I bowled into the courtyard at Grove House at about six and the first thing I saw was the red car with the Reggio Emilia numberplate. I barged in the kitchen door and there he was being fed a high tea of bacon and eggs and sausages and toast and marmalade and Eileen O’Connor fussing over him like an old hen. He looked up and then continued eating as if it was the most normal thing in the world to meet after Morelia, Mexico, in Piltown, County Kilkenny, Ireland.
Dermot asked, in between mouthfuls, “All buttoned up then? Film in the can? Avedon shaking in his shoes? The Marlboro Man falling out of the saddle? You going on to Paris tonight then?”
I said, “Eileen, get me some rashers and eggs and don’t be treating this fellow like the prodigal son. He’s a spoiled brat. A miserable specimen. Wait till I tell you. By the way, Lothario, what happened to Nana the Troll? That must have been a fast fix.”
He said, “She came to Ireland with me but I sent her back. Sex and Ireland didn’t mix somehow.”
“You actually brought her here? To this house?”
“No. I took her to Cork and we went through this village like a dose of salts. Couldn’t find the Hermès shop. I didn’t want her to intrude on my reverie.”
“Well, that shows the first bit of good sense. Fell out of love with her beard. I suppose we’d better lock up the sheep.”
Eileen said, “Ah, sure ‘tis great to see the two of you here at last. Back where you belong and none of that gallivanting about the world. And arguing!”
I said, “You’re dreaming, Eileen. He’s off tomorrow, if not today, to fulfill his marital duties.”
He looked up with a quizzical smile.
“You’ve lost your marbles at last. I always thought you were two bangers short of a barbecue. Where did you get that idea? Listen, Mouse. I’ve just got here after an arduous and traumatic experience. Consider that I’ve had a heart bypass operation. Feels like a heart transplant. I need to recover. First, I’ve lost Laure—and my whole lifestyle. Then, I chucked Nana, my comforter. Now I’m back in the bosom of my departed family. Familiar and friendly landscape. Compatible people. Using words instead of calculators. It’s just the cultural shock I needed. I’ve seen the Luberon and Mont Ventoux. I’ve seen Fujiyama. Seen the Canadian Rockies from Lake Louise. The Himalayas from Simla. They’re all the same because finally when you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. Well, maybe I’ll hang on to the Appenines and Amiata.
“But did you see the purple shadows on Slievenamon this morning? Did you see the mist in the Golden Vale? Ever see anything like the silver river at Clonmel? Ever have anything that tasted as good as this food in Freddy Girardet’s near Lausanne? The gnat’s piss that passes for tea in the Flore in Paris? No. It’s a vacuum-packed world out there, processed and conformist. Like the books they write. Battery books. Passed fit for consumption by the Food and Drug Administration. Without passion. Precious texts published by poncey Etonian publishers with double-barreled names. Fearful formula politically correct gutless wonders. So cute. Dear God, you hear better stories in one night in the bar at Buswell’s in Dublin than you’ll ever read in the parochial books from the literary mafia in London. Mini skirts, mini talents. Trendy. No, this is the place where they’re not afraid to go over the top. Oh, ‘tis wild! I’m home, Mouse, home.”
“Not for long. Call Maître Alain de Malherbe right away. He’s at Colonfay. Waiting for your call. You’ve got the number. It’s not a matter of pictures or cigarette ads. Or romantic illusions. Up with you!”
Eileen said, “Ah, let him finish his tea.”
I sat down and took the new toast. Dermot kicked back his chair. He sighed with contentment. For the moment he was at peace.
I said, “There’s no peace for the wicked. The telephone, Dermot. Save the loquaciousness.”
He said, “Did you see all the Mercedes and BMWs on the road? Satellite dishes sprouting like mushrooms. Thank God the old trap is still in the barn. And the rowing boat’s varnished. It would take an outboard. ‘Come away, o human child, to the waters and the wild, for the world is more full of pain than you can ever understand …”
I insisted, “Never mind the Yeats. The telephone, Dermot. It’s a matter of life and death.”
That got him. A look of fear crossed his face.
“Laure?”
I said, “No, her father. Armand. He’s dying. Needs you urgently. A dying man’s wishes not to be ignored, Dermot. The telephone’s in the hall.”
He poured a cup of tea from the pot. Sighed and went to the telephone. I heard him clearly. Listening for a long time. Then the voice of efficiency. The Dermot that inspired confidence, especially when he was trotting out the old blarney.
“Yes, maître. As soon as I can get a flight out of Dublin or Cork. Probably not before tomorrow morning. There’s one which arrives at Roissy at about ten. Yes, I’ll confirm it. You’ll pick me up? Great. Tell him I’m on my way. And Mouse, that’s my cousin, will go to work on Laure. We’ll be there come hell or high water. Tell him I’ll never forgive him if he kicks the bucket before I get to tell him about the butterflies of Mexico.”
He came out and sat down. He took another slice of toast, carefully buttered it and stared at his plate for a few minutes before looking up and smiling.
“You heard that, Mouse?”
“What was that all about, me going to work on Laure?”
“She’s acting up. Refusing to go and see him. I can’t talk to her. You can. You’ll come with me to Paris. You can stay in the downstairs flat. When you’ve persuaded her to come up to Colonfay you can take a look at the pictures from Mexico.”
“I suppose you’d like me to make the flight bookings?”
“Yes, and two rooms at the Shelbourne tonight.”
“Is that all? You wouldn’t like to take in the Abbey Theatre as well?”
“Good idea if there’s a Brian Friel play on. But I’m afraid we won’t be there till after ten. Talk about the Round Ireland Race in a day. You’ll have to drive some of the time. I wouldn’t want to run into a bullock in Wicklow.”
“Now listen, boyo. One thing you’re going to do because I’m not up for it is to finish the job. You’re going to do the photo selection in Paris and then take the layouts up to Cologne. You can tell them to stuff them up their jumpers if you like, but they owe us half a million D-Marks. That buys a lot of potatoes.”
“OK, Master.”
I said, “Ouch!”
And went away to make the bookings.
We decided to drive the hire car to Dublin and to leave right away. Eileen was wringing her hands in the doorway as we left.
Dermot shouted, “Keep the kettle on the hob, Eileen. I’ll be back in two shakes of a donkey’s rudder.”
Saturday
26. Armand Still Kicking
The ambulance arrived from Guise. The surgeon emerged from the dining-room. He threw up his hands in surrender.
“He refuses absolutely to be moved. Says he isn’t in pain. Wants to die in his own house. Wants to wait for his son and daughter. And Dermot.”
“You know how stubborn he can be. Maybe he’s right. I hope he can hold out until Dermot arrives. I wouldn’t bet on Laure coming. Or Patrick. But I’ll try.”
“I’m going to need help to lift him on to another mattress on the table. Then we’re wheeling in the mobile drip feed apparatus. Perhaps we can do as much here as in the hospital. In any case the journey might finish him. The road to St. Quentin isn’t exactly an autoroute. I’ll stay for a while but I have operations scheduled tomorrow. Maybe I can postpone them. I’d like to take him back to the clinic in Paris. See if you can talk him into it. He can afford a helicopter air ambuleance.”
Alain de Malherbe finally got Patrick on the telephone. He was not in a mood to plead.
He said, “Patrick, this is Alain de Malherbe. Your father’s had an accident. He’s dying. In pain. You should be here. He won’t last much longer.”
“Where’s here?”
&nbs
p; “Colonfay.”
“No thanks.”
“Listen, Patrick. There is a time to forget your animosity and this is it. Both you and Laure have a duty to respect your father’s last wish. Now get up here!”
“Maître, I haven’t spoken to him for years. I haven’t anything to say to him.”
“You could try saying you’re sorry. And thanks.”
“What for?”
“For not understanding his behaviour during the Occupation. It was heroic. Let your friends use the cabin in the wood.”
“Yes, they got picked up and executed.”
“Silly fools used a transmitter within half a kilometer of Colonfay. And they were turned in by your Uncle Didier. Your father risked his neck setting up another safe house in Puiseaux.”
“Did he indeed? He’s still an extreme right-wing monarchist, intolerant, anti-Semitic.”
“And dying. It was nearly forty years ago. We all did what we were told to do. Besides your father was a supporter of the Résistance from 1943 onward. You know nothing of his record. He was too proud to tell you. You were full of venom towards him. Personally, I deplore your attitude. If you ignore this request, you will regret it for the rest of your life. You should come to him if only for the sake of your own conscience.”
“Have you tried Laure?”
“Yes. And I wish you would try her. There is evidence which you both will see that will make you feel very small afterwards.”
“Laure has never forgiven him for his part in Vichy. And I didn’t like the fact that he had Didier executed. Didn’t like him and Laure was petrified of him. But still.”
“Your Uncle Didier deserved to be executed ten times over. You will learn that too. He was the worst of the worst. Shooting was too good for him.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m your father’s lawyer. I have seen the proof.”
“Has Dermot been told about my father’s condition?”
“Dermot’s in Ireland. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Have you got Laure’s telephone number?”
“Yes, she’s in the Luberon. 90083902. I’m at Colonfay. I’ll wait for your call. 23609236. Take the train. I’ll pick you up at St. Quentin.”
“Maybe, Maître, just maybe.”
27. Laure Tells All
André walked nervously into the house at Maurepas the next morning. Laure was sitting at the kitchen table, looking out at the mountain. She had André’s drawing lying on the table.
She said, “I’m going to Paris. Then, who knows, maybe I’ll go to Italy.”
André said, “I’ll drive you to Marignane or Avignon.”
She stood and picked up the drawing.
She said, “Let’s compare it with the masters.”
“That’s not fair!”
So she opened up the vaulted room that ran the length of the main house, and took him in. This ‘gallery’ had no windows but was lit to spotlight the pictures individually. There were no pictures in evidence. Just bare walls. She pushed the button and the sections covering them slid back. It had cost almost as much as the complete renovation to install this hidden exhibition space. It was a fortress within a citadel. She was very proud of it.
“The temperature here stays constant right through the year. The old people knew how to handle climate. This was the original habitation. Walls two meters thick. Tiny openings for windows. Which I closed up.”
She pinned André’s drawing up on the easel which stood in the middle of the floor. He walked slowly around, stopping at each of the forty-three drawings. Most of them were without great value but they were nearly all sixteenth-century and mostly Mannerist. He stopped by a Guido Reni female saint.
He said, “That’s how you saw yourself.”
“Not any longer. A fallen angel. Dermot says the Renis are awful, all those posed types rolling their eyes up towards heaven.”
“He’s right. Ah, Agostino Carracci. Satyr copulating with a nymph. Not the artist Annibale was but Agostino was but a horny old bastard. Well, well. A del Porto monk approaching a nun with her skirts up and he with an enormous erection. And a Parmigianino Venus and Mars in the forge of Vulcan. Going at it, oblivious to the smith. I can’t help but observe that you have a considerable number of erotic exhibits. A substitute? A stimulant? A wish-fulfilment thing? Some people are always looking at it and some people are always doing it.”
“Doctor Wiseman is off on his Freudian flight of fancy. I do wish you’d drop it now, André. You’ve made your point. Let’s revert to a more civilized form of conversation.”
“You mean let’s wrap it up in French politesse which is a cover for hypocrisy? Are there any gaps in your collection?”
“Oh, yes. I’d kill for a Correggio. I tracked one down recently. A woman in Paris had it. She promised to sell it to me. But she sold it to the Louvre. I think she was sleeping with the curator. It’s his way of getting pictures. A more useful customer than me.”
He drove her to Avignon. They stopped on the way to lunch at Goult. To lessen the tension, he asked her why she had married Dermot. She sighed.
“What does it matter?” she said, tiredly.
“I think there’s not much wrong with it. Slightly out of synch. An adjustment to attitudes and it would work very well. How did it start?”
Laure said, “I had a big problem. I had worked hard at my studies and I had succeeded. But it was an escape. I was very uncomfortable. Pas bien dans ma peau. I had this terrible need to take my revenge. I’ll be the best and it will let me do what I want. What I didn’t want was the musty law. The cabinet of Chevalier was one of the oldest established in Paris and I was lucky (they all said) to be accepted there. But boring! Boring! Mesmerizing was the word. So dull. And the people! All programmed for lives of utter monotony. Let me out! I screamed inwardly. Yet I couldn’t quite make the break.
“Until I met Charlotte Rubenstein, a psychiatrist friend of a Jewish girl I had known at Sciences-Po. Thereafter, I saw Charlotte three or four times a week at first, then once a week for two years after. I talked. It was a release.
She was a refugee from Austria and she had had a bad experience during the war. Her family had been wiped out and she was lucky to escape. She wound up in Holland where a Dutch family saved her. She reinforced my attitudes towards my family. She helped banish the residue of guilt towards them. Or more accurately hold it at bay.”
André interposed, “It may be time to wash the record clean. Make peace. Your father did what most people did during the war. Probably he’s less reprehensible than most. Maybe he played both sides against the middle. Time to stop punishing him. You haven’t got a little illegal Nuremberg.”
She continued without comment, “Then one day Chevalier became lawyer for certain questionable bigwigs in the armament business, and some Coriscan politicos. He had contacts because he was a deputé. A fixer. He promoted me to a special task in the cabinet. I was removed from the rest and given access to especially confidential information mostly relating to the affairs of a certain minister, financial and amatory. Chevalier himself started to pester me with his attentions. At first it was simply lunch to talk about certain delicate things and afterwards a walk in the Bois with his Briard. Then, calls to my apartment, ostensibly to discuss business matters. Finally, a direct offer to become his mistress. Or else.
“I was not too sophisticated but I could see it was an attempt to get me to compromise myself. I already knew too much. About insider trading by Chevalier. And payments to mistresses of politicians. Free apartments for functionaries. Kickbacks. I was shocked. That wasn’t the worst. Bousquet was a constant visitor. So was Leguay. The worst types of Vichy, who were obviously pals of the president.
“There was talk of getting rid of an awkward customer who was asking embarrassing questions. There appeared to be no limit to the criminality of the ruling class. I decided to leave, but I knew Chevalier would make life difficult for me in the legal profession. He more or less
said that if I joined another law firm something bad might happen to me. You think it’s far-fetched? I understate it.”
“How did you extricate yourself?” André asked.
“I married Dermot.”
“Go on.”
“I’m not sure I ought to tell you all this.”
“Go on,” he said.
Laure mused, “I remember when Dermot came into my life. He called me and asked me to lunch to talk about representing his company as they were changing their legal counsel. He told me the story of his grandfather and Colonfay and my father’s introduction. We had lunch. To cut a long story short, instead of asking the Chevalier cabinet to handle his company’s business, he asked me to join the company as the corporation lawyer. So I did.” She paused.
“I remember the day I met Dermot. Not grey like a French lawyer or an inspecteur des finances. Not sleek and dwarfish and Cardin-suited like the Latin edition of an advertising man or used-car salesman but six-foot two of dishevelled Irishman wearing what he called his Bertie Wooster sports coat and a salmon-pink shirt and dirty suede desert boots. With undisciplined hair and, I soon found, a reputation for brilliance and nonconformity. With what one of the girls called a soporific voice and a presence. He could sell any advertising campaign to the most antagonistic client. But he despised the business. He was a poet. Short story writer. Intuitive. The other side of the coin. Novel, in my experience. He was made to order. He had been married but it was a mistake. Didn’t last long. He had almost forgotten it until it became necessary to satisfy his puritanical bosses in New York, so he got a divorce. The news that it had gone through had come through the day he asked me if I would work with him on an idea they had had in New York. To reorganize the Paris office. Would I be interested in helping him try to sort the legal problems and combining it with certain international coordination functions? Would I find it interesting? Would I!
Colonfay Page 20
