by Michel Déon
Praise for Michel Déon
‘Remarkable … deserves a place alongside Flaubert’s Sentimental Education and Le Grand Meaulnes’ New Statesman
‘A big-hearted coming-of-age shaggy-dog story … [Déon’s] novel leaves you feeling better about life’ Spectator
‘It is shamefully parochial of us that this eminent writer has been so ignored by the anglophone world’ Sunday Times
‘Quiet, wryly funny prose … a delight’ Independent on Sunday
‘Michel Déon is a storyteller par excellence’ Irish Times
‘As witty as its English forebear [Tom Jones] but with French savoir-faire, The Foundling Boy may win new readers for books translated from French’ New York Times
‘I loved this book for the way, in its particularities and its casual narration, it admitted me to a world I knew nothing about and the many ways it made me care. It is not just a glimpse into the past, but the study of the heart of a man and his times’ Paul Theroux
‘This is a book to devour, savouring every last mouthful’ Pierre Moustiers
The Great and the Good
by Michel Déon
translated from the French
by Julian Evans
Contents
Title Page
The Great and the Good
About the Author
Copyright
Per Augusta ad angusta
‘You’re going to Switzerland? You should go and see Augusta. She—’
The lights turn green, unleashing a flood of cars that drowns out Getulio’s voice but fails to interrupt him.
‘… recognise her immediately. Quite unchanged, in spite of—’
A cement mixer, its drum revolving as it chews gravel, slows in front of them.
‘… still awfully attractive … you know, I … her grace … her number …’
He pulls a dog-eared visiting card from his coat pocket and reads out a Lugano phone number. Arthur tries to memorise it, unsure if he will remember it an hour from now.
‘Excuse me, must dash,’ Getulio says, raising an odd tweed hat perched on his sugarloaf-shaped skull.
The lights change again, and in three strides he is on the far side of Rue des Saints-Pères. From the opposite pavement he waves a white handkerchief over his head, as if a train was already bearing Arthur away to Switzerland and Ticino. A bus drives between them. When it has passed, the Brazilian has gone, leaving Arthur alone with a phone number that has been so long coming, he isn’t sure he actually wants it any more. Especially not from Getulio.
*
As Arthur walks up Rue des Saints-Pères towards Boulevard Saint-Germain, his mind elsewhere (though not without looking back, half hoping Getulio will reappear behind him and carry on talking about Augusta), the phone number etches itself on his memory and he feels his chest gripped with anxiety. But why? To whom can he say, ‘It’s too late, too much time has passed. There’s no use reopening old wounds’? Not the hurrying Left Bank pedestrians, or the medical students queuing outside a pâtisserie who force him to step off the pavement, which he does, without looking out for traffic. A car brushes past him and its driver yells a volley of insults that make the students giggle. To get himself run over and killed … that would be bitterly ironic, wouldn’t it, twenty years later, when he would have done much better to have died back then, so that he didn’t have to drag around the burden of a failure that still haunts him as an adult, even now.
He makes his way into the restaurant where two signatories from a German bank are expecting him. He likes business: it has taught him how to lie and dissimulate. Bit by bit, a sort of double has been born inside him, a made-up character who serves him remarkably well in his negotiations: a man of few words and a dry manner, who affects a careless inattentiveness while not missing a word of what’s being said, a sober figure, a non-smoker who, in the American style, takes his jacket off to talk in his shirtsleeves, always has a cup of coffee to hand, and switches to first-name terms the moment the deal looks done. ‘That’s not me. It’s not me!’ he says to himself, if he happens to catch sight of himself in a mirror behind the table where he’s sitting. But that ‘me’, his real self, is fading by the day. Does it still exist? If it does, it lies years behind him, a heap of fragments mixed up with the love affairs and illusions of his twenties. And if, very occasionally, in the heat of telling himself yet another lie, that self happens to rise from the ashes, it still carries the scent of Augusta.
Twenty years earlier, in the autumn of 1955, the Queen Mary had been making ready to leave Cherbourg for New York. The crossing normally took no more than four days but on this occasion would take six, the liner calling first at Portsmouth, then at Cork to take on more passengers. The prospect delighted Arthur. At twenty-two, everything was brand new to him, including the touching surprise his mother had prepared for him. Without telling him, she had exchanged his tourist-class cabin (which he would have been perfectly happy with) for a first-class stateroom. He dreaded to think what it must have cost her, she who was so careful, always going without ever since his father had died, so that she could keep up appearances and give Arthur every possible opportunity to be the bearer of her maternal ambitions. His recent award, after a remarkably unchallenging competitive exam, of a scholarship to an American university that specialised in commercial law had made her nurse even more extreme hopes for his future. The first-class cabin had been her reward for his success, but it was way beyond her means, sheer madness really.
There had been another such occasion, when he had been invited to the home of one of his classmates who lived in a big house in Neuilly, and his mother had sold a Japanese fan she had inherited from a distant aunt so that she could buy him a made-to-measure suit. She had silenced his protests, telling him sharply, ‘From now on you’re going to be with the great and the good, so you’d better know how to behave.’ When the day came he had been horrified to discover that the other birthday guests – all fifteen- and sixteen-year-old boys and girls – had come in jeans and sweaters. In his blue pinstriped suit, tie and starched collar, a stranger to the way people lived in the city’s smart neighbourhoods, Arthur had died a thousand deaths.
This humiliating memory returned when, at the purser’s office, they handed him to a steward who swept him and his suitcases away to the upper decks while the neighbouring desk was besieged by a ruckus of shouting and swearing emigrants who elbowed their way forwards, stamping on each other’s feet: young Hasidim in frock coats and black felt hats, their faces hidden beneath reddish beards, ringlets in disarray; Italians, much noisier and more cheerful than everyone else; and refugees from central Europe with grey faces, eyes wide with worry, and saying little, mainly concerned to put an ocean between themselves and the hell they had left behind.
How his mother afforded his first-class ticket he never found out, despite repeating the question in almost every letter he wrote her, at least for the first few months. When he insisted, furiously underlining the question, she just wrote back, ‘All I care about is that from now on, you’re among the great and the good.’
As soon as he had unpacked – the liner was still in port, with a six-hour delay that would extend its crossing time by as long – Arthur went in search of the bar. It was deserted. The barman told him he would not be serving drinks till the ship sailed, and Arthur was about to return to his stateroom to escape from the noise in the passageways when a tall American in his fifties with white hair, beetling inky-black eyebrows, and cheeks traced with broken veins sat on the stool next to his. He was wearing a rumpled tan silk suit. He ordered a dry martini.
‘The bar doesn’t open till the ship sails,’ the barman repeated.
‘Paddy, I can tell from your accent that yo
u’re Irish. My father was from Dublin. My name’s Concannon. So get me a dry martini and perhaps one for this gentleman next to me whom you’re terrorising, which is only natural, given that all Irishmen are terrorists.’
Resting his elbows on the bar and turning to Arthur, he introduced himself.
‘Seamus Concannon. Teaching modern history to a bunch of ignoramuses – who won’t retain a word of what I tell them – at Beresford. And yourself?’
‘Arthur Morgan. Student. On a Fulbright scholarship to study commercial law at Beresford.’
‘You’ll have me for two hours a week.’
The barman placed two dry martinis in front of them.
‘Thank you, Paddy.’
‘The name’s not Paddy, Mr Concannon. It’s John.’
‘Let’s go with John then, or Sean, which is even better.’
He raised his martini glass and emptied it in a single gulp.
‘Make me another, my good Paddy, and one for Mr Morgan too. I’m going to wash my hands, and that’s not a euphemism.’
A few minutes later he was back, his jacket splashed with dark spots and holding a paper towel with which he meticulously dried each of his fingers in turn.
‘As soon as you open a faucet on these damn English boats you get deluged, every time.’
He touched nothing without immediately wiping his hands with a paper tissue, a large supply of which bulged under the breast pocket of his jacket. When the tissues ran out, he darted to the toilet and washed his hands with a bar of antiseptic soap that he carried in a tortoiseshell box. Rubbed raw by washing, the translucent skin of his hands was peeling like puff pastry. It had a violet sheen that was stained with nicotine at his fingertips, and if he made a fist it looked as if the skin would split and reveal, like a motor whose casing has been removed, the disturbing mechanism of joints and network of veins, arteries and tendons that held together the fragile structure thanks to which Australopithecus had evolved into Homo sapiens, whose use of his opposable thumbs had delivered him from his ape-like state. Or a part of his ape-like state. Concannon used his hands only when it was impossible not to. He pushed swing doors open with his elbows and put gloves on as soon as he came into contact with the open air and sometimes even at table, which led to a heavily powdered American passenger in her sixties, who had served as a nurse during the war in the Pacific, saying, ‘I know what’s up with him. We had so many cases of scabies among the marines in the war. Sometimes you just can’t do anything for it. Professor Concannon must have been a marine. Don’t worry: after ten years it’s not contagious any more.’
But Concannon had not been a marine, and apart from his bactericidal fixation he was the most delightful of men, a professor of modern history with an independence of mind rare in American academic circles and a considerable dose of imagination, which, he said, he could exercise freely in the knowledge that not one of the fifty students who attended his classes would ever remember anything he had said. He was the first American friend Arthur made, and although there were plenty of others who came after him Concannon was inseparable from his earliest discovery of the United States.
Had it not been he who was responsible for Arthur meeting Getulio, Elizabeth and Augusta? When the Queen Mary dropped anchor the following morning in a murky green sea, with a thick haze obscuring both the Hampshire coast and the entrance to Portsmouth harbour, the passengers gathered on the promenade deck to watch a chain of lighters pop out of the yellowish murk one after the other like jumping beetles, laden with new passengers and baggage balanced on decks that gleamed with rain. On board ship, passengers reclined on deckchairs as busy stewards kept them swaddled in rugs bearing the Cunard crest and passed around trays of hot soup, tea and coffee.
A tall young man in a Prince of Wales-check Inverness cape, apparently unmoved by the general curiosity about the new arrivals, was striding up and down the first-class deck, arm in arm with two young women who were as alike as chalk and cheese. One, Elizabeth, was pounding the deck with the marching steps of a soldier, while the other, Augusta, tiptoeing like a dancer beside the man in the Inverness cape, seemed almost not to touch the ground. Elizabeth, wearing faded jeans and a sailor’s cap, her hands buried in the pockets of a canvas reefer jacket and her cheeks pink from the damp air, was talking twenty to the dozen in a way that clearly enchanted Getulio but left Augusta unimpressed, as if she was either lost in a dream or preoccupied with not catching cold, wrapped in a coypu coat and a cloche hat crammed down over her forehead and eyebrows and looking so fragile she might buckle at the first strong gust of wind.
‘They’re different from everyone else,’ Arthur said.
‘You’ll need to get used to them, old sport. They’re the new generation our continent has made, young, good-looking and rich. No one asks them where they came from any more, or whether their ancestors arrived on the Mayflower. Elizabeth Murphy, the blonde, is fourth-generation Irish American. Her ancestors landed on the Eastern seaboard starving and vermin-ridden. We put them to work building railroads in the Far West, where we treated them no better than coolies and they dropped like flies from disease, but the kids of the ones who survived went to school, and when the boys grew up they joined the cavalry and cut the Indians to ribbons. The third generation went into banking, or politics, and pretty soon they were part of the new American aristocracy. Read Henry James and F. Scott Fitzgerald, they’ll tell you everything you want to know about their snobbery and their money, though I dare say Elizabeth Murphy, despite creaking under the weight of her fortune, won’t ever strike you as a snob. She attended my classes for three months last year. Among the descendants of the Irish who arrived during the great hunger, there’s always a few hotheads ready to burn the place down wherever they go. Elizabeth’s a tornado, and although she might dress like a docker and cut her hair like a boy, nobody’s fooled: she’s a princess. You’ll soon learn: with us, money is holy … It’s never rude to discuss it, to say how much your house cost or your car, or the jewellery your wife’s wearing. The holy of holies … Well … maybe not always, but where the Irish are concerned, very often. Not the Italians. You want to meet them? You will anyhow, at college. Getulio will be in your year. Brazilian, born in Rio, educated in Europe and the States, in New York he’s American, in Paris French. I don’t think I ever met anyone so gifted and so unwilling to do a stroke of work. At a given moment, something always stops him seeing through whatever idea he’s dreamed up. To be perfectly honest, I find him a touch satanic, and at the same time incredibly naive. He claims that because he and his sister have been so lucky they’re both destined to screw up everything they do. Augusta has one career path in her sights, which is to be the wife of some very rich guy. The day it happens, I shall throw myself in the Charles River. I guess you should take that declaration of love with a pinch of salt: I only saw her maybe twenty times in my life, when I ran a class on American civilisation. But she can say a dozen words to you, and they can be something like “Pass me the salt and pepper” and they’ll still be unforgettable. Can you explain to me the mystery of the instant attraction that’s doomed – oh, believe me – to go nowhere? Augusta’s not really what you’d call beautiful, she’s got that prognathous chin, a little bit, that a lot of South American girls have, and those giveaway lips with their dose of Indian blood. In twenty years’ time, if she doesn’t look after herself she’ll be a big-hipped mama with coal-black hair like the Incas – she must have something from them too – and mysteriously blue eyes. She looks like she was put together from lots of bits of different races. When she comes to Beresford to see her brother, all the boys want to take her to the pool, but they’re out of luck because she hates water; in fact she loathes anything to do with the beach and is always scouring maps to find nice places to live a long, long way from the ocean. There was some drama in their childhood, some dreadful thing they can’t get out of their heads and that she still has nightmares about sometimes. Without her brother I think she’d burn up, real life would
overwhelm her. If a fellow ever succeeds in making her fall for him, she’ll make him pay dearly for it, the first chance she gets.’
*
Concannon arranged matters. At lunchtime, as the Queen Mary put to sea again, Arthur found himself at the same table as Getulio and the two young women.
Augusta spoke to him in French. ‘For a Frenchman, you’re lucky; your name won’t be hideously deformed. Ar-ture as Ar-thur with an English th won’t make you feel too alienated. Morgan will get feminised into the good fairy Morgann. You’ll find it very interesting, and you won’t suffer nearly as much as Getulio, who instantly turns into “Get … weelo” or poor me, who gets called everything under the sun because of that “u” in the middle that’s never pronounced the same in any Latin language. As for our surname, I’ll leave you to imagine what kind of mess Mendosa turns into as soon as the English language gets hold of it. Are you at all interested in onomastics, Mr Morgan?’
Noticing Elizabeth’s amused expression, Arthur realised he was on the brink of having his leg seriously pulled. Professor Concannon, who did not speak French well enough to follow, was methodically wiping his cutlery with a square of disinfectant gauze.
‘Not only does it interest me passionately, I also happen to be the leading French expert in this relatively new area of knowledge, which has already collected its fair share of martyrs. A transatlantic crossing won’t be nearly long enough to do the subject justice. We’d need a round-the-world voyage.’
‘Oh … well, if we can’t do it justice, let’s stop there, shall we? Because I ought to tell you that I’m a perfectionist.’
Elizabeth burst out laughing. Faces at neighbouring tables turned in their direction, to see where the laughter was coming from. Envy was mixed with disapproval in their expressions. In a voice loud enough to be overheard, one woman stated that the youth of today possessed no self-restraint and their fathers lacked all authority. Concannon swung in her direction and stared daggers at her. She studied her plate.
