‘None of this really matters. .’
He liked living dangerously. He was going to ‘go even further’ in his next editorial.
Sylviane Quimphe took me to the stables every afternoon. During our rides, we often encountered a distinguished looking man of about sixty. I wouldn’t have paid him any particular attention had I not been struck by the look of contempt he gave us. No doubt he thought it disgraceful that people could still go riding and think about enjoying themselves ‘in these tragic times of ours’. We would not be fondly remembered in Seine-et-Marne. . Sylviane Quimphe’s behaviour was unlikely to add to our popularity. Trotting along the main street, she would talk in a loud voice, shriek with laughter.
In the rare moments I had to myself, I drafted the ‘serial’ for Murraille. He found ‘Confessions of a Society Chauffeur’ entirely satisfactory and commissioned three other stories. I had submitted ‘Confidences of an Academic Photographer’. There remained ‘Via Lesbos’ and ‘The Lady of the Studios’ which I tried to write as diligently as possible. Such were the labours I set myself in the hope of developing a relationship with you. Pornographer, gigolo, confidant to an alcoholic and to a blackmailer — what else would you have me do? Would I have to sink even lower to drag you out of your cesspit?
Now, I realize what a hopeless enterprise it was. You become interested in a man who vanished long ago. You try to question the people who knew him, but their traces disappeared with his. Of his life, only vague, often contradictory rumours remain, one or two pointers. Hard evidence? A postage stamp and a fake Légion d’honneur. So all one can do is imagine. I close my eyes. The bar of the Clos-Foucré and the colonial drawing-room of the ‘Villa Mektoub’. After all these years the furniture is covered with dust. A musty smell catches in my throat. Murraille, Marcheret, Sylviane Quimphe are standing motionless as waxworks. And you, you are slumped on a pouffe, your face frozen, your eyes staring.
It’s a strange idea, really, to go stirring up all these dead things.
The wedding was to take place the following day, but there was no news of Annie. Murraille tried desperately to reach her by telephone. Sylviane Quimphe consulted her diary and gave him the numbers of nightclubs where ‘that little fool’ was likely to be found. Chez Tonton: Trinite 87.42, Au Bosphore: Richelieu 94.03, El Garron: Vintimille 30.54, L’Etincelle. . Marcheret, silent, swallowed glass after glass of brandy. Between frantic calls, Murraille begged him to be patient. He had just been told that Annie had been at the Monte-Cristo at about eleven. With a bit of luck they’d ‘corner’ her at Djiguite or at L’Armorial. But Marcheret had lost heart. No, it was pointless. And you, on your pouffe, did your best to look devastated. Eventually you muttered:
‘Try Poisson d’Or, Odeon 90.95. .’
Marcheret looked up:
‘Nobody asked for your advice, Chalva. .’
You held your breath so as not to attract attention. You wished the ground would swallow you. Murraille, increasingly frantic, went on telephoning: Le Doge: Opéra 95.78, Chez Carrère: Balzac 59.60, Les Trois Valses: Vernet 15.27, Au Grand Large. .
You repeated timidly:
‘What about the Poisson d’Or: Odeon 90.95. .’
Murraille roared:
‘Just shut up, Chalva, will you?’
He was brandishing the telephone like a club, his knuckles white. Marcheret sipped his cognac slowly, then:
‘If he makes another sound, I’ll cut his tongue out with my razor. .! Yes, I mean you, Chalva. .’
I seized the opportunity to slip out on to the veranda. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs. The silence, the cool of the night. Alone at last. I looked thoughtfully at Marcheret’s Talbot, parked by the gate. The bodywork gleamed in the moonlight. He always left his keys on the dashboard. Neither he nor Murraille would have heard the sound of the engine. In twenty minutes, I could be in Paris. I would go back to my little room on the Boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr. I would not set foot outside again, until times were better. I would stop sticking my nose into things that didn’t concern me, stop taking unnecessary risks. You would have to fend for yourself. Every man for himself. But at the thought of leaving you alone with them I felt a painful spasm on the left-hand side of my chest. No, this was no time to desert you.
Behind me, someone pushed open the French window and came and sat on one of the veranda chairs. I turned and recognised your shadow in the half-light. I honestly hadn’t expected you to join me out here. I walked over to you cautiously like a butterfly catcher stalking a rare specimen that might take wing at any minute. It was I who broke the silence:
‘So, have they found Annie?’
‘Not yet.’
You stifled a laugh. Through the window I saw Murraille standing there, the telephone receiver wedged between cheek and shoulder. Sylviane Quimphe was putting a record on the gramophone. Marcheret, like an automaton, was pouring another drink.
‘They’re strange, your friends,’ I said.
‘They’re not my friends, they’re. . business acquaintances.’
You fumbled for something to light a cigarette and I found myself handing you the platinum lighter Sylviane Quimphe had given me.
‘You’re in business?’ I asked.
‘Have to do something.’
Again, a stifled laugh.
‘You work with Murraille?’
After a moment’s hesitation:
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s going well?’
‘Fair to middling.’
We had the whole night ahead of us to talk. The ‘initial contact’ I had long hoped for was finally about to happen. I was sure of it. From the drawing-room drifted the muted voice of a tango singer:
A la luz del candil. .
‘Shall we stretch our legs a little?’
‘Why not?’ you replied.
I gave a last glance towards the French window. The panes were misted and I could see only three large blots bathed in a yellowish fog. Perhaps they had fallen asleep. .
A la luz del candil. .
That song, snatches of which still reached me on the breeze at the far end of the driveway, puzzled me. Were we really in Seine-et-Marne or in some tropical country? San Salvador? Bahia Blanca? I opened the gate, tapped the bonnet of the Talbot. We had no need of it. In one stride, one great bound, we could be back in Paris. We floated along the main road, weightless.
‘Suppose they notice that you’ve given them the slip?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Coming from you, always so timid, so servile towards them, the remark astonished me. . For the first time, you appeared relaxed. We had turned up the Chemin du Bornage. You were whistling and you even attempted a tango step; and I was fast succumbing to a suspicious state of euphoria. You said: ‘Come and take a tour of my house,’ as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
At this point, I realise I’m dreaming, and so I avoid any sudden gestures for fear of waking. We cross the overgrown garden, step into the hall and you double-lock the door. You nod towards various overcoats lying on the floor.
‘Put one on, it’s freezing here.’
It’s true. My teeth are chattering. You still don’t really know your way around because you have difficulty in finding the light-switch. A sofa, a few wing chairs, armchairs covered with dustsheets. There are several bulbs missing from the ceiling light. On a chest of drawers, between the two windows, a bunch of dried flowers. I presume that you usually avoid this room, but that tonight you wanted to honour me. We stand there, both of us embarrassed. Finally you say: