by Michel Déon
‘Did he talk to you?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘No,’ Arthur lied.
‘Don’t be misled … he’s still in shock. In a semi-coma. But he knows you’re here. You mustn’t tire him.’
Arthur held Concannon’s working right hand and squeezed it tightly, receiving in reply a slight pressure from his fingers. His cheeks swelled and his lips parted, exhaling a gust of rank breath. Arthur was sure that the gesture was directed at the nurse.
‘The most painful thing,’ the nurse said, ‘is when they want to speak and they can’t manage to find their words. The doctor’s on his way. He said no visits. I have to ask you to leave now.’
A night with Elizabeth had changed nothing in his life. A few minutes at Concannon’s side had changed it much more. Back at his room, he wrote to his mother, to his uncle Eugène, to Sister Marie of the Victory, moved by a feeling of remorse at having neglected those who loved him in all their naivety, his mother especially, who was so good and so clumsy.
His classes had almost ceased to interest him. He had the feeling that he knew all he needed to know and that he was just marking time. There was an incredible amount of information available at the fingertips of students who hardly used it. Everyone specialised in very particular areas. John Macomber, whose father Arthur had met on the train that brought him to Boston, was only interested in the battle of Gettysburg. Within ten years he would know more than if he had taken part in it as a staff officer. Beyond the topography of the battlefield and General Lee’s shattering defeat at the hands of Union forces, John was a member of the university football team and played cards regularly with Getulio, who usually wiped the floor with him. One day John would take over running his father’s Massachusetts dairy company and steadily drive the board of directors to distraction by likening every commercial decision to the battle of Gettysburg.
With Getulio, Arthur’s relations had become increasingly formal. If the Brazilian had read the message from his sister that Arthur had left on his worktable while he was away from his room, he would just have to make sure it did not happen again.
With Concannon’s death, Arthur lost a generous supporter. The professor’s funeral was remarkably gloomy. The dean and a small group of students assembled at the crematorium. A short address summarised his university titles and achievements and minimised his tormented personal life. He could not be praised as an example to his students: the scandals had been too many and too noisy. Among the group that dispersed sadly after the ceremony was a stocky young woman wearing a black straw hat with a ribbon. She came towards Arthur and he recognised the nurse from the hospital. Had she, beneath her brisk exterior, a heart after all?
‘Perhaps you were his only friend,’ she said. ‘After his stroke we found a handwritten card in his papers that said, “In case of accident, inform Arthur Morgan.” That’s why I phoned you. He spoke to you, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. Only a few words.’
‘He wasn’t aphasic, I was sure of it. A few minutes before his heart stopped, he looked me in the eye and said, very distinctly, so that I wouldn’t forget, “Tell my friend Arthur: Ad Augusta per angusta. He’ll understand.” I expect you know what he meant.’
‘Yes, perfectly.’
‘Is it Italian?’
‘No. Latin. It’s a Latin play on words.’
‘Is it indiscreet to ask what it means?’
‘“To greatness through difficulties.”’
‘Was it a kind of code between you?’
‘In a more specific sense Augusta’s also the name of a girl we both found attractive and who does seem to be a difficult nut to crack.’
‘I feel I’m being indiscreet.’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t mean to be. I’ve often seen people die. You get used to it … and then one day a man dies who you don’t know anything about and who means nothing to you, and it breaks your heart. I imagine Professor Concannon was an admirable man.’
‘You’re right, he was.’
*
At Easter Arthur spent two days with Elizabeth. When he questioned her about Augusta she was stubbornly vague: she was away or she was sick.
‘I’m not refusing to cooperate, I promise.’
‘That’s a pity. I’d have been flattered.’
‘Liar!’
He was lying, a little. Elizabeth was alive in the pleasure he gave her, and she him. Once he was back at Beresford work took over and he was content, no more. He forgot her for a time and instead wrote long letters to Augusta and put them away in a locked drawer. Getulio treacherously offered to go with them both to Chicago.
‘I can’t afford it.’
‘Augusta will be disappointed.’
‘You know perfectly well that I can’t.’
‘Borrow.’
‘Who from?’
‘I’m sorry I can’t even lend you a quarter. I’m very short right now.’
After he came back from the Chicago weekend, which was probably pure invention, Getulio received a phone call from the general manager at the Hôtel des Bergues. Madame Mendosa had left a package for him. He was away for a week and came back with his pockets bulging. In a moment of loneliness Augusta, freed from brotherly surveillance, had sent Arthur a postcard.
Arthur, where are you? I think of you … You mustn’t lose heart. Concannon’s death is so horribly sad that I feel I’m in a black hole. Getulio bought me a very pretty Balenciaga suit, but who am I ever going to wear it for? Arturo, you don’t make any effort to see me … Love. A.
*
The most noteworthy event of that last term was a summons from Allan Porter. He was inviting Arthur to Washington. The envelope contained a return air ticket.
The secret adviser – so un-secret that everyone murmured his name, endowing him with extraordinary powers – received Arthur in his office at the White House.
‘What are you doing this summer?’
‘I was thinking of going back to France for two or three weeks, to see my mother and a few friends, so that I can tell myself I haven’t gotten too Americanised yet. At the same time I’m not sure I’ll have the money to get over, and even if I do, maybe it would be better if I saved it. I’m wasting too much time with bits of translation and French lessons.’
Porter, in striped shirtsleeves and a scarlet bow tie, wearing gold cufflinks and wristwatch and seated behind a massive reproduction Chippendale desk, played with a paper knife that punctuated his questions.
‘You wouldn’t like to work during the months of July and August?’
His tone was imperious.
‘Doing what?’
‘Oh, nothing too strenuous. Friend of mine, a stockbroker in New York, is looking for an intern.’
‘I’m not terribly well up on stockbroking.’
‘Another good reason. Let’s have lunch; you can think about it.’
Senior White House staff ate lunch in a private dining room. Porter did not shake hands, moving briskly and making do with a wave in response to the salutations that greeted him from table to table.
‘People are pretty happy with your results at Beresford,’ he said, having ordered both food and wine without consulting his guest.
‘What “people”?’
‘The authorities. You’ll find the second year more interesting.’
‘I hope so.’
‘I’ll admit there’s nothing more boring than studying. Life is a teacher of a more amusing stripe. If you spend time as an intern at Jansen and Brustein, you’ll learn things no university will ever teach you.’
Arthur raised an objection that he realised, as soon as he uttered it, he no longer believed in.
‘My mother’s waiting for me to come home.’
‘Your future’s waiting for you too, and its love is a good deal more fragile than a mother’s.’
‘That’s rather cynical.’
‘Cynical? No. Lucid, yes. Put it this way: we can work something out. Every day we have planes l
eaving for Europe. In September I’ll get you a return flight that’ll cost you no more than the inconvenience of travelling with military personnel.’
Arthur, if he was being entirely sincere, had to admit that his reservations had less to do with filial love than with his fear of leaving America, which was where Elizabeth and Augusta were, even though he had not managed to see the latter for many months. Invisible, she was an obstacle whose foolishness he was fully aware of.
‘In that case I accept. Gratefully,’ he said.
‘I require no gratitude whatsoever.’
The dining room was full. Latecomers waited at the bar for a table to become free. Diners talked and laughed so loudly that Porter and Arthur almost had to shout to hear each other, robbing their conversation of nuance. A faintly hygienic scent hung over the room, and it was hard to say whether it came from the men’s aftershave, their scented handkerchiefs, or the air conditioning. Two or three times the uproar stopped dead for a few seconds for no reason, then resumed just as suddenly.
‘An angel passing by,’ Arthur said.
‘I’d be very surprised. There are no angels in Washington, DC. They gave up. No one was listening.’
After he had signed the bill Porter paused and looked straight at Arthur.
‘You’ll learn plenty of stuff at Jansen and Brustein. The majority of it mustn’t leave the office. A single indiscretion can scuttle a deal that’s been months in preparation. But I believe you’ll enjoy swimming in shark-infested waters for a few weeks.’
‘Shark-infested?’
‘Certainly, to your European eyes. Didn’t Concannon warn you on the boat over? The United States has one god: money. It absolves all sins. Do you know Washington?’
‘No.’
‘It’s a modern-day Rome. My chauffeur will give you a tour this afternoon, then take you to the airport. I’ve suggested he avoids the black areas … they’re not our proudest achievement. Are you stopping in New York before you go back to Beresford?’
Arthur thought about it. He wanted to. He had not seen Elizabeth for a month.
‘My secretary will change your return ticket. At least Elizabeth Murphy will give you a slightly less conventional idea of our society than I can.’
Arthur stiffened. Porter saw.
‘Tell yourself that there are no secrets,’ he said, ‘and read nothing into it except a mark of interest in your person. Miss Murphy always makes me think of a fable of your great La Fontaine: for the cicadas to go on singing, the ants need to carry on storing up food for winter. I represent the most rigid part of America’s character; I do it so that inside the citadel the cicadas, like your friend, can go on singing … or putting on a show. Let’s take a short walk, shall we? The car will follow.’
Not just the car but a young man in a beige alpaca suit followed them, the same one, Arthur recognised, who had been at the quayside when the Queen Mary docked and at Beresford the night of Porter’s lecture.
‘Good,’ Porter said. ‘I see you have an eye for detail. Take it from me, I have to have him. Others feel it’s important. It serves Minerva’s purpose too. She’s convinced that that young man with his P38 under his jacket will make sure I don’t step out of line, as if I have nothing to worry about except chasing hookers in a town where everyone spies and rats on everyone else. Can you see me in my underwear in a hotel room with some broad, and a photographer and journalist suddenly bursting in? The next day there I am, front page of the Washington Post, the strict guardian of politicians’ virtue but not always my own, followed by some court appearance into the bargain, with a judge fining me for my conduct. I can just see the President’s face, forced to limit the damage from the scandal … You’re lucky to be French, to be free in a country where it’s more of a point of honour not to go sticking your nose in the private lives of public figures …’
Porter walked with a military stride, stopping dead in the middle of the pavement without paying any attention to other pedestrians, gripping Arthur’s arm, to underline the force of his words and convince him of society and the press’s narrow-mindedness.
‘I’m not saying that you’ll ever find yourself in such a position,’ Porter said, as they parted. ‘But maybe one day …’
‘I’m a long way off.’
‘That’s what we all think … The chauffeur will take you now. It’s nothing like New York. A cold town, even at one hundred degrees, as befits the seat of power. Power’s like ice. Still, there are some things to admire. I’ll let you be the judge.’
When he got off the plane at LaGuardia, he called Elizabeth.
‘Arthur! You’ve come at just the right time. Come straight away. I have a surprise for you.’
The surprise was Augusta. Later Arthur was annoyed that Elizabeth had not warned him. She had doubtless done it deliberately, in the interests of proving how generous she was, of reminding him – though he had not forgotten – that the two of them were free and only shared, when they met all too briefly and rarely, a pleasure that the angels envied. But the meeting with Augusta was such a shock that he was speechless and stood frozen, his overnight bag at his feet, as though she had caught him red-handed. Six months of not seeing her had transformed her into a myth, an idea whose body and even voice had grown more indistinct from day to day, leaving behind a fragile statue that was swept away, brought back, erased by the slightest gust of wind. It took him several seconds to recognise her: she was standing with her back to the window, her face in shadow (Elizabeth, liking things to be close to the ground, had only lit one low lamp). We are made so that the abrupt fulfilment of a secret desire leaves us disarmed, no longer sure whether we want what we have so desperately wished for; instead we feel stripped of what previously doubled our life’s value and filled it with enchantment, to the point where the one we love turns into an unreal being all over again, whose reappearance overturns the order of things. And how could Arthur not be dismayed by the reality of a meeting he had so wanted taking place under Elizabeth’s roof and scrutiny, plunging him into a confusion that for some reason neither of the two women seemed to be aware of?
The low lamp lit Augusta as far as her knees. The rest, her waist and bust, the straight and noble way she carried her head, became clearer as Arthur’s eyes got used to the apartment’s half-light. So she was really here, and he finally recognised her as she was, both in his memory and his imagination, as a flesh-and-blood woman, her body sheathed in a tight dress of black silk, wearing a simple pearl necklace and two delicate shell-shaped gold earrings, and with her waist belted with a silver sash that hung from her right side. Even if one suspected from her laconic postcards that Augusta felt for Arthur only a small fraction of what he felt for her, the meeting was too unexpected for them not to be equally disconcerted. Was it actually happening? Had they invented it? Arthur was already no longer young enough to harbour ideas of romantic love. The reasons for his attraction to Augusta were hard to explain, and even if he had possessed a clearer sense of his own mind, he probably could not have admitted them. The fact that she had responded at all, even by hints and implications, still seemed incredible to him.
‘Well,’ Elizabeth said, surprised by their silence, ‘I thought you were at least going to throw your arms around each other! Is there something I don’t know?’
Arthur brushed Augusta’s cool cheek with his lips.
‘You don’t make any effort to see me,’ she said.
‘Getulio makes every effort so that I can’t see you.’
‘When will I see you properly?’
‘Now! Look, I’m here! I kissed your cheek, and I stroked your arm as I did it.’
‘You violated her neutrality!’ Elizabeth said.
Augusta only had five minutes. A car was coming to take her to a party. Where? She didn’t know exactly. Or whether Getulio would be there. She would not have had anything to wear without Elizabeth lending her a dress. An impossible dress, actually. You couldn’t walk up or down stairs in it, which was all the mor
e disastrous in a three-storey building without a lift, and in a working-class neighbourhood. Why didn’t Elizabeth come back to 72nd Street instead of living in the Village, which was a really dangerous area? And look at how people dressed in the streets here, in jeans and polo shirts, and every few yards there were those choking smells of frying food from Italian trattorias and French bistros. Worse, on the stairs you’d bump into a couple of gays holding each other by their pinkies and stinking of patchouli, ‘you know, that scent maids use for underarm deodorant when they do the housework’.
‘Are you finished?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Yes.’
And Augusta, in tears, threw herself into Arthur’s arms.
‘Save me, if you’re a man.’
Elizabeth flicked the switch and in the courtyard garden the acacia blazed.
‘That’s all that was missing. It’s enough to make a stone weep.’
Arthur stroked Augusta’s neck shamelessly as she nestled against him. He wanted her. Past her bare shoulder he could see the courtyard, the tree, the neighbouring buildings, one dusky red, the other apple green. Lights were going on in the windows. An arm lowered the blinds on the floor opposite.
Augusta pulled away from him, hiding her face in both hands.
‘Oh, I look horrible!’
‘That’s the very least one can say,’ Elizabeth answered, taking her by the hand and leading her to the bathroom, where they locked themselves in.
The overnight bag, abandoned in the middle of the loft, was an invitation to leave. Arthur hesitated. There was still time to break with the two of them, to make his escape and live the life Porter had described so well to him. He could hear them murmuring in English: Elizabeth’s well-modulated voice calming Augusta’s excitement. On the sofa there lay a sequined dress, a dancer’s tutu, and an old, creased suit. Elizabeth must have rummaged through her actors’ costumes before she found the black silk dress. The tenant downstairs put a song by Elvis Presley on his record player. There was the noise of an altercation on the stairs, which ended in the sound of hurrying feet. The neighbour turned down the volume. Augusta was the first to emerge.
