by Tom Gamble
A loud ‘Ah ha!’ on Summerfield’s left—his neighbour, the over-present Mr. Fresquin of the Post and Telegraph authorities—made him start and he immediately turned to observe the reason behind the snort—the tardy arrival of Colonel Le Guédec, dressed in the uniform of the Gendarmerie. A shiver of apprehension went through Summerfield followed by what he could only describe to himself as a slump in his guts—the empty seat to his right was indeed destined for the Colonel. Ridiculous, he thought, cursing the irony of it all: here he was, attending a dinner he shouldn’t have been invited to, in the presence of a young woman he’d almost fallen in love with and accompanied by her fiancé, the man who had stolen her from him, and now the arrival of a colonel of the Gendarmerie whose men, only several weeks before, had almost beaten him to death.
The colonel sat down, his boots creaking audibly. Summerfield first smelt him—a whiff of brilliantine and sharp eau de cologne, and turned his head.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said the Colonel, smiling genially. ‘British are we? We shall soon, if things get out of control in Europe, be fighting side by side once again.’
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ said Summerfield, disarmed by the warmth of the colonel’s handshake.
Le Guédec inclined his neck in a gesture of reflection. ‘Unfortunate. But necessary. The Boches are an unsettled lot. Every thirty years or so they deem it fit to invade our country. This time we’ll sort them out once and for all.’
‘You seem certain there’ll be war,’ came Lefèvre’s voice, leaning forwards to look down the table at his interlocutor.
‘Spain is almost finished,’ said the Colonel. ‘I can only see this as a beginning of wider unrest.’
‘But at least the Russians won’t have a foothold in Western Europe,’ said Fresquin, joining in the conversation with his loud voice.
‘That’s something!’ said Henri, the young fiancé immediately reddening at his spontaneous contribution to the conversation.
The colonel hummed, neither for nor against, and it made the youngster’s comment stand out even more for its eagerness. ‘And what about the Anglo-American view of things?’ he added, looking directly across at Wilding.
Wilding withdrew his attention from Mme Lefèvre and looked at the colonel, leaving her conversation to continue for a second or two alone, hanging in mid-air.
‘Well, Colonel—as you know, the United States is more concerned with its own area of interest in the Pacific,’ answered Wilding, refraining to take position. ‘I don’t think we’ll be seeing any U.S. intervention in your affairs. But perhaps Harry can provide a better answer—he was in Spain, after all.’
‘Spain? Really?’ Suddenly, it seemed to Summerfield that the entire room had zoomed in on him. He looked accusingly at Wilding.
‘No, I—’ began Summerfield, but it was too late. It was a strange thing that when people wanted to hear something, they would have none of it until they had got what they wanted. Summerfield was now projected onto centre stage and there was a moment’s silence filled with expectation. Summerfield coughed politely.
‘I assure you, my part was minor—really of no significance. Jim, I think you’d—’
‘What side?’ said Henri, rather directly.
‘Did you go to the front?’
‘And what about the Moorish troops—massacres, I heard.’
‘And the bombing—there were terrible reports in the papers.’
‘A new and terrifying way of war—terror!’
It was the sign for a general outbreak of discussion, coinciding with the arrival of the orange sorbet starter. Summerfield was overtaken by events. He was suddenly the centre of a whirlpool around which everybody offered opinion, countered opinion with argument and raised the stakes until it seemed that every fresh comment was met with a louder voice. Summerfield looked at Wilding and met his eyes. Wilding looked a little bewildered.
‘I didn’t know it’d have that effect,’ he said, low-voiced and in English.
‘I believe we’re witnessing two of the favourite pastimes of the French—eating and arguing. And all at the same time—the best thing that could happen.’
‘I thought we Americans were loud,’ frowned Wilding. ‘But this—this is chaos!’ Mme Lefèvre tugged at Wilding’s forearm. ‘Excuse me, Harry,’ said Jim, raising his eyes heavenwards.
Summerfield found himself quite alone, observing the heated conversation, wincing whenever Fresquin’s voice, sounding like a cannon, boomed over everyone else’s. And then, suddenly, a softer voice, quite detached from the rest, reaching him from somewhere. It was Lefèvre’s daughter, Jeanne.
‘Mr Summerfield—is it true?’
‘What’s true?’ said Summerfield, trying to concentrate.
‘That you fought for the Socialists?’
‘No,’ said Summerfield.
‘Then, Franco?’ She looked a little distraught. Summerfield shook his head. ‘That’s not what they said.’
‘It’s not what I said, either,’ answered Summerfield. ‘I tried to tell everyone, but nobody would listen.’
‘To what?’
‘I said nobody would listen,’ repeated Summerfield, unable to resist the pun.
The young woman looked startled, like some gazelle caught in the middle of a hunt. And for a split second she looked quite astonishingly beautiful. ‘No—I—I meant what did you want to tell us? Oh! Oh, I see!’ She reddened and forced a smile.
‘I wanted to fight. I even went to Gibraltar to cross the frontier—but my contact never turned up.’
‘Father said you’d spoken with Orwell.’
Summerfield snorted. ‘I doubt Orwell would ever speak to me. No—I heard him speak once.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Jeanne Lefèvre shook her head.
‘Disappointed?’ said Summerfield. ‘Sorry. I wish I could be more interesting for everyone.’
The young woman remained silent for some moments and Summerfield returned to listening to the heated exchange. They were now onto the subject of analysing German military strength. We have the best arms in the world, Colonel Le Guédec was saying, in an attempt to soothe Mme. Bassouin’s worries. Don’t worry—Jean won’t be called up. Too old! No—it’ll rather be our young Henri here—oh, dear, did I say something wrong?
‘So what were you doing with Mr Wilding in Mauritania?’ It was Jeanne Lefèvre’s voice, returning to him. Summerfield frowned and refocused.
‘I wasn’t with Jim in Mauritania. And that’s another thing—’ He saw her open her mouth, only for her words to be blotted out by a sudden exchange between Fresquin and Mr. Lefèvre. Her look turned from concern to an apologetic smile as Summerfield grimaced in an effort to hear her and then acceptance.
‘So what do you do, Mr Summerfield?’
‘I write—and yourself?’
‘I study.’
Summerfield smiled. ‘It seems easier when it’s monosyllabic! We understand each other.’ She smiled back, a trace of dimples and Summerfield felt a mischievous tingle inside. She was rather surprising, this one. A little snobbish, of course, but then how could she be otherwise with such parents. But, came a voice at the back of his head, she has something. And then the voice of irony—she has potential.
The main course was served, Mohammed assisting the maid, Soumia, with serving the wine. Several drops were spilled; little crimson splashes, rather like blood, thought Summerfield, but nobody took any notice. Lefèvre would no doubt say later it was hard to find properly trained house staff in the region.
Business was discussed. Jim Wilding was obviously more astute than Summerfield had thought, for his American friend, with much skill and diplomacy, oriented the discussion towards petrol.
‘The prospecting in Mauritania doesn’t seem to have brought good results,’ he replied in answer to the colonel’s questioning. It seemed to have good effect. At least the Spanish, now in control of most of the region, wouldn’t get their hands on any royalties. Wilding shook his head and sighed, seeking out Je
an Bassouin.
‘The British are lucky to have influence in Arabia—the British Petroleum and Shell companies have struck what seems to be a limitless source of oil out there.’
‘The British have always been accompanied by a sort of sixth sense,’ said Bassouin. ‘Or a lucky star. They have a certain feel for business—rather like you Americans. I’m afraid our Latin cultures do not have the same edge when it comes to making money.’
‘Business opportunities,’ replied Wilding, softening the impact of Bassouin’s opinion. ‘And that surprises me,’ he added, showing interest, ‘for the Mediterranean peoples throughout early history practically invented modern trade and economics. It’s in your blood. The world would never have evolved without the Greek, Roman or Phoenician merchants—and not counting the latter explorers like Vasco de Gama and Columbus.’
‘History is a series of revolutions,’ offered Lefèvre. ‘Empires are built, they grow and then they fade. A greater time for us will come again.’
‘And maybe sooner than you think,’ said Wilding, nodding his head.
‘Oh? In what way?’ Bassouin leant forward, followed by Lefèvre, Le Guédec and Fresquin.
‘You have the answer right under your noses—well, about five hundred kilometres to the east to be exact: Algeria!’
‘The princess without a crown,’ quoted Bassouin. ‘Four times as big as France and potentially the richest country in Africa.’
‘I know certain French oil companies are drilling out there, in the middle of the desert,’ added Wilding.
‘They have even begun to exploit the oil,’ added Bassouin.
Wilding nodded. ‘There’s probably more than enough. Trouble is, there’s a lack of means and technology. You need help.’
‘And the United States might propose it!’ said Fresquin, blurting out what everybody had been thinking.
Wilding smiled. ‘You have insight, Mr Fresquin.’ And then, serious, but his voice light and suggesting. ‘And why not indeed?’
‘Because it is French territory—and French wealth,’ said the Colonel.
‘I agree. But that doesn’t stop an American company exploiting the oil with the French and taking a percentage of the deal.’ Several frowns appeared on his listeners’ faces. ‘It’s not important to have all the cake,’ explained Wilding, more aggressive now. ‘Everybody can have a slice. It’s something we call joint venture—a new concept. Working together, with one company the main leader, taking the lion’s share, and the other accepting a smaller part in exchange for their help.’ Silence while the listeners mulled it over. ‘Or sub-contracting—that’s another field in which there are limitless possibilities. You see—the French authorities give a US company—’
‘US or other,’ reminded Bassouin, attentively.
‘Or other,’ echoed Wilding, with a little smile—‘Gives a company the right to explore and exploit a business activity in return for a levy or a share of the profit.’
‘But why would the French government want foreign businesses in Algeria?’
‘Ah ha! Good question!’ said Wilding. ‘That’s where the beauty of it all lies—you see, the French government would come out winners.’
‘How?’
‘Simple! They wouldn’t need to pay a cent. It’s the contractor who puts the money up front, buys the equipment, pays the workers, refines the oil—all very costly, all very risky. What if oil isn’t found? Think of the hole in your pockets. France would have total control over the contract and over any decisions while the US company—or other—would do the work. Not only would France earn profit from the oil exploitation, if you think about the savings it would make, it would constitute an even bigger profit. Everyone wins. Especially France.’
Jean Bassouin seemed to retract slightly, as though sinking into a carapace. He was obviously intrigued by the idea and Summerfield understood that inside the genial little man’s non-committal exterior, a thousand thoughts were buzzing through his mind. Slowly, carefully and with the same lightness that Wilding’s voice had carried, Bassouin spoke up.
‘I can perhaps put you in contact with an ex-colleague of mine in Algeria, Mr Wilding. Would you be willing to talk to him as you have talked to us this evening?’
‘Sure,’ said Wilding. ‘I’d be only to pleased to exchange ideas. After all, we can all help each other.’
‘When an American says that, it’s time to start thinking 80/20,’ said Fresquin, smiling. ‘80 percent for America and 20 percent for the rest!’
‘Perhaps not in this case,’ said Bassouin, thinking slowly aloud. ‘What do you think, Mr Summerfield? What’s the British viewpoint? After all, you’re in this with your colleague, are you not?’
Wilding darted a glance at Summerfield. Summerfield hesitated, sat back in his chair and gave a secretive grin. ‘I’m just an observer,’ he said, looking at Bassouin, and then, in turn, the rest, lingering a little longer to look Lefèvre’s daughter in the eyes. ‘I believe the meat was excellent, the wine marvellous and the conversation interesting—but I think I need to stretch my legs a little.’
‘So British!’ said Le Guédec, ‘Filer à l’anglaise! But in fact, you’re quite right. I’m feeling a little stiff-legged myself.’ He turned to face Mme Lefèvre and inclined his head. ‘May we have ten minutes before dessert, Mme Lefèvre?’
It was the sign for a general scraping of chairs, something that produced a gasp of alarm from the maid, Soumia, no doubt concerned with the more practical matter of waxing the tiled floor once the evening was over.
The guests broke up into twos or threes, but Summerfield wanted to be alone. They had been sitting for nearly two hours—the odd thought came to him that he wasn’t used to chairs anymore—and the conversation, or moreover the role playing, had bored him. What an effort to behave correctly—he was all in. He rose, took his glass and sauntered out in the direction of the others who had headed for the veranda and cigars. But he didn’t stop. Instead, he thanked Mohammed who was standing at the door holding a box of tobacco and took a ready-rolled cigarette. He lit up, exhaled and stepped down from the veranda into the garden.
‘What’s that nice smell, Mohammed?’ he said in Arabic, turning back to the servant.
‘Savory, Sidi.’
Summerfield hummed thoughtfully. ‘Very pleasant. Oranges?’ he inquired further, nodding in the direction of the far end of the large garden. The servant smiled back and nodded. ‘A good job,’ complimented Summerfield again. ‘May I?’
‘Of course, Sidi,’ replied Mohammed and Summerfield sauntered on, a few steps down the gravel pathway and then stepped onto the thick, dark green expanse of grass. It had been freshly cut, but was so thick and wild, that bending down, Summerfield quickly retracted his hand. The blades were like miniature shards. He brought his palm to his face and in the dark observed a small blob of blood, almost black, on the surface of his skin.
‘Did you hurt yourself?’ came a voice. It was Lefèvre’s daughter.
Summerfield sighed.
‘Just a small incision,’ he said with effort, turning.
‘When I was little, I once ran barefoot on the lawn—I still have a little scar on my foot.’
Summerfield smiled and relaxed a little. She was less than bothersome. Just then the maid passed by with an oil lamp and matches.
‘Are they getting worried?’ commented Summerfield, raising his eyebrows.
‘No,’ Jeanne shook her head, shyly. ‘Probably mother wanting things to be perfect.’
They stood in silence for a moment, watching as Soumia disappeared into the darkness, a series of halos lighting in her wake, left and right, as she lit the garden lamps. Summerfield exhaled with contentment.
‘Very pretty,’ he murmured. ‘And have you always lived here, Mademoiselle Lefèvre?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Father has quite an important function now. He rose through the Administration.’
‘He seems a very intelligent man.’
Jeanne nodd
ed. ‘He is very good at his job. And he certainly works a lot.’
‘Does that bother you?’ asked Summerfield, noting a little regret in her voice. ‘If you don’t mind—’ he added, prudently.
‘No, of course.’ The young woman took a step forward. ‘Let me show you the garden.’
‘Shouldn’t we go by three? Perhaps someone else would be interested—Jim perhaps.’
‘Soumia, my nanny, will be watching over us. We can come to no harm here, Mr Summerfield.’
‘I meant—’ began Summerfield and then checked himself. Her innocence was absolute. It made him feel a little sad. ‘A pleasure,’ he added. ‘Let’s go.’
They strolled past a huge old magnolia and into an area dedicated to orange and lemon trees. The smell, in the warm air, was treacly and strong.
‘They were here before the houses were built,’ informed the young woman. And then, changing subject. ‘And if I understand, correctly, you do not work with Mr Wilding.’
‘That’s right. It was a little difficult to hear in there.’
‘So you’re not prospecting for petrol?’ she continued rhetorically. ‘You write.’
‘That’s it—and you, if I understand correctly,’ said Summerfield, cheekily echoing her words, ‘study.’
‘Yes.’
‘At the Académie.’
‘That’s right—how do you know that?’ The young woman looked surprised.
‘Well, didn’t your friend, Sarah, say something about it?’
Jeanne Lefèvre inclined her head and raised her eyebrows. ‘Perhaps—she at least mentioned Sister Marthe, our teacher, if I remember correctly.’ A little laugh. ‘And what do you write, Mr Summerfield?’
‘Oh!’ said Summerfield, his conversation with Jim Wilding coming back to him. ‘It’s not important.’ He glanced across and saw that the young woman was a little taken aback. ‘What is important,’ he added, repairing the damage, ‘is that my dream is to publish poetry.’