He looked again at the slumped, exhausted solider. He would never truly know what his son had experienced, he would have to make do with the stories told by others, the stories of his son-in-law, for example, heroic anecdotes as dishonest as the letter from Édouard’s comrade, these lies were all that he would ever have, he could never know the truth now. Everything was dead. He closed the notebook and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Though she did not show it, Madeleine was surprised by her father’s reaction. His impulsive visit to the cemetery, his tears, so unexpected . . . The gulf that had separated Édouard from his father had always seemed to her a geographical fact set down in the mists of time, as though the two men were separate continents on shifting tectonic plates that could not come together without creating a tidal wave. She had lived through it all, had witnessed it all. As Édouard grew up, she had seen her father’s doubts and suspicions harden into withdrawal, rejection, hostility, anger, disavowal. Édouard’s feelings had moved in the opposite direction: what at first had been a need for affection, for protection, gradually transformed into provocation and petulant outbursts.
Into a declaration of war.
Because the war in which Édouard met his death had been declared long before in his family between a father who was as harsh and inflexible as a German and this rakish, reckless, shallow, charming son. It had begun with discreet troop maneuvers—Édouard would have been eight or nine—signaling anxiety in both camps. The father had first been preoccupied, then fretful. Two years later, as his son grew, when there was no longer any doubt, he became cold, distant, contemptuous. Édouard, meanwhile, became rebellious and seditious.
The gap continued to widen until there was silence, a silence that Madeleine could not date precisely, when the warring factions ceased to communicate and, rejecting battle and confrontation, lapsed into wordless hostility and feigned indifference. It must have been a long time ago, because, try as she might, she could not remember the moment when pitched battle tipped into a dormant civil war, a series of skirmishes. Doubtless it had been triggered by a specific incident, but she had not noticed. One day, when Édouard was about twelve or thirteen, she realized that father and son now communicated only through her.
She spent her adolescence in the role of a diplomat who, being stationed between implacable enemies, is forced to make endless compromises, to listen to the grievances of both sides, to defuse hostilities, to allay the constant violent impulses. And spending so much time taking care of these two men, she did not realize that she was unattractive. Not ugly, but decidedly ordinary, at an age when being ordinary meant being less attractive than so many others. Then one day, tired of finding herself too often surrounded by dazzling young women—rich men marry pretty women who will give them beautiful children—Madeleine knew that she was not beautiful. She had been sixteen, perhaps seventeen. Her father kissed her on the forehead, but he did not even see her. There was no woman in the house to tell her what she should do, how she might make something of herself, she had to imagine, to observe other women, copy them, but never quite equal them. It was all the more difficult since she had little taste for such frivolities. She could see that her youth, which might have made her beautiful or at least striking, was melting away because no one thought to nurture it. She had money, true, of that there was no shortage in the Péricourt house, in fact it was all there was, and so she hired girls to do her make-up, manicurists, beauticians, dressmakers, more perhaps than she needed. Madeleine was not an ugly duckling, she was a lonely girl. The one man whose loving gaze might have given her the confidence to grow to be a happy woman was constantly occupied—a word that conjured a country under enemy control—by adversaries, by business, by rivals he needed to crush, by the fluctuations of the Bourse, by political connections, and, incidentally, by the son he ignored (a task that took considerable time). There were so many things that made him say, “Ah, Madeleine, there you are, I didn’t see you, along to the salon, will you, I’ve work to do,” failing to notice that she had changed her hair, that she was wearing a new dress.
And aside from an affectionate yet undemonstrative father, there was Édouard, at ten, at twelve, at fifteen, bursting with life, Édouard the apocalyptic, the performer, the actor, the fool, the outrageous, the glowing ember, the creative spark. It was Édouard who drew pictures three feet high on the walls that set servants howling and red-faced maids laughing and biting their fists, so lifelike was the caricature of M. Péricourt as a lecherous devil clutching his prick in both hands. Madeleine had wiped her eyes and quickly called the decorators. M. Péricourt would be surprised to find workmen in the house when he came home. Madeleine would explain, a little accident, nothing serious, Papa, she was sixteen and he would say, thank you, chérie, grateful that someone was taking care of the house, of the routine matters, he could not be everywhere at once. Because he had tried everything and nothing had worked, nannies, governesses, private tutors, au pairs, all of them left. There was something demonic about the boy, he’s not normal, take my word for it. “Normal,” the word that M. Péricourt clung to because it accurately described a father-son relationship that did not exist.
M. Péricourt’s hostility to Édouard became visceral, for reasons Madeleine perfectly understood: Édouard behaved like a girl. How many times had she tried to teach him to laugh “normally,” lessons that invariably ended in tears—M. Péricourt’s hostility had become so ingrained that Madeleine was thankful these twin continents never collided; it was for the best.
When the family had learned of Édouard’s death, she had accepted M. Péricourt’s silent relief, in part because her father was all that she had left now (as you can see, there was a little of Princess Marya about her), in part because the war was over; though it had ended badly, it was over. She had thought long and hard before bringing home Édouard’s body. She missed him terribly; just knowing he was so far away—almost in a foreign country—made her heartsick. But it was impossible, the government had forbidden it. She weighed this fact—in this, as in many things, she acted like her father—and when she had come to her decision, nothing could stand in her way. She made tactful inquiries and the necessary discreet contacts, found people willing to undertake the task, and—initially against her father’s wishes and later without his consent—traveled to the place where her brother had died so she could bring him home and bury him in the vault where she too would one day be laid. Then she married the handsome Capitaine d’Aulnay-Pradelle, whom she had met there. We each settle down as best we can.
But, piecing together the fit of apoplexy at the Jockey Club, his unaccustomed weakness, and the sudden, shocking decision to go to a cemetery he seldom visited, and lastly his tears, Madeleine felt sorry for him. She felt devastated. The war was ended, the enemies might have been reconciled, but one of them was dead. It was a hollow peace. The family home in November 1919 was a desolate place.
In the late morning, Madeleine went upstairs, knocked at her father’s study door, and found him standing pensively by the window. Outside, passers-by were carrying bouquets of chrysanthemums, and faint bursts of military music drifted up from the street. Seeing her father brooding, Madeleine suggested he might like to come downstairs and have lunch with her for a change and he agreed, though he did not seem hungry, and in fact he scarcely ate a thing, sending the plates back untouched, sipping at a glass of water.
“Tell me . . .”
Madeleine wiped her mouth and gave him a questioning look.
“This comrade of your brother . . .”
“Albert Maillard.”
“If you say so . . . ,” M. Péricourt said feigning absentmindedness, “Was he . . . ?”
Madeleine nodded and smiled encouragingly.
“Appropriately thanked? Yes, of course.”
M. Péricourt bit his tongue. He found this habit in others of constantly anticipating how he felt and what he wanted to say so intensely irritating it almost made him want to rage like old P
rince Bolkonsky.
“No,” he corrected gently, “I was going to suggest that perhaps we might . . .”
“Invite him?” Madeleine said. “Yes, of course, that’s a wonderful idea.”
They sat in silence for a long moment.
“Obviously, there’s no need to . . .”
Madeleine raised an amused eyebrow and waited for an end that did not come. Faced with boards of directors, M. Péricourt could cut someone short with a simple flicker of his eyes. With his daughter, he was incapable of finishing a sentence.
“Of course, Papa,” she said, smiling again, “no need to shout it from the rooftops.”
“It is no one’s business,” M. Péricourt concurred.
When he referred to “no one,” he meant “your husband.” Madeleine understood this and was not hurt.
He got to his feet, set down his napkin, smiled vaguely at his daughter, and made to leave.
“Oh, and, er . . . ,” he said, stopping for a moment as though he had just remembered some trivial detail, “. . . could you call Labourdin? Ask him to come see me.”
When he phrased things in this manner, it meant they were urgent.
Two hours later, M. Péricourt greeted Labourdin in the intimidating imperial grand salon. When the mayor arrived, he did not go to greet him, did not shake his hand. The two men remained standing. Labourdin was glistening. As always, he had rushed to get here, desperate to be of service, to prove himself useful, ever anxious to please—oh, how he would have loved to be a fille de joie.
“My dear friend . . .”
This was how their conversations invariably began. Labourdin was already aquiver with impatience. He was needed; he could be of service. M. Péricourt knew that his son-in-law exploited a number of his own connections and also knew that Labourdin had recently been appointed to the Adjudication Committee that had something to do with war graves—he had not followed the matter closely, but he was aware of the gist. Besides, if he needed to acquaint himself with the fine details, Labourdin would tell him. In fact, the mayor seemed about to do just that, convinced that this was the reason he had been summoned.
“The plans for a memorial in your arrondissement,” Péricourt said, “how far advanced are they?”
Labourdin, startled, clicked his tongue and stared wide eyed.
“Mon cher président . . .”
He addressed everyone as président because—like the ubiquitous dottore in Italy—these days, everyone was president of something and Labourdin preferred simple, pragmatic solutions.
“Mon cher président, the truth of the matter is . . .”
He felt mortified.
“Yes?” M. Péricourt said encouragingly. “It would be best to know the truth of the . . .”
“Well, we . . .”
Labourdin did not have the imagination to lie, even badly, so he blurted it out.
“We’ve got . . . nowhere.”
There. It was done.
Almost a year he had been working on the proposal. Because everyone was agreed that an unknown soldier at the Arc de Triomphe next year was utterly inadequate, the people in his arrondissement and the veterans’ associations wanted their own personal memorial. Everyone insisted; there had been a vote at the Conseil.
“We’ve appointed people!”
This was an indication of how seriously Labourdin had taken his task.
“But the obstacles, mon cher président, the obstacles! You cannot imagine . . .”
He was panting for breath at the mere thought of the obstacles. In addition to the technical difficulties, a public subscription needed to be organized, an open competition announced to solicit designs, a jury appointed, a site chosen, but there were no sites available, and most important, there were the financial obstacles.
“These things are ruinously expensive!”
There were constant arguments, and there was always some sort of delay, some insisted that their memorial be more impressive than the one planned in the neighboring arrondissement, there was talk of a commemorative plaque, of a fresco, everyone had an opinion, everyone knew best . . . Exhausted by the interminable squabbles, Labourdin had banged his fist on the table, then put his hat on and went to the nearest whorehouse to console himself.
“It’s the money, you understand . . . the coffers are empty, as I’m sure you’re aware. So the thing depends on the public subscription. But how will we raise it? Suppose we only raise enough to pay half the cost of the memorial, where would we find the rest? Because by then we would be committed.”
He marked a pregnant pause so that M. Péricourt could appreciate the woeful consequences.
“We could hardly say ‘Here, have your money back, we’re not going ahead.’ On the other hand, if we don’t raise enough money and end up erecting a pitiful little monument, well, from an electoral point of view, that would be the worst possible result, I am sure you will agree.”
M. Péricourt did agree.
“Honestly,” Labourdin said, clearly overwhelmed by the enormity of the task, “it might seem straightforward, but in actual fact it’s sheer hell!”
He had explained everything. He hiked up the front of his pants as if to say: I could do with a drink now. Péricourt heartily despised this little man, for all that he was capable of being surprisingly perceptive. As, for example, when he asked:
“But, monsieur le président, . . . why are you asking me about this?”
Fools can sometimes be surprising. The question was not a stupid one, M. Péricourt did not live in his arrondissement, so why should he be interested in someone else’s war memorial? It was an extremely pertinent, insightful question and, in Labourdin’s case, clearly a mental fluke. Even if he were dealing with an intelligent man—especially with an intelligent man—M. Péricourt would never stoop to sincerity, indeed he would be incapable, so he was hardly likely to do so when faced with this cretin . . . Besides, even had he wanted to, it was too convoluted to explain.
“I would like to make a gesture,” he said. “I shall pay for your memorial. In full.”
Labourdin’s jaw dropped, he blinked rapidly, well, well, well . . .
“Find a location,” Péricourt said. “Demolish something if need be. It’s important that it be striking, don’t you agree? It will cost whatever it costs. Announce a competition, appoint a jury for form’s sake, but I shall decide because I am paying for everything. As to any publicity regarding this . . .”
M. Péricourt had had a long career as a banker; half his fortune had been made on the Bourse, the other half from sundry businesses. It would have been a simple matter for him to go into politics; many of his fellow businessmen had succumbed to this temptation but had little to show for it. His success was based on his knowledge and expertise; he was loath to risk it in circumstances as uncertain and often fatuous as elections. Moreover, he was not a political animal. For that, one required an inflated sense of ego. No, his thing was money. And money thrives in the shadows. For M. Péricourt, discretion was the paramount virtue.
“As to publicity, it goes without saying I do not wish my name to be mentioned. Set up a charitable organization, a benevolent association, whatever you like; I will make the necessary grant. I will give you one year. The inauguration will take place on November 11 next. One more thing: the memorial is to be engraved with the names of all the fallen heroes born in the arrondissement. Do you understand? Every last one.”
This was a lot of information, and it took Labourdin a moment to digest it. By the time he had grasped what exactly it was he had to do and how swiftly the president wished to see it done, M. Péricourt was reaching a hand out toward him. Disconcerted, Labourdin mistakenly proffered his own hand and met only empty air as M. Péricourt simply patted him on the shoulder, then turned and retired to his apartment.
M. Péricourt stood by the window, stared unseeing at the street below, and brooded. Édouard’s name could not be engraved on the family tomb, so be it. But he would erect a monument. One t
ailor made. Édouard’s name would be carved there, surrounded by those of his comrades.
He pictured it in a beautiful little square.
In the heart of the arrondissement where he was born.
13
Stumbling through the driving rain, the shoebox tucked under one arm, his left hand swaddled in bandages, Albert pushed open the gate leading to a small courtyard heaped with door frames, wheels, tattered carriage hoods, broken chairs, useless things, one could not help but wonder how they came to be there and what possible purpose they could serve. There was mud everywhere, but Albert did not even try to use the paving stones set out like checkers, because the recent floods had shifted them so much he would have had to leap like an acrobat to avoid getting his feet wet. The rubber on his soles had worn through, and besides, such gymnastics were ill advised for one carrying a shoebox full of glass vials . . . He crossed the yard on tiptoe and reached the tiny building whose second floor had been converted to be rented out for two hundred francs—a pittance compared with the usual rents in Paris.
The Great Swindle Page 16
