"To the Commissioner's health!" shouts Lionel de Zieff. He staggers and collapses onto the piano. The glass has slipped from his hand. Mr. Philibert thumbs through a dossier along with Paulo Hayakawa and Baruzzi. The Chapochnikoff brothers busy themselves around the victrola. Simone Bouquereau gazes at herself in the mirror.
Die Nacht
Die Musik
Und dein Mund
hums Baroness Lydia, doing a vague little dance step.
"Anyone for a session of sexuo-divine paneurhythmics?" whinnies Ivanoff the Oracle in his studhorse tenor.
The Khedive eyes them mournfully. "They'll address me as Commissioner." His voice rises sharply: "Police Commissioner!" He hammers his fist on the desk. The others pay no attention to this outburst. He gets up and opens the left-hand window a little. "Come sit here, my boy, I like to have you around. Such a sensitive fellow. So receptive. You soothe my nerves."
Zieff is snoring on the piano. The Chapochnikoff brothers have stopped playing the victrola. They are examining the vases of flowers one by one, straightening an orchid, stroking the petals of a dahlia. Now and then they turn and dart frightened glances at the Khedive. Simone Bouquereau seems fascinated by her face in the mirror. Her violet eyes widen, her skin slowly turns ashen pale. Violette Morris has taken a seat on the velvet sofa next to Frau Sultana. The palms of their white hands lie open to Ivanoff's scrutiny.
"The price of tungsten has gone up," Baruzzi announces. "I can get you a good deal on it. I'm on the best of terms with Guy Max in the purchasing office on Rue Villejust."
"I thought he only handled textiles," says Mr. Philibert. "He's changed his line," says Hayakawa. "Sold all of his stock to Macias-Reoyo."
"Maybe you'd rather have hides?" asks Baruzzi. "Calfskins have gone up a hundred francs."
"Odicharvi mentioned three tons of worsted he wants to get rid of. I thought of you, Philibert."
"How about thirty-six thousand decks of cards I can have delivered to you by morning? You'll get the top price for them. Now's the time. They launched their Schwerpunkt attack at the beginning of the month."
Ivanoff is examining the Marquise's palm.
"Quiet!" shouts Violette Morris. "The Oracle is reading her future. Quiet!"
"What do you think of that, son?" the Khedive asks me.
"Ivanoff rules the women with a rod. His famous lighter-than-iron rod! They can't do without him. Mystics, dear boy. And he thrives on it! The old clown!"
He rests his elbows on the edge of the balcony. Below, there's one of those tranquil squares you find in the 16th arrondissement. The street lights cast an odd blue glow on the foliage and the music pavilion. "Did you know, son, before the war the house we're in used to belong to M. de Bel-Respiro." (His voice sounds hollow.) "I found some letters in a closet that he wrote his wife and children. A real family man. Look, there he is." He points to a life-sized portrait hanging between the two windows. "M. de Bel-Respiro himself in his Algerian Spahi officer's uniform. With all those decorations! There's a model Frenchman for you!"
"A square mile of rayon?" offers Baruzzi. "You can have it dirt cheap. Five tons of crackers? The freight cars are tied up a t the Spanish border. You won't have any trouble getting an exit pass. I'm only asking a small commission, Philibert."
The Chapochnikoff brothers slink around the Khedive, not daring to speak to him. Zieff is asleep with his mouth open. Frau Sultana and Violette Morris hang on Ivanoff's every word: astral flux … sacred pentagram … grains of sustenance from the Earth Mother … great telluric waves … incantatory paneurhythmics … Betelgeuse … But Simone Bouquereau presses her forehead up against the mirror.
"I'm not interested in any of these financial deals," Mr. Philibert cuts in.
Disappointed, Baruzzi and Hayakawa tango their way over to Lionel de Zieff's chair and pat his shoulder to waken him. Mr. Philibert thumbs through a dossier, pencil in hand.
"You see, my dear boy," the Khedive resumes (really, he looks as if he's on the verge of tears), "I've had no education. I was alone when they buried my father and I spent the night on his grave. It was bitter cold, too, that night. At fourteen, the prison colony at Eysses … penal battalion, overseas … Fresnes prison … No chance to meet decent people, just washouts like myself … Life ..."
"Wake up, Lionel!" shouts Hayakawa.
"We've got something important to tell you," adds Baruzzi.
"We'll get you fifteen thousand trucks and two tons of nickel for a 15 per cent commission." Zieff blinks his eyes and mops his forehead with a light-blue handkerchief. "Anything you say, as long as I can cram my belly full of it. Don't you think I've filled out nicely these last two months? Feels good, now that rationing is here to stay." He lumbers over to the sofa and slides his hand into Frau Sultana's blouse. She struggles and slaps him as hard as she can. Ivanoff sneers faintly. "Anything you say, boys," Zieff repeats in a grating voice. "Anything you say." "O.K. for tomorrow morning, Lionel?" asks Hayakawa.
"Can I confirm it with Schiedlausky? We'll throw in a carload of rubber as a bonus."
Sitting at the piano, Mr. Philibert pensively fingers a few notes.
"Still, my boy," resumes the Khedive, "I've always hungered for respectability. Please don't confuse me with the people here …
Simone Bouquereau is putting on her make-up in front of the mirror. Violette Morris and Frau Sultana have closed their eyes. The Oracle, apparently, is invoking the stars. The Chapochnikoff brothers hover around the piano. One of them is winding up the métronome, another hands a sheet of music to Mr. Philibert.
"Take Lionel de Zieff," whispers the Khedive. "What I couldn't tell you about that swindler! and about Baruzzi! or Hayakawa! Every last one of them! Ivanoff a filthy blackmailer! Baroness Lydia Stahl is a highpriced whore!"
Mr. Philibert leafs through the music. From time to time he drums out the rhythm. The Chapochnikoff brothers glance at him fearfully.
"So you see, my boy," the Khedive continues, "all the rats have profited from recent 'events' to come out into the open. I myself … But that's another story.
Don't trust appearances. Before long I'll be inviting the most respectable people in Paris into this living room. They'll address me as Commissioner! POLICE COMMISSIONER, get that?" He turns around and points to the life-sized portrait. "There I am! A Spahi officer! Look at those decorations! Legion of Honor. Cross of the Holy Sepulcher. Cross of St. George of Russia. Order of Danilo de Monténégro, Portugal's Tower and Sword. Why should I envy M. de Bel-Respiro? I'll have him dangling on a string!"
He clicks his heels.
Sudden silence.
That's a waltz Philibert is playing. The cascade of notes pauses hesitantly, unfolds, and gushes over the dahlias and the orchids. Mr. Philibert sits very straight. His eyes are closed.
"Hear that, my boy?" asks the Khedive. "Look at those hands! Pierre can play for hours without letting up. Never gets cramps. An artist!"
Frau Sultana's head is nodding a little. The opening chords have roused her from her apathy. Violette Morris gets up and waltzes, with icy composure, the length of the living room. Paulo Hayakawa and Baruzzi have stopped talking. The Chapochnikoff brothers listen with mouths agape. Even Zieff seems hypnotized by Mr. Philibert's hands as they begin racing over the keyboard. Ivanoff, chin outstretched, scans the ceiling. But Simone Bouquereau finishes putting on her make-up in the Venetian mirror, as if nothing had happened.
He strikes the chords with all of his strength, bending low over the keys, his eyes shut. His playing becomes more and more impassioned.
"Like it, son?" asks the Khedive.
Mr. Philibert has slammed the piano shut. He rises, rubbing his hands, and walks toward the Khedive. After a pause:
"We just nailed someone, Henri. Passing out leaflets. We caught him in the act. Breton and Reocreux are going over him in the cellar."
The others are still stunned by the stifled waltz: silent and motionless, magnetized by the music.
"I was talki
ng to him about you, Pierre," murmurs the Khedive. "Telling him that you're a sensitive chap, a melomaniac in a class by yourself, an artist …"
"Thanks, Henri. It's true, but I hate big words. You should have told him I'm a policeman, first and last."
"Number One cop in France! According to a cabinet minister!"
"That was long ago, Henri."
"In those days, Pierre, I would have been afraid of you. Inspector Philibert! Wow! When I'm police commissioner, I'll make you my chief deputy."
"Shut up!"
"Still love me?"
A scream. Then two. Then three. Piercing. Mr. Philibert glances at his watch. "Three quarters of an hour already. He must be ready to break. I'll go see." The Chapochnikoff brothers trail after him. The others, apparently, heard nothing.
"You're gorgeous," says Paulo Hayakawa to Baroness Lydia, offering her a glass of champagne. "Really?" Frau Sultana and Ivanoff are gazing into each other's eyes. Baruzzi sneaks up behind Simone Bouquereau, but Zieff trips him. Baruzzi topples a vase of dahlias as he falls. "Out to play the ladies' man? Not going to pay attention any more to his nice big Lionel?" He bursts out laughing and fans himself with his light-blue handkerchief.
"It's the fellow they picked up," murmurs the Khedive, "the one who was handing out leaflets. They're working on him. He won't last, son. Want to see him?" "To the Khedive's health!" shouts Lionel de Zieff. "To Inspector Philibert's!" adds Paulo Hayakawa, stroking the Baroness' neck. A scream. Then two. A sob that lingers on.
"Talk or die!" bellows the Khedive.
The others pay no attention at all. Except Simone Bouquereau, who was putting on her make-up in the mirror. She turns around. Her huge violet eyes are devouring her face. There's a smear of lipstick on her chin.
FOR A FEW minutes longer we heard the music. It died away just as we reached the Cascades crossroad. I was driving. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda were in the front seat. We glided along the road that borders the Lakes. Hell begins at the edge of the woods: Boulevard Lannes, Boulevard Flandrin, Avenue Henri-Martin. This is the most intimidating residential section in the whole of Paris. The silence that used to reign there in the evening, after eight o'clock, was almost reassuring. A middle-class silence of felt, of velvet and good manners. You could picture the families gathered in the drawing room after dinner. Now, there's no telling what goes on behind the high dark walls. Once in a while a car passed us with all its lights out. I was afraid it would stop and block our way.
We took the Avenue Henri-Martin. Esmeralda was dozing. After eleven o'clock, little girls have a hard time keeping their eyes open. Coco Lacour was fiddling with the dashboard, spinning the radio knob. Neither of them had any idea how fragile their happiness was. Only I was bothered by it. We were three children making our way through ominous shadows in a big automobile. And if there happened to be a light at any window, I wouldn't rely on it. I know the district well. The Khedive used to have me search through private houses and confiscate objects of art: Second Empire houses, eighteenth-century "country retreats," turn-of-the-century buildings with stained-glass windows, pseudo-Gothic chateaux. Their sole occupant now was a terrified caretaker, forgotten by the owner in his flight. I'd ring the doorbell, show my police card and inspect the premises. I remember long walks: Ranelagh-La Muette-Auteuil, this was my route. I'd sit on a bench in the shade of the chestnut trees. Not a soul on the streets. I could enter any house in the area. The city was mine.
Place du Trocadéro. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda at my side, those two staunch companions. Mama used to tell me: "The friends you have are the ones you deserve." To which I'd reply that men are much too talkative for my taste and that I can't stand the swarms of word-flies that come out of their mouths. It gives me a headache. Makes me gasp for breath – and I'm short of it to begin with. The Lieutenant, for instance, can talk your ears limp. Each time I walk into his office, he gets up and starts off with "my young friend," or "my boy." And the words come pouring out in a frenzied stream, so he doesn't even have time to really pronounce them. The verbal torrent subsides, briefly, only to inundate me the next minute. His voice grows more and more shrill. At length he's screeching, and the words choke in his throat. He stamps his feet, waves his arms, heaves about, hiccups, suddenly turns morose and begins speaking again in a monotone. His final advice is: "Guts, my boy!" which he says in an exhausted whisper.
At first he said to me: "I need you. We've got serious work to do. I stay in the shadows with my men. Your mission: to work yourself in among our enemies. To report back, with all possible caution, what those bastards are up to." He made crystal clear to me the gulf between us: purity and heroism fell to him and his staff. To me, the dirty job of spy and informer. That night, as I read over the Anthology of Traitors from Alcibiades to Captain Dreyfus, it occurred to me that after all double-dealing and – why not? – treason suited my peculiar nature. Not enough backbone for a hero. Too detached and too easily distracted to be a real villain. On the other hand, adaptable, restless, and plainly good-natured.
We were driving back along Avenue Kléber. Coco Lacour yawned. Esmeralda was asleep with her little head rocking against my shoulder. It was time for them to be in bed. Avenue Kléber. That other night we had taken the same route after leaving L'Heure Mauve, a night club on the Champs Élysées. A rather listless crowd lounged around the red velvet tables and the bar stools: Lionel de Zieff, Costachesco, Lussatz, Méthode, Frau Sultana, Odicharvi, Lydia Stahl, Otto da Silva, the Chapochnikoff brothers … Warm, moist twilight. Scents of Egypt floating on the air. Yes, there were still a few islands in Paris where people tried to ignore "the disaster that has lately occurred" and where you could find a stagnant pre-war spirit of zestful living and frivolity. Contemplating all those faces, I repeated to myself a phrase I had read somewhere: "Brash adventurism that reeks of betrayal and murder."
Close to the bar a victrola was playing:
Bonsoir
Jolie Madame
Je suis venu
Vous dire bonsoir…..
The Khedive and Mr. Philibert led me outside. A white Bentley waited at the foot of Rue Marbeuf. They got in next to the chauffeur and I sat in the back seat. The street lights were spewing their silent streams of bluish light.
"Don't worry," the Khedive said, pointing to the driver. "Eddy has eyes like a cat."
"Right now," Mr. Philibert said to me, taking my arm, "a young man has all sorts of opportunities. Everyone has to look out for himself, and I'm ready to help you, my boy. We're living in dangerous times. Your hands are white and slender, your health isn't the best. Take care. If you want my advice, don't try to be a hero. Take it easy. Work with us. It's as simple as this: martyrdom or the sanatorium." "A fast little finger job, for instance – wouldn't that interest you?" the Khedive asked me. "Handsomely rewarded," added Mr. Philibert. "And absolutely legal. We'll furnish you with a police card and a gun permit." "We want you to infiltrate an underground ring so we can break it up. You'll keep us informed about the activities of those gentlemen." "If you're at all careful, they won't suspect you." "I think you inspire confidence." "And you'll get what you want for the asking – you've got a winning smile." "And lovely eyes, my boy!" "Traitors always have a steady eye." Their words were coming faster. At the end I had the feeling that they were talking at once. Those blue butterflies swarming out of their mouths … Anything they want – stool-pigeon, hired killer, anything – if they'll only shut up once in a while and let me sleep. Squealer, traitor, killer, butterflies…
"We're taking you to our new headquarters," Mr. Philibert decided. "It's a private house at 3 bis Cimarosa Square." "We're having a housewarming," added the Khedive. "With all our friends." "Home, Sweet Home" hummed Mr. Philibert.
As I entered the living room, the haunting phrase came back to me: "Brash adventurism that reeks of betrayal and murder." The usual crowd was there. New faces turned up every few moments: Danos, Codébo, Reocreux, Vital-Léca, Robert le Pâle … The Chapochnikoff brothers poured champa
gne for them. "Let's have a little talk," the Khedive whispered to me. "What's on your mind? You're white as a ghost. Want a drink?" He handed me a glass of some pink liquid. "Look here," he said to me, opening the French doors and leading me onto the balcony, "as of today I'm master of an empire. Not just an auxiliary police force. We're going to handle a tremendous business! Over five hundred agents in our pay! Philibert will help me with the administrative side. I've put to good account the extraordinary events we've been through these past few months." The heat was so bad it fogged the living-room windows. They gave me another glass of pink liquid, which I drank, stifling an urge to retch. "So" – he was stroking my cheek with the back of his hand – "you can give me advice, guide me once in a while. I've had no education." His voice was trailing off. "At fourteen, the prison colony at Eysses, then the overseas penal battalion, consigned to oblivion…But I'm starved for respectability, understand?" His eyes blazed. Savagely: "One of these days I'll be police commissioner. They'll address me as COMMISSIONER!" He hammers both fists on the balcony railing: "COMMISSIONER ... COM-MIS-SION-ER!" and his eyes glaze over in a vacant stare.
Down on the square, a misty vapor rose from the trees. I wanted to leave, but it was too late, most likely. He'd grasp my wrist, and even if I managed to slip free I'd have to cross the living room, clear a path through those tightly clustered groups, withstand an assaulting horde of buzzing wasps. Vertigo. Great luminous circles whirled around me, faster and faster, and my heart was bursting.
"Feel queasy?" He takes me by the arm and leads me over to the sofa. The Chapochnikof brothers – how many of them are there, anyway? – were scurrying every which way. Count Baruzzi took a stack of money out of a black briefcase to show to Frau Sultana. A little further away, Rachid von Rosenheim, Paulo Hayakawa, and Odicharvi were talking excitedly. There were others, but I couldn't make them out. All of them, because of their incessant chatter, their abrupt gestures, and the heavy odors they exuded, seemed to be dissolving on the spot. Mr. Philibert handed me a green card with a red stripe across it. "From now on you're a member of the Service; I signed you up under the name 'Swing Troubadour.' "They all drew around me, waving champagne glasses. "To Swing Troubadour!" Lionel de Zieff hailed me and burst out laughing until his face turned purple. "To Swing Troubadour!" shrilled Baroness Lydia.
Night Rounds Page 2