Villa Triste (12 page)

With his slightly swaying gait, he headed for the kitchen, and Yvonne seized the chance to scratch the palm of my hand with her fingernail. He brought us a bowl of
salade niçoise
. Yvonne served us.

“You like it, I hope?”

Then, speaking to Yvonne and stressing each syllable: “Does-the-count-real-ly-like-it?”

I detected no malice in his words, just a very Parisian irony and geniality. Though I couldn’t understand why this
“Savoyard” (I remembered a sentence in the article about Yvonne: “Her family is originally from the region”) spoke with the weary accents of Belleville.

No, there was definitely no resemblance. The uncle didn’t have Yvonne’s delicate features or long hands or slender neck. Sitting by her side, he looked yet more massive and taurine than he had in the armchair. I would have dearly liked to know where she got her green eyes and her auburn hair, but the boundless respect I feel for French families and their secrets prevented me from asking questions. Where were Yvonne’s father and mother? Were they still alive? What did they do? As I continued — discreetly — to observe Yvonne and her uncle, however, I discovered that they shared some mannerisms. For example, they had the same way of holding their knives and forks, with their index fingers a little too far forward, the same slowness in bringing the forks to their mouths, and sometimes the same way of screwing up their eyes, which gave them both little wrinkles.

“And you,” he said to me, “what do you do in life?”

“He doesn’t do anything, Unky.”

She hadn’t given me time to answer.

“It’s not true, Monsieur,” I stammered. “Not at all. My work is … books.”

“… Books? Books?” He was looking at me with incredibly vacant eyes.

“I … I …”

Yvonne fixed her gaze on me with a cheeky little smile.

“I … I’m writing a book. There.”

I was totally surprised by the peremptory tone in which I’d told that lie.

“You’re writing a book …? A book …?” He frowned and leaned a little closer to me: “A … crime novel?”

He looked relieved. He was smiling.

“Yes, a crime novel,” I murmured. “A crime novel.”

A clock struck in the next room. A scratchy, interminable chime. Yvonne listened to it openmouthed. Her uncle looked for my reaction; he was ashamed of that intrusive, distorted music, which I couldn’t quite identify. But then, when he said, “There goes that goddamned Westminster again,” I recognized in the cacophony the chimes of London’s Big Ben, but more melancholy and more disturbing than the real thing.

“That goddamned Westminster has gone completely crazy. It chimes twelve times every hour … It’s going to make me sick, that Westminster bastard … If I get my hands on it …”

He spoke of it as if it were a personal, invisible enemy.

“Do you hear me, Yvonne?”

“But I’ve told you, it was Mama’s … All you have to do is give it back to me and we won’t talk about it anymore …”

Suddenly he was very red, and I feared he would fly into a rage.

“It’s staying here, you understand me? Here …”

“Of course it is, Unky, of course it is …” She shrugged. “Keep your old clock … your stupid old Westminster …”

She turned to me and winked. But he wanted to recruit me as a witness for his side too. “You understand. It would make an emptiness in my life if I didn’t hear that crappy Westminster anymore …”

“It reminds me of my childhood,” Yvonne said. “It used to keep me awake …”

And I saw her in her bed, clutching a teddy bear, her eyes wide open.

We heard five more notes at irregular intervals, like a drunkard’s hiccups. Then Big Ben fell silent, as if forever.

I took a deep breath and turned to the uncle: “She lived here when she was little?”

I spoke so fast he didn’t understand what I’d said.

“He’s asking you if I lived here when I was little. Are you getting deaf, Unky?”

“But yes, up there. Upstairs.” He was pointing at the ceiling.

“I’ll show you my room in a little while. If it’s still the same, is it, Unky?”

“It is. I haven’t changed anything.”

He stood up, collected our plates and cutlery, and went to the kitchen. He came back with clean plates and fresh silverware.

“Do you prefer yours well done?” he asked me.

“However you want.”

“No indeed. It’s however you want, YOU, your lordship.”

I blushed.

“Have you decided, then? Well done or rare?”

I couldn’t utter a syllable. I moved my hand, a vague gesture to gain time. He was firmly planted in front of me, his arms crossed. He looked at me with a kind of amazement in his eyes.

“Tell me, is he always like this?”

“Yes, Unky, always. He’s always like this.”

He served us the cutlets and green peas himself, specifying that they were “fresh garden peas, not from a can.” He also poured us some wine, Mercurey, which he bought only for “important guests.”

“So you think he’s an ‘important guest’?” Yvonne asked, pointing to me.

“But of course. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever dined with a count. You’re Count what again?”

“Chmara,” Yvonne snapped, as if she was angry with him for forgetting my name.

“And Chmara, that’s what? Portuguese?”

“Russian,” I stammered.

He wanted to know more.

“Because you’re Russian?”

I felt infinitely despondent. I was going to have to tell the whole story again, the Revolution, Berlin, Paris, Schiaparelli, America, the Woolworth heiress, the grandmother on Rue Lord-Byron … No. I gagged.

“Are you feeling ill?”

He put a hand on my arm: a paternal gesture.

“Oh, no … It’s been ages since I felt this good …”

He appeared to be surprised by my declaration, and all the more so because I’d spoken distinctly for the first time that evening.

“Come on, drink some Mercurey …”

“You know, Unky, you know …” (she paused for a minute and I stiffened, knowing that a lightning bolt was about to strike me), “you know he wears a monocle?”

“Oh, really …? No.”

“Put in your monocle and show him …”

She was speaking in a mischievous tone, repeating the words again and again, like a nursery rhyme: “Put in your monocle … Put in your monocle …”

I rummaged in my jacket pocket with a trembling hand and as slowly as a sleepwalker raised the monocle to my left eye. I tried to screw the thing into my eye socket, but my muscles stopped cooperating. The monocle fell out three times in a row. The area around my cheekbone felt paralyzed. On the third attempt, the monocle fell into my peas.

“Well, shit,” I growled.

I was starting to lose my composure, and I was afraid I’d blurt out one of those horrible things nobody expects a boy like me to say. But I can’t help it, it comes over me sporadically.

“Do you want to try?” I asked the uncle, handing him the monocle.

He got it right the first time, and I heartily congratulated him. It suited him perfectly. He looked like Conrad Veidt in
Nocturno der Liebe
. Yvonne burst out laughing. And so did I. And so did the uncle. We couldn’t stop.

“You must come again,” he declared. “We have a lot of fun, the three of us. And you, you’re quite a comedian.”

“That’s the truth,” Yvonne agreed.

“You too, you’re a ‘comedian’ too,” I said.

I would have liked to add, “and a comfort,” because his presence, his way of speaking, his gestures shielded me. In that dining room, between him and Yvonne, I had nothing to fear. Nothing. I was invulnerable.

“Do you work a lot?” I ventured to ask.

He lit a cigarette.

“Yes, I do. I have to run this all by myself.” He gestured toward the hangar outside the windows.

“Have you been doing it long?”

He handed me his pack of Royales. “I started it with Yvonne’s father …”

He was apparently surprised and touched by my attention and my curiosity. He didn’t often get asked questions about himself and his work. Yvonne’s head was turned, and she was holding out a piece of meat to the dog.

“We bought this from the Farman aircraft company … We became the Hotchkiss dealers for the whole region … We had arrangements with Switzerland for luxury cars …”

He reeled off those statements very quickly and almost in an undertone, as if fearful of being interrupted, but Yvonne wasn’t paying him the slightest attention. She was talking to the dog and petting him.

“Things went well here, with her father …”

He dragged on his cigarette, which he held between his thumb and index finger.

“Does this interest you? It’s all in the past, all of it …”

“What are you telling him, Unky?”

“I’m talking about starting the garage with your father …”

“But you’re boring him …” There was a touch of malice in her voice.

“Not at all,” I said. “Not at all. What became of your father?”

The question had slipped out, and there was no taking it back. An embarrassment. I noticed Yvonne was frowning.

“Albert …”

As he said that name, the uncle’s eyes glazed over. Then he snorted. “Albert got into some trouble …”

I realized I’d hear no more from him on that subject, and in fact I was surprised he’d confided so much in me already.

“And how about you?” He put a hand on Yvonne’s shoulder. “Everything going the way you want?”

“Yes.”

The conversation was about to bog down. I decided to mount a charge.

“Do you know she’s going to be a movie star?”

“Do you really think so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

She blew cigarette smoke in my face, but nicely.

“You know, when she told me she was going to make a film, I didn’t believe her. And yet it was true … So your movie’s finished, Yvonne?”

“Yes, Unky.”

“When can we see it?”

“It’s going to come out in three or four months,” I declared.

“Will it come here?” He was skeptical.

“Absolutely. It’ll be at the Casino cinema.” (My tone of voice was increasingly assured.) “You’ll see.”

“Well then, we’ll have to celebrate it. Tell me … Do you think that’s a real profession?”

“I certainly do. And in fact, she’s going to keep working. She’s going to be in another film.”

The vehemence of my affirmation surprised even me.

“And she’s going to be a star, Monsieur.”

“Really?”

“But of course, Monsieur. Ask her.”

“Is it true, Yvonne?” There was a little hint of mockery in his voice.

“Yes indeed, everything Victor says is the truth, Unky.”

“As you see, Monsieur, I’m right.”

This time I adopted an unctuous, parliamentary tone that made me feel ashamed, but the subject was too close to my heart, and if I wanted to talk about it, I had to use any means I could to overcome my elocution problems. I said, “Yvonne has enormous talent, believe me.”

She was stroking the dog. The uncle gazed at me, the butt of his Royale stuck in the corner of his mouth. Again, the shadow of anxiety, the preoccupied look.

“And you, you think that’s a real profession?”

“The finest profession in the world, Monsieur.”

“Well, I hope you make it,” he said gravely to Yvonne. “After all, you’re no fool …”

“Victor will give me good advice, won’t you, Victor?”

She gave me a look both tender and ironic.

“You saw that she won the Houligant Cup, didn’t you?” I asked her uncle.

“I was knocked out when I read that in the newspaper.” He hesitated a moment. “Tell me, is it important, the Houligant Cup?”

Yvonne sniggered.

“It can serve as a springboard,” I declared, wiping my monocle.

He proposed we drink some coffee. I took a seat on the old bluish sofa while he and Yvonne cleared the table.
Yvonne sang to herself as she carried the plates and silverware into the kitchen. Her uncle ran some water. The dog had fallen asleep at my feet. I can still see that dining room in great detail. The walls were covered with wallpaper in three patterns: red roses, ivy, and birds (I’m unable to say whether they were blackbirds or sparrows). The background was beige or white, the wallpaper a little faded. The hanging light fixture — wooden, circular — had ten bulbs with parchment shades. They shed a warm amber light. On the wall, a little unframed picture showed a woodland scene, and I admired the way the painter had profiled the trees against a clear twilight sky, and the patch of sunlight lingering at the foot of a tree. The painting helped to make the atmosphere of the room more peaceful. The uncle, by the phenomenon of contagion that makes you take up a tune you know when you hear it, was singing softly along with Yvonne. I felt great. I would have wanted the evening to go on indefinitely, so that I could sit there for hours and observe their comings and goings, Yvonne’s graceful movements, her indolent walk, her uncle’s swaying gait. And hear them murmuring the song’s refrain, which I dare not sing myself, because it would remind me of that precious moment in my life.

He came and sat beside me on the sofa. Trying to continue the conversation, I pointed to the little picture and said, “Very pretty …”

“It was Yvonne’s father who painted that … yes it was …”

The picture must have been hanging in the same place for many years, but he still marveled at the thought that his brother had produced it.

“Albert had a pretty brushstroke … You can see his signature at the bottom, on the right: Albert Jacquet. He was a funny guy, my brother …”

I was about to ask an indiscreet question, but Yvonne came out of the kitchen, carrying the coffee tray. She was smiling. The dog stretched. The uncle coughed but kept the cigarette end in the corner of his mouth. Yvonne squeezed in between me and the arm of the sofa and laid her head on my shoulder. The uncle poured the coffee, all the while clearing his throat with what sounded like a series of roars. He held out a lump of sugar to the dog, who took it delicately between his teeth, and I knew in advance he wouldn’t chew up that morsel, he’d suck on it and stare into space. He never chewed his food.

I hadn’t noticed a table behind the sofa. On it was a midsized white radio, a model halfway between a standard set and a transistor. The uncle turned a knob, and at once some quiet music came on. We each drank our coffee in little sips. From time to time, the uncle rested his head on the back of the sofa and blew smoke rings. He was quite good at it. Yvonne listened to the music, beating time with one lazy forefinger. We stayed like that, without saying anything, like people who’ve known one another forever, three people from the same family.