Such Fine Boys Page 8

  And I, too, seeing how they all labored to shine around her, felt a certain pride. No other girl, I was convinced, had such auburn hair or light-colored eyes, such a turned-up nose, such long thighs and graceful movements of her bust when she turned to light her cigarette on the lighter that Winegrain held out for her. She was my childhood friend.

  She and her brother lived in town, in an ivy-covered house on Rue du Docteur-Dordaine, and Yvon attended the school as a day student. We envied him for being able to go home every evening. His father owned a nursery. The greenhouses behind their home were where we played hide-and-seek: I had lived in that town for three years and met Yvon and his sister at the Jeanne d’Arc School. She, Yvon, and I were the same age—nine or ten at the time—but it seemed to me that Martine was as tall even back then as she was now, beside the pool. It was she who made us our after-school snacks and took us for walks up to the hamlet of Les Metz; she who decided whether we’d play hide-and-seek or fly kites.

  My only advantage over the others was that I’d known Martine much longer than they had.

  In her honor, Winegrain and Bourdon performed increasingly spectacular dives: the first did a swan dive, the second a jackknife, after walking on his hands up to the pool’s edge. For the sports festival, they had poured a little too much methylene blue into the water, and when Winegrain and Bourdon came back to sit with us, their arms and legs looked like they were streaked with ink.

  A man of about forty had joined our group. Was he an alumnus or simply someone Yotlande and Winegrain had met during one of the many Paris parties at which they shone?

  He, too, seemed captivated by Martine. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Earlier, he had introduced himself in a reedy voice: “Da Silva”—and as he had alluded to an upcoming trip to São Paulo, I had assumed he was Brazilian. He spoke French without the slightest accent. Why did Winegrain, Bourdon, and Yotlande address him familiarly as “Baby”? Was it because of his moon face? His curly brown locks? His almost imperceptible lisp?

  “Are you . . . a student at this school?” he asked Martine.

  Winegrain guffawed.

  “Her? At Valvert? Poor Baby . . .”

  Then, turning to Martine:

  “You’ll have to forgive him, he doesn’t know . . . In Brazil . . .”

  “Are you really Brazilian?” Martine asked. Her sudden interest in Baby da Silva worried Yvon and me.

  “Smart of you to ask,” said Winegrain. “For as long as I’ve known Baby, I’ve had my doubts.”

  “Don’t listen to them, miss,” said Baby in his reedy voice. “I am Brazilian, and if you’re a nice girl, I’ll show you my passport.”

  She did not watch the hockey game, even though Winegrain and Bourdon begged her to stay, insisting that her presence was necessary. She could not be swayed. In her light blue dress, she headed toward the school gates, walking just as lazily as on those Thursday afternoons when she, Yvon, and I would gather chestnuts in the woods.

  Winegrain tried to grab her arm, but she shook him off with a laugh.

  “Wouldn’t you like to play newlyweds?” he asked her.

  “I have no desire to marry you.”

  “So who do you want to marry, then?” asked Bourdon.

  “The richest one,” said Martine.

  The richest one was surely Winegrain, whom we had nicknamed “Investment Bank, Jr.,” or McFowles, whose American grandmother had created the Harriet Strauss cosmetics line.

  “You know, they’re all rich,” Yvon said in a sorrowful voice.

  “I’d say the richest one of all has to be Baby,” said Winegrain. “Isn’t that right, Baby?”

  Baby shrugged.

  “Don’t forget, miss, that I promised to show you my passport,” he said with an insinuating smile.

  “I’m counting on it . . .”

  What sort of look was she giving this Baby da Silva? Sarcastic? Interested? Or both at once?

  She left without saying good-bye, as if bored with our company. She abandoned us, passed through the school gates, crossed the small bridge over the Bièvre. And we remained behind the fence, gazing after the tender smudge that her dress made on the twilight.

  From then on, they came to collect her every Saturday in a Lancia or a large English car that da Silva drove. First he stopped at the school to pick up Winegrain, Bourdon, and two or three others who squeezed into the back seat. Baby braked sharply in front of the house on Rue du Docteur-Dordaine and honked several times. Martine kissed Yvon and me good-bye, her mind already elsewhere. She ran to the car and it roared off down the tree-lined avenue that led to the highway.

  As for me, I stayed home with Yvon. He no longer felt like going into Paris, as he used to do with his sister on Saturday afternoons. On those days, I would meet them at Montparnasse station. We would see a movie, or else Martine dragged us into the shops. In the summer, we would go for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne and have sandwiches for dinner at an outdoor café. I would walk them back to Montparnasse in time for the last train.

  Now, without Martine, the afternoons seemed empty, and we felt jealous of Winegrain, Bourdon, Yotlande, and the other members of the gang whose muse she had become. They looked down on Yvon and me because of our age. They were all nineteen or twenty years old, despite still being tenth- and eleventh-graders.

  As for Baby da Silva, what part did he play in all this, exactly?

  She would come home at around ten in the evening, and I was still with Yvon, in his room or in the garden. She tried to be as quiet as possible, but we heard the furtive glide of her steps. She never wanted to tell us how she had spent her day. Now and then, she confided that the others had taken her to the movies or a party. She questioned us in turn. She seemed a bit ashamed at having left us all alone on a Saturday, and one evening, no doubt to demonstrate how independent she still was, she told us that Winegrain had tried to give her a gold lighter with black lacquer trim, but she had refused the gift. She had also refused McFowles’s present of a Harriet Strauss Beauty Case in blue crocodile.

  Winegrain had apparently asked to whom she would “grant her favors.” She had answered that she wasn’t intending to “grant” them to anyone.

  We tried, Yvon and I, to find out more at school, by listening in on conversations among members of the gang. But whenever they saw us, they would lower their voices and snicker, as if they knew something about Martine that we could never suspect.

  One day, during recess on the lawn, Winegrain told Yvon and me in a sour voice that Martine had “a thing” for Baby da Silva.

  And in fact, it was now Baby, and he alone, who came to pick her up every Saturday on Rue du Docteur-Dordaine. Yvon had asked his sister whether the two of us could come with her, but she had sharply refused. Then, realizing she had hurt our feelings, she said:

  “I’ll ask him for next time.”

  But she must never have asked, and we didn’t dare remind her of her promise.

  She watched for the Lancia at the window of Yvon’s room. Already she was no longer with us. Her new dress and high-heeled shoes made her look older. She had put on makeup.

  He didn’t need to honk. Barely had the Lancia stopped in front of the house than Martine was already tripping down the stairs. He opened the door and she leapt into the car beside him. He sped off, and all that haste struck Yvon and me as rather suspect.

  As the weeks went by, he brought her home later and later. First at ten o’clock, then eleven, then midnight. Yvon and I waited up.

  One Saturday we waited until two in the morning. Yvon’s parents were away on Saturdays and Sundays. There was an old aunt living in the cottage behind the house who prepared our meals and looked after us, but she went to bed very early.

  We began to get worried, and Yvon wanted to call Winegrain or Bourdon, but we didn’t have the address or phone number of any members of the gang. Was that Baby da Silva listed in the phone book? Did he live in Paris? When we asked, Martine never answered. And yet, she must have kn
own his address.

  We heard the sound of an engine growing more and more distinct in the silence. The Lancia appeared at the bottom of the tree-lined avenue. Its gray body shone in the moonlight. Yvon switched off the lamp in his room so they wouldn’t see us at the window. The Lancia came slowly up the hill. It braked in front of the house, but the engine kept running. A door slamming. Peals of laughter. Da Silva’s thin voice. At the window, Yvon and I held our breath. Martine leaned into the car and kissed Baby. The latter, before driving off, made his engine roar loudly, as was his habit. His peculiar habit. Martine, standing motionless at the curb, waited until the car had turned the corner of the avenue.

  She slammed the front door behind her, and on the stairs her steps were heavier than usual. The sound of someone falling. Her laughter. Was she drunk?

  She pushed open Yvon’s door. Her silhouette stood out in the frame, against the light from the hall.

  “What are you two doing in the dark?”

  She turned on the lights and looked at us, one then the other, curiously. Then she again burst out laughing.

  “We were waiting for you,” said Yvon.

  “Now that’s a good idea.”

  Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining. I felt certain that if we touched her, an electric shock would course through us. Her hair, pale eyes, red mouth, and skin looked phosphorescent.

  “I have some big news to tell you.”

  We were both sitting on the floor, leaning against Yvon’s bed.

  “Don’t just sit there like that . . . You look like you’re at a funeral.”

  “Did you have a good time?” Yvon asked in a dry voice.

  “Yes, wonderful. But I have something really important to tell you . . . Let’s go down to the living room . . .”

  She pulled us up by the arms, laughing. Mixed with her perfume was a slight smell of alcohol, and I wondered whether it was cognac or rum.

  In the living room, she went to the liquor cabinet and opened it.

  “Let’s all have a drink, okay?”

  She picked up a decanter containing a garnet-colored liquid, on which a small chain held a heart-shaped silver tag.

  She poured liquor into the glasses.

  “Now, let’s toast!”

  We toasted. It was the first time we’d drunk alcohol in that living room, and Yvon and I felt a bit embarrassed, as if we were committing sacrilege and our presence there was a transgression.

  She let herself drop into one of the armchairs.

  “So, here’s the thing! I’ve decided to get married,” Martine said in one breath.

  Yvon gaped at her, eyes wide. An expression of terror flitted through his eyes.

  “You’re getting married?”

  She squeezed the silver tag from the liquor decanter between her fingers, then slipped the chain onto her wrist.

  “So you’re just leaving us behind?”

  Now it was she who stared at her brother in stupefaction. The silver tag slid off her wrist.

  “Leaving you behind? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “So who are you getting married to?” Yvon insisted.

  “Why, Baby . . . Baby da Silva . . .”

  The nickname made me want to laugh. A nervous laugh. Baby.

  “The Brazilian?”

  “Yes . . . He’s very sweet, you know . . . I’m sure you’ll get along with him.”

  “But maybe you don’t have to get married,” Yvon said in a timid voice.

  There was a moment of silence. I wished I could have intervened. I tried to find the words to say that, all things considered, marriage was pointless. But I didn’t dare open my mouth.

  “Yes, yes, I’m going to get married.”

  Her tone was abrupt, brooking no argument. We each sat stiffly in our chairs.

  “Anyway, I don’t see how that will change things,” said Martine. “Everything will be just as it was. Here, look . . . He’s given me an engagement ring.”

  She held out her hand for us to admire the ring. I was quite young at the time, but I knew something about precious stones. This one was a superb blue-white diamond mounted in platinum.

  She leaned toward us.

  “Baby is very rich. He has these huge properties in Brazil. I’ll tell him we can’t be apart. You can come and live with us. Besides, he’s willing to do whatever I say . . .”

  But it lacked conviction. Something was reaching its end. I looked around me. I knew every stick of furniture, every nook and cranny of this room. It was here that we used to play after our strolls through the woods, here that we celebrated Yvon’s and Martine’s birthdays. A few Christmases as well. The pine tree in front of the rounded bay window. There was a photo on the cabinet, in a leather frame: Yvon and me wearing short pants and Martine, leaning against a tree, biting into an apple.

  “A millionaire . . . Baby is a millionaire, do you realize?” Martine repeated. “Anyway, I’ll ask him to buy you a house in Brazil . . .”

  She hadn’t removed her coat. I thought to myself, this was the last time we’d all be in this room together.

  I will always remember that building on Rue des Belles-Feuilles, in the part of the street that connects with the Rond-Point Bugeaud. Winegrain had phoned Yvon at around five o’clock that Saturday afternoon to say that “they” were celebrating Martine’s and Baby da Silva’s engagement and that our presence was requested.

  We took the train, then at Montparnasse we switched to the metro up to Porte Dauphine. The building was, as Winegrain had said, on the corner of Rue des Belles-Feuilles and a blind alley of the same name. Tan façade, no balconies or ledges. Small, square windows, plus some shaped like portholes. The Lancia was parked at the end of the blind alley. To the right of the porch was a marble plaque with tarnished letters: “Furnished apartments.”

  It was already dark out. February? March? Drops of rain. Yvon and I had taken off our sweaters because the air was muggy.

  A wide hallway with red velvet carpeting. On the left-hand side were glass doors. Winegrain was waiting in one of the doorways and motioned for us to come in.

  It would have been hard to say whether it was a waiting room or a hotel dining room. Walls lined with plaid fabric. Round tables and dark wooden chairs. Bourdon, Leandri, and someone I didn’t know were sprawled on the leather couch against the wall.

  “Have a seat,” said Winegrain.

  We sat at one of the tables, on which were arranged cups, a teapot, a bottle of champagne, and glasses.

  “Some tea?”

  He filled two cups.

  “Martine won’t be long. She’s upstairs, at Baby’s . . .”

  “He lives here?” Yvon asked in a blank voice.

  “Yes. He rents a furnished room,” said Winegrain.

  The others were smoking in silence. Leandri had fallen asleep. The light came from a nearby lamp with a pink shade, and also, through two glass door panels, from a telephone booth fitted against the back wall.

  “I’m delighted the two of you could be here,” said Winegrain.

  The others glanced at us with strange smiles.

  “So: Martine is getting married to Baby,” Winegrain resumed, in the sententious voice of a professor expounding a theorem. “Personally, I’m against it. How about you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Yvon.

  It was very hot in that room, and I was sweating. Yvon, too.

  “But you’re family. You can influence her . . . I think you have to talk to her . . .”

  He poured himself a glass of champagne and downed it in one gulp. His cheeks were flushed. Something mean-spirited flashed in his eyes.

  “I’ve known Baby for a long time. It would be a real mistake if she married Baby . . . especially . . .”

  He squeezed Yvon’s wrist.

  “And don’t go thinking I’m saying this out of jealousy . . .”

  He turned toward the others as if calling for witnesses.

  “You have no reason to be jealous of that guy,
” said Bourdon.

  “I was just disappointed,” sighed Winegrain. “Martine has disappointed me . . . I thought she had better taste . . .”

  “Martine will do as she pleases,” Yvon said sharply. “It’s none of your business.”

  I wondered why we stayed seated in that room. Yvon must have had the same thought and stood up.

  “Wait, hold on,” said Winegrain. “I’m going to tell them to come down . . . They don’t know you’re here . . . It’s a surprise . . .”

  He lurched over to the telephone booth, pushed open the double doors with his shoulder, and slowly lifted the receiver. Yvon was on his feet.

  He came out of the booth and patted Yvon on the shoulder.

  “Baby will be right down . . . Your sister will be here soon.”

  We were seated again, eyes riveted on the elevator grate, to the left at the beginning of the hallway.

  “It’s like an oven in here,” said Winegrain.

  He went to open a window. The smell of rain and leaves invaded the room, and the wind slightly lifted the white cloth on our table. The elevator started down with a sharp, monotonous whine. The gate opened and out came da Silva. He entered the room and seemed surprised to see Yvon and me, but he didn’t say hello. He was wearing a very sober navy blue suit.

  “Where’s Martine?” asked Winegrain.

  “She’s staying in bed,” said da Silva in his strange, fluty voice. “And I have to go to work . . . I have to go meet a client at the Gare de Lyon, an American woman . . .”

  “Will you be long?”

  “No, I just have to drop her in Neuilly . . . The pain in the ass part is that I first have to go get the Daimler from the garage . . . And the American sticks to me like glue. She says she can’t fall asleep if I’m not there to hold her hand . . .”

  Winegrain threw us furtive, curious glances, as if hoping to verify the effect these words were having on us. Was it the American woman’s blue-white diamond that da Silva had given Martine as an engagement ring?

  Da Silva disappeared into a storage closet next to the phone booth, and when he emerged he was wearing a chauffeur’s navy blue cap with black visor. Oddly, the cap gave him an entirely different face from the one we were used to seeing. He had lost his childlike appearance, and instead had the pale, bloated skin of certain late-night bartenders, with squinty eyes and thin lips, the upper lip practically nonexistent. He looked both spineless and callous.