But when Marcheret came towards us and flung the contents of a champagne glass in your face, I thought I’d lose control. You flinched. He said crisply:
‘That’ll freshen up your ideas, won’t it, Chalva?’
He stood in front of us, his arms crossed. ‘It’s better than water,’ stuttered Wildmer. ‘It’s sparkling!’ You fumbled for a handkerchief to dry yourself with. Delvale and Lucien Remy made some cutting remarks about you which reduced the women to hysterics. Lestandi and Gerbère studied you curiously and suddenly realized they didn’t like the look of your face.
‘A sudden shower, eh, Chalva?’ said Marcheret, patting the back of your head as though you were a dog. You gave a feeble smile. ‘Yes, a nice shower. .’ you muttered.
The saddest thing was that you seemed to be apologizing. They went on with their conversations. Went on drinking. Laughing. How did it happen that, over the general hubbub, I overheard Lestandi say: ‘Excuse me, I’m going for a short stroll’? Before he had left the bar, I was on the steps in front of the auberge. And there we ran into each other. When he mentioned that he was going to stretch his legs a little, I asked, as casually as possible, whether I could go with him.
We followed the bridle path. And then we moved into the undergrowth. A grove of beech trees, where the early evening sunlight spread a nostalgic glow as in the paintings of Claude Lorrain. He said it was sensible of us to be out in the open air. He was very fond of the Forest of Fontainebleau. We talked about this and that. About the deep hush, about the magnificent trees.
‘Mature trees. . They must be about 120 years old.’ He laughed. ‘I bet you I won’t reach that age. .’
‘You never know. .’
He pointed to a squirrel scampering across the path twenty yards ahead. My palms were sweaty. I told him I enjoyed reading his weekly ‘gossip column’ in C’est la vie, that, in my opinion, what he was doing was a public work. Oh, he could hardly take any credit, he replied, he simply hated Jews, and Murraille’s magazine offered him the chance to express his views on the matter frankly. So different from the degenerate pre-war press. True, Murraille had a penchant for racketeering and easy money, and he was probably ‘half-Jewish’ but very soon Muraille would be ‘eliminated’ in favour of a ‘pure’ editorial team. People like Alin-Laubreaux, Zeitschel, Sayzille, Darquier, himself. And particularly Gerbère, the most talented of them. Comrades in arms.
‘What about you, are you interested in politics?’
I told him I was, and that I felt we needed a new broom.
‘A new cosh would serve just as well!’
And, as an example, he told me again about Schlossblau defiling the Promenade des Anglais. Apparently Schlossblau was now back to Paris and holed up in an apartment, and, he, Lestandi, knew the address. A little mention was all it would take for some armed thugs to come knocking. He was congratulating himself in advance on his good work.
It was getting dark. I decided to get on with it. I took a last look at Lestandi. He was chubby. A gourmet, certainly. I imagined him tucking into a plate of brandade de morue. And I thought of Gerbère too, with his schoolboy lisp and quivering buttocks. No, neither of them were firebrands and I mustn’t let them scare me.
We were walking through dense thickets.
‘Why bother going after Schlossblau?’ I said. ‘There are Jews all round you. .’
He didn’t understand and gave me a questioning look.
‘That man who had a glass of champagne thrown in his face just now. . you remember?’
He burst out laughing.
‘Of course. . We, Gerbère and I, thought he looked like a swindler.’
‘A Jew! I’m surprised you didn’t guess!’
‘Then what the hell’s he doing here with us?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know. .’
‘We’ll ask the bastard to show us his papers!’
‘No need.’
‘You mean you know him?’
I took a deep breath.
‘HE’S MY FATHER.’
I grabbed his throat until my thumbs hurt. I thought of you to give me strength. He stopped struggling.
It was silly, really, to have killed the fat slob.
I found them still at the bar at the auberge. As I went in, I bumped into Gerbère.
‘Have you seen Lestandi?’
‘No,’ I answered absent-mindedly.
‘Where can he have got to?’
He looked at me sharply and blocked my way.
‘He’ll be back,’ I said in a falsetto voice, quickly clearing my throat to cover my nervousness. ‘He probably went for a walk in the forest.’
‘You think so?’
The others were gathered round the bar while you sat in an armchair by the fireplace. I couldn’t see you very well in the dim light. There was only one light on, on the other side of the room.
‘What do you think of Lestandi?’
‘Great,’ I said.
He remained glued to my side. I couldn’t get away from his slimy presence.
‘I’m very fond of Lestandi. He has the mind, the soul of a “young Turk”, as we used to say at the École Normale.’
I nodded.
‘He lacks subtlety, but I don’t give a damn about that! We need brawlers right now!’
His words came in a torrent.
‘There’s been too much focus on niceties and hair-splitting! What we need, now, are young thugs to trample the flowerbeds!’
He was quivering from head to foot.
‘The day of the assassins has come! And I say, welcome!’
He said this in a furiously aggressive voice.
His eyes bored into me. I sense he wanted to say something but didn’t dare. At last:
‘It’s extraordinary how much you look like Albert Préjean. .’ He seemed to be overcome with languor. ‘Has no-one ever told you how like Albert Prejean you are?’
His voice cracked to become a poignant, almost inaudible whisper.
‘You remind me of my best friend at ENA, a marvellous boy. He died in ’36, fighting for Franco.’
I scarcely recognized him. He was getting more and more spineless. His head was about to drop on my shoulder.
‘I’d liked to see you again in Paris. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it?’
He shrouded me in a misty gaze.
‘I must go and write my column. You know. . “Jewish tennis”. . Tell Lestandi I couldn’t wait any longer. .’
I walked with him to his car. He clung to my arm, muttering unintelligibly. I was still mesmerized by the change which, in a few brief seconds, had seen him transformed into an old lady.
I helped him into the driving seat. He rolled down the window.
‘You’ll come and have dinner with me on the Rue Rataud. .?’ His puffy face was imploring.
‘Don’t forget, will you, mon petit. . I’m so lonely. .’
And he shot off at top speed.
You were still in the same place. A black mass slumped against the back of the chair. In the dim light one might easily wonder whether it was a person or a pile of overcoats? Everyone was ignoring you. Afraid of drawing attention to you, I kept my distance and joined the others.
Maud Gallas was telling how she had had to put Wildmer to bed dead drunk. It happened at least three times a week. The man was ruining his health, Lucien Remy had known him back when he was winning all the big races. Once, at Auteuil, a crowd of regulars at the racetrack had carried him off in triumph. He was called ‘The Centaur’. Back then, he only drank water.
‘All sportsmen become depressives as soon as they stop competing,’ observed Marcheret.
He quoted examples of retired sportsmen — Villaplane, Toto Grassin, Lou Brouillard. . Murraille shrugged: