Quiet conversations take place between men and women of wealth and power at these upholstered enclaves, in calculated shadows under spotlit paintings and woven cloth from centuries ago. Frequently they are opening dialogues, testing questions that as often as not are resolved in boardrooms peopled by chairmen and presidents, treasurers, and prides of lawyers. The movers and the shakers feel comfortable with the initial informality—the uncommitted explorations—of first meetings in this very formal room. The ceremonial environs somehow lend an air of ritualized disbelief; denials are not hard to come by later. The gallery also lives up to the implications of its name: within the fraternity of those who have achieved success on the international scene, it is said that if any of its members spend a certain length of time there, sooner or later he will run into almost everyone he knows. Therefore, if one does not care to be seen, he should go somewhere else.
The room was filling up, and waiters moved away from the raucous bar to take orders at the tables, knowing where the real money was. Converse found two chairs at the far end, where the dim light was even more subdued. He looked at his watch and was barely able to read it. Forty minutes had passed since his call to René, a shower taking up the time as it washed away the sweat-stained dirt of his all-day journey from Mykonos. Placing his cigarettes and lighter on the table, he ordered a drink from an alert waiter, his eyes on the marble entrance to the room.
Twelve minutes later he saw him. Mattilon walked energetically out of the harsh glare of the street lobby into the soft light of the gallery. He stopped for a moment, squinting, then nodded. He started down the center of the carpeted floor, his eyes leveled at Joel from a distance, a broad, genuine smile on his face. René Mattilon was in his mid to late fifties, but his stride, like his outlook, was that of a younger man. There was about him that aura peculiar to successful trial lawyers; his confidence was apparent because it was the essence of his success, yet it was born of diligence, not merely ego and performance. He was the secure actor comfortable in his role, his graying hair and blunt, masculine features all part of a calculated effect. Beyond that appearance, however, there was also something else, thought Joel, as he rose from his chair. René was a thoroughly decent man; it was a disarming conclusion. God knew they both had their flaws, but they were both decent men; perhaps that was why they enjoyed each other’s company.
A firm handshake preceded a brief embrace. The Frenchman sat down across from Converse as Joel signaled an attentive waiter. “Order in French,” Joel said. “I’d end up getting you a hot fudge sundae.”
“This man speaks better English than either of us. Campari and ice, please.”
“Merci, monsieur.” The waiter left.
“Thanks again for coming over,” said Converse. “I mean it.”
“I’m sure you do.… You look well, Joel, tired but well. That shocking business in Geneva must give you nightmares.”
“Not really. I told you, I was simply there.”
“Still, it might have been you. The newspapers said he died while you held his head.”
“I was the first one to reach him.”
“How horrible.”
“I’ve seen it happen before, René,” said Converse quietly, no comment in his voice.
“Yes, of course. You were better prepared than most, I imagine.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever prepared.… But it’s over. How about you? How are things?”
Mattilon shook his head, pinching his rugged, weather-beaten features into a sudden look of exasperation. “France is madness, of course, but we survive. For months and months now, there are more plans than are stored in an architect’s library, but the planners keep colliding with each other in government hallways. The courts are full, business thrives.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” The waiter returned with the Campari; both men nodded to him, and then Mattilon fixed his eyes on Joel. “No, I really am,” Converse continued as the waiter walked away. “You hear so many stories.”
“Is that why you’re in Paris?” The Frenchman studied Joel. “Because of the stories of our so-called upheavals? They’re not so earthshaking, you know, not so different from before. Not yet. Most private industry here was publicly financed through the government. But, naturally, not managed by government incompetents, and for that we pay. Is that what’s bothering you, or more to the point, your clients?”
Converse drank. “No, that’s not why I’m here. It’s something else.”
“You’re troubled, I can see that. Your customary glibness doesn’t fool me. I know you too well. So tell me, what’s so important? That was the word you used on the telephone.”
“Yes, I guess it was. It may have been too strong.” Joel drained his glass and reached for his cigarettes.
“Not from your eyes, my friend. I see them and I don’t see them. They’re filled with clouds.”
“You’ve got it wrong. As you said, I’m tired. I’ve been on planes all day, with some ungodly layovers.” He picked up his lighter, snapping it twice until the flame appeared.
“We haggle over foolishness. What is it?”
Converse lit a cigarette, consciously trying to sound casual as he spoke. “Do you know a private club called L’Etalon Blanc?”
“I know it, but I couldn’t get in the door,” replied the Frenchman, laughing. “I was a young, inconsequential lieutenant—worse, attached to the judge advocate—essentially with our forces to lend an appearance of legality, but, mind you, only an appearance. Murder was a misdemeanor, and rape to be congratulated. L’Etalon Blanc is a refuge for les grands militaires—and those rich enough or foolish enough to listen to their trumpets.”
“I want to meet someone who lunches there three or four times a week.”
“You can’t call him?”
“He doesn’t know me, doesn’t know I want to meet him. It’s got to be spontaneous.”
“Really? For Talbot, Brooks and Simon? That sounds most unusual.”
“It is. We may be dealing with someone we don’t want to deal with.”
“Ahh, missionary work. Who is he?”
“Will you keep it confidential? I mean that, not a word to anyone?”
“Do I breathe? If the name is in conflict with something on our schedule, I will tell you and, frankly, be of no help to you.”
“Fair enough. Jacques-Louis Bertholdier.”
Mattilon arched his brows in mock astonishment, less in mockery than in astonishment. “The emperor has all his clothes,” said the Frenchman, laughing quietly. “Regardless of who claims otherwise. You start at the top of the line, as they say in New York. No conflict, mon ami; he’s not in our league—as you also say.”
“Why not?”
“He moves with saints and warriors. Warriors who would be saints, and saints who would be warriors. Who has time for such façades?”
“You mean he’s not taken seriously?”
“Oh, no, he is. Very seriously, by those who have the time and the inclination to move abstract mountains. He is a pillar, Joel, grounded in heroic marble and himself immovable. He is the De Gaulle who never followed the original, and some say it is a pity.”
“What do you say?”
Mattilon frowned, then cocked his head in a Gallic shrug. “I’m not sure. God knows the country needed someone, and perhaps Bertholdier could have stepped in and steered a far better course than the one we embarked upon, but the times were not right. The Elysée had become an imperial court, and the people were tired of royal edicts, imperial sermons. Well, we don’t have those any longer; they’ve been supplanted by the dull, gray banalities of the workers’ credo. Perhaps it is a pity, although he could still do it, I imagine. He began his climb up Olympus when he was very young.”
“Wasn’t he part of the OAS? Salan’s rebels in Algeria? They were discredited, called a national disgrace.”
“That is a judgment even the intellectuals must reluctantly admit could be subject to revision. The way all of North Africa and th
e Middle East has gone, a French Algeria could be a trump card today.” Mattilon paused and brought his hand to his chin, his frown returning. “Why on earth would Talbot, Brooks and Simon walk away from Bertholdier? He may be a monarchist at heart, but God knows he’s honor personified. He’s regal, perhaps even pompous, but a very acceptable client for all of that.”
“We’ve heard things,” said Converse quietly, shrugging now himself, as if to lessen the credibility of hearsay evidence.
“Mon Dieu, not his women?” exclaimed Mattilon, laughing. “Come now, when will you grow up?”
“Not women.”
“What then?”
“Let’s say some of his associates, his acquaintances.”
“I hope you make the distinction, Joel. A man like Bertholdier can choose his associates certainly, but not his acquaintances. He walks into a room and everyone wants to be his friend—most claim he is a friend.”
“That’s what we want to find out. I want to bring up some names, see whether they are associates—or unremembered acquaintances.”
“Bien. Now you’re making sense. I can help; I will help. We shall have lunch at L’Etalon Blanc tomorrow and the next day. It is the middle of the week and Bertholdier will no doubt choose one or the other to dine there. If not, there’s always the day after.”
“I thought you couldn’t get in the door?”
“Not by myself, no. But I know someone who can, and he will be most obliging, I can assure you.”
“Why?”
“He wishes to talk with me whenever and wherever he can. He’s a dreadful bore and, unfortunately, speaks very little English—numbers mainly, and words like ‘In and out,’ or ‘Over and out,’ and ‘Dodger-Roger’ or ‘Roger-Dodger’ and ‘runway six’ or ‘Lift off five’ and all manner of incomprehensible phrases.”
“A pilot?”
“He flew the first Mirages, brilliantly, I might add, and never lets anyone forget it. I shall have to be the interpreter between you, which at least eliminates my having to initiate conversation. Do you know anything about the Mirage?”
“A jet’s a jet,” said Joel. “Pull and sweep out, what else is there?”
“Yes, he’s used that one, too. Pull and sweep something. I thought he was cleaning a kitchen.”
“Why does he always want to talk with you? I gather he’s a member of the club.”
“Very much so. We’re representing him in a futile case against an aircraft manufacturer. He had his own private jet, and lost his left foot in one of your crash landings—”
“Not mine, pal.”
“The door was jammed. He couldn’t ground-eject where he wished to, when the plane’s speed was sufficiently reduced for him to avoid a final collision.”
“He didn’t slap the right buttons.”
“He says he did.”
“There are at least two backups, including an instant manual, even on your equipment.”
“We’ve been made aware of that. It’s not the money, you understand; he’s enormously wealthy. It’s his pride. To lose brings into question his current—or if you will, latter-day—skills.”
“They’ll be a lot more in question under cross-examination. I assume you’ve told him that.”
“Very gently. It’s what we’re leading up to.”
“But in the meantime every conference is a hefty fee.”
“We’re also saving him from himself. If we did it swiftly or too crudely, he’d simply dismiss us and be driven to someone far less principled. Who else would take such a case? The government owns the plant now, and God knows it won’t pay.”
“Good point. What’ll you tell him about me? About the club?”
Mattilon smiled. “That as a former pilot and an attorney you can bring an expertise to his suit that might be helpful. As to L’Etalon Blanc, I shall suggest it, tell him you’d be impressed. I shall describe you as something of an Attila the Hun of the skies. How does that appeal to you?”
“With very little impact.”
“Can you carry it off?” asked the Frenchman. The question was sincere. “It would be one way to meet Bertholdier. My client and he are not simply acquaintances, they are friends.”
“I’ll carry it off.”
“Your having been a prisoner of war will be most helpful. If you see Bertholdier enter, and express a desire to meet him, such requests are not lightly refused former POW’s.”
“I wouldn’t press that too hard,” said Converse.
“Why not?”
“A little digging could turn up a rock that doesn’t belong in the soil.”
“Oh?” Mattilon’s brows arched again, neither in mockery nor in astonishment, simply surprise. “ ‘Digging,’ as you use it, implies something more than a spontaneous meeting with odd names spontaneously thrown about.”
“Does it?” Joel revolved his glass, annoyed with himself, knowing that any argument would only enlarge the lapse. “Sorry, it was an instinctive reaction. You know how I feel about that topic.”
“Yes, I do, and I forgot. How careless of me. I apologize.”
“Actually, I’d just as soon not use my own name. Do you mind?”
“You’re the missionary, not I. What shall we call you?” The Frenchman was now looking hard at Converse.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Mattilon squinted. “How about the name of your employer, Simon? If you meet Bertholdier, it might appeal to him. Le due de Saint-Simon was the purest chronicler of the monarchy.… Henry Simon. There must be ten thousand lawyers named Henry Simon in the States.”
“Simon it is.”
“You’ve told me everything, my friend?” asked René, his eyes noncommittal. “Everything you care to.”
“Yes, I have,” said Joel, his own eyes a blue-white wall. “Let’s have another drink.”
“I think not. It’s late and my current wife has malaise if her dinner is cold. She’s an excellent cook, incidentally.”
“You’re a lucky man.”
“Yes, I am.” Mattilon finished his drink, placed the glass on the table and spoke casually. “So was Valerie. I shall never forget that fantastic canard à l’orange she fixed for us three or four years ago in New York. Do you ever hear from her?”
“Hear and see,” answered Converse. “I had lunch with her in Boston last month. I gave her the alimony check and she picked up the tab. By the way, her paintings are beginning to sell.”
“I never doubted that they would.”
“She did.”
“Unnecessarily.… I always liked Val. If you see her again, please give her my affectionate best.”
“I will.”
Mattilon rose from the upholstered chair, his eyes no longer noncommittal. “Forgive me, I thought so often you were such a—matched pair, I believe is the expression. The passions dwindle, of course, but not the de suite, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do, and speaking for both of us, I thank you—for the misplaced concretion.”
“Je ne comprends pas.”
“Forget it, it’s antiquated—doesn’t mean anything. I’ll give her your affectionate best.”
“Merci. I’ll phone you in the morning.”
L’Etalon Blanc was a pacifist’s nightmare. The club’s heavy dark wood walls were covered with photographs and prints, interspersed with framed citations and glistening medals—red ribbons and gold and silver disks cushioned on black velvet. The prints were a visual record of heroic carnage going back two centuries, while the evolution in warfare was shown in photographs as the horses and caissons and sabers became motorcycles, tanks, planes and guns, but the scenes were not all that different because the theme was constant. Victorious men in uniform were depicted in moments of glory; whatever suffering there might have been was strangely absent. These men did not lose—no missing limbs or shattered faces here; these were the privileged warriors. Joel felt a profound fear as he studied the martial array. These were not ordinary men; they were hard and strong and th
e word ‘capability’ was written across their faces. What had Beale said on Mykonos? What had been the judgment of the Red Fox of Inchon, a man who knew whereof he spoke?
… I know what they can do when we ask them to do it. Yet how much more could they do if they asked it of themselves? wondered Joel. Without the impediments of vacillating civilian authorities?
“Luboque has just arrived,” said Mattilon quietly, coming up behind Converse. “I heard his voice in the lobby. Remember, you don’t have to overdo it—I’ll translate what I think is appropriate, anyway—but nod profoundly when he makes one of his angry remarks. Also laugh when he tells jokes; they’re dreadful, but he likes it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’ll give you an incentive. Bertholdier has a reservation for lunch. At his usual place, table eleven, by the window.”
“Where are we?” asked Joel, seeing the Frenchman’s pressed lips expressing minor triumph.
“Table twelve. Now.”
“If I ever need a lawyer, I’ll call you.”
“We’re terribly expensive. Come now, as they say in all those wonderful films of yours, ‘You’re on, Monsieur Simon.’ Play the role of Attila but don’t overplay it.”
“You know, René, for someone who speaks English as well as you do, you gravitate to the tritest phrases.”
“The English language and American phrases have very little in common, Joel, trite or otherwise.”
“Smart ass.”
“Need I say more?… Ahh, Monsieur Luboque, Serge, mon ami!”
Mattilon’s third eye had spotted the entrance of Serge Luboque; he turned around as the thumping became louder on the floor. Luboque was a short, slender man; his physique made one think of those jet pilots of the early period when compactness was a requirement. He was also very close to being a caricature of himself. His short, waxed moustache was affixed to a miniaturized face that was pinched in an expression of vaguely hostile dismissal directed at both no one and everyone. Whatever he had been before, Laboque was now a poseur who knew only how to posture. With all that was brilliant and exciting buried in the past, he had only the memories, the rest was anger.
The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel Page 10
