‘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 nightmares 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.