Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

We shall not recount the journey to London because all that matters is the result. Jean became certain there that the British knew practically nothing about the currency trafficking that Berlin had launched on the foreign exchange markets in the middle of a war. A rumour was circulating, which they were doing their best to verify. Rudolf von Rocroy, tracked down in a POW camp, had been interrogated at length by the secret service. Jean was brought face to face with him and hardly recognised him in his grubby uniform. Emaciated and feverish, Rudolf no longer resembled the worldly colonel who had stuffed his pockets in occupied Paris. His detainee status and the interrogations he had been subjected to for two months had restored some character to the craven profiteer. He denied the whole affair, and in particular having used Jean to sell counterfeit notes in Lisbon manufactured by his superiors. The second surprise was produced by Urbano de Mello. The young inspector, having been promoted as expected, was now working at an international level. Summoned to London — which had at last clarified his connection with MI6 — he identified Jean and lied brazenly: the accused had not come to Lisbon to deal in counterfeit currency but to establish contact with a foreign intelligence network. Urbano expressed himself succinctly in bad English. Not a word betrayed what had passed between them. Jean was cleared.

Back at Fresnes prison Jean wrote in his notebook:

25 November 1944: Delightful trip to London, glimpsed through the windows of the car sent to meet us. I emerged from it in one piece, thanks to Urbano who, though he had no reason to, lied outrageously to save me. In short, I now stand accused only of having helped Claude escape from the clutches of the Gestapo. What wickedness! My brief is gloomy. He was dreaming of a big trial and now all he’ll get is a piffling little one. Having said that, just as I start scoffing most loudly, convinced that I’ve found the key to the world — constant ignominy, basically — I’m confounded by examples of virtue. Virtus! In virtus we find vir, man. Among my women friends, I still have: 1. Marceline, the transvestite dragon, and 2. Nelly, who leads her life like a man. The balance sheet of what I owe to women goes something like this: 1. sorrow (necessary!), 2. tenderness (pleasant but not indispensable), 3. pleasure (divine!), 4. the art of slipping away (essential!), and 5. an apprenticeship in lying by omission (useful!). In short, I owe them everything, and I haven’t been any better than they have. So nothing is as simple as I’d have liked it to be, with myself and a clear conscience at the end of it. There are nuances to everything. It’s all so difficult! However gloomy he is about my ‘innocence’, Maître Deschauzé is very free with advice. There may be no big trial at which he can play the great criminal lawyer (though there would always have been the risk of me wringing his neck in open court and he knows it), but I interest him. He thinks there’s something going on and would very much like to be in on the secret. He won’t be, and will have to make do with a swift little trial in a lower court. Yesterday he said to me, in a low voice so he wasn’t overheard, ‘I never really thought you were guilty …’

Liar! He didn’t think so, he hoped so! But I’ve also learnt to dissemble (see above). In London he spent all his time swanning about. Was worried though when I asked him to put his liberty to good use and find Salah. The idea of meeting a black person — a former chauffeur, the former secretary to a prince, and living in my mother’s house at Chelsea — rather startled him. Of course Salah made such a strong impression on him that he forgot he was dealing with a black man. The collection of paintings and sculptures played its part. It seems that even though she left the house five years ago, you can still smell Geneviève’s perfume there. Maître D fell in love with her portrait. Obviously he had no idea what Salah was talking about when he asked him if I had thought about using the prince’s letter. I don’t even know where the letter is any more, and, since Palfy had the cheek to open it, I wouldn’t think of sending it to its intended recipient, now living next door. I saw him yesterday in the corridor, Monsieur Low-down Longuet. He’s been arrested for commercial collaboration. His son, who changed sides just in time and got in with the FFI, will get him out. Nothing hangable in Papa’s case; he just topped up his bank account by building bunkers for D-Day. His cellmates benefit from his generosity, which doesn’t seem to stop him being a sitting duck for the warders: ‘If Monsieur le marquis de La Sauveté would do us the great honour of slopping out for everybody …’, or the other prisoners: ‘Hey, Longuet, when are you going to slip us a free ticket to one of your whorehouses?’ Even if I had the magic letter, it would be addressed to thin air. The only person I can count on is me.

A few days after his return from London Jean was moved back to a cell with six other prisoners.

‘Excellent, excellent,’ Maître Deschauzé told him. ‘You’re no longer a special prisoner. It’s the first sign of your acquittal. You’re being brought back into society.’

Jean did not care for his return to society. He began to despair. Perhaps he was even afraid. Prison weighed on him. He clung to a letter from Nelly.

Darling Jules-who, I won’t write to you to tell you I miss you and I love you. You know all that. No. This is better. I’m looking after you. Your major came in last night after the performance. He looked as if he’d gone down into hell. Backstage, all those bare shoulders, all those painted ladies terrified him. He wouldn’t look at them. So why me? To find out who I am and if I’m worthy of you. I don’t think I passed the exam very well, even though I didn’t say ‘shit’ or ‘prick’ once. That man loves you like a son. He’s tortured by the thought that you’re mouldering away in prison. I reassured him, told him 200 press-ups every morning isn’t a man who’s mouldering. We were trying to work out who could help you when Marceline turned up. She’s here all the time. I adore her, she’s my nurse. I think if I cheated on you, she’d kill me. The major has the greatest respect for her. Did you know she’s going to stand for the Assembly when the war’s over? As a Christian democrat. At Clermont-Ferrand she knows her clergy and notables inside out, so to speak. While she’s waiting she’s cooking up something at the Justice Ministry. She’s talking about getting the brothels closed. Anyway, she swears she’ll have you out of there for New Year’s Eve. I’ve written to Maman to send us our liberation supper. To cut a long story short, the major was reassured as he left to go back to war. Your lawyer tried to put his hand on my bum. I said no. I’m fed up with the Théâtre Français; I may go back to the cinema when it gets going again. One producer’s no big deal, after all. I saw Jesús at his exhibition. He talks about you very fondly, but I don’t think he’d raise his little finger for you. Laura takes care of him. We didn’t know she was a member of the Communist Party, did we? She’d stand up for you, but party discipline forbids it. She and I have had some bittersweet exchanges. As for your dear friend Palfy, it’s better for him if he doesn’t set foot on French soil for some time. He’s a clever man; he’ll find other places to go. Marceline swears to everyone that he was France’s first ‘resistant’. Some people rather doubt it. That’s all the friends’ news. Darling Jules-who, don’t despair. I’m waiting for you.

The same day Jean wrote in his notebook:

12 December 1944: a heaven-sent bout of flu has seen me off to the infirmary. I’m getting away from the atmosphere of the cell, of the past they keep harping on about endlessly around me, though with a good dollop of mistrust where I’m concerned. We’re all in the same boat, but the guard went and told them about the medal the major brought, so they probably think I’m a grass. Which doesn’t bother me. Yet every favour separates me from them. So: the day before yesterday the guard came to fetch me to meet a prison visitor. ‘Politicals’ aren’t entitled to this treat. I had no desire whatever to go, but to get the others’ backs up I accepted. Surprise, surprise: there was Michel in the visiting room, very soberly dressed, very serious look on his face. The conversation went something like this: