Jeannette had endeavored to phone Phelan but could not make a connection. Claude sat at his phone for a long while. Although it was almost impossible he managed to find gas, fill the tank, adding six extra liters: avoiding main roads he drove Jean to a southern town, as far as he could drive. The usual black taxi was waiting. Kissing Claude, she drove off, until a damp distributor killed the engine. Boarding a crowded bus she travelled deeper into Provence. Where was Rethel? Was it a military base: someone said so. Was it under Nazi domination? Two hours, three hours ... she stopped looking at the time.
The driver of a Rethel taxi had no windshield wipers and kept popping his head outside. Huddled in the back, in a chilly corner, under a lap robe, she counted and re-counted her money. Her overnight bag bumped to the floor as the chauffeur braked for cyclists. Did he know where he was going? Was he out for an extra fare?
In front of a saloon, they picked up a wounded civilian and his twelve-year-old son; the wounded man was suffering; his son repeated over and over, for his dad's benefit: "We're on the way, we're on the way." Jean was reassured they would soon reach the hospital.
What an ugly Provençal town! A crummy Montmartre! Towns were not tacky like this in Wisconsin. The war had deteriorated almost every building. The streets were a series of potholes.
There was the Catholic hospital, fronted by many columnar cypress, a neat three-story building, presentably white: its barren flagpole in a small winter garden told its story: the taxi swerved, stopped, and the chauffeur released the door handle. The twelve-year-old helped his father out.
Jeannette, grabbing her overnight bag, struggling with her purse, waited for the fare.
"Mademoiselle, I never ask a nurse to pay ... or the sick ... that man is one of ours..."
"May I give you something?"
"No, Mademoiselle ... thank you ... and you, lad, help your father up the stairs; the office is to the right."
The blotched and smiling face drove away.