Place du Trocadéro. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda at my side, those two staunch companions. Maman used to tell me: ‘You get the friends you deserve.’ To which I’d always reply that men are much too garrulous for my taste, that I can’t stand the babble of blowflies that stream out of their mouths. It gives me a headache. Takes my breath away — and I’m short enough of breath already. The Lieutenant, for example, could talk the hind legs off a donkey. Every time I step into his office, he gets to his feet and with an ‘Ah, my young friend,’ or ‘Ah, mon petit’ he starts his spiel. After that, words come tumbling in a torrent so swift he scarcely has time to articulate them. The verbal torrent briefly abates, only to wash over me again a minute later. His voice grows increasingly shrill. Before long he’s chirping, the words choking in his throat. He taps his foot, waves his arms, twitches, hiccups, then suddenly becomes morose and lapses back into a monotone. He invariably concludes with: ‘Balls, my boy!’ uttered in an exhausted whisper.
The first time we met, he said: ‘I need you. We’ve got serious work to do. I work in the shadows alongside my men. Your mission is to infiltrate the enemy and to report back — as discreetly as possible — about what the bastards are up to.’ He made a clear distinction between us: he and his senior officers reaped the honour and the glory. The spying and the double-dealing fell to me. That night, re-reading the Anthology of Traitors from Alcibiades to Captain Dreyfus, it occurred to me that my particular disposition was well-suited to double-dealing and — why not? — to treason. Not enough moral fibre to be a hero. Too dispassionate and distracted to be a real villain. On the other hand, I was malleable, I had a fondness for action, and I was plainly good-natured.
We were driving along Avenue Kléber. Coco Lacour was yawning. Esmeralda had nodded off, her little head lolling against my shoulder. It’s high time they were in bed. Avenue Kléber. That other night we had taken the same route after leaving L’Heure Mauve, a cabaret club on the Champs-Élysées. A rather languid crowd were grouped together in red velvet booths or perched on bar stools: Lionel de Zieff, Costachesco, Lussatz, Méthode, Frau Sultana, Odicharvi, Lydia Stahl, Otto da Silva, the Chapochnikoff brothers. . Hot, muggy twilight. The trailing scent of Egyptian perfumes. Yes, there were still a few small islands in Paris where people tried to ignore ‘the disaster lately occurred’, where a pre-war hedonism and frivolity festered. Contemplating all those faces, I repeated to myself a phrase I had read somewhere: ‘Brash vulgarity that reeks of betrayal and murder. .’
Close to the bar a Victrola was playing:
Bonsoir
Jolie Madame
Je suis venu
Vous dire bonsoir. .
The Khedive and Monsieur Philibert led me outside. A white Bentley was parked at the foot of Rue Marbeuf. They sat next to the chauffeur while I sat in the back. The street lights spewed a soft bluish glow.
‘Don’t worry,’ the Khedive said, nodding at the driver. ‘Eddy has eyes like a cat.’
‘Just now,’ Monsieur Philibert said to me, taking me by the arm, ‘there are all sorts of opportunities just waiting for a young man. You just need to make the best of the situation, and I’m ready to help you, my boy. These are dangerous times we live in. Your hands are pale and slender, and you have a delicate sensibility. Be careful. I have only one piece of advice to offer: don’t play the hero. Keep your head down. Work with us. It’s either that, or martyrdom or the sanatorium.’ ‘A little casual double-crossing, for example — might that be of interest?’ the Khedive asked. ‘Very handsomely rewarded,’ added Monsieur Philibert. ‘. . and absolutely legal. We’ll supply you with a warrant card and a gun licence.’ ‘All you need do is infiltrate an underground network so we can break it up. You would keep us informed about the activities of the gentlemen in question.’ ‘As long as you’re careful, they won’t suspect you.’ ‘I think you inspire confidence.’ ‘You look as though butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.’ ‘And you have a pretty smile.’ ‘And beautiful eyes, my boy!’ ‘Traitors always have honest eyes.’ The torrent of words was flowing faster. By the end I had the feeling that they were talking at once. Swarms of blue butterflies fluttering from their mouths. . They could have anything they asked for — informer, hired killer, anything — if they would only shut up once in a while and let me sleep. Spy, turncoat, killer, butterflies…
‘We’re taking you to our new headquarters,’ Monsieur Philibert decided. ‘An hôtel particulier at 3 bis Cimarosa Square.’ ‘We’re having a little housewarming,’ added the Khedive. ‘With all our friends.’ ‘“Home, Sweet Home”,’ hummed Monsieur Philibert.
As I stepped into the living room, the ominous phrase came back to me: ‘A brash vulgarity reeks of betrayal and murder. .’ The gang were all there. With each passing moment, new faces appeared: Danos, Codébo, Reocreux, Vital-Léca, Robert le Pâle… The Chapochnikoff brothers poured champagne for everyone. ‘Shall we have a little tête-à-tête?’ the Khedive whispered to me. ‘So, what do you think? You’re white as a ghost. Would you care for a drink?’ He handed me a champagne glass filled to the brim with some pink liquid. ‘You see. .’ he said, throwing open the French doors and leading me on to the balcony, ‘. . from today I am master of an empire. We are no longer talking about acting as a reserve police force. This is going to be big business! Five hundred pimps and touts in our employ! Philibert will help me with the administrative side. I have made the most of the extraordinary events we have endured these past few months.’ The air was so muggy it fogged the living-room windows. Someone brought me another glass of pink liquid, which I drank, stifling an urge to retch. ‘And what is more. .’ — he stroked my cheek with the back of his hand — ‘you can advise me, guide me once in a while. I’ve had no education.’ (His voice had dropped to a whisper.) ‘At fourteen, the reformatory in Eysses. . the penal military unit overseas. . obscurity. . But I crave respectability, don’t you see?’ His eyes blazed. Viciously: ‘One day soon I shall be préfet de police. They’ll address me as MONSIEUR LE PRÉFET!’ He hammers both fists on the balcony railing: ‘MONSIEUR LE PRÉFET. . MONSIEUR LE PRÉ-FET!’ and immediately his eyes glazed and he stared into the middle distance.
On the square below, the trees gave off a delicate haze. I wanted to leave, but already it was probably too late. He’d grab my wrist, and even if I managed to break his grip I’d have to cross the living room, elbow my way through those dense groups, face an assaulting horde of buzzing wasps. I felt dizzy. Bright circles whirled around me, faster and faster, and my heart pounded fit to burst.
‘Feeling a little unwell?’ The Khedive takes me by the arm and leads me over to the sofa. The Chapochnikoff brothers — how many of them were there? — were scurrying around. Count Baruzzi took a wad of banknotes from a black briefcase to show to Frau Sultana. Farther off, Rachid von Rosenheim, Paulo Hayakawa, and Odicharvi were talking excitedly. There were others I couldn’t quite make out. As I watched, all these people seemed to be crumbling under the weight of their raucous chatter, their jerky movements, their heavy perfumes. Monsieur Philibert was holding out a green card slashed with a red stripe. ‘You are now a member of the Service; I’ve signed you up under the name “Swing Troubadour”.’ They all gathered around me, flourishing champagne flutes. ‘To Swing Troubadour!’ Lionel de Zieff roared and laughed until his face turned purple. ‘To Swing Troubadour!’ squealed Baroness Lydia.