by Michel D
The abbé was at this point in his sour reflections when Jean knocked and walked straight in, having glimpsed through the window Monsieur Le Couec with his feet in a bowl.
‘My little Jean! The prodigal son returns! And I know two others, apart from me, who will be happy to see you. Come and let me kiss you.’
Jean kissed the abbé and introduced Palfy.
‘This generous friend drove me here. We’ve just been to La Sauveté. The door was slammed in my face. Where are Papa and Maman?’
The priest’s face darkened.
‘Your mother isn’t well, my boy. The sale, her eviction – I mean what I say, eviction – have deeply affected her. She’s in hospital at Dieppe, where they’re trying to coax her and treat her and bring her back to us. In a month she’ll be bursting with health again, I’m sure. As for your father, he’s living at Monsieur Cliquet’s while he waits for Madame du Courseau to find him a position. He’s bitter, I can tell you. To work all your life and find yourself on the street from one day to the next, without work, without a roof over your head and only the maximum invalid’s pension to live on, it makes you think … Anyway, everything will work out now that you’re here. And you, Monsieur, who are you?’
‘A good-for-nothing, Father.’
Monsieur Le Couec looked disconcerted, more by the tone of the answer than by the evident accuracy of Palfy’s self-judgment. Palfy smiled humbly and looked around him. In a glance he had gauged both the priest’s state of penury and his character.
‘There are no good-for-nothings,’ said the abbé. ‘First of all, you have brought my dear Jean back. Then again, you also exist and one day you will understand why.’
‘I very much hope so. In the meantime there is no proof so far, and I sometimes get tired of waiting for it.’
‘That is because it will take a form you don’t yet know, that you cannot even envisage in the state in which you find yourself. In your place I should be very optimistic, even reassured.’
Jean was astonished to see the priest’s words make an impression on Palfy. He would have thought his friend completely invulnerable to such reflections, much too ironical or cynical to listen to them without mockery. The priest dried his feet with an old towel and eased his socks and heavy boots back on.
‘Let’s go and see your father,’ he said to Jean. ‘He’ll be having his supper with Uncle Cliquet.’
‘What about Maman?’
‘Visiting hours at the hospital are between midday and two o’clock. You can go tomorrow. If you would like me to, I’ll telephone from the grocer’s to ask them to let her know that you’re back. Oh dear Jean, it is a great joy to have you back among us.’
*
We shall not describe in detail the reunions with Albert and Jeanne. Jean was shocked at how much they had aged in two months. He saw instantly that Jeanne remained shattered by events. She rambled sometimes, then realised what she was doing and sank into exhaustion. Albert was as proud as ever, but Jean guessed his distress. He talked about ‘the release of death’ before hostilities broke out again, which in his view was not far off. Monsieur Cliquet was still assuring him that what with the railways nationalised and the strikes and the sabotage, mobilisation was impossible. The government knew it and was playing for time. Captain Duclou was more optimistic: the French navy was ready as it had not been since the days of Louis XVI, its destroyer escorts and fast escorts would eliminate the German submarines within days, while British cruisers ensured the freedom of the seas. We are not going to rehearse in these pages the interminable conversations that took place after supper that evening in Monsieur Cliquet’s modest kitchen. They would testify too well to the blindness of an era. Let us instead return to Jean and Palfy, who spent the night at the rectory. Jean would have liked his friend to stay on for a few days, but Palfy was loath to stay still. He explained very clearly why.
‘You know, dear boy, being on the move is my only security. I have to stay mobile, especially when I sign bad cheques. It’s not hard to understand. A crossed cheque paid in the same day is cashed the following day in the worst case, within two or three days in the best. Without putting my liberty at risk, I can stay in one place for twenty-four hours, forty-eight maximum, three days if I happen to sign a cheque on Friday afternoon. Thanks to the weekend, it will only be paid in on the Monday. That way, at the end of the week I get a well-earned rest before resuming my getaway.’
Palfy explained the mechanism of his swindles so clearly, in fact, and with such frankness that it was impossible even for a mind as fundamentally honest as Jean’s to feel outraged. He found the looting of collection boxes in church more reprehensible than the bad cheques, promissory notes and worthless bonds. And even there Palfy had justified, in his way, his plundering of priests and the poor.
‘I admire,’ Jean said, ‘your ability to live in such perpetual anxiety.’
‘Anxiety? It is unknown to me. I live well, tell myself stories, dupe fools and enjoy myself without hurting anyone. For example, that cheque I signed at Deauville from the cheque book I found in the Bentley: I wrote the amount on the counterfoil. The owner, who is rolling in it, won’t even notice. When there’s a car involved, I always give it back it good condition with a full tank. As for the instability, it suits me completely. I can’t stay in one place. During my childhood my parents never stayed more than a month in the same place. I acquired a taste for travel. I love travelling. So do you, actually. You’ve got the bug. Don’t deny it.’
‘It’s true, and I don’t know how I’m going to satisfy it. Not like you, anyway. One of these days you’ll fall flat on your face.’
‘One day? Yes, perhaps, and I accept it. It can end well too. Certainties are as dull as ditchwater. Let us live in delicious uncertainties.’
Jean could not wait to introduce Palfy to Joseph Outen. After his visit to Jeanne he met his friend at the Café des Tribunaux and took him to Dieppe Rowing Club, where the Sunday morning team training had just taken place. Joseph emerged from the shower, his hair and beard damp, his face taut from the morning’s exercise.
‘Holy moly,’ he said, ‘I thought rowing had lost you for good, buried alive beneath the pleasures of the flesh and the frying pan. When do you start again?’
‘Tomorrow. Joseph, I’d like you to meet my friend Palfy, Constantin Palfy.’
With a rudeness too deliberate to be natural, Joseph examined the dandy before him from head to toe, in his grey flannel suit, blue shirt and English-style old school tie.
The disdainful scrutiny left Palfy unruffled, and he simply said, ‘What are you training for? Coxed pairs?’
‘Yes. Do you know about rowing?’
‘Sadly I know nothing at all about coxed pairs. I rowed in an eight for Oxford, the last time in 1926.’
Joseph was visibly flustered, Jean embarrassed. It was probably untrue, but you had to know Palfy to guess that he was lying whenever he pretended modesty.
‘And who won?’
‘Cambridge. By a slim margin.’
‘Where are you two having lunch? It’s on me.’
‘No, it’s my shout,’ Palfy said. ‘You choose …’
They drove to an auberge in the Arques valley, where Palfy displayed one of his better qualities: he listened. Joseph began to shed his prejudices. Certainly he had a low opinion of such a well-dressed man; he could only be an imbecile. But Palfy had rowed for Oxford and although Oxford was, to his mind, a breeding ground for crashing snobs, that fabulous university town was also a place where incontrovertible sporting qualities were nurtured. To be more certain of what he was hearing, Joseph tossed out two or three writers’ names, which were received with a blank stare. Palfy confessed his ignorance. Cars were his only interest. Jean was annoyed with Joseph for showing off and making no attempt to hide his amused condescension to his friend, not doubting for an instant that Palfy was of sufficient stature to be worth ten Joseph Outens. He began to wish Palfy would wake up and wrong-foot him. But Palfy continu
ed to play the ingénu who was only too happy to attend to the pearls cast by a real intellectual.
‘And you, Jean, what are you going to do?’ Joseph asked.
‘Look for work.’
‘You’ll be lucky. There’s no work, except in the armaments factories.’
‘Well, there’s no armaments factory at Dieppe and I want to stay near my parents. They’ve aged so quickly.’
‘I know. They’ve been appallingly tricked. That’s what happens when you believe in the so-called goodwill of a paternalistic employer.’
‘Don’t say anything bad about Antoine du Courseau.’
‘Why not? He’s shoved off and left your parents in the soup. His bitch of a wife is worse, I agree.’
‘I’ll sort things out without anyone’s help.’
‘It’s a shame you aren’t able to come to England with me,’ Palfy said. ‘I would have found you something very easily in London. I have a lot of friends there.’
Jean did not react. It was the first time Palfy had mentioned leaving for England: a lie doubtless triggered by the Newhaven packet’s appearance at Dieppe port two hours earlier. ‘What on earth is that old tub?’ he had asked. The answer had made him thoughtful. In the meantime the idea had taken root.
Palfy signed a cheque for more than the bill and pocketed the difference with a rueful smile. They drove back to Dieppe, where Joseph left them at Le Pollet.13 He shook Palfy’s hand and said to Jean, ‘The film club is showing King Vidor’s Hallelujah! at six. Do you want to come? It’s a classic.’
‘I thought you despised the cinema.’
‘Not the classics.’
Joseph had begun his ‘cinema’ period in the wake of his ‘sporting writers’ period and was throwing himself into it with the same passion, trying to create a circle of young cinephiles in a town where Georges Milton and saucy innuendo were rather more popular with public taste than Charlie Chaplin and Greta Garbo. Jean agreed to meet him after Palfy had left. They parked the car on the Place du Marché.
‘Is it true that you’ve decided to go to England? I thought you were saying it for effect, to impress Joseph.’
‘I said it for effect, and now I’ve decided. What time does the ferry leave?’
‘At five.’
‘Plenty of time to buy a couple of tickets.’
‘I can’t come.’
‘Jean, you disappoint me … but I understand. If you change your mind, here’s my address in London: the Governor Club, 22 Hamilton Street. I drop in there around lunchtime to pick up my post. My post and a glass of something. It’s full of Oxford men.’
‘So is it true you were at Oxford?’
‘Absolutely.’
Palfy lifted his suitcase from the boot and left the keys on the dashboard.
‘Tomorrow you might do something kind: an anonymous phone call to the police to report a stolen car on the Place du Marché. They’ll let the owner know. He’ll be getting anxious.’
‘You are a credit to your profession.’
‘Am I not? Have you got any money? I didn’t make much at the restaurant, and at Newhaven I’ll need to pay for my train ticket in cash.’
‘I’ve got a hundred francs left.’
‘Well, that’ll have to do.’
At least Palfy was not the kind of conman who promises to pay you back. He borrowed without scruples or pretence, and doubtless lent the same way if he happened to be flush. They walked the length of the quayside and found the ticket office. Palfy bought a first-class ticket and asked what time dinner was served and when the first fast train to London was. Jean reflected a little gloomily that he was going to have to walk back to Grangeville on foot, since he no longer had even the two francs necessary for the evening bus.
‘Jean, your film’s at six. We’ve got time for a quick stroll before the boat leaves. This is not an adieu, it’s an au revoir. You’ve been the most delightful companion, and right from the off I liked you, I can’t think why. Possibly because I can be myself. Anyway, you’ve understood that caution demands one doesn’t do the same with everybody. One day I’ll tell you more, and we’ll go for another wonderful spin together. Now I need to be serious: I’ve almost reached the bottom of the barrel, and if I don’t want to end up in jail very soon I need to set up some pretty big ventures. Take note … Only small-timers end up in prison. Never those of us with stature and ambition. For your immediate future I don’t know what to suggest, except that it would be better for you not to hide yourself away at Grangeville. The countryside’s all very pretty, but it doesn’t lead anywhere.’
‘My parents—’
‘Yes, you’re a good son. Wait a while, and things will soon become clearer. Reflect, observe, learn to judge your fellow human beings and see through them.’
‘You were really cruel to my friend Joseph.’
‘Cruel? You must be mad. He was delighted with his lunch, and thinking that he was shining at my expense. He’s a charming boy, without a single original thought in his head: he borrows from everywhere and has no idea how to be selective. I have the impression that you know already how to be selective …’
They walked along the pebble beach whipped by the wind. Above them gulls hovered, motionless, then plummeted like stones into the trough of the swell.
‘I’d love to go to England again,’ Jean said, ‘come with you on the ferry, have a drink in the pub at Newhaven where Mrs Pickett gets drunk every night, then go to London and meet my friend Salah, see the prince and perhaps Mademoiselle Geneviève … At the same time I’m happy to be back here in my shell, now that you’re going … There are reasons.’
‘Have you left your love affair behind?’
‘No, not really. But Grangeville’s the only place where I’ll get rid of it for good. You can’t imagine how disgusted with myself I feel when I think of Mireille.’
‘Then you’re getting better … Come on, come and see me off, and don’t forget my address. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing one another quite soon.’
From the dockside Jean made out Palfy’s outline as he handed his suitcase to a steward and stood at the rail until the packet cast off. They exchanged a discreet wave. As the boat moved into the Channel they lost sight of each other, and Jean felt at once a gap in his life from Palfy’s absence, though he had only known him for a few days. From now on things were going to feel very unexciting, and Joseph Outen would not be able to distract him from the bitter realities he found himself faced with.
Joseph was waiting outside the youth club, where he had hired a room at his own expense to show his repertoire of film classics. About a dozen young men were with him, members of the Rowing Club who had come purely to please him and were unimpressed by the supposed interest of old films that had gone out of fashion. Joseph hid his disappointment. Yet another. The bookshop was going downhill, and the film-club venture was going to eat up his last francs. The copy of Hallelujah! turned out to be as scratched and worn as it could possibly be, and the youth club’s loudspeakers were so defective that the film’s moving negro spirituals sounded more like a chorus of flayed cats. Joseph refused to admit the sad truth: with the resources he had available, he was simply vandalising the ‘classics’. When the lights went up and he suggested a discussion about King Vidor’s message, there was a shuffling of feet and every member of the audience had an urgent appointment. Jean stayed behind with his friend, who took him to a bar-tabac at the port for a beer.
‘I’ll get there!’ Joseph declared. ‘I’ll shake them up, get them thinking. You’ll help me.’
‘How? I have to earn a living urgently. I haven’t even got enough to get the bus back to Grangeville.’
‘Good Lord, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I’m telling you.’
‘Here’s ten francs. It’s all I’ve got on me. Let’s meet during the week. When are you going to start training?’