Michel Déon - The Foundling Boy

‘Are you hurt?’ Jean asked, out of breath.

‘No, not at all. But what are you going to do without your bicycle?’

‘Had it. Gone for good. All my things too. My swimming costume’s all I’ve got left.’

‘We’ll share everything.’

‘That’s very decent of you, Ernst, but I’ve got to look after myself.’

At the beach a circle of passers-by and bathers had surrounded the thief, who sat on the ground spitting out his teeth. A policeman was bending over him, questioning him. An elderly gentleman in a boater and alpaca suit shouted at Jean in French, ‘You ought to be ashamed of your brutality! The boy only wanted to play a joke on you. Where do you think you are? In a land of savages? Well, I can tell you you’re not, you despicable brute, you’re in a civilised country, a thousand times more than your own …’

Dismayed, Jean scanned the curious faces around him, and the policeman who was regarding him with an inquisitive look. The boater and alpaca suit inspired respect. If it was his word against Jean’s, people might believe him.

‘What about the other one?’ Jean said. ‘He went a bit far with his joke, going off with my bike.’

‘If you hadn’t attacked his friend in such a cowardly manner, he would have given it back to you straight away, and if it wasn’t a joke the police would have arrested him. We do have a police force, Monsieur, and it knows what to do.’

Turning to the policeman, who was listening uncomprehendingly, he repeated his last sentences in Italian. The policeman, less convinced of his force’s effectiveness, nodded his head with a dubious expression and began a long explanation that the bystanders followed with interest, while the thief attempted to slip between their legs. Ernst stopped him with a kick in the ribs. The man in the boater flew into a rage and raised his stick at the German. He seemed to have convinced several onlookers. Ernst, unable to reply in his language, interrupted the policeman’s speech and indicated that it was time to go to the police station. They could explain themselves there, as could the thief, who was now lying in the road moaning, his face swollen.

‘What a nerve!’ the elderly gentleman said, furious.

‘Monsieur—’ Jean tried to reply.

‘Commendatore!’ the other corrected him.

‘Commendatore, would you like to explain to this policeman that my bicycle has been stolen by this thief ’s accomplice?’

The man sniggered. ‘Ah, ah, ah! But what proves you had a bicycle in the first place? Show us your papers.’

Jean was astonished by his ill will, which far exceeded anything he had experienced up till then. A police car arrived, cutting the discussion short. Ernst and Jean were bundled in, along with the thief. The commendatore handed his card to the policeman. He would act as a witness whenever he was required. At the station they found a young inspector who spoke French. The affair seemed to him as clear as day. He was also familiar with the so-called commendatore, and his false visiting card. He was a skilful fraud who managed a young band of thieves and pickpockets. The inspector called the policeman a naïve fool. If he had had his wits about him, he would have arrested the man in the boater. The two men embarked on a violent discussion, ignoring Jean completely.

‘But what am I going to do?’ he finally said. ‘I can’t go back to France in my swimming costume, without money or documents.’

‘You’ll have to ask your embassy to help you.’

‘Where?’

‘In Rome, of course.’

‘How can I get to Rome in a swimming costume?’

The inspector made an evasive gesture. The question did not interest him.

‘I can give you a shirt and shorts,’ Ernst said. ‘But I’ve got almost no money left, only just enough to get back to Germany. How will you manage?’

Jean felt overwhelmed. He thought he might have cried if Ernst had not been there. The worst part was the casual way in which the inspector announced that, as the superintendent would not be coming that afternoon, they would only be released the following morning. They were offered benches to sleep on. They slept badly, tormented by insects, and when the superintendent arrived next morning at ten o’clock, all he did was offer his terse apologies: they should never have been detained. They were free to go as soon as they had signed their statement. They were served with coffee and a slice of bread, then found themselves on the road back to Rome, Ernst pushing his bicycle, Jean barefoot and wearing a pair of German shorts that were too short and a shirt that was so tight he couldn’t do up the buttons. However, Jean refused to view the situation too tragically. At the Adler, Salah would let the prince and Geneviève know what had happened, and he would arrange everything. He reassured Ernst.

‘Don’t worry. They’ll help me. And I haven’t lost anything precious, apart from my Stendhal that Joseph Outen gave me. None of the rest amounted to much.’

‘You’re not telling me that you’re going to accept help from that Negro or his Semite employer?’

‘Why not?’

‘They won’t give you anything for nothing.’

‘They are the most generous people I know.’

‘Don’t believe it … They will own you one day, and you’ll be one of their creatures.’

‘Ernst, you are truly obsessed. I’ve had enough of your theories. You could be the best friend a person could have, if you weren’t always reading from a script.’

‘I’m saying it for your own good. One day you’ll understand.’

‘Never. And while we’re waiting, we’re not walking all the way to Rome. You go on ahead, I’ll try to hitchhike.’

Ernst refused to leave him. He waited until a van stopped for Jean. The driver dropped Jean off on the outskirts of Rome. From there he walked barefoot along burning pavements until, an hour later, he saw the Pincio. He was dying of thirst, and hungry. The Adler’s doorman was walking up and down in front of the hotel. He looked superb in a tightly tailored linen uniform with gilt buttons, and a cap with a brim as wide as a Soviet general’s. He might be a flunkey, but he could not be hoodwinked. The rich gave tips, the poor got kicks up their backside. Jean’s build saved him from such treatment, but he had to threaten the man to make himself heard. The doorman in turn threatened to call the police. Jean told him he would punch him in the face, and, because he was pale with fury, the doorman finally understood that some strange relationship could link a half-naked and shoeless young man wandering the streets of Rome at lunchtime with a prince who travelled in a Hispano-Suiza with a black chauffeur and a blonde mistress. Thus Jean learned that his one remaining possibility of assistance had left early that morning for Venice.

Ernst appeared on his bicycle, pink and dripping with sweat, having pedalled like fury to catch up with his friend.

‘Now I am in a mess,’ Jean admitted, sitting down at the top of the Spanish Steps.

‘No. Never. We stick together.’

‘My poor Ernst, you’re a very decent friend, but you can’t do anything. I’m going to hitchhike back home.’

‘Without papers or money?’

‘I’ll work my way back. As for papers, when I reach the border I’ll explain what happened.’

‘You’re really breaking my heart. At least take some money. Half of what I’ve got left. I’ll work my way back too.’

‘You’re awfully decent, but you make me feel ashamed.’

‘Think nothing of it. I owe you for stopping my bike getting stolen. If you hadn’t come to my rescue, that fellow would have run off with it. Logically I should give you half of it.’

‘That would get us a long way.’

At the bottom of the steps a florist was making up a bouquet of red carnations for a fat woman in her Sunday best whose sandals tortured her swollen feet. As she climbed the stairs, her arm extended to protect the flowers, her gleaming handbag bumping against her short thigh, she passed close to the two friends, murmuring, with a look of disgusted pity, ‘ Che miseria! ’ although it was impossible to tell whether she was sorry for them or just found their youth intolerable.