was silent for a moment, then she said, “Paul?”

“I’m afraid so. Perhaps we should go back to the fкte.”

By the time we reached the bridge, the moon had risen off the mountains and had become smaller, whiter, colder; but it still lit our way to the edge of the square with its smears of colored light from the paper lanterns. As we approached, the band suddenly broke off in the middle of a dance tune and an excited murmur rose from the crowd. I took Katya by the arm and drew her forward to the rim of the onlookers.

The dancers had emptied the ring at the first commotion, and Paul was standing in the center, his bodily attitude cockily relaxed, a slight smile on his lips. Before him on the stones lay one of the young men from the motorcar, shaking his head and pushing himself heavily up from the cobbles. The other was circling Paul in a tentative, feline way, a wine bottle clutched in his fist. Paul turned slowly to keep his face to him, all the while smiling his taunting smile. There was a movement among the young Basque men near me, and I heard the hiss of belts coming off and being spun in the air to wrap them around the fists in the Basque way, with twenty or so centimeters of strap and buckle left free as flails. There was more excitement than aggression in their attitude, and I knew they were anticipating the obligatory bagarre without which any fкte would be accounted a hollow event.

“It’s my friend!” I shouted in Basque. “The fight is a matter of honor!”

There was an uncertain grumble, so I added, “What are these outlanders to us? Let them settle it in their own way! Let them amuse us by battering one another!” I had struck the right note to persuade the xenophobic Basques. With a ripple of agreement, the wrapped fists were lowered.

Paul had kept himself facing the man with the bottle until he had his back to the one rising from the ground. The bottle-fighter lunged forward, and Paul kicked him in the ribs with the balletic grace of a champion kick-boxer. No sooner had the Parisian grunted and dropped his arm to cover the bruised ribs than Paul spun to face the one rising from the cobbles. The lad was vulnerable to a damaging kick in the face, but Paul did not take advantage of his dazed condition. Instead, he put his foot against his shoulder and thrust out with enough strength to send the young man rolling over the stones. Instantly Paul turned and kicked the bottle out of the other’s hand, all the time with his arms hanging lightly at his sides in a relaxed attitude that almost gave the impression that his hands were in his pockets. There was a shriek to the right of us, and I turned to see the Parisian girl Paul had been flirting with bury her face in the shoulder of one of her friends, making sure everyone knew the fight was over her.

Katya’s fingers were rigid on my arm, but I said to her, “Don’t worry. Paul doesn’t need any help. He’s fine.”

Moving forward with little sliding steps like an advancing fencer, Paul delivered light blows with one foot then the other to each side of the bottle-fighter’s head, and the young man staggered back, more confused and bewildered than hurt, unable to get out of reach. It was obvious that Paul was more intent upon humiliating his opponents than doing them any real harm. Baffled, stung, his greater size and strength neutralized, the Parisian put his head down and charged at Paul with a roar. Paul sidestepped gracefully and gave the lad a loud slap on his buttocks that delighted the onlookers.

Evidently the first kick delivered to the man whom Katya and I arrived to discover already on the ground had been a vigorous one, for he was quite out of the combat. He rose groggily and staggered away into the ring of spectators where he was greeted with hoots and jeers.

The other now advanced on Paul charily, his big fists up before his face in the stance of a conventional boxer.

“Do you remember me?” Paul asked, gliding back to keep distance from him. “I’m the one you forced off the road with your silly motorcar.”

The Parisian lunged forward and struck out, but Paul slapped the fist away with one foot then, with a lightning change-step, tapped the fellow on the side of the face with the other toe hard enough to make his teeth click.

“I have now offered you a little lesson in good manners,” Paul said. “And I’m willing to consider the lesson given and taken, if you are.”

But the Parisian continued to advance, angry and frustrated with not being able to touch Paul with a blow.

“I cannot afford to toy with you forever, son,” Paul warned, giving him a quick kick to the stomach that was just strong enough to make him grunt. “You’re a large beast, and it wouldn’t do for you to get in a lucky blow. Shall we call the contest over?”

I felt that the young man would willingly have abandoned the hopeless struggle, were it not for the young ladies before whom he could not allow himself to be humiliated. There was only one humane thing for Paul to do.

And he did that in the next few seconds. With a shout of desperation, the young man rushed at Paul, his arms flailing. He caught hold of Paul’s sleeve and tore his jacket at the shoulder. Paul tugged away and delivered a quick kick to the stomach that doubled the man up with a snort; then he spun and kicked with all his force to the side of the head. The young man rolled over the cobbles and lay unmoving.

As Paul strolled away with studied nonchalance, more concerned over his torn sleeve than anything else, there was a general mutter of praise and approval from the onlookers, and there were exuberant cris basques from adolescent boys who had climbed up onto second-storey balconies to get a better view of the entertainment. The three Parisian girls rushed into the square to play their Nightingale roles over their fallen swain, who was now sitting dazed on the stones, and whose greatest desire was to disappear from the scene of his embarrassment. I drew Katya along with me and we overtook Paul near one of the buvettes.

“May I offer you a glass?” I asked.

Paul turned to us, his eyes shining with excitement. “By all means, Montjean. It’s thirsty work, this teaching manners to young boors.”

“And you loved it!” Katya reproved sternly. “Men never grow up entirely!” But her anxiety over Paul’s welfare was mixed with a hint of pride.

“Just look at my jacket, will you! I wonder if my contribution to the education of that bourgeois was worth it. Ah, thank you, Montjean.” He accepted the glass I brought him and drained it. “Now, that is ghastly stuff. Still, I suppose there’s a subtle economy in being able to use the same substance for both wine and sheep dip. Nevertheless, I’ll accept another glass, if you’re in a generous mood.”

“May I have one as well?” Katya asked.

“Why yes, of course.” It had not occurred to me to offer her a glass of the coarse local wine, but I supposed she felt the need for it after the suspense and tension of Paul’s encounter.

Because it was for the hero of their recent entertainment, the man who slopped wine into glasses at the buvette refused to accept pay for the three glasses, a rare and significant gesture for a Basque, with whom the virtue of frugality precedes cleanliness in its proximity to godliness.

We found space for ourselves on the worn stone steps of the church, where I spread my coat for Katya to sit upon, and we sipped our wine as we watched a group of boys on the square playing at kicking one another in imitation of the exploits they had just observed. The lad playing the role of Paul did so with extravagant pirouettes and much strutting about, while he held his face in a mask of stretched disdain that looked for all the world as though he were reacting to a barnyard stench. Each time this lad kicked out, a nearby boy did an awkward backwards flip and landed in a comically distorted heap on the ground.

“Did I really look like that?” Paul asked, with an amused frown.

“The boy’s underplaying you a bit,” Katya taunted, “but he has captured the essence of your attitude.” Then she turned suddenly serious. “You frightened me to death, Paul. What if the one with the bottle had hit you?”

“I was frightened myself,” Paul said, rather surprising me with the admission. “There were two of them, and they were healthy-looking specimens. So I struck out rather too vigorously at first, meaning to immobilize at least one of them immediately.” He glanced at me. “A man who’s frightened and has his back to the wall can be very dangerous. He doesn’t dare to moderate his attack.”

I nodded. “Why did you play with the second one so long?”

“My dear fellow, it wasn’t a matter of punishing him. It was a matter of humiliating him. I know their type: second generation arrives merchants imitating the accents and behavior of their betters (people like me) but lacking the innate panache to pull it off. Paris is full of them. And humiliating them is a popular indoor sport with men of my class. So far as punishment goes, I had already accomplished that. I rearranged certain features of the motorcar they were so proud of.”

“Yes. We saw the effects of your repairs.”

“Hm-m. Well, I confess to having no technical gifts. But I left them all the bits, so they could have someone more skillful correct any little errors I may have made.”

“You devil!” Katya said, and again the reproval was mock. Then she put her hand on my arm. “Did you know that Jean-Marc spoke out and prevented your little display from becoming what we call a ‘bagarre basque.’ “

“What we call a ‘bagarre’?” Paul taunted. He turned to me. “Was that you shouting out in that comic imitation of a language?”

“It was.”

“Ah, I see. When I saw those belt buckles flashing out of the corner of my eye, I thought for a moment I was for it. I suppose it was a good thing for me that those young buffoons were also outlanders.”

“Indeed it was.”

Having taken advantage of Paul’s distraction to refresh themselves at one of the bars, the band now struck up a high-tempo Kax Karot, and soon there were twenty or more couples dancing and leaping in the square. Most of the candles in the paper lanterns had guttered out, but the dented moon high above filled the square with its pallid light.

Paul rose and offered his hand to Katya. “Are you willing to join your brother in this primitive hopping about?”

She stood and dropped a little curtsy. “We call it a Kax Karot.”

“Oh we do, do we? You will excuse us, Doctor?”

They joined the general swirl of dancers, where Paul’s strong legs, trained in kick-boxing, stood him in good stead when the challenge lines formed to leap against one another. As I watched them I was struck anew by how much they resembled one another, not only in appearance, but in energy and articulation, in idioms of body movement.

It occurred to me that this would be a good time to look in on Monsieur Treville, who might well have been seduced into drinking more than was his wont by his company of old Basque peasants. I found him sitting in the same bar, now much less crowded in result of a continuous drain of people from the fкte to their farms. A nearly full bottle of Izarra was on the table from which not one of the old men had stirred. Can one imagine a Basque leaving a place where the Izarra is free? I hoped that not too many bottles of that insidious liqueur had preceded this one. The flow of talk had reversed, and Monsieur Treville now held forth on some arcane topic that none of the Basque men seemed to be following very closely. But that did not diminish the energy of his monologue until he caught sight of me at the door and gestured for me to join them at the table, where he introduced me around. I was surprised that he remembered each of the men’s names and even pronounced them fairly accurately. Save for a convivial shine in his eyes, he seemed not much the worse for drink and therefore in no great danger of being bilked out of more Izarra than he chose to buy, so I felt free to return to Katya and Paul, but I could not leave without a full round of formal handshaking. One of the old men recognized my name and told me that he had known one of my uncles rather well, so I must have a little glass of Izarra with him (clearly, the bottle had become communal property, a gift from God). Seizing the opportunity for rounds of toasts, another of the peasants revealed that he had once shared a high mountain pasture with my mother’s cousin and therefore must insist that I have a glass with him as well.

I drank down my second glass then jokingly asked if any of them had owned a sheepdog bred from a bitch owned by my uncle’s cousin’s son, and therefore felt the need to offer a toast. The oldest of the men knew my meaning exactly, and his eyes glittered with conniving humor as he said, “No offense to your family, young man, but we must face the fact that your uncle’s cousin’s son’s dogs were not of the best bloodline; therefore toasting them with a round might be a greedy waste of Izarra.”

I grinned back at him and nodded, taking delight in the tortuous subtleties of the Basque mind. What I had really said was: Don’t take excessive advantage of this generous friend of mine. And what the old man had really said was: Who would do such a thing?

How can such a language be translated?

When I returned to the square I saw Katya dancing a slow passo with the young jai alai player she had danced with before. As they passed by, the young man smiled and nodded to me in a way that said he understood this woman to be mine and was not going to contest the point. I smiled and gestured with my thumb to my mouth, inviting him to take a glass with me later. He nodded again and they danced away. Perhaps it was the Izarra, but I felt closer to and fonder of my Basque heritage at that moment than I had for years, and I had a twinge of shame for having worked so hard to lose my accent and disavow my background to avoid ridicule at university. Of course, I could not have known that eventually I would return from the war to pass my entire life as that village’s doctor.

As I drifted around the rim of onlookers, I saw Paul dancing with an attractive Basque girl who was faintly familiar to me, but it didn’t dawn on me for several minutes that she was the one who had played the role of the Drowned Virgin. I had a momentary worry about Paul’s taking the girl who was considered the village belle, as I had no appetite for ending up back to back with Paul in a melee of whistling belt buckles. But he had the good sense to lead her back to a group of her friends after the dance, and to treat her with a distant and comically overdone politeness that earned him an invitation to join them in a round.

During the next hour, I danced several times with Katya; and once with somebody’s grandmother; and once with somebody’s spinster aunt. And Katya danced with an adolescent boy who had been pushed towards her, blushing and stammering, by his friends; and she danced with an old man somewhat asea with wine, who grinned and waved at all his friends to make sure they noticed his bold conquest; and once again with the young jai alai player after the three of us had taken a glass of wine together. Paul did not dance again, but he was taken on a triumphant txikiteo of the bars by a knot of young men who insisted that he must have some Basque blood in him, to be able to fight so well. When next I saw him he had lost his cravat somewhere.

After one last Kax Karot, the musicians descended from their platform, and the fкte was over, save for the early morning omelette the young men would share at a nearby farmhouse. Katya and I found Paul, and the three of us went to the bar where their father had been ensconced all evening long. Just as we entered, the old men began to sing “Agur Jaunak,” the final song of any Basque fкte, their strained falsetto voices trembling with emotion and age. I joined in the plaintive melody, surprised and a bit embarrassed to find tears standing in my eyes.

Monsieur Treville had not survived the Izarra quite as well as I had thought, as we discovered walking across the square towards the bridge. Twice he stumbled and complained about the uneven cobblestones that made it hard for a person to keep his balance.

“What did your cronies have to say about Paul’s exhibition?” Katya asked, putting her arm around her father as though in affection, but really to steady him.

“What exhibition was that?” Monsieur Treville asked with a confused frown.

“Never mind,” Paul said. And he pretended to stumble. “Damn these cobblestones!”

Just as we crossed the bridge there came a cri basque from the square behind us followed by shouts and sounds of scuffling.

“Ah,” I said. “I had begun to fear the fкte would have to do without one.”

“Without one what?” Monsieur Treville asked.

“Without its bagarre. It’s a time-honored tradition.”

Monsieur Treville stopped in his track. “A tradition? Let’s go back and join in!”

“Oh, let’s not, Papa,” Paul said. “We’ve had enough of rural customs and traditions for one night.”

“Oh, perhaps so… perhaps so.” Monsieur Treville’s voice was heavy with sudden fatigue.

But he regained his spirits as we drove away down the dirt road that seemed to glow in the moonlight. I had taken my turn at the reins, and he sat in back with Paul, regaling us with the curious and fascinating bits of folklore he had learned until, almost in midthought, he stopped speaking. I turned to discover that he had fallen asleep on his son’s shoulder. Paul smiled and shook his head as he adjusted his father’s coat to keep out the night air.

During the two hours of the slow ride back to Etcheverria no one spoke; the only sound was the clop of the horse’s hooves in the dust, and the rattle of the trap as it swayed over the uneven road like a small boat wending down a stream of moonlight bordered by dark silhouettes of river grasses. Katya did not rest against my shoulder, though I offered it. She seemed pleasantly alone and isolated in wisps of daydream and memory. Twice she softly hummed snatches of the melodies she had danced to, both times the tune fading away as some vagrant reverie carried her thoughts adrift.

It was not until I had turned into the poplar lane leading up to Etcheverria that Monsieur Treville awoke with a little start and asked where we were.

“We’re home, Papa,” Paul said.

“Home? Really? We’ve come home?” There was bewildered excitement in his voice, before he realized that “home” meant the house in the Basque country. “Oh, I see,” he said in a rather deflated tone.

I let them off at the door and drove around to the stable to unharness and attend to the horse. A quarter of an hour passed before I returned, by which time Monsieur Treville had gone up to his room, and Paul and Katya were sitting in the salon with only one lamp lit and no fire in the hearth.

“Papa wished you a good night,” Paul said. “And he asked me to thank you for bringing us to the fкte.”

“Yes,” Katya added, “I don’t remember when he enjoyed himself so much. It was good of you, Jean-Marc.” The words had the vacant sound of social rote, and she appeared worried and distant.

Paul rose. “Well, I think I shall go up myself.” He stifled a yawn. “I do hope the bad wine I’ve drunk will counteract any beneficial effects of all this vulgar exercise. Don’t keep her up too late, Montjean.” He laid his hand on Katya’s shoulder. “I’ve told Katya that you know all about Papa and his… problem. And I’ve asked her to listen to what you have to say before making up her mind whether she wants to go with us or stay.”

Katya’s eyes were lowered and her bodily attitude seemed heavy and burdened.

Paul held out his left hand to me. “I suppose I shan’t be seeing you again, Montjean. I would like to say that meeting you has been an undiluted pleasure, but you know me: helpless slave to the truth.” With a little wave he disappeared up the staircase.

That was the last time I saw Paul alive.

I turned to Katya, who continued to avert her eyes. All the energy and joy of life she had exhibited at the fкte seemed drained from her. After a moment of silence, I began, “Katya—”

“—It really was good of you to treat us to this day, Jean-Marc.” She spoke in a rush, as though to distract me from my purpose by a barrage of words. “Papa had such a good time, while only this morning his heart was heavy with the thought that he would have to move his books again and disturb the special chaos he thrives on. The picnic… the fкte… this has been a day to remember. I hope you don’t intend to spoil it all now.”

“Look at me, Katya.”

“I can’t… I…” I could see tears standing in her averted eyes.

I drew a sigh. “Shall we walk down to the summerhouse?”

“If you wish.” She rose, still avoiding my eyes, and went before me out through the terrace doors.

She sat in the broken wicker chair beneath the lattice of the summerhouse, and I leaned against the entrance arch. A cold moonlight slanted through the dense foliage, blotting the ground with patches of black and silver, and a night breeze was sibilant in the trees above us.

After a moment of silence, I began, “I want to talk about your father.”

She did not respond.

“I am sure you don’t really want to leave here… to leave me.”

She spoke in a quiet atonal voice. “Wanting has nothing to do with it. I have no choice.”

“That’s not true. You do have a choice, and you must make it. Perhaps Paul no longer has a choice. His appetite for life is slight anyway. But you, Katya… when I saw you dance… the way you looked when you walked back from the riverbank with your arms full of wildflowers… Katya, the joy of living is in every fiber of you!”

“I can’t leave my father! Paul and I… we’re responsible for Papa. We can never repay our debt to him.”

“That is nonsense. All children believe they’re eternally indebted to their parents, but that’s not true. If there is any debt, it’s the parent who should repay the child for bringing it into this world of pain and war and hatred, just for a moment’s gratification.”

“It’s different in our case. Papa loved our mother terribly—”

“Madly?”

She ignored this. “He was wholly devoted to her. She was his life, his happiness. She was a very beautiful woman, very delicate. Too delicate, really. Her body was slight and fragile… and we were twins. The birth was a difficult one. Either the mother could be saved, or the babies. So that Paul and I might live, Papa had to lose the thing he loved most… his world. How could we desert him now?”

I did not want to expose her to a painful truth, but everything was at stake. “Katya? I know about the young man in Paris.”

“Yes. Paul told me he had been forced to tell you about it.”

“ ‘Forced’ isn’t quite accurate, but let that pass. The fact is, I know what happened in Paris better than even you do. This won’t be pleasant to hear, but you must know the truth if you are to make an intelligent decision. Paul led you to believe that your father shot the young man by—”

“—You are going to tell me that the accident was not an accident, aren’t you,” she said calmly.

“You know?”

Her head still bowed, her eyes still on her folded hands, she said, “I’ve known from the beginning. I was standing outside the door to Father’s study when Paul talked to him that next morning. It isn’t nice to listen at doors, but I was desperate to know what to do, how to protect Father… not only from punishment, but from the realization of what he had done. When I heard Paul tell him that I had shot the young man, I was bewildered and terrified. He was lying, of course—I can tell when Paul is lying; there’s a certain hearty sincerity in his voice that is a sure giveaway. In fact, the only time he sounds sincere is when he’s lying. Then suddenly I understood what he was doing; he had thought of a way to make Father confess to his act without making him face the horrible truth of his insanity. Later that morning Paul came to me and we had a long talk. I expected him to confess the fiction he had used to protect Father. But instead, he told me that Father had shot Marcel by accident, mistaking him for an intruder. Once again, Paul spoke with that serious, sincere tone that signaled a lie. And once again, I understood what he was doing. He was trying to protect me from knowing that Father was mad.”

I pressed my fingertips against my forehead, trying to comprehend this tapestry of lies and half-truths. “And all this time Paul has believed that you accepted his story of the accidental shooting?”

“Yes.” For the first time, she looked into my eyes, a faint sad smile on her lips. “So you see, by pretending to believe Paul’s story, I am lying too, in a way. All three of us are lying, each to protect the others from the truth.”

“And you alone know that truth?”

“Yes.”