Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

*

They reached the Cascade and saw the Longchamp racecourse with its bleached turf, long sweep of stands and winter trees that hid the Seine. The roofs of Suresnes glittered in the blue morning. A large Mercedes sped past them.

‘General Danke,’ Palfy said. ‘The best he can hope for is to be shot, or he might even lose his head. He’s convinced Germany has lost the war in the East. He’s what they call a traitor in his country and a man of honour here.’

‘You see! You do know them all.’

‘No, only one or two. The important ones. It’s better to be prepared. Let’s go back to the car. We must do something for Claude.’

‘What? There’s nothing we can do. Except look after her. I haven’t enough money to keep her in the clinic, and if she goes into hospital she’ll die. They warned me: the Germans have ruled mental patients to be useless mouths to feed.’

‘Dear boy, now you’re being stupid. I’ll help you.’

‘You’ve always helped me, but now I need money.’

‘I never lend money. I’ve offered you a job, the gallery …’

‘And I’ve accepted it, but it’s idiotic: I don’t know anything. I’ll fall flat on my face.’

Palfy looked thoughtful. The walk had put colour into his yellow complexion.

‘I’ve got an idea, but there are risks. In any case, take the gallery. It will serve as cover …’

‘I don’t mind risks.’

‘Oh, at the moment they’re non-existent … But later … when Germany collapses. You’ll have to be ready for some score-settling.’

Jean was surprised, and we may share his astonishment. Yes, the Wehrmacht had failed to take Moscow, but it still held Europe and its army remained intact. Everywhere else it was racing from victory to victory, and the United States, grappling with Japan, had so far made no more than symbolic gestures towards Britain. It is easy today to have a character in a story which, to many, will seem made up, announce in 1942 that Germany will lose the war, since we know that it subsequently did. Yet well before that date Palfy had realised it would happen: he was one of the few witnesses of this period to judge events clearly. He will not be wrong. He has coldly assessed the situation, seen there is no way out and has his plans ready: first, to exhaust the immense possibilities offered by this difficult period, and then to prepare his withdrawal. His most important task is not to give himself away. One word too many carries an enormous risk. Already, even with Jean, he feels he may have said too much. Yet he will help him, because of Geneviève.

‘I’m going to give you a single piece of advice. Do not trust anyone.’

‘Not you?’

Palfy shrugged.

‘What did I just say to you?’

‘Not to trust anyone.’

‘I cannot say it any more clearly.’

Jean rebelled. Trusting by nature, by naivety or from lack of an alternative, he found deception hurtful and dismal. The idea of living with suspicion put him off. Palfy, by contrast, was a born deceiver, anticipating traps with an instinctive pleasure, almost regretful when he encountered loyalty, as if the world was trying to steer him away from his natural infamy.

‘But you’d still trust me?’ Jean asked.

‘Yes, reluctantly, and perhaps because there are times when I wonder about your naivety. I just can’t believe it’s feigned.’

Jean smiled. Nelly had said something similar: ‘Dear Jules-who, your naivety is your poetry.’ His trials were curing him, but slowly. So Palfy was right, and Jean saw himself compelled by necessity still to turn to him.

‘In that case I have no alternative but to accept.’

‘Honestly, you are a most royal twit. In Paris alone there are ten thousand fellows a lot less fussy than you who’d jump at the chance, and here you are holding your nose.’

They had reached the Pavillon d’Armenonville, where their car was waiting. Émile jumped from the driver’s seat and stood by the rear door.

‘Come and have lunch tomorrow at one at Maxim’s,’ Palfy said.

‘Who with?’

‘Wait and see.’

‘Julius?’

‘Yes.’

Émile drove towards Porte Maillot. Palfy was silent, perhaps regretting having revealed more than he should.

‘Can you drop me at the Étoile?’ Jean said.

‘Of course. Where are you staying?’

‘At Nelly’s. But not for long. Jesús is lending me his studio in Rue Lepic. I’m moving back next week.’

He did not admit that he could have moved in immediately, and had returned to Nelly’s as much because he was unable to be miserable on his own as because he still found Nelly physically desirable.

‘I’m not sure I entirely understand you,’ Palfy said.

‘I’m not sure I entirely understand myself.’

‘Notice that Nelly has the gift — rare in women — of never being boring. She and Geneviève are the only ones I know who fall into that category. Having said that, don’t fall into her clutches. She’s rather a tough nut.’

Jean did not doubt it. On that point at least he had no illusions. But he loved Nelly, as a sort of incestuous sister who displayed such an appetite for life that one forgave all her inconsistencies.

They turned off before Place de l’Étoile, which was blocked by a line of police. A regiment was about to parade down the Champs-Élysées, led by its band. Émile stopped in Rue de Presbourg, outside Palfy’s building.

‘Can I offer you lunch?’ Palfy asked.

‘No thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow at Maxim’s. I’ll walk back. I need to walk.’

He had walked a great deal in the last few days, as a way of thinking and trying to understand what was happening. He was tired out by the time he reached Rue Saint-Sulpice and sat down to wait for Nelly. From there, at least, he could telephone the clinic. The supervisor answered irritably. Once, he had been put through to Claude, who had begged him to come, but the supervisor had come back on the line and repeated the doctor’s orders: no visits in the immediate future …

Beneath Pont des Invalides two men were sitting on the river bank, fishing. The other problem was Anna Petrovna. Cyrille would be unhappy with her. But what could he do? Jean had promised to take him to the zoo one day. More generous towards animals than mental patients, the Germans kept the zoo well supplied. When Jean had phoned the previous evening Cyrille had also implored Jean to come and fetch him, and Anna Petrovna had taken back the receiver and might even have smacked Cyrille. Two prison guards were denying him contact with the people he loved.

Coming off Pont de la Concorde to turn in front of the Chamber of Deputies, a bicycle-taxi took the corner too fast and overturned. The cyclist was thrown against the kerb and split his head open. Blood began streaming down his white face, its features drawn with exhaustion. A woman was calling from inside the canvas cabin. She crawled out, revealing her legs as far as her stocking tops. Passers-by ran to the scene. They sat the man on the pavement. He gestured to say he was not hurt then, wiping his hand across his forehead, brought it away covered in blood and sat still with his mouth open, staring at the young woman who was weeping with rage and pointing to her stocking, torn above her knee. She was young and pretty and held a crocodile handbag tightly to her side, repeating, ‘What about my silk stockings, what about my silk stockings, who’ll pay for them?’ People looked at her pretty legs, exposed by her rucked-up skirt. Jean swore to himself that he would never travel in a bicycle-taxi. Being propelled by another human being offended the idea of basic dignity he continued to maintain. At a pavement table at the Café du Flore he noticed Picasso, his wide eyes gleaming with mischief, and in front of the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés saw Sartre shuffling along, his nose red, a thick scarf around his neck, huddled up in a coat two sizes too big for him. Nelly had read The Flies , which was in rehearsal at the Théâtre Sarah-Bernhardt (now Aryanised as the Théâtre de la Cité).