The Other Side of Silence (4 page)

F
or a couple of weeks my arrangement with Anne French worked well. She was a quick study and took to the game like a new deck and a dealer's shoe. She wasn't a bad cook and I even managed to put on a few extra pounds. Best of all, she made a hell of a gimlet, the kind you can taste and feel for hours afterward. This might even be why, once or twice, I got the idea she wanted me to kiss her, but I managed to resist the temptation, which is unusual for me. Temptation is not something I can easily avoid when it comes wearing Mystikum behind its rose petal ears and you can see its smaller washing still hanging on the line outside the kitchen door. It wasn't that I didn't find her attractive,
or that I couldn't have used a little affection—or that I didn't like her underwear—but I've been bitten so many times that I'm as twice shy as the wild pigs that came into the trees at the bottom of her garden after dark and truffled around for something to eat. Shy and apt to think that someone might have a rifle pointed at my ear. Meanwhile, I continued going to La Voile d'Or for my biweekly game and my life continued along the same monotonous path as before. Life can be appreciated best when you have a regular job and a goodish salary and you can avoid thinking about anything more important than what's happening in Egypt. At least, that's what I told myself. But one night Spinola was drunk—too drunk to play bridge—and I was actually pleased because it gave me an excuse to call Anne to see if she wanted to take the Italian's place at the table. I was disappointed to discover, first that she wasn't at home and second that I was more disappointed than I told myself was appropriate, given everything I'd told myself and her about not getting involved with hotel guests. Meanwhile, the Roses drove Spinola home in their Bentley, which left me alone on the terrace with a last drink and cigarette, wondering if I should drive to Anne's house in Villefranche and look for her in case she hadn't heard the telephone or chosen not to answer it. It was the wrong thing to do, of course, and I was just about to do it all the same when an Englishman with a little dog spoke to me.

“I see you here a lot,” he said. “Playing bridge, twice a week. I say, aren't you the concierge at the Grand Hôtel?”

“Sometimes,” I said. “When I'm not playing bridge.”

“It is rather addictive, isn't it?”

He was probably about forty but looked older. Overweight and a little sweaty, he wore a double-breasted linen blazer, a white shirt with overextended double cuffs and gold links that looked like a modest day on the Klondike, gray cavalry twill trousers, a silk tie that was the color of a South American jaguar, and a matching silk handkerchief that was spilling out of his top pocket as if he were about to conjure a bunch of fake flowers, like a cheap magician. He was the same man I'd seen arguing outside the hotel entrance with Harold Hennig.

“Hello, I'm Robin Maugham.”

“Walter Wolf.”

We shook hands and he waved the waiter toward us. “Buy you a drink?”

“Sure.”

We ordered drinks, some water for the dog, lit our cigarettes, took a table on the terrace facing the port, and generally tried to behave normally, or at least as normal as you can when one man isn't homosexual and knows that the other man is, and the other man is fully aware that the first man understands all that. It was a little awkward, perhaps, but nothing more than that. I used to believe in a moral order, but then so did the Nazis, and their idea of moral order included murdering homosexuals in concentration camps, which was more than enough for me to change my own opinions. After the orgy of destruction Hitler inflicted upon Germany, it seems pointless to give a damn about what one man does in a bedroom with another.

“You're German, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“It's all right. I'm not one of these Englishmen who doesn't like Germans. I met a lot of your chaps in the war. Solid men, most of them. In forty-two I was in North Africa with the 4th County of London Yeomanry, in tanks. We were up against the DAK—the Deutsches Afrikakorps—which was the 15th Panzer Division in my neck of the woods. Good fighters, what? I'll say so. I sustained a head injury at the Battle of Knightsbridge, which ended my war. At least that's what we called it. Strictly speaking, it was the Battle of Gazala but one always thinks of it as the Battle of Knightsbridge.”

“Why?”

“Oh. Well, that was the code name for our defensive position on the Gazala line: Knightsbridge. But to be quite honest there were so many chaps I knew in the 8th Army from Eton and Cambridge and my Inn of Court that it sometimes felt as if one was shopping in Knightsbridge. Not that I was an officer, mind. I joined up as an ordinary trooper. On account of the fact that I was a bit of a bolshie. And just to pay my own bar bills, so to speak. I never much liked all that damned officer malarkey.”

He made it all sound like a long day in the cricket field.

“What about you, Walter?”

“I was well behind our lines and quite safe in Berlin. A man without honor, I'm afraid. Too old for all that. I was a captain in the Intendant General's Office. The Catering Corps.”

“Ah. I begin to see a pattern.”

I nodded. “Before the war I worked at the Hotel Adlon.”

“Right. Everyone stays at the Adlon.
Grand Hotel
. The film, I mean. Vicki Baum, wasn't it? The Austrian writer.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Thought so. I'm a writer myself. Books, plays. Working on a play right now. A comedy that's based on Shakespeare's
King Lear.
It's about a man who has three daughters.”

“There's a coincidence.”

Maugham laughed. “Quite.”

“I suppose it would be too much of a coincidence if you were not related to the other Maugham who lives around here.”

“He's my uncle. Matter of fact, he used to know Vicki Baum, when he was living in Berlin before the first war.”

The drinks arrived and Robin Maugham grabbed his glass of white wine off the waiter's tin tray with the impatience of the true drunk. I should know; my own greenish glass had taken on the aura of the holy grail.

“He likes Germans, too. Willie. That's what we call the old man. Speaks it fluently. On account of the fact that before med school he spent a year at the University of Heidelberg. Uncle Willie loves Germany. He's particularly fond of Goethe. Still reads it in German. Which is saying something for an Englishman, I can tell you.”

“Then we have something in common.”

“You too, eh? Jolly good.”

It was easy to see that Robin Maugham was a playwright. He had an easy way of speech about him, a talky, bantering sort of chat that concealed as much as it revealed, like a character you knew was going to prove much more consequential than he seemed if only by virtue of his prominence on the theater bill.

“You know, what with the bridge and the German, perhaps you'd like to make up a four at the Villa Mauresque one night. The old man is always keen to meet interesting new people. Of course, he's notoriously private, but I'll hazard a guess that the concierge at the Grand Hôtel—not to mention someone who worked at the famous Adlon—well, that person must be used to keeping a few confidences, what?”

“I'd be delighted to come,” I said. “And you needn't worry about my mouth.”

I thought about Anne French and what she might say when I told her I'd been invited up to the Villa Mauresque. It was possible she would perceive my invitation as an affirmation of her own strategy: to learn bridge in order to meet Somerset Maugham. But it seemed equally possible that she would see it as some kind of betrayal. And while for a brief moment I considered simply not telling her in order to spare her feelings, it seemed to me that my being there at all could only help to facilitate her own invitation. Alternatively, I might be her spy and report on how things really were at the Villa Mauresque, providing her with the color she needed for her book.

“But I feel I ought to read one of his novels,” I said. “I'd hate
to have to admit that I haven't read any. Which one would you recommend?”

“A short one. My own favorite is
The Moon and Sixpence
. Which is about the life of Paul Gauguin. I'll lend you my own copy if you like.”

Robin Maugham looked at his watch. “You know, it occurs to me that we could still make dinner at the villa. That is if you haven't already dined. Willie keeps a very good table. Annette, our Italian cook, is wonderful. Willie was in a good mood today. Rather absurdly, an invitation to the forthcoming wedding of Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly in Monaco seems to have left him as delighted as if he was getting married himself.”

“I got an invitation myself but sadly I shall have to decline. It would mean finding all my decorations and buying a new suit, which I can ill afford.”

Robin smiled uncertainly.

I looked at my own watch.

“But sure. Let's go. I don't mind interrupting my alcohol consumption with some food.”

“Good.” Robin drained his wineglass, scooped up the terrier, and pointed toward the end of the terrace. “Shall we?”

I climbed into my car and followed the Englishman's red Alfa Romeo up the hill and out of the town. It was a lovely warm evening with a light sea breeze and an edge of coral pink in the blue sky as if some nearer Vesuvius were in fiery eruption. Behind us the lightly clad myrmidons of Hermès filled the many waterside restaurants and narrow streets, while the miniature Troy
that was the little port of Cap Ferrat bristled with innumerable tall masts and hundreds of invading white boats that jostled for undulating position on the almost invisible glass water, as if it mattered a damn where anyone was going or anyone came from. It certainly didn't matter to me.

A
pproached along a narrow, winding road bordered by pine trees, the Villa Mauresque stood on the very summit of the Cap and behind a large wrought-iron gate with white plaster posts on one of which was carved the name of the house and what I took to be a sign against the evil eye, in red. It didn't slow me down and I drove through the gates in Robin Maugham's dust as if I had the nicest baby blue eyes in France. The place couldn't have looked more private if King Leopold II of Belgium had been living there with his pet pygmy and his three mistresses and his private zoo, not to mention the many millions he'd managed to steal from the Congo. By all accounts he had
quite a collection of human hands, too, lopped off the arms of natives to encourage the others to go into the jungle and collect rubber, and I think the king could have taught the Nazis a few things about cruelty and running an empire. Unlike Hitler, he'd died in bed at the age of seventy-four. Once, he had owned the whole of Cap Ferrat, and the Villa Mauresque had been built for one of his confidants, a man named Charmeton, whose Algerian background had left him with a taste for Moorish architecture. I knew this because it's the sort of detail a concierge at the Grand Hôtel is supposed to know.

According to Robin Maugham, his uncle had owned the villa for more than thirty years. It was the type of place you could easily imagine a novelist writing about except that no one would have believed it, for the house seemed even more elaborate—inside and out—than I could have expected. Anne French was renting a nice villa. This one was magnificent and underlined Maugham's international fame, his enormous wealth, and his impeccable taste. It was painted white, with green shutters and tall green double doors, horseshoe windows, a Moorish archway entrance, and a large cupola on the roof. There was a tennis court, a huge swimming pool, and a beautiful garden full of hibiscus, bougainvillea, and lemon trees that lent the evening air the sharp citrus scent of a barber's shop. Inside were ebony wood floors, high ceilings, heavy Spanish furniture, gilded wooden chandeliers, blackamoor figures, Savonnerie carpets, and, among many others, a painting by Gauguin—one of those heavy-limbed, broad-nosed, Tahitian women that looks like she must have gone
three rounds with Jersey Joe Walcott. Over the fireplace was a golden eagle with wings outspread, which reminded me of my former employers in Berlin, while all the books on a round Louis XVI table were new and sent from a shop in London called Heywood Hill. The soap I used to wash my hands in the ground-floor lavatory was still in its Floris wrapper, and the towels were as thick as the silk cushions on the Directoire armchairs. The Grand Hôtel felt like a cheaper version of what there was to be enjoyed at the Villa Mauresque. It was the sort of place where time and the outside world were not welcome; the sort of place it was hard to imagine could still exist in a ration-book economy that was recovering from a terrible war; the sort of place that was probably like the mind of the man who owned it, an elderly man in a double-breasted blue blazer that looked as if it had been made by the same London tailor as Robin's, with a face like a Komodo dragon lizard. He stood and came to shake my hand as his nephew made the introduction, and when he licked the lips of his thin, broad, drooping pink mouth, I would not have been surprised to have seen a tongue that was forked.

“Where have you been, Robin? We've delayed dinner for you, and you know I hate that. It's most inconsiderate to Annette.”

“I dropped into the Voile for a drink and met a friend of mine. Walter Wolf. He's German and he's a keen bridge player and he was at a loose end so I thought I'd better bring him along.”

“Is he indeed? I'm so glad.” Maugham placed a monocle in his eye, looked directly at me, and smiled a rictus smile. “We
d-don't see n-nearly enough G-Germans. It's a good sign that you're returning to the Riviera. It augurs well for the future that Germans can afford to come here again.”

“I'm afraid you've got me wrong, sir. I'm not here for the season. I work at the Grand Hôtel. I'm the concierge.”

“You're very welcome all the same. So, you play bridge. The most entertaining game that the art of man has devised, is it not?”

“Yes, sir. I certainly think so.”

“Robin, you'd better tell Annette that we have an extra guest for dinner.”

“There's always plenty of food, Uncle.”

“That's not the point.”

“I thought we could make a four with Alan, later.”

“Excellent,” said Maugham.

While Robin went to speak to the cook, Maugham himself took me by the arm and into the dark green Baroque drawing room, where a butler wearing a white linen jacket materialized as if from thin air and proceeded to make me a gimlet to my exact instructions and then a martini for the old man, with a dash of absinthe.

“I dislike a man who's not precise about what he wants to drink,” said Maugham. “You can't rely on a fellow who's vague about his favorite tipple. If he's not precise about something he's going to drink then it's clear he's not going to be precise about anything.”

We sat down and Maugham offered me a cigarette from the
box on the table. I shook my head and lit one of my own, which drew yet more of his approval, only now he spoke German—albeit with a slight stammer, the way he spoke English—probably just to show that he could do it, but given it was probably a while since he'd done it, I was still impressed.

“I also like a man who prefers to smoke his own cigarettes rather than mine. Smoking is something you have to take seriously. It's not a matter for experiment. I myself could no more smoke another brand of cigarette than I could take up marathon running. Tell me, Herr Wolf, do you like being the concierge at the Grand Hôtel?”

“Like?” I grinned. “That's a luxury I simply can't afford, Herr Maugham. It's a job, that's all. After the war, jobs in Germany weren't so easy to come by. The hours are regular and the hotel's a nice place. But the only reason I'm doing it is for the money. The day they stop paying me is the day I check out.”

“I agree. I have no time for a man who says he's not interested in money. It means he has no self-respect. I myself only write for money these days. Certainly not for the pleasure of it.” A tear appeared in his eye. “No, that went out of it a long time ago. Mostly I write because I've always done it. Because I can't think what the hell else to do. Unfortunately, I have never been able to persuade myself that anything else mattered. I'm eighty-two years old, Herr Wolf. Writing has become a habit, a discipline, and, to some extent, a compulsion, but I certainly wouldn't give what I write to anyone for free.”

“Are you working on anything at the moment, sir?”

“A book of essays, which is to say, nothing at all of any consequence. Essays are like politicians. They want to change things and I'm not much interested in any change at my age.”

A large and lumpish man with bad psoriasis and wearing a garishly colored shirt appeared and went straight to the drinks tray, where he mixed himself a drink as if too impatient to wait for the butler to fix one for him.

“This is my friend Alan,” said Maugham, reverting to English. “Alan, do come and say hello to a friend of Robin's. Walter Wolf. He's German and we're hoping he's going to play a couple of rubbers with us after dinner.”

The lumpish man came and shook hands just as Robin Maugham reappeared and announced that dinner was ready.

“Thank God,” said Maugham.

“Ronnie Neame rang when you were in the bath,” the lumpish man told Maugham. “It seems that MGM are going to make
Painted Veil
but want a different title. They want to call it
The Seventh Sin
.”

“Ugh.” Maugham grimaced. “That's a fucking awful title.”

“It's the seventh commandment,” said Robin.

“I don't care if it's in the Treaty of Versailles. No one's shocked by adultery these days. Not since the war. Adultery's common. After Auschwitz, adultery's a minor misdemeanor. You mark my words: The film will make a loss.”

We went into dinner.

Robin Maugham had not exaggerated; his uncle kept an excellent table. Dinner was eggs in aspic jelly, chicken
Maryland, tiny wild strawberries, avocado ice cream—which I didn't care for—all washed down with an excellent Puligny and then an even better Sauternes. Afterward, Maugham lit a pipe, fixed a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles onto his nose, and led the way to the card table, where I partnered Robin and we played and lost two rubbers. The old man was a bridge demon.

“You're not a bad player, Herr Wolf. If I might give you a tip it's this: Never take a card out of your hand before your partner has declared. It preempts his play. Don't overreach for a card until it's your turn to play.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it.”

When we'd finished playing cards Maugham sat next to me on the sofa with his legs tucked underneath him, revealing silk socks and sock suspenders, and asked me all sorts of personal questions.

“Are you married?”

“Three times. I've not had the best of luck with women, sir. The ones I married least of all. They're odd creatures who don't know what they want right up until the moment they decide on exactly what they do want, and when you don't give it to them right away, they're apt to get sore with you. The rest of the time, with the rest of the women I've known, it was my fault. My most recent wife left me because she didn't love me anymore. At least that's what she told me when she walked out with most of my money. But I think she was trying to let me down gently.”

Maugham smiled. “You're bitter. I like that. Tra la la. Would you like another drink?”

“No, sir. I've had enough.”

We talked a while longer until, at exactly eleven o'clock, W. Somerset Maugham declared that it was his bedtime.

“I like you, Herr Wolf,” he said before he went upstairs. “Do come again. Come again soon.”