Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

‘Good morning, Monsieur,’ the man said. ‘I must say I thought because of you they wouldn’t come.’

‘They’re winter teal, aren’t they?’

‘Ah, so you know your ducks! That’s unusual. To know the names of things is a remarkable sign in a world that generally talks about thingumabobs and whatchamacallits.’

The voice was distinguished, without affectation. The get-up was at odds with the tone of the man, who turned towards the pool and pointed towards the reeds where the teal were concealed.

‘Nervous, aren’t they? You’d need centuries to tame them … and we have so little time. You don’t smoke, I hope?’

‘No. Well, hardly at all.’

‘But you drink alcohol!’

‘So little too that it’s hardly worth mentioning.’

‘That little is still too much.’

The man shook himself and Jean was caught unawares by the smell he gave off, a mixture of grime and manure.

‘Yes, still too much,’ he went on. ‘Humankind’s committing suicide. But I suppose there’s nothing new in that. It’s been going on for three thousand years.’

‘Humankind’s a suicide victim who’s doing fairly well, all things considered.’

The man scratched his beard, half amused. The tips of his fingers, poking out of his mittens, were appallingly dirty, covered in scales of filth and with black nails.

‘You think I’m repugnant,’ he said. ‘And I am. Beyond measure. But solitude makes one indifferent. To tell you the truth, you’re the first person I’ve spoken to for nearly two years. Oh, of course I’ve vaguely seen human beings moving in the distance. Sometimes they came so close I heard their blah blah blah. Apart from their clothes — about which they display unbelievable vanity — you can only distinguish them from animals by their lack of instinct. When I saw you appear here you surprised me. You watched and you stood still. I could have sworn you were enjoying imagining the presence of a monster in this fetid pool …’

‘I was.’

The man scratched his armpit. Jean thought he must be infested with lice.

‘That’s the great problem: where have all the monsters gone? There’s one here. I’ve seen its tracks. Animals aren’t innocent. No more than men are. They’re nasty, brutish and cruel. We have to teach them.’

Jean was stirred: a few moments before he had pictured a monster lurking in these depths, and now this man was talking about it as if it was a reality. Between his beard and his eyebrows his eyes shone, sharp, mad, amused.

‘What do you feed your teal on?’ Jean asked.

‘I collect worms in the mud and mould them into balls.’

‘So really you’re encouraging their carnivorous tastes.’

‘Not bad! Not bad! Well thought through. No doubt about it, I’m a lucky man: the first human I’ve spoken to for two years is a thinker. He thinks! A miracle! Yes, Monsieur, it’s true, I sacrifice worms to teal, but the teal are innocent. You … you are not.’

‘And you?’

‘Me? You won’t be surprised: I was falling apart before I hid myself away in the forest. By the way, where are we with the war? Is Danzig still a free city? Has Poland pulled through?’

He scoffed and held up a hand to forestall an answer Jean hesitated to give him.

‘Don’t disappoint me! Don’t disappoint me, Monsieur!’

‘I shan’t disappoint you,’ Jean said. ‘Danzig remains a free city. Poland is free, Austria has expelled the Germans. The Sudetens booed Hitler at a parade and, because they annoyed him, he gave them back to Czechoslavakia, which has returned to being a fine, proud republic with a socialist government. Italy has put good King Zog and his pretty queen Geraldine back on the throne of Albania. Mussolini has offered his apologies to Haile Selassie and given him back his throne at the same time as Victor Emmanuel renounced the title of emperor. General Franco has opened his borders to the remaining Republican army for a festival of reconciliation. Oh, I forgot to mention that Hitler has stepped down as Chancellor of the Reich to devote himself full-time to oil painting. The great dealer, Braun-Lévy, has signed him up exclusively for his first exhibition, which will take place this spring.’

‘Marvellous! I did well not to get involved and I was right to run away from these neighbourly disputes. I’d have been a complete spare part. I bet no one’s even noticed I’ve gone.’

‘It’s true; no one’s said a thing to me.’

The man smiled indulgently and sat down on a tree trunk mouldy with slippery brown mushrooms that squashed beneath his backside.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jean Arnaud.’

‘Arnaud with an “l”?’

‘No, without an “l”.’

He looked disappointed and subsided into a reverie that lasted two or three minutes, while Jean waited unmoving, the better to observe him. The man scratched himself and tugged on his beard with his thin and dirty fingers. It would have been interesting to see him shaved and his face revealed.

‘And my name is Pascal. Blaise Pascal. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Yes, but you’re not Blaise Pascal.’

‘What do you know about it?’

‘You don’t look like him. He was clean-shaven and neatly dressed.’

‘You’re talking about my physical appearance. What about his soul? I’ve run into his soul here, Monsieur, wandering in the damp woods of the Chevreuse valley, lingering by the noisome waters of these pools. I have merely given it a body, my own. His soul is warm there; it no longer wanders cold and alone, and I’d go so far as to say that it’s enjoying itself. I grant you it’s not inventing wheelbarrows, problems of geometry or pulley systems to draw water from a well, but it has other amusements. We discuss grace and the world’s folly and talk to the animals.’

He stood up and raised his hat, revealing his baldness and a dirt-encrusted scalp.

‘It’s been my pleasure, Monsieur Arnaud.’

‘Mine too.’

He took three steps and paused.

‘That’s not just a figure of speech. I have greatly enjoyed our conversation. Perhaps I’ve exaggerated to myself the inanity of intercourse with my fellow men. Where do you live? Oh … don’t worry … I’ve no intention of visiting … Purely curiosity.’

‘A Spanish friend has bought an old farmhouse behind the birch forest. He’s a painter.’

‘Are you talking about that tall hairy fellow always in his shirtsleeves? I’ve seen him sawing wood. A painter? Now that’s interesting. I find art to be window dressing. I mean the art of today. I once had a collection of paintings, can you imagine? And you have no idea how easily one can do without. Adieu! Or perhaps au revoir. Who knows? If you’re passing my house — a delightful Louis XIII hunting lodge — tap on one of the few remaining window panes. I’ll always be happy to see you. You have a pleasing face. We’ll talk of those “gentlemen”, of Mother Angélique25 and Saint-Cyran26 … What formidable intelligence! And we’ll speak ill of the Jesuits … I hope you weren’t raised by them …’

‘No. I was cast in the ordinary mould of village primary school and lycée.’

‘I detest the Jesuits. Well, cordially detest them.’

He made a comical gesture with his arms as if he was about to strangle the entire community. His laughter followed him as he plunged into the wood, where the hessian of his sacks camouflaged him instantly.

Jean clapped his palms together. The teal took off and spiralled up above the pool before hiding themselves again in the reeds.

Jesús was sawing the last log.

‘One hun’red! And Chris’mas mornin’! I am the only man in the worl’ who ’as sawed one hun’red logs today. Come inside. Lunch mus’ be on the table. The boy came to find you three times.’