‘I do a lot of business with the Baron,’ Marcheret tells me. ‘Don’t I, Chalva? Let’s drink to this! Grève, three vermouths please!’
We raise our glasses.
‘Soon we’ll be celebrating our first billion!’
He gives you a hearty slap on the back. We should get away from this place as quickly as possible. But where would we go? People like you and me are likely to be arrested on any street corner. Not a day goes by without police round-ups at train stations, cinemas and restaurants. Above all, avoid public places. Paris is like a great dark forest, filled with traps. We grope our way blindly. You have to admit it takes nerves of iron. And the heat doesn’t make things easier. I’ve never known such a sweltering summer. This evening, the temperature is stifling. Deadly. Marcheret’s collar is soaked with sweat. You’ve given up mopping your face and drops of sweat quiver for an instant at the end of your chin then drip steadily on to the table. The windows of the bar are closed. Not a breath of air. My clothes stick to my body as though I’d been caught in a downpour. Impossible to stand. Move an inch in this sauna and I would surely melt. But you don’t seem unduly bothered: I suppose you often got heatwaves like this in Egypt, huh? And Marcheret — he assures me that ‘it’s positively freezing compared with the desert’ and suggests I have another drink. No, really, I can’t drink any more. Oh come now, Monsieur Alexandre. . a little Americano. . I’m afraid of passing out. And now, through a misty haze, I see Murraille and Sylviane Quimphe coming towards us. Unless it is a mirage. (I’d like to ask Marcheret if mirages appear like that, through a mist, but I haven’t got the strength.) Murraille holds out his hand to me.
‘How are you, Serge?’
He calls me by my ‘Christian name’ for the first time; this familiarity makes me suspicious. As usual he’s wearing a dark sweater with a scarf tied round his neck. Sylviane Quimphe’s breasts are spilling out of her blouse and I notice that she isn’t wearing a bra, because of the heat. But then why does she still wear her jodhpurs and boots?
‘Shall we eat?’ suggests Murraille. ‘I’m starving.’
I manage to get to my feet. Murraille takes me by the arm:
‘Have you given any thought to our idea? As I said, I’ll give you a free hand. You can write whatever you like. The columns of my magazine are yours to command.’
Grève is waiting for us, in the dining-room. Our table is just underneath the centre light. All the windows are shut, naturally. It’s even hotter than in the bar. I sit between Murraille and Sylviane Quimphe. You’re placed opposite me, but I know in advance that you’ll avoid looking at me. Marcheret orders. The dishes he chooses seem hardly appropriate in this heat: lobster bisque, richly sauced meats, and a soufflé. No one dares argue with him. Gastronomy, it appears, is his particular domain.
‘We’ll have a white Bordeaux to start with! Then a Château-Pétrus! Is that alright?’
He clicks his tongue.
‘You didn’t come to the stables this morning,’ says Sylviane Quimphe. ‘I was expecting you.’
For two days, she has been making more and more explicit advances. She’s taken a fancy to me, and I don’t know why. Is it my air of being a well-bred young man? My tubercular pallor? Or does she simply want to irritate Murraille? (But is she his mistress?) I thought for a while that she was going around with Dédé Wildmer, the apoplectic ex-jockey who runs the stables.
‘Next time, you must keep your promise. You simply have to make it up to me. .’
She puts on her little-girl voice and I’m worried the others will notice. No. Murraille and Marcheret are deep in private conversation. You are staring into the middle distance. The light overhead is as bright as a spotlight. It beats down on me like a weight. I’m sweating so much at the wrists that it feels as though my veins are slashed and my blood is leaking away. How can I swallow this scalding lobster which Grève has just set down? Suddenly Marcheret gets up:
‘My friends, I want to make an important announcement: I’m getting married in three days! Chalva will be my witness! Honour to whom honour is due! Any objections, Chalva?’
You screw your face into a smile. You murmur:
‘I’m delighted, Guy!’
‘To the health of Jean Murraille, my future uncle-in-law,’ roars Marcheret, throwing out his chest.
I raise my glass with the others, but immediately set it down again. If I drank a single drop of this white Bordeaux, I think I’d throw up. I have to reserve my strength for the lobster bisque.
‘Jean, I’m very proud to be marrying your daughter,’ declares Marcheret. ‘She’s got the most unsettling derrière in Paris.’
Murraille roars with laughter.
‘Do you know Annie?’ Sylviane Quimphe asks me. ‘Who do you like best, her or me?’
I hesitate. And then I manage to say: ‘You!’ How much longer is this little farce going to last? She eyes me hungrily. Though I can’t be a very pleasant sight. . Sweat trickles from my sleeves. When will this nightmare end? The others are showing exceptional staying powers. Not a sign of perspiration on the faces of Murraille, Marcheret and Sylviane Quimphe. A few drops trickle down your forehead, but nothing much. . And you tuck into your lobster bisque as if we were in an alpine chalet in mid-winter.
‘You’ve given up, Monsieur Alexandre?’ cries Marcheret. ‘You shouldn’t! The soup has a velvety creaminess!’
‘Our friend is suffering from the heat,’ Murraille says. ‘I do hope, Serge, that it won’t prevent your writing a good piece. . I warn you that I must have it by next week. Have you thought of a subject?’
If I wasn’t in such a critical condition, I would hit him. How can this mercenary traitor think I will blithely agree to contribute to his magazine, to get mixed up with this shower of informers, blackmailers and corrupt hacks who have flaunted themselves for the past two years on every page of C’est la vie? Ha, ha! They’ve got it coming to them. Bastards. Shits. Shysters. Vultures. They’re living on borrowed time! Didn’t Murraille himself show me the threatening letters they receive? He’s afraid.
‘I’ve just thought of something,’ he says. ‘Suppose you hatch me up a story?’
‘All right!’
I tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible.
‘Something spicy, if you catch my drift?’
‘Absolutely!’
It’s too hot to argue.
‘Not pornographic exactly, but risqué. . a little smutty. . What do you think, Serge?’
‘With pleasure.’
Whatever he wants! I’ll write under my assumed name. But first I need to show willing. He’s waiting for me to suggest something, so here I go!
‘It’s something I’d want you to run in instalments. .’
‘An excellent idea!’
‘In the form of “confessions”. That makes it a lot more titillating. How about: “The Confessions of a Society Chauffeur”.’
I’d just remembered this title, which I’d seen in a pre-war magazine.
‘Marvellous, Serge, marvellous! “The Confessions of a Society Chauffeur”! You’re a genius!’
He seemed genuinely enthusiastic.
‘When can I have the first instalment?’
‘In three days,’ I tell him.
‘Will you let me read them before anyone else?’ Sylviane Quimphe whispers.
‘I simply adore filthy stories.’ Marcheret declares pompously: ‘You mustn’t let us down, Monsieur Alexandre!’
Grève served the meat course. I don’t know if it was the heat, the blaze of the ceiling light boring into my head, the sight of the rich food set in front of me, but I was suddenly seized by a fit of giggles which quickly gave way to a state of complete exhaustion. I tried to catch your eye. Without success. I didn’t dare look at Murraille or Marcheret in case they spoke to me. In desperation, I focussed on the beauty spot at the corner of Sylviane Quimphe’s lips. Then I simply waited, telling myself that the nightmare would surely end.