‘You appear interested in your noteworthy compatriot. I was honoured to shake his hand when he visited the Maginot Line in ’37. Complex times, so easily misunderstood. But in which we could not afford to lose. For him to be caught by monsters …’ Surprisingly, he changed course, chuckled, replaced his cigar, unlit, then pressed my arm, looking around as he might do at Longchamp races, inspecting likely winners, detecting losers, appraising his bets.
‘There’s old Marcelle, in this angle of vision double-headed, double-tongued, whispering venom into the Senegalese gentleman, if I choose the correct definition. In Vichy days, we called her the Diplomatic Bag, open to patriots and scum alike. Herr Ernst Jünger named her in his renowned collection of beetles …’ His sudden rapidity implied a remark oiled by frequent repetition, though he immediately slowed, in civilized restraint. ‘The Marshal treated her well, as he was intended to do. She was, you may not know, very useful to the Franco-German committee. None knew better the consequences of a Bolshevized Europe. De Gaulle cast her into outer darkness, but she may have had her revenge. He is to be imagined in a state of controlled despair and becoming his own desolate temple.’
I did not imagine this, and Marcelle resembled an over-painted, over-drinking hotel manageress, but he was scrutinizing me with some care, his white eyebrows seeming to me gruff; a waiter thankfully closed in with a bottle, I gulped, rather too hastily, and was relieved to see Wilfrid near me, bending forward, birdlike, to listen to the editor of Libération, hitherto cautious about the Conference, and though his back was towards me, half-concealed by long, fluttering gowns and twinkling evening bags, I knew that he would divine my predicament.
Dr Miracle, now illuminated, now shadowed, by the slow tide of guests and the stock chorus line of journalists, radio and television officials, and those the Americans were terming free-loaders, had become unconvincingly avuncular.
‘Erich …’ That he knew my name increased my suspicions. ‘If I may presume to call you so … our hosts, whose tastes and opinions I profoundly respect but cannot be said to share, tell me you are in part English. Well …’ he tapped me as he would a barometer, ‘it might still be wise not to discourse too loudly on that. Not to, as it were, boast.’
It was as if I had proposed to leap on to a chair, flourish the British flag, toast both Queen Elizabeths, but he ignored my demur. ‘The English, forgive me a thousand times, are inclined to belittle the efforts of others, and claim what is not rightly their own. They have contrived, for example, to present themselves as saviours of our continent, while concealing the disreputable and furtive. You may not have been told of the Orphans Affair.’ He looked at me, expecting and receiving my headshake. ‘In the early days of Occupation, under American pressure – I have never understood their need to gratify a specialized minority – Vichy issued certificates allowing a thousand children of Hebrew persuasion to sail to England, where their generous brethren had guaranteed support.’
Whether or not intentional, his voice and manner had silenced a number of the scented, ribboned, stately, now listening, several feigning not to. ‘But London forbade it, I cannot tell you why. The children did depart, France did not in all essentials require them, but not to sainted Albion but to Poland for what it was agreed to call resettlement. It is a grievous example of English adaptability. London’s flair for spiritual imperception befitting a nation built upon opportunism. England or, if you like Britain, indeed Great Britain, despite its fanfares and investments, in this light actually lost the war.’
The apostolic head and fragrant skin minutely shrivelled, his small laugh, apologetic to my Englishness, was almost vulgar. His grievous example, whether or not accurate, made the fringe listeners smile or nod; for me it was a considerable jolt, as if finding jazz in Napoleon’s notebook or hearing a Spanish baby drawl ‘psychosis’. And, once again, in this vivid summer, dead children spoilt the hour. The burnt crop of Europe. M. Bousquet satisfied with his masterpiece, and the desperate screams at sight of St Peter’s.
My spiritual perception might be meagre, but I wanted to dislodge a situation slippery and still watched. A plump hand, however, detached me, two rings glinting like winks. With growing acumen, I knew that Dr Miracle’s concern was not with the Herr General, not with children of any persuasion, very little with myself save with my supposed connection with the Conference. Were the new Soviet rulers allowing their pet author, Ilya Ehrenberg, to attend as reporter? Was Dulles expected? Would the gallant Mr Eden come? What precautions were being prepared against disorder and would troops be involved? He had lost his well-broached suavity, by now that of a croupier, and was questioning me like a police inspector.
Finally, his expression thinning, he desisted, shaking my hand, saying, not in German but in measured English as if to a backward child, ‘Very great pleasure. How very fortunate Wilfrid must be, having you beside him.’ Evocation of two survivors on a stricken battlefield. His handshake like the pourboire to a porter, or the virtuoso slice of lemon curled in a Dutch stilleben. As for sainted Albion, I saw the dome of St Paul’s, calm above the swirling flame and smoke of the Reichsmarschall’s gamble.
The shining evening had tired, and I was glad of Wilfrid’s signal to depart. Chin on hand, he heard my account of the Orphans Affair, looking at me as if preserving knowledge as yet inadvisable to discuss. This was uncharacteristic, for wickedness to children was one of the rare matters that upset him. His reaction to my verdict on Dr Miracle was also unsatisfactory.
‘We must accept, even be diverted by, the variousness of others. You were discerning enough to select a very individual specimen for your inspection. He was a Vichy minister, a leading opponent of the Reynaud–Churchill discussions about Anglo-French union. With Britain apparently defeated, Moscow about to fall, he became vehemently pro-German. You could have had sight of him in the Jünger film, standing with German generals and Laval at a Wehrmacht parade for Hitler’s birthday. He has not changed, has his own courage, not of the showy kind. Recently, he bribed his way free, from a government investigation into financial mischance. He shuns all publicity for using his millions to keep afloat a hospital ill-advised enough to allow me its chairmanship. In England, alas, he is forbidden to set foot. He will certainly, and very graciously, invite us to view his art collection. All in excellent taste and due to a family forced to sell at bargain prices, before deportation.’
A very unsatisfactory reference, I reflected.
Experience of Dr Miracle, renewed and discordant memories of the Herr General and the growing prominence of the September Conférence du Monde, together with sexual famine, was forcing me to keep watch like a fiction detective’s straight-man. I was one of those, like Count Pahlen’s confederates, who slink in shadows, taking notes, overhearing, stalking, but missing the grand climax. There would be evidence in plenty – Dr Miracle’s excellent artistic taste, revolution in Egypt, Adenauer’s visits to London and New York, the French presidential election – though evidence of what I could see little more than a muddle.
Meanwhile, the Conference, six weeks ahead, was inciting a turmoil of publicity quips, vengeful taunts, feuds scarcely unchanged since the Revolution and a morass of shifting allegiances akin to the testing time of Stalin’s death. Issuing a personal communiqué, Charles de Gaulle, without mentioning the Conference, foretold the demolition of what he called the grotesque Soviet System and demanded a general European effort to withstand American global ambitions. Jean-Paul Sartre replied that this was fascist foolery.
I now realized that many of Wilfrid’s associates belonged to another of M. Sartre’s targets, Toute Vie, not a political movement, more, apparently, an intellectual mood, shallow as an oyster, Marc-Henri instructed me, before boasting of his favourite and infuriating topic, progress with his latest girl. Did Wilfrid, I groaned, have any understanding of my real needs? Evidently not.
Toute Vie was further response to the feeble morale, political intellectual and financial corruption responsible for the French d
efeat in 1940, regarded by too many not as catastrophe but as opportunity for regeneration through suffering and self-purgation, with defeat of the Left and the suppression of anarchy. Anti-fascist, anti-communist, Toute Vie was attacked for alleged mysticism and its insistence on physical fitness indispensable for mental rigour and moral stability. Though it looked back to similar Renaissance cults, its appeal to athleticism and sport could, as Wilfrid rather ruefully admitted, be uncomfortably close to the Nazi ‘Strength Through Joy’ order and its Soviet replicas. Toute Vie was attracting many worker-priests, lately deprecated by the Vatican, together with youngish philosophers, teachers, publishers, physicians, constantly overcrowding our rooms and confirming English notion of jabber. Toute Vie, as conducted by these, was learned, dedicated, persuasive and tedious. At this, Wilfrid nodded without rancour, merely reflecting that the results of exciting rallies were usually deplorable, particularly in Paris, which often mistook excellent theatre for serious politics.
Whatever its deficiencies, the Conference would be no back-room gossip or kitchen-talk slogans, advocating universal hand-outs, Californian diet, deep breathing and the inspired negatives of Tao. Backed by UNESCO, the World Council of Churches, industrial combines, surely the CIA and perhaps the Pentagon, it had been lent the substantial, historically prestigious Pavillon Mazarin. Newspapers daily tabled support, promises, goodwill, from impersonal corporations and individuals whom Wilfrid described as being famous yet unknown.
His gift of Rilke’s poems had been valuable, but their constant exhortation to praise I found superfluous in this hectic atmosphere of big names and rowdy dissent. I could praise nothing, and, by now experienced in his ways, I regarded with rank suspicion his assurance that not only would I be helpful to him but would also have my fill of the ludicrous misunderstandings, heartfelt error and personal oddity unavoidable in any pretentious undertaking.
6
Wilfrid liked giving small dinner parties at home, usually inviting guests undemanding, friendly, and departing not too late. As refuge from Pavillon preparations, he proposed, ‘should you boys permit’ another dinner, but this time to entertain a personage too eminent to have noticed even the Conference. Lisette, traitor, beamed satisfaction. Marc-Henri was unexpectedly agreeable, though I winced like a flagellant. Only too likely was a Toute Vie enthusiast or, worse, Dr Miracle talking of Titian. It might not be beyond Wilfrid’s temperament, his quiet pleasure in surprising, to produce Dr Miracle’s demi-god, the Herr General, with gun in his pocket. More realistically, there would be a potentate offering me berth on a Brazilian estancia, a desk on an Oslo paper, an interview with Italian bankers or a Papal conclave. Thankfully, Konrad Adenauer, now in London, was unavailable and could not demand my opinion of Bonn’s economic policy, Wilfrid having commended my capacity for zealous research.
I reluctantly chose a suit and was displeased to find Marc-Henri had not relinquished his daytime flannels and cord jacket, his hair like a poorly trimmed hedge. I was less prepared for Wilfrid, in mauve, open-necked shirt and blazer. He suggested we wait in what he liked calling the Grand Salon, actually small and circular, lined with books and eighteenth-century Tuscan landscapes. His guest was late; I could only fantasize further about a Mother Superior with iron handshake and principles achingly inflexible or an Orthodox Archimandrite, fully robed, with glittering crucifix and hat tall as a spade.
The bell rang and, forestalling Lisette, Marc-Henri darted to admit the Presence. Incredibly, we heard a slight, unseen scuffle. I closed my eyes, flinching from the prospects to come, until Wilfrid spoke. ‘This …’ usually so scrupulously polite, he was almost indifferent, ‘is Suzie.’
A slim body with dancer’s neat poise, in black, somewhat scruffy slacks and lilac coat, dark eyes older than the sallow, sketchily triangular face pertly inspecting me from under short, dark, possibly dyed hair with spiky fringe. We were soon chatting about a movie, Barrault’s charm, Michel Simon’s crudeness, and drinking strong cocktails mixed by Marc-Henri, who treated Suzie like a friend whom he had once known too well to encourage my sudden hopes. Wilfrid oversaw us with the benevolent impartiality of a seasoned chairman.
At the table, candle flames quivering against glass, silver, roses, fruit, he, as always, drank sparingly but passed us wines with commendable regularity. Suzie’s animated talk and gestures roused Marc-Henri from lumpishness to joke about La Belle France needing the embrace of the Son of God, at odds with his agnosticism until I realized the latter was de Gaulle. Suzie was laughing, captious, anarchist in her sallies and political convictions or lack of them. Ignoring the Son of God, she told me, with accuracy perhaps only poetic, that she had once ridden in a circus. Wilfrid nodded like a connoisseur, I produced a joke that I remembered too late Marc-Henri had recently made. Embarrassed, reaching for the wine, though my glass was still full, I saw Wilfrid murmur to Suzie, who giggled immoderately, eyes widening at me, admiring or astonished, then, in the flimsy light, beautiful.
Wilfrid avoided my stare. ‘Like most of us Suzie is several people at once. Most of them very well worth acquaintance.’
Marc-Henri was seriously preoccupied with sea trout, not belying my suspicion that he might once have been rebuffed by the most carnal of Suzie’s selves. While she and Wilfrid pattered, I could do little except note her bright, birdy glances and laughs that ranged most of the scales; also her sharp, thinly covered breasts. Wilfrid, too, was virtuoso performer: unlikely to have been a circus artiste, he could have impersonated an indulgent confessor, elegant boulevardier, resourceful diplomat, reminding me of the Sphinx, before recollecting that its riddle had not been difficult.
Afterwards, Marc-Henri grunted then left us, and after depositing liqueurs and granting Suzie permission to smoke – her stained fingers detracted from scarlet nails – Wilfrid receded, pausing under an arch.
‘You both know what the Greeks called tyche. Chance. Fortune. In the blindness of chance, not fortune, I must leave you for a meeting vital though one of minimal importance. Suzie of course will remain until desiring to be driven home, for which preparations are in hand.’
Hard and moist at will, I was swamped by excess of metaphor, swooping over rainbow islands, wine-dark seas, perilous whirlpools. She was agile nixie, knee-deep in froth, trainee Helen, creature of wilful, excitable Paris, decidedly no virgin, scornful of my inexperience. Mother would have judged her Bad Taste or, if in extreme impatience, a Light Woman.
In our first tourney, that first evening, we probed, parried, with jokes, butterfly repartee. Thenceforward, Wilfrid, immersed in Conference details, never directly alluding to her, generously provided opportunities. ‘They’ve sent me tickets for the Jouvet. I cannot attend but maybe …’
Suzie’s incessant smoking betrayed nervousness contradicted by her bold eyes and talk. I was not yet risking my stock northern repertoire: pale summer Priata Beach, gold topping a mast, wild geese outstretched against bruised skies, Pahlen’s expressionless face, wild strawberries, Old Men of the Earth, in Forest, the girl who ran, the Lights, billowing, crystalline, electric. Of not quite assessable age, young, but a femme du monde, she would dismiss these as schoolboy jottings, les petits riens, reducing me to a monkish novice.
We quarrelled over nothings. I hated rain and darkness in movies, she enjoyed both. My greed for fruit she found objectionable, as I did her cigarettes. She thought Michèle Morgan insipid; to me, she was marvellous. Such passages were fire to the spirit, the gift of honeymoon before marriage.
With her, the Conference could be forgotten. Life was too short for ideals. We met in small cafés, all posters and tobacco haze, in Jardin des Plantes under low clouds, in almost empty parks; we sat in remote bars engulfed in the skirmish of muted trumpets, helter-skelter clarinets, erratic saxophones. Parting, we ceremoniously shook hands, though earlier we might have embraced, spontaneously, under a railway arch, applauded by the drop-outs. We joined in rapture at sunlight strewn over the Seine, a kingfisher flashing through the Bois, a tramp in p
erfect black bow-tie and disgusting blouse. Each hour together was a craze, to be charted, pondered, re-examined like a graph.
I was shy of inviting her to the apartment, for Marc-Henri’s soggy grin, Wilfrid’s particular humour, Lisette’s knowingness. She had not yet mentioned her own, somewhere in an outer Section, though possibly awaiting me to suggest it. Tactics advised delay, sharpening appetite, prolonging the delicious paraphernalia of seduction, though I felt uncertain who would be seducer. Timing was all, and I watched for the signal, a matelot on the shore seeking the white sail. I was unable to dispel bespoke comparisons, the fantasia of breasts, buttocks, small fuzz – was that also dyed? – while I imagined her posing, in gleeful parody, one hand at her breasts, the other guarding or jabbing her vagina, while she contemplated a vase, a painting, and looked solemn as a nun. I was inhabiting a thriller, defying tyche, sha, Tao, Wilfrid’s packet of spells.
Seldom exquisite, in dark-green, tilted student’s cap, she was a poem inadequately translated but retaining the substance, true line, swing. Part of the volatile streets, we hinged our day on Let’s, like a Hans-in-Luck rhyme. Let’s go movie, go shop, go Metro, go drink. Each corner disclosed some trouvé – a concierge like a pile of warm beef, repellent as Baba Yaga, an old gentleman caressing a doll, a blind beggar at Saint-Martin happily, though unobtrusively, reading Paris-Soir. In fashion, she usually wore dark glasses, accenting veiled purposes, which, like her wonder-why exclamations, sudden touch, lowered voice, sparked a possibility glinting like a coin on a rug. She drew life, vigour from Hollywood stars – Lancaster, Curtis, Sinatra, Peck – and she murmured ‘Bogart’ like a ‘yes’ at an altar. Instinctively I left her the pas, overlooking her inconsistencies. One day she desired a trip to Brittany. I mapped a route, but she looked puzzled, then asked, expressionless, whether I realized that Kirk Douglas was a Polish Jew. She mentioned Southern Spite, which, left undefined, sounded ugly. Remembering a kestrel high above the Manor stables, I ventured love for the North, but her frown implied a shape even worse than Southern Spite. Bardot she scorned as a Lard Cauliflower. Sunflowers were haughty, daisies childish, peonies horrid.
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