Gorgeous East

by null

  “You’re my last recruit forever,” Pinard continued. “Tonight’s the last night I have to take in all you shit-drunk idiots. So now I’m going to give you a piece of very good advice: Go home.”

  “I can’t.” Smith shook his head stubbornly.

  “It’s so bad, whatever you did?”

  Smith didn’t get the chance to respond. At that moment, the colonel’s door opened and Sergent-chef Pinard snapped to attention.

  “À vos ordres, mon colonel!” he announced to the pale man on the other side.

  Colonel Phillipe de Noyer arched an eyebrow. “Mets-toi au repos, Sergent-chef.”

  “Je me mets au repos à vos ordres, mon colonel,” the sergent-chef replied, standing at ease.

  The colonel was a wiry, bleached-looking man, probably in his midfifties, but his hair had gone completely white. He wore a Hugh Hefner–ish smoking jacket over silk pajamas; his black velvet slippers, monogrammed in glittery gold thread, looked like a present from a wife or mistress. His white hair and fair skin made a sharp contrast with the dark circles under eyes that were almost colorless, as clear as clear blue water in sunlight.

  “Un vrai ténor, mon colonel,” Sergent-chef Pinard said, and he handed over Smith’s rumpled CV and glossy. “Enfin.”

  Colonel de Noyer glanced through this material quickly, then Smith felt the man’s colorless eyes upon him:

  “Oui, évidemment,” the colonel murmured. “You do indeed look like an actor, Mr. Smith. But can you sing?” His precise Oxbridge-accented English suggested hours spent punting on the Cam, bank holiday weekends at country houses in Scotland. Just as there were Francophile Brits, there were Britophile Francs. The colonel was perhaps one of them.

  “I’m what they call a triple threat,” Smith interjected brightly. “But I would classify myself as a singer who can act and dance rather than an actor who can dance and sing. There’s a distinction.”

  A stunning blow to the solar plexus suddenly brought him to his knees. He looked up, gasping in pain, to see Sergent-chef Pinard looming over him, gone vicious in a split second.

  “On dit, ‘À vos ordres, mon colonel’! Mongol américain!” the sergent-chef spit through clenched teeth. “Et tenu au garde-à-vous! At attention, idiot!”

  But Colonel de Noyer intervened. “Tu peux disposer!” he commanded sharply.

  Sergent-chef Pinard drew back instantly, saluted, and marched off. Smith, watching him go, hoped he would never see the man again. The colonel helped Smith to his feet.

  “My adjutant is a highly disciplined Legionnaire,” he said. “And as such can’t tolerate anything less than crisp military behavior in his subordinates. I’m sure he forgot that you have yet to join our ranks officially. Allow me to apologize on his behalf for this unwarranted assault.”

  “No, no, it’s O.K.,” Smith said, rubbing his gut.

  “Should you persist in volunteering, you will most certainly receive harsher treatment, some would say sadistic treatment, at the hands of other NCOs much less humane than Pinard. Compared to most of them, he’s an absolute saint. I warn you, relentless and unfair punishments are usually handed out for the smallest infractions. But this is our way, the Legion way. In the Legion, brutality for the sake of discipline, for the sake of esprit du corps, is part of an honorable military tradition dating back one hundred and seventy-five years. Do you understand?”

  Smith said he did, though he didn’t really, and followed the colonel into his apartment.

  9.

  Bookcases lined the vaulted chamber, otherwise upholstered in dark green buttoned leather. Classical busts peered out sternly from niches amid the books. Family portraits, their varnish cracked and yellow, hung from braided ropes. A baby grand piano occupied most of the opposite end, by the windows. The glossy lid of this formidable instrument was strewn with sheet music, most of it—Smith saw with a glance—by the enigmatic Erik Satie. A silver-framed photograph showed a beautiful woman, very French-looking, posed in front of what looked like an ivy-covered château. Marbled notebooks thick with writing lay stacked on a small table. This was the room of a rich and polymathic dilettante, like something out of Proust or Phantom of the Opera. Smith gaped openly. He had never seen such a cultured space; an entire civilization contained between four walls. Only a stumpy-looking modern assault rifle leaning in the corner indicated the military vocation of the occupant.

  “The FAMAS 5.56 caliber,” the colonel said, following Smith’s gaze. “Called by journalists le clairon—the trumpet—for its size, and bulldog by soldiers for its vicious bite. Standard light arm of the Armée de Terre, including the Legion. Do you know this excellent rifle?”

  Smith shook his head.

  “Legionnaires learn to dismantle, clean, and reassamble it in less than two minutes, blindfolded, just by touch. They love it more than they love their own pricks. There is an expression with us—‘Ton femme c’est ton FAMAS.’ A pun that means ‘Your wife is your rifle. . . .’ ”

  The colonel nodded grimly to himself at this and sat down at the piano and drew his fingers lightly across the keyboard. Out beyond the ramparts, Nogent slept in the last hours before dawn. A damp wind washed the clouds from the sky. The moon hung low and fading just above the sinuous curves of a distant river, probably the Marne.

  “Americans make rotten Legionnaires, it’s true,” the colonel continued after a while. “They are far too attached to the idea of personal freedom. But the purely personal is dead in the Legion. Harsh discipline has killed it. Americans always demand to know the reasons behind their orders, as if every soldier must be justified in his heart whenever he shoots someone. How ridiculous! They demand to know why they are being sent to die on futile campaigns halfway around the world in the service of a people who hate them. And believe me, all good French people hate the Legion, Mr. Smith. My wife, for example, hates the Legion. The French hate the Legion as they hate the police and their butcher and any other petty fascist who does their bloody work for them.” He glanced up from the keys, an odd detachment in his pale eyes. “The American Legionnaire is the most likely of all to chuck months of expensive and rigorous training and simply”—he made a fluid gesture that meant desert, take it on the lam. Then: “You are a tenor?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you heard of la Musique Principale?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It is our corps of musicians, one of the most famous in the world. It is divided into two equal parts—the regimental marching band and the Chorale du Légion, the men’s chorus. Like the Russian army, we maintain a tradition of choral music, of men singing together. Last year, we won the silver medal at the International Choral Society’s competition in Moscow—this is our sixth silver medal, but it is not enough and my superiors grow restless. I happen to be the officer in charge of the chorale and next year, I would like to win the gold medal. The key to this victory is a really good top tenor. I am always searching for such a voice. Are you a good tenor, mon enfant?”

  “I am, sir,” Smith said.

  “Bon. Chantez quelque chose pour moi.”

  “Choral music isn’t exactly my specialty . . . ,” Smith equivocated. “Musical comedies. Broadway shows, that sort of thing.”

  “Sing,” Colonel de Noyer commanded. “Anything.”

  Smith racked his brain for something sufficiently martial and at last recalled a number from Cabaret, which he’d done with Mask and Bauble in the Legacy Theater at Cornell College. Smith cleared his throat, closed his eyes for a moment, and tried to insert himself in the scene again from the distance of fifteen years.

  A sweet-looking young man rises from among a crowd of jolly drinkers in a German beer garden and begins to sing an innocent pastorale that grows increasingly fervent. “Oh Fatherland, Fatherland, show us the sign your children have waited to see. . . .”

  And the red and black flags go up and the jolly beer drinkers start goose-stepping around and the sweet-looking young man strips off his coat with a flourish to
reveal the sinister armband of the Hitler Youth.

  Smith sang, cold, off the top of his head, without the benefit of vocal exercises or scales. He stumbled on the first verse but warmed after that. His voice, crackling and frail from disuse, quickly gathered strength. Colonel de Noyer watched critically, leaning on his piano. Smith put everything he had into the last verses, as much emotion as he could summon from his dried-up heart.

  “Bon,” the colonel said when he was finished. “Another one. Give me a range of what you can do. Stretch your voice.”

  Smith sang on, selections from Brigadoon, Oklahoma!, Guys and Dolls, Finian’s Rainbow, as dawn rose over Paris, over the Sacré-Coeur, gleaming on its hill for the sins of 1870; over the Trocadero and the golden dome of the Invalides. The audition ended; the strangest of Smith’s life. Colonel de Noyer gently closed the keyboard cover and rose to pace the room.

  “A fine voice,” he said. “Mes compliments. Truly professional quality. Technically perfect.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Smith said.

  “And yet—” The colonel stopped pacing. “Viva Paris!” he exclaimed.

  Smith looked at the man blankly. Was he crazy too? Was everyone crazy?

  “No, I’m not insane.” The colonel grinned. “At least not yet. What I’m talking about is art, Mr. Smith. Viva Paris—it’s a story Lorca tells. Do you know Lorca?”

  Smith nodded. “I played Leonardo in Blood Wedding off-off-Broadway.”

  “Lorca was a great aficionado of the flamenco, you see. He writes somewhere of a dancer, a beautiful, determined young woman who studied for many years and achieved a complete mastery of technique. There wasn’t a step she couldn’t execute, her gestures were perfect, everything done with vigor, absolutely nothing that could be criticized. She toured the provinces to great acclaim and at last came to the famous Alcazar in Madrid, where all the best flamenco artists must come sooner or later and where reputations are made or broken. All the critics were there that night, the newspapermen, the theater directors, the true aficiones. Lorca himself was there, though somewhat drunk. The house lights went down, the woman danced. She dominated the stage, absolutely . . .”

  The colonel paused, staring out the window into nothing.

  “So the dance ended. This was the moment when the applause rises up like thunder to heaven, where they cover the stage with roses. There was only silence. The dancer, no longer young, had spent years of her life, forsaken lovers, friends, family, to achieve this technical perfection. But technical perfection does not lie at the heart of flamenco or any other art. The dancer stood there, breathing heavily, covered in sweat, waiting for the applause, perhaps not understanding. At last, a single critic rose to his feet and began to clap his hands very deliberately.

  “ ‘Viva Paris,’ he called out. ‘Viva Paris.’

  “And the entire audience took up this chant, which was the greatest insult imaginable coming from these passionate Spaniards, these lovers of flamenco. To them Paris represented all that was slick and professional, all glitter and no heart and full of false glamour—qualities Catholic priests usually attribute to the devil. The dancer fled the stage of the Alcazar, crushed. She ran to the nearest bridge and threw herself over the side. Those who witnessed this leap said it was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen. She seemed to fly like a bird, inscribing a beautiful, flaming arc in her red flamenco dress against the blue sky. One would like to think that she had finally dispensed with perfect technique and become a part of the dance she sought to master. Unfortunately this was her last act. She went under and was swept away by the waters of the Manzanares. Her body was never found.”

  Colonel de Noyer returned to his piano when he had finished this monologue and resumed playing his Satie. Smith remained silent, a chill running up his spine.

  “Is that a true story?” Smith said at last.

  “More or less.”

  “You’re talking about my singing.”

  The colonel stopped playing. “Your voice is impeccable, like the flamenco dancer’s steps, Mr. Smith, and cannot be criticized. But there is—how should I put it—too much ego involved.”

  Smith didn’t say anything.

  “And there is something lacking, something essential to an artist. Duende, the Spanish called it—the term is untranslatable because it has no precise meaning. Joy, spontaneity, soul, passion—all these words come close, but not quite. Maybe the Legion can teach you a bit of duende, I don’t know. But let me ask you a question now. A very important question. Why do you want to do this terrible thing to yourself?”

  “Which terrible thing?”

  “The Legion, Mr. Smith.”

  “I have my reasons,” Smith said.

  “As does everyone,” the colonel replied dryly. “However, it appears from your CV that you’ve made a reasonably successful career on the musical stage in America. For your sake I urge you to spare yourself much pain and suffering and return to it.”

  “Not much of a career these days,” Smith confessed. “I had a few lucky breaks early on, but I haven’t worked much in the last couple of years. Talent just isn’t enough in New York anymore. You need to have the right connections. I don’t have any connections, not really. I’m from Iowa, my family’s from Iowa, for generations. And my agent dumped me and I can’t seem to get another one. I’ve been to a dozen open casting calls since last November, but”—he shook his head—“nothing. I’ve failed. I’m a loser.”

  “And you are also an idiot!” Colonel de Noyer snapped. “The Legion deserves its reputation as an army of the damned! A home to murderers, thieves, drug addicts, sodomites! Men whose only alternative is prison or suicide. You may have failed in New York, as you say, but are you one of these?”

  Smith looked away. He refused to answer.

  “Ah . . .” The colonel nodded thoughtfully. “I will tell you why men such as yourself seek out the Legion. Not at all for the reasons they say—to find adventure, to escape from failure, or bury a broken heart. These things are a subterfuge. The real reason is because they wish to punish themselves for being themselves, for being a stupid drunk or for being a coward or for having done nothing of value with their lives. Or worst of all, for having no honor. Well, if it’s punishment you seek, mon enfant, you have come to the exact right place. Your perfect voice will earn you no special treatment. You will suffer the same harsh discipline as your comrades. The Legion will abuse you as you’ve never experienced—physical, mental, spiritual punishment. Tell me, truthfully, is it punishment you seek?”

  “Yes,” Smith whispered, his eyes downcast. He could barely hear his own voice.

  “And why do you desire this punishment?”

  “Because . . .” There was a woman, he wanted to say. Because I caused her death. Because I was weak and selfish. Because I raped her. . . . Smith looked up. None of this was exactly right.

  “Because I have no honor,” he said.

  Their eyes met. Colonel de Noyer nodded sadly. Then he rose and kissed Smith on both cheeks.

  “Welcome to the Legion.”

  10.

  Morning light shone through the barred windows of the Legion recruitment office at the Fort de Nogent. The hum of early traffic flowed along distant boulevards in another world. Then came the blare of a lone bugler playing the reveille over the fort’s loudspeakers and the groans of belligerent, exhausted men and the clank and scrape of water through rusty pipes sounding like prison doors rasping shut forever.

  Smith, his voice hoarse from so much unaccustomed vocal exercise, returned to Sergent-chef Pinard, whom he had hoped in vain never to see again, and was taken by two subalterns into a side room where, for the second time in three weeks, his possessions and clothes were stripped from him, even his underwear and socks. Nude, he was issued a pair of unwashed denim overalls that stank of human sweat and rancid French cigarettes, and the same sort of Chinese-made sneakers without laces that had been given to him in jail in Istanbul—the mandatory footwear, he guessed,
of desperate men.

  Sergent-chef Pinard entered and handed him a two-page contract printed on thin blue paper in French, which Smith couldn’t read.

  “What does it say?” Smith said, though he knew he would sign even if the contract stipulated his soul henceforth belonged to the devil.

  “It says the next five years are for the Legion,” the sergent-chef said wearily. “It says you’re fucked, so shut up, mongol américain, and sign.”

  Smith signed in three places, then the contract was torn away from him and replaced with a large pink card with the words NOM DE GUERRE printed at the top.

  “Write a new name,” Pinard said. “You can be whoever you want. And a new birthday. Write it down.”

  Smith hesitated. This was l’anonymat, one of the sacred traditions of the French Foreign Legion: Every volunteer would be received into its ranks with a blank slate, name and identity taken from him, past crimes erased. Here as nowhere else on earth—such was the legend—a man would be given the chance to redeem himself. Smith knew he had been lazy, weak, and stupid, but mostly weak. He tried to think up a new name that would characterize his terrible weakness of soul and, after a long minute’s reflection, wrote CASPAR P. MILQUETOAST in large block letters.

  “What’s today’s date?” He looked up at the sergent-chef.

  “Le premier Avril.”

  “Perfect,” Smith said. “April Fools’ Day.”

  He put down April 1, 1977, as his birthday, thus shaving off the last two and a half miserable years of his life and making himself thirty again. That should be about right, he thought, before Jessica and I went to Istanbul. He handed the pink card back to Sergent-chef Pinard, who folded it in half and put it in his pocket.

  “You are an idiot,” Pinard said. “You will bring the Legion no good.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Smith said, then Pinard turned away with a disgusted grunt and Smith was led away, humming a line from “Fascinating Rhythm”—Oh, how I long to be the man I used to be!—to himself for courage. The subalterns marched him out a side door and down a flagstone path into a large, decrepit gymnasium. Here, canvas and wood fencing dummies, relics from those days when every gentleman officer was obliged to maintain a thorough knowledge of swordsmanship, lay stacked in moldering heaps around the central beams. Pigeons rustled in the rafters near broken clerestory windows. Grimy green paint, probably lead-based and toxic, peeled in long strips off the walls.