His voice echoes strangely in the darkness. They have just found Annie, at the Grand Ermitage moscovite, in the Rue Caumartin. She was drunk, but promised to be at the town-hall tomorrow, on the dot of three.
When it came to exchanging rings, she took hers and threw it in Marcheret’s face. The mayor pretended not to notice. Guy tried to save the situation by roaring with laughter.
A rushed, impromptu wedding. Perhaps, a few brief references might be found in the newspapers of the day. I remember that Annie Murraille wore a fur coat and that her outfit, in mid-August, added to the uneasiness.
On the way back, they didn’t say a word. She walked arm in arm with her witness, Lucien Remy, a ‘variety artiste’ (according to what I gathered from the marriage certificate); and you, Marcheret’s witness, appeared there described as: ‘Baron Chalva Henri Deyckecaire, industrialist.’
Murraille weaved between Marcheret and his niece, cracking jokes to lighten the mood. Without success. He eventually grew tired and didn’t say another word. You and I brought up the rear of this strange cortège.
Lunch had been arranged at the Clos-Foucré. Towards five, some close friends, who had come down from Paris, gathered with their champagne glasses. Grève had set out the buffet in the garden.
We both hung back. And I observed. Many years have passed, but their faces, their gestures, their voices are seared on to my memory. There was Georges Lestandi, whose malicious ‘gossip’ and denunciations graced the front page of Murraille’s magazine every week. Fat, stentorian voice, a faint Bordeaux accent. Robert Delvale, director of the théâtre de l’Avenue, silver haired, a well preserved sixty, priding himself on being a ‘citizen’ of Montmartre, whose mythology he cultivated. Francois Gerbère, another of Murraille’s columnists, who specialized in frenzied editorials and calls for murder. Gerbère belonged to that school of hypersensitive boys who lisp and are happy to play the passionate militant or the brutal fascist. He had been bitten by the political bug shortly after graduating from the École Normale Supérieure. He had remained true to the — deeply provincial — spirit of his alma mater on the rue d’Ulm, indeed it was amazing that this thirty-eight-year-old student could be so savage.
Lucien Remy, the witness from the registry office. Physically, a charming thug, white teeth, hair gleaming with Bakerfix. He could sometimes be heard singing on Radio-Paris. He lived on the fringes of the underworld and the music-hall. And finally, Monique Joyce. Twenty-six, blonde, a deceptively innocent look. She had played a few roles on stage, but never made her mark. Murraille had a soft spot for her and her photograph often appeared on the cover of C’est la vie. There were articles about her. One such informed us she was ‘The most elegant Parisienne on the Côte d’Azur’. Sylviane Quimphe, Maud Gallas and Wildmer were, of course, among the guests.
Surrounded by all these people, Annie Murraille’s good-humour returned. She kissed Marcheret and said she was sorry and he slipped her wedding ring on her finger with a ceremonial air. Applause. The champagne glasses clinked. People called to each other and formed little groups. Lestandi, Delvale and Gerbère congratulated the bridegroom. In a corner, Murraille gossiped with Monique Joyce. Lucien Remy was a big hit with the women, if Sylviane Quimphe’s reactions were anything to go by. But he reserved his smile for Annie Murraille, who pressed against him assiduously. It was obvious they were very close. As the hosts, Maud Gallas and Wildmer brought round the drinks and the petits fours. I’ve got all the photographs of the ceremony here, in a little wallet, and I’ve looked at them a million times, until my eyes glaze over with tiredness, or tears.
We had been forgotten. We lay low, standing a little way off, and no one paid us any attention. I felt as if we’d stumbled into this strange garden-party by mistake. You seemed as much at a loss as I was. We should have left as soon as possible and I still don’t understand what came over me. I left you standing there and mechanically walked towards them.
Someone prodded me in the back. It was Murraille. He dragged me off and I found myself with Gerbère and Lestandi. Murraille introduced me as ‘a talented young journalist he had just commissioned’. At which Lestandi, half-patronising, half-ironic, favoured me with an ‘enchanté, my dear colleague’.
‘And what splendid things are you writing?’ Gerbère asked me.
‘Short stories.’
‘Short stories are a fine idea,’ put in Lestandi. ‘One doesn’t have to commit oneself. Neutral ground. What do you think, François?’
Murraille had slipped away. I would have liked to do the same.
‘Between ourselves,’ Gerbère said, ‘do you think we’re living at a time when one can still write short stories? I personally have no imagination.’
‘But a caustic wit!’ cried Lestandi.
‘Because I’m not afraid of stating the obvious. I give it to them good and hard, that’s all.’
‘And it’s terrific, François. Tell me, what are you cooking up for your next editorial?’
Gerbère took off his heavy horn-rimmed spectacles. He wiped the lenses, very slowly, with a handkerchief. Confident of the effect he was making.
‘A delightful little piece. It’s called: “Anyone for Jewish tennis?” I explain the rules of the game in three columns.’
‘And what exactly is “Jewish tennis”?’ asked Lestandi, grinning.
Gerbère gave the details. From what I gathered, it was a game for two players and could be played while strolling, or sitting outside a cafe. The first to spot a Jew, called out. Fifteen love. If his opponent should spot one, the score was fifteen-all. And so on. The winner was the one who notched up the most Jews. Points were calculated as they were in tennis. Nothing like it, according to Gerbère, for sharpening the reflexes of the French.
‘Believe it or not,’ he added dreamily, ‘I don’t even need to see THEIR faces. I can recognize THEM from behind! I swear!’
Other points were discussed. One thing nauseated him, Lestandi said: that those ‘bastards’ could still live it up on Côte d’Azur, sipping apéritifs in the Cintras of Cannes, Nice or Marseilles. He was preparing a series of ‘Rumour & Innuendo’ stories on the subject. He would name names. It was a civic duty to alert the relevant authorities. I turned round. You hadn’t moved. I wanted to give you a friendly wave. But they might notice and ask me who the fat man was, over there, at the bottom of the garden.
‘I’ve just come back from Nice,’ Lestandi said. ‘Not a single human face. Nothing but Blochs and Hirschfelds. It makes you sick. .’
‘Actually. .’ Gerbère suggested, ‘You’d only have to give their room numbers to the Ruhl Hotel. . It would make the work of the police easier. .’
They grew animated. Heated. I listened politely. I have to say I found them tedious. Two utterly ordinary men, of middling height, like millions of others in the streets. Lestandi wore braces. Someone else would probably have told them to shut up. But I’m a coward.
We drank several glasses of champagne. Lestandi was now entertaining us with an account of a certain Schlossblau, a cinema producer, ‘a frightful red-haired, purple-faced Jew’, he had recognized on the Promenade des Anglais. There was one, he promised, that he would definitely get to. The light was failing. The celebrations drifted from the garden into the bar. You followed the rest and came and sat next to me. . Then, as though hit with a jolt of electricity, the party came to life. A nervous jollity. At Marcheret’s request, Delvale gave us his impersonation of Aristide Bruant. But Montmartre was not his only source of inspiration. He had played farce and light comedy and had us in stitches with his puns and witticisms. I can see his spaniel eyes, his thin moustache. The way he waited eagerly for the audience to laugh which nauseated me. When he scored a hit he would shrug as though he did not care.