‘How did you hear about her?’
‘I met her in Paris last May, during les événements.’ The Frenchwoman was referring to the May 1968 demonstrations that had brought down de Gaulle’s government.
‘Were you part of it?’
‘Of course. I didn’t have my head split open, but I was teargassed.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I am a member of the French Communist Party. I argued that we should have occupied the Élysée Palace, the National Assembly and all the ministries. Then they would have had to send in the army to retake them and there would have been a revolution.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘But in the end it all came to nothing. It fizzled out and the Gaullists came back into power – and that’s why I came here.’
A helicopter gunship flew low overhead. Catesby laughed. ‘Listen, they’ve come to get you.’ When the clatter of blades faded, he asked. ‘How did you meet Miranda?’
‘It was at a meeting of the Sorbonne Occupation Committee. There had been bitter battles with the police all day. I remembered her leading a group that were overturning and burning cars in the rue Gay Lussac. She was ecstatic.’
‘Did she speak at the meeting?’
‘Very briefly and in very stilted French. She said that what had happened that day had not been a “true proletarian revolution”, but a “Dionysian ritual of release”.’
‘How did that go down?’
‘The Stalinists booed, but a lot of others shouted support. The feeling was mixed. In any case, I decided I must interview her. You should understand that I wasn’t just there as a protester, but also as a journalist. Revolution or not, I still had to pay my rent and earn the radishes…’
‘It’s “earn some bread”.’
‘In any case, we became very friendly and spent two weeks together.’
‘What did you find out about her?’
‘She had such a beautiful name, Miranda. And she was BCBG.’
It was Catesby’s least favourite French phrase. It was an acronym for bon chic bon genre and meant smart and classy.
‘Miranda had such wonderful clothes and a pair of boots that I would have died for. It was obvious that she came from a good family. Why are you laughing?’
‘The revolution appears to have got stalled in the fashion pages.’
‘Miranda would have agreed. She hated her upper-class background, but knew she couldn’t escape it. She liked nice things and never pretended to be a proletarian.’
‘Pity, I could have given her lessons.’
‘She was, like so many aristocrats – how do you say, “a wild child”?’
‘In what way was she wild?’
‘She drank a lot and I am sure she also took drugs – and she had lots of sex. A new man or two every night. One time I even caught her doing it with a flic in a doorway. I tried to get her to say that the policeman had raped her, but she said that she had seduced him.’
‘Was she wearing the boots?’
‘I believe she was.’
‘What about her drug taking?’
‘I think she took cocaine and amphetamines. They were drugs that made her hyperactive and she would go days without sleeping – and then sleep for fifteen or sixteen hours.’
‘Did she enjoy the sex?’
‘I don’t know.’ The Frenchwoman paused. ‘I think that she enjoyed the ritual more than the act itself.’
‘As in Dionysian rituals of release?’
‘There is a part of Miranda that is very aesthetic. She told me that she studied art history.’
‘A lot of girls from her background do art history. It’s useful for valuing mummy’s and daddy’s collections.’
‘Miranda did say they had some nice things. Her favourites were two Poussins that a family friend had helped them get at a very low price.’
An imaginary camera in Catesby’s head began to click. ‘Tell me more about her family Poussins. He’s one of my favourite painters. Why are you laughing at me?’
‘Because you’re only pretending. You’re not the sort of man who likes Poussin.’
‘How little you know about me.’
‘I bet you only want to know about the Poussins so you can burgle the house and steal them.’
Catesby stared at the back of the two-and-a-half-ton US Army truck in front to remind himself where they were. The bumper was stencilled in white lettering: 25th INF DIV. Two helmeted soldiers in flak jackets were reclining against the tailgate and laughing, the barrels of their M16s swaying to the rhythm of the truck. Catesby felt his stomach lurch. This wasn’t the world of Poussin: it was Salvador Dalí fading into Guernica. The real morphed into the surreal and then into madness.
‘What’s wrong?’ said the Frenchwoman. ‘Have I offended you? I was only teasing.’
‘Now, about those Poussins I want to nick.’
‘Comment?’
‘Faucher.’
‘I don’t believe you’re really a thief. In any case, Miranda said they weren’t paintings, only rough charcoal studies for other works.’
‘Which ones?’
‘Are you really interested?’
‘Very.’
‘One of the studies was for a painting hanging in the Louvre. When Miranda found out about it, she almost dragged me there. I had to use my press pass to get through the police barricades.’ The convoy slowed to a halt. ‘Damn, I hope they haven’t found another mine. It will be very bad if we don’t get to Cu Chi before dark.’
‘Which one?’
‘It could be any sort of mine.’
‘I meant which was the Poussin in the Louvre that Miranda so wanted to see.’
‘It was called Et in Arcadia Ego.’
A chill went up Catesby’s spine and his sweat turned to ice. ‘Do you know what it means?’
The Frenchwoman shrugged. ‘Pfff, Latin wasn’t my best subject, but it’s an easy phrase. It means “And I am in Arcadia,” a sort of rural paradise.’
‘You don’t know what it means.’
‘Are you going to tell me?’
‘No.’
Catesby smiled bleakly and continued to shake his head. It was a memory that had nothing to do with the spy game. Something that never left him, part of growing up. The classics master at Denes Grammar had been Captain Pearse, an unmarried man who dressed well and lived beyond his means. Et in Arcadia Ego was from Virgil. When Pearse asked the students to render it, everyone gave the same answer as the Frenchwoman.
‘The problem,’ boomed Captain Pearse, ‘is that you don’t know who is the “I” of “I am”.’
Catesby put up his hand and Pearse nodded. Catesby stuttered, ‘Th-the “I” is Death. It means that even if you are happy in Arcadia, Death is still present.’
Captain Pearse stared through Catesby. His eyes were total blanks with no points of reference. A month later the ghosts of Passchendaele proved too much for Captain Pearse. He collapsed in a heap during a Latin lesson. Catesby remembered Pearse curled up on the floor with chalk dust on his gown, his eyes mad and gleaming with tears, talking to a ghost: ‘I loved you, I loved you…’ They never saw Captain Pearse again.
The trucks in front shifted into gear and the convoy started moving. Catesby looked at the soldiers. A handful were certainly marked for death, but would any of them ever experience the enormity of the Somme, of Verdun, of Stalingrad?
‘They’re different from us,’ he said.
The Frenchwoman nodded. ‘Yes, they are different. And, by the way, I know what Et in Arcadia ego really means.’
‘And what did it mean to Miranda?’
‘It was something that she had to act out.’ The Frenchwoman smiled. ‘And that was very strange.’
The camera in Catesby’s brain had begun to click again. The Frenchwoman kept looking at him with an ironic smile. Catesby felt her look was stripping away every layer of deceit.
‘Since,’ he said, ‘I’m a common ignorant prole, can you tell me about Poussin’s Et in Arcadia Ego?’
�
�You’re not ignorant.’
‘Thanks, but I’ve never seen the painting.’
‘The setting is rustic and there are four shepherds gathered around an ancient tomb. Three of the shepherds are male and one is female, except…’
‘Except what?’
‘One of the shepherds has a man’s body, but a woman’s face. I don’t understand why and Miranda wouldn’t explain it.’
‘Maybe you’re wrong about the woman’s face. Shepherd boys can be very pretty.’ Catesby gestured to the truck in front. ‘Look at that soldier – he looks about fourteen.’
‘Perhaps you are right. In any case, Miranda seemed to prefer pretty boys.’
‘What happened? You said she acted it out.’
‘We took the train to Fontainebleau and had a day out in the forest and a picnic on the banks of the Seine. She wanted me to record it with a camera – which I found a little sordid. And, of course, we all had to dress as Greek shepherds – even myself who, I must tell you, did not take part.’
‘In the Dionysian rituals?’
‘Correct.’
‘Who were the others?’
‘Three young men. The Congolese was the oldest and the tallest. I think he was about twenty-five. The Algerian boy was about nineteen or twenty. But the Vietnamese boy was the youngest. He must, however, have been at least eighteen, because he was a university student. But he looked fourteen and so innocent – and almost feminine.’
Catesby gave a weary smile. He had reached an age when he had begun to find young people as vulnerable as they were predictable. There was nothing you could do to stop them from pressing the self-destruct button. His own youth had been a struggle to escape the grinding poverty of a depression-era fishing town. There were few choices and the only self-destruct buttons were drink and crime. Rich girls like Miranda had the option to choreograph a much more artistic and fashionable self-immolation.
‘And remind me,’ said Catesby, ‘what exactly were you supposed to be doing at this acting out?’
‘I was to record it with two cameras: one to take stills, the other a 16mm cine camera.’
‘And how did the young men feel about this?’
‘They weren’t aware. I hid in the bushes to film and photograph.’
Catesby laughed. ‘You were Actaeon and Miranda was Artemis. You were lucky you weren’t transformed into a stag for peeping and torn to pieces by your own hounds.’
‘You certainly are not the uneducated man you pretend to be. Miranda did mention the parallel – but the scene which ensued was certainly not that of a virgin bathing. The Congolese and the Algerian were satisfied first and simultaneously – and then swapped positions for a second round. Meanwhile, Miranda stroked the Vietnamese boy, who looked terrified. When it was his turn he required some coaching. Miranda eventually took him in her mouth with both passion and tenderness. Then spat his semen into her hand and spread it over her breasts.’
‘Did she explain the symbolism?’
‘Yes, but it was pretty obvious. Miranda comes from a family of white rich imperialists and it was her duty to offer her body to the world’s poor and oppressed as compensation for the crimes of her ancestors and her own personal wealth.’
‘It’s the least she could do.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic.’
‘I wasn’t being sarcastic.’
‘Unfortunately, the poor of the earth, at least the older two, weren’t just satisfied with Miranda. They found me in the bushes – I made a noise when I got stung by a wasp – and then they wanted me too.’
‘They turned into Actaeon’s hounds?’
‘Almost, but the Vietnamese boy saved me. He turned on his companions and was surprisingly fierce. In fact, he saved both Miranda and me for the mood had turned ugly. I don’t want to say anything else, but Miranda insisted that we deserved anything they wanted to do to us.’ The Frenchwoman frowned. ‘And that infuriated me, because I come from a humble family of socialists.’
‘Did they hurt you?’
‘No.’
‘I’m glad. What happened to the film in the two cameras?’
The Frenchwoman smiled. ‘Miranda wanted both cameras and all the film. But I managed to shoot an extra roll of .35mm which I hid and kept for myself. I am, after all, a journalist and have to make a living.’
‘If they censored the pics, it would be a superb front-page story for Paris Match – but I suppose you would feel more comfortable writing for L’Humanité.’
‘I do both.’
‘Was the orgy by the Seine the last time you saw Miranda?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘How did you know that she went to Vietnam to fight with the Viet Cong?’
‘Because she always talked about doing so. And who can blame her idealism? It is the great anti-imperialist struggle.’
‘But we all talk about doing things we never do. I often say I’m going to drink less and become a nice person.’
‘You are a nice person, but you won’t admit it.’
‘How little you know.’
‘I must stop the car now and get out my violin so I can accompany your self-pity.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You and I,’ said the Frenchwoman, ‘have something in common, a shared interest.’
‘What?’
‘Miranda.’
‘What other evidence, proof, is there that Miranda has come to Vietnam?’ Catesby wanted to be sure he wasn’t on a wild goose chase.
‘The Vietnamese boy…’
‘From the orgy?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t call it that.’
‘Sorry, just tell me.’
‘His name is Huynh. Miranda sent him to tell me that she had gone to Vietnam to fight. I am sure that Huynh has connections with the NLF in Vietnam and he may have helped Miranda come here, but he wouldn’t say when I pressed him.’
‘Is that all the proof you have that she is here?’
‘No, a few weeks later she sent me a photo of herself wearing a North Vietnamese Army helmet and sitting on an anti-aircraft gun.’
‘What did you think of that?’
‘A little bit vain, a little bit silly. Miranda likes dressing up and posing. But you must remember how young she is and how guilty she feels. She wants to be genuine.’
‘She’s not like us.’
‘No, we are what we are.’
Catesby looked closely at the Frenchwoman. If she was telling the truth about her age, she was a worn thirty-eight-year old who could have passed for forty-five. He was prematurely aged too. Catesby was a forty-five-year old who looked fifty. And here, he thought, were the two them chasing an errant child through a war waged largely by unformed young men slowly uncurling from adolescence. War was a form of child abuse. But children weren’t innocent, at least not in the way that most adults defined innocence. The film of Miranda’s frolics by the Seine would put paid to that illusion. But children were naive beings who trusted others, often the very ones they shouldn’t trust. Catesby didn’t trust anyone, including the woman next to him. He knew you could only trust someone when you had drained every hidden corner of their consciousness and memory so there was nothing left to conceal. This was the art of the interrogator – to return an adult to the innocent dependency of a child. Catesby couldn’t do that to the Frenchwoman, but he wanted a lot more answers from her.
‘What,’ she asked, ‘are you going to do when we get to Cu Chi?’
‘I’m going to march straight into the G2’s office and tell them all about you.’
The Frenchwoman blinked as if pretending she didn’t understand.
‘You know only too well, my little sweetheart – G2, division intelligence.’
She gave a brittle laugh. ‘Why would you denounce me? And after I’ve been so open and honest with you.’
‘Because you are trying to use me and you haven’t told me the whole truth.’
‘Then I will go with you into G2 and denounce you as well.’
>
Catesby laughed. He was back at Roman Hill Primary: it had degenerated into playground taunts. ‘Yes, but the Americans already know what I’m doing.’
She stared silently at the back of the truck in front of them. Catesby could see that she was rattled. It was clear she wasn’t an intelligence professional – she was too naive and untrained – but he suspected she might be an ‘unwitting’ tool of someone who was.
‘Okay, fine,’ she said, ‘do what you want.’ She then told him to do something extremely obscene in French.
Catesby laughed. ‘I suppose you want to film that too.’
‘No one would be interested – not even perverts.’
‘Let’s stop exchanging insults. I want to help you – and I will, if you tell me a few things.’ Catesby paused. He wondered if she genuinely believed the story that he was working for Miranda’s family. ‘How did you know about me?’
She shrugged. ‘An editor in Paris told me and showed me your photo.’
‘I don’t think you correctly heard my question. Try again.’
‘Someone at our embassy told me.’
‘The one here in Saigon?’
She nodded.
‘And I bet it wasn’t the ambassador.’
‘No.’
‘Do you still call it the Deuxiéme Bureau?’ Catesby referred to the French secret intelligence service by its old name. The Bureau had ceased to exist with the fall of France in 1940.
‘The older ones do. It’s a lot easier than SDECE, Service de Documentation Extérieur et de Contre-Espionage.’
‘Who did you speak to?’
‘He didn’t tell me his name, but he was in his fifties and had black curly hair. He looked hard and military, probably a bit of a facho, and spoke with a slight Corsican accent.’
Catesby tried not to smile. She was describing Antoine Savani, who still called himself ‘Captain’ from his time in military intelligence. Catesby remembered Savani from the early 50s in Marseilles. Savani had worked hand in hand with the CIA to replace the Communist dockworkers with the Corsican mafia. The Americans saw it as a straight swap. The drug dealers were less harmful than the Communist trade unions. Heroin is always better than Marxism.
The Whitehall Mandarin Page 26