The occupation trilogy, p.22
The Occupation Trilogy, page 22
‘Serge Alexandre.’
This was the name I had signed in the hotel register.
‘Well, Monsieur . . . Alexandre,’ Marcheret announced in a drawling voice, ‘I suggest you have a porto-flip.’
‘I don’t really drink’ – the vermouth we had had was making me feel queasy.
‘That’s a mistake,’ Marcheret said.
‘This is a friend of mine,’ Murraille said. ‘Guy de Marcheret.’
‘Comte Guy de Marcheret d’Eu,’ corrected the other. Then he turned to me: ‘He has a horror of aristocratic titles! Monsieur likes to think he’s a republican!’
‘And you? A journalist?’
‘No,’ said Murraille, ‘he’s a novelist.’
‘Are you indeed! I should have guessed. With a name like yours! Alexandre . . . Alexandre Dumas! But you look miserable, I’m sure a little drink would do you good!’
He held out his glass, almost pushing it under my nose, laughing for no apparent reason.
‘Have no fear,’ Murraille said. ‘Guy is always the life and soul of the party.’
‘Is Monsieur Alexandre dining with us? I’ll tell him stories he can put in his novels. Maud, tell our young friend about the stir I created when I walked into the Beaulieu in my uniform. A very dashing entrance, don’t you think, Maud?’
She didn’t answer. He glared at her sourly, but she didn’t look away. He snorted:
‘Oh well, that’s all in the past, eh, Jean-Jean? Are we eating up at the villa?’
‘Yes,’ Murraille said curtly.
‘With the Fat Man?’
‘With the Fat Man.’
So this is what they called my father?
Marcheret got up. To Maud Gallas: ‘If you feel like a drink later on up at the house, ma chère, don’t hesitate.’
She smiled and shot me a brief glance. We were still very much at the politeness stage. Once I managed to get her alone, I wanted to ask her about Murraille, about Marcheret, about my father. Start by chatting to her about the weather. Then gradually inch towards the true heart of the matter. But I was worried about seeming too obvious. Had she noticed me prowling round them? In the dining-room, I always chose the table next to theirs. Whenever they were in the bar, I would sit in one of the leather armchairs and pretend to be asleep. I kept my back to them so as not to attract their attention, but, after a minute or two, I worried they were pointing at me.
‘Goodnight, Maud,’ Murraille said.
I gave her a deep bow, and said:
‘Goodnight, madame.’
My heart begins to pound as we reach the main road. It’s deserted.
‘I do hope you will like the “Villa Mektoub”,’ Murraille says to me.
‘It’s the finest historic building in the area,’ pronounces Marcheret. ‘We got it dirt cheap.’
They stroll at a leisurely pace. I have the sudden feeling that I am walking into a trap. There is still time to run, to shake them off. I keep my eyes fixed on the trees at the edge of the forest, a hundred yards ahead. If I make a dash for it I can reach them.
‘After you,’ Murraille says, half-ironic, half-obsequious.
I glimpse a familiar figure standing in the middle of the veranda.
‘Well, well!’ says Marcheret. ‘The Fat Man is here already.’
He was leaning idly against the balustrade. She, lounging in one of the whitewashed wooden chairs, was wearing jodhpurs.
Murraille introduced us.
‘Madame Sylviane Quimphe . . . Serge Alexandre . . . Baron Deyckecaire.’
He offered me a limp hand and I looked him straight in the eye. No, he didn’t recognize me.
She told us she had just been for a long ride in the forest and hadn’t had the energy to change for dinner.
‘No matter, my dear,’ said Marcheret. ‘I find women much more attractive in riding gear!’
The conversation immediately turned to horse riding. She couldn’t speak too highly of the local stable master, a former jockey named Dédé Wildmer.
I’d already met the man at the bar of the Clos-Foucré; bulldog face, crimson complexion, checked cap, suede jacket and an evident fondness for Dubonnet.
‘We must invite him to dinner. Remind me, Sylviane,’ Murraille said.
Turning to me:
‘You should meet him, he’s a real character!’
‘Yes, a real character,’ my father repeated nervously.
She talked about her horse. She had put it through some jumps on her afternoon ride, something she had found ‘an eye-opener’.
‘You mustn’t go easy on him,’ Marcheret said, with the air of an expert. ‘A horse only responds to the whip and the spurs!’
He reminisced about his childhood: an elderly Basque uncle had forced him to ride in the rain for seven hours at a stretch. ‘If you fall,’ he had said, ‘you’ll get nothing to eat for three days!’
‘And I didn’t fall.’ His voice was grave suddenly ‘. . . That’s how you train a horseman!’
My father let out a little whistle of admiration. The conversation returned to Dédé Wildmer.
‘I don’t understand how that little runt has such success with women,’ Marcheret said.
‘Oh I do,’ Sylviane Quimphe smirked, ‘I find him very attractive!’
‘I could tell you a thing or two,’ Marcheret replied nastily. ‘It appears Wildmer’s developed a taste for “coke” . . .’
A banal conversation. Wasted words. Lifeless characters. Yet there I stood with my ghosts, and, if I closed my eyes, I can still picture the old woman in a white apron who came to tell us that dinner was served.
‘Why don’t we eat out on the veranda,’ suggested Sylviane Quimphe. ‘It’s such a lovely evening . . .’
Marcheret would have preferred to dine by candlelight, himself, but eventually accepted that ‘the purple glow of twilight has its charm’. Murraille poured the drinks. I gathered it was a distinguished vintage.
‘First-rate!’ exclaimed Marcheret, smacking his lips, a gesture my father echoed.
I had been seated between Murraille and Sylviane Quimphe, who asked whether I was on holiday.
‘I’ve seen you at the Clos-Foucré.’
‘I’ve seen you there, too.’
‘In fact I think we have adjoining rooms.’
And she gave me a curious look.
‘M. Alexandre is very impressed by my magazine,’ Murraille said.
‘You don’t say!’ Marcheret was amazed. ‘Well, you’re the only one. If you saw the anonymous letters Jean-Jean gets . . . The most recent one accuses him of being a pornographer and gangster!’
‘I don’t give a damn,’ said Murraille. ‘You know,’ he went on, lowering his voice, ‘the press have slandered me. I was even accused of taking bribes, before the war! Small men have always been jealous of me!’
He snarled the words, his face turning puce. Dessert was being served.
‘And what do you do with yourself?’ Sylviane Quimphe asked.
‘Novelist,’ I said briefly.
I was regretting introducing myself to Murraille in this curious guise.
‘You write novels?’
‘You write novels?’ echoed my father.
It was the first time he had spoken to me since we sat down to dinner.
‘Yes. So what do you do?’
He stared at me wide-eyed.
‘Me?’
‘Are you here . . . on holiday?’ I asked politely.
He looked at me like a hunted animal.
‘Monsieur Deyckecaire,’ Murraille said, wagging a finger at my father, ‘lives in a charming property close by. It’s called “The Priory”.’
‘Yes . . . “The Priory”,’ said my father.
‘Much more imposing than the “Villa Mektoub”. Can you believe, there’s even a chapel in the grounds?’
‘Chalva is a god-fearing man!’ Marcheret said.
My father spluttered with laughter.
‘Isn’t that so, Chalva?’ Marcheret insisted. ‘When are we going to see you in a cassock?’
‘Unfortunately,’ Murraille told me, ‘our friend Deyckecaire is like us. His business keeps him in Paris.’
‘What line of business?’ I ventured.
‘Nothing of interest,’ said my father.
‘Come, come!’ said Marcheret, ‘I’m sure M. Alexandre would love to hear all about your shady financial dealings! Did you know that Chalva . . .’ his tone was mocking now ‘ . . . is a really sharp operator. He could teach Sir Basil Zaharoff a thing or two!’
‘Don’t believe a word he says,’ muttered my father.
‘I find you too, too mysterious, Chalva,’ said Sylviane Quimphe, clapping her hands together.
He took out a large handkerchief and mopped his forehead, and I suddenly remember that this is one of his favourite tics. He falls silent. As do I. The light is failing. Over there the other three are talking in hushed voices. I think Marcheret is saying to Murraille:
‘I had a phone call from your daughter. What the fuck is she doing in Paris?’
Murraille is shocked by such coarse language. A Marcheret, a d’Eu, talking like that!
‘If this carries on,’ the other says, ‘I shall break off the engagement!’
‘Tut-tut . . .’ Murraille says, ‘that would be a grave error.’
Sylviane breaks the ensuing silence to tell me about a man name Eddy Pagnon, about how, when they were in a night-club together, he had waved a revolver at the terrified guests. Eddy Pagnon . . . Another name that seems naggingly familiar. A celebrity? I don’t know, but I like the idea of this man who draws his revolver to threaten shadows.
My father had wandered over and was leaning on the balustrade of the veranda railing and I went up to him. He had lit a cigar, which he smoked distractedly. After a few minutes, he began blowing smoke rings. Behind us, the others went on whispering, they seemed to have forgotten us. He, too, ignored my presence despite the fact that several times I cleared my throat, and so we stood there for a long time, my father crafting smoke rings and I admiring their perfection.
We retired to the drawing-room, taking the French windows that led off the veranda. It was a large room furnished in colonial style. On the far wall, a wallpaper in delicate shades showed (Murraille explained to me later) a scene from Paul et Virginie. A rocking-chair, small tables, and cane armchairs. Pouffes here and there. (Marcheret, I learned, had brought them back from Bouss-Bir when he left the Legion.) Three Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling spread a wavering light. On a whatnot, I saw some opium pipes . . . The whole weird and faded collection was reminiscent of Tonkin, of the plantations of South Carolina, the French concession of Shanghai or Lyautey’s Morocco, and I clearly failed to conceal my surprise because Murraille, in an embarrassed voice, said: ‘Guy chose the furnishings.’ I sat down, keeping in the background. Sitting around a tray of liqueurs, they were talking in low voices. The uneasiness I had felt since the beginning of the evening increased and I wondered whether it might be better if I left at once. But I was completely unable to move, as in a nightmare when you try to run from a looming danger and your legs refuse to function. All through dinner, the half-light had given their words, gestures, faces a hazy, unreal character; and now, in the mean glow cast by the drawing-room lamps, everything became even more indistinct. I thought my uneasiness was that of a man groping in the dark, fumbling vainly for a light-switch. Suddenly I shook with nervous laughter, which the others – luckily – didn’t notice. They continued their whispered conversation, of which I couldn’t hear a word. They were dressed in the normal outfits of well-heeled Parisians down for a few days in the country. Murraille wore a tweed jacket; Marcheret a sweater – cashmere, no doubt – in a choice shade of brown; my father a grey-flannel suit. Their collars were open to reveal immaculately knotted silk cravats. Sylviane Quimphe’s riding-breeches added a note of sporting elegance to the whole.
But it was all glaringly at odds with this room where one expected to see people in linen suits and pith helmets.
‘You’re all alone?’ Murraille asked me. ‘It’s my fault. I’m a terrible host.’
‘My dear Monsieur Alexandre, you haven’t tried this excellent brandy yet.’ And Marcheret handed me a glass with a peremptory gesture. ‘Drink up!’
I forced it down, my stomach heaving.
‘Do you like the room?’ he asked. ‘Exotic, isn’t it? I’ll show you my bedroom. I had a mosquito net installed.’
‘Guy suffers from a nostalgia for the colonies,’ Murraille said.
‘Vile places,’ said Marcheret. Dreamily: ‘But if I was asked to, I’d re-enlist.’
He was silent, as though no one could possibly understand all that he’d like to say on the subject. My father nodded. There was a long, pregnant pause. Sylviane Quimphe stroked her boots absent-mindedly. Murraille followed with his eyes the flight of a butterfly which had alighted on one of the Chinese lanterns. My father had fallen into a state of prostration that worried me. His chin was almost on his chest, drops of sweat beaded on his forehead. I wished that a ‘boy’ could come with shuffling steps to clear the table and extinguish the lights.
Marcheret put a record on the gramophone. A sweet melody. I think it was called ‘Soir de septembre’.
‘Do you dance?’ Sylviane Quimphe asked me.
She didn’t wait for an answer, and in an instant we’re dancing. My head is spinning. Every time I wheel and turn, I see my father.
‘You ought to ride,’ she says. ‘If you like, I’ll take you to the stables tomorrow.’
Had he dozed off? I hadn’t forgotten that he often closed his eyes, but that it was only pretence.
‘You’ll see, it’s so wonderful, taking long rides in the forest!’
He had put on a lot of weight in ten years. I’d never seen his complexion so livid.
‘Are you a friend of Jean’s?’ she asked me.
‘Not yet, but I hope to be.’
She seemed surprised by this reply.
‘And I hope that we’ll be friends, you and I,’ I added.
‘Of course. You’re so charming.’
‘Do you know this . . . Baron Deyckecaire?’
‘Not very well.’
‘What does he do, exactly?’
‘I don’t know; you really should ask Jean.’
‘I find him rather odd, myself.’
‘Oh, he’s probably a black marketeer . . .’
At midnight, Murraille wanted to hear the last news bulletin. The newsreader’s voice was even more strident than usual. After announcing the news briefly, he gave forth a kind of commentary on a hysterical note. I imagined him behind his mike: sickly, in black tie and shirtsleeves. He finished with: ‘Goodnight to you all.’
‘Thanks,’ said Marcheret.
Murraille led me aside. He rubbed the side of his nose, put his hand on my shoulder.
‘Look, what do you think . . . I’ve just had an idea . . . How would you like to contribute to the magazine?’
‘Really?’
I had stuttered a little and the result was ridiculous: Re-re-really? . . .
‘Yes, I’d very much like to have a boy like you working on C’est la vie. Assuming you don’t think journalism beneath you?’
‘Not at all!’
He hesitated, then in a more friendly tone:
‘I don’t want to make things awkward for you, in view of the rather . . . singular . . . nature of my magazine . . .’
‘I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.’
‘That’s very courageous of you.’
‘But what would you want me to write?’
‘Oh, whatever you like: a story, a topical piece, an article of the “Seen & Heard” variety. Take your time.’
These last few words he spoke with a curious insistence, looking me straight in the eye.
‘All right?’ He smiled. ‘So you’re willing to get your hands dirty?’
‘Why not?’
We rejoined the others. Marcheret and Sylviane Quimphe were talking about a night-club which had opened in the Rue Jean-Mermoz. My father, who had joined in the conversation, said he liked the American bar in the Avenue de Wagram, the one run by a former racing cyclist.
‘You mean the Rayon d’Or?’ Marcheret asked.
‘No, it’s called the Fairyland,’ said my father.
‘You’re wrong, Fat Man! The Fairyland is in Rue Fontaine!’
‘I don’t think so . . .’ said my father.
‘47 Rue Fontaine. Shall we go and check?’
‘You’re right, Guy,’ sighed my father. ‘You’re right . . .’
‘Do you know the Château-Bagatelle?’ Sylviane Quimphe asked. ‘I hear it’s very amusing.’
‘Rue de Clichy?’ my father wanted to know.
‘No, no!’ Marcheret cried. ‘Rue Magellan! You’re confusing it with Marcel Dieu-donné. You always get everything mixed up! Last time we were supposed to meet at L’Écrin on the Rue Joubert, Monsieur here waited for us until midnight at Cesare Leone on the Rue de Hanovre. Isn’t that right, Jean?’
‘It was hardly the end of the world,’ grunted Murraille.
For a quarter of an hour, they reeled off the names of bars and cabaret clubs as though Paris, France, the universe itself, were a red-light district, a vast al fresco brothel.
‘What about you, Monsieur Alexandre, do you go out a lot?’
‘No.’
‘Well then, my boy, we shall introduce you to the “heady pleasures of Parisian nightlife”.’
They went on drinking, talking of other clubs some of whose names dazzled me: L’Armorial, Czardas, Honolulu, Schubert, Gipsy’s, Monico, L’Athénien, Melody’s, Badinage. They were all talking volubly as though they would never stop. Sylviane Quimphe unbuttoned her blouse, and the faces of my father, Marcheret and Murraille flushed an unsettling crimson hue. I dimly recognised a few more names: Le Triolet, Monte-Cristo, Capurro’s, Valencia. My mind was reeling. In the colonies – I thought – the evenings must drag on interminably like this. Neurasthenic settlers mulling over their memories and trying to fight back the fear that suddenly grips them, that they will die at the next monsoon.
