He glanced up from his book, apparently dazed by this fact.
“And we have absolutely no idea who is who!”
The préfet thought that the mayor might be about to burst into tears. That was all they needed.
“These young men died for France,” he said, “we owe them our respect!”
“Really,” Henri said, “You owe them your respect?”
“Absolutely, and further . . .”
“Then perhaps you can explain to me why, in your cemetery, you have been allowing illiterate men to bury them any old way for the past two months?”
“I’m not the one who has been burying them indiscriminately! It is the fault of your Chi . . . your laborers!”
“But you have been appointed by the military authorities to maintain the registry, have you not?”
“A town hall clerk comes by twice a day! But he can hardly be expected to spend all day here!”
He gave the préfet the look of a drowning man.
Silence.
Everyone was abandoning everyone. The mayor, the préfet, the military authorities, the registrar, the Ministère des Pensions—there were so many middlemen in this process . . .
It was obvious that, if it came to apportioning blame, everyone would get their share. Except the Chinamen. Because they could not read.
“Listen,” Pradelle suggested, “from now on, we’ll see to it that our people are more careful, won’t we, Dupré?”
Dupré nodded. The mayor was horrified. He would have to turn a blind eye, to knowingly leave crosses on these graves whose names bore no relation to those buried there and carry the secret with him. This cemetery would become his nightmare. Pradelle looked from the mayor to the préfet and back.
“I propose,” he said in a confidential tone, “that we say nothing about this little incident . . .”
The préfet swallowed hard. By now his telegram would have landed on the minister’s desk, like a request for a transfer to the colonies.
Pradelle put his arm around the shoulders of the bewildered mayor.
“What is important for the families, is that they have a place that they can visit. And after all their son is buried here, isn’t he? That’s what really matters, trust me.”
The matter was settled. Pradelle climbed back into his car and furiously slammed the door, though he did not fly into a rage. He was quite calm as he pulled away.
For a long while, he and Dupré watched in silence as the landscape flashed past.
Once again they had come through by the skin of their teeth, but they were beginning to worry, more and more such incidents were being reported around the country.
Finally Pradelle said:
“We need to tighten up the operation, is that clear? I’m counting on you, all right, Dupré?”
22
No. A flick of his forefinger like a windshield wiper, only faster. A firm, definitive “no.” Édouard closed his eyes; Albert’s response had been entirely predictable. He was so timid, so fearful. Even when there was no risk, it could take him days to make even the most minor decision, so, obviously, selling war memorials and absconding with the cash . . . !
For Édouard, the only issue was knowing whether Albert would come around in time, because the best ideas are perishable goods. He could tell from the newspapers he was reading that soon the market would be flooded with offers of memorials, and when every artist, every foundry was rushing to meet demand, it would be too late.
It was now or never.
And for Albert, it was never. The flick of a forefinger. No.
But Édouard had stubbornly carried on with his work.
Page by page, his catalog of commemorative designs was taking shape. He had just turned out a very fine “Victory” inspired by the Nike of Samothrace—though in his version it had a soldier’s head. And since he would be alone until Louise arrived in midafternoon, he had time to think, to attempt to find an answer to all the questions, to fine-tune his plan, which, even he was forced to admit, was not straightforward. Much less so than he had imagined; even as he dealt with problems, new ones were constantly turning up. But despite the problems, he believed wholeheartedly in the plan. As he saw it, it could not fail.
The real news was that he found himself working with unexpected, almost ferocious enthusiasm.
He threw himself into his work with relish, he was consumed, obsessed, his life depended on it. In rediscovering the old pleasures of troublemaking and his taste for provocation, he was becoming his old self.
Albert was delighted. He had never known this side of Édouard, except at a distance, in the trenches; seeing him come back to life was its own reward. As for his “plan,” Albert considered it so unfeasible that he scarcely worried. To his eyes, it was fundamentally unrealistic.
The two men were locked in a trial of strength in which one pressed forward while the other resisted.
As so often, victory seemed assured, not to strength but to inertia. Albert had only to go on saying no in order to win. What he found most cruel was not refusing to be a part of this harebrained scheme, but the fact that he was disappointing Édouard, nipping his enthusiasm in the bud, consigning them both to a life of emptiness, to a future with no prospects.
He needed to come up with another plan . . . but what?
And so, every night, he would gently but halfheartedly admire the drawings Édouard had been working on, the new memorials, the new sculptures.
You get the idea? Édouard wrote on the conversation pad, People can design their own monument! Take a flag and a poilu and you have a monument. Raise the flag and you have a different model—call it “Victory.” It’s possible to be creative with no talent, no effort, and no ideas, the public will still lap it up.
Not quite . . . Albert thought, while Édouard could be accused of many things, he had a rare ability for coming up with ideas. Especially disastrous ones: changing his identity, being unable to collect his military pension, refusing to go home where he could have lived in comfort, refusing the grafts, becoming addicted to morphine, and now this war memorial scheme . . . Édouard’s ideas were a pain in the backside.
“Do you really understand what it is you’re suggesting?” Albert said. “This is . . . it’s sacrilege! Stealing money intended for war memorials, it’s like desecrating a cemetery, it’s . . . it’s an insult to patriotism! Granted, the government makes a small contribution, but most of the money for these memorial comes from the victims’ families. From widows, parents, orphans, from friends who watched their fellow soldiers die! You make Landru9 look like a choirboy. You would have the whole country up in arms, everyone will be against you. And when they catch you, you’ll get a perfunctory trial, because they’ll build the guillotine before it even starts. Now I know you don’t much like your head anymore, but I’m rather attached to mine.”
Muttering darkly, he went back to washing up—what a ludicrous plan. But a few minutes later, he was back, dishtowel in hand. The figure of Capitaine Pradelle, which had been haunting him since his visit to the Péricourts, had just appeared to him again. Suddenly, he realized that his brain had long been harboring thoughts of revenge.
The time had come.
It was blindingly obvious.
“You want to know what would be fair? Let me tell you what I think would be moral—putting a bullet in the back of that bastard Pradelle! That’s what we should do! Because this life we’re living, every miserable thing about it, is all his fault.”
Édouard did not seem particularly enthused by this new plan. His hand hovered uncertainly over the sketchpad.
“Fine, fine!” Albert goaded him, “You seem to have forgotten all about Pradelle! But he’s not in the same boat as we are, he came back from war a hero with his medals and his decorations, and he’s collecting an officer’s pension. I’m sure he’s done well for himself out of the war . . .”
Could he go a step further? Albert wondered. The question was its own answer. Getting revenge on Pradelle
suddenly seemed so urgent . . . He took the plunge.
“And with all his medals and his decorations, I’ll bet he’s made a good marriage . . . A hero like that would be a fine catch! Here we are slowly starving to death, while he’s probably set himself up in business . . . Do you think that’s moral?”
Astonishingly, the response to his plan was not what Albert had been expecting. His friend raised an eyebrow and bent over his pad.
“The war is to blame,” he wrote, “No war, no Pradelle.”
Albert almost choked. He was disappointed, but more than that, he was sad. He had to accept that poor Édouard no longer had his feet on the ground.
The two men returned to this conversation several times, but it invariably led to the same conclusion. In the name of morality, Albert longed for revenge.
“You’re making this a personal crusade,” Édouard wrote.
“Of course I am, I think what he’s done to my life is personal, don’t you?”
No, Édouard did not think so. Vengeance was not his idea of justice. Holding one man responsible was not enough. Though this was peacetime, Édouard had declared a war on war, something he intended to fight with the only means at his disposal, in other words, his talent. Morality was not his style.
It seemed each man was intent on writing his own story, but it was no longer clear if the narratives would be the same. They began to wonder whether they might not each have to write their own. Each in his own style. Separately.
Having come to this conclusion, Albert decided to think about something else. He could think about the housemaid at the Péricourts—my God, that sensual little tongue of hers—or about the new shoes he no longer dared to put on. Every evening, he would make Édouard’s bouillon of meat and vegetables, and every evening Édouard would harp on about his plan—he was a pig-headed boy. Albert did not give an inch. Since morality had failed, he appealed to reason.
“For this plan of yours to work,” he explained, “you’d need to set up a company, to fill in forms, provide documentation, have you thought about that? Once your catalog was out there, we wouldn’t get far, I can tell you, we’d be arrested in a heartbeat. And between arrest and execution, you’d scarcely have time to draw breath.”
Édouard seemed unshaken by these arguments.
“You’d need premises,” Albert shouted, “You’d need offices! Don’t tell me you’re planning to meet clients in one of your carnival masks?”
Stretched out on the couch, Édouard continued to leaf through his monuments and sculptures. Stylistic exercises. Not everyone is gifted enough to turn out something ugly.
“And you would need a telephone! And someone to take calls, to write letters . . . and a bank account, if you’re hoping to get any money.”
Édouard could not help but smile inwardly. His friend’s voice was tremulous with panic, as though they were planning to dismantle the Eiffel Tower and rebuild it a hundred yards away. He was scared to death.
“Everything’s so simple for you,” Albert said, “Hardly surprising, since you never set foot outside . . .”
He bit his lip; too late.
It was true, of course, but Édouard was hurt by these words. Mme Maillard often said: “My Albert’s not a bad kid at heart, there’s not many as kindhearted. But he never was one for tact. That’s why he’ll come to nothing in this life.”
The only thing that might have shaken Albert from his obstinate refusal was money. The fortune Édouard held out for them. It was true that a vast fortune was being spent. The whole country was gripped by a frenzied desire to commemorate those who had died that was directly proportional to its revulsion for those who had survived. The financial argument swayed Albert, because he was the one who managed their money and he knew how difficult it was to earn any and how quickly it trickled away; he had to account for everything, the cigarettes, the métro tickets, the food. So all these things that Édouard’s scheme lavishly promised, the millions, the cars, the hotels . . .
And the women . . .
On this last subject, Albert was beginning to feel anxious; it is possible to get by alone, but it is a loveless existence, and in time you become desperate to meet someone.
But his fear of getting involved in this lunatic scheme was stronger than his fierce need to find a woman. Surviving the war only to end up in prison, what woman deserved a man prepared to take such a risk? Although, looking at the women he found in magazines, he felt that many of them deserved the risk.
“Just think about it,” he said to Édouard one night, “I flinch whenever I hear the door slam, can you really see me getting involved in something like this?”
At first, Édouard said nothing, he carried on drawing, allowed his plan slowly to mature, but he was beginning to realize that time was not on his side. In fact, the more they talked, the more reasons Albert found to oppose it.
“And let’s say we did manage to sell some of these fictitious memorials of yours, and let’s say the town councils are prepared to pay something in advance, how much would we actually make? A couple of hundred francs today, a couple of hundred francs tomorrow, we’re not exactly talking big money! Taking a risk like this for a couple of sous, no thanks. The only way to make off with a fortune is if all the money comes in at once, and that’s impossible, it would never work!”
Albert was right. Sooner or later buyers would realize that the company was phony. All they could do was pocket whatever monies had already been paid, which would be very little. But as he thought about this, Édouard came up with a solution. It was perfect.
On November 11 next, in Paris, the French government . . .
That night, Albert brought home a crate of fruit he had found on the pavement walking back from the Grands Boulevards. He cut away the rotten parts and pureed the rest to make juice. Having beef bouillon every night was dreary, and Albert did not have much imagination. Édouard ate whatever he was given; in this, at least, he was not difficult.
Albert wiped his hands on his apron and bent over the page—his eyesight had deteriorated since he came back from the war; if he had the money he would have bought glasses—he almost had to press his nose to the paper.
On November 11 next, in Paris, the French government will unveil the tomb of the “unknown soldier.” You can join in this commemoration and transform this noble gesture into a vast, national tribute by unveiling a memorial in your own town on the same day!
All the orders would come in by the end of the year, Édouard reasoned.
Albert nodded sadly. You’re completely insane. He went back to his fruit juice.
Over the course of their interminable arguments on the subject, Édouard convinced Albert that with the money from the sales, they could both go and live in the colonies. Invest in some promising business ventures. Ensure they would forever be free of financial worries. He showed Albert cuttings he had clipped from newspapers and postcards Louise had brought him—views of lumber works in Cochinchine, potbellied colonists with pith helmets and smug smiles standing in front of Vietnamese natives carrying logs of timber. European automobiles with women in fluttering white scarves driving through the valleys of Guinea. Rivers in Cameroon and gardens in Tonkin where lush succulents spilled from ceramic pots, the shipping barges in Saigon flying the French ensign, the splendid palace of the governor, the square du Théâtre at twilight with gentlemen in smoking jackets and ladies in formal gowns carrying cigarette holders and iced cocktails, you could almost hear the orchestra playing . . . In these far-off places, life seemed easy, business straightforward, fortunes quickly made, the languorous climate tropical. Albert pretended to take only a passing interest, but he lingered longer than necessary on the photographs of Conakry market, in which tall, statuesque young black women, breasts bare, strolled around with a casualness that was deeply sensual, he wiped his hands on his apron again and went back to the kitchen.
Abruptly, he stopped.
“And another thing—how do you plan to print this catalog of yours
and send it to hundreds of towns and villages? Where are you going to get the money, tell me that . . .”
Édouard had found answers to many of Albert’s questions; but he had no response to this one.
To drive the point home, Albert went and fetched his wallet, spread its contents on the table, and counted.
“I’ve got 11 francs and 73 centimes. How much have you got?”
The question was cowardly, cruel, unnecessary, hurtful; Édouard had nothing. Albert did not press his advantage, he put away his wallet and went back to the food. They did not exchange another word all night.
The day came when Édouard had exhausted all his arguments without succeeding in convincing his friend.
The answer was no. Albert would not change his mind.
Time had passed, the catalog was almost finished; it needed only a few minor corrections before it could be printed and sent out. But everything else remained to be done, the organization would represent a vast amount of work, and there was no prospect of paying for it . . .
For his pains, Édouard had only a series of worthless sketches. He broke down. This time, there were no tears, no tantrums, no sulks; he felt insulted. He was being thwarted by a pissant little accountant in the name of inviolable pragmatism. The eternal struggle between the artist and the bourgeoisie was being played once more; though the details were slightly different, this was the war he had lost to his father. An artist is a dreamer, hence of no value. This was what Édouard thought he could hear behind Albert’s pronouncements. With Albert, as with his father, he felt relegated to the role of scrounger, a ne’er-do-well interested only in vain pursuits. He had been patient, practical, persuasive, but he had failed. The rift between him and Albert was not a difference of opinion, but a difference of culture; Édouard found his friend petty, mean, with no drive, no ambition, no glint of madness.
Albert Maillard was simply a version of Marcel Péricourt. But for the wealth, they were identical. With their boorish certainties, both men swept aside the vital spark in Édouard; they killed it.
The Great Swindle Page 24