Other people arrive on Saturdays and Sundays. The editor often invites as many as twenty guests. You get to know most of them in due course, but it’s difficult to put a name to each face. Bizarre rumours are widespread in the village. That the editor organizes a ‘special’ kind of party at the ‘Villa Mektoub’ which was why ‘all these strange characters’ come down from Paris. The woman running the Clos-Foucré while the Beausires once ran a bordello. In fact, the Clos-Foucré was beginning to seem more like a brothel, given the curious clientele now staying there. People wondered, what underhand means had ‘Baron’ Deyckecaire used to get his hands on the ‘Priory’? The man looked like a spy. The ‘Count’ had probably joined the Foreign Legion to avoid being prosecuted for some crime. The editor and the red-haired woman were engaged in nefarious trafficking of some sort. There were orgies being held up at the ‘Villa Mektoub’, and the editor even got his niece to take part. He was more than happy to push her into the arms of the ‘Count’ and anyone else whose silence he wanted to buy. In short, the locals ended up convinced that their village had been ‘overrun by a mob of gangsters’. A reliable witness, as they say in novels and police reports, looking at the editor and his entourage, would immediately think of the ‘crowd’ who frequent certain bars on the Champs-Élysées. Here, they are completely out of place. On evenings when there is a crowd of them, they have dinner at the Clos-Foucré, then straggle up to the ‘Villa Mektoub’ in small groups. The women are all red-heads or platinum blondes, the men all wear brash suits. The ‘Count’ leads the way, his arm wound in a white silk scarf as if he had just been wounded in action. To remind him of his days in the Legion? They clearly play their music loud since blasts of rumba, hot jazz and snatches of song can be heard from the main road. If you stop near the villa, you can see them dancing behind the French windows.
One night, at about 2 a.m., a shrill voice screamed ‘Bastard!’. The red-haired woman came running out of the villa with her breasts spilling out of her décolleté. Someone rushed after her. ‘Bastard!’ she shrieked again, then she burst out laughing. In the early days, the villagers would open their shutters. Then they got used to the racket the newcomers made. Now, no-one is surprised by anything.
The magazine was obviously launched recently, since the current issue is number 57. The name – C’est la vie – is emblazoned in black-and-white letters. On the cover, a woman in a suggestive pose. You would think it was a pin-up magazine were it not that the slogan – ‘A political and society weekly’ – didn’t claim more high-flying aspirations.
On the title page, the name of the editor: Jean Murraille. Then, under the heading: features, the list of about a dozen contributors, all unknown. Try as you might, you can’t remember seeing their names anywhere. At a pinch, two names vaguely ring a bell, Jean Drault and Mouly de Melun: the former, a pre-war columnist, the author of Soldat Chapuzot; the latter a starving writer for Illustration. But the others? What to the mysterious Jo-Germain, the author of the cover story about ‘Spring and Renewal’? Written in fancy French, and ending with the injunction: ‘Be joyful!’ The article is illustrated by several photographs of young people in extremely informal dress.
On the second page, the ‘Rumour & Innuendo’ column. Paragraphs with suggestive titles. One Robert Lestandi makes scabrous comments about public figures in politics, the arts and the entertainment world and makes oblique remarks that are tantamount to blackmail. Some ‘humorous’ cartoons, in a sinister style, are signed by a certain ‘Mr Tempestuous’. There are more surprises to come. The ‘editorial’, and ‘news’ items, not to mention the readers’ letters. The ‘editorial’ of number 57, a torrent of invective and threats penned by François Gerbère contains such phrases as: ‘It is only one short step from flunkey to thief.’ Or ‘Someone should pay for this. And pay they shall!’ Pay for what? ‘François Gerbère’ is none too precise. As for the various ‘reporters’, they favour the most unsavoury subjects. Issue 51, for instance, offers: ‘The true-life odyssey of a coloured girl through the world of dance and pleasure. Paris, Marseilles, Berlin.’ The same deplorable tone continues in the ‘readers’ letters’ where one reader asks whether ‘Spanish fly added to food or drink will cause instant surrender in a person of the weaker sex’. Jo-Germain answers these questions in fragrant prose.
In the last two pages, entitled ‘What’s New?’, an anonymous ‘Monsieur Tout-Paris’ gives a detailed account of the murky goings-on in society. Society? Which ‘society’ are we talking about? The re-opening of the Jane Stick cabaret club, in the Rue de Ponthieu (the most ‘Parisian’ event of the month according to the columnist), ‘we spotted Osvaldo Valenti and Monique Joyce’. Among the other ‘celebrities listed by ‘Monsieur Tout-Paris’: Countess Tchernicheff, Mag Fontanges, Violette Morriss; ‘Boissel, the author of Croix de Sang, Costantini, the crack pilot; Darquier de Pellepoix, the well-known lawyer; Montandon, the professor of anthropology; Malou Guérin; Delvale and Lionel de Wiet, theatre directors; the journalists Suaraize, Maulaz and Alin-Laubreaux’. But, according to our correspondent, ‘the liveliest table was that of M. Jean Murraille’. To illustrate the point, there is a photograph showing Murraille, Marcheret, the red-haired woman in jodhpurs (her name is Sylviane Quimphe), and my father, whose name is given as ‘Baron Deyckecaire’. ‘All of them’ – says the writer – ‘bring the warmth and spirituality of sophisticated Paris nightlife to Jane Stick.’ Two other photographs give a panoramic view of the evening. Soft lighting, tables occupied by a hundred or so men in dinner-jackets and women with plunging dresses. The first photograph is captioned: ‘The stage is set, the curtains part, the floor vanishes and a staircase, decked with dancers, appears . . . The revue Dans notre miroir begins’, the second is captioned ‘Sophistication! Rhythm! Light! Now, that’s Paris!’ No. There’s something suspicious about the whole thing. Who are these people? Where have they sprung from? The fat-faced ‘Baron’ Deyckecaire, in the background there, for example, slumped behind a champagne bucket?
‘You find it interesting?’
In the faded photograph, a middle-aged man stands opposite a young man whose features are indistinct. I looked up. He was standing in front of me: I hadn’t heard him emerge from the depths of those ‘troubled’ years long ago. He glanced down at the ‘What’s New?’ section to see what I was reading. It was true he had caught me poring over the magazine as though inspecting a rare stamp.
‘Are you interested in society goings-on?’
‘Not particularly, monsieur,’ I mumbled.
He held out his hand.
‘Jean Murraille!’
I got to me feet and made a show of being surprised.
‘So, you’re the editor of . . .’
‘The very same.’
‘Delighted to meet you!’ I said, off the top of my head. Then, with an effort – ‘I like your magazine very much.’
‘Really?’
He was smiling. I said:
‘It’s cool.’
He seemed surprised by this slangy term I had deliberately used to establish a complicity between us.
‘Your magazine, it’s cool,’ I repeated pensively.
‘Are you in the trade?’
‘No.’
He waited for me to elaborate, but I said nothing.
‘Cigarette?’
He took a platinum lighter from his pocket and opened it with a curt flick. His cigarette drooped from the corner of his mouth, as it droops there for all eternity.
Hesitantly:
‘You read Gerbère’s editorial? Perhaps you don’t agree with the . . . political . . . views of the magazine?’
‘Politics are not my game,’ I replied.
‘I ask . . .’ he smiled ‘ . . .because I would be curious to know the opinion of a young man . . .’
‘Thank you.’
‘I had no difficulty in finding contributors . . . we work as a close team. Journalists came running from all sides . . . Lestandi, Jo-Germain, Alin-Laubreaux, Gerbère, Geor
ges-Anquetil . . . I don’t much care for politics myself. They’re a bore!’ A quick laugh. ‘What the public wants is gossip and topical pieces. And photographs! Particularly photographs! I chose a formula that would be . . . joyful!’
‘People need to loosen up “in these troubled times”,’ I said.
‘Absolutely!’
I took a deep breath. In a clipped voice:
‘What I like best in your magazine, is Lestandi’s “Rumour & Innuendo” column. Excellent! Very acerbic!’
‘Lestandi is a remarkable fellow. We worked together in the past, on Dubarry’s La Volontei. An excellent training ground! What do you do?’
The question caught me off guard. He stared at me with his pale blue eyes and I understood that I had to answer quickly to avoid an unbearably awkward moment for us both.
‘Me? Believe it or not I’m a novelist in my spare time.’
The ease with which the phrase came startled me.
‘That’s very, very interesting! Published?’
‘Two stories in a Belgian magazine, last year.’
‘Are you on holiday here?’
He asked the question abruptly, as if suddenly suspicious.
‘Yes.’
I was about to add that we had already seen each other in the bar and in the dining-room.
‘Quiet, isn’t it?’ He pulled nervously on his cigarette. ‘I’ve bought a house on the edge of the forest. Do you live in Paris?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, apart from your literary activities . . .’ he stressed the word ‘literary’, and I detected a note of irony – ‘ . . .do you have a regular job?’
‘No. It’s a little difficult just now.’
‘Strange times. I wonder how it will all end. What do you think?’
‘We must make the most of life while we can.’
This remark pleased him. He roared with laughter.
‘Make hay while the sun shines!’ He patted me on the shoulder, ‘Look here, you must have dinner with me tonight!’
We had walked a little way into the garden. To keep the conversation going, I remarked that it had been very mild these last few afternoons, and that I had one of the pleasantest rooms in the inn, one of the ones that opened directly on to the veranda.
I mentioned that the Clos-Foucré reminded me of my childhood, that I often went there with my father. I asked him if he liked his house. He would have liked to spend more time here, but the magazine monopolized his time. But he liked to keep at it. And Paris could be very pleasant too. With these fascinating remarks, we sat down at one of the tables. Seen from the garden, the inn had a rustic, opulent air, and I didn’t miss the opportunity of telling him so. The manageress (he called her Maud) was a very old friend, he told me. It was she who advised him to buy the house. I would have liked to ask more about her, but I was afraid my curiosity might arouse his suspicion.
For some time now I had been thinking of various ways I might get in touch with them. First I thought of the red-haired woman. Our eyes had met more than once. It would have been easy to get into conversation with Marcheret by sitting next to him at the bar; conversely, impossible to confront my father directly because of his mistrustful nature. And Murraille scared me. How to approach him tactfully? Now he solved the problem himself, after all. An idea occurred to me. Suppose he had made the first move to find out what I was up to? Perhaps he’d noticed the keen interest I had taken in his little group these past three weeks, the way I was intent on their every movement, on every word they spoke in the bar or the dining-room? I remembered the derisive way I’d been told, when I wanted to become a policeman: ‘You’ll never make a good cop, son. Whenever you’re watching or eavesdropping, you give yourself away. You’re a complete innocent.’
Grève steered a trolley loaded with aperitifs towards us. We drank vermouth. Murraille told me that I could read a ‘sensational’ article by Alin-Laubreaux in his magazine the following week. His voice took on a confidential tone, as if he had known me ages. Twilight was drawing in. We both agreed that this was the most pleasant time of the day.
The hulking form of Marcheret’s back. Standing behind the bar, Maud Gallas waved to Murraille as we came in. Marcheret turned.
‘How are things, Jean-Jean?’
‘Good,’ Murraille answered. ‘I brought a guest. Actually . . .’ he looked at me, frowning ‘ . . . I don’t even know your name.’
‘Serge Alexandre.’
This was the name I had signed in the hotel register.
‘Well, Monsieur . . . Alexandre,’ Marcheret announced in a drawling voice, ‘I suggest you have a porto-flip.’
‘I don’t really drink’ – the vermouth we had had was making me feel queasy.
‘That’s a mistake,’ Marcheret said.
‘This is a friend of mine,’ Murraille said. ‘Guy de Marcheret.’
‘Comte Guy de Marcheret d’Eu,’ corrected the other. Then he turned to me: ‘He has a horror of aristocratic titles! Monsieur likes to think he’s a republican!’
‘And you? A journalist?’
‘No,’ said Murraille, ‘he’s a novelist.’
‘Are you indeed! I should have guessed. With a name like yours! Alexandre . . . Alexandre Dumas! But you look miserable, I’m sure a little drink would do you good!’
He held out his glass, almost pushing it under my nose, laughing for no apparent reason.
‘Have no fear,’ Murraille said. ‘Guy is always the life and soul of the party.’
‘Is Monsieur Alexandre dining with us? I’ll tell him stories he can put in his novels. Maud, tell our young friend about the stir I created when I walked into the Beaulieu in my uniform. A very dashing entrance, don’t you think, Maud?’
She didn’t answer. He glared at her sourly, but she didn’t look away. He snorted:
‘Oh well, that’s all in the past, eh, Jean-Jean? Are we eating up at the villa?’
‘Yes,’ Murraille said curtly.
‘With the Fat Man?’
‘With the Fat Man.’
So this is what they called my father?
Marcheret got up. To Maud Gallas: ‘If you feel like a drink later on up at the house, ma chère, don’t hesitate.’
She smiled and shot me a brief glance. We were still very much at the politeness stage. Once I managed to get her alone, I wanted to ask her about Murraille, about Marcheret, about my father. Start by chatting to her about the weather. Then gradually inch towards the true heart of the matter. But I was worried about seeming too obvious. Had she noticed me prowling round them? In the dining-room, I always chose the table next to theirs. Whenever they were in the bar, I would sit in one of the leather armchairs and pretend to be asleep. I kept my back to them so as not to attract their attention, but, after a minute or two, I worried they were pointing at me.
‘Goodnight, Maud,’ Murraille said.
I gave her a deep bow, and said:
‘Goodnight, madame.’
My heart begins to pound as we reach the main road. It’s deserted.
‘I do hope you will like the “Villa Mektoub”,’ Murraille says to me.
‘It’s the finest historic building in the area,’ pronounces Marcheret. ‘We got it dirt cheap.’
They stroll at a leisurely pace. I have the sudden feeling that I am walking into a trap. There is still time to run, to shake them off. I keep my eyes fixed on the trees at the edge of the forest, a hundred yards ahead. If I make a dash for it I can reach them.
‘After you,’ Murraille says, half-ironic, half-obsequious.
I glimpse of a familiar figure standing in the middle of the veranda.
‘Well, well!’ says Marcheret. ‘The Fat Man is here already.’
He was leaning idly against the balustrade. She, lounging in one of the whitewashed wooden chairs, was wearing jodhpurs.
Ring Roads Page 2
