Trains went through the station at regular intervals, and when they did, the air filled with smoke and the sharp, shrill sound of the whistles. Bernard dreamed that he had been wounded, that two men carried him on a narrow stretcher along a bumpy path, that he was being pushed and jostled; then he noticed that they weren’t ordinary stretcher bearers marching alongside him but two angels with long floating hair and snow-white wings. In his dream, he could hear himself groaning and shouting: ‘You’re hurting me, let go of me! I don’t want to go with you!’ The angels smiled and shook their heads without replying, walking even faster. It was a winter dawn; the sky shone with the dazzling purity. The long hair of one of the angels brushed against his face. Bernard, in a trance, thought: ‘It’s over. Finally. We’re here.’ But the angel said:
‘You have not gone yet. You are only just about to leave, my poor soul. We’re leaving. We’re leaving.’
He woke up. One of his friends was punching him and saying over and over:
‘We’re leaving! Hey you daft thing, you ain’t staying here are ya?’
Yawning, sighing, amid the rattling of tin, the clanking of metal, the appalling din of army boots clattering against the ground, the troop swarmed out of the station’s café, the waiting room and the refreshment stands on to the platform, and then stormed the train.
Meanwhile, that same night, Thérèse was on duty in the hospital; she was watching over a young soldier who had recently had an operation and was resting. Very pale and very quiet under his sheets, he was coming back from a faraway place. Thérèse gently wiped the large drops of icy sweat that flowed down his face like tears. Every now and again, she stood up and did her rounds, walking in between the beds, among the sleeping or groaning men. Then she would go back and sit down next to the young boy. He had caused her a lot of anguish. My God! So many had died! But a few had been spared, all the same, saved by her. The wives, mothers and fiancées of these soldiers were never happy with the care they received, they always seemed to think they could have done better, done more. And they were jealous as well. They resented the nurses for having taken their places at the bedside. ‘But at least we will send a few back to them,’ thought Thérèse, ‘and such hopeless cases!’
For some time now, whenever she saw these wives, these mistresses coming to the hospital and throwing themselves at the recovering soldiers, clutching them tightly, carrying them like prey, or so it seemed, far from the hospital, far from death, she felt abandoned, unjustly and cruelly abandoned. The short-lived affairs, the flings, the brief storybook romances between nurses and convalescents filled her with horror. But her heart needed love. She was a loyal, affectionate woman. She saw desolation and horror all around her. Everyone was saying that Europe, civilisation, the entire world was collapsing, that the century was destined to end in catastrophe, that everything would perish, drowned in blood. But she still hoped for a husband, a home, children, and she instinctively felt that the destruction of everything was a mirage, a lie, while she, she lived the truth.
It was a time when certain men let themselves sink into despair, when certain women sank into debauchery, but Thérèse and many others cared for the wounded and dreamed with confidence of the future.
Part Two
1920–1936
1
At the beginning of November, the first formal meeting of the forty-one states that made up the League of Nations took place in Geneva. In France, the financial and political set that Raymond Détang had worked his way into since his return from America considered this event from a perspective that was not quite the same as that of the ordinary man in the street – that is to say, they did not really wonder whether war was going to become impossible in future (the war was over, forgotten, dead and buried), but what the repercussions would be on the careers of those in line for ministerial posts and how to make the most of it, both financially and in terms of personal satisfaction. Like any new, unexplored opportunity, this one frightened many people; even in the Détangs’ circle, they couldn’t agree on how this League of Nations should be treated: with irony or fervour? As a universal panacea or a temporary fix? This troubled Renée Détang. She had decided to celebrate the opening of the sessions but she wondered how best to strike ‘the right chord’: a dinner where people could express serious opinions – which might become the basis for establishing the political circle she wished to preside over – or a reception where, in between cocktails, people would exchange witty pleasantries, gently mocking this recent event (and then she would say, with that graceful little pout that so became her: ‘Oh, hush, now. I’m telling you that this is a great hope for the world!’). In addition, a reception would allow a good mix of people; given the Détangs’ social status, they weren’t yet in a position to choose their contacts. ‘Anyone and everyone to pad out the room’, as Madame Humbert always said. A lot of noise, a lot of champagne, a great crowd of people, a certain amount of inevitable waste, but perhaps, amid the swarm – like a prospector who discovers a few specks of gold buried in the sand – they too would find one or two or ten desirable recruits, influential people in Parliament or the Stock Market.
‘Raymond is on a first-name basis with everyone who really counts,’ Renée confided in her mother, ‘but that’s just the kind of familiarity you find in schools and prisons, part friendship, part complicity; it has to be transformed into contacts. And that is a completely different thing.’
At the beginning, the Détangs carefully prepared what they called their ‘war strategy’; they intended to climb the Parisian social ladder cautiously, one step at a time, taking one bastion after another, but at the end of a few months, they realised this technique was useless, embarrassing and outdated: anyone can get into high society by just walking straight in, or more precisely, there was no such thing as high society. There was an enormous fairground where anyone who wanted to could get in; it wasn’t even necessary to hide your background like in the good old days: they were living in a cynical world that glorified the sludge from which a man had risen. It was the era of the nouveau riche, a time when if people asked someone how he had earned ‘all that money’, he would smile and reply: ‘In the war, of course … like everyone else.’ Raymond Détang, however, was not cynical. In politics, cynicism is a clumsy tactic; voters wish to be treated as noble creatures. Raymond Détang was one of those men who could most skilfully manipulate key phrases: ‘Civilisation based on law and logic … France, the path of enlightenment for all mankind … World peace … Science and Progress …’ He was not even cynical about himself, except for very rare moments when he felt depressed. He honestly considered himself an eminent statesman who exists solely for the good of the people. At the time, he was not yet a Member of Parliament; he was organising his electoral campaign with infinite care: it had to be a work of art. He was earning money. Money, at this point in time, had not yet become the wild, wayward beast it turned into between 1930 and 1939 when it could only be captured through dangerous close combat; now, it was a small, tame animal that was easy to catch. Détang played the Stock Market. And since his connections to certain political figures were well known, groups of foreigners entrusted him with what he called ‘setting up contacts’ – preliminary conversations that would facilitate economic or other kinds of deals.
He had created close ties to several important businessmen in the United States who had become valuable, influential friends. He had acted as intermediary in orders placed by the French Republic in America for the reconstruction of ravaged territories. However, as he put it, he had become too important for such work. There was an entire category of transactions that would be impossible for him to carry out once he was elected, ‘at least they would be impossible if carried out under your own name’, as Renée put it. The married couple got along well together; they supported one another. Every now and again, Raymond felt he was still in love with his wife. Renée was one of those Parisian women who seemed not to be made of flesh and bone but rather of a sort of malleabl
e plastic that could be transformed to fit the changing fashion. When Raymond had first met her, she had a funny little face with a fringe that fell over her eyes; she had been petite, curvaceous and as soft as a cat. Now she was the very model of the woman of the post-war years. She had lost weight; she had long, strong muscles; she looked taller. Her skin, covered in glossy golden make-up, looked darker and her blond hair was cut like a boy’s. All these features were fresh and new at the time.
And this was how she appeared to Bernard Jacquelain: wearing a short, straight sleeveless dress that showed off her bare arms and beautiful legs, though her mouth was already marked with fine, bitter wrinkles. He had not seen her since the beginning of the war. After being demobilised, he had returned to live at his mother’s house in Paris. The elderly Monsieur Jacquelain had let himself get carried away by the mad, reckless spending of the time; other men bought cars, travelled, paid for mistresses: but Monsieur Jacquelain, after tense, secretive calculations, decided to have an operation. He had dreamt about it for ten years, only putting it off because of the cost. But the entire world was giving in to pleasure; even Madame Jacquelain had paid fifty-nine francs for a felt hat; small businessmen had houses in the country where they spent what they called their ‘veekends’. Why not me? thought Monsieur Jacquelain as he looked resentfully at a new pair of shoes that Bernard (without telling him) had ordered from a shoemaker. This was unprecedented in a family in which the women bought their clothes at Galeries Lafayette and the men at Belle Jardinière. Yes, why not me too? We save, we do without, we put money aside for our children who will only squander our money once we’re gone. I won’t refuse myself anything either, not me, he thought. And so he reserved a room in a private hospital in Neuilly without telling anyone. Sixty francs for the room. Ten thousand francs for the operation. They cut open his stomach and he died.
Bernard made applications to obtain a pension for his mother as the widow of a retired civil servant. All the applications ended up with Raymond Détang. Everyone in Paris who wanted something hovered around him: people looking for jobs, recommendations, favours, military honours, permission to open tobacco shops, or simply asking to have a speeding ticket withdrawn. Raymond Détang replied to everyone, without exception, with unfailing cordiality: ‘You did the right thing by coming here. I’ll think about what the best thing is to do to sort this little matter out for you. Personally, I can’t do anything, but I have a friend …’
‘He knows absolutely everyone,’ people said when they left, ‘he’s amazing.’
His status as someone who had influence, connections, powerful friends was far more useful to him than a reputation for integrity, intelligence or even for having a great deal of money. It became quite common, in certain circles, to say of Raymond Détang:
‘Go to him first with your request before talking to anyone else about it. He has all the Ministers in his pocket …’
Or even:
‘Ask Détang for his tips on the Stock Market. He knows all the wheeler dealers.’
He was not yet a politician, or a financier, but he functioned as a kind of conduit between politics and finance. He was the person who knew everything before anyone else, the one who was ‘in the know’, the man about whom everyone said:
‘What exactly does he do? I couldn’t tell you, but he’s someone important.’
To the people he received in this way, to talk about business, people he felt might turn out to be useful to him, he never failed to say:
‘Look, let’s talk about this again. Where? Why not come to my house? Say on the 20th? My wife is entertaining some friends. There’ll be dancing. Good heavens, you’ve just made me think: I must remind someone about it …’
And he would nonchalantly name some famous person.
Bernard Jacquelain was not invited as one of the people who ‘might turn out to be useful’ some day, but as part of a smaller, though no less important group: the ‘gigolos’.
‘Find me as many gigolos as possible,’ Renée had told her husband. ‘There are never enough of them,’ she added, sounding annoyed.
When she entertained, the ‘gigolos’ padded out the room, so to speak. They needed to be everywhere. In order for the reception to seem dazzling and luxurious, there had to be a crowd of young men with slicked-back hair and tireless legs standing in all the doorways, at the buffet table, in the smoking room. Every woman normally had three or four of them following her around; some women went as far as to have six, but they were the foreigners: where gigolos were concerned, as in all other things, it wasn’t done to go too far. These gigolos were nice young men who carried out their professional duties conscientiously. If Renée saw any of them standing still, she would tell them off:
‘Well, what do you think you’re doing?’ she would mutter angrily, ‘go and dance with the Baroness.’
In such social circles, gigolos weren’t paid but they were well fed. Stuffed with foie gras and caviar on toast, living in dusty furnished accommodation where they only spent a few hours each day in a deep sleep – between eight o’clock in the morning and noon – life for them was sweet.
When Bernard walked over to her to say hello, Renée didn’t recognise him. He was young, good looking; she gave him a vague, friendly nod, indicating behind her to the back of the reception room where he should join the other actors with walk-on parts crammed between the crimson curtains, waiting for the first bars of jazz to start playing. Everything was exactly as it should be, and just as it was everywhere else at this time: an orchestra of black musicians wearing red jackets, smoke so thick you could cut it with a knife, a crush of people, endless chattering, ice cream melting in little Venetian glass bowls, cigarettes with gold tips, swizzle sticks for the champagne, flowers, lipsticks carelessly tossed into the ornamental vases, couples stretched out on low loveseats in the dark corners of the room, a bar set up in the long entrance hall, old women with dyed hair on the dance floor, necklaces bouncing and clicking against their dried-up, sunken chests.
Renée was always dancing, sometimes without even knowing the name of the man who held her in his arms. When Bernard asked her to dance and asked how Madame Humbert was, she looked at him, confused:
‘My mother is fine, but how the devil do you know her?’
‘Well, very nice; that’s a fine thing to say! You really don’t know who I am?’
‘Do you actually believe that I know most of the people here?’
‘Well, then, it seems we’re at a masked ball. I’ll give you some clues. Let’s see, my lovely masked lady, do you remember a very modest little shop, painted sky blue, with a sign that said “FASHIONS by GERMAINE” in gold letters and, in the back room, a round table covered by a Turkish cloth; three children played at having a doll’s tea party around that table, you, a little girl who was the same age as you named Thérèse Brun, and a little boy …’
‘Bernard Jacquelain!’ she cut in. ‘Now I remember. That Bernard had lovely eyes.’
‘I think he still does,’ said Bernard, sounding smug, sensing that was the right tone to take in these surroundings.
She smiled at him and they twirled around for a moment in silence. He looked at the scene over her head. He breathed in the scent of her hair. What a learning experience for a young man! Four years of carnage and, finally, as if he were emerging from a dark, blood-filled tunnel, this reception room full of lights and women, all there for the taking, this light-hearted atmosphere, heady and intoxicating. Oh, good heavens, he had truly understood during his last leave before the Armistice that people who took anything seriously were nothing but … dupes. Nothing anyone did, or said, or thought meant a thing. It was all a sort of futile babbling, the kind that madmen and babies talk. Everything around him merged into a golden cloud; all he heard was a mixture of laughter, black jazz singers and fragments of conversation:
‘Well, he should go and see Thingy, Whatshisname, you know who I mean? The Minister’s Secretary. He’ll see to it that he gets the Croix de Guerr
e.’
‘It’s difficult because of the scandal. He was found to be a deserter, after all.’
‘Oh, but that was all so long ago, my dear …’
‘She’s been with him for six months; didn’t you know? He started out as her mother’s lover …’
‘What’s making you smile?’ asked Renée.
‘Nothing. How different things are.’
‘Yes, I know. Everyone who fought in the war is flabbergasted, at first. What do you expect? It’s only natural. We have the right to laugh a little after the things we’ve seen. I mean it; don’t look at me so derisively. I was a nurse, you know. It wasn’t always very amusing …’
‘Bah! Women splash about in blood as if it were the most natural thing in the world.’
‘Do be quiet! You’re so bitter.’
‘Who, me? From now on, my motto is “Don’t worry about anything in life”. Since I did come back from over there, everything will work out. I will commit the worst foolishness, the greatest follies with an easy conscience, certain that nothing will affect anything and that everything will continue to go on as in the past, for better or for worse. I no longer believe in catastrophes, since the last one failed miserably. I no longer believe in misfortune, or in death. All of humanity now has the state of mind of a child who is not afraid of the bogeyman any more.’
‘But you have to believe in love,’ she said, fluttering her eyelashes.
‘That would be very nice.’
He gently pulled her closer to him. They broke away from the crowd. She led him through a few rooms, some in half-darkness where they could hear whispers rising from the plush divans, others dazzlingly bright where well-fed, fat men discussed politics. They heard snippets as they passed:
The Fires of Autumn Page 9