VI
It was an evening in early October in the year 1973. A Saturday, seven o’clock. In the bookstore on Rue de Marivaux where I happened to be, they had turned on the radio. The music was suddenly interrupted, and they announced that war had begun, in the Middle East, against the Jews.
I left the bookstore, with several old volumes of Porto-Riche’s theater under my arm. I walked quickly, at random. Still, I remember that I walked by the Madeleine church and that I followed Boulevard Haussmann.
That evening, I sensed that something was coming to an end. My youth? I was certain nothing would ever be the same, and I can pinpoint the exact moment when everything changed for me: as I left the bookstore. But no doubt many people, at the same hour, were experiencing the same anxiety, because it was that evening that what they call the “crisis” began, and we entered a new era.
It was dark. On Place Saint-Augustin, on the balcony of a building, letters were shining: JEANNE GATINEAU. The square was abuzz with activity and I walked by the display window of a shop where I used to try on shoes and winter parkas when I was a child. I found myself at the beginning of Avenue de Messine and followed it without meeting a soul. I heard the shuddering of the plane trees. Up ahead, at the end of the avenue, facing the gilded gates of Parc Monceau, stood a café whose name I’ve forgotten. I sat at a table, near the windows of the glassed-in terrace, and before me I saw Rue de Lisbonne, its rectilinear façades vanishing toward the horizon. I ordered an espresso. I thought about the war, and my eyes followed the slow fall of a dead leaf, a leaf from the plane tree opposite me.
There were only two of us in the place at that late hour. They had shut off the fluorescents in the main room, but an overly bright light still fell on the terrace.
He was sitting near me, two or three tables away, and staring at a building façade on the other side of the avenue. A man of about sixty, whose navy-blue overcoat was of a heavy and outdated cut. I remember his face, a bit unfocused, round, pale eyes, and his gray mustache and hair, which was meticulously combed back. He held a cigarette between his lips, on which he puffed distractedly. On the table, a glass half-full of some pink liquid. I don’t believe he noticed my presence. Still, at a certain point, he turned his head toward me, and I still wonder whether I did or didn’t make eye contact. Did he see me? He sipped his pink drink. He continued his observation of the building façade, perhaps waiting for someone to come outside. He rummaged in a plastic bag leaning against his chair and took out a small package shaped like a pyramid, sky blue in color.
I got up and went downstairs to the telephone. I verified in the 1973 phone book the address of someone I was supposed to meet the next day, then looked up other names at random. Some of them, which evoked a distant past, were now listed again, and I went from surprise to surprise: CATONI DE WIET, unreachable for fifteen years, reappeared at 80 Avenue Victor-Hugo—Passy 47-22. On the other hand, no trace left of “Reynolde,” or of “Douglas Eyben,” or of “Toddie Werner,” or of “Georges Dismaïlov,” or of so many others that we’ll run into again someday . . . I sometimes amuse myself with these pointless verifications. It lasted fifteen or twenty minutes, more or less.
When I came back to the terrace, the man with the navy-blue overcoat was bent forward with his chest and head on the table. I could see the top of his skull. His right arm was hanging limp; the other one was folded and seemed to be protecting the glass of grenadine and the plastic bag, like a schoolboy who doesn’t want his classmate to crib his answers. He wasn’t moving. I paid for my espresso. The waiter tapped him gently on the shoulder, then shook him a bit more forcefully, without getting any reaction. After a while, it became clear he was dead. They called the police. I was standing near his table in a daze, staring at him. His glass was empty and the plastic bag sat open. What was in it? The waiter and someone who must have been the owner—a fat redhead in an open-necked white shirt—kept asking each other, in voices that grew increasingly shrill and staccato, how something like this could have happened.
The police van stopped near Rue de Monceau. Two uniforms and a plainclothesman joined us. I turned away. I think they were making sure the man was dead.
The plainclothes detective asked me to follow him as a “witness,” and I didn’t dare tell him I hadn’t seen a thing. The café owner was sweating and fixed me with a worried stare. He probably thought I was going to refuse, because when I said yes he let out a sigh and nodded in gratitude. He told them, “This gentleman will explain everything,” and he couldn’t wait for us to leave. They carried the man out on a stretcher to the police van. I followed, holding his plastic bag.
The van turned onto Rue de Lisbonne. It went faster and faster down that empty street and I had to grip the edge of the bench to keep from falling. The plainclothesman was on the opposite bench. A blond with a face like a sheep and marcelled hair. The stretcher was between us. I took care not to look at the man. The blond with the sheep’s face offered me a cigarette that I refused. My left hand was still clutching the plastic bag.
At the police station, they asked me what had happened and typed up my deposition. No big deal. I explained that the man had collapsed on the table soon after drinking his grenadine. They rummaged in the black plastic bag, from which they pulled a professional-grade compact tape recorder and the sky-blue pyramid-shaped package that I’d already noticed. It contained a pastry of the type called a napoleon.
In one of his jacket pockets, they found a leather wallet containing his identity card, an old photograph, and various other papers. And so we learned that his name was André Bourlagoff, born in Saint Petersburg in 1913. He had been a French citizen since 1934 and worked for a company on Rue de Berri that rented out tape recorders. His job consisted of retrieving the tape recorders at the homes of customers who hadn’t returned them on time. For this, he received a rather paltry salary. He lived in a furnished apartment on Rue de la Convention, in the 15th arrondissement.
The photograph was very dog-eared and at least fifty years old, judging by the clothes and décor. It showed two privileged-looking young people sitting on a sofa, and between them a curly-haired child of about two.
One file card concerned the tape recorder that Bourlagoff was carrying in his plastic bag. It gave the address of the customer who had rented the machine—45 Rue de Courcelles—with his name and the fee he had paid. Bourlagoff, when he’d sat at the café terrace, had therefore just come from 45 Rue de Courcelles, a bit farther down the street.
They gave me this information as a courtesy. I had asked because I wanted to know the name of that man and, if possible, a few more details.
I left the police station. It was ten in the evening. Again I walked across Place Saint-Augustin and the name JEANNE GATINEAU still shone on the balcony, its glare softened by the fog. Farther on, the sound of my footsteps echoed beneath the deserted arcades of Rue de Rivoli. I stopped at the edge of Place de la Concorde. This fog worried me. It enveloped everything—the streetlamps, the lit fountains, the obelisk, the statues representing French cities—in a blanket of silence. And it smelled of ether.
I thought about the war that had started up again that day, in the East, and also about André Bourlagoff. Had the customer greeted him politely, earlier, when he had come to take back the tape recorder and ask for his money?
His was a thankless and rather obscure job. What path had he followed, this André Bourlagoff, from his furnished room on Rue de la Convention to 45 Rue de Courcelles? Had he gone on foot? In that case, he had surely crossed the Seine via the Bir-Hakeim bridge, with the rattle of the elevated trains overhead.
His life had begun in Russia, in Saint Petersburg, in the year 1913. One of those ochre palaces on the river. I traveled back in time to that year and slipped through the half-open door into the large sky-blue nursery. You were asleep, your tiny hand sticking out of the crib. Seems that today, you went for a long stroll up to the gardens of the Tauride and had a good appetite at dinner. Mlle. Coudreuse told me so
. This evening, we’ll stay at home, your mother and I, in the company of a few friends. Winter is coming and no doubt we’ll go spend a few days with you in the Crimea, or in our villa in Nice . . . But what good is it to make plans and think about the future? This evening, the clock in the hallway still rings the hours in crystalline tones. It watches over your childish slumber and protects you, like the lights, blinking, over there, near the Islands.
VII
Yes, of course, in that little cinema in the Ternes neighborhood, the bonus feature they were showing was Captain Van Mers.
Paris, a Saturday evening in August. After the main feature, most of the viewers had left the theater and only about a dozen people remained. When the lights dimmed, I felt a knot in my stomach.
The credits rolled by using a time-honored device: the pages of a diary turning slowly to the sound of gentle music. The letters were brownish and elongated. Bella’s name came before Bruce Tellegen’s, even though they both had lead roles. My own name came after that of the cameraman, with the heading “screenplay and dialogues by.” Finally, on the last page, red gothic lettering blared out: CAPTAIN VAN MERS.
A sizable yacht heads for an island that is still just a tiny green smudge on the horizon. And we see Bella standing on the prow, hair floating in the wind. The emerald of the sea and the blue of the sky are a bit too vibrant and bleed into each other. We had huge problems with the color. Nor was the sound quality entirely right. Nor the acting, for that matter. And the plot wasn’t especially compelling. But that evening, in that nearly empty auditorium, watching the projection of Captain Van Mers . . .
Seven years earlier, a producer named Yvon Stocklin had called me very late one evening, setting an appointment for the next day at his place. We would talk about a “project.” I didn’t know this Stocklin and I’ve often wondered how he had learned of my existence.
He welcomed me into an apartment on Avenue d’Iéna that contained not a stick of furniture. I followed him through the parade of empty rooms and we arrived at a salon with two folding chairs. We sat facing each other. He took a pipe from his pocket, stuffed it conscientiously, lit it, drew a puff, and held it between his teeth. I couldn’t look away from that pipe, which was the only stable and reassuring object in the midst of the emptiness and desolation of those surroundings. Later, I learned that Yvon Stocklin spent entire nights sitting on his bed and smoking his pipe. It was his way of fighting the unstable, fanciful nature of his job as a producer. An entire life frittered away for nada . . . When he smoked his pipe, he could finally feel like a man of substance, a “rock”—felt like he could, in his words, “put the pieces together.”
That evening, he immediately launched into his “idea.”
He wanted to hire me to adapt a novel for the screen, and rather than call one of those “top of the line” professional screenwriters with whom he had often worked—he cited two or three names that, since then, have been forgotten—he preferred to give carte blanche to a “youngster,” and a “writer,” to boot. It was a “fabulous” book, to which he’d just acquired the rights. It was called Capitaine des Mers du Sud: Captain of the South Seas. But because of the mainly Anglo-Dutch co-producers, they changed the film’s title to Captain Van Mers. Would I accept the “package”? With him, you had to decide very fast and “sight unseen.” No one ever regretted it. Yes or no?
Well, then, yes.
In that case, Georges Rollner, the director, was expecting us for dinner at the Pré Catelan.
The orchestra was playing waltzes and Rollner talked effusively. He repeated to Stocklin that it was a good idea to hire a “kid” like me. Both of them must have been at least in their fifties. Later, I found out that Stocklin had started out at Pathé-Natan. Rollner’s name wasn’t unfamiliar to me. He had had some hits in the ’50s, notably a poignant story about surgeons. He had gradually drifted into directing after having worked as studio manager, production assistant, and production manager. As much as Stocklin’s brachycephalic face, ruddy complexion, and blue eyes gave an illusory impression of solidity (he claimed to be of Savoyard stock), Rollner’s black eyes, outline, and smile gave off a fragile charm. Toward the end of the meal, I nonetheless asked about the novel.
Rollner immediately pulled from his jacket pocket a book of minuscule proportions and handed it to me. The novel was dated 1907 and had been published by Edouard Guillaume for his popular collection “Lotus Alba.”
“I’m entrusting you with Captain of the South Seas,” he said, smiling. “I hope we’ll do some good work together.”
The next day, I signed my contract at Stocklin’s, in Rollner’s presence. I immediately received six hundred thousand old francs, my name would figure on the poster and display advertising, and I would get a 2 percent share of “profits net of Production costs.” Stocklin decided I should leave the next day with Rollner for Port-Cros, where the movie was to be filmed. There, we’d work on the screenplay, which had to be “sewn up” as quickly as possible. Shooting would begin the following month. The crew was already standing by. They hadn’t yet cast all the parts, but that would take only a few more days.
In Port-Cros, Rollner and I settled into a small hotel at the back of a bay. He suggested I work on my own for a week. He left me “complete latitude” and recommended that I go straight into writing a “continuity.”
The book was so tiny and the type so microscopic that I had to face the facts: I would never manage to read Captain of the South Seas without a magnifying glass. The hotel didn’t have a magnifying glass. We rented a motorboat and went to Giens. We didn’t find one there, either. This seemed to amuse Rollner. He saw no reason not to continue our quest all the way to Toulon, but fortunately an optician in Hyères provided me with a loupe.
I got up late and worked afternoons. The story was about nineteenth-century pirates, but Rollner wanted it set in the present. For relaxation, I would join him in a little inlet he’d discovered. He dove continually from a pyramid-shaped boulder. He even executed a graceful swan dive. Diving had always had great importance and therapeutic value for him. It was the best way, he explained, to “recharge your batteries.”
I ended up thinking we were on holiday, he and I, like two old friends. The weather was glorious, and since it was June there weren’t any tourists yet. We dined on the hotel terrace, facing the bay. Rollner told me about his time in the RAF during the war, the most important event of his life. He had enlisted because he wanted to prove to himself and everyone else “that one could be Jewish and still be a flying ace.” Which he had been.
In two weeks, I finished the “adaptation” of Captain of the South Seas. I admit I dashed off the last thirty pages. When Rollner asked me to read him what I’d written, I felt a keen apprehension. Having never done this type of work, I was especially afraid that my “shot breakdown” wouldn’t be to his liking. (In fact, I’d scrupulously followed the order of the book, paragraph by paragraph.) As I read, Rollner’s attention began to flag; his mind was elsewhere. When I finished, he congratulated me. “Very lively, nice goddamn work,” he said in an affectionate voice. Then, after a moment’s reflection:
“Do you think you could add a sentence to the dialogue, somewhere?”
“Yes, sure, of course,” I said eagerly.
“Here it is . . . At a certain moment, the guy will say, ‘Just bear in mind, mister, that one can be Jewish and still be a flying ace . . .’”
Even though that remark had nothing to do with the story line, I managed to get it into the hero’s mouth.
Rollner was dead set on it. In fact, it was the only thing that mattered to him, as the prospect of making this movie visibly plunged him into a state of profound lethargy.
The crew—a rather minimal one—arrived one Sunday evening, carrying all the equipment. The yacht on which we’d shoot the first scenes was sitting in port; the producers had rented it from a Belgian baron. The supporting cast (three women and two men) disembarked on the island the following Tuesday.
We waited for the two stars, Bella F. and Bruce Tellegen.
In the middle of the afternoon, a huge motor craft stopped at the pontoon dock of the hotel. Two men got out, bearing a stretcher, while a third hoisted numerous valises of tawny-colored leather onto the quay. Rollner and I were sitting on the hotel terrace, and I think the cameraman and script girl were also with us. The others came forward. We immediately recognized the person they were carrying on the stretcher: Bruce Tellegen. Rollner stood up and waved. Tellegen had a three-day beard and his face was bathed in sweat. He was shivering with fever. When he saw Rollner, he said in a moribund voice:
“Georges Rollner, I presume?”
But already the two attendants were hauling him to his room. He remained bedridden. Rollner told me Tellegen was suffering the residual effects of an old case of malaria, and that this threatened to compromise the film. But he liked him and wanted to keep him, and personally he, Rollner, couldn’t care less if those insurance “bastards” now refused to “cover” Tellegen.
Meanwhile, Bella F. had arrived as well.
The first scenes took place on board the yacht, and since Tellegen didn’t figure in them, Rollner began shooting. He worked rather sluggishly, and I suspected he was hoping Tellegen’s illness would drag on long enough to give him an excuse to stop filming.
He asked me to stay in Port-Cros during shooting, as we might have to modify the screenplay, but to the end it remained exactly as I’d written it.
Twenty years earlier, Bruce Tellegen, our lead, had been one of Hollywood’s most visible young actors. He excelled in adventure films and swashbucklers, playing Lagardère, Quentin Durward, and the Scarlet Pimpernel with such vivacity and charm that he immediately earned great popularity. Then he took on different roles: missionary, explorer, solitary navigator. Each time, he played a hero of irreproachable purity whom life had sullied and who had been driven to despair by the cruelty of his fellow men. Audiences were moved by this mysterious, angelic figure who struggled against evil, often in vain and even with a certain masochism, since these films inevitably contained a scene in which Tellegen was savagely tortured . . . They said he liked those scenes. With each film, he lost a little of his magnetism. Drinking had a lot to do with it. So did age, for as he approached forty, he could no longer play roles that demanded exceptional physical fitness. And then, one morning, he had awoken with white hair.
Family Record Page 6
