22, Rue de Picardie
Nice
22nd November, 1965
I am writing to you, at Mr. Hutte's request, to tell you all I know about the man, "Oleg de Wrédé," even though to remember him is disagreeable for me.
One day I went into a Russian restaurant, in Rue François-Ier, Chez Arkady, run by a Russian gentleman whose name I no longer recall. It was a modest restaurant, there were not many people there. The manager, a man prematurely aged, unhappy and sick-looking, stood at the zakuski table - this was some time around 1937.
I became aware of the presence of a young man of about twenty, who looked at home in this restaurant. Too well dressed, suit, shirt, etc. - impeccable.
His appearance was striking: a vitality, narrow china-blue eyes, a dazzling smile, always laughing. And behind it, an animal cunning.
He was at the next table to mine. The second time I came to the place, he pointed to the restaurant manager and said:
"Would you believe I'm that gentleman's son?" with a look of contempt for the poor old man who was, in fact, his father.
Then he showed me an identity bracelet on which was engraved the name: "Louis de Wrédé, Comte de Montpen- sier, (in the restaurant, he was called by the Russian name: Oleg). I asked him where his mother was. He told me she was dead. I asked him where on earth she could have met a Montpensier (connected with the younger branch of the house of Orléans, it seems). He answered: In Siberia. None of this made any sense. I realized he was a little blackguard who preyed on people of both sexes. When I asked him what he did, he told me he played the piano.
Then began an enumeration of all his society connections - that the Duchess of Uzès was running after him, that he was on the best of terms with the Duke of Windsor... I felt there was both truth and falsehood in his stories. People in "high society" were no doubt taken in by his "name," his smile, his glacial but really quite engaging manner.
During the war - I think it was between '41 and '42- I was on the beach at Juan-les-Pins when this man, "Oleg de Wrédé," came running up, in his usual form and laughing heartily. He told me he had been a prisoner and that a high- ranking German officer was taking care of him. Just now, he was spending a few days with his self-appointed godmother, a Mrs. Henri Duvernois, a widow. But he said: "She's so cheap, she won't give me any money."
He announced that he was returning to Paris, "to work with the Germans." "What at?" I asked. "Selling them cars."
I never saw him again and do not know what became of him. That, I am afraid, is all that I can tell you regarding this individual.
Respectfully yours,
E. Kahan
37
NOW, ALL I NEED DO is close my eyes. The events preceding our departure for Megève come back to me bit by bit. The large, brightly lit windows of the former Zaharoff residence, in Avenue Hoche, and Wildmer's disjointed sentences, and the names, like the purple, scintillating one of "Rubirosa," and the pallid one of "Oleg de Wrédé," as well as other less tangible details - the sound of Wildmer's voice, rough, so low you could barely hear him - all these things serve as my Ariadne's thread.
The day before, in the late afternoon, I found myself, as it happens, in Avenue Hoche, on the first floor of Zaharoff's old mansion. A lot of people. As usual, they kept their coats on. I, for my part, was not wearing one. I crossed the main room, where I saw some fifteen people clustered about the telephones, or sitting in leather armchairs talking business, and slipped into a little office, closing the door behind me. The man I was supposed to meet was already there. He led me to a corner of the room and we sat down in two armchairs separated by a low table. I placed on it the gold 20-franc pieces wrapped in newspaper. He at once handed me several wads of bank notes which I did not bother to count and which I stuffed into my pocket. The jewelry did not interest him. We left the office together, then the large room where the hum of conversation and the coming-and-going of all these men in overcoats was somehow disturbing. In the street, he gave me the address of a possible buyer for the jewels, near Place Malesherbes, and suggested I tell the woman that he had sent me. It was snowing, but I decided to go on foot. Denise and I had often walked this way in the early days. Times had changed. It was snowing and I could hardly recognize the boulevard, with its bare trees, the dark façades of its buildings. No more scent from the privet hedges by the railings of the Pare Monceau, but a smell of damp earth and decay.
A ground floor flat, at the end of a blind alley, the kind called "villa" or "square." The room where she received me was unfurnished. Just the divan, where we sat, and a telephone on the divan. A woman in her forties, nervous, red- haired. The telephone rang endlessly and she did not always answer, and when she did answer, she noted down what was said to her in an engagement book. I showed her the jewelry. I let her have the clip and the diamond bracelet at half price, on condition that she paid me on the spot. She agreed.
Outside, as I was walking toward the Courcelles Métro station, I thought of that young man who had come to our room in the Hôtel Castille, a few months before. He had disposed of the sapphire and the two brooches very quickly, and had very decently offered to share the profit with me. A man of feeling. I confided in him a little, telling him of my plans to leave and even of that fear which sometimes kept me from going out. He told me that we lived in strange times.
Later I went to fetch Denise, in the apartment, in the Square Édouard-VII, where Van Allen, her Dutch friend, had established his fashion house: it was on the first floor of a building, over the Cintra. I remember, because Denise and I used to frequent this bar, since its cellar room allowed one to slip out through a different exit. I think I knew all the public places, all the buildings in Paris with two exits.
In this tiny fashion house, the agitation was similar to that in Avenue Hoche apartment, perhaps even more feverish. Van Allen was preparing his summer collection, and all these efforts, the optimism, impressed me, since I wondered if there were going to be any more summers. He was trying a dress of some light, white material on a dark-haired girl, while other mannequins were going in and out of the changing rooms. Several people were talking around a Louis XV desk, on which were scattered sketches and fabric samples. In a corner of the room, Denise was in conversation with a blonde woman of about fifty and a young man with curly brown hair. I joined them. They were leaving, she and he, for the Côte d'Azur. In the general hubbub, it was impossible to hear what was said. Glasses of champagne circulated, without anyone quite knowing why.
Denise and I pushed our way through to the lobby. Van Allen accompanied us. I can still see his very light, blue eyes and his smile when he poked his head through the opening of the door and blew us a kiss, wishing us good luck.
Denise and I paid a last visit to Rue Cambacérès. We had already packed a case and two leather bags which were waiting by the large table, at the end of the drawing-room. Denise closed the shutters and drew the curtains. She covered the sewing machine and removed the white canvas cloth pinned to the mannequin. I thought about the evenings we had spent here. She would follow the patterns Van Allen gave her, or sew, while I stretched out on the couch and read some memoirs or one of the detective novels in the "Collection du Masque" series which she like so much. Those evenings were the only times I could relax, the only times when I could have the illusion that we were leading an uneventful life in a peaceful world.
I opened the case and slipped the wads of bank notes which bulged out my pockets in among the sweaters and shirts and deep inside a pair of shoes. Denise checked the contents of one of the bags to see whether she had forgotten anything. I went down the corridor to the bedroom. I did not switch on the light and stood at the window. The snow was still falling. A policeman on sentry duty, on the opposite pavement, stood inside a shelter which had been placed there a few days before, because it was winter. Another policeman, coming from Place des Saussaies, hurried toward the shelter. He shook hands with his colleague, handed him a Thermos flask and they took turns drinking
from the cup.
Denise entered the room. She joined me at the window. She was wearing a fur coat and stood close to me. She smelled of some pungent scent. She had a blouse on under the fur coat. We found each other again on the bed, which consisted now only of a mattress.
The Gare de Lyon. Gay Orlov and Freddie were waiting at the entrance to the platform we were leaving from. Their numerous suitcases were piled on a cart beside them. Gay Orlov had a steamer trunk. Freddie was settling up with the porter and offered him a cigarette. Denise and Gay Orlov were talking and Denise asked her if the chalet Freddie had rented would be large enough for us all. The station was dark, except for the platform where we were standing, which was bathed in yellow light. Wildmer joined us, in a camel-hair coat which, as usual, flapped about his shins. A felt hat was pulled down over his forehead. We had the luggage placed in our respective sleepers. We waited outside the carriage for our departure to be announced. Gay Orlov had recognized an acquaintance among the travelers taking this train but Freddie had asked her not to speak to anyone and draw attention to us.
I stayed a little while with Denise and Gay Orlov, in their compartment. The blinds were half pulled down and if I leaned forward I could look out and see that we were passing through the suburbs. It continued to snow. I embraced Denise and Gay Orlov and returned to my compartment, where Freddie had already settled in. Soon Wildmer paid us a visit. He had a compartment to himself for the time being, and he was hoping that no one show up before we had reached the end of our journey. He was afraid, in fact, of being recognized, as his picture had appeared a great deal in racing magazines some years back, at the time of his accident at the Auteuil races. We tried to reassure him, telling him that jockeys' faces were quickly forgotten.
Freddie and I stretched out on our bunks. The train had picked up speed. We left our night-lights on and Freddie smoked nervously. He was a little anxious, because of the inevitable checks. I was, too, but I tried to hide it. Thanks to Rubirosa, the four of us, Freddie, Gay Orlov, Wildmer and
I, had Dominican passports, but we could not be sure how effective they would be. Rubi himself had said so. We were at the mercy of some policeman or inspector more meddlesome than the others. Only Denise was safe. She was an authentic French citizen.
The train made its first stop. Dijon. The voice over the loudspeaker was muffled by the snow. We heard someone walking along the corridor. A compartment door was opened. Maybe someone was going into Wildmer's compartment. Then, the two of us were overcome by a fit of nervous laughter.
The train stopped for half an hour at Chalon-sur-Saône. Freddie had gone to sleep and I had turned out the night- light. I do not know why, but I felt more at ease in the dark.
I tried to think of something else, tried not to listen to the footsteps echoing in the corridor. People were speaking on the platform and I could make out some of the words of their conversation. They must have been standing in front of our window. One of them gave a phlegmy cough. Another whistled. The rhythmical noise of a passing train drowned their voices.
The door opened abruptly and the silhouette of a man in an overcoat was outlined against the light in the corridor. He swept the compartment from top to bottom with his pocket flashlight, to check how many of us there were. Freddie awoke with a start.
"Your papers ..
We handed him our Dominican passports. He examined them inattentively, then he gave them to someone next to him, whom we could not see because of the door. I closed my eyes. They exchanged several inaudible words.
He advanced one step into the compartment. He had our passports in his hand.
"You are diplomats?"
"Yes," I replied mechanically.
After a moment or two, I remembered that Rubirosa had given us diplomatic passports.
Without a word, he handed us back our passports and closed the door.
We held our breath in the dark. We remained silent until the departure of the train. It got under way. I heard Freddie laugh. He switched on the light.
"Shall we go and see the others?" he said.
Denise and Gay Orlov's compartment had not been checked. We woke them up. They could not understand why we were so excited. Then Wildmer joined us, his face solemn. He was still trembling. He too had been asked if he were a "Dominican diplomat" when he had shown his passport, and had not dared answer, for fear that among the plainclothes policemen and inspectors there might be some race-goer who would recognize him.
The train slipped through a white, snow-covered countryside. How gentle this landscape was, how friendly. Seeing these sleeping houses, I felt lightheaded and confident for the first time.
It was still night when we arrived at Sallanches. A bus and a large black car were standing in front of the station. Freddie, Wildmer and I carried the suitcases, while two men took charge of Gay Orlov's steamer trunk. There were about ten of us travelers who were taking the bus to Megève and the driver and two porters were piling the cases into the back when a fair-haired man, the same one Gay Orlov had noticed at the Gare de Lyon, the night before, approached her. They exchanged a few words in French. Later, she told us he was a distant relation, a Russian whose first name was Kyril. He pointed to the large black car with someone waiting at the wheel, and offered to take us to Megève. But Freddie declined the offer, saying he preferred to take the bus.
It was snowing. The bus drove slowly and the black car passed us. The road we were on sloped and the chassis trembled at each gear change. I wondered if we would not break down before Megève. What did it matter? As the night gave way to a white, fleecy fog, through which the pine trees barely showed, I told myself that no one would come looking for us here. We were in no danger. We were gradually becoming invisible. Even our town clothes, which might have attracted attention - Wildmer's camel-hair coat and his navy-blue felt hat, Gay's leopard-skin, Freddie's russet coat, his green scarf and his large black and white golf shoes - melted into this fog. Who knows? Perhaps we would end up evaporating altogether. Or we would merge with the mist which covered the windows, this stubborn mist which you could not wipe off. How could the driver get his bearings? Denise had fallen asleep and her head rested on my shoulder.
The bus stopped in the middle of the square, in front of the town hall. Freddie had our luggage lifted onto a sleigh that was waiting there and we went to get something warm to drink in a pâtisserie near the church. The place had just opened and the lady who served us seemed astonished to see such early customers. Or was it Gay Orlov's accent and our town clothes? Wildmer marveled at everything. He did not yet know the mountains, nor was he familiar with winter sports: His forehead pressed against the window, his mouth hung open, he watched the snow falling on to the war memorial and the Megève town hall. He questioned the lady as to how the ski-lift worked and whether he could sign up for ski lessons.
The chalet was called "The Southern Cross." It was a large, dark wood structure, with green shutters. I believe Freddie had rented it from one of his Parisian friends. It overlooked a bend in the road and could not be seen from there, as it was protected by a screen of pine trees. One reached it from the road, along a winding track. As for this road, it continued to climb, but I was never curious enough to find out just where. Denise's and my room was on the second floor and from the window, over the tops of the pines, we had a view of the whole village of Megève. When the weather was good, I practiced spotting the church tower, the pale yellow patch made by a hotel at the foot of Rochebrune, the bus station and the skating rink, and, at the far end, the cemetery. Freddie and Gay Orlov occupied a room on the ground floor, next to the living room, and to get to Wildmer's room, one had to go down another floor, as it was a semibasement and his window, a bull's eye, was at ground level. But Wildmer himself had chosen to move in there - his burrow, as he called it.
At first, we did not leave the chalet. We played cards endlessly in the living room. My memory of this room is fairly precise. A woollen carpet. A leather wall-sofa, above which was a she
lf of books. A low table. Two windows giving on to a balcony. A woman who lived in the vicinity took care of the shopping in Megève. Denise read detective novels she had found on the bookshelf. I too. Freddie let his beard grow and Gay Orlov made borscht for us every day. Wildmer had asked for Paris-Sport to be brought regularly from the village and he read it, huddled deep inside his "burrow." One afternoon, while we were playing bridge, he appeared, an expression of disgust on his face, brandishing this magazine. A reporter, surveying the outstanding events of the last ten years in the world of racing, had recalled, among other things: "The spectacular accident, at Auteuil, of the English jockey, André Wildmer." Several photographs illustrated the article, among which was one of Wildmer, tiny, smaller than a postage stamp. And it was this that threw him into a panic. Someone at Sallanches station or in Megève, in the pâtisserie near the church, might have recognized him; the woman who brought our provisions and did some housework might have identified him as "the English jockey, André Wildmer." Had he not, a week before our departure, received an anonymous telephone call, at his home, in the Square des Aliscamps? A silky voice had said: "Hullo. Still in Paris, Wildmer?" There had been a burst of laughter and they hung up.
It did no good our telling him over and over that he was in no danger, since he was a "Dominican subject." He was in a terrible state of nerves.
One night, at about three in the morning, Freddie banged violently on the door of Wildmer's "burrow," shouting: "We know you are there, André Wildmer... We know that you are the English jockey, André Wildmer. Come out at once ..."
Wildmer had not appreciated this joke and would not speak to Freddie for two days. Then they made up.
Apart from this insignificant incident, utter calm reigned in the chalet, the first few days.
But gradually Freddie and Gay Orlov began to find our daily routines tedious. Wildmer himself, in spite of his fear that he would be recognized as "the English jockey," was becoming restless. He was a sportsman, not used to inaction.
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