Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

‘Yes! Viss great pleasure.’

‘All right. I would like to know whether all of you Teutonic warriors, Prussian squires, Baltic barons and Austrian bastards aren’t really, I mean deep down, secretly poofs.’

The German would rather have been cut into little pieces than admit that he did not understand a word in French. What should he make of ‘poof’? Should he not be reassured by Nelly’s smile that it could only be a very positive epithet?

‘Ach, let us not exacherate. There are some who are, more or less.’

‘I think, dear Rudolf,’ Nelly said, leaning her head on Jean’s shoulder despite the furious stare of Émile Duzan, ‘I think, dear, handsome Rudolf, that it’s all a question of stoicism. The first time one is sodomised, it is really very painful.’

‘Fery painful,’ he agreed.

‘Afterwards it becomes quite pleasant.’

‘Fery pleasant!’

Madeleine interrupted.

‘Nelly darling, I’m not sure this is a terribly nice conversation. I much prefer it when you recite something. You’re so different … so … how shall I put it … possessed by what you’re saying, you make me shiver.’

‘What do you want? Some Valéry?’

‘I don’t know. Everything you do is so lovely.’

Nelly put her hands up to her face and, in a transformed voice that was hardly audible, recited ‘The Steps’.

‘Your steps, offspring of my quietness.

Placed so slowly, and so saintly,

Towards the bed of my sleeplessness

Proceed, stonily and faintly.

Purest one, shadow divine

With what restrained, soft footfalls you with me meet

Gods! … all the gifts you have made mine

Come towards me on those bare feet …’

Nelly stopped, took her hands away from her face, and poured herself a glass of wine.

‘The rest next time,’ she said. ‘So, handsome Rudolf, do we like French poetry?’

Jean observed with pleasure that the young woman’s poise and versatility had such an impact on the German that they robbed him of his facility and his fatuous air of a man of the world. Rudolf assured her that he adored Paul Valéry and read him every day. But it turned out that Nelly had not done with her previous subject, and she began to go into detail. Madame Michette frowned and interrupted.

‘At my establishment such matters are never spoken of,’ she said with barely controlled indignation. ‘If a customer wants that sort of thing, we make him pay extra!’

Palfy puffed on his cigar and blew smoke rings. Jean understood that he was at his absolute happiest, savouring with profound relish the disarray being produced in the wake of this euphoric dinner. Louis brought out a bottle of Armagnac, as a welcome diversion. Nelly’s leg was pressed against Jean’s, and he thought about Claude: she was having dinner at her mother’s with Cyrille tonight. She would be coming back to Quai Saint-Michel by the last Métro. They had parted that morning, unhappy, indecisive, hesitant about seeing each other again, yet certain that they could not avoid doing so. He liked Nelly’s perfume and he liked the refinement and grace of her profile and her shirt open to reveal her braless breasts. She was a devil, and he had made no sacrifices to the devil for too long.

When Émile Duzan told her the bicycle-taxi was waiting, Nelly refused to go with him.

‘I really can’t bear to see another single one of those tandemists with his fat bum aimed at me. Who’ll see me home?’

Rudolf, Palfy and Madeleine all offered. Each of them had a car. She chose Palfy indirectly, taking Jean’s arm. Duzan tried to display his authority.

‘I’ll wait for you to ring the bell. You don’t have a key.’

In the commotion it was difficult to hear her ungracious response, inviting Émile to stick the key in an unnameable place. The reader will be aware that he was not about to comply and he took such offence that he declared it was all over between them. Nelly gave a deep sigh.

‘At last!’

Rudolf kissed her hand and promised to telephone her.

‘But please do, dear Rudolf.’

Sitting between Palfy and Jean in the back of the Light 11 as they drove down Rue de Rivoli, she yawned.

‘Where shall we have our last drink?’

‘At my place,’ Palfy said.

‘What about my little Jean?’

‘He lives with me. From now on we shall never be parted.’

‘You’re not poofs by any chance, are you?’

‘Nelly darling, it’s becoming an obsession with you.’

Since the beginning of June Palfy had been living in Rue de Presbourg, in a superb apartment furnished with as much taste as Julius’s. The owner was in Spain, awaiting better times. He was fortunate that his objets d’art would not find their way into the public domain. As for Jean living there, it was true. He had wanted to go back to Rue Lepic, but the key was no longer under the doormat, where it had always been. Palfy claimed to know what had happened: slowly but surely, Fräulein Laura Bruckett had got her claws into Jean’s friend Jesús. He had softened and, now sharing the rations of his rapt German admirer, was currently thought to be in the Chevreuse valley, where he and Laura had been on a honeymoon for the past fortnight in a small farm filled with butter, cream and smoked hams. She was stuffing him with cakes. His waistline was expanding. How fast everything changed! In two months at most. At the Galerie du Tertre, La Garenne did not know what to do: no more paintings, no more drawings. Fortunately Alberto had been freed and resumed his photographic business. Blanche had gone to find Palfy to beg him to bring Jean back …

Nelly took her shoes and stockings off before having her last drink.

‘You mustn’t think I’m drunk,’ she said. ‘I’m just so bored stiff. Life is no fun. I’ve got to get rid of Duzan. He’s hopeless. He promises me Hollywood when the war’s over but he’s never set foot there. And he’s never got any money; he borrows, gets into debt, doesn’t pay me — he’s so mean I could scream — and as for The Girl and the She-wolf , what a dud! For that I’ll never forgive him. You know … I feel crushed by something as bad as that. But people will watch anything, and everyone knows there’s a sweet little scene with me in the bath. Duzan lives off my tits …’

She pulled open her shirt and offered them to the two men’s gaze.

‘I quite agree, they’re very pretty indeed,’ Palfy said politely, pouring himself another drink. ‘I find it reprehensible that Émile Duzan makes his living by showing them to the general public.’

‘Find me another sugar daddy then! A real one. And I’ll stop drinking! Where’s the toilet?’

Jean showed her to the bathroom adjoining his bedroom. She shut the door as the telephone rang. Palfy told Duzan that Nelly was already asleep and that it would be best to leave her where she was. Were there not two of them there to look after her? No, no, she hadn’t drunk anything since they left the restaurant. All Jean could hear was a distant gurgling: the producer’s furious, desperate voice demanding and then imploring Nelly’s return. All day long this man terrorised his employees, and in the evening snivelled over a girl abandoning him for a night. He hung up eventually, half convinced by Palfy, but he must have called Madeleine to complain to her because shortly afterwards she telephoned in turn, anxious about the consequences and begging them to drive Nelly back to Duzan’s. The best jokes were the ones where you knew when to stop, she said. Julius liked the producer and would take his side. Palfy reassured her: nothing bad would happen to Nelly and they would take her back if she showed the slightest inclination to go. At present she was locked in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror and thinking about the ravages that alcohol would soon wreak on the smooth skin of her lovely face. Madeleine agreed that was a good thing. Yet Nelly was not an alcoholic. While she was filming, not a glass of wine passed her lips. Alcohol was simply a means of forgetting her boredom when she was not working and her panic when she found herself in a room with more than two people. Palfy convinced Madeleine that they would take care of her. She sent her love and begged them to have lunch with her tomorrow at Avenue Foch. Julius would be back and there would be a very interesting Pole whom they really ought to meet. Palfy promised.