“Too sudden for what?” he demanded, sweeping the tray to the floor as he took her in his arms. “All was decided—here—don’t you know that yet, my funny little Julia?”
But he insisted that the house should remain a surprise.
“It’s in the country,” he said. “That is all I will tell—no question of my Julia staying on at the Consulate—they must manage without her—she is mine, mine, mine….”
What matter, thought Julia happily, if he had not mentioned….
The concierge appeared with two men in dark blue overalls. They were to add Julia’s simple teak and plastic furniture to the new classic pieces they were delivering straight from the warehouse. Always keep something in reserve. Stick to your independence.
Maurice wrinkled his nose as the men dismantled a glass and steel framework which had housed Julia’s books.
“There are already many shelves and I can put more…” he whined.
Julia had a tender vision of him in shirtsleeves, wielding a saw in an English-style country cottage. She seemed to have restored his youth. He was like any young man thrilled to be settling his girl in their first home, willing to work all hours and skin his knuckles to make her comfortable. She hoped he had not strangled himself with a huge mortgage on her behalf. He was so lovable—why then should she still be thinking…?
The Mini had been sold—it was past its best. Julia sat by Maurice as they braved the Péripherique and then struck out for Normandy.
They hardly spoke—he occasionally squeezed her knee or smiled contentedly in her direction.
At last he said, “Just beyond that forest—round this hill…our new home.”
Julia craned her neck but could see nothing beyond the wooded brow. Unexpectedly, he pressed a small box into her hand then swung the car round the last corner.
“Another of my—arrangements—” he said, as she took out a wide, gold ring. “The wedding will be next week at the Mairie.”
Over his shoulder, Julia could now see the warm stone façade of the magnificent château that was to be her new home. She clung to him, holding nothing in reserve.
Chapter 25
My story writing was taking on a dream-like quality, but this was nothing to the real-life nightmare to come.
The entrance to the Hôpital Laënnec on the Rue de Sèvres has a decidedly Gothic appearance. Set in a grim, high wall just past the Sèvres-Babylone Carrefour, the huge multistore spilling out onto pavement stalls, it is a crumbling, sooty enlargement of an English lych-gate. On either side sit beggars, their pathetic histories chalked on boards beside them or on the paving stones themselves. Mabiche had long ago forbidden me to pity these people: she had a friend, she said, in the Social Services, who had worn herself to a nervous wreck trying to help them, to persuade them into Shelters, to wash, clothe and feed them—only to watch helplessly as they schemed to get out again into their squalid, aimless outdoor existence—unhampered by “rules.”
In the porch was a Porter’s Lodge from which a traffic barrier was being raised and lowered like a yo-yo to allow ambulances and visitors’ cars in and out. Inside was a courtyard with a central flower garden and a clock tower. Significantly, the clock’s hands had stopped, I noticed, as I alighted from Pierre Bernaud’s limousine. He said he would drive round and find the parking lot and join me later. I followed the signs for Doctor Neveu’s heart clinic. I found myself in a long, bare corridor that cut through a whole wing to another in the jumble of ancient buildings. Halfway along was the Chapel, gloomy organ music filtering out—funereal rather than comforting for the patients, I thought in passing. Then came the kitchens from whence seeped a disgusting odour of oil and burned cabbage. On my left was a tiny quadrangle, open to the sky, with a few spindly shrubs. I pushed open the double glass doors and went out to sit for a while and collect my thoughts. I did not want to arrive at the ward before Pierre. Curious glances were being cast at me from the windows of the rooms which bordered three sides of this unexpected green space, but I ignored them.
Mabiche’s revelation two days before that Robert Tardy had been working for Pierre had jolted me to my foundations. I knew that Robert had always been a Francophile—he’d told me happily that it was one of the million things we had in common. I’d by now come to terms, too, with the likelihood of his following up his natural curiosity about his child. I admitted that it was probable that he would have eventually have tried again to contact me—but to learn that he had thrown away all he had worked for in England, had sold the family home and sent the proceeds to Lilian—that he had come, penniless to Paris, and chanced getting a job on “Jour par Jour” without making a single move in my direction—this had jolted me for six. What had he been trying to prove? What were his long-term intentions? Had he decided to haunt me from a distance indefinitely? And how would his unforeseen operation affect the future for all of us?
* * * *
Pierre had telephoned, apparently out of the blue, to ask if he could see me. This was what had finally catapulted Mabiche into telling me about Robert and how he had been forced to reveal himself to her when she had been on the point of calling a gendarme to warn off the man she knew had been following her and her charge for several weeks.
I shuddered at the thought of renewing my acquaintance with the Bernauds. They were part of something I had shed like a worn-out snakeskin. But I’d agreed to meet him for lunch. I suggested Les Trois Cygnes. This lovely restaurant overlooks Notre Dame and is at its best at night when the landmarks of Paris are excitingly floodlit. With the food menu comes an à la carte choice of music to be played on request by the resident string quartet.
Pierre held me just a little too tightly as he embraced me. He was far too effusive with his flattery; leaving me embarrassed, as I could not in truth reply that he was aging well. He was completely bald and the bizarre mixture of smooth and wrinkled areas on his face made me strongly suspect a series of face-lifts. I wondered why he had not yet gone in for a hair transplant—maybe he was saving up for it. Perhaps Managing Editors were not paid as highly as I had imagined. And he was sure to have a string of mistresses to keep….
I checked the nasty thoughts that were beginning to run away with me. After all, it seemed he had been extremely kind to Robert when he learned of his connection with me. It was he who had driven Robert to this hospital where he was to have an artificial valve inserted.
“I was very angry with the fellow at first,” he explained. “I discovered that he had been digging about in our archives and he’d unearthed some best forgotten facts—about your father and I.”
My heart missed a beat. So—that was why he had taken the job. But was this really an explanation? Why should he interest himself to such a point in my father’s past?
“It was a very nasty case,” said Pierre. “The one that…threw your father out of balance—that sent him scurrying away from Paris to that back of beyond place in England.”
“Oh, yes,” I said coldly. “You mean—after my mother died.”
He shrugged. The inevitable French movement that expresses so much.
“Jeannine would love to have asked you to the apartment,” he said. “Unfortunately, she has had a stroke—it’s left her face twisted—she doesn’t see people now.”
I was sorry. She had been so attractive in a dainty, Edith Piaf sort of way, and though I’d long ago decided never to forgive her for what I was sure had taken place between her and my father—I wouldn’t wish such disfigurement on anybody. At the same time, I was relieved that I would not have to make excuses not to visit her.
“I’ll leave it to Tardy to tell you all the details,” Pierre was saying. “Of course, there will be no question of his coming back to work on the Jour, but if the operation is a success, I will not try to impede his career on other newspapers.”
He tried several times to dig out what exactly there was between Robert and me, but I played dumb and did not respond to his probing.
* * * *
&n
bsp; I went back to the interminable, draughty corridor and followed the arrows. I emerged into another exposed space. Pierre was there, standing by his Mercedes.
“It’s across there—up those steps,” he said. “On second thoughts, I don’t think I will come with you. Would you like me to wait?”
“No thank you—I’ll find my own way home,” I said.
“As you wish—and remember—if you reconsider….”
He’d asked me to do some articles for him, combining my small foray into journalism with my experience of the World of Fashion. I had categorically refused.
“Perhaps you’d give him this…?” He handed me a thick brown envelope. He watched me cross over and enter the building before he got back in the car.
A slight young man in a dressing gown over pyjamas held open the door for me then went outside. I was surprised that a patient should be allowed to wander out half-dressed. Then two more virtually bounded down the extremely steep and twisting stairway and went out, laughing, into the winter sunshine. I eyed the stairs. They were indeed awesome. I knew Robert was on the second floor. I looked around for a lift.
It spewed me out opposite Professeur Neveu’s office, but while I was considering whether it would be correct to first try to have a word with the world-famous surgeon, I saw Robert shuffling painstakingly towards me. A few steps away, he seemed to stagger. Instinctively, I stepped towards him and took his arm. We went into a small waiting room and sat down. He looked even worse than when I had seen him in Bicètre. I could see why he had been recommended for immediate treatment. It was quite obvious that his heart would not hold out much longer.
“What’s on the floor below?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Children, I think,” he said, with some effort. “But not heart cases—they’re all up here—men, women, babies—all ages. Why do you ask?”
“Oh—I was a little surprised,” I said, “to see them wandering about—so far from their beds.”
“A couple of Italians?” he asked. “And a young Arab man? Oh—they’re from here—with my identical problem—but the Italians have had the operation. They’re in good shape, aren’t they?” he added wistfully. “I’m looking forward to tackling those stairs…after. Did you not see their….”
He stopped and bit his lip. His face was a terrible ashen yellow. His breathing was laboured.
“Sorry!” he gasped. “It’ll be over in a few minutes.”
It was true. After about five minutes his colour came back and the strain went out of his tortured eyes.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I’m to go down to the theatre tomorrow. They say—the first few days after…you won’t come, will you?”
I felt that I was putting too much of a strain on him. He just could not cope with anything outside the pain and discomfort. I was no help to him—whatever his motives in following me to Paris had been—now I was nothing to him.
A little handsome dark-eyed boy of six or seven came bursting into the room. He spoke to Robert in careful English.
“Have you seen my father?” he asked.
Robert shook his head and the boy left us.
“He had the operation ten days ago,” said Robert. “Aren’t children marvelous?”
I didn’t answer, not sure how leading the remark was supposed to be, not sure either how to talk to this suffering human, so different to the perky young man I’d first met in London.
“Because he lives in Egypt, he’s been given a pig’s valve,” he said, still thinking about the vivacious youngster. “To withstand the heat—unfortunately it only lasts ten years. I’m to have a Teflon one.” He smiled ruefully. “Like a frying pan….”
He was making a huge effort to brighten up, but his terrible tiredness showed through. I said I must go. I watched him shuffle back to the ward. We had both behaved like polite strangers. There had been no spark of emotion between us. On my side there was pity—on his, a heavy sense of doom, of pointlessness.
I wandered away from the hospital in the general direction of the Saint-Placide Metro station. I was in a strange state of mind. On the surface, I was pretending disinterest. A man I had once known was ill—I had done the decent thing by easing his way a little—not so much with money as by putting myself out to visit this disagreeable place. An Englishman was in trouble in my adopted country: I was courteously lending a hand. Except—that these were not my usual ways—I did not get involved until involvement was thrust upon me. I preferred to stand back and let others make the moves.
* * * *
I was in the Rue de Rennes and I noticed FNAC’s bookstore a little way up the busy road. I wandered inside and headed for the English Novels. Vaguely I thought of getting something for Robert—to take for him on my next visit—I was taking it for granted that I would go again.
I spotted an Irwin Shaw on the meagre shelf and a half. I’d enjoyed reading Rich Man, Poor Man and Beryl had enthused on the television series that had been made from it. So I snatched up Acceptable Losses by the same author. Then my eye was drawn, not unnaturally in the circumstances, to a ghoulish looking book cover. Transplant by Daniel Farson. I wondered if Robert’s sense of humour would be up to this story. Not his usual taste, I was sure—but some perverse feeling made me buy it.
I crossed the road to Creaks and in the same mood of perversity bought myself a pair of skin-tight jeans from the tightly packed shelves, floor to ceiling, containing thousands of identical garments. Was I trying to disappear into the modern uniformity? A new form of playing “ostrich” so as not to have to face what Fate had thrust upon me—and mine. I looked around vaguely for a taxi—but why not risk the Metro in this new abandonment to conformity. It was rush hour and I jammed myself into a corner after changing, somewhat uncertainly at Mont-Bienvenue, hopefully aiming for Chatelet.
I took out the paperbacks so as to avoid having to endure the loud, excruciatingly-accented French of two American students who were digging their elbows into me and flashing their incredibly wide, lipsticked mouths at all and sundry.
I leafed through the horror story. It pulsed and throbbed—heart, heart, heart—on every page. If I had not had a personal interest in this particular organ the story would have been so fantastic and far-fetched to be quite innocuous. I decided to reserve it as a silly gift, with suitable witty inscription, for a few months after the operation. I did not pause to think where such a line of thought could lead—the presumption that Robert would recover, or that I would still be in contact with my “lame duck” that far in the future.
I flicked through the other book. The story seemed somewhat heavy and diffuse but more to the taste of someone in journalism. Then my attention was caught by that same significant word in a chapter near the end of the novel. Heart. I began to read attentively, this book having not been chosen with any thought of current relevance. A coincidence indeed. Maybe a message from the gods ......
Half an hour later, numb and sick, I glanced out to see that I was either way past my station or I had been travelling in the wrong direction. I stumbled out at the Étoile and crossed the road to stand by the eternal flame. I stared into its barely perceptible blue haze, blurred even more by my tears. I had just read a detailed account of open heart surgery and had appreciated for the first time what Robert was to go through. The ignoble use of saw and clamps to break and force apart his ribcage—his framework. Could he ever become Robert again? The awesome, magnificent, disgusting contraption of tubes and machinery to take over his functions—would not such an apparatus steal a part of the essential man, never to be replaced? And the risks involved at every stage! I had confidence enough in the mechanism of pumps and circuits, but what of the human weaknesses of the surgeons? If one of them was having an off day, if a nurse should be brooding over her personal affairs and lose concentration—what consolation would it be to me if ninety-nine times out of a hundred they were all on form, but this time…. For the first time, I understood that Robert might…die.
Mabiche took one look at my face and ordered me to bed. She brought me a brandy and a sleeping pill—a formidable mixture which I meekly accepted. I woke at three, the very worst moment of any night, I always think. Too near to the moment of falling asleep to feel the full benefit of a refreshed body and brain but too soon to give up the struggle, make the extra effort and get up to face the day.
I re-read the ghastly, fascinating chapter of Irwin Shaw and the ones following which are a vivid description of the hero’s struggle to survive the after effects of his ordeal. I was drenched with sweat. I showered and changed the sheets. I crept back into bed and looked at the clock. It was six—my poor darling would be on his way down to the pre-op room. The green-robed doctors would be checking over their horrific instruments. The life-saving heart and lung machine would be switched on. The nurse would have uncovered that dear, dear torso. The cruel, soulless surgeon would be poised, ready to plunge his knife.
Mabiche came hurrying in. I was screaming. She sat on the edge of the bed and held me, stroked my hair.
“It’s all over,” she was saying. “Everything went perfectly. He’s in the Re-animation unit. He’s had a cup of coffee.”
It was midday. I must have dropped off and benefited from a delayed reaction to the somnifère. Or had my soul indeed left my body and hovered over Robert, urging him to fight, offering myself, making a pact?
“Wh-when can I see him?” I sobbed.
“When he’s back in his room,” she whispered. “It’s usually forty-eight hours. I’ll keep ringing up. The sister is very sympa.”
What exactly this guardian angel said I don’t know, but she conveyed to Mabiche the unofficial information that I could visit the following afternoon. We had lived the intervening period in an unreal hush. Even Michel had been less boisterous, more loving. No-one had told him anything of what was going on, but he seemed to sense the need for peace and quiet.
I set off for the Laënnec armed with a huge box of chocolates for the nurses and a giant bottle of Tropicana Orange and Pineapple juice which Mabiche seemed certain was his favourite soft drink. I left the books behind on my bedside table.
With Men For Pieces [A Fab Fifties Fling In Paris] Page 21
