I needed all the patience I could muster. Marcheret took me aside and began to describe, house by house, the red-light district of Casablanca where he had spent – he told me – the best moments of his life. You never forget Africa! It leaves its mark! A pox-ridden continent. I let him go on for hours about ‘that old whore Africa’, showing a polite interest. He had one other topic of
conversation.
His royal lineage. He claimed to be descended from the Duc du Maine, the bastard son of Louis XIV. His title, ‘Comte d’Eu’ proved it. Every time, pen and paper at the ready, he insisted on showing me in detail. He would embark on a family tree and it would take him until dawn. He got confused, crossed out names, added others, his writing steadily becoming illegible. In the end, he ripped the page into little pieces, and gave me a withering look:
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
On other evenings, his malaria and his impending marriage to Annie Murraille were the subjects of conversation. The malaria attacks were less frequent now, but he would never be cured. And Annie went her own way. He was only marrying her out of friendship for Murraille. It wouldn’t last a week . . . These realisations made him bitter. Fuelled by alcohol, he would become aggressive, call me a ‘greenhorn’ and ‘a snot-nosed brat’. Dédé Wildmer was a ‘pimp’, Murraille a ‘sex maniac’ and my father ‘a Jew who had it coming to him’. Gradually he would calm down, apologize to me. What about one more vermouth? No better cure for the blues.
Murraille, on the other hand, talked about his magazine. He planned to expand
C’est la vie
, add a 36-page section with new columns in which the most diverse
talents
could express themselves. He would soon celebrate fifty years in journalism with a lunch at which most of his colleagues and friends would be reunited: Maulaz, Alin-Laubreaux, Gerbère, Le Houleux, Lestandi . . . and various celebrities. He would introduce me to them. He was delighted to be able to help me. If I needed money, I shouldn’t hesitate to tell him: he would let me have advances against future stories. As time went on, his bluster and patronising tone gave way to a mounting nervousness. Every day – he told me – he received a hundred anonymous letters. People were baying for his blood, he had been forced to apply for a gun licence. Broadly, he was being accused of being part of an era when most people ‘played a waiting game’. He at least made his position clear. In black and white. He had the upper hand at the moment, but the situation might turn out badly for him and his friends. If that happened, they would not get off lightly. In the meantime, he was not going to be bossed around by anyone. I said I agreed absolutely. Strange thoughts ran through my mind: the man was not suspicious of me (at least I don’t think he was) and it would have been easy to ruin him. It’s not every day that you find yourself face to face with a ‘traitor’ and ‘Judas’. You have to make the most of it. He smiled. Deep down, I rather liked him.
‘
None of this really matters . . .’
He liked living dangerously. He was going to ‘go even further’ in his next editorial.
Sylviane Quimphe took me to the stables every afternoon. During our rides, we often encountered a distinguished looking man of about sixty. I wouldn’t have paid him any particular attention had I not been struck by the look of contempt he gave us. No doubt he thought it disgraceful that people could still go riding and think about enjoying themselves ‘in these tragic times of ours’. We would not be fondly remembered in Seine-et-Marne . . . Sylviane Quimphe’s behaviour was unlikely to add to our popularity. Trotting along the main street, she would talk in a loud voice, shriek with laughter.
In the rare moments I had to myself, I drafted the ‘serial’ for Murraille. He found ‘Confessions of a Society Chauffeur’ entirely satisfactory and commissioned three other stories. I had submitted ‘Confidences of an Academic Photographer’. There remained ‘Via Lesbos’ and ‘The Lady of the Studios’ which I tried to write as diligently as possible. Such were the labours I set myself in the hope of developing a relationship with you. Pornographer, gigolo, confidant to an alcoholic and to a blackmailer – what else would you have me do? Would I have to sink even lower to drag you out of your cesspit?
Now,
I realize what a hopeless enterprise it was. You become interested in a man who vanished long ago. You try to question the people who knew him, but their traces disappeared with his. Of his life, only vague, often contradictory rumours remain, one or two pointers. Hard evidence? A postage stamp and a fake
Légion d’honneur
. So all one can do is imagine. I close my eyes. The bar of the Clos-Foucré and the colonial drawingroom of the ‘Villa Mektoub’. After all these years the furniture is covered with dust. A musty smell catches in my throat. Murraille, Marcheret, Sylviane Quimphe are standing motionless as waxworks. And you, you are slumped on a pouffe, your face frozen, your eyes staring.
It’s a strange idea, really, to go stirring up all these dead things.
The wedding was to take place the following day, but there was no news of Annie. Murraille tried desperately to reach her by telephone. Sylviane Quimphe consulted her diary and gave him the numbers of nightclubs where ‘that little fool’ was likely to be found. Chez Tonton: Trinite 87.42, Au Bosphore: Richelieu 94.03, El Garron: Vintimille 30.54, L’Etincelle . . . Marcheret, silent, swallowed glass after glass of brandy. Between
frantic
calls, Murraille begged him to be patient. He had just been told that Annie had been at the Monte-Cristo at about eleven. With a bit of luck they’d ‘corner’ her at Djiguite or at L’Armorial. But Marcheret had lost heart. No, it was pointless. And you, on your pouffe, did your best to look devastated. Eventually you muttered:
‘Try Poisson d’Or, Odeon 90.95 . . .’
Marcheret looked up:
‘Nobody asked for your advice, Chalva . . .’
You held your breath so as not to attract attention. You wished the ground would swallow you. Murraille, increasingly frantic, went on telephoning: Le Doge: Opéra 95.78, Chez Carrère: Balzac 59.60, Les Trois Valses: Vernet 15.27, Au Grand Large . . .
You repeated timidly:
‘What about the Poisson d’Or: Odeon 90.95 . . .’ .
Murraille roared:
‘Just shut up, Chalva, will you?’
He was brandishing the telephone like a club, his knuckles white. Marcheret sipped his cognac slowly, then:
‘If he makes another sound, I’ll cut his tongue out with my razor . . . ! Yes, I mean you, Chalva . . .’
I seized the opportunity to slip out on to the veranda. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs. The silence, the
cool
of the night. Alone at last. I looked thoughtfully at Marcheret’s Talbot, parked by the gate. The bodywork gleamed in the moonlight. He always left his keys on the dashboard. Neither he nor Murraille would have heard the sound of the engine. In twenty minutes, I could be in Paris. I would go back to my little room on the Boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr. I would not set foot outside again, until times were better. I would stop sticking my nose into things that didn’t concern me, stop taking unnecessary risks. You would have to fend for yourself. Every man for himself. But at the thought of leaving you alone with them I felt a painful spasm on the left-hand side of my chest. No, this was no time to desert you.
Behind me, someone pushed open the French window and came and sat on one of the veranda chairs. I turned and recognised your shadow in the half-light. I honestly hadn’t expected you to join me out here. I walked over to you cautiously like a butterfly catcher stalking a rare specimen that might take wing at any minute. It was I who broke the silence:
‘So, have they found Annie?’
‘Not yet.’
You stifled a laugh. Through the window I saw Murraille standing there, the telephone receiver wedged between cheek and shoulder. Sylviane Quimphe was
putting
a record on the gramophone. Marcheret, like an automaton, was pouring another drink.
‘They’re strange, your friends,’ I said.
‘They’re not my friends, they’re . . . business acquaintances.’
You fumbled for something to light a cigarette and I found myself handing you the platinum lighter Sylviane Quimphe had given me.
‘You’re in business?’ I asked.
‘Have to do something.’
Again, a stifled laugh.
‘You work with Murraille?’
After a moment’s hesitation:
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s going well?’
‘Fair to middling.’
We had the whole night ahead of us to talk. The ‘initial contact’ I had long hoped for was finally about to happen. I was sure of it. From the drawing-room drifted the muted voice of a tango singer:
A la luz del candil . . .
‘Shall we stretch our legs a little?’
‘Why not?’ you replied.
I
gave a last glance towards the French window. The panes were misted and I could see only three large blots bathed in a yellowish fog. Perhaps they had fallen asleep . . .
A la luz del candil . . .
That song, snatches of which still reached me on the breeze at the far end of the driveway, puzzled me. Were we really in Seine-et-Marne or in some tropical country? San Salvador? Bahia Blanca? I opened the gate, tapped the bonnet of the Talbot. We had no need of it. In one stride, one great bound, we could be back in Paris. We floated along the main road, weightless.
‘Suppose they notice that you’ve given them the slip?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Coming from you, always so timid, so servile towards them, the remark astonished me . . . For the first time, you appeared relaxed. We had turned up the Chemin du Bornage. You were whistling and you even attempted a tango step; and I was fast succumbing to a suspicious state of euphoria. You said: ‘Come and take a tour of my house,’ as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
At this point, I realise I’m dreaming, and so I avoid any sudden gestures for fear of waking. We cross the
overgrown
garden, step into the hall and you double-lock the door. You nod towards various overcoats lying on the floor.
‘Put one on, it’s freezing here.’
It’s true. My teeth are chattering. You still don’t really know your way around because you have difficulty in finding the light-switch. A sofa, a few wing chairs, armchairs covered with dustsheets. There are several bulbs missing from the ceiling light. On a chest of drawers, between the two windows, a bunch of dried flowers. I presume that you usually avoid this room, but that tonight you wanted to do honour me. We stand there, both of us embarrassed. Finally you say:
‘Sit down, I’ll go and make some tea.’
I sit on one of the armchairs. The problem with dust covers is that you have to balance carefully so as not to slip. In front of me, three engravings of pastoral scenes in the eighteenth-century style. I can’t make out the details behind the dusty glass. I wait, and the faded décor reminds me of the dentist’s living room on the Rue de Penthièvre where I once sought refuge to avoid an identity check. The furniture was covered with dustsheets, like this. From the window, I watched the police cordon off the street, the police van was parked a little farther on. Neither the dentist nor the old woman who had
opened
the door to me showed any sign of life. Towards eleven o’clock that night, I crept out on tiptoe, and ran down the deserted street.
Now, we are sitting facing each other, and you are pouring me a cup of tea.
‘Earl Grey,’ you whisper.
We look very strange in our overcoats. Mine is a sort of camel-hair caftan, much too big. On the lapel of yours, I notice the rosette of the
Légion d’honneur
. It must have belonged to the owner of the house.
‘Perhaps you’d like some biscuits? I think there are some left.’
You open one of the dresser drawers.
‘Here, have one of these . . .’
Cream wafers called ‘Ploum-Plouvier’. You used to love these sickly pastries and we would buy them regularly at a baker’s on the Rue Vivienne. Nothing has really changed. Remember. We used to spend long evenings together in places just as bleak as this. The ‘living-room’ of 64 Avenue Félix-Faure with its cherry-wood furniture . . .
‘A little more tea?’
‘I’d love some.’
‘I’m so sorry, I haven’t got any lemon. Another Ploum?’
It’s
a pity that, wrapped in our enormous overcoats, we insist on making polite conversation. We have so much to say to each other! What have you been doing, ‘papa’, these last ten years? Life hasn’t been easy, for me, you know. I went on forging dedications for a little longer. Until the day the customer to whom I offered a love letter from Abel Bonnard to Henry Bordeaux realised it was a fake and tried to have me dragged off to court. Naturally I thought it better to disappear. A job as a monitor in a school in Sarthe. Greyness. The pettiness of colleagues. The classes of stubborn, sneering adolescents. The night wandering around of the bars with the gym teacher, who tried to convert me to Hebert’s ‘natural method’ of physical education and told me about the Olympic Games in Berlin . . .
What about you? Did you carry on sending parcels to French and foreign collectors? More than once, I wanted to write to you from my provincial bolt hole. But where would I write?
We look like a couple of burglars. I can imagine the surprise of the owners if they saw us drinking tea in their living room. I ask:
‘Did you buy the house?’
‘It was . . . deserted . . . ’ you look sideways at me. ‘The owners chose to leave because of . . . recent events.’
I
thought so. They’re waiting in Switzerland or Portugal until the situation improves, and, when they come back, we will, alas, no longer be there to greet them. Things will look just as usual. Will they notice we have been there? Unlikely. We are as careful as rats. A few crumbs perhaps, a dirty cup . . . You open the cocktail cabinet, nervous, as though afraid of being caught.
‘A little glass of Poire Williams?’
Why not? Let’s make the most of it. Tonight this house is ours. I stare at the rosette on your lapel but I have no need to feel jealous: I too have a little pink and gold ribbon pinned to the lapel of my coat, no doubt some military decoration. We ’ll talk about reassuring things, shall we? About the garden that needs weeding and this beautiful bronze by Barbedienne gleaming in the lamplight. You are a forestry manager and I, your son, a regular officer in the army. I spend my furloughs in our dear old home. I recognise the familiar smells. My room hasn’t changed. At the back of the cupboard, my crystal radio, lead soldiers and Meccano, just as they used to be. Maman and Geneviève have gone to bed. We men remain in the living room, I love these moments. We sip our pear liqueur. Afterwards, our gestures mirroring each other, we fill our pipes. We are very alike,
papa.
Two peasants, two headstrong Bretons, as you would say. The curtains are drawn, the fire crackles cosily. Let’s chat, my old partner in crime.