Luckily, I discovered my new-found friends had tastes identical to mine. Aravis read the works of Capitaine Danrit, Petit-Savarin had a weakness for René Bazin and Gruffaz, the baker, set great store by Édouard Estaunié. He had nothing to teach me about the virtues of that particular writer. In What is literature?, Des Essarts described the author as follows: ‘I consider Édouard Estaunié to be the most deviant author I have ever read. At first glance, Estaunié’s characters seem reassuring: paymasters, postmistresses, provincial seminarians, but do not be deceived by appearances: the paymaster has the soul of an anarchist bomber, the postmistress works as a prostitute after her shift at the PTT, the young seminarian is as bloodthirsty as Gilles de Rais . . . Estaunié chose to camouflage vice beneath black frockcoats, mantillas, even soutanes: he is de Sade as petty clerk, he is Genet dragged up as Saint Bernadette of Lourdes.’ I read this passage to Forclaz-Manigot, telling him that I had written it. He congratulated me and invited me to dinner. During the meal, I surreptitiously studied his wife. She seemed a little mature, but, if I found nothing better, I decided I would not be choosy. And so, we were living out a novel by Estaunié: the young French aristocrat, so keen on mountaineering, was really a Jew working in the white slave trade; the lawyer’s wife, so reserved, so provincial, would all too soon find herself in a Brazilian brothel if I so decided.

  Beloved Savoie! To my dying day I will have fond memories of Colonel Aravis. Every little French boy has a grandfather just like him somewhere in the depths of the provinces. He is ashamed of him. Our friend Sartre would like to forget his great uncle Doctor Schweitzer. When I visit Gide in his ancestral home at Cuverville, he mutters over and over, ‘Families, I despise you! Families, I despise you!’ Only Aragon, my childhood friend, has not spurned his origins. I am grateful to him for that. When Stalin was alive, he would proudly tell me, ‘The Aragons have been cops, father and son, for generations!’ One point in his favour. The other two are nothing more than wayward children.

  I, Raphäel Schlemilovitch, listened respectfully to my grandfather, Colonel Aravis, as once I had listened to my great-uncle Adrien Debigorre.

  ‘Become a mountain infantryman, Des Essarts, goddammit! You’ll be a heartthrob with the ladies. A strapping fellow like you! In uniform, you would turn heads.’

  Unfortunately, the uniform of the chasseurs alpins reminded me of the Milice uniform I had died in twenty years earlier.

  ‘My love of uniforms has never brought me luck,’ I explained to the colonel. ‘Back in 1894, it got me a notorious trial and several years imprisoned on Devil’s Island. The Schlemilovitch Affair, remember?’

  The colonel was not listening. He stared me straight in the eye and bellowed:

  ‘Head up, dear boy, please! A strong handshake. Above all don’t snigger. We have had enough of seeing the French race denigrated. What we want now is purity.’

  I felt very moved. This was just the sort of advice Jo Darnand used to give me when we were battling the Résistance.

  Every night, I report back to Lévy-Vendôme. I talk to him about Mme Forclaz-Manigot, the lawyer’s wife. He tells me his client in Rio is not interested in mature women. This left me doomed to spending quite some time in the lonely heights of T. I am champing at the bit. Colonel Aravis will be no help, he lives alone. Neither Petit-Savarin nor Gruffaz has daughters. On the other hand, Lévy-Vendôme has specifically forbidden me from meeting young village girls other than through their parents or their husbands: a reputation for being a skirt-chaser would close all doors to me.

  IN WHICH THE ABBÉ PERRACHE

  GETS ME OUT OF A SCRAPE

  I run into this clergyman while in the course of a leisurely stroll around T. Leaning against a tree, he is studying nature, a typical Savoyard parish priest. I am struck by the goodness etched into his face. We strike up a conversation. He talks to me about the Jew Jesus Christ. I talk to him about another Jew named Judas of whom Jesus Christ said ‘Good were it for that man if he had never been born!’ Our theological discussion continues all the way to the village square. Father Perrache is saddened by my preoccupation with Judas. ‘You are a desperate soul,’ he tells me gravely, ‘despair is the worst sin of all.’ I tell this saintly man that my family have sent me to T. to get some fresh air into my lungs and some order into my thoughts. I tell him about my all-too-brief time studying in Bordeaux, explaining that I hated the radical socialist atmosphere of the lycée. He rebukes me for my intransigence. ‘Think of Péguy,’ he says, ‘he divided his time between Chartres cathedral and the Ligue des insituteurs. He did his best to teach Jean Jaurès about the glories of Saint Louis and Joan of Arc. One tries not to be too elitist, my son! I tell him I prefer Monsignor Mayol de Lupé: a Catholic should take Christ’s interests seriously, even if it means enlisting in the LVF. A Catholic should wield a sword, should declare, like Simon de Montfort, ‘God will know His own!’ In fact, the Inquisition, in my opinion, was a public health measure. I think it was compassionate of Torquemada and Ximénes to want to cure these people who complacently wallowed in their sickness, in their Jewry; it was kind-hearted of them to offer them a surgical solution rather than leaving them to die of their consumption.’ After that, I sing the praises of Joseph de Maistre and Édouard Drumont and inform him that God has no time for the mealy-mouthed.

  ‘Neither for the mealy-mouthed nor for the proud,’ he tells me, ‘and you are committing the sin of Pride, which is just as grave as the sin of Despair. Here, let me set you a little task. You can consider it a penance, an act of contrition. The bishop of this diocese will be visiting the school here in T. a week from now: you will write a welcoming speech which I will pass on to the headmaster. It will be read to His Grace by a young pupil on behalf of the whole community. In it, you will show level-headedness, compassion and humility. Let us pray this exercise brings you back to the path of righteousness! I know you are a lost sheep who wants only to return to the flock. Each man in his darkness goes towards his Light! I have faith in you.’ (Sighs.)

  A young blonde girl in the garden of the presbytery. She stares at me curiously: Fr. Perrache introduces me to his niece Loïtia. She is wearing the navy blue uniform of a boarding school girl.

  Loïtia lights a paraffin lamp. The Savoyard furniture smells of wax polish. I like the chromolithograph on the left-hand wall. The priest gently lays a hand on my shoulder:

  ‘Schlemilovitch, you can write and tell your family that you are now in good hands. I shall see to your spiritual health. The mountain air will do the rest. And now, my boy, you are going to write the welcoming speech for the bishop. Loïtia, could you please bring us tea and some brioches? This man needs to build up his strength.’

  I look at Loïtia’s pretty face. The nuns at Notre-Dame-des-Fleurs insist that she wear her blonde hair in plaits but, thanks to me, soon she will let it tumble over her shoulders. Having decided to introduce her to the wonders of Brazil, I step into her uncle’s study and pen a welcoming speech for His Grace Nuits-Saint-Georges:

  ‘Your Grace,

  ‘In every parish of the noble diocese that it has pleased Providence to entrust to him, the Bishop Nuit-Saint-Georges is welcome, bringing as he does the comfort of his presence and the precious blessings of his ministry.

  ‘But he is particularly welcome here in the picturesque valley of T., renowned for its many-hued mantle of meadows and forests . . .

  ‘This same valley which a historian of recent memory called “a land of priests fondly attached to their spiritual leaders”. Here in this school built through magnanimous, sometimes heroic gestures . . . Your Grace is at home here . . . and an eddy of joyous impetuousness, stirring our little universe, has anticipated and solemnized your arrival.

  ‘Your Grace, you bring the comfort of your support and the light of your counsel to the teachers, your devoted collaborators whose task is a particularly thankless one; you bestow upon the pupils, the benevolence of your fatherly smile and an interest of which they strive to be deserving . . . We joyfully commend you as an informed educator, a friend to youth, a zealous promoter of all things that foster the influence of Christian Schools – a living reality and the promise of a bright future of our country.

  ‘For you, Your Grace, the well-tended lawns that flank the gates are freshly coiffed and a scattering of flowers – despite the bleakness of the season – sing their symphony of colours; for you, our House, ordinarily a buzzing, boisterous hive, is filled with contemplation and with silence; for you, the somewhat humdrum rhythm of classes and courses has interrupted its flow . . . This is a great and holy day, a day of serene joy and of good resolutions!

  ‘We wish to participate, Your Grace, in the great work of renewal and reconstruction on the building sites excavated in this new era by the Church and by France. Honoured by your visit and mindful of such counsel as you choose to offer, with joyful hearts we offer Your Grace the traditional filial salute:

  ‘Blessed be Bishop Nuits-Saint-Georges,

  ‘Heil to His Grace our Bishop!’

  I hope my work pleases Father Perrache and allows me to cultivate our precious friendship: my career in the white slave trade depends on it.

  Fortunately, he dissolves into tears as he reads from the first lines and lavishes me with praise. He will personally share the delights of my prose with the headmaster.

  Loïtia is sitting by the fire. Her head is tilted to one side, she has the pensive look of a girl in a Botticelli painting. She will be a big hit in the brothels of Rio next summer.

  Canon Saint-Gervais, the school principal, was very satisfied with my speech. At our first meeting, he suggested I might replace the history teacher, Fr. Ivan Canigou, who had disappeared without leaving a forwarding address. According to Saint-Gervais, Fr. Canigou, a handsome man, had been unable to resist his vocation as a missionary and planned to convert the Gentiles of Xinjiang; he would not be seen again in T. Through Fr. Perrache, the Canon knew of my studies for the École Normale Supèrieure and had no doubts as to my talents as a historian.

  ‘You would take over from Fr. Canigou until we can find a new history teacher. It will give you something to keep you occupied. What do you say?’

  I raced to break the good news to Fr. Perrache.

  ‘I personally implored the Canon to find something to occupy your free time. Idleness is not good for you. To work, my child! You are back on the right path! Take care not to stray again!’

  I asked his permission to play belote which he readily gave. At the Café Municipal, Colonel Aravis, Forclaz-Manigot and Petit-Savarin greeted me warmly. I told them of my new post and we drank plum brandy from the Meuse and clapped each other on the back.

  At this particular point in my biography, I think it best to consult the newspapers. Did I enter a seminary as Perrache advised me? Henry Bordeaux’s article ‘Fr. Raphäel Schlemilovitch: a new “Curé d’Ars”’ (Action française, October 23, 19—) would seem to suggest as much: the novelist compliments me for the apostolic zeal I show in the tiny Savoie village of T.

  Meanwhile, I take long walks in the company of Loïtia. Her delightful uniform and her hair colour my Saturdays navy blue and blonde. We bump into Colonel Aravis, who gives us a knowing smile. Forclaz-Manigot and Petit-Savarin have even offered to stand witness at our wedding. Gradually, I forget the reasons why I came to Savoie and the sardonic smirk of Lévy-Vendôme. No, I will never deliver the innocent Loïtia into the hands of Brazilian pimps. I will settle permanently in T. Peacefully and humbly, I will go to work as a schoolteacher. By my side, I shall have a loving wife, an old priest, a kindly colonel, a genial lawyer and a pharmacist . . . Rain claws at the windows, the fire in the hearth gives off a gentle glow, monsieur l’abbé is speaking to me softly, Loïtia is bent over her needlework. From time to time our eyes meet. Fr. Perrache asks me to recite a poem . . .

  My heart, smile towards the future now . . .

  The bitter words I have allayed

  And darkling dreams have sent away.

  And then:

  . . . The fireside, the lamplight’s slender beam . . .

  At night, in my cramped hotel room, I write the first part of my memoir to be rid of my turbulent youth. I gaze confidently at the mountains and the forests, the Café Municipal and the church. The Jewish contortions are over. I hate the lies that caused me so much pain. The earth, the earth does not lie.

  Chest proudly puffed with fine resolutions, I took wing and set off to teach the history of France. Before my pupils, I indulged in a wild courtship of Joan of Arc. I set off on all the Crusades, I fought at Bouvines, at Rocroi, on the bridge at Arcola. I quickly realised, alas, that I lacked the furia francese. The blonde chevaliers outpaced me as we marched and the banners with their fleurs-de-lis fell from my hands. A Yiddish woman’s lament spoke to me of a death that wore no spurs, no plumes, no white gloves.

  In the end, when I could bear it no longer, I pointed my forefinger at Cran-Gevrier, my best pupil:

  ‘It was a Jew who broke the vase of Soissons! A Jew, d’you hear me! Write out a hundred times “It was a Jew who broke the vase of Soissons!” Learn your lessons, Cran-Gevrier! No marks, Cran-Gevrier! You will stay back after class!’

  Cran-Gevrier started to sob. So did I.

  I stalked out of the classroom and sent a telegram to Lévy-Vendôme to tell him I would deliver Loïtia the following Saturday. I suggested Geneva as a possible rendezvous for the handover. Then, I stayed up until three o’clock in the morning writing a critique of myself, ‘A Jew in the Countryside’, in which I derided my weakness for the French provinces. I did not mince words: ‘Having been a collaborationist Jew like Joanovici-Sachs, Raphäel Schlemilovitch is now playing out a “Back to the land” shtick of a Barrès-Pétain. How long before we get the squalid farce of the militarist Jew like Capitaine Dreyfus-Stroheim? The self-loathing Jew like Simone Weil-Céline? The eminent Jew in the mould of Proust-Daniel Halévy-Maurois? We would like Raphäel Schlemilovitch simply to be a Jew . . .’

  This act of contrition done, the world once again took on the colours that I love. Spotlights raked the village square, boots pounded the cobbled streets. Colonel Aravis was rudely awakened, as were Forclaz-Manigot, Gruffaz, Petit-Savarin, Fr. Perrache, my best pupil Cran-Gevrier and my fiancée Loïtia. They were interrogated about me. A Jew hiding out in the Haute-Savoie. A dangerous Jew. Public enemy number one. There was a price on my head. When had they last seen me? My friends would unquestionably turn me in. The Milice were already on their way to the Hôtel des Trois Glaciers. They broke down the door to my room. And there, sprawled on my bed, I waited, yes, I waited and whistled a minuet.

  I drink my last plum brandy at the Café Municipal. Colonel Aravis, the lawyer Forclaz-Manigot, the pharmacist Petit-Savarin and Gruffaz the baker wish me a safe journey.

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow night for our game of belote,’ I promise, ‘I’ll bring you some Swiss chocolate.’

  I tell Fr. Perrache that my father is staying in a hotel in Geneva and would like to spend the evening with me. He makes a little something for me to eat and tells me not to dawdle on the way back.

  I get off the bus at Veyrier-du-Lac and take up my position outside Notre-Dame-des-Fleurs. Soon afterwards, Loïtia comes through the wrought iron gates. After that, everything goes as I had planned. Her eyes shine as I talk to her of love, of empty promises, of abductions, of adventures, of swashbucklers. I lead her to Annecy coach station. From there we take a bus to Geneva. Cruseilles, Annemasse, Saint-Julien, Geneva, Rio de Janeiro. Giraudoux’s girls love to travel. This one, however, seems a little anxious. She reminds me she doesn’t have a suitcase. Don’t worry. We’ll buy everything we need when we get there. I’ll introduce her to my father, Vicomte Lévy-Vendôme, who will shower her with gifts. He’s very sweet, you’ll see. Bald. He has a monocle and a long jade cigarette-holder. Don’t be scared. This gentlemen means well. We cross the border. Quickly. We drink fruit juice at the bar of the Hôtel des Bergues while we wait for the vicomte. He strides up to us, flanked by his henchmen Mouloud and Mustapha. Quickly. He puffs nervously on his jade cigarette-holder. He adjusts his monocle and hands me an envelope stuffed with dollars.

  ‘Your wages! I’ll take care of the young lady! You have no time to lose! From Savoie you go to Normandy! Call me on my Bordeaux number as soon as you arrive!’

  Loïtia gives me a panicked glance. I tell her I will be right back.

  That night, I walked along the banks of the Rhône thinking of Jean Giraudoux, of Colette, Marivaux, Verlaine, Charles d’Orléans, Maurice Scève, Rémy Belleau and Corneille. I am coarse and crude compared to such people. I am unworthy. I ask their forgiveness for being born in the Île-de-France rather than Vilnius, Lithuania. I scarcely dare write in French: such a delicate language putrefies beneath my pen . . .

  I scrawl another fifty pages. After that, I shall give up literature. I swear it.

  In Normandy, I will put the finishing touches to my sentimental education. Fougeire-Jusquiames, a little town in Calvados, set off by a seventeenth-century château. As in T., I take a hotel room. This time, I pass myself off as a sales representative for exotic foods. I offer the manageress of Les Trois-Vikings some Turkish delight and question her about the lady of the manor, Véronique de Fougeire-Jusquiames. She tells me everything she knows: madame la marquise lives alone, the villagers see her only at high mass on Sundays. Every year, she organises a hunt. Tourists are allowed to visit the château on Saturday afternoons for three hundred francs a head. Gérard, the Marquise’s chauffeur, acts as guide.

  That same evening, I telephone Lévy-Vendôme to tell him I have arrived in Normandy. He implores me to carry out my mission as quickly as possible: our client, the Emir of Samandal, has been daily sending impatient telegrams threatening to cancel the contract if the merchandise is not delivered within the week. Clearly, Lévy-Vendôme does not understand the difficulties I face. How can I, Raphäel Schlemilovitch, make the acquaintance of a marquise overnight? Especially since I am not in Paris, but in Fougeire-Jusquiames, in the heart of rural France. Around here, no Jew, however handsome, would be allowed anywhere near the château except on Saturdays with all the other paying guests.

 

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