d’honneur
. So all one can do is imagine. I close my eyes. The bar of the Clos-Foucré and the colonial drawingroom of the ‘Villa Mektoub’. After all these years the furniture is covered with dust. A musty smell catches in my throat. Murraille, Marcheret, Sylviane Quimphe are standing motionless as waxworks. And you, you are slumped on a pouffe, your face frozen, your eyes staring.
It’s a strange idea, really, to go stirring up all these dead things.
The wedding was to take place the following day, but there was no news of Annie. Murraille tried desperately to reach her by telephone. Sylviane Quimphe consulted her diary and gave him the numbers of nightclubs where ‘that little fool’ was likely to be found. Chez Tonton: Trinite 87.42, Au Bosphore: Richelieu 94.03, El Garron: Vintimille 30.54, L’Etincelle . . . Marcheret, silent, swallowed glass after glass of brandy. Between frantic calls, Murraille begged him to be patient. He had just been told that Annie had been at the Monte-Cristo at about eleven. With a bit of luck they’d ‘corner’ her at Djiguite or at L’Armorial. But Marcheret had lost heart. No, it was pointless. And you, on your pouffe, did your best to look devastated. Eventually you muttered:
‘Try Poisson d’Or, Odeon 90.95 . . .’
Marcheret looked up:
‘Nobody asked for your advice, Chalva . . .’
You held your breath so as not to attract attention. You wished the ground would swallow you. Murraille, increasingly frantic, went on telephoning: Le Doge: Opéra 95.78, Chez Carrère: Balzac 59.60, Les Trois Valses: Vernet 15.27, Au Grand Large . . .
You repeated timidly:
‘What about the Poisson d’Or: Odeon 90.95 . . .’ .
Murraille roared:
‘Just shut up, Chalva, will you?’
He was brandishing the telephone like a club, his knuckles white. Marcheret sipped his cognac slowly, then:
‘If he makes another sound, I’ll cut his tongue out with my razor . . . ! Yes, I mean you, Chalva . . .’
I seized the opportunity to slip out on to the veranda. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs. The silence, the cool of the night. Alone at last. I looked thoughtfully at Marcheret’s Talbot, parked by the gate. The bodywork gleamed in the moonlight. He always left his keys on the dashboard. Neither he nor Murraille would have heard the sound of the engine. In twenty minutes, I could be in Paris. I would go back to my little room on the Boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr. I would not set foot outside again, until times were better. I would stop sticking my nose into things that didn’t concern me, stop taking unnecessary risks. You would have to fend for yourself. Every man for himself. But at the thought of leaving you alone with them I felt a painful spasm on the left-hand side of my chest. No, this was no time to desert you.
Behind me, someone pushed open the French window and came and sat on one of the veranda chairs. I turned and recognised your shadow in the half-light. I honestly hadn’t expected you to join me out here. I walked over to you cautiously like a butterfly catcher stalking a rare specimen that might take wing at any minute. It was I who broke the silence:
‘So, have they found Annie?’
‘Not yet.’
You stifled a laugh. Through the window I saw Murraille standing there, the telephone receiver wedged between cheek and shoulder. Sylviane Quimphe was putting a record on the gramophone. Marcheret, like an automaton, was pouring another drink.
‘They’re strange, your friends,’ I said.
‘They’re not my friends, they’re . . . business acquaintances.’
You fumbled for something to light a cigarette and I found myself handing you the platinum lighter Sylviane Quimphe had given me.
‘You’re in business?’ I asked.
‘Have to do something.’
Again, a stifled laugh.
‘You work with Murraille?’
After a moment’s hesitation:
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s going well?’
‘Fair to middling.’
We had the whole night ahead of us to talk. The ‘initial
. So all one can do is imagine. I close my eyes. The bar of the Clos-Foucré and the colonial drawingroom of the ‘Villa Mektoub’. After all these years the furniture is covered with dust. A musty smell catches in my throat. Murraille, Marcheret, Sylviane Quimphe are standing motionless as waxworks. And you, you are slumped on a pouffe, your face frozen, your eyes staring.
It’s a strange idea, really, to go stirring up all these dead things.
The wedding was to take place the following day, but there was no news of Annie. Murraille tried desperately to reach her by telephone. Sylviane Quimphe consulted her diary and gave him the numbers of nightclubs where ‘that little fool’ was likely to be found. Chez Tonton: Trinite 87.42, Au Bosphore: Richelieu 94.03, El Garron: Vintimille 30.54, L’Etincelle . . . Marcheret, silent, swallowed glass after glass of brandy. Between frantic calls, Murraille begged him to be patient. He had just been told that Annie had been at the Monte-Cristo at about eleven. With a bit of luck they’d ‘corner’ her at Djiguite or at L’Armorial. But Marcheret had lost heart. No, it was pointless. And you, on your pouffe, did your best to look devastated. Eventually you muttered:
‘Try Poisson d’Or, Odeon 90.95 . . .’
Marcheret looked up:
‘Nobody asked for your advice, Chalva . . .’
You held your breath so as not to attract attention. You wished the ground would swallow you. Murraille, increasingly frantic, went on telephoning: Le Doge: Opéra 95.78, Chez Carrère: Balzac 59.60, Les Trois Valses: Vernet 15.27, Au Grand Large . . .
You repeated timidly:
‘What about the Poisson d’Or: Odeon 90.95 . . .’ .
Murraille roared:
‘Just shut up, Chalva, will you?’
He was brandishing the telephone like a club, his knuckles white. Marcheret sipped his cognac slowly, then:
‘If he makes another sound, I’ll cut his tongue out with my razor . . . ! Yes, I mean you, Chalva . . .’
I seized the opportunity to slip out on to the veranda. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs. The silence, the cool of the night. Alone at last. I looked thoughtfully at Marcheret’s Talbot, parked by the gate. The bodywork gleamed in the moonlight. He always left his keys on the dashboard. Neither he nor Murraille would have heard the sound of the engine. In twenty minutes, I could be in Paris. I would go back to my little room on the Boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr. I would not set foot outside again, until times were better. I would stop sticking my nose into things that didn’t concern me, stop taking unnecessary risks. You would have to fend for yourself. Every man for himself. But at the thought of leaving you alone with them I felt a painful spasm on the left-hand side of my chest. No, this was no time to desert you.
Behind me, someone pushed open the French window and came and sat on one of the veranda chairs. I turned and recognised your shadow in the half-light. I honestly hadn’t expected you to join me out here. I walked over to you cautiously like a butterfly catcher stalking a rare specimen that might take wing at any minute. It was I who broke the silence:
‘So, have they found Annie?’
‘Not yet.’
You stifled a laugh. Through the window I saw Murraille standing there, the telephone receiver wedged between cheek and shoulder. Sylviane Quimphe was putting a record on the gramophone. Marcheret, like an automaton, was pouring another drink.
‘They’re strange, your friends,’ I said.
‘They’re not my friends, they’re . . . business acquaintances.’
You fumbled for something to light a cigarette and I found myself handing you the platinum lighter Sylviane Quimphe had given me.
‘You’re in business?’ I asked.
‘Have to do something.’
Again, a stifled laugh.
‘You work with Murraille?’
After a moment’s hesitation:
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s going well?’
‘Fair to middling.’
We had the whole night ahead of us to talk. The ‘initial
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