Michael Ridpath: Amnesia

Stephen’s eyes glinted. Somehow he managed to combine a polite schoolboy innocence with something altogether more dangerous, more thrilling. There was silence for a moment as Madeleine caught those blue eyes. Under her make-up she flushed and her throat reddened.

If I had said something like that, Madeleine would either have slapped me or laughed at me. Not for the first time, I thought that it wasn’t what Stephen said that made such an impression, it was who he was and how he said it.

She composed herself. ‘Thank you, Mr Trickett-Smith. I do hope you enjoy your stay with us.’

As Stephen and Nathan’s Uncle Alden and the others chatted and charmed, I couldn’t help feeling out of my depth. Whereas Stephen was able to match a witty remark with a wittier one, I was struck down into polite submission by any attempt to speak to me. Nathan was doing his best, and was helped by the obvious pleasure that his uncle had in seeing him.

The room was a large one, with high ceilings and tall windows looking out on to the street on one side and a courtyard on the other. My eyes were drawn to the paintings around the wall. I knew a little about modern art, and thought I recognized a Matisse and a Chagall. There were also three rather odd paintings that appeared to portray rotting vegetables in a Paris street.

‘Do you like them, Angus?’ asked Alden, noticing where my eyes were wandering.

‘I don’t know. They are certainly interesting. I’m trying to work out what they are.’

‘Trash. Garbage. The alleyways of Paris as they truly are.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ I said, feeling slightly pleased with myself.

‘They are painted by a friend of mine. Tony Volstead. American. I hope you’ll meet him. They are a sound investment. You wait, in ten years he will be the next big thing. Five years. You should buy one yourself.’

‘And is that a Chagall?’ I asked, nodding to a bright picture of a harbour and some boats. I regretted the words as soon as they passed out of my mouth: it was a bit of a stupid question because the artist’s signature was clearly visible.

‘It is. I like to dabble in art. Some established painters, some less so, like Tony. This is the city to buy art. You can’t do it from the States.’

‘How long have you been in Paris, Mr Burns?’

‘Alden. I told you, you got to call me Alden! Nearly three years now. I came to Paris the first time in 1929 and then again in 1931. I loved it. So when my father died, I came back to live here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘About your father.’ My own father had died the previous autumn; something that I wanted to admit to the friendly American, but couldn’t quite bring myself to.

But Alden’s smile showed he appreciated the genuineness of my sympathy. ‘Thank you. I loved the old guy, although he spent his whole life devoted to Wakefield Oil. That’s the family company. It ate him up: it killed him in the end. I’m not going to let it kill me. I’ve gotten other people running it back in New York and Texas. I can lead a much more civilized life here.’

‘I can see that. Is your mother still alive?’

Alden’s enthusiasm flickered. ‘No. She died when I was eleven. That’s how I got to know Nathan. His mother is my elder sister, Peggy. My father moved Wakefield Oil’s headquarters to New York over twenty years ago, but Peggy stayed on back in Pennsylvania, in the city of Wakefield. She had just gotten married to a new young lawyer in town, Giannelli. My father couldn’t stand the fact that Giannelli was a Catholic, and an Italian, and he had tried to stop the marriage. But there was no stopping Peggy, she didn’t care if he cut her off.

‘After Mother died, Father relented and allowed me to visit Peggy in the summers. Nathan and his little sister Lucy were born. They were ten years younger than me, but I guess we grew up together. I was so pleased when he went to Yale; that’s my alma mater. And to Oxford, of course.’

Hearing this, I suspected that Alden was paying for more than just Nathan’s trip to France; I would bet that he had paid for Nathan’s education too.

‘So Elaine isn’t Nathan’s sister?’

‘Oh, no. They are cousins. Elaine’s mother came between Peggy and me. She married a banker from Pittsburgh, much more to Father’s liking.’

We went through to the dining room, and we were served the best dinner of my life. Foie gras, soft tender duck, soft cheeses like I had never tasted before, and a pear tart. I was no expert on wine, but even I could appreciate the claret. I was sitting next to the American girl, Elaine, who ignored me, and Stephen, who was charming Sophie sitting on his other side. Nathan was showing off to Madeleine about his life at Oxford, and she was egging him on. Despite this slight awkwardness, the food and the wine and the sophistication got to me; I was enjoying myself. The wine flowed. Elaine clearly wasn’t used to it and began to giggle in all the wrong places.

Eventually, at close to midnight, Alden turned to his nephew. ‘Why don’t I show you and your friends what Paris is like at night. Do you like jazz?’

‘Sure,’ said Nathan. ‘What do you think, Stephen?’

‘Rather,’ said Stephen smiling. I knew the idea of a night out in Paris would appeal to him.

So we set off, hailing a taxi out in the street and leaving Madeleine to look after Elaine, who was most put out that she wasn’t invited. Sophie left for home: she was working the following day.

Alden took us to a small smoky nightclub, where a black American woman sang songs of low mellow sadness, joined by a saxophonist whose notes swam through the thick smoky atmosphere to tug at her listeners’ hearts. I had never heard such music so close before, and I was lost on its melancholy richness. I was also quite drunk.

I had no idea how much time had passed before I noticed that the others were leaving and beckoning me to follow. Alden and Nathan were laughing with each other, but Stephen had a purposeful gleam in his eye. We crammed into another cab, twisted through some narrow streets and ended up at another club, the Panier Fleuri. This place charged an entrance fee, which Alden paid, and he ordered glasses of cognac at a small bar. There were half a dozen men at the bar, but more women, who were wearing open cotton gowns, and who stared at the four of us as we sat down.

Stephen saw my face and smiled. He leaned over. ‘Angus, old man. You know what this place is?’

‘Er. Yes.’ Shock, confusion and lust hit me hard, all at the same time. A small girl with naughty dark eyes looked sideways at me. One of the fleurs of the flower basket, no doubt.

‘Don’t worry, Angus,’ said Alden. ‘This is Paris. Men do this kind of thing all the time. They even come here with their wives. I would have brought Madeleine along, if she didn’t need to look after Elaine.’

It was true: a well-dressed couple sat in a corner, a man and a woman in their forties, talking to one of the girls. All three stood up and left the bar, the woman holding the girl’s hand.

The girl who had made eyes at me approached us, followed by three of her colleagues. I panicked. I was tempted to stay, but I was also scared that I might do something I would regret later. Or savour. I put down my cognac.

‘Do you mind if I leave you to it?’ I said. ‘I need some air. I’ll walk back to the hotel.’

‘It’s a long way,’ said Alden. ‘You should stay here. You might learn something.’ He chuckled.

‘Yes, stay, Angus,’ said Nathan.

‘Let him go,’ said Stephen with a laugh. ‘Angus’s innocence is too tiresome to do battle with.’

So I escaped into the warm night, and began the long walk back to our hotel. I had no idea in which direction I should go, but within a few moments I was stopped by a helpful-looking young woman of about my own age who seemed to want to spend half an hour with me. This time I had no trouble refusing, but she did point me towards the rue de Bac.