by Louis Begley
Notaben (unnumbered and undated):
Sunday. Again exceptionally hot. Drove to Arpajon to lunch with V and P. Laurent there for a moment, long enough to receive the London bus and Cadbury chocolate truck I bought at l’Oiseau du Paradis. Little boys so easy; pleased with any little car. Lord be praised, the world’s supply of Dinky toys is inexhaustible. How different from presents for the twins—I could never make up my mind which doll I wanted. P’s maman, a hardened number, also present. Could sell real estate, but doesn’t, and if she did, neither she nor son would admit it. Insisted on talking to me in English—although P and V used frogspeak, then seemed reassured because I know her cousin, the rue de l’Élysée notaire with a collection of Caillebotte. Having that connection at last entitled me to be addressed in French. It turns out she would have liked to have P enter the cousin’s étude—pity not to take advantage of such an opportunity, don’t I agree? Of course I agree, but if P had listened to Maman he might have married Josette or whatever the name of Maître Dutruc’s daughter is, for that is the only sure way to inherit a notaires practice, and then P would not have married V, and where would that have left me? In a state of wretched unadultery. Let us praise what is. I do not reveal these thoughts to Mme Decaze.
V enchanting in white cotton. Very wrinkled, could be in Vogue. She has again forgotten her underwear. Presses my foot under the table. Result: Instant erection and greatly increased volubility. Is the latter the reflexive product of the former or of my panicked-prudent efforts to confuse and distract?
Meal and coffee over. Maman wishes to depart, in the direction of Montargis—a mere fifteen kilometers—but I am silent as a stone; after all she is P’s, not mine, and it is he who finally packs her into his grotesque black Citroën and zooms off spitting angry crunching gravel. We go with Laurent for a walk through the garden and into the Montorgueils’ park. They have a pond. I teach Laurent how to skip stones—apparently P hasn’t—and the kid is in seventh heaven, although I am no good at it.
Just as I manage to get one to bounce three times, P reappears. Must have left Maman at the bus stop or traveled at the speed of light. He makes a remark about hurrying back though without much hope of catching me before I have said good-bye and delivers it with such bad grace that I regret having sent that brute a bond issue to work on last week and decide to put him on a strict diet for a while. Let him learn not to bark at the hand that feeds him. V takes it much harder. She asks him for a light, and when he passes her his gold Dupont lighter (but maybe it’s a fake) she throws it right into the middle of the pond, only it doesn’t bounce on the way. P disappoints me further: he yells. I take my leave.
Apparently, P is not too happy about my visits to his country establishment; he prefers to lunch with me at the Automobile Club if he invites (food deplorable but cheap), and anyway he charges it to his office, or wherever I generously choose to take him. It’s fear of pollution. Getting profitable work from me is OK. Having an American who isn’t quite what he seems as a guest in his rural abode is, as they say here, another pair of sleeves. He doesn’t know about the cleansing effect on me of America, a Harvard education, impeccable business position, and friendship with patrician Cousin Jack. And it was P, the hypocritical swine, who thought up that strange way of inviting me to their party: he hoped I would get the hint and decline! Serves him right I didn’t. As he gets to know Jews better, he will realize how remarkably insensitive they can be.
V imparted this to me and by assays of bias (pun intended) I got Guy to confirm it. I must be careful with Guy. That long nose is equipped with a sense of smell. He purred when I told him I was invited to the Decazes en famille.
In July, Véronique and Laurent moved to Arpajon while Paul remained in Paris, but unless he worked really late or had early morning appointments, one could not be sure that he would not jump into his car and rush to the country to spend the night with his wife and son. It was such a short drive: hardly forty-five minutes if one left Paris after the rush hour. It was essential that Paul find it highly inconvenient—impossible—to return to Arpajon unexpectedly. Ben saw to it. New work for Ben’s bank rained on Paul’s law office; each assignment required Paul’s personal attention. The early 1970s were a fairly civilized period for lawyers and bankers: summers were generally quiet; one could afford to slow down. Important men who had the ultimate power over deals were away on long vacation at their Côte d’Azur villas or on their yachts, but Ben thought up deals that he was sure those men could not resist. Each such deal had a structure of exquisite legal complexity. He explained to Paul and his own New York partners (lest they shudder at the size of legal fees paid in Paris) that the solution of such problems could not be left for the last minute; he wanted to be ahead of the competition. Therefore, he needed an inventory of financial products perfected and ready to be offered at the first available opportunity. He knew that the deadlines he set imposed a personal hardship on Paul, he would assure him, but the result would make him indispensable to the bank and establish his reputation in international financial circles in Europe and the United States. In fact, for certain of these projects he asked Paul to go quickly to New York, to lay out for the bank’s American lawyers and tax advisers on the spot how obstacles previously thought insurmountable could, in fact, be overcome by Paul’s and Ben’s combined wiles and imagination.
Now that Ben knew the road to the Decazes’ house by heart, he found that the forty-five minutes ordinarily needed to reach Véronique could be cut down to thirty. He felt light: he was in love, and he exulted in the certainty that Véronique loved him. How could he doubt it? She telephoned him the moment she had spoken with Paul and confirmed that once more he was spending the night in Paris; she was putting Laurent to bed. Ben would dine hastily and early—Gianni radiating grave approval of his employer’s new habits—shed his office clothes, bathe, and, with the roof of his car open, the France Musique concert turned up to full volume, concentrate his attention on beating his most recent record for speed. So that the dog wouldn’t bark, she waited outside the gate of the property—once, on a very warm night, she appeared from behind a stand of flowering laurel entirely naked, her hair loose, arms opened to welcome him. The house was dark, except for her window and sometimes the window of the cook, Madame Julie, on the far side of the kitchen. Joos, the Dutch au pair, went to sleep almost as early as Laurent. Ben waited until Véronique reappeared at the window, got the ladder she hid for his use behind the roses, climbed as far as it reached, and pulled himself up the rest of the way into her room. She liked to prepare refined collations: cold chicken, cherries, and strawberries and, later in the summer, figs, champagne. They slept very little; in the first uneven light of dawn he would be driving back toward Paris, this time slowly, letting the huge trucks carrying produce to the market at Rungis roar by him as he replayed in his mind the wonders of the night. His hands, his whole body, he thought, had the smell of Véronique. He lingered over his coffee and newspapers, putting off the moment of the bath as long as possible, when that smell would yield to Guerlain’s geranium.
There were other evenings when Véronique would decide that Laurent had run around so hard that he was certain to sleep through the night without asking for her. She would call to say she was coming to meet Ben in Paris. Paul’s and Véronique’s apartment was on the other side of Paris, on the rue de la Pompe; Paul’s office was near the Trocadéro; he had no Left Bank habits; there was no risk of running into him. Usually, Ben and Véronique had dinner at Ben’s—Gianni would put it on the table and sideboard and leave them. Other times, they made love first and then went out to eat late, at the Lipp or, when Lipp closed for vacation, at the Coupole. This was not wise, but he had Véronique on his arm, he saw her face near his in the mirror across from their banquette, and they could return to the rue du Cherche-Midi as though they were going home. Several times they saw people she knew. She said it didn’t matter. It was so unremarkable to be in one of those restaurants on a summer night that if one off
ered no explanation no one would think an explanation had been called for.
In the middle of August, Paul rebelled. He told Ben he absolutely needed a rest; so did Véronique and the child, Arpajon being unbearably hot. They were all going for two weeks to his mother’s and stepfather’s house in Saint-Jean-de-Luz, where his boat would be. The legal work for the bank would be covered by his partners who had already taken vacations and, if necessary, they could reach him by phone. Ben made the customary remarks about the French idée fixe that holidays had to be taken in August, when in fact that was the best time to be in Paris, but he did not attempt to assert the authority of a client. The thought crossed his mind that he might himself spend ten days of that period in Biarritz, among valetudinarian Levantines eating their carottes râpées and melon in the monumental dining room of the Palais, its windows open to the view of palm-tree tops and to the Atlantic breeze—a mere fifteen kilometers away from Véronique. What things might not be accomplished in the stillness of the afternoon while Laurent took his nap and Paul was at the helm of his ship? He let the image fade. It was insanely dangerous. Already Madame Julie had made, in Paul’s hearing, an unfortunate remark about how Madame startled her when she heard someone in the kitchen, and, instead of the au pair or Laurent, she found Madame herself dressed in a man’s clothes—she had never seen Monsieur wear that beautiful silk shirt. Ben was convinced that Madame Decaze mère had eyes in the back of her head. (Madame Julie’s nocturnal vision was the consequence of one of Véronique’s frequent decisions to raid the fridge—she could not easily keep ice cream in her room, she complained—and of her habit of wearing Ben’s clothes on these occasions.) Paul had inquired several times about this remarkable shirt or sweater, and Madame Julie, stubbornly accurate, contradicted Véronique’s assertion that it was her usual black T-shirt.
So Ben traveled instead in the opposite direction, to stay with Guy Renard in Porquerolles and exorcise the ghosts of Rachel and the twins. Odile de Montorgueil was there; she was archly surprised that he had not followed Paul and Véronique to Paul’s mother’s house; everybody was thrilled they had become such close friends. Ben decided he disliked her. He managed to rent a pointu, just like the one he had used during that distant summer. Guy and he took it out to the rocks beyond the Mas du Langoustier to gather sea urchins, which tourists and day-trippers were depleting from more accessible locations. They dove until they filled three water buckets made of especially ugly pink plastic with their catch, itself chosen on the basis of a strange palette of colors—deep green or violet shading into ecclesiastic red—which indicated that these ancient bivalves were full, and then paused to warm themselves in the sun and drink the harsh local red wine out of the bottle Guy had put in the boat. When their conversation turned to dinner—that night it was to be with friends of Odile’s—Guy mentioned her catty remark about Véronique and said that being alone in the boat gave him the opportunity he had looked for to offer Ben his admiring congratulations: it was worth taking on a lot of trouble for la petite Decade.
Notaben 316 (dated 7/7/70):
Lunched with Paul at the Ritz today to go over the summer’s work and his bills. Both impressive. I think if the All Knowing was paying attention He must have found me OK too. I didn’t lay it on too thick about how ingeniously he and his fiscaliste had solved the tax problems and figured out the redemption of shares—no captatio benevolentiae—just made it clear I had read and understood all that heavy stuff. The money part was trickier, because he has laid it on pretty thick—30 or 50% above the normal rate? He must know I realized it. Did he think I wouldn’t protest because he is indispensable (nonsense!), because I value his friendship so much (opportunity to peek at how solid French bourgeois society lives at home), or because I want to keep on flirting with Véronique? Or is he accustomed to overcharging and then bargaining over fees? A combination of the above?
Given these doubts, I could not overpay. Told him we would not challenge this set of bills—every law firm needs cash after the summer drought—but expected reductions in bills to come until a proper average rate was achieved, and I would give precise instructions to that effect. He seemed content; anyway, invited me to dinner at home, in Paris.
When I lived with Rachel, I was jealous of all the men—her late husband included—who had possessed her before I appeared on the scene (many of them I am sure I have never identified) and all those who I thought possessed her subsequently. I am not at all jealous of Paul or the other men V has dropped hints about. (I am so grateful not to be jealous that I have not tried to obtain an inventory.) Of course it’s nonsense to use the verb “possess” unless I was jealous only of men whom Rachel loved—and even then, what kind of possession is it? But I wasn’t: I was equally jealous of men who just fondled or entered her casually, transactions in which love had no part.
I don’t think I am free of jealousy about Paul because V has told me that Paul wants her only rarely—what does that matter? When he does want her and takes her they surely do everything V and I do and more. (Miraculously, I have not asked myself exactly what they do, given V’s ingenuity, if it is true that Paul is difficult to arouse and please.) Nor is it because she says she doesn’t “love” him and they are just friends and partners. I think my paradoxically happy situation is due exclusively to V’s having made me believe that she loves me and wishes me well. This appears to take away the sting of all her other activities, past and present. And I think this absence of jealousy also obtains because I love her better than I loved Rachel (how could I say I love her more), in that I trust her completely and all my feelings toward her are kind.
The discussion with Paul about money successfully concluded (from my point of view), I began to concentrate on my fruit tart—he has a sweet tooth, so I ordered dessert to keep him company—and to wonder once again what has caused V to prefer me to him. It can’t be looks. Paul has a nice, open face, even teeth unstained by tobacco, although he smokes, and the sort of body that goes with tennis, soccer, and sailing. Robust and big boned. Perhaps he should keep away from sweets, though, or get Arnys or whoever else makes his shirts to cut them wider. Right now they have an unfortunate tendency to stretch across his chest and pop open at the buttons, revealing light brown hair. There is also the problem of his crotch. It may be that his tailor is skimping on fabric and should be told to give more scope to Paul’s noble parts. As it is, the crotch of his trousers has ugly wrinkles. One can’t be careful enough with women. Could these defects have repelled V? His hands are terrific: large, with strong fingers ending in broad fingernails shaped like shovels, sufficiently neglected to make one remember that this is a man who knows how to pull on a halyard, tie knots in freezing weather, etc. The rest? He talks well, especially in French, with a lawyer’s verbosity and self-assurance. Has read all of Sir Walter Scott in the original—not much for us to discuss there, I have only read Ivanhoe and don’t remember the plot—and likes conspiracy theories. It’s amazing to hear him prove how the CIA killed Jack Kennedy.
Then why me and not him? I don’t set much store by V’s reports of sexual inadequacy—Rachel didn’t think I was such hot stuff either—and at least Paul gave her sturdy, beautiful Laurent. I have been careful to inform her that I cannot father a child.
Her love is a gift of the gods.
Notaben 401, dated “begun 22/ix/70” (excerpt);
V spends last night at rue du C-M. Paul in London, where I caused him to be sent. He telephones late and gets Joos. She gives him my home number, as V has told her I am giving a dinner—and so I was, for her and me, so technically speaking V was not lying. Around three-thirty in the morning, he calls again, once more waking the unfortunate Joos. No Monsieur, Madame toujours pas rentrée. Thereupon, the telephone rings beside my bed, but I am not out, I am not asleep, I am inside Madame. She asks me to answer; what if something has happened to Laurent. P demands furiously to know whether V is with me. I feign confusion due to deep slumber, eventually ask him if he realizes what time it
is and offer to call the police or go over to his apartment and make sure everything is OK. He hangs up on me. Bad sign.
I urge V to go home at once, as he is certain to try their apartment again, but she says it makes no difference. It is already so obviously past the hour at which she would have been in her own bed if she had returned directly after my dinner that it is necessary to tell Paul the truth or another lie—no matter what, that she has gone to an all-night laugh movie—and let him storm as much as he wants. Perhaps he will beat her; that may reanimate their sex life.
A horrible, shameful surge of desire—and for the first time something like jealousy—comes over me. I reach for her. We make love again, intently. I think she knew the effect her words would have. Then we talk. She asks why, if I really love her, I don’t want her to tell the truth. My house is large enough for her and Laurent; they can move in the next day; Laurent likes food just as much as she; what a nice change Gianni’s cooking will be from what he gets in Arpajon or at rue de la Pompe. She adds, We would be like this every night.
I ask if she has really thought about the consequences—scenes with Paul and in the family, how Laurent will take it, the custody fight and its unpredictable result (French courts might favor the father in this sort of case where the mother is “at fault” and I am not French), and the general upheaval in her life, as I am not going to stay in Paris forever. She is drinking the rest of the champagne Gianni put on the night table, then crosses the room to get a langue-de-chat to dip in it. She puts it in my mouth. Seeing her naked, paper thin and soft, although she strides like Diana the Huntress, her strangely long breasts swaying (I sometimes think of certain photographs in National Geographic), breasts she is so proud of and that I kiss and comfort and praise like wounded children, brings tears to my eyes. She says she will be happy with me and will make me happy too. That will make it all right for Laurent. (She has made it clear she doesn’t think Paul is a “good father,” but I set as little store by that as by her assessment of his sexual performance; anyway, what does it matter? If I marry V it won’t be to provide Laurent with a superior home life.) Then she says, The twins have left such a void in your life. You need to have a child you can love. Laurent and you will go to the Luxembourg to the Carrousel, and you will teach him to sail his boat on the basin. His father has never done that.
