Chic alors, said Frédéric. Saint-Tropez, then as now, was the place to faire la bombe where people thought they’d have a wild and with-it time. The Panigons asked if we could take them. Why not, said Alessandro. Let’s all go. I was not enthusiastic. Annette was a nice child; Frédéric saw himself as a rebel and an original young man; Cécile, though rather sweet, was grindingly genteel. Between them they kept telling us how fortunate we were to live in such an advanced, artistic, stimulating family, what a privilege it was for them to know my mother. At the moment they would have to ask theirs for permission. She’ll be in bed, I thought. Anyway, you had better get your bathing-suits, I said.
Up at their house, Monsieur Panigon was still or already about, reading Le Petit Var. Frédéric handled the negotiation. He made the idea of a Sunday’s outing in the company of an older man, a married man, sound reasonable. (Alessandro, in fact, was somewhat nearer to thirty than twenty.) You’re of age, my son, said Monsieur Panigon, do as you like; as for the girls, non. Annette is far too young – out of the question. Very well, said Annette, with a little sulk, she hadn’t seemed too keen in the first place. ‘Papa …!’ Cécile turned her great cow’s eyes on her father. Frédéric didn’t let her go on. Please, he said in manly tones, may I take my sister, I promise to look after her.
He combined sounding respectful and a man of the world. It worked (he must have tried this before, I thought). Very well, my children, said Monsieur Panigon; he called Alessandro last night’s amiable host. No need to wake your mother. Amusez-vous bien.
So we started. The two men in front, Cécile and I in the back. She began again about how much she admired my mother. Si fine, si cultivée, quelle intelligence …
‘Tu as de la chance, ta maman te fait lire.’
My mother made me read? I read. I wanted to read. Then I had to retract this in my mind – it must have come from her, from my mother, the example, the inspiration, the impulse. I said as nicely as I could to this girl who bored me, ‘Yes, my mother made me read.’
She went on to tell me that things were otherwise in her home.
From Sanary to Saint-Tropez was (in pre-autoroute days) an eighty kilometre drive. After Hyères we discussed whether to take the sea route and bathe or go inland and have a casse-croûte at the Auberge de la Forêt du Dom. As it was still early we decided to do both. We swam – the Panigons quite passably – then climbed back on to the N98 by the narrow zig-zag above Bormes-les-Mimosas, and at the Auberge they gave us pissaladino – hot bread baked with black olives, anchovy, olive oil – and slices of smoked wild boar (a beast said to be rampant in those woods) with a coup de blanc.
On the last lap, I drove with Alessandro sitting beside me. You’re getting quite good, he said.
‘Philippe Desmirail has been putting me through my paces. Double de-clutching … He says one should learn to change gear, up and down, without using the clutch at all.’
‘Don’t try it now.’
‘Oriane says he can drive when he’s asleep.’
‘Don’t try that either.’
‘Philippe says I shall be quite good after a few years’ practice – a good average driver.’
‘Not very flattering,’ said Alessandro.
‘He says I haven’t got it in me – getting to the top.’
‘What does he say about my driving then?’ said Alessandro.
‘That you are a natural, you’ll be alpha minus.’
Titters of approval from the back of the car.
At Saint-Tropez we found that the yacht belonging to some clients of Alessandro’s was in port, the Schroders, Americans who had bought a picture through him and might buy another. The four of us were made welcome on board, finding a number of people of various nationalities on deck below an awning, about to start making cocktails. Mrs Schroder, who kissed Alessandro on both cheeks, was impeccably sunburnt, smoked through a holder, and looked extremely smart. They all looked extremely smart – ages I guessed to be between thirty and forty, and Mr Schroder, who wore a yachting cap, much older. The cocktails were orange-blossoms: gin and orange-juice shaken with crushed ice. They tasted fresh and cool, and we were very thirsty. I sat facing the colour-washed houses of the Saint-Tropez waterfront, with the sea gently moving under the boat, and felt that life was good. This bliss was prolonged as luncheon was very late – I’d never waited so long for a meal before – there was much talking and more orange-blossoms got shaken, when we ate it was well after three o’clock. Lunch was served by a member of the crew, and was long, slow and delicious. The main component was a great deal of lobster. Afterwards everyone retired. Cécile and I were given a small cabin. We still felt well awake and Cécile started prattling.
‘Tu sais, il est beau, Alessandro.’
The French use beautiful more easily for a man. I supposed I knew what Alessandro looked like, though when one sees somebody every day …
‘Yes, he is that,’ I told her, ‘beau.’ (Not like Philippe: different.) I heard her ask whether my stepfather possessed a heart. Sleep cut me off.
We were aroused with long glasses of iced tea and offers of a shower. Presently the whole party went ashore and met at the Escale for apéritifs. It was near sunset. Euphoria held. Later on we had dinner. Mr Schroder kept ordering wine. Then came brandy. We danced during dinner and afterwards. There was a tangible eroticism over the whole of the Escale, being with the Kislings had taught me to recognise it, feel it. Alessandro danced with all the women in our party, coolly, impartially. He danced with Mrs Schroder, whom he called Betty, he danced with a very good-looking Rumanian woman (who fascinated me), he danced with Cécile.
I too danced the whole time, with men from our party and once or twice with men from other tables; with some – so I thought – I had interesting conversations. Frédéric Panigon asked me a second time, which I found superfluous. He was better looking than he was in the Café de la Marine days, he had filled out a bit, he was a quite well set-up young Frenchman, though all very average, nothing to write home about. I let his conversation wash over me. It was again about how he felt wasting his time being a law student, how encouraging it was for him getting to know people like us, it might even persuade his family to let him study art. My guess was that Madame Panigon did not rate us much above gypsies.
By this time I was really quite tight. I did not feel outside myself as I had the night before, just far from daily life, free, carried along, floating. I didn’t like, nor was interested in anyone in that crowd – except perhaps the Rumanian woman, but she took no notice of me – nothing mattered much, as long as the fête went on.
When the Escale closed down, it was proposed to move on to a club in the upper town. Is it two o’clock? Alessandro said. It was. Two a.m. in the morning. Your parents!, he said to Frédéric who said, ‘Bougre, some Sunday outing.’ That was nice and cool. Cécile said, ‘Oh mon Dieu,’ and looked terror-stricken. As well she might.
What shall we do? Drive home as quickly as we can, was Alessandro’s first decision. Goodbyes all round had to be said and thank-you and kissings on both cheeks and when shall we meet again. That took time. We were none of us sober now. At last we four went to find the Peugeot. What can we say, we asked each other on the way, we are in the soup. Drive back as quickly as we can, Alessandro repeated. We’ll think up a story en route.
We got into the Peugeot and Alessandro drove off in fine style. The street leading out of Saint-Tropez from the port is a one-way street, cobbled, narrow. Alessandro accelerated, hit a gutter, hit the kerb: there was a jolt, there was a clink, he attempted to drive on, but the car was stuck. The men got out. The right front wheel was dented and the tyre flat. The men swore. Got to change the wheel. They set to. Alessandro swore – the spare was flat, he meant to get it seen to yesterday, Saturday that was the day of our party, and forgot. What shall we do?
No garage would be open, let alone willing to mend a tyre at this time of night. Better get some sleep, make an early start, sensible thing, got to find
an hotel.
Saint-Tropez in July is always chock-a-block. We tried a few of the smaller hotels in back-streets, the sign on the doors said Complet. We saw another modest hotel plunged in darkness but without the forbidding sign. We roused a disagreeable and disgruntled man who looked us over coldly. No luggage. Alessandro pulled out his wallet. Two rooms left, Messieurs-Dames, small ones, separate floors – along here, this way … He shuffled on in front of us, then behind us, and before we knew where we were Frédéric and I had been pushed into a cubicle filled by a large bed. The man had disappeared, so had the others – up some staircase. Once more, Frédéric said bougre. I opened the window and the solid shutter, letting in the cool night air. Frédéric switched off the light, a bulb on the ceiling. We got out of our clothes, we didn’t wear many, and into the bed. Frédéric began making love to me. I had expected nothing and anything during the last twenty-four hours. My main thought now was: soon I shall know all about it.
It could be said that I had or I had not had a sexual experience before. I didn’t know how to evaluate an incident that took place a year ago. A connection of Alessandro’s, a cousin much removed, was staying with us for a few days at Les Cyprès. He was a handsome fellow, older than Alessandro, tall, with curly brown hair and a noble face, and he was one of the dullest and dumbest men I’ve ever met. He could outdo mute Englishmen in talking about the weather, which where he came from did not give much scope. He was stupid and obstinate and single-minded to boot, and much teased by family and friends. They called him Tempo-Bello, because his stock phrase was Oggi fa tempo bello. Today the weather is fine. It was a pity: with his looks he ought to have spouted Il Tasso.
He asked me to go for a walk with him after mass. He was able to assemble that whole sentence. I told him I never went to mass. Then agreed to meet him afterwards at the church. It was an autumn Sunday shortly before my return to England, and already a bit cool on the beaches. We could walk on La Cride, a promontory where one sometimes had picnics, then climb down to the sea for a quick swim off the rocks. I knew every inlet. When I arrived at the Place de Sanary I saw Tempo-Bello lounging outside the church. He had, as was the custom of Italian men of his caste, not joined the congregation but loitered at some paces from the door for the duration of the service. (When they hear the sanctus bell, they approach, stand in the doorway, genuflect, cross themselves, presumably say a prayer. After the elevation of the host, they are free to stroll away.) Tempo-Bello and I drove to La Cride and set out for our walk.
Flung over his shoulder was the white and scarlet cloak to which his family was entitled. It was a stylish thing out of a Carpaccio painting or the bull ring. When we came to a fine-branched ilex, he flung it on the ground. La Cride on a Sunday noon is an isolated place. I thought he wanted to rest and smoke, and sat down beside him. There ensued, at once and in complete silence, what I had read about as heavy petting. I was too surprised to be taken aback and almost at once surprised again by entirely unexpected and delicious sensations. When we stood up again – he did hold out his hand to help me – Tempo-Bello picked up his cloak with a swing and resumed our walk as though absolutely nothing had occurred. He was his smug self and entirely composed. I was not, but concealed this, waiting for a lead from him. None came. No word, no smile, no caress. Up to this I could have taken what had happened as natural and friendly. His silence made it into something appalling. Shameful, furtive, wrong. I became wordless myself. We went back. (I did not want to bathe with him from the rocks.) When we got to Les Cyprès I was struck by panic. In a few minutes I would be sitting down to lunch with my mother and Alessandro. What if they suspected, what if they guessed? How would I be able not to give something away? Now I felt fear as well as guilt. I was unable to look at Tempo-Bello; if only he would not come in, find some excuse … He did come in, leaving his cloak in the hall. The teasing started at once: Did we have a nice walk? I turned to hide my face. ‘What did you talk about? What was the subject of conversation?’ ‘He told me che fa tempo bello.’ How did I manage to trot out the old joke? How did I manage to sit through the next hour? How did the others not notice my state of acute embarrassment? Embarrassment, that was it. That was what remained.
The next day Tempo-Bello again asked me to go for a walk. Passeggiata? he said. He’d got it down to one word. Like Walky to a dog. So had I. I turned away with a flat No. The day after he left. In spite of the terror at that Sunday luncheon, I soon got over the incident. It had not, I told myself, invalidated the seductive ethos of the Kislings’: if one is friends, it’s all right to make love. Tempo-Bello was not a friend and what we did was not making love. So that was that. I told nobody; but that was because I didn’t know anyone suitable to tell. It could be seen as a comical story, what with the cloak and the insistence on mass. (Years later I did tell it to someone. To two people in fact. First to Maria Huxley who said, Do tell Aldous, it’s the kind of thing he likes to put in his books. I did, and he was much amused, and I did another volte-face – I was rather annoyed: I thought he lacked feeling and did not see all the points.) When my younger self had reflected on the episode, which was seldom, there remained only, as I said, that residue of embarrassment. There was also the faint memory of those delicious sensations.
Frédéric. What he would have said to me I shall never know for we both fell fast asleep. One moment I had felt entirely lucid – rather pleased: Now I do know and it is surprising also not surprising at all. I remember feeling that. (Young persons do not really need diagrams or instructions from parents or school.) If anyone was surprised it was probably Frédéric when he met no resistance. He was very sure of himself – this was evidently not a new experience for him. I did my best not to let him suspect that it was that for me. It didn’t hurt very much, nothing to fuss about; mildly disagreeable all in all. There were no delicious sensations. I didn’t like Frédéric any the more or any the less, I distinctly wished it were someone other than he, but did not know who. It must have been at this point that I plummeted into sleep.
Next thing was a knock and someone inside the door. It was Alessandro fully dressed with broad daylight shining in from the un-shuttered window. He didn’t look at the bed, or more to the point, at Frédéric and me in the bed with the sheet quickly drawn up to our chins. ‘It’s a quarter to seven,’ he said in our direction, ‘get ready and get going.’ He looked awful. Alessandro could look melancholy and fine-drawn, now he just looked wretched. ‘I knocked up a garage, they are mending the tyre now. Meet me there as soon as you can, it’s called Excelsior and it’s almost next door.’
I was still too much in sleep to take in implications, and so I dare say was Frédéric. We did as we were told. In the corridor on our way down he gave me quite an affectionate peck on the cheek. ‘T’es un brave type,’ he said. I was a good sport. He was looking at it as a windfall. Well, so in a way had I.
From the garage we drove off at once. We would stop again at eight o’clock, Alessandro told us, when post offices were open, and send a telegram to your parents, with luck they’ll get it within an hour, they must be sick with worry.
Frédéric came to. Oh, good God, he said and began looking awful too. All turned now to poor little Cécile always so cowed by her ferocious mama. (I still had visions of Madame on that beach accusing me of drowning Annette.) Cécile astonished us by firmly saying, ‘We had a burst tyre, it can happen to anyone, they can’t eat us.’ She didn’t look frightened, she looked serenely composed. Then I was struck by a new thought. So I could see was Frédéric. Had the disgruntled man at the hotel led them too into a cubicle with one bed? It was more than likely. Then …? No, that was not thinkable. Frédéric’s face said, my sister? My thoughts, my mother?
I could not see – awake now – much sense in a telegram preceding us by little more than an hour when they had expected us back the night before. Alessandro and Frédéric though felt the need of such a buffer. We sent it from Cogolin. I remember what it, after some discussion, said:
Pan
ne d’auto tout bien arriverons de suite
Car breakdown all well arriving soon. We had discussed concluding either with tendresses from the Panigons or amitiés from Alessandro and me, or with both. In the end we just put our four names. That was Frédéric’s idea, in case they thought that panne was softening for accident and one or more of us were dead.
Getting off the telegram was an achievement, we allowed ourselves to linger at Cogolin for some coffee. Alessandro had a Fernet-Branca at the zinc – he had a hangover, poor man. I had not. I felt fine; the party spirit was alive again. I went off to find a boulangerie to get croissants; Frédéric went with me. When we got back to the café, Cécile was holding Alessandro’s hand, discreetly disentangling it when she saw us approach. Frédéric turned pale. What shall we do? he said to me. We sat down at their table, shared out the croissants, pretending we’d seen nothing. Alessandro was having his second Fernet-Branca. Cécile coaxed him – maternally! – to drink some coffee. She looked radiant.
We stopped once more and that was for a brief swim off a small beach east of Hyères. It would make us feel more presentable, we said. After that we went straight on. Alessandro drove, with Cécile in front; Frédéric and I sat in the back. Well out of sight-line of the driving mirror (that, too, he had done before), Frédéric put his arms around me tightly – nothing more – and kept them so as we were speeding along, and there they were again, the delicious sensations. Faintly but recognisably. I gave myself to them. (With little connection with Frédéric.) I also did some thinking: This is not a love affair. Perhaps it could be said that I’d had an affair with this boy (I put it in the past tense). It is not what I want. He was still holding me and I wanted it to go on: my thoughts were paradoxical, given that situation.
As we got near our destination, the silence in the car was broken. What shall we say? was the gist. It was his responsibility, said Alessandro. Fat lot of good, said Frédéric who had become agitated. ‘You are both stupid,’ said Cécile, ‘listen to me,’ and again she astonished us. ‘We had this flat tyre – they can see the wheel, the one in the boot …’
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