Night Rounds (3 page)

Place du Trocadéro. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda at my side, those two staunch companions. Mama used to tell me: "The friends you have are the ones you deserve." To which I'd reply that men are much too talkative for my taste and that I can't stand the swarms of word-flies that come out of their mouths. It gives me a headache. Makes me gasp for breath – and I'm short of it to begin with. The Lieutenant, for instance, can talk your ears limp. Each time I walk into his office, he gets up and starts off with "my young friend," or "my boy." And the words come pouring out in a frenzied stream, so he doesn't even have time to really pronounce them. The verbal torrent subsides, briefly, only to inundate me the next minute. His voice grows more and more shrill. At length he's screeching, and the words choke in his throat. He stamps his feet, waves his arms, heaves about, hiccups, suddenly turns morose and begins speaking again in a monotone. His final advice is: "Guts, my boy!" which he says in an exhausted whisper.

At first he said to me: "I need you. We've got serious work to do. I stay in the shadows with my men. Your mission: to work yourself in among our enemies. To report back, with all possible caution, what those bastards are up to." He made crystal clear to me the gulf between us: purity and heroism fell to him and his staff. To me, the dirty job of spy and informer. That night, as I read over the
Anthology of Traitors from Alcibiades to Captain Dreyfus
, it occurred to me that after all double-dealing and – why not? – treason suited my peculiar nature. Not enough backbone for a hero. Too detached and too easily distracted to be a real villain. On the other
hand, adaptable, restless, and plainly good-natured.

We were driving back along Avenue Kléber. Coco Lacour yawned. Esmeralda was asleep with her little head rocking against my shoulder. It was time for them to be in bed. Avenue Kléber. That other night we had taken the same route after leaving L'Heure Mauve, a night club on the Champs Élysées. A rather listless crowd lounged around the red velvet tables and the bar stools: Lionel de Zieff, Costachesco, Lussatz, Méthode, Frau Sultana, Odicharvi, Lydia Stahl, Otto da Silva, the Chapochnikoff brothers … Warm, moist twilight. Scents of Egypt floating on the air. Yes, there were still a few islands in Paris where people tried to ignore "the disaster that has lately occurred" and where you could find a stagnant pre-war spirit of zestful living and frivolity. Contemplating all those faces, I repeated to myself a phrase I had read somewhere: "Brash adventurism that reeks of betrayal and murder."

Close to the bar a victrola was playing:

Bonsoir

Jolie Madame

Je suis venu

Vous dire bonsoir…..

The Khedive and Mr. Philibert led me outside. A white Bentley waited at the foot of Rue Marbeuf. They got in next to the chauffeur and I sat in the back seat. The
street lights were spewing their silent streams of bluish light.

"Don't worry," the Khedive said, pointing to the driver. "Eddy has eyes like a cat."

"Right now," Mr. Philibert said to me, taking my arm, "a young man has all sorts of opportunities. Everyone has to look out for himself, and I'm ready to help you, my boy. We're living in dangerous times. Your hands are white and slender, your health isn't the best. Take care. If you want my advice, don't try to be a hero. Take it easy. Work with us. It's as simple as this: martyrdom or the sanatorium." "A fast little finger job, for instance – wouldn't that interest you?" the Khedive asked me. "Handsomely rewarded," added Mr. Philibert. "And absolutely legal. We'll furnish you with a police card and a gun permit." "We want you to infiltrate an underground ring so we can break it up. You'll keep us informed about the activities of those gentlemen." "If you're at all careful, they won't suspect you." "I think you inspire confidence." "And you'll get what you want for the asking – you've got a winning smile." "And lovely eyes, my boy!" "Traitors always have a steady eye." Their words were coming faster. At the end I had the feeling that they were talking at once. Those blue butterflies swarming out of their mouths … Anything they want – stool-pigeon, hired killer, anything – if they'll only shut up once in a while and let me sleep. Squealer, traitor, killer, butterflies…

"We're taking you to our new headquarters," Mr. Philibert decided. "It's a private house at
3
bis
Cimarosa Square." "We're having a housewarming," added the Khedive. "With all our friends." "
Home, Sweet Home
" hummed Mr. Philibert.

As I entered the living room, the haunting phrase came back to me: "Brash adventurism that reeks of betrayal and murder." The usual crowd was there. New faces turned up every few moments: Danos, Codébo, Reocreux, Vital-Léca, Robert le Pâle … The Chapochnikoff brothers poured champagne for them. "Let's have a little talk," the Khedive whispered to me. "What's on your mind? You're white as a ghost. Want a drink?" He handed me a glass of some pink liquid. "Look here," he said to me, opening the French doors and leading me onto the balcony, "as of today I'm master of an empire. Not just an auxiliary police force. We're going to handle a tremendous business! Over five hundred agents in our pay! Philibert will help me with the administrative side. I've put to good account the extraordinary events we've been through these past few months." The heat was so bad it fogged the living-room windows. They gave me another glass of pink liquid, which I drank, stifling an urge to retch. "So" – he was stroking my cheek with the back of his hand – "you can give me advice, guide me once in a while. I've had no education." His voice was trailing off. "At fourteen, the prison colony at Eysses, then the overseas penal battalion, consigned to oblivion…But I'm
starved for respectability, understand?" His eyes blazed. Savagely: "One of these days I'll be police commissioner. They'll address me as
COMMISSIONER
!" He hammers both fists on the balcony railing:
"
COMMISSIONER ... COM-MIS-SION-ER
!" and his eyes glaze over in a vacant stare.

Down on the square, a misty vapor rose from the trees. I wanted to leave, but it was too late, most likely. He'd grasp my wrist, and even if I managed to slip free I'd have to cross the living room, clear a path through those tightly clustered groups, withstand an assaulting horde of buzzing wasps. Vertigo. Great luminous circles whirled around me, faster and faster, and my heart was bursting.

"Feel queasy?" He takes me by the arm and leads me over to the sofa. The Chapochnikof brothers – how many of them are there, anyway? – were scurrying every which way. Count Baruzzi took a stack of money out of a black briefcase to show to Frau Sultana. A little further away, Rachid von Rosenheim, Paulo Hayakawa, and Odicharvi were talking excitedly. There were others, but I couldn't make them out. All of them, because of their incessant chatter, their abrupt gestures, and the heavy odors they exuded, seemed to be dissolving on the spot. Mr. Philibert handed me a green card with a red stripe across it. "From now on you're a member of the Service; I signed you up under the name 'Swing Troubadour.' "They all drew around me, waving champagne glasses. "To Swing Troubadour!" Lionel de Zieff hailed me and burst out laughing until his face turned purple. "To Swing Troubadour!" shrilled Baroness Lydia.

At that moment – if I remember correctly – I had a sudden urge to cough. I saw Mama's face again. She was bending over me and whispering in my ear, just as she used to do every night before she turned off the light: "You'll end up on the gallows!" "To your health, Swing Troubadour!" murmured one of the Chapochnikoff brothers, and he touched my shoulder timidly. The others pressed around me, stuck to me, like flies.

Avenue Kléber. Esmeralda is talking in her sleep. Coco Lacour is rubbing his eyes. It's time for them to go to bed. Neither of them has any idea how fragile their happiness is. Of the three of us, I'm the only one who's worried.

"I'M SORRY
you had to hear those screams, my boy," says the Khedive. "I don't like violence either, but that fool was passing out leaflets. It's a serious matter."

Simone Bouquereau is gazing at herself once again in the mirror, touching up her face. The others, in a relaxed mood, lapse into a kind of easy conviviality wholly appropriate to the setting. We are in a middle-class living room, after dinner, when the liqueurs are handed round.

"Have a drink to cheer you up," suggests the Khedive.

"The 'confused period' we're living in," comments Ivanoff the Oracle, "acts as an aphrodisiac on women."

"Most people must have forgotten the aroma of cognac,
now that rationing's here to stay," sneers Lionel de Zieff. "Their tough luck!" "What do you expect" murmurs Ivanoff. "With the whole world out of kilter … but that doesn't mean I'm profiting from it, my dear fellow. Ideals are what count for me."

"Calfskin …" begins Pols de Helder.

"A carload of tungsten …" Baruzzi joins in.

"And a
25
per cent rebate," Jean-Farouk de Méthode adds pointedly.

Mr. Philibert, solemn-faced, enters the living room and approaches the Khedive.

"We're leaving in fifteen minutes, Henri. First stop: the Lieutenant, Place du Châtelet. Then the other ring members at their respective addresses. A fine haul! The young man will go with us. Right, Swing Troubadour? Get ready! Fifteen minutes!" "A cognac for courage, Troubadour?" offers the Khedive. "And don't forget to come up with Lamballe's address," adds Mr. Philibert. "Understand?"

One of the Chapochnikoff brothers – but how many of them are there, anyway? – stands in the center of the room, a violin poised under his chin. He clears his throat and begins to sing in a magnificent bass:

Nur

Nicht

Aus Liebe weinen

(Don't weep just for love's sake)

The others clap to the beat. The player scrapes the strings ever so slowly, quickens his bowing, quickens it further…The music comes faster and faster.

Aus Liebe

(For love)

Luminous circles are expanding as from a stone cast into the water. They began by spiraling out from the violinist's feet … now they have reached the livingroom walls.

Es gibt auf

Erden…..

(There is on earth)

The singer is breathless and seems likely to choke after one last note. The bow races over the strings in a new burst of speed. Will they be able to keep the tempo much longer with their clapping?

Auf dieser Welt
…..

(In this world)

The living room is spinning round and round now. Only the violinist remains stationary.

nicht nur den Einen
…..

(There is not just one)

As a child, you were always frightened in those whirling contraptions that go faster and faster and are called "caterpillars." Remember…

Es gibt so viele
…..

(There are so many)

You used to howl, but it was no use. The caterpillar kept on whirling.

Es gibt so viele
…..

You insisted on getting into those caterpillars. Why?

Ich lüge auch…..

(I lie too)

They stand up, clapping … The living room is whirling, whirling. It almost seems to be tipping. They'll lose their balance. The vases of Bowers will be smashed on the Boor. The violinist sings in urgent tones.

Ich lüge auch

You howled, but it was no use. No one could hear you above the hubbub of the fair.

Es muss ja Lüge sein

(It has to be a lie)

The Lieutenant's face. Ten, twenty other faces there's no time to identify. The living room is whirling much too fast, like the caterpillar called "Sirocco" in Luna Park.

den ich gewählt
…..

(The one I chose)

After five minutes it was whirling so fast you couldn't recognize the faces of those who stayed below, watching.

Heute dir gehören
…..

(Today belongs to you)

Still, as you swept past, occasionally you could pick out a nose, a hand, a laugh, a set of teeth, or a pair of staring eyes. The Lieutenant's deep blue eyes. Ten, twenty other faces. Those whose addresses you just gave and who will be arrested tonight. Luckily, they rush by in time with the music and you don't have a chance to assemble their features.

und Liebe schwören
…..

(And vows his love)

His voice races on even faster, he clutches his violin with the haggard look of a castaway...

Ich liebe jeden
…..

(I love them all)

The others clap, clap, clap. Their cheeks are distended, their eyes wild, they will all surely die of a stroke . . .

Ich lüge auch
…..

(I lie too)

The Lieutenant's face. Ten, twenty other faces whose features are now discernible. They are about to be arrested. They seem to be calling you to account. For a few minutes you aren't the least bit sorry for giving their addresses. Caught in the fearless stare of these heroes, you're even tempted to scream out at the top of your lungs just what you are: a stool pigeon. But, inch by inch, the glaze on their faces chips away, their arrogance pales, and the conviction that glistened in their eyes vanishes like the flame of a snuffed-out candle. A tear makes its way down the cheek of one of them. Another lowers his head and glances at you sadly. Still another stares at you dazedly, as if he didn't expect that from you….