Ring Roads Page 6

  Now, though it grieves me, I must come to the ‘distressing incident at the George V métro’. For several weeks my father had been fascinated by the Petite Ceinture, the disused railway-line that circles Paris. Was he planning to have it renovated by public subscription? Bank loans? Every Sunday, he would ask me to go with him to the outskirts of the city and we followed the path of the old railway-line on foot. The stations along the route were derelict or had been turned into warehouses. The tracks were overgrown with weeds. From time to time my father would stop to scribble a note or sketch something indecipherable in his notebook. What was he dreaming of? Was he waiting for a train that would never come?

  On that Sunday, 17 June, we had followed the Petite Ceinture through the 12th arrondissement. Not without effort. Near the Rue de Montempoivre, the track joins those coming from Vincennes and we ended up getting confused. After three hours, emerging dazed from this labyrinth of metal, we decided to go home by métro. My father seemed disappointed with his afternoon. Usually when we returned from these expeditions, he was in excellent humour and would show me his notes. He was planning to compile a ‘comprehensive’ file on the Petite Ceinture – he explained – and offer it to the public authorities.

  ‘We shall see what we shall see.’

  What? I didn’t dare ask. But, that Sunday evening, 17 June, his brash enthusiasm had melted away. Sitting in the carriage of the Vincennes-Neuilly métro, he ripped the pages from his notebook one by one, and tore them into minute scraps which he tossed like handfuls of confetti. He worked with the detachment of a sleepwalker and a painstaking fury I had never seen in him before. I tried to calm him. I told him that it was a great pity to destroy such an important work on a whim, that I had every confidence in his talents as an organizer. He fixed me with a glassy eye. We got out at the George V station. We were waiting on the platform. My father stood behind me, sulking. The station gradually filled, as if it were rush-hour. People were coming back from the cinema or from strolling along the Champs-Élysées. We were pressed against each other. I found myself at the front, on the edge of the platform. Impossible to draw back. I turned towards my father. His face was dripping with sweat. The roar of a train. Just as it came into sight, someone pushed me roughly in the back.

  Next, I find myself lying on one of the station benches surrounded by a little group of busybodies. They are whispering. One bends down to tell me that I’ve had ‘a narrow escape’. Another, in cap and uniform (a métro official perhaps) announces that he is going to ‘call the police’. My father stands in the background. He coughs.

  Two policemen help me to my feet. Holding me under the arms. We move through the station. People turn to stare. My father follows behind, diffidently. We get into the police van parked on the Avenue George V. The people on the terrace outside Fouquet’s are enjoying the beautiful summer evening.

  We sit next to each other. My father’s head is bowed. The two policemen sit facing us but do not speak. We pull up outside the police station at 5 Rue Clement-Marot. Before going in, my father wavers. His lips nervously curl into a rictus smile.

  The policemen exchange a few words with a tall thin man. The commissaire? He asks to see our papers. My father, with obvious reluctance, proffers his Nansen passport.

  ‘Refugee?’ asks the commissaire . . .

  ‘I’m about to be naturalized,’ my father mumbles. He must have prepared this reply in advance. ‘But my son is French.’ In a whisper: ‘and a bachelier . . .’

  The commissaire turns to me:

  ‘So you nearly got run over by a train?’ I say nothing. ‘Lucky someone caught you or you’d be in a pretty state.’

  Yes, someone had saved my life by catching me just in time, as I was about to fall. I have only a vague memory of those few seconds.

  ‘So why is it,’ the commissaire goes on, ‘that you shouted out “MURDERER!” several times as you were carried to the bench?’

  Then he turns to my father: ‘Does your son suffer from persecution mania?’

  He doesn’t give him time to answer. He turns back to me and asks point-blank: ‘Maybe someone behind pushed you? Think carefully . . . take all the time you need.’

  A young man at the far end of the office was tapping away at a typewriter. The commissaire sat behind his desk and leafed through a file. My father and I sat waiting. I thought they had forgotten us, but at length the commissaire looked up and said to me:

  ‘If you want to report the incident, don’t hesitate. That’s what I’m here for.’

  From time to time the young man brought him a typewritten page which he corrected with a red pen. How long would they keep us there? The commissaire pointed towards my father.

  ‘Political refugee or just refugee?’

  ‘Just refugee.’

  ‘Good,’ said the commissaire.

  Then he went back to his file.

  Time passed. My father showed signs of nervousness. I think he was digging his nails into his palms. In fact he was at my mercy – and he knew it – otherwise why did he keep glancing at me worriedly? I had to face the facts: someone had pushed me so that I would fall on the tracks and be ripped to shreds by the train. And it was the man with the south-American appearance sitting beside me. The proof: I had felt his signet-ring pressing into my shoulder-blade.

  As though he could read my mind, the commissaire asked casually:

  ‘Do you get on well with your father?’

  (Some policemen have the gift of clairvoyance. Like the inspector from the security branch of the police force who, when he retired, changed sex and offered ‘psychic’ readings under the name of ‘Madame Dubail’.)

  ‘We get on very well,’ I replied.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He asked the question wearily, and immediately began to yawn. I was convinced he already knew everything, but simply was not interested. A young man pushed under the métro by his father, he must have come across hundreds of similar cases. Routine work.

  ‘I repeat, if you have something to say to me, say it now.’

  But I knew that he was merely asking me out of politeness.

  He turned on his desk lamp. The other officer continued to pound on his typewriter. He was probably rushing to finish the job. The tapping of the typewriter was lulling me to sleep, and I was finding it hard to keep my eyes open. To ward off sleep, I studied the police station carefully. A post-office calendar on the wall, and a photograph of the President of the Republic. Doumer? Mac-Mahon? Albert Lebrun? The typewriter was an old model. I decided that this Sunday 17 June would be an important day in my life and I turned imperceptibly towards my father. Great beads of sweat were running down his face. But he didn’t look like a murderer.

  The commissaire peers over the young man’s shoulder to see where he’s got to. He whispers some instructions. Three policemen suddenly appear. Perhaps they’re going to take us to the cells. I couldn’t care less. No. The commissaire looks me in the eye:

  ‘Well? Nothing you want to say?’

  My father gives a plaintive whimper.

  ‘Very well, gentlemen, you may go . . .’

  We walked blindly. I didn’t dare ask him for an explanation. It was on the Place des Ternes, as I stared at the neon sign of the Brasserie Lorraine, that I said in as neutral a tone as possible:

  ‘Basically, you tried to kill me . . .’

  He didn’t answer. I was afraid he would take fright, like a bird when you get too close.

  ‘I don’t hold it against you, you know.’

  And nodding towards the terrace of the bar:

  ‘Why don’t we have a drink? This calls for a celebration!’

  This last remark made him smile a little. When we reached the cafe table, he was careful not to sit facing me. His posture was the same as it had been in the police van: his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. I ordered a double bourbon for him, knowing how much he liked it, and a glass of champagne for myself. We raised our glasses. But our hearts weren’t in it. A
fter the unfortunate incident in the métro, I would have liked to set the record straight. It was impossible. He revisited with such inertia that I decided not to insist.

  At the other tables, there were lively conversations. People were delighted at the mild weather. They felt relaxed. And happy to be alive. And I was seventeen years old, my father had tried to push me under a train, and no one cared.

  We had a last drink on the Avenue Niel, in that strange bar, Petrissan’s. An elderly man staggered in, sat down at our table and started talking to me about Wrangel’s Fleet. From what I could gather, he had served with Wrangel. It must have brought back painful memories, because he started to sob. He didn’t want us to leave. He clung to my arm. Maudlin and excitable, as Russians tend to be after midnight.

  The three of us were walking down the street towards the Place des Ternes, my father a few yards ahead, as though ashamed to find himself in such miserable company. He quickened his pace and I saw him disappear into the métro. I thought that I would never see him again. In fact, I was convinced of it.

  The old veteran gripped my arm, sobbed on my shoulder. We sat on a bench on the Avenue de Wagram. He was determined to recount in detail about the ‘terrible ordeal’ of the White Army, their flight towards Turkey. Eventually these heroes had washed up in Constantinople, in their ornate uniforms. What a terrible shame! General Baron Wrangel, apparently, was more than six foot six.

  You haven’t changed much. Just now, when you came into the Clos-Foucré, you shambled exactly as you did ten years ago. You sat down opposite me and I was about to order you a double bourbon, but I thought it would be out of place. Did you recognise me? It’s impossible to tell with you. What would be the point of shaking your shoulders, bombarding you with questions? I don’t know if you’re worth the interest I take in you.

  One day, I suddenly decided to come looking for you. I was in pretty low spirits. It has to be said that things were taking a worrying turn and that there was a stink of disaster in the air. We were living in ‘strange times’. Nothing to hold on to. Then I remembered I had a father. Of course I often thought about ‘the unfortunate incident in the George V métro’, but I didn’t harbour a grudge. There are some people you can forgive anything. Ten years had passed. What had become of you? Maybe you needed me.

  I asked tea-room waitresses, barmen and hotel porters. It was Francois, at the Silver Ring, who put me on your trail. You went about – it appeared – with a merry band of night revellers whose leading lights were Messieurs Murraille and Marcheret. If the latter name meant nothing to me, I knew the former by reputation: a hack journalist given to blackmail and bribery. A week later, I watched you all go into a restaurant on the Avenue Kléber. I hope you’ll forgive my curiosity, but I sat at the table next to yours. I was excited at having found you and intended to tap you on the shoulder, but gave up on the idea when I saw your friends. Murraille was sitting on your left and, at a glance, I found his sartorial elegance was suspect. You could see he was trying to ‘cut a dash’. Marcheret was saying to all and sundry that ‘the foie gras was inedible’. And I remember a red-haired woman and a curly-haired blonde, both oozing moral squalor from every pore. And, I am sorry to say, you didn’t exactly look to be at your best. (Was it the Brylcreemed hair, that haunted look?) I felt slightly sick at the sight of you and your ‘friends’. The curly-haired blonde was ostentatiously waving banknotes, the red-haired woman was rudely haranguing the head waiter and Marcheret was making his rude jokes. (I got used to them later.) Murraille spoke of his country house, where it was ‘so pleasant to spend the weekend’. I eventually gathered that this little group went there every week. That you were one of them. I couldn’t resist the idea of joining you in this charming rustic retreat.

  And now that we are sitting face to face like china dogs and I can study your great Levantine head at leisure, I AM AFRAID. What are you doing in this village in the Seine-et-Marne with these people? And how exactly did you get to know them? I must really love you to follow you along this treacherous path. And without the slightest acknowledgement from you! Maybe I’m wrong, but your position seems to me to be very precarious. I assume you’re still a stateless person, which is extremely awkward ‘in the times we live in’. I’ve lost my identity papers too, everything except the ‘diploma’ to which you attached so much importance and which means so little today as we experience an unprecedented ‘crisis of values’. Whatever it takes, I will try to stay calm.

  Marcheret. He claps you on the back and calls you ‘Chalva, old man’. And to me: ‘Good evening, Monsieur Alexandre, will you have an Americano?’ – and I’m forced to drink this sickly cocktail in case he takes offence. I’d like to know what your business is with this ex-Legionary. A currency racket? The sort of stock market scams you used to make? ‘And two more Americanos!’ he yells at Grève, the maître d’hotel. Then turning to me: ‘Slips down like mother’s milk, doesn’t it?’ I drink it down, terrified. Beneath his joviality, I suspect that he is particularly dangerous. It’s a pity that our relationship, yours and mine, doesn’t extend beyond strict politeness, because otherwise I’d warn you about this guy. And about Murraille. You’re wrong to hang around with such people, ‘papa’. They’ll end up doing you a nasty turn. Will I have the strength to play my role as guardian angel to the bitter end? I don’t get any encouragement from you. I scan your face for a friendly look or gesture (even if you don’t recognize me, you might at least notice me), but nothing disturbs your Ottoman indifference. I ask myself what I’m doing here. All these drinks are ruining my health, for a start. And the pseudo-rustic décor depresses me terribly. Marcheret makes me promise to try a ‘Pink Lady’, whose subtle pleasures he introduced to ‘all his Bouss-Bir friends’. I’m afraid he’s going to start talking about the Legion and his malaria again. But no. He turns to you:

  ‘Well, have you thought about it, Chalva?’

  You answer in an almost inaudible voice:

  ‘Yes, I’ve thought about it, Guy.’

  ‘We’ll split it fifty-fifty?’

  ‘You can count on me, Guy.’

  ‘I do a lot of business with the Baron,’ Marcheret tells me. ‘Don’t I, Chalva? Let’s drink to this! Grève, three vermouths please!’

  We raise our glasses.

  ‘Soon we’ll be celebrating our first billion!’

  He gives you a hearty slap on the back. We should get away from this place as quickly as possible. But where would we go? People like you and me are likely to be arrested on any street corner. Not a day goes by without police round-ups at train stations, cinemas and restaurants. Above all, avoid public places. Paris is like a great dark forest, filled with traps. We grope our way blindly. You have to admit it takes nerves of iron. And the heat doesn’t make things easier. I’ve never known such a sweltering summer. This evening, the temperature is stifling. Deadly. Marcheret’s collar is soaked with sweat. You’ve given up mopping your face and drops of sweat quiver for an instant at the end of your chin then drip steadily on to the table. The windows of the bar are closed. Not a breath of air. My clothes stick to my body as though I’d been caught in a downpour. Impossible to stand. Move an inch in this sauna and I would surely melt. But you don’t seem unduly bothered: I suppose you often got heatwaves like this in Egypt, huh? And Marcheret – he assures me that ‘it’s positively freezing compared with the desert’ and suggests I have another drink. No, really, I can’t drink any more. Oh come now, Monsieur Alexandre . . . a little Americano . . . I’m afraid of passing out. And now, through a misty haze, I see Murraille and Sylviane Quimphe coming towards us. Unless it is a mirage. (I’d like to ask Marcheret if mirages appear like that, through a mist, but I haven’t got the strength.) Murraille holds out his hand to me.

  ‘How are you, Serge?’

  He calls me by my ‘Christian name’ for the first time; this familiarity makes me suspicious. As usual he’s wearing a dark sweater with a scarf tied round his neck. Sylviane Quimphe’s breasts are spilling out of
her blouse and I notice that she isn’t wearing a bra, because of the heat. But then why does she still wear her jodhpurs and boots?

  ‘Shall we eat?’ suggests Murraille. ‘I’m starving.’

  I manage to get to my feet. Murraille takes me by the arm:

  ‘Have you given any thought to our idea? As I said, I’ll give you a free hand. You can write whatever you like. The columns of my magazine are yours to command.’

  Grève is waiting for us, in the dining-room. Our table is just underneath the centre light. All the windows are shut, naturally. It’s even hotter than in the bar. I sit between Murraille and Sylviane Quimphe. You’re placed opposite me, but I know in advance that you’ll avoid looking at me. Marcheret orders. The dishes he chooses seem hardly appropriate in this heat: lobster bisque, richly sauced meats, and a soufflé. No one dares argue with him. Gastronomy, it appears, is his particular domain.

  ‘We’ll have a white Bordeaux to start with! Then a Château-Pétrus! Is that alright?’

  He clicks his tongue.

  ‘You didn’t come to the stables this morning,’ says Sylviane Quimphe. ‘I was expecting you.’

  For two days, she has been making more and more explicit advances. She’s taken a fancy to me, and I don’t know why. Is it my air of being a well-bred young man? My tubercular pallor? Or does she simply want to irritate Murraille? (But is she his mistress?) I thought for a while that she was going around with Dédé Wildmer, the apoplectic ex-jockey who runs the stables.

  ‘Next time, you must keep your promise. You simply have to make it up to me . . .’

  She puts on her little-girl voice and I’m worried the others will notice. No. Murraille and Marcheret are deep in private conversation. You are staring into the middle distance. The light overhead is as bright as a spotlight. It beats down on me like a weight. I’m sweating so much at the wrists that it feels as though my veins are slashed and my blood is leaking away. How can I swallow this scalding lobster which Grève has just set down? Suddenly Marcheret gets up: