Back when, the sidewalk of the Scossa was where they arranged to meet. Summer evenings, like today, where flirtations developed, in the murmur of the fountains and the leaves on the trees, while the church bell chimed the start of the holidays . . .
He ordered an ice cream soda. Back when he would skip classes at his cram school, he used to go enjoy them with a friend, where they served the best ones: in the Arcades off the Champs-Elysées.
Almost dark. Several cars crossed Place Victor-Hugo. He looked around him. There were few customers at the sidewalk tables. Inside, in back, he noticed Pam-Pam Mickey and couldn’t help staring at his platinum blond pompadour, dazzling under the neon lights: the wave that crested above his forehead and the turbulent, undulating cascade down the back of his neck. Mickey had remained faithful to the hairstyle of his youth.
The great tragedy of Mickey’s life had been the closing of the Pam-Pam bar on the Champs-Elysées, at the corner of Rue Lincoln. For more than twenty years he had held court there, having reached his peak during the war, when the “swing kids” frequented the place and Mickey was the most celebrated of them all. His honorific, “Pam-Pam Mickey,” dated from that period. After losing his fiefdom, he had wistfully emigrated to the Scossa.
Surreptitiously, Yotlande watched the aged young man of sixty, alone at his table, head bowed under the weight of his peroxide coif. What was Pam-Pam Mickey thinking about this evening? And why do certain people remain prisoners, well into old age, of a single year in their lives, becoming the decrepit caricature of what they used to be in their heyday?
And he, Philippe Yotlande—wouldn’t he become another Pam-Pam Mickey in a few years? The prospect gave him chills, but he hadn’t lost his jocular nature and, surprised by his absorption in such serious topics, he decided then and there to give himself a future nickname: “Hamlet of the Scossa.”
A few tables away, a girl of about twenty was sitting with a gray-haired man, who held his head high and looked like a gentleman rider, with an official decoration on his lapel. Her grandfather, thought Yotlande. The man stood up and walked into the café, leaning on a cane.
The girl remained alone at the table. She was blonde, with bangs and high cheekbones. She was drinking grenadine through a straw.
Yotlande stared at her. She looked like his Belgian ex-fiancée.
What if, taking advantage of her grandfather’s momentary absence, he went over to introduce himself and make a date, bowing, as if inviting the woman to dance?
He watched her drink her grenadine. He had turned thirty-eight in June, but still could not entirely reconcile himself to the fact that the world was not an endless party.
VII.
My friend Daniel Desoto was also expelled from school, and I had to find a new partner in the projection booth.
Desoto suffered the same treatment as Yotlande: the announcement of his expulsion in the dining hall, walking up the porch steps in front of the assembled students and silent faculty, Pedro’s harsh voice declaring him “unworthy” . . . But his attitude was not like his older classmate’s.
A few weeks after his expulsion, he came to visit us behind the wheel of a red sports coupe that he parked right in front of the Castle. It was recess, and we huddled in admiration around the vehicle. Desoto said that his father, whom he called by the English term “Daddy,” had given it to him for his birthday. And at our astonishment that he could drive before he was old enough for a license, he explained that Daddy had “arranged” for him to get Belgian nationality: in Belgium, apparently, “you can drive without a license.” We’d all known how much Daddy spoiled his son since Desoto had shown us photos of the sailboat Daddy had bought him the summer before.
Our group attracted the attention of Mr. Jeanschmidt, who asked Desoto to vacate the premises at once. He had been expelled because of his cavalier attitude and his spoiled whims, and they didn’t wish to see any more of him at Valvert. Without missing a beat, Desoto, smiling, slowly opened the car door, pulled a carton of American cigarettes from the glove compartment, and handed it to Pedro.
“Here, sir, these are for you . . . with Daddy’s compliments.”
Then he sped away in a screech of tires.
Fifteen years later, passing through a resort on the Atlantic coast, I ran into him on the boardwalk along the seashore. He recognized me immediately. He had lost his chubby cheeks and his brown hair was enlivened by a shock of white.
The next day, he called to invite me to lunch at the local tennis club.
It was a beautiful day. Beneath the large pergola of the tennis club, near the bar, two tables were reserved in the name of “Mr. Desoto.”
A man of about sixty, in tennis whites, strode toward me with a limber gait. He held out his hand and smiled. A reptilian smile. Was it due to the sinuous form of his lips?
“Are you here to see Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“Doctor Réoyon. I’m a friend of Daniel’s.”
And with an ecclesiastical gesture, pressing my shoulder, he bade me sit back down.
Why did this Dr. Réoyon inspire such immediate unease? Things like that can’t be explained. He watched me, squinting, a smile floating over his sinuous lips. I looked for something to break the silence.
“Have you known Daniel very long?”
“Yes. Very long. And you?”
His question contained a hint of challenge, as if I represented a threat to him, or he considered me a rival.
Fortunately, Desoto joined us. He was wearing white shorts and a navy blue jacket, and our reunion made us both feel awkward.
“Have you met Doctor Réoyon? He’s my best friend,” he blurted out. “I owe him practically everything, you know . . .”
“Come now, Daniel, not in the slightest,” the doctor exclaimed. “It is I who am honored by your friendship.”
Then, turning to me:
“Daniel is married to a marvelous woman. Have you met her?”
“My wife will be here any moment,” Daniel said to me, smiling. “Will you have an aperitif?”
And as I hesitated, he turned to the bartender.
“Two Americanos, Michel. And an Orgeat syrup for Doctor Réoyon.”
From the way “Michel” snapped to it, one could tell that Desoto was a prominent figure here at the tennis club. We sat down on the white wooden chairs, at one of the tables reserved in the name of Mr. Desoto.
“You know, you have here before you a truly remarkable man,” Desoto said to me, gesturing toward the doctor. “Let me tell you about him . . .”
Réoyon shrugged modestly. A group came toward us, composed of a young blonde and several teenagers in tennis outfits.
“My wife, Gunilla,” Desoto said, introducing me to the very beautiful blonde.
She gave me barely a look and a brief nod. Then she smiled at Dr. Réoyon. The latter stood up and kissed her hand with the same gentle insistence he had earlier used to press my shoulder down.
Daniel Desoto ordered crudité salads and rosé wine for us, a raw egg and water for Dr. Réoyon. He seemed to be familiar with the latter’s every habit.
Desoto’s wife was Swedish. She spoke French in a deep, commanding voice. The three or four teenagers lunching with us bustled around her, but clearly felt equal admiration for Daniel Desoto.
Dr. Réoyon called the teenagers by their first names and showed them the gruff affection of an old scoutmaster bullying his cubs. All anyone talked about during the meal were Daniel Desoto’s serves or backhands from that morning, and everyone complimented him on the quality of his smashes. The only criticisms came from Dr. Réoyon, and Desoto listened to him with his mouth slightly agape. What role did the doctor play in my old friend’s life? Gunilla Desoto nonchalantly smoked a cigarette and stated that she would be on the courts that afternoon. The teenagers vied to see who would have the honor of being her partner with as much urgency as the Sun King’s courtiers jockeying to become the next Marly. Réoyon, in canonical tones, proposed that they draw
straws.
Everyone who passed by under the pergola greeted Daniel Desoto, his wife, and Dr. Réoyon. The bartender didn’t take his eyes off us and anticipated our every wish. Daniel and Gunilla Desoto were the monarchs of the tennis club, all its members their subjects, and Dr. Réoyon their éminence grise. Evidently Dany was what they generally call in club circles “very well off.” And I was proud of my friend to see that he’d married such a gorgeous woman and become a man of consequence.
I knew something about precious stones, and I noticed on Gunilla Desoto’s finger a Ural emerald and a diamond of the first water. I raised my eyes, and they met those of Dr. Réoyon. A strange look, the kind a cardsharp gives a newcomer whom he suspects of also playing with a marked deck.
“Beautiful stones, aren’t they? I recommended them to Gunilla for their therapeutic virtues,” Réoyon said.
“Meaning?” I said.
“Meaning that Doctor Réoyon can cure you of any ailment,” Gunilla said curtly.
“It’s true, old man,” Daniel Desoto chimed in. “And Doctor Réoyon can put you to sleep in a minute flat . . . He just has to massage your forehead . . . Go on, Doctor, show him.”
“Don’t be childish, Daniel.”
The doctor’s rimmed and sinuous lips tightened. The hardness on his face froze my blood.
“Forgive me, Doctor . . . I merely wanted to show my friend what you’re capable of . . .”
“Medicine is serious business, Daniel.”
His unctuous tone had returned.
“Doctor Réoyon is right, darling,” Gunilla added to settle the matter.
All afternoon, I remained seated under the pergola. Daniel Desoto had reserved the central court to play tennis. Now and then he made a brief appearance, looking increasingly agitated, reiterating that he “wasn’t in tip-top form,” despite the constant encouragements his young admirers lavished on him. Gunilla, looking worried, told me in her deep voice that Daniel was restless and always felt the need to exert himself. It was a good thing Dr. Réoyon was watching over him.
At the end of the match, Daniel furiously threw his racket against one of the pillars of the pergola, then went to sulk at the bar, like a child. His entourage must have been used to these outbursts, since none of his courtiers—not even Dr. Réoyon—went to disturb his sulk. Gunilla slipped away, after picking up Daniel’s racket and whispering a few words to Dr. Réoyon, who nodded and disappeared in turn.
I tapped Daniel on the shoulder. He turned around and smiled at me, with that kind, slightly melancholy smile that I remembered from our school days. Then he pulled me toward the edge of the pergola, away from the others. We sat on a bench.
“How’s Daddy?” I asked.
As it happened, Daddy was still around. At seventy-five, Daddy was still in very good health. And Desoto told me that, in fact, he and his wife spent vacations here, with Daddy and Mammy, as he called his mother. They all stayed at the Bellevue, the hotel where, every year, since he was a small child, he, Daniel, had sojourned for a month with Daddy and Mammy. The Bellevue, he said, was like their home. And the tennis club his estate. Daddy had enrolled him in it at age three, by special dispensation.
And since we were such old friends, he opened up to me: after a year spent dithering, during which Daniel had “suffered some hard knocks” and worked for a sympathetic friend of his father’s, Daddy had finally agreed to let him marry Gunilla, on condition that Gunilla give up her modeling career and convert to Judaism. Daddy had bought them a huge apartment on Rue Jean-Goujon, and Mammy had overseen the decoration. Yes, it was Daddy who had lent him the money to buy Gunilla those rings.
Daddy had entrusted him with a small, undemanding job in his film import-export company. The best part was that they got to travel a lot and never missed Cannes, which Gunilla greatly enjoyed.
And what about Dr. Réoyon in all this? I sensed Daniel hesitate. Oh, Dr. Réoyon was a kind of adviser who accompanied them wherever they went. The doctor lived with them on Rue Jean-Goujon. He and Gunilla owed a lot to Dr. Réoyon. And Daddy—what did he make of this doctor? That time, Daniel didn’t answer. He changed the subject by telling me that he and Gunilla wanted a child. In the apartment on Rue Jean-Goujon, the nursery was all ready. A very large, sky-blue nursery. And Daniel confided that he slept there alone. Funny thing, isn’t it?
He walked me to the club entrance that marked the border of his realm. He seemed touched when I asked him to remember me fondly to Daddy and Mammy. I crossed over the highway and glanced back. I saw him waving to me, looking eternally downcast, his white forelock plastered over his forehead. That forelock was his only sign of aging, but it seemed hard to believe, for it was so white that the hair appeared bleached.
Someone gently squeezed my shoulder. I turned around. Doctor Réoyon.
“I’d like to speak with you,” he said in a flat voice.
Under his arm was a thin leather portfolio whose color clashed with the immaculate white of his tennis outfit. How did he happen to be there? Had he followed Daniel and me when we left the club? Or had he stationed himself across the road to wait for me?
“This way, please . . .”
We soon came to a mini-golf course, its grounds protected from the highway by white wooden fences and privet hedges. A blonde woman was working behind the counter, in a rustic-style cabin with a thatched roof.
“Will you be playing, Doctor?”
And already she was tendering a golf club.
“No, no, we’re just here for drinks.”
He signaled for me to sit at one of the tables.
“Two Orgeats . . .”
“Very good, Doctor.”
He had laid his portfolio flat on the table and was caressing the leather with the tips of his fingers.
“I would rather you not see Daniel again,” he said tersely.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I don’t believe it’s good for him.”
He transfixed me with his serpentine gaze. No doubt he was trying to intimidate me. But in reality, I felt like laughing.
“How could I do him any harm? We’ve been friends since childhood . . .”
“You’ve just said the magic word.”
His tone had softened. Once more there was that unctuous, plummy way of speaking. And he kept caressing the leather of his portfolio. His hand ran back and forth and an image flashed across my mind, with the power and precision of an unassailable fact: I saw that hand gently caressing Gunilla Desoto’s buttocks.
“You get along well with Daniel’s wife?” I asked him point blank.
“Very well. Why?”
“Just asking . . .”
“A moment ago, you said a key word,” Réoyon resumed nervously. “The word childhood. Daniel has remained a child. That’s the whole problem . . .”
He slowly took a gulp of Orgeat, then smacked his lips like a wine taster sampling a new vintage.
“And with children, a certain conduct must be observed. It requires a great deal of authority. That’s where I come in . . . Daniel’s parents are too weak and too old. I am the only one who can solve the problem. With his wife’s full consent, of course.”
Now, with his index finger, he was caressing the portfolio’s zipper.
“If I’d rather you not see Daniel again, it’s for his own good . . . Anything that reminds him of his childhood or the boarding school can only worsen his case. I am very sorry to tell you that you would have a deleterious effect on him. Leave him be.”
He was certainly not appreciating my smile.
“The situation is much more serious than you realize . . . Daniel’s parents understand this perfectly well and have given me carte blanche . . . I have here all the documentation to prove it.”
He opened the zipper of his portfolio with the slowness and delicacy one might apply to separating two petals of a flower.
“Would you like to see these documents?”
“No need.”
I moved my face clo
ser to his, keeping the smile on my lips, no doubt a threatening smile.
“I am Daniel’s guardian . . . His legal guardian,” murmured Réoyon.
“And what does his wife make of all this?” I asked.
“She wholeheartedly approves. She even helps me in my work.”
He got up and stood stiffly in front of me, in his tennis whites, brown leather portfolio under his arm. From the hedgerows came whiffs of privet as strong as in the labyrinth at Valvert.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said. “Mme Desoto is waiting for her massage.”
VIII.
Every year in the month of June, the school festival brought together our parents and friends. They called it the Sports Festival, and those two words in and of themselves express the particular spirit of our school, where sports took primacy. The school badge sewn to our blazers, gold triangle on a blue background, featured the word SPORTS at the base of the triangle like a motto or command.
Kovnovitsyn was in his glory on those Sundays. I can still see him, head held high, wearing a polo shirt, espadrilles, and white trousers, presiding over the ceremony as the marquis de Cuevas once did over his ballets. Shoura, his Labrador, was allowed to walk around off leash for the occasion. And we, the students, vied to outdo each other in the competitive events: hundred-meter dash, athletic exercises, timed run through the fitness trail, pole vaulting. The festival ended at dusk with a game of field hockey, which Pedro himself refereed.
The stars of the day were indisputably the pole vaulters. The best one received a cup from Kovnovitsyn’s own hand. But that year, I paid much less attention to my classmates’ exploits than to Yvon’s sister, Martine.
She was stretched out in a bathing suit on the grass by the pool. The day’s heroes were clustered around her: older boys like Christian Winegrain and Bourdon, the big winners of the pole-vaulting contests, Philippe Yotlande, McFowles, Charell, and others besides . . . Yvon had introduced his sister to all of them and remained at her side, shy and serious like an interpreter or squire. And proud of the success Martine was enjoying.
Such Fine Boys Page 7
