‘To the health of the Préfet!’ shouts Lionel de Zieff. He staggers and collapses onto the piano. The glass has slipped from his hands. Monsieur Philibert thumbs through a dossier along with Paulo Hayakawa and Baruzzi. The Chapochnikoff brothers busy themselves at the Victrola. Simone Bouquereau gazes at herself in the mirror.
Die Nacht
Die Musik
Und dein Mund
hums Baroness Lydia, doing a quick dance.
‘Anyone for a session of sexuo-divine paneurhythmy?’ Ivanoff the Oracle whinnies, his voice like a stallion.
The Khedive eyes them mournfully. ‘They’ll address me as Monsieur le Préfet.’ He raises his voice: ‘Monsieur le Préfet de police!’ He bangs 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, mon petit, I have need of your presence, such a sensitive boy, 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, caressing 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 indigo eyes widen, her complexion slowly pales to ashen. Violette Morris has taken a seat on the velvet sofa next to Frau Sultana. Both women have extended the palms of their white hands to Ivanoff’s gaze.
‘The price of tungsten has gone up,’ Baruzzi announces. ‘I can get you a good deal. I’ve got a little sideline with Guy Max in the purchasing office on Rue Villejust.’
‘I thought he only dealt in textiles,’ says Monsieur Philibert.
‘He’s changed his line,’ says Hayakawa. ‘Sold all of his stock to Macias-Reoyo.’
‘Maybe you’d rather raw hides?’ asks Baruzzi. ‘The price of box calf has gone up a hundred francs.’
‘Odicharvi mentioned three tons of worsted he wants to get rid of. I thought of you, Philibert.’
‘I can have thirty-six thousand decks of cards delivered to you by morning . . . You’ll get the top price for them. Now’s the time. They launched their Schwerpunkt Aktion at the beginning of the month.’
Ivanoff is intent on the palm of the Marquise.
‘Quiet!’ shouts Violette Morris. ‘The Oracle is predicting her future. Quiet!’
‘What do you think of that, mon petit?’ the Khedive asks me. ‘Ivanoff rules women with his rod. Though his fame is not exactly iron! They can’t do without him. Mystics, mon cher. And he plays it to the hilt! The old fool!’ He rests his elbows on the edge of the balcony. Below is a peaceful square of the kind you only find in the 16th arrondissement. The street lights cast a strange blue glow on the foliage and the bandstand. ‘Did you know, mon fils, that before the war this grand house we’re in belonged to M. de Bel-Respiro?’ (His voice is increasingly subdued.) ‘In a cabinet, I found some letters that he wrote his wife and children. A real family man. Look, that’s him there.’ He gestures to a full-length portrait hanging between the two windows. ‘M. de Bel-Respiro in the flesh wearing his Spahi officer’s uniform. Look at all those medals! There’s a model Frenchman for you!’
‘A square mile of rayon?’ offers Baruzzi. ‘I’ll sell it to you dirt cheap. Five tons of biscuits? The freight cars have been impounded at the Spanish border. You’ll have no problem getting them released. All I ask is a small commission, Philibert.’
The Chapochnikoff brothers prowl around the Khedive, not daring to speak to him. Zieff is sleeping with his mouth open. Frau Sultana and Violette Morris are hanging on Ivanoff’s every word: astral flux . . . sacred pentagram . . . grains of sustenance from the nourishing earth . . . great cosmic waves . . . incantatory paneu-rhythmy . . . Betelgeuse . . . But Simone Bouquereau presses her forehead up against the mirror.
‘I’m not interested in any of these financial schemes,’ interrupts Monsieur Philibert.
Disappointed, Baruzzi and Hayakawa tango across the room to the chair where Lionel de Zieff is sleeping and shake his shoulder to wake him. Monsieur Philibert thumbs through a dossier, pencil in hand.
‘You see, mon petit,’ the Khedive resumes (he looks as though he is about to burst into tears), ‘I never had any education. After my father died, I was alone and I spent the night sleeping on his grave. It was bitter cold, that night. At fourteen, the reformatory in Eysses . . . penal military unit . . . Fresnes Prison. . . . The only people I met were louts like myself . . . Life . . .’
‘Wake up, Lionel!’ shrieks 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 and mops his forehead with a light-blue handkerchief. ‘Whatever you like, as long we can eat until we’re stuffed fit to burst. I’ve filled out nicely these last two months, don’t you think? It feels good, now that rationing is here to stay.’ He lumbers over to the sofa and slips his hand into Frau Sultana’s blouse. She squirms and slaps him as hard as she can. Ivanoff gives a faint snicker. ‘Anything you say, boys,’ Zieff repeats in a grating voice. ‘Anything you say.’ ‘Is everything arranged for tomorrow morning, Lionel?’ asks Hayakawa. ‘Can I confirm it with Schiedlausky? We’ll throw in a truckload of rubber.’
Sitting at the piano, Monsieur Philibert pensively fingers a few notes.
‘And yet, mon petit,’ the Khedive resumes his tale, ‘I’ve always longed for respectability. Please don’t confuse me with the characters you see here . . .’
Simone Bouquereau is in front of the mirror, putting on her make-up. Violette Morris and Frau Sultana have their eyes closed. The Oracle, it would appear, is calling upon the celestial bodies. The Chapochnikoff brothers hover around the piano. One of them is winding up the metronome, the other hands Monsieur Philibert a book of sheet music.
‘Take Lionel de Zieff for example,’ hisses the Khedive. ‘The stories I could tell you about that shark! And about Baruzzi! Or Hayakawa! Every last one of them! Ivanoff? A sleazy blackmailer! And Baroness Lydia Stahl is nothing but a whore!’
Monsieur Philibert riffles through the sheet music. From time to time he drums out the rhythm. The Chapochnikoff brothers glance at him fearfully.
‘So you see, mon petit,’ the Khedive continues, ‘the rats have made the most of recent ‘events’ to come out into the open. Indeed, I myself . . . But that’s another story. Appearances can be deceptive. Before long, I will be welcoming the most respectable people in Paris. They will address me as Monsieur le Préfet! MONSIEUR LE PRÉFET DE POLICE, do you understand?’ He turns around and points to the full-length portrait. ‘Me! In my Spahi officer’s uniform! Look at those decorations! The Légion d’honneur. The Order of the Holy Sepulchre, the Order of Saint George from Russia, the Order of Prince Danilo from Montenegro, the Order of the Tower and Sword from Portugal. Why should I envy Monsieur de Bel-Respiro? I could give him a run for his money!’
He clicks his heels.
Suddenly, silence.
Monsieur Philibert is playing a waltz. The cascade of notes hesitates, unfolds, then breaks like a wave over the dahlias and the orchids. He sits ramrod straight. His eyes are closed.
‘Hear that, mon petit?’ asks the Khedive. ‘Just look at his hands! Pierre can play for hours. He never gets cramp. The man is an artist!’
Frau Sultana is nodding gently. The opening chords roused her from her torpor. Violette Morris gets to her feet and all alone she waltzes the length of the living room. Paulo Hayakawa and Baruzzi have fallen silent. The Chapochnikoff brothers listen, mouths agape. Even Zieff seems mesmerized by Monsieur Philibert’s hands as they flutter feverishly over the keyboard. Ivanoff juts his chin, stares at the ceiling. Only Simone Bouquereau carries on as if nothing has happened, putting the finishing touches to her make-up in the Venetian mirror.
Hunched low over the keys, his eyes squeezed shut, Monsieur Philibert pounds the chords with all
of his strength. His playing becomes more and more impassioned.
‘Like it, mon petit?’ asks the Khedive.
Monsieur Philibert has slammed the lid of the piano shut. He gets to his feet, rubbing his hands, and strides over to the Khedive. After a pause:
‘We just brought someone in, Henri. Distributing leaflets. We caught him red-handed. Breton and Reocreux are in the cellar giving him a good going over.’
The others are still dazed from the waltz. Silent, motionless, they stand precisely where the music left them.
‘I was just telling the boy about you, Pierre,’ murmurs the Khedive. ‘Telling him what a sensitive boy you are, a terpsichorean, a virtuoso, an artist . . .’
‘Thank you, Henri. It’s all true, but you know how I despise big words. You should have told this young man that I am a policeman, no more, no less.’
‘The finest flatfoot in France! And I’m quoting a cabinet minister!’
‘That was a long time ago, Henri.’
‘In those days, Pierre, I would have been afraid of you. Inspector Philibert! Fearsome! When they make me préfet de police, I’ll appoint you commissaire, my darling.’
‘Shut up!’
‘But you love me all the same?’
A scream. Then two. Then three. Loud and shrill. Monsieur Philibert glances at his watch. ‘Three quarters of an hour already. He’s bound to crack soon. I’ll go and check.’ The Chapochnikoff brothers follow close on his heels. The others – it would appear – heard nothing.
‘You are truly divine,’ Paulo Hayakawa tells Baroness Lydia, proffering a glass of champagne. ‘Really?’ Frau Sultana and Ivanoff are gazing into each other’s eyes. Baruzzi is creeping wolfishly towards Simone Bouquereau, but Zieff trips him up. Baruzzi upsets a vase of dahlias as he falls. ‘So you’ve decided to play the ladies’ man? Ignoring your beloved Lionel?’ He bursts out laughing and fans himself with his light-blue handkerchief.
‘It’s the guy they arrested,’ murmurs the Khedive, ‘the one handing out pamphlets. They’re working him over. He’s bound to crack soon, mon petit. Would you like to watch?’ ‘A toast to the Khedive!’ roars Lionel de Zieff. ‘To Inspector Philibert!’ adds Paulo Hayakawa, idly caressing the Baroness’ neck. A scream. Then two. A lingering sob.
‘Talk or die!’ bellows the Khedive.
The others pay no attention. Excepting Simone Bouquereau, still touching up her make-up in the mirror. She turns, her great violet eyes devouring her face. A streak of lipstick across her chin.
We could still make out the music for a few minutes more. It faded as we reached the junction at Cascades. I was driving. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda were huddled together in the passenger seat. We glided along the Route des Lacs. Hell begins as we leave the Bois de Boulogne: Boulevard Lannes, Boulevard Flandrin, Avenue Henri-Martin. This is the most fearsome residential section in the whole of Paris. The silence that once upon a time reigned here after eight o’clock, was almost reassuring. A bourgeois silence of plush velvet and propriety. One could almost see the families gathered in the drawing room after dinner. These days, there’s no knowing what goes on behind the high dark walls. Once in a while, a car passed, its headlights out. I was afraid it might stop and block our way.
We took the Avenue Henri-Martin. Esmeralda was half-asleep. After eleven o’clock, little girls have a hard time keeping their eyes open. Coco Lacour was toying with the dashboard, turning the radio dial. Neither of them had any idea just how fragile was their happiness. I was the only one who worried about it. We were three children making our way through ominous shadows in a huge 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 raid private houses and confiscate objects of art: Second Empire hôtels particuliers, eighteenth-century ‘follies’, turn-of-the-century buildings with stained-glass windows, faux-châteaux in the gothic style. These days, their sole occupant was a terrified caretaker, overlooked by the owner in his flight. I’d ring the doorbell, flash my warrant card and search 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. Maman used to tell me: ‘You get the friends you deserve.’ To which I’d always reply that men are much too garrulous for my taste, that I can’t stand the babble of blowflies that stream out of their mouths. It gives me a headache. Takes my breath away – and I’m short enough of breath already. The Lieutenant, for example, could talk the hind legs off a donkey. Every time I step into his office, he gets to his feet and with an ‘Ah, my young friend,’ or ‘Ah, mon petit’ he starts his spiel. After that, words come tumbling in a torrent so swift he scarcely has time to articulate them. The verbal torrent briefly abates, only to wash over me again a minute later. His voice grows increasingly shrill. Before long he’s chirping, the words choking in his throat. He taps his foot, waves his arms, twitches, hiccups, then suddenly becomes morose and lapses back into a monotone. He invariably concludes with: ‘Balls, my boy!’ uttered in an exhausted whisper.
The first time we met, he said: ‘I need you. We’ve got serious work to do. I work in the shadows alongside my men. Your mission is to infiltrate the enemy and to report back – as discreetly as possible – about what the bastards are up to.’ He made a clear distinction between us: he and his senior officers reaped the honour and the glory. The spying and the double-dealing fell to me. That night, re-reading the Anthology of Traitors from Alcibiades to Captain Dreyfus, it occurred to me that my particular disposition was well-suited to double-dealing and – why not? – to treason. Not enough moral fibre to be a hero. Too dispassionate and distracted to be a real villain. On the other hand, I was malleable, I had a fondness for action, and I was plainly good-natured.
We were driving along Avenue Kléber. Coco Lacour was yawning. Esmeralda had nodded off, her little head lolling against my shoulder. It’s high time they were in bed. Avenue Kléber. That other night we had taken the same route after leaving L’Heure Mauve, a cabaret club on the Champs-Élysées. A rather languid crowd were grouped together in red velvet booths or perched on bar stools: Lionel de Zieff, Costachesco, Lussatz, Méthode, Frau Sultana, Odicharvi, Lydia Stahl, Otto da Silva, the Chapochnikoff brothers . . . Hot, muggy twilight. The trailing scent of Egyptian perfumes. Yes, there were still a few small islands in Paris where people tried to ignore ‘the disaster lately occurred’, where a pre-war hedonism and frivolity festered. Contemplating all those faces, I repeated to myself a phrase I had read somewhere: ‘Brash vulgarity 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 Monsieur Philibert led me outside. A white Bentley was parked at the foot of Rue Marbeuf. They sat next to the chauffeur while I sat in the back. The street lights spewed a soft bluish glow.
‘Don’t worry,’ the Khedive said, nodding at the driver. ‘Eddy has eyes like a cat.’
‘Just now,’ Monsieur Philibert said to me, taking me by the arm, ‘there are all sorts of opportunities just waiting for a young man. You just need to make the best of the situation, and I’m ready to help you, my boy. These are dangerous times we live in. Your hands are pale and slender, and you have a delicate sensibility. Be careful. I have only one piece of advice to offer: don’t play the hero. Keep your head down. Work with us. It’s either that, or martyrdom or the sanatorium.’ ‘A little casual double-crossing, for example – might that be of interest?’ the Khedive asked. ‘Very handsomely rewarded,’ added Monsieur Philibert. ‘. . . and absolutely legal. We’ll supply you with a warrant card and a gun licence.’ ‘All you need do is infiltrate an underground network so we can break it up. You would keep us in
formed about the activities of the gentlemen in question.’ ‘As long as you’re careful, they won’t suspect you.’ ‘I think you inspire confidence.’ ‘You look as though butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.’ ‘And you have a pretty smile.’ ‘And beautiful eyes, my boy!’ ‘Traitors always have honest eyes.’ The torrent of words was flowing faster. By the end I had the feeling that they were talking at once. Swarms of blue butterflies fluttering from their mouths . . . They could have anything they asked for – informer, hired killer, anything – if they would only shut up once in a while and let me sleep. Spy, turncoat, killer, butterflies...
‘We’re taking you to our new headquarters,’ Monsieur Philibert decided. ‘An hôtel particulier at 3 bis Cimarosa Square.’ ‘We’re having a little housewarming,’ added the Khedive. ‘With all our friends.’ ‘“Home, Sweet Home”,’ hummed Monsieur Philibert.
As I stepped into the living room, the ominous phrase came back to me: ‘A brash vulgarity reeks of betrayal and murder . . .’ The gang were all there. With each passing moment, new faces appeared: Danos, Codébo, Reocreux, Vital-Léca, Robert le Pâle... The Chapochnikoff brothers poured champagne for everyone. ‘Shall we have a little tête-à-tête?’ the Khedive whispered to me. ‘So, what do you think? You’re white as a ghost. Would you care for a drink?’ He handed me a champagne glass filled to the brim with some pink liquid. ‘You see . . .’ he said, throwing open the French doors and leading me on to the balcony, ‘ . . . from today I am master of an empire. We are no longer talking about acting as a reserve police force. This is going to be big business! Five hundred pimps and touts in our employ! Philibert will help me with the administrative side. I have made the most of the extraordinary events we have endured these past few months.’ The air was so muggy it fogged the living-room windows. Someone brought me another glass of pink liquid, which I drank, stifling an urge to retch. ‘And what is more . . .’ – he stroked my cheek with the back of his hand – ‘you can advise me, guide me once in a while. I’ve had no education.’ (His voice had dropped to a whisper.) ‘At fourteen, the reformatory in Eysses . . . the penal military unit overseas . . . obscurity . . . But I crave respectability, don’t you see?’ His eyes blazed. Viciously: ‘One day soon I shall be préfet de police. They’ll address me as MONSIEUR LE PRÉFET!’ He hammers both fists on the balcony railing: ‘MONSIEUR LE PRÉFET . . . MONSIEUR LE PRÉ-FET!’ and immediately his eyes glazed and he stared into the middle distance.
The Night Watch Page 2