Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

‘I didn’t know,’ Jean said to Laura, ‘that Blaise Pascal had come back again. Actually I’d almost forgotten him, our troglodyte of the forest. He amused me.’

‘I don’t like him,’ she said.

‘You don’ like anyone, excep’ Jean and me.’

‘So what?’

‘You’re right.’

Laura seemed to want to say more about Blaise Pascal, but she waited until Jesús was busy uncorking the bottle of champagne Jean had brought.

‘I know what was wrong with that man,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘He was afraid. He hid in the woods because he was afraid of the war, the bombs, the bullets. He’s a coward. And to lie to himself he invented a philosophy of the nature lover who hides in the woods, which is a lot nobler than fear. I won’t deny that after a while he probably ended up believing in his philosophy, but in the beginning it was all about fear.’

She spoke tersely, with a rancour surprising in someone so shy. Jean was sure she knew more than she was saying and was refraining from saying it because of Jesús.

‘You’re exaggeratin’, Laura. He knows abou’ paintin’ …’

‘He’s a sycophant.’

Jesús turned to Jean, opening his arms to show his impotence.

‘She is stubborn.’

‘I nearly forgave him because I thought he was Jewish,’ Laura said, ‘but he isn’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I made some enquiries about him. He’s moved to a country hotel near here under his real name. He’s shaved off his beard, cut his hair, and plays backgammon and belote with the people in the village.’

Jesús exclaimed, ‘She knows everythin’. Absolutely everythin’!’

He admired her with such sincere enthusiasm that it was touching. Jean told himself that reciprocal admiration was also a form of love, and not the least nor the most foolish. These two beings carried each other. Realising it, he envied them and loved them more. In truth he had only them and Nelly, forsaking all other friendships, so much did the world he lived in inspire instinctive distrust in him. He nevertheless suspected Laura of creating a void around Jesús while Jesús himself, at his best, loved the whole world. Did he have to pay such a price? He doubted it.

‘I ask myself,’ Jesús said with his mouth full, ‘why you aren’t livin’ at Rue Lepic. My studio is empty …’

‘I will, I will, but not now. When Nelly chucks me out.’

Jesús scolded him for defeatism. You don’t let yourself be chucked out. You leave first.

‘It isn’t that,’ Jean said with a frankness that surprised him. ‘It isn’t that … The truth is, I’m very bad at being on my own. It’s a sort of panic. When I was a boy I borrowed three books from the library at the lycée by Camille Flammarion, the astronomer: Where Do We Come From? Where Are We? and Where Are We Going? I’ve worked out where I came from. I still need to find the answers to the two other questions, even if I half know the answer to the third, since death is obviously where we’re going …’

‘Listen … you know nothin’ about thir’ question neither. When the anarchists of the POUM launched an attack durin’ the civil war, they shouted, “Viva la muerte!” ’E’s not so stupid. Death is the other life, the beautiful one, and I believe in my death and in all those people who will think me an ’andsome genius when I am dead.’

‘You, yes. Not me. I won’t leave any paintings or sculptures behind, not a page, not a child. I’ve only got one life, and at this moment I feel I’m using it up. And Claude’s still mad.’

Laura got to her feet to cut more bread and said, ‘She can still get better.’

Jean no longer believed it. In the afternoon he walked over to the nursing home. Each week he both looked forward to and recoiled from the visit, which upset him even though he could not do without it.

‘She’s better today,’ the supervisor told him, taking out her pass key to unlock Claude’s room.

‘In that case why is she locked up?’

‘It’s Sunday. I look after the whole floor. We have to take precautions.’

‘There are patients walking unaccompanied in the garden.’

‘During the week she goes out, but, as you know, her little boy comes to see her on Sunday. She’s unpredictable after he leaves …’

The door opened. Claude was sitting on a chair next to the barred window, looking at the kitchen garden and the road. She turned to Jean, her face serene.

‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she said, offering her cheek.

‘Shall we go for a walk in the garden?’

The supervisor protested. Jean took no notice and led Claude downstairs. They walked along the path that bordered the lawn. Residents were strolling on the grass or reading under the trees. A number, in perfect mental health, were paying dearly to remove themselves discreetly to a place of safety from the new racial censuses. An arbour in the shade of a copse of young copper beeches had benches where two men were reading newspapers. A young woman, her face ravaged by nervous tics, was rummaging in an overnight bag, pulling out rags, folding them and replacing them in a jumble to start again.

‘She’s crazy,’ Claude said. ‘Pay no attention.’

They sat on two chairs, facing the sprinkler watering the lawn. The flowerbeds were full of lettuces.

‘Did you see Cyrille?’ he asked.

‘Yes, this morning with Maman. Poor darling, he gets bored here, goes round and round in circles. Maman scolds him all the time. I asked if I couldn’t have him with me. They could put a small bed in my bedroom …’

‘And the doctor said no?’

‘He says no to everything.’

A man in his sixties, in white trousers and a shantung jacket and wearing a panama, raised his hat politely as he passed them. Claude gripped Jean’s arm and murmured, ‘All that man thinks about is raping me. He’s tried to several times.’

‘I’m sure he doesn’t. He’s harmless, I promise you. I’ve talked to him. He lived in the Far East for a long time … He’s not a pervert.’

‘But you don’t know him. When you’re not here, he shows me his—’

He interrupted her.

‘No, Claude, no. Think about something else.’

‘If I can’t tell you, who can I tell?’

‘Nobody. When you say those things you start to believe them. So don’t say them.’

Her eyes filled up with tears.

‘You don’t love me the way you used to.’

‘I love you more than ever.’

She turned her mouth to him and he kissed her lightly.

‘Everything’s better when you’re here,’ she said. ‘ They don’t dare come.’

‘There’s nothing for you to be afraid of any more.’

‘Maman says they can find me here.’

Anna Petrovna’s stupidity exasperated Jean and he began to despair. What he had hoped was an ordinary depression, in his relative ignorance of mental illness, was turning out to be a deep, painful wound that was probably incurable. Claude’s illness, or possibly an overuse of sedatives by her doctors so that she left them and the nurses in peace, was altering her looks. Her face had become expressionless and her blank stare reflected her constant indecision. She seemed at the mercy of the last person to speak to her. How could he fight it?

‘You haven’t told me what you’re doing,’ she said.

‘I’m running a gallery.’

‘Are you enjoying it?’

‘Not really, but it’s a living and it means I can help you.’

‘Do you mean you’re paying for me here?’

‘Yes, you know I am.’

She looked thoughtful for a long time.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said. ‘If I leave the clinic, you won’t need to work any more. We’ll take Cyrille to Saint-Tropez, to your grandfather’s. I’m sure Marie-Dévote will have us. You can go fishing with Théo and help him with his delivery business. Cyrille’s very pale. He needs sunshine.’