Suite Francaise (21 page)

“Boiling hot,” the manager assured him, then gave the necessary orders over the telephone and left.

Florence had gone into her room, locked the door and anxiously looked at herself in the mirror. Her face, normally so soft, so well made-up, so rested, was covered in a shiny coat of sweat; it no longer absorbed the powder and foundation, but turned them into thick lumps, like curdled mayonnaise. Her nose was pinched, her eyes sunken, her mouth pale and limp. She turned away from the mirror in horror.

“I could be fifty,” she said to her maid.

This was quite literally true, but she said it with such disbelief and terror that Julie took it as she should: that is to say figuratively, as a metaphor for expressing extreme old age.

“After everything that’s happened it’s understandable . . . Madame should take a little nap.”

“It’s impossible . . . As soon as I close my eyes I hear the bombs, I see the bridge again, the dead bodies . . .”

“Madame will forget.”

“Never! Could
you
forget?

“It’s different for me.”

“Why?”

“Madame has so many other things to think about!” said Julie. “Shall I lay out Madame’s green dress?”

“My green dress? With the way I look?”

Florence, who had slumped down into her chair with her eyes closed, suddenly rallied, summoning all her meagre strength like the head of an army who, despite needing rest and acknowledging the inefficiency of his subordinates, pulls himself together and, still weak with exhaustion, leads his troops on to the battlefield. “Listen, this is what you are going to do. First, while you are running the bath, prepare me a face mask, number 3, the American one. Then telephone the hairdresser and ask if Luigi is still there. Tell him to come and give me a manicure in three quarters of an hour. Then get my little grey suit ready, with the pink linen blouse.”

“The one with the collar like this?” Julie asked, drawing a low-cut shape in the air.

Florence hesitated. “Yes . . . no . . . yes . . . that one, and the new little hat with the cornflowers. Oh, Julie, I really never thought I would get to wear that little hat. Well . . . you’re right, I mustn’t think about it any more, I’d go mad . . . I wonder if they have any more of that ochre powder, the last one . . .”

“We’ll have to find out . . . Madame would be wise to buy several boxes. It came from England.”

“You don’t have to tell me! You know, Julie, we don’t really understand what is going on. These events will have an unimaginable impact, believe me, unimaginable . . . People’s lives will be changed for generations. We’ll be hungry this winter. Just get out my grey leather handbag with the gold clasp, that’s all . . . I wonder what Paris is like,” said Florence walking into the bathroom. But the noise of the running water Julie had just turned on drowned out her words.

Meanwhile, less frivolous thoughts were passing through Corte’s mind. He too was lying in the bath. At first he had been filled with such joy, such profound natural peace, that he was reminded of the delights of childhood: his happiness when eating an iced meringue full of cream; dipping his feet in a cool stream; pressing a new toy to his heart. He felt no desire, no regret, no anguish. His head was clear and calm; his body floated in a warm, liquid element that caressed him, gently tickled his skin, washed away the dust, the sweat, insinuated itself between his toes and slid beneath his back like a mother lifting her sleeping child. The bathroom smelled of tar soap, hair lotion, eau de Cologne, lavender water. He smiled, stretched out his arms, cracked the knuckles on his long, pale fingers, savoured the divine, simple pleasure of being safe from the bombs and taking a cool bath on a very hot day. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when bitterness cut through him like a sharp knife through a piece of fruit. Perhaps it was when he happened to glance at the suitcase full of manuscripts on the chair, or when the soap fell into the water and he had to fish it out, the strain to his muscles disrupting his state of euphoria. Whenever it was, at a certain point he frowned and his face, which had been clearer, smoother than usual, almost rejuvenated, became sombre and anxious once again.

What would become of him? What would become of Gabriel Corte? What was happening to the world? What would be the general mood in future? Either people would think only about being able to survive and there would be no place for Art, or they would become obsessed by a new ideal, as after every crisis before. A new ideal? A new fashion, more like, he thought with cynicism and weariness. But he, Corte, was too old to adapt to new tastes. He had already changed his style in 1920. A third time would be impossible. It exhausted him just to think about what was to come, what kind of world was about to be born. Who could predict the shape it would take as it emerged from the harsh matrix of this war, as from a bronze mould. It would be magnificent or misshapen (or both), this universe now showing its first signs of life. It was terrible to look at himself, to see himself . . . and to understand nothing. For he understood nothing. He thought of his book, his manuscript sitting on a chair, rescued from the fire, from the bombs. He felt intensely despondent. The passions he described, his feelings, his scruples, this history of a generation, his generation—they were all old, useless, obsolete. “Obsolete!” he repeated in despair. And a second time the soap, slippery as a fish, disappeared into the water. He swore, sat up, angrily rang the bell; his servant came in.

“Rub me down,” Gabriel Corte sighed, his voice shaking.

Once his legs had been massaged with the glove and the eau de Cologne applied, Corte felt better. Standing naked in the bathroom he began to shave while the servant laid out his clothes: a linen shirt, a lightweight tweed suit, a blue tie.

“Are there any people we know?” asked Corte.

“I don’t know, Monsieur. I haven’t seen many people, though I’ve been told a lot of cars arrived last night and then left straightaway for Spain. Monsieur Jules Blanc was here. He went to Portugal.”

“Jules Blanc?”

Corte paused, his soapy razor poised in mid-air. Jules Blanc, gone to Portugal, on the run! This piece of news was a bad blow. Like everyone who makes sure they get the most comfort and pleasure from life, Gabriel Corte had a politician in his pocket. In exchange for excellent dinners, wonderful parties, Florence’s little attentions, in exchange for a few well-placed and timely newspaper articles, he had had from Jules Blanc (member with portfolio in nearly every Cabinet, twice Prime Minister, four times Minister of War) thousands of the small favours that make life easier. It was thanks to Jules Blanc that he had been commissioned to present his
Great Lovers
series on the radio last winter. It was Jules Blanc who had given him responsibility for the patriotic addresses and moral exhortations broadcast on the radio, and it was Jules Blanc who had insisted that the head of an important daily newspaper pay 130,000 francs instead of the 80,000 previously agreed for Corte’s novel. Finally, he had promised that Corte would be made a Commander of the Legion of Honour. Jules Blanc was a small but necessary cog in the machinery of his career, for genius cannot simply float in the clouds, it must also operate down on earth.

On learning of his friend’s fall (Blanc must have been involved in some pretty dishonest business to have taken this desperate measure, since it was he who always liked to say that, in politics, defeat prepares you for victory), Corte felt alone and abandoned at the edge of an abyss. Once again, he was struck with dreadful force by the existence of a new world, unknown to him, a world where everyone would become miraculously chaste, selfless and full of noble ideals. Already, that tendency to imitate which is an integral part of the survival instinct for plants, animals and people, made him declare: “Ah, so he’s left? The day of these hedonists, these political wheeler-dealers is over . . .” After a moment’s silence he added, “Poor France . . .”

Slowly he put on his blue socks. Naked, except for his black silk suspenders and socks, his skin a shiny white with yellowish tinges, he did some arm and chest exercises, then looked at himself approvingly in the mirror. “Now that is definitely better,” he said, as if he expected the words to make his servant very happy. Then he finished dressing.

He went down to the bar just after noon. There was a certain panic going on in the lobby and it was clear that distant disasters were sending tremors through the rest of the universe. People had left their luggage piled untidily on the stage that was normally used as a dance floor; shouting was coming from the kitchens; pale, dishevelled women were wandering around the corridors looking for a room; the lifts weren’t working; and an old man was crying, standing in front of a porter who refused to give him a bed.

“You must understand, Monsieur, it’s not that I don’t want to, but it’s impossible, simply impossible. We’re full to bursting, Monsieur.”

“Just a tiny little corner room, that’s all,” begged the poor man. “I told my wife I would meet her here. We got separated in the bombing in Etampes. She’ll think I’m dead. I’m seventy years old, Monsieur, and she’s sixty-eight. We’ve never been apart before.” He took out his wallet, hands trembling. “I’ll give you a thousand francs.” And on this ordinary Frenchman’s honest, modest face you could see his shame at having to offer a bribe for the first time in his life, and his fear at having to spend all his money.

But the porter refused to take it. “I’m telling you, Monsieur, it’s impossible. Try in town.”

“In town? But I’ve just come from there! I’ve been knocking at doors since five o’clock this morning. They treat me like a dog! I’m not just anyone. I’m a physics teacher at the Saint-Omer sixth-form college. I’ve been decorated for services to education.”

But he finally realised the porter had stopped listening a long time ago and had turned his back on him. Picking up a little hatbox he’d dropped on the ground, which clearly contained all his belongings, he left without saying a word.

The porter was now fighting off four Spanish women with black hair and heavy make-up. One of them was clutching his arm. “Once in a lifetime, all right, it happens, but twice is too much,” she exclaimed in bad French, her voice hoarse and loud. “To have lived through the war in Spain, escaped to France and then end up in this mess, it’s too much!”

“But Madame, there’s really nothing I can do!”

“You can give me a room!”

“That’s impossible, Madame, impossible.”

The Spaniard tried to think of some scathing reply, an insult, but her mind was blank. For a moment she was choked with anger; then she exlaimed, “Well, you’re not what I call a man!”

“Me?” shouted the porter, suddenly losing all his professional passivity and jumping up and down in outrage. “And what about you? Have you quite finished insulting me? Just remember you’re a foreigner—so shut up or I’ll call the police.” Regaining a little of his dignity, he held open the door and pushed out the four women who were still shouting insults in Castilian.

“What hard days, Monsieur, and nights,” he said to Corte. “The world has gone mad, Monsieur!”

Corte walked into a long, cool room; it was silent and dark, and the bar was quiet. All the commotion stopped at this doorway. The closed shutters on the large windows protected him from the heat of the raging sun; the aroma of quality leather, excellent cigars and vintage brandy hung in the air. The Italian barman, an old friend of Corte’s, welcomed him impeccably, expressing his joy at seeing him again and his sympathy at France’s misfortunes. He did this with such dignity and tact, mindful of his inferior status with regard to Corte and aware that the terrible events demanded respect, that Corte felt immediately comforted. “I’m pleased to see you as well, my good man,” he said gratefully.

“Did Monsieur have difficulty leaving Paris?”

“Ah!” was all Corte said. He raised his eyes to heaven. Joseph, the barman, made a discreet little gesture with his hand as if to prevent Corte from confiding in him, refusing to be the one to bring back such fresh, painful memories, and in the same way a doctor might say to a patient who is having a fit, “Drink this first, then you can tell me all about it,” he murmured, “Shall I fix you a martini?”

With the chilled glass and two small dishes of olives and crisps in front of him, Corte took in the familiar surroundings with the weak smile of a convalescent. He then looked at the men who had just joined him in the room. Well, well! They were all there: the academic and the former minister, the important industrialist, the editor, the head of a newspaper, the MP, the playwright and the writer who, under the pseudonym “General X,” wrote articles for an important Parisian magazine in which he summarised military events for the masses in great technical detail and with the utmost optimism, while always managing to remain vague: “The next military theatre of operations will be in northern Europe or the Balkans or the Ruhr or all three simultaneously, or else at some point on the globe impossible to predict.” Yes, they were all here and in perfect health. For a brief moment Corte was stunned. He couldn’t have said why, but for the past twenty-four hours he had thought the old world was crumbling and he was the only man left amid the rubble. It was an inexpressible relief to see once again all his famous friends, even his enemies. Today, any disagreements seemed unimportant. They were all on the same side, they were all together! They were living proof that nothing was changing. Contrary to belief, they weren’t witnessing some extraordinary cataclysm, the end of the world, but rather a series of purely human events, limited in time and space, which, all in all, affected only the lives of people they didn’t know.

Their conversation was pessimistic, almost despairing, but their voices light-hearted. Some of them had done very well for themselves; they were at that age when one looks at young people and thinks, “Let them make their own way!” Others were compiling a hasty mental inventory of all the pages they’d written, all the speeches they’d given, which might help them win favour with the new government (and since they had all more or less lamented the fact that France had lost her greatness, lost her daring and was no longer producing children, none of them was very worried). The politicians were rather more anxious, for some of them were in a difficult position and were pondering a change of alliance. The playwright and Corte discussed their own work, without a thought for the rest of the world.