The French Art of War

by Alexis Jenni

  Granted, it was not warm. All fuel having been diverted to the war effort, to the ships, the tanks, the planes, it was impossible to heat the classrooms, but still here they were, sitting on their chairs, at their desks, behind thick walls that allowed them to remain in this sitting position. Not safe and warm, that would be an overstatement, but safe.

  La Grande Institution survived, it remained assiduously neutral. The word ‘war’ was never uttered. Their greatest worry was the exam.

  Father Fobourdon was interested only in the moral aspect of his job. He communicated in curt commands, and in a few scholarly digressions that hinted at more than was said. But one had to search for this hidden meaning, and if anyone had remarked on the fact he would have feigned surprise; before working himself up into a rage, which would have closed down the debate.

  Every winter he watched the snow fall, these weightless, fluttering flakes that melted as they settled on the paving stones. Then, abruptly, in a brusque voice that made everyone jump, he would bark: ‘Work, boys! Work! It’s all you have left.’ Then he would slowly pace the classroom, moving between the rows of schoolboys poring over Latin texts. They would smile without raising their heads, their secret smiles like lapping water, an echo of the terse phrases hurled into the cold air of the class, and then the eternal stillness of study would once more resume: the rustle of paper, the scratch of nibs, hushed sniffles, and sometimes a quickly suppressed cough.

  Or else he would say: ‘To know that you exist is all you will ever attain.’ Or else: ‘When this is over, in this brutish Europe, you will be like emancipated slaves, mutely performing your master’s tasks.’

  He never elaborated, never returned to a subject, never repeated a phrase. Everyone was familiar with Fobourdon’s maxims, his teacher’s quirks. His pupils would repeat them, although they did not understand them, collect them for a laugh, remember them out of respect for this man.

  They learned that in ancient Rome work counted for nothing; that skill and craftsmanship were left to slaves and emancipated slaves, while free citizens busied themselves with power and warfare. Even when he became a freedman, a slave could never distance himself from his humble origins, his craft betrayed him; he worked, and he was knowledgeable.

  They learned that in the depths of the Dark Ages, when everything was obliterated by war, the art of writing was preserved by monasteries, like islands; it was here, isolated from the world, that a memory of it was kept alive through the great meditative silence of work. They learned.

  And so, when in spring a man in a black uniform visited their class to talk of the future, it felt like a surprising intrusion. He wore a curious black uniform that belonged to no pre-existing army. He introduced himself as a member of one of the new organizations governing the country. He wore boots that were more elegant than those worn by the Germans, which looked as though they would be more at home on a building site; he wore the high, glossy black boots of the French cavalry, which placed him without question in the tradition of national elegance.

  ‘The border to Europe is the Volga,’ he began, sharply. He spoke with his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders thrown back, as if about to take wing. Father Fobourdon scratched his neck and took a step to one side to stand in front of the map on the wall. He hid it with his broad shoulders.

  ‘On this border it is constantly snowing. It is minus thirty degrees. The ground is flecked with ice and so hard that the dead cannot be buried before summer. On this border our men are waging war against the Red Ogre. I say our men. We must say so, because they are ours, these European troops, these young men from ten nations fighting together as brothers to save our culture from the Bolshevik invasion. The Bolshevik is the modern incarnation of the Oriental, gentlemen, and the Oriental has long considered Europe to be its natural prey. Now this has ended, because we are defending ourselves. Now it is Germany, the most advanced of the New Order, who leads the uprising of nations. Old Europe must trust her, and follow her. France has been ailing, but she is being purged, she is returning to her former glory. France is engaged in a national revolution and will once again take her position in the new Europe. It is a position that can be won only through war. If we want a role in the Europe of the victors, we must fight alongside the victors. Gentlemen, you have a duty to join the troops fighting on all fronts. You will soon receive a call-up to the Chantiers de Jeunesse, where you will receive the necessary training, and from there you will take your place in the new army that will ensure our place in the world. We will be reborn through blood.’

  The dumbfounded class listened in silence. Then one pupil, open-mouthed, without thinking of asking permission to speak, murmured plaintively:

  ‘But what about our studies?’

  ‘Those who return will be able to take them up again. If they are still deemed necessary. You will come to understand that the new Europe needs soldiers, strong men, not lily-livered intellectuals.’

  Standing in front of the map, Father Fobourdon shifted from one foot to the other. No one dared to speak, but a buzz of unrest swelled into a commotion that upset him. He surveyed the class. He pointed at one boy whose head rose above the others.

  ‘You, Salagnon. You seem to have something to say. Speak. But keep it brief.’

  ‘So we will not be able to pass our baccalauréat?’

  ‘No. You will be permitted to sit the examination later. This has been agreed with the Institution.’

  ‘It’s the first we’ve heard of it.’

  The officer spread his arms wide to demonstrate that he was powerless to help, which triggered a further commotion; this widened his knowing smile and added still further to the uproar.

  ‘This has always been the way of things!’ yelled Father Fobourdon. ‘Now shut up, the lot of you!’

  The boys immediately fell silent and stared at Father Fobourdon, who seemed about to explain by means of some scholarly example. He looked down, hiding his trembling hands behind his back.

  ‘This has always been the way of things,’ he muttered. ‘If it is the first you’ve heard of it, then you have not been paying attention.’

  They all shivered. The cold felt more piercing than usual. They felt naked. Hopelessly naked.

  The spring of 1944 broke out a few days later. March exploded in yellow flares along the river banks, in rosaries of bright flame dropped from the sky, in sunbursts of flowers in the gardens along the Seine. In March the forsythias all lit up together like tracer fire, a line of yellow explosions rising silently northwards.

  The uncle came knocking one evening and stood in the doorway before coming in. He was dressed in new clothes, a short-sleeved shirt, baggy shorts with a wide belt, knee socks and thick hiking boots. He smiled awkwardly. The uncle, awkward! He knew all eyes would be on his outfit. His uniform might offer little protection against the chill that evening, but it heralded summer, exercise drills, the great outdoors; it advertised it with a naive flamboyance. Behind his back he crumpled a beret, one of those flat military berets emblazoned with a badge, to be worn at an angle over the ear.

  ‘Well, come in then!’ Salagnon Senior said at last. ‘Show us how fine you look. Where does it come from, your uniform?’

  ‘The Chantiers de Jeunesse,’ muttered the uncle. ‘I am an officer with the Chantiers de Jeunesse.’

  ‘You? A pig-headed person like you? What the bloody hell do you plan to do in the Chantiers?’

  ‘My duty, Salagnon, nothing more than my duty.’

  The uncle stared straight ahead, he did not move, did not say anything more. The father thought about saying something, but decided against it; you never knew where you were with insinuations. Sometimes it was better not to know. Best to look sleepy, innocuous.

  ‘Come on, come in. Let’s have a drink to celebrate.’

  The father bustled about, rooting out a bottle of champagne, very slowly, very carefully removing the wire cap, then popping the cork. A series of simple gestures to hide his embarrassment. The world
was in turmoil, and much of this confusion was beyond him. It was a thunderstorm. No one could be trusted. But still he had to carry on, to skipper his boat without letting it founder. Carry on: that was enough. He filled the glasses and took a moment to admire them.

  ‘Take a sip. In the Chantiers you’ll get a quarter litre of piss-weak plonk in a canteen if you’re lucky. Enjoy it while you can.’

  The uncle drank as a thirsty man drinks water. He raised his glass and set it down in the same motion.

  ‘True enough,’ he said vaguely. ‘I see business is good.’

  ‘Not too bad; you have to work at it.’

  ‘Is Rosenthal still closed? I see his shutters are still closed. Did he go bust?’

  ‘They left one morning, as though they were going on holiday. They took one suitcase each. I don’t know where they went. I never had more than a nodding acquaintance with Rosenthal. We’d see each other in the morning at opening time, and at night when closing up. He talked to me about Poland once, but with an accent like his, you couldn’t have much of a conversation. They probably went back to Poland.’

  ‘Do you really think anyone is going on holiday in Poland right now?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve got work to do. All the more so since they closed down. One morning, poof, they were gone, and I have no idea where they went. I’m hardly going to move heaven and earth to track the Rosenthals when I don’t know them from Adam.’

  The saying made him laugh.

  ‘What about you, Victorien, did you know the Rosenthal boy?’

  ‘He was younger. In a different class.’

  The uncle sighed.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for some guy you know only from a name on a sign above a closed shutter. Go on, drink up.’

  ‘No one looks out for anyone, Salagnon. France is vanishing because it has been reduced to a series of individual problems. We’re dying because we refuse to stand together. That’s what we need: to proudly stand together.’

  ‘France! France is a fine thing! But it doesn’t put food on the table. And besides, the Rosenthals weren’t French.’

  ‘They spoke French just like you or me, their children were born here, they went to the same school as yours. So…’

  ‘He’s not French, I’m telling you. Not according to his papers, anyway.’

  ‘His papers? Don’t make me laugh. Your papers were faked by your own son. More real than the real thing.’

  Father and son blushed at the same time.

  ‘Come on, let’s not argue. Drink up. At any rate, I don’t give a shit about the Rosenthals. I’ve got a job to do. And if everyone worked as hard as I do, we wouldn’t have these problems; we wouldn’t have the time to worry about them.’

  ‘You’re right. You’re working. And I’m about to leave. So let’s have a drink. It might be our last.’

  That night Victorien walked his inebriated uncle home to spare him an unpleasant encounter with a patrol, one he could not easily have avoided and might even have provoked, it was the sort of thing he might do when he was drunk. He had knocked back the wine, little caring how much he drank, he had asked for more, then insisted on heading back to the barracks he was sharing with the others leaving for the Chantiers de Jeunesse the next day. ‘Go with him, Victorien,’ his mother had said. And Victorien took his uncle’s elbow to stop him tripping over a corner of the paving stones.

  They parted on the Saône, a black trench cut through with an icy wind. The uncle had sobered up and stood straight; he could walk the rest of the way on his own. He shook his nephew’s hand solemnly, and when he had started to cross the bridge, Victorien called out, ran over to him, and told him about La Grande Institution’s plan. The uncle heard him out, even though his shirt and shorts offered no protection from the wind. When Victorien had finished, he shivered; they were silent.

  ‘I’ll send you travel documents for my camp,’ he said at last.

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘A forgery, Victorien, a forgery. You’re used to that, aren’t you? There are more fake documents produced in this country than real ones. It’s a business in itself; and if the fake ones look a lot like the real ones, it’s because they are made by the same people, who produce one lot by day and the other by night. So don’t worry, the papers I’ll give you will hold up. I’m going to get going. I wouldn’t like to die of pneumonia. In the times we live in, that would be too idiotic. I’d never get over dying of pneumonia. I’d never get over it,’ he repeated, with a drunken laugh.

  He gave Victorien a hard, clumsy hug and left. All the lights in the town were out, and it was so dark that halfway across the bridge he had disappeared.

  Victorien headed home, hands thrust deep in his pockets, collar turned up, but he did not shiver. He was not afraid of the cold.

  Commentaries II

  I have known better days and left them behind

  I LIVE NOW IN A TINY HUTCH perched on a rooftop. I once saw an antique engraving that showed how common rooftop cabins were in Lyon once upon a time, half-timbered, built of brick and roughcast, the roof all of a piece, the east-facing wall a huge mullioned window. There is no need of any other windows: the old town is built at the foot of a hill, almost a cliff, which screens the afternoon sun. Through my crudely leaded windows the streaming sun blinds me every morning. I can see nothing in front of me, nothing around, nothing behind. I float above the rooftops in a light that falls straight from the heavens. I used to dream of living in one of these cabins; now I do. Ordinarily, people make progress, they long for and they buy a bigger, more comfortable house, with more people inside. They make more connections. The place I live now is barely habitable, no one comes to visit, I am alone and happy to be so. Filled with the joy of being nothing.

  Because I’ve seen better days; I owned a house. I had a wife, too. Now I live in a garret. Where I live is strange, a simple swelling on the confusion of rooftops, in this piecemeal city where nothing is ever demolished, nothing ever changes, where things accumulate, they pile up. I live in a crate, in a trunk perched atop the buildings that, over the course of centuries, have accumulated along the banks of the Saône, just as the silt from that river accumulates, hardens and becomes dry land.

  I like living in a box above the rooftops. I always dreamed of it. I used to look up at these spare rooms fashioned in the air, the shoots of a city that is not built, but grows. My head in the clouds, I longed to live in them, but I did not know how to get there. I half suspected that there was no staircase leading there; or only a narrow passageway that closed up as soon as one had passed. I dreamed of standing in front of a window in front of nothingness, and I was well aware that in this hectic city there are places that cannot be reached, that are no more than wisps of a dream. That is where I live.

  Life is simple here. Wherever I choose to sit, I can see everything I own. As far as heating is concerned, I deal with the sky: in winter, heat evaporates and you freeze; in summer, the sun beats down so hard you suffocate. I always suspected as much, now I know it, now I live in one of these cabins I always dreamed of, and I never tire of the pleasure. I live in a single cramped room that serves as a home. From my window I see the roof tiles and the internal balconies stretching out endlessly, the pillared galleries and the winding staircases that form a low, jumbled horizon; the rest is sky. When I sit staring out at the sky, there is nothing behind me: a bed, a wardrobe, a table no bigger than an open book, a sink that serves all purposes, and especially the wall.

  It thrills me to have reached the sky. It thrills me to have reached this shack that people usually shun, that they would do anything to escape as soon as they get on in life. I don’t get on. That thrills me.

  I had a job, a house and a wife, three facets of a single reality, three aspects of a single victory: the spoils of the class war. We are still Scythian horsemen. Work is war, a profession is an act of violence, a house is a fortress, and a woman is plunder, thrown over the back of a horse and carried off.
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br />   This will surprise only those who believe that they live according to choices. Our life is statistical. Statistics offer a more accurate description of life than any story. We are Scythian horsemen and life is a military campaign: I am not proposing a world view, I am stating a statistical fact. When everything crumbles, look at the order in which it crumbles. When a man loses his job and cannot find another, they take his house, and his wife leaves him. Look at the way life crumbles. A wife is plunder and sees herself as such; the wife of an unemployed executive will abandon the vanquished man, since he no longer has the power to possess her. She can no longer live with him, he disgusts her, hanging around at home during working hours; she cannot bear this worm who rarely shaves now, dresses badly, spends the day watching television and moves more and more listlessly; the vanquished man disgusts as he tries and fails to drag himself from the quicksand, tries again and again, struggles, founders and sinks inexorably into an absurdity that saps his eyes, his muscles, his virility. Women forsake Scythians who have fallen to the ground, the horsemen thrown from their horses and spattered with mud: this is a statistical reality that no story can change. All stories are true, but they are no match for statistics.

  I had started out well. In the era of the First Republic of the Left we were governed by a gentle Leviathan, embarrassed by his size and his age, too busy dying of solidification to think of devouring his own children. The village Leviathan offered everyone a role in the First Republic of the Left. It took care of everything; it took care of everyone. I worked in a state institution. I had a good job. I lived in a beautiful flat, with a beautiful wife who had been christened Océane. I loved this name that meant nothing, since it is devoid of all memory; such names are given out of superstition, like a gift from a fairy godmother, so that the child will have good fortune from the start. I had my foot on the social ladder. It led ever upwards. There was no question of it leading down, that would be a contradiction in terms. What language cannot say, cannot be conceived.