The Foundling Boy

by Michel D

  ‘A bit,’ Jean said cautiously.

  In fact he had read only a single extract from Salammbô at school, and remembered a dictation in which an old servant appeared with her hands bleached from doing the laundry. He decided to steer the conversation to Stendhal.

  ‘Yes, he is more exciting,’ Salah said, ‘but so terribly French that I can’t always understand him. Compared to him, Flaubert is perfect. You think you’re hearing—’

  He broke off. The glass street door had just opened, and a woman in a bright red dress and hat entered. She saw Salah and came to their table.

  ‘Hello,’ she said in English, ‘am I late?’

  ‘No, sit down … Maria, Jean.’

  Jean felt that he knew her face, and her dark and slightly too powdered complexion. She took off her hat, freeing a mass of frizzy blond hair that was obviously dyed. On Via Veneto she might have been glimpsed walking with her bust thrust out aggressively, but she wasn’t on Via Veneto, she was Salah’s girlfriend, speaking English more easily than French or Italian.

  ‘It’s nice to meet some pals.’

  Jean’s memory was working at high speed to try to put a name to the traces this strange creature had left there. She held out her hand with its red claws to take the glass of beer the waiter had brought her.

  ‘Cigarette?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t smoke, as you know very well.’

  ‘What about this young man?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘A handsome boy like you!’

  ‘I do a lot of sport,’ Jean said, looking away from her.

  He was sure now that he even knew the woman’s voice.

  ‘What sport?’

  ‘Rowing.’

  She heaved a sigh.

  ‘I thought only the English rowed. I used to love watching them training on the Thames … before I buried myself in this bloody holy city with that sad sack Gino …’

  The veil fell, and Jean experienced an indefinable relief. He recognised her, with her mulatto’s complexion and her dyed hair. On the boat from Westminster Bridge to Hampton Court an Italian wearing a seedy Borsalino hat had licked her face, and after some escapade in the bushes she had pulled out her knickers and put them back on in full view of the other passengers. On his last evening in London he had caught sight of Baptiste, the butler, threatening to slap her in the hall of the Chelsea house. Her life had apparently improved since then, if her jewellery was to be believed. She had even filled out a bit. Her double chin wobbled. Did she still have such good legs? He would have had to look under the table. While she was talking in English to Salah, he wondered to himself whether he would really enjoy going to bed with her. He decided that he might, as a disinterested experiment. But it took two to make it happen. She had doubtless married her Italian with the Mussolini jaw, the Gino she had described as a sad sack. Perhaps Salah could help. Unless he himself was the girl’s lover, as Baptiste had been. How could he find out? He finished his beer and stood up.

  ‘Salah, I have to go and find my friend. Can I see you tomorrow?’

  ‘You’re leaving … Tomorrow? Yes. Around the same time, outside the Adler. I’ll warn Monseigneur and Madame, who will certainly want to meet you.’

  ‘I’ll be there. Good evening, Madame.’

  The woman stared intensely at him, opening wide her big black eyes with their thick false eyelashes. The moment Jean was back out in the street, he forgot her. Ernst was the only one on his mind. Jean was afraid that his friend would not forgive him for having stayed with Salah. Could a person really be so stubborn? If several million young Germans, enlisted in the Hitler Youth, all reacted like that to the sight of a black person or a Jew, they were doomed to stay within their country’s borders. Stendhal had been right to say that the Germans ‘need never reproach themselves for anything so personal as an opinion’. When he reached his hotel he was told that Ernst had just returned and gone up to the room they shared, a broom cupboard overlooking a courtyard where women shrieked and children whinged from early morning till night. They were too young not to crash onto their mattresses and sleep like logs when they were tired, and Jean was unsurprised to see Ernst, naked, stretched out on his narrow iron bed with his face buried in a pillow. Fine. Explanations could wait until tomorrow.

  The explanations did not take place, Ernst suggesting, as soon as they opened their eyes together – awoken by a more intolerable screech than usual – that they leave the city for Ostia.

  ‘I’ve had enough of old stones, seminarians in crocodiles, icy churches and baking piazzas. Let’s go and swim.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Jean said, eager to repair the wrong he had done, even if it was imaginary. ‘But tonight I need to come back to Rome, I have an appointment.’

  Ernst did not ask with whom. They retrieved their bicycles from the garage.

  ‘What do you say we use the occasion to leave this horrible hotel?’ Ernst said.

  ‘Where will we sleep?’

  ‘I don’t know … on the stones in the Forum, on the Appian Way. We’ll find somewhere … Don’t worry.’

  They loaded their belongings onto their luggage racks and pedalled out in the early light of morning all the way to Ostia, where they found themselves a beach of soft sand to rest on. The sea beat lazily against the shore with a knowing sluggishness. Fat women in black, their sleeves rolled up to reveal arms even whiter by wrists and hands weathered by the sun, vegetated beneath parasols, regularly called their straying children back from the water where they were paddling up to their ankles, like clucking hens. Fortunately there were some prettier creatures too, beautiful Italian girls of fifteen or sixteen with olive skin and velvet eyes and here and there foreigners, mature-looking English girls, Americans in flower-covered swimming hats, Scandinavians with tanned skin and pale hair. After Rome’s segregation and over-solemn atmosphere, that made it impossible to get to know the city quickly, they rediscovered others of their own age who had also cast off their clothes, setting their bodies free beside a sea that gave itself to them, warm, blue and calm, without a past. Jean and Ernst dived into the water like children, came up for air, and got into a game with two Swedish girls, no goddesses but in their scanty swimsuits terribly naked and desirable. Conversation in English, their common language, turned out to be too hard, and they gave up and sat at a mobile stall that served salted veal in paper cornets.

  ‘It was a good idea of yours,’ Jean said. ‘We were starting to feel that we were the new Goethe and Stendhal. Did either of them ever talk about going for a swim in the sea?’

  ‘I don’t think so … Perhaps it’s time we summoned them to answer for their errors.’

  ‘We’re not a court.’

  ‘But that’s where you hold someone accountable.’

  ‘Accountable? How, dear Ernst? No one has ever been perfect.’

  ‘Dilettantes! That’s what they were, the pair of them. And there’s no place for dilettantes in the new Europe. You go and talk to the workers, the peasants, you’ll see what they think of dilettantes. National Socialism will sweep away such parasites. Listen carefully …’

  ‘No, Ernst, you’re seriously getting on my nerves now. Here we are at Ostia, sitting on a beautiful beach, and there are girls playing catch right in front of us. Do you really think this is the time and place to be solemn? Save your propaganda for another day.’

  With their mouths full of bread and salted veal, they continued to argue, half-serious, half-laughing.

  ‘No one will believe we could have been such stupendous failures on this trip,’ Jean said.

  ‘Failures?’

  ‘Clumsy, pathetic.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We haven’t managed to pull a single girl.’

  ‘Does that interest you so much?’

  ‘Yes. I’d like to. I’d have the feeling of being a man, at last.’

  Ernst could not hide his disappointment.

  ‘Poor Hans, that’s not how you become a man. If every French
man is like you, within two or three years your country will be a German colony…’

  ‘… which will colonise Germany. It’s true that I don’t know a lot, only the curriculum for the bac, but according to the history books, those who are devoured will devour their devourers, in other words the best forces that Germany can muster will be undermined by the example of our carelessness and frivolity … Remember how the decadent Greeks corrupted their Roman conquerors.’

  ‘Ah, you believe that … but you’re talking about Latins and Greeks. They’re not Aryans. Aryan men are not so vulnerable in their victories, and Aryan women—’

  He did not finish his sentence, but sprang up from his stool. Two boys, jumping on their bicycles, which they had left on the seafront, clearly in view, were about to ride away. In a single movement Ernst was on the first one. He grabbed him by the throat and rolled on the ground with him, followed by Jean who caught the second and had him full-length on the cobbles when he abruptly noticed that Ernst’s thief had the upper hand. He rushed to his aid, seizing the thief, who was pummelling the German’s already bleeding face, and holding him in an armlock. There was a brief struggle, amplified by the shouts of passers-by and the panic of the girls on the beach, and the thief was knocked out. The two friends stood up, to discover that in the course of the fight Jean’s bicycle had vanished. Someone pointed out the direction it had taken and they dashed that way. The bicycle appeared at the end of a narrow street and disappeared again. Ernst’s nose was bleeding, and his chest was splashed with blood.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Jean asked, out of breath.

  ‘No, not at all. But what are you going to do without your bicycle?’

  ‘Had it. Gone for good. All my things too. My swimming costume’s all I’ve got left.’

  ‘We’ll share everything.’

  ‘That’s very decent of you, Ernst, but I’ve got to look after myself.’

  At the beach a circle of passers-by and bathers had surrounded the thief, who sat on the ground spitting out his teeth. A policeman was bending over him, questioning him. An elderly gentleman in a boater and alpaca suit shouted at Jean in French, ‘You ought to be ashamed of your brutality! The boy only wanted to play a joke on you. Where do you think you are? In a land of savages? Well, I can tell you you’re not, you despicable brute, you’re in a civilised country, a thousand times more than your own …’

  Dismayed, Jean scanned the curious faces around him, and the policeman who was regarding him with an inquisitive look. The boater and alpaca suit inspired respect. If it was his word against Jean’s, people might believe him.

  ‘What about the other one?’ Jean said. ‘He went a bit far with his joke, going off with my bike.’

  ‘If you hadn’t attacked his friend in such a cowardly manner, he would have given it back to you straight away, and if it wasn’t a joke the police would have arrested him. We do have a police force, Monsieur, and it knows what to do.’

  Turning to the policeman, who was listening uncomprehendingly, he repeated his last sentences in Italian. The policeman, less convinced of his force’s effectiveness, nodded his head with a dubious expression and began a long explanation that the bystanders followed with interest, while the thief attempted to slip between their legs. Ernst stopped him with a kick in the ribs. The man in the boater flew into a rage and raised his stick at the German. He seemed to have convinced several onlookers. Ernst, unable to reply in his language, interrupted the policeman’s speech and indicated that it was time to go to the police station. They could explain themselves there, as could the thief, who was now lying in the road moaning, his face swollen.

  ‘What a nerve!’ the elderly gentleman said, furious.

  ‘Monsieur—’ Jean tried to reply.

  ‘Commendatore!’ the other corrected him.

  ‘Commendatore, would you like to explain to this policeman that my bicycle has been stolen by this thief ’s accomplice?’

  The man sniggered. ‘Ah, ah, ah! But what proves you had a bicycle in the first place? Show us your papers.’

  Jean was astonished by his ill will, which far exceeded anything he had experienced up till then. A police car arrived, cutting the discussion short. Ernst and Jean were bundled in, along with the thief. The commendatore handed his card to the policeman. He would act as a witness whenever he was required. At the station they found a young inspector who spoke French. The affair seemed to him as clear as day. He was also familiar with the so-called commendatore, and his false visiting card. He was a skilful fraud who managed a young band of thieves and pickpockets. The inspector called the policeman a naïve fool. If he had had his wits about him, he would have arrested the man in the boater. The two men embarked on a violent discussion, ignoring Jean completely.

  ‘But what am I going to do?’ he finally said. ‘I can’t go back to France in my swimming costume, without money or documents.’

  ‘You’ll have to ask your embassy to help you.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Rome, of course.’

  ‘How can I get to Rome in a swimming costume?’

  The inspector made an evasive gesture. The question did not interest him.

  ‘I can give you a shirt and shorts,’ Ernst said. ‘But I’ve got almost no money left, only just enough to get back to Germany. How will you manage?’

  Jean felt overwhelmed. He thought he might have cried if Ernst had not been there. The worst part was the casual way in which the inspector announced that, as the superintendent would not be coming that afternoon, they would only be released the following morning. They were offered benches to sleep on. They slept badly, tormented by insects, and when the superintendent arrived next morning at ten o’clock, all he did was offer his terse apologies: they should never have been detained. They were free to go as soon as they had signed their statement. They were served with coffee and a slice of bread, then found themselves on the road back to Rome, Ernst pushing his bicycle, Jean barefoot and wearing a pair of German shorts that were too short and a shirt that was so tight he couldn’t do up the buttons. However, Jean refused to view the situation too tragically. At the Adler, Salah would let the prince and Geneviève know what had happened, and he would arrange everything. He reassured Ernst.

  ‘Don’t worry. They’ll help me. And I haven’t lost anything precious, apart from my Stendhal that Joseph Outen gave me. None of the rest amounted to much.’

  ‘You’re not telling me that you’re going to accept help from that Negro or his Semite employer?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They won’t give you anything for nothing.’

  ‘They are the most generous people I know.’

  ‘Don’t believe it … They will own you one day, and you’ll be one of their creatures.’

  ‘Ernst, you are truly obsessed. I’ve had enough of your theories. You could be the best friend a person could have, if you weren’t always reading from a script.’

  ‘I’m saying it for your own good. One day you’ll understand.’

  ‘Never. And while we’re waiting, we’re not walking all the way to Rome. You go on ahead, I’ll try to hitchhike.’

  Ernst refused to leave him. He waited until a van stopped for Jean. The driver dropped Jean off on the outskirts of Rome. From there he walked barefoot along burning pavements until, an hour later, he saw the Pincio. He was dying of thirst, and hungry. The Adler’s doorman was walking up and down in front of the hotel. He looked superb in a tightly tailored linen uniform with gilt buttons, and a cap with a brim as wide as a Soviet general’s. He might be a flunkey, but he could not be hoodwinked. The rich gave tips, the poor got kicks up their backside. Jean’s build saved him from such treatment, but he had to threaten the man to make himself heard. The doorman in turn threatened to call the police. Jean told him he would punch him in the face, and, because he was pale with fury, the doorman finally understood that some strange relationship could link a half-naked and shoeless young man wandering the streets of Rome at lunchtim
e with a prince who travelled in a Hispano-Suiza with a black chauffeur and a blonde mistress. Thus Jean learned that his one remaining possibility of assistance had left early that morning for Venice.

  Ernst appeared on his bicycle, pink and dripping with sweat, having pedalled like fury to catch up with his friend.

  ‘Now I am in a mess,’ Jean admitted, sitting down at the top of the Spanish Steps.

  ‘No. Never. We stick together.’

  ‘My poor Ernst, you’re a very decent friend, but you can’t do anything. I’m going to hitchhike back home.’

  ‘Without papers or money?’

  ‘I’ll work my way back. As for papers, when I reach the border I’ll explain what happened.’

  ‘You’re really breaking my heart. At least take some money. Half of what I’ve got left. I’ll work my way back too.’

  ‘You’re awfully decent, but you make me feel ashamed.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. I owe you for stopping my bike getting stolen. If you hadn’t come to my rescue, that fellow would have run off with it. Logically I should give you half of it.’

  ‘That would get us a long way.’

  At the bottom of the steps a florist was making up a bouquet of red carnations for a fat woman in her Sunday best whose sandals tortured her swollen feet. As she climbed the stairs, her arm extended to protect the flowers, her gleaming handbag bumping against her short thigh, she passed close to the two friends, murmuring, with a look of disgusted pity, ‘Che miseria!’ although it was impossible to tell whether she was sorry for them or just found their youth intolerable.

  ‘It’s a shame you can’t beg in this country any more,’ Jean said.

  ‘It’s not that you can’t,’ Ernst corrected him. ‘It’s that there’s no need to any more. In Fascist Italy there’s work for everybody. You’ll see the same thing when you come and visit me in Cologne.’