The Great Swindle

by Pierre Lemaitre

  “So how did he die?”

  The question cut the air like the slice of the blade on the scaffold. Albert’s lips hesitated to form the words. Madeleine was turned toward him, discreet, gracious.

  “He was shot, monsieur, during the assault on Hill 113.”

  He stopped abruptly, feeling that the words “Hill 113” were sufficient. They had a particular resonance for everyone present. Madeleine remembered the explanation Capitaine Pradelle told her when she first met him at the Demobilization Center, clutching the letter informing her family of her brother’s death. M. Péricourt could not help but think that it was the assault on Hill 113 that had cost his son his life and earned his future son-in-law the Croix de Guerre. For Albert, it evoked a slow procession of images, the shell crater, Pradelle bearing down on him . . .

  “A bullet, monsieur,” he said, with all the conviction he could muster, “we were charging the enemy position at Hill 113, your son, he was right at the front, he was a brave boy, you know . . . And . . .”

  M. Péricourt leaned imperceptibly closer. Albert trailed off. Madeleine, too, leaned closer, questioning, considerate, as though trying to help him find some obscure word. In fact, until that moment, Albert had not really been looking, and now suddenly, with unerring exactness, he had seen Édouard’s face in that of his father.

  He fought it for a moment, then dissolved into tears.

  He took his face in his hands and sobbed, stammering apologies, the pain was overwhelming, even when Cécile had left him he had not felt such anguish. The end of the war and the great weight of his loneliness came together in this pain.

  Madeleine offered him a handkerchief, Albert went on sobbing, apologizing, all three fell silent, each immured in private grief.

  After a moment, Albert noisily blew his nose . . .

  “I’m so sorry . . .”

  The evening, which had scarcely begun, had just ended with his moment of truth. What more could be expected of a simple meeting, a dinner? No matter what happened afterward, Albert, on behalf of all of them, had just said the only thing that mattered. M. Péricourt found it a little upsetting, because the question on the tip of his tongue had not been asked, and he knew he would not ask it now: did Édouard ever talk about his family? It did not matter; he knew the answer.

  Drained, but dignified, he got to his feet.

  “Come, my boy,” he said holding out a hand to help Albert up, “Let’s get you something to eat, it will do you good.”

  M. Péricourt watched Albert as he dug in. His moonlike face, his innocent eyes . . . How had they won the war with such men? Of all these stories he had told about Édouard, which were really true? He would have to decide for himself. The stories M. Maillard had told were less about the life of Édouard himself than about the world in which he had lived throughout the war. A world of young men risking their lives by day and joking at night, their feet half-frozen.

  Albert ate slowly, greedily. He had earned his supper. He could not put a name to what he was eating; he would have liked to have had the menu to be able to follow the sinuous choreography of dishes: this was probably called a mousse de crustacés, this was a gelée, this must be a chaud-froid, and that had to be a soufflé; he was anxious not to make a show of himself, not to seem as destitute as he actually was. If he were Édouard—even with a gaping hole in his face—he would have rushed back here to gorge on the food, the décor, the opulence, without a moment’s hesitation. Not to mention the pretty housemaid with the dark eyes. What made him uncomfortable, and made it impossible for him to appreciate what he was eating, was the fact that the door used by the waiters was directly behind him, and every time he heard it open, he stiffened and whirled around, which made him appear like a starving man greedily waiting for more food.

  M. Péricourt would never know how much of what he had heard was true, or how much related to his son. It no longer really mattered. It is in the letting go that we begin to mourn, he thought. During the meal, he tried to remember how he had grieved for his wife, but that was long ago.

  There came a moment when Albert, having stopped talking, now stopped eating; in the silences, the dining room was filled with a faint clatter of cutlery on china, like hail against a window pane. This was the awkward moment when it felt as though they were not making the most of the occasion. M. Péricourt was lost in his thoughts, so Madeleine returned to the fray.

  “So, tell me, M. Maillard—I hope I’m not being indiscreet . . . what do you do for a living?”

  Albert swallowed a mouthful of capon, picked up his glass of claret and murmured appreciatively, playing for time.

  “Advertising,” he said finally, “I’m in advertising.”

  “How fascinating,” said Madeleine, “And . . . what exactly do you do?”

  Albert set down his glass and cleared his throat.

  “Well, strictly speaking, I don’t work in advertising, I work as an accountant for an advertising company.”

  He could see from their faces that this was less impressive; it was not as modern, as exciting, and it deprived them of a potentially interesting topic of conversation.

  “But I keep a keen eye on developments,” Albert said, sensing the disappointment in his audience, “it is a . . . a sector that I find very . . . very . . . It’s interesting.”

  This was all he could think to say. He prudently declined dessert, coffee, and liqueurs. His head tilted slightly, M. Péricourt was studying him while Madeleine, with a naturalness that attested to her experience of such situations, kept up a steady stream of small talk so there were no awkward pauses.

  Albert stood in the hallway, waiting for his coat, expecting to see the pretty housemaid at any moment.

  “Thank you so much, M. Maillard,” Madeleine said, “for coming all this way.”

  It was not the pretty housemaid but an ugly one who appeared. She, too, was young, but ugly and obviously from the provinces. The pretty one must have finished her shift.

  M. Péricourt suddenly remembered the shoes that had earlier caught his eye. He looked down as his guest slipped on his dyed greatcoat. Madeleine did not look, she had noticed the shoes when he first arrived: new, gaudy, obviously cheap. M. Péricourt was pensive.

  “Tell me, M. Maillard, you say you’re an accountant . . .”

  “Yes.”

  This was something he should have noticed earlier: when the boy told the truth you could see it in his face . . . Too late now but it did not matter.

  “Well,” he said, “it so happens that we need an accountant. Credit is expanding as I’m sure you know, the country desperately needs to invest. There are a lot of exciting opportunities right now.”

  It was a bitter irony, Albert thought, that the manager of the Banque de l’Union had not said as much some months earlier when he refused to rehire him.

  “Obviously I have no idea how much you earn,” M. Péricourt went on, “but that is hardly important. Suffice it to say that if you are prepared to accept a position with us, it will be on the best possible terms, I will see to it personally.”

  Albert gritted his teeth. Overwhelmed by this information, he choked at the proposition. M. Péricourt looked at him benignly. Next to him, Madeleine smiled indulgently like a mother watching her child playing in the sandbox.

  “The thing is . . . ,” Albert stammered.

  “We need young men who are talented and dynamic.”

  These words sent Albert into a panic. M. Péricourt was addressing him as though he had studied at Les Hautes Études Commerciales de Paris. M. Péricourt had clearly got the wrong man, and Albert was beginning to feel that simply getting out of the house alive was a miracle in itself. The idea of having any further dealing with the Péricourt family, even if it meant a job, with the shadow of Capitaine Pradelle prowling the hallways . . .

  “I’m grateful, monsieur,” Albert said, “but I’m very happy in my position.”

  M. Péricourt held up his hand, I understand, no problem. After the door
had been closed, he stood for a moment in thought.

  “Good night, my darling,” he said finally.

  “Good night, Papa.”

  He placed a kiss on his daughter’s forehead. This was how all men treated her.

  20

  Édouard could tell immediately that Albert was upset. He had arrived back from his “assignation” looking miserable; the evening had obviously not gone as his friend had hoped in spite of his fine shoes. Or perhaps because of them, thought Édouard, who knew a thing or two about real elegance and had not thought much of Albert’s chances when he saw his friend’s new brogues.

  As he came in, Albert had looked away, as though suddenly self-conscious, which was unusual. Generally when he came home he gave Édouard an insistent stare, designed to say he was not afraid to look at his friend’s face even when, as tonight, he was not wearing a mask. Instead, Albert carefully put his shoes back in their box, as though hiding away a treasure, but he felt no joy, the treasure had been disappointing, he was angry at himself for giving in to temptation, it was such a lot of money and they had bills to pay, and all so that he could curry favor with the Péricourts. Even the little housemaid had laughed at him. He froze there, crouched on the floor, Édouard could see only his bowed back.

  It was this that prompted him to speak, though he had vowed to keep mum until his plan was settled, and that was still some way off. Moreover, he was not completely happy with what he had produced, and Albert was in no mood to deal with serious matters . . . all reasons for sticking to his original decision to wait until the last possible moment before saying anything.

  He decided to come clean now only because his friend was so obviously upset. In fact, even that simply masked the real reason: he had been in a hurry since midafternoon when he had finished the drawing of a child in profile, he had been bursting to say something.

  So much for good intentions.

  “At least I had a good dinner,” Albert said, without getting up.

  He blew his nose, he did not want to turn around, to make an exhibition of himself.

  Édouard was experiencing a moment of triumph. Not over Albert, assuredly, but for the first time since his life had crumbled, he felt strong, he could imagine a future where he was self-reliant.

  As he got to his feet, Albert hid his face, kept his head bowed—I’m just going down for the coal—Édouard felt an urge to hug him, he would have kissed him if he still had lips.

  Albert always wore his thick tartan slippers when he went downstairs. I’ll be back, he said, as though this precision were necessary; such is the way of old married couples, they say things out of habit, not realizing their significance if anyone were paying attention.

  As soon as he hears Albert on the stairs, Édouard hops on his chair, opens the trapdoor, takes down the bag, puts the chair back where it was, lies down on the couch, reaches down for his new mask, slips it on, and setting his sketchpad on his lap, he waits.

  He is ready much too quickly, and time seems to crawl by while he waits for the sound of Albert’s footsteps, which are particularly loud since he is carrying the large coal scuttle, which is heavy. At last, Albert pushes open the door. When, at last, he looks up, he is so shocked he lets fall the coal scuttle which lands with a clang. Albert stands, reeling, his hands clutching at the empty air for support, his mouth gapes as he pants for breath, finally his legs give out and he sinks to his knees, hysterical.

  Édouard’s mask—almost life size —is the dead horse’s head.

  He sculpted it from papier-mâché. Every detail is perfect, the mottled chestnut coloring, the horse’s charred skin made from soft, dark suede, the gaunt jowls, the long angular muzzle, the nostrils flared like two dark pools . . . The mouth hangs open, the silken lips are plump, the resemblance is staggering.

  When Édouard closes his eyes, it is as though the horse is closing its eyes, he is the horse. Albert had never made the connection between Édouard and the horse.

  He is moved to tears, it is like rediscovering a childhood friend, a brother.

  “Oh my God!”

  He is laughing and crying, oh my God, oh my God, he says over and over, still on his knees, staring at the horse, making no attempt to get up, oh my God . . . It is foolish, he knows himself that it is foolish, he wants to kiss the horse’s soft lips. Instead, he simply reaches out and traces them with his index finger. Édouard recognizes the gesture, it is the one Louise once made; he is overwhelmed. Everything they have to say is in this gesture. The two men sit in silence, each in his own world, Albert stroking the horse’s head, Édouard accepting the caress.

  “I’ll never know what his name was . . . ,” Albert said.

  Even great joys are tinged with regret; there is a latent emptiness in everything we feel.

  Then, as though it has just materialized on Édouard’s lap, Albert notices the sketchpad.

  “You . . . you’ve started drawing again?”

  A cry from the heart.

  “You don’t know how happy that makes me . . .”

  He laughs to himself, as though pleased to see his efforts rewarded. He nods to the mask.

  “And this! Oh my God! What a night it’s been.”

  “Can I . . . can I have a look?” He gestures eagerly toward the sketchpad.

  He sits next to Édouard, who slowly, ceremoniously opens the book.

  From the first page, Albert is disappointed. He cannot hide the fact. Oh yes, very good, very good, he mumbles to fill the silence because he does not know what to say without sounding insincere. What is there to say about this crude, ugly drawing of a soldier? Albert closes the pad.

  “So tell me, then . . . ,” he says, sounding impressed, “where did you get it?”

  The diversion lasts as long as it lasts. From Louise, obviously. To her, finding a sketchpad would be child’s play.

  Then they go back to looking at the new drawings. What can he say? This time, Albert simply nods . . .

  He pauses on the second page, two delicate pencil drawings of a statue on a plinth: the front view on the left, the side view on the right. The statue is of a soldier in full pack and helmet, his rifle slung over his shoulder, he is walking away, leaving, head held high, eyes fixed on some distant point, his hand trails behind him, the tips of his outstretched fingers touching those of a woman. She stands behind him wearing a pinafore, she is cradling a child and crying, they both seem so young. Above the drawing is a title: “The Leavetaking.”

  “It’s amazingly well drawn.”

  This is all he can think to say.

  Édouard is not offended, he leans back, takes off the mask, and sets it down so that the horse now seems to be rising out of the floor, turning its big soft lips toward Albert.

  Édouard attracts Albert’s attention, quietly turning to the next page, a drawing entitled “Charge!” This time, there are three soldiers, responding to the order in the title. They are moving forward as a group: one is brandishing his rifle; next to him, the second soldier has his arm outstretched about to toss a grenade; the third, some paces behind, has just been hit by a bullet or a piece of shrapnel, his body arched, his knees sagging, he is about to crumple . . .

  Albert turns the pages: “The Dead Arise,” then “Poilu Dying in Defense of the Flag” and “Brother in Arms” . . .

  “Statues . . . ?”

  It is a hesitant question. Because whatever Albert has been expecting, it was not this.

  Édouard nods, staring at the drawings, yes, they’re all statues. He looks pleased with himself. Fine, fine, fine, Albert is thinking, he is keeping everything else bottled up inside.

  He thinks back to the sketchpad he found among Édouard’s belongings full of spur-of-the-moment scenes sketched in blue pencil; he had sent it to the Péricourts with the letter informing them of Édouard’s death. The subject was the same as in these new drawings, soldiers at war, but in the earlier pictures there was such truth, such honesty . . .

  Albert knows nothing about art;
something either moves him or it does not. The pictures he is looking at are well drawn, skillful, painstaking, but . . . he fumbles for the word . . . they’re stilted. Finally, it comes to him: the pictures are not real. That’s it! He was there, he was one of these soldiers, he knows that these are images made by those who did not go to war. They are noble, designed to move, but they are a little too effusive. Albert is a modest man, whereas here every line seems histrionic, as though sketched from high-flying adjectives. He carries on turning the pages: “France Mourns Her Heroes”—a weeping girl cradling the body of a dead soldier, next comes “An Orphan Contemplating Sacrifice”—a young boy sits, cupping his face in his hands, next to him—this must be what he is imagining—a soldier lies dying, he is reaching out his hand toward the child . . . Even to someone who knows nothing, it is obvious that this is hideous, it has to be seen to be believed. Here is a sketch titled “Le Coq Gaulois Trampling a Boche Helmet,” my God, the cockerel is posed triumphantly, its beak thrust toward the heavens, and all those feathers . . .

  Albert does not like what he sees. So much so that he finds himself speechless. He ventures a quick glance at Édouard, who is gazing tenderly at his work, like a father who is proud of his child and cannot see the child is ugly. Albert’s bitterest regret, though he does not realize it in this moment, is the realization that Édouard lost everything to this war, even his talent.

  “So . . . ,” he begins.

  Because he has to say something eventually.

  “So, why statues?”

  Édouard fumbles at the back of the book, pulls out a sheaf of newspaper clippings, and holds up one with a passage circled in thick pencil: “. . . here, as everywhere in France, towns, villages, schools, even railway stations, all want their own war memorial . . .”

  The cutting is from L’Est Républicain. There are more, Albert has already seen the file, but he did not understand the logic behind it, the articles listing all those who died in a single village, a single corporation, the reports about commemorations, military reviews, public subscriptions, it all came back to the idea of war memorials.