Fats, head bowed, absorbed huge plates of green lasagna; then he heaved a sigh as he fell back in his chair, and immediately sank into a vacant stupor. At around one in the morning, I tapped him on the shoulder and we went home.
We took walks together. A taxi dropped us off at Piazza Albania and we climbed up the Aventine Hill. It was one of the places in Rome that Fats liked best, “because of the quiet,” he said. He would peer through the keyhole of the Knights of Malta Priory, beyond which you could spy the dome of St. Peter’s in the distance, and burst into hysterical laughter that always astounded me.
I never dared bring up his past, or the details that had helped forge his legend: breaking the bank in Deauville and Monte Carlo, his collections of toys, stamps, and old telephones, or his taste for phosphorescent ties, on which a naked woman appeared if you shimmied the fabric. Still, one evening at the restaurant, as he was wolfing down his lasagna, I said it was a shame to end up this way, after so many good fairies had watched over his crib.
He looked up and gazed at me through his opaque lenses. He told me he remembered the exact moment when he had decided to give up and let himself gain weight, feeling that “nothing mattered a damn” and that he’d wind up the same as Louis XVI, Nicholas Romanov, and Maximilian, the ill-starred emperor of Mexico. It was one night in 1942, in Egypt. Rommel’s forces were closing in from Cairo and a blackout enveloped the city. Fats sneaked into the Hotel Semiramis, incognito, and groped his way toward the bar. Not a glimmer of light. He stumbled against an armchair and fell on his back. And there, alone on the floor, in the dark, he was seized by wild, nervous laughter. He couldn’t stop laughing. That instant marked the beginning of his decline.
It was the only time he opened up to me. Now and then, he might speak Claude Chevreuse’s name. But that was all.
He invited us to his place for New Year’s Eve. He lived in a tiny apartment in a modern building in the Parioli neighborhood. He opened the door. He was wearing a frayed blue velvet dressing gown, with his first initial and the crown of his defunct kingdom embroidered on the pocket. He looked distraught when he realized Claude Chevreuse wasn’t with me. I told him that the show at the Open Gate would run longer than usual and Claude would be joining us very late.
In the small space with bare walls that served as his living room, Fats had set up a buffet: pastries, smoked-salmon sandwiches, and fruit. I noticed an old film projector on a barstool. It surprised me, but I didn’t ask any questions, for I already knew he wouldn’t answer.
He was glancing at his watch and perspiring.
“Do you think she’ll come, Poker?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Not to worry.”
“It’s midnight, Poker. Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year to you, sir.”
“Do you really think she’ll come?”
He gobbled down sandwich after sandwich to allay his anxiety. Then the pastries. Then the fruit. He collapsed onto a chair, took off his dark glasses, put on a pair with lightly tinted lenses and gold frames. He stared at me through dull eyes.
“Poker, you’re a nice boy. I feel like adopting you. What do you say?”
It seemed to me his eyes were misting up.
“I’m so lonely, Poker . . . But before adopting you, maybe I can bestow a title. How’d you like to be a bey? That all right?”
He bowed his head and we kept silent. I should have said thank you.
“Would you like me to read your cards, Poker?”
He took a deck of cards from the pocket of his gown and shuffled them. He was just starting to lay them out on the floor when we heard the doorbell buzz three times. It was Claude Chevreuse.
“Happy New Year! Buon anno! Auguri!” she cried, pacing back and forth across the living room in a state of excitement.
She was wearing her fake fur coat from the show. She hadn’t had time to remove her makeup and was in a very merry mood, from drinking champagne with friends. She kissed Fats on the forehead and both cheeks, leaving lipstick traces.
“What say we all go out? We’ll dance the night away!” she said. “I want to go to the Piccolo Siam . . .”
“First I’d like to show you a film,” Fats announced in a sober voice.
“No, no, let’s go out now! Let’s go right now! I want to go to the Piccolo Siam!”
She tried to push Fats toward the door, but he held her back and made her sit in one of the chairs.
“I’d like to show you a film,” he repeated.
“A film?” said Claude. “A film? He’s out of his mind!”
He turned off the lights and started up the projector. Claude shrieked with laughter. She turned toward me and undid her fake fur. She had nothing on but panties.
On the wall opposite us, the images were fuzzy at first, then came into focus. It was an old newsreel from at least thirty years before. A very handsome, very slim, very earnest young man was standing on the prow of a warship that was slowly entering the port of Alexandria. A huge crowd had swarmed into the harbor and we could see thousands upon thousands of waving arms. The ship berthed and the young man waved his arm back at the crowd. They broke through the police barriers and invaded the docks, and all those ecstatic faces were turned toward the young man on the ship. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, his father had just passed away, and as of the previous day he was king of Egypt. He seemed moved and intimidated by the fervor that rose toward him, the rapturous crowd, the city festooned. Everything was about to begin. The future shone bright. That young man, in all his promise, was Fats.
Claude yawned—champagne always made her sleepy. I turned toward Fats, who was sitting to the right of the projector that was sputtering like a machine gun. With his glasses, his puffy face, and his mustache, he looked fatter and more apathetic than ever.
XI
Another time, one Saturday evening in June, I left Paris with my Uncle Alex. We were in one of those Citroëns called a DS 19, and my uncle was driving. I was fourteen. We had taken the Western highway. On the unfolded map, I made a blue pencil X on the places we passed by. Since then, I’ve lost track of that map, and today I remember only one small town we passed through: Gisors. Was the property my Uncle Alex told me about located in the Eure or the Oise? An old mill up for sale at a “very attractive” price. My uncle had learned about it through a newspaper ad that he recited for me: “Charming mill all mod cons. Magnificent walled garden. River and orchard. Gorgeous village for outings.” He had gotten in touch with the man handling the sale, a local notary.
Night was falling when we saw the sign for the inn, and we followed the arrow onto a side road. A grand-looking inn in Anglo-Norman style. The dining room extended onto a terrace with a swimming pool next to it. There were stained-glass windows with multicolored diamond shapes, Louis XV pedestal tables, and wood paneling. No other diners, as it was still early. My Uncle Alex ordered two galantines, two haunches of venison, and a renowned Burgundy. The wine steward had him taste it. Uncle Alex took a large mouthful, puffed up his cheeks, and looked as if he were gargling. Finally he said:
“It’s nice . . . it’s nice . . . But not silky enough.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the steward, knitting his brow.
“Not silky enough,” repeated Uncle Alex with much less assurance.
And in an abrupt tone:
“But fine, it will do.”
When the steward left, I asked Uncle Alex:
“Why did you say it wasn’t ‘silky enough’?”
“It’s a term of the trade. He doesn’t know squat about wine.”
“And you do?”
“A fair amount.”
No, he didn’t know anything. He never drank.
“I could teach those pissant sommeliers a thing or two.”
He was shaking.
“Calm down, Uncle Alex,” I said.
And he got his smile back. He mumbled some excuse for my benefit. We finished our desserts—two tartes Tatin—and Uncle Alex said to me:
“You know, we’ve never really talked before, just the two of us.”
I sensed he wanted to confide in me. He tried to find the words.
“I feel like making a change.”
He’d taken on an uncharacteristically serious tone. I folded my arms to show that I was giving him my full attention.
“My dear Patrick . . . There comes a time when you have to take stock . . .”
I gave a small nod of agreement.
“You have to start fresh, on solid ground, you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You have to find your roots, you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t keep being a man from nowhere.”
He had given the syllables of “nowhere” a coquettish emphasis.
“A man from nowhere . . .”
And he pointed to himself with his left hand, bowing his head with an ingratiating half-smile. Once upon a time, it must have had quite an effect on the ladies.
“Your father and I are men from nowhere, you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know we don’t even have birth certificates . . . a civil status record . . . like everyone else?”
“Not even that?”
“It can’t go on like this. I’ve been mulling it over, and I’m convinced I’m right in having made this important decision.”
“What decision, Uncle Alex?”
“My boy, it’s very simple. I have decided to leave Paris and live in the country. I’ve been thinking a lot about that mill.”
“You’re going to buy it?”
“Very likely I will. I need to live in the country . . . I need to feel the earth and grass beneath my feet . . . It’s time, Patrick.”
“That sounds lovely, Uncle Alex.”
He himself was moved by what he had just said.
“The country is a great place to start over. Do you know what I dream about every night?”
“No.”
“A small village.”
A shadow of worry darkened his eyes.
“Do you think I look French enough? Tell me the truth.”
His black hair was brushed off his forehead; he had a wispy mustache, dark eyes, and very long eyelashes.
“What does that mean, to look French?” I asked.
“Good question . . .”
He pensively twirled his demitasse spoon in his cup.
“I’ve been thinking about your future, my dear Patrick,” he said. “I think I’ve found the perfect profession for you.”
“Have you?”
He lit a cigarette.
“A secure profession, because you never know what can happen in times like ours . . . It’s important that you avoid the mistakes your father and I made . . . We were on our own. We had no one to guide us. We wasted a lot of time . . . I’m going to take the liberty of giving you advice, my dear Patrick . . . Shall I tell you the profession?”
He laid a hand on my shoulder. He looked me deep in the eyes, and in a solemn, husky voice, he said:
“You should go into the lumber trade, Patrick. I can give you a pamphlet about it. What do you think?”
“I’ll have to let the idea sink in.”
“Read the pamphlet. We’ll talk some more.”
Uncle Alex had ordered an herb tea, which he drank in small sips.
“I wonder what that mill is like. Do you think they’ve kept the millstone?”
He must have been dreaming about this for days. The word “mill” set me dreaming as well. I could hear the sound of the water, picture a stream flowing through the wild grasses.
The wine steward approached our table. He made an embarrassed motion and coughed to attract Uncle Alex’s attention.
“Sir . . .” he finally said.
I tapped Uncle Alex on the shoulder.
“The gentleman would like to speak to you, Uncle Alex.”
Uncle Alex looked up at the steward.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Sir, I’d like to ask you for something . . .”
He blushed and lowered his eyes.
“What?”
“An autograph, sir.”
Uncle Alex stared at him, wide-eyed.
“You are the actor Gregory Ratoff, aren’t you?”
My Uncle Alex bolted up, his face purple.
“Certainly not, sir. I am French and my name is François Aubert.”
The other had a timid smile.
“No, sir. You are Gregory Ratoff . . . The Russian actor.”
My Uncle Alex pulled me along by the arm. We fled through the dining room and the bar. The steward pursued us.
“Please, Monsieur Ratoff . . . Just an autograph, Monsieur Ratoff . . .”
The bartender, intrigued, walked toward the steward making a questioning gesture.
“He’s a Russian actor . . . Gregory Ratoff . . .”
We had started up the stairs. With Uncle Alex pushing me, we climbed them four at a time. I stumbled and just managed to catch the railing. The other two were down below, looking up. They were waving.
“Monsieur Ratoff! . . . Monsieur Ratoff! . . . Monsieur Ratoff! . . .”
Uncle Alex collapsed onto one of the twin beds in our room. He closed his eyes.
“My name is François Aubert . . . François Aubert . . . Aubert . . .”
That night he slept poorly.
We had taken a wrong turn and arrived only at around noon in the village whose name I’d so like to recall. For these past fifteen years, I’ve scrutinized maps of the Eure, the Oise, and even the Orne regions, hoping to come across it. It was—I think—a melodious name ending in “-euil,” something like Vainteuil, or Verneuil, or Septeuil.
A small village whose main road was still paved as in olden times. The houses that bordered it, mostly farms, gave off an impression of calm and solidity. It was a beautiful day. An old man, sitting on the steps of the local café, swiveled his head to watch our car pass by.
My Uncle Alex was sorry we’d wasted a night in that inn. We should have made the trip in one go. The appointment with the notary had been set for eleven, and the man must be getting impatient. No, you don’t think so? We arrived at the square just as Mass was letting out, and we labored to look natural in our big fat automobile, while the crowd of worshipers flowed on either side of the DS 19 and stared in at us. Uncle Alex lowered his head. And suddenly, a projectile crashed against our windshield, which at its center was nothing more than glass dust, its specks holding together by a miracle.
“Just some kid messing around with his slingshot,” I told Uncle Alex.
“You really think it’s just a kid?”
We waited until everyone had left the square before getting out of the car. Uncle Alex locked the doors. He squeezed my arm, which was unusual and betrayed a deep anxiety. It didn’t take us long to find Rue Bunau-Varilla, where the notary was waiting for us, at number 8. A very short man, bald, sixtyish and affable. He was wearing—why did this strike me? and why do I always remember such precise and pointless details?—a glen plaid suit of very ample cut. His gaze filtered through squinting eyelids, as if through venetian blinds.
“Shall we go see the mill?” he said to my uncle. “I think you’ll like it. Personally, I’d be thrilled if you did.”
We got back into the DS 19, Uncle Alex and the notary in front, me in back. Uncle Alex drove blind, because of the shattered windshield.
“Was it a bird that did that?” asked the notary, pointing to the windshield.
“Why a bird?” asked my uncle.
“I’m a friend of the mill’s owner,” the notary said.
“Have you had many interested parties?”
“You’re the first.”
“Tell me, this mill . . . It is in the middle of the countryside, isn’t it?”
“Totally isolated.”
“And there’s a river, and grass?” asked Uncle Alex, enchanted.
“Of course.”
“And willows on the riverbank?”
“No. But there are quite a number of different trees.”
“Tell me . . . this is a stupid question . . . I feel silly even asking . . .”
“Please, ask away,” the notary said in a very gentle voice.
“It’s a long-standing dream of mine . . . You know, there’s that song . . . I’ll try to sing it for you . . .”
This was the first time Uncle Alex had ever mentioned a song.
“These are the words . . .”
He hesitated as if he were about to let loose with an obscenity.
When next you see your river,
With the fields and woods all ’round . . .
And the crumbling bench near the old stone wall . . .
There was a moment of silence.
“Is the mill like in that song?” Uncle Alex finally asked.
“You’ll see for yourself, sir.”
We left the village and Uncle Alex had a hard time driving. I had to warn him when cars were approaching from the other direction. The notary showed us a road to the left; the moment we turned onto it, the windshield collapsed onto the dashboard in a shower of glass.
“It’ll be easier to see this way,” said Uncle Alex.
The notary pointed to a white wooden gate, with a wall on either side.
“Here it is, gentlemen.”
We pushed open the gate, and I just had time to glimpse a wooden plaque on the right-hand wall that said, in faux-Chinese lettering, Yangtse Mill.
“Yangtse Mill?” I asked the notary.
“Yes.”
He nodded, looking embarrassed.
“Why ‘Yangtse’?” asked Uncle Alex, with an anxious face.
Family Record Page 10
