L'Affaire

by Diane Johnson

  ‘I’m afraid I have no influence with either my wife or l’Américaine,’ said Emile. ‘In fact, they both think ill of me. The American has no particular reason to think well of me, but it’s rather a more wounding attitude from one’s wife.’

  ‘I’m sure she would listen to you,’ Géraldine said. ‘Telephone her. Just explain to her it’s haunted, or needs a new roof, it can’t be in her best interests to buy it, a single woman.’

  The other phone call was to Otto von Schteussel. ‘You remember my young friend Amy – the party in her honor last week? I feel she may need some expert advice.’ She told him of Amy’s unwise idea, and suggested that the impulsive Californian had need of counsel that could result in him finding her a more suitable property. It was a challenge no real estate agent could have ignored.

  ‘Give me the name of the notaire. I may have a client myself for a property such as that, but I will need more information.’ Otto assured her, ‘I’ll talk to Miss Hawkins. I think these Americans often don’t know what they’re getting into.’

  39

  Amy took the train from the Gare de Lyon, excited, charged with dreams of doing a really amazing thing, whatever the château turned out to look like. A country property in France! It could even become the seat of the Mutual Aid Foundation. Would there be a swimming pool? Monsieur de Persand, so rude at first, now so solicitous, had telephoned the notaire, who would be waiting for her at the train station, and had booked the hotel so that she could have a good look around the village and countryside and see the château at various times of day and evening. The price? Sigrid had refused to believe that, at a price so low, it could be anything worth having. She also had strong reservations about the wisdom of buying foreign property with war shadows and international misunderstandings rampant. Amy paid no attention to these last objections.

  ‘Amy, just get out. The situation is changing fast.’

  ‘Really, everything’s fine.’

  The landscape was flat and welcoming as they left Paris, streaking by at twice the speed of little autos on the freeways they passed. She was struck by the simplicity of the villages, the country train stations gone in a wink as they hurtled by, too fast to read their names. Heaps of old tires and junked cars marred the byways – it might be America, it might be anywhere. Hills and rocky cairns developed, stately aqueducts with Roman arches were glimpsed snaking onward, electrical pylons loomed above, and an odd ruin lay atop every conspicuous hill. Her heart yearned toward each of them, any of them, castles. One to be hers. Perhaps mere acquisition could indeed overcome defects of character and yearnings of the heart – she who had never cared about real estate.

  She was making a mental list of the advantages of French over American, and American over French, civilization: France had trains, fromage frais, the garbage was collected every day… America had Quaker Oats, and the stores were open on Sunday… The agreeable dreamy mood she had fallen into was abruptly interrupted by arrival, a voice announcing that there would be one minute’s stop. She picked up her little case and leapt out.

  Maître Lepage and Monsieur Delamer were standing together on the platform and had evidently been alerted to look for a tallish American blonde. In any case, she was almost the only person to alight, and they confidently presented themselves. Maître Lepage was roundish and wore a knitted vest. Monsieur Delamer, gaunt and attractive, wore an overcoat. It was clear that they were delighted that a posssible buyer had appeared so early in the estate-settling process.

  ‘Thanks so much for letting me come down on such short notice,’ she said.

  ‘Merci d’être venue,’ they said. Would she like some coffee? To leave her overnight case at the hotel? In the event, they drove directly to the ‘château,’ as she thought of it, or ‘Mr Venn’s house,’ as they called it in their careful English. It lay outside the village of Saint-Gond. Amy had not thought for months of her original intention to learn something about her European heritage, but now it occurred to her that her forbears could have come from someplace like this village of small stone and stucco structures, with tile roofs and ivied courtyards, a stream running through, a mill, all reminding her of jigsaw-puzzle scenes of country life. A few stout citizens stood around in front of the mairie, a pair of elderly men chatted outside the rather self-consciously charming small hotel, where Delamer indicated Amy would be staying. Details of gentrification began to consolidate under her closer scrutiny – antique shop, boutique of La Perla lingerie, pâtisserie, real estate office.

  The house, or château, didn’t conform to Amy’s idea of a castle, certainly; it was a rectangular three-story structure with a mansard roof of slate tiles, and a tower at one corner that appeared to be older. She inadvertently thought of Gatsby and William Randolph Hearst, Americans with castles, icons of acquisitiveness and delusions of grandeur. Luckily, this place was somewhat smaller than certain houses recently built near Palo Alto, and the price was lower – a modest place, really, for a girl in her situation, more of a big house than a castle. Its modesty was a relief.

  ‘The tower dates from the fourteenth century, the rest from the seventeenth,’ Maître Lepage was saying. ‘The other tower fell down.’ Small weeds had everywhere begun to volunteer. The walls gave off a smell of damp stone. History! In truth it looked somewhat bleak, but Amy knew at once that she would buy it, no matter what it was like inside. How bad could it be? Maître Lepage sorted out his keys and they advanced across the gravel to the door.

  Amy went through the rooms in something of a daze, room after room, none very pretty, some without furniture, some in disorder, with little appraisers’ tickets dangling from chairs and picture frames. The wintry March light flowed in through the tall windows, the fireplaces were empty of ash or andiron. Harry’s toys in the corner of the dining room, an ugly table, the kitchen bare and large, innumerable bedrooms where books were stacked in boxes – unsold back stock from the press, Delamer explained – and several office rooms, Adrian Venn’s desk, his books. This was her first impression of Adrian Venn as he had been when he was a living person, someone who had looked at these pictures on his walls, his newspaper still folded on the sill where he must have stood to gaze out on his vineyard. Or perhaps it was his ghost she was feeling now. If she believed in ghosts, she would have to agree, one lived here, and it must be his, or that of some earlier inhabitant who had died, like Venn, discontented. She could feel the clammy breeze of his presence through the leaky window frame.

  She, of course, would have the tower, Harry his room again, Kerry (the horrible) her old rooms, Rupert and Victoire – but they would decide, it was not up to her, she was not making the same mistake again of interfering with their lives, she would just raise the possibility that they might want to carry on the press, the vineyard. She followed the two men out to the vineyard office, through the barn and tiny tasting room, into the low modern metal building that held the press. To a person of her general administrative competence, it raised no warning flags of difficulty. The peculiar form of desire aroused by real estate had begun for the first time in her life to course through her blood.

  Mr Delamer had made a reservation for lunch at Amy’s hotel. She took her case up to her room, washed her face, and came back down again into the tiny bar–dining room. Mr Delamer and Maître Lepage stood at the bar with snifters of something, but Amy was riveted, stupefied by what she saw beyond them in the doorway, the baron Otto coming in, looking almost ludicrously Teutonic in his loden coat with its shiny buttons and his Austrian green hat. Though he had looked very natural in the Alps, here he seemed a figure from an operetta.

  He seemed as surprised as she, but delighted, and greeted her warmly, but formally – ‘Miss Hawkins!’ – and ceremoniously introduced himself to Maître Lepage, with whom he had an appointment. Of course he would join them for lunch. He could see the château after lunch, and Miss Hawkins might want to see it again too.

  Throughout lunch, a slow sense of anxiety began to dominate Amy’s emotions.
What did the baron want to see the château for? Unless by some chance Géraldine had sent him to give her his expert opinion, it was his profession of real estate developer that worried her. Visions of schools, hotels, spas, deluxe apartments remodelled as weekend time-share condos, nearly spoiled her appetite for a delicious blanquette de veau. It didn’t escape her that this feeling about the château was stronger than her memory of her connection to Otto; did acquisitiveness trump discomfort after all?

  She returned to the château in the afternoon with the notary, Maître Lepage, and the baron, who inspected with minute interest each corridor and closet, shaking his head and deploring the things he found. Ominous water stains had drawn him to the roof; she had not noticed them. He had a knack for discovering broken panes and walls deteriorated down to the lath. Amy watched from the window as he climbed partway onto the roof, resisting an impulse to hold on to his shirttail.

  ‘Missing an enormous number of slates,’ he reported. Maître Lepage agreed that things had been neglected, but not, he insisted, to a dangerous degree. All of Otto’s reactions seemed to Amy too negative – he shook his head over the spool and wire electricity in parts of the building, the inadequacy of the radiators, which had been installed in the thirties, and at the age of the furnace. She was happy there was one. In Amy’s tower he pointed out that there was daylight to be seen through the ceiling. He seemed impervious to the charm of the main staircase and the little chapel room.

  ‘There is a one-star restaurant a few kilometers from here,’ he said at the end of the afternoon. ‘I propose we not eat at the hotel. I have my car.’ She recognized the car, still with its ski rack, and spattered from the melting snow.

  Over dinner, he said, ‘I have considerable experience with these older properties, I know what to look for, and I would advise you to avoid this one, Amy. The roof –’

  ‘So nice of you to have a look,’ she said.

  ‘The roof alone a crippling investment. I think you can find something for the money with considerably more charm. There is a lot on the market much better; I have a couple of listings myself. You should look at comparable properties, not just grab this one. I think it’s no bargain.’

  ‘I’m sure I ought to look at other things,’ Amy agreed.

  ‘Then, Amy, as your friend I suppose I can advise you, it’s not something for one person to take on. I have a group, builders, construction people – I could think of it, but for you, not knowing France – frankly, folly.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she said, certain he was right, her heart fastening on the château with more determination.

  ‘It’s a terrible idea. More wine?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Also, no bank is going to lend you the money for it. Not without a business plan. Why do you want this building, by the way?’ Amy could not say, and now had begun to wonder what he foresaw for after dinner. Fennie, after all, was not here. ‘And your budget? A mortgage? Private terms? What did you envision?’

  ‘Perhaps at the right price…? I thought I’d offer less than the asking price, on account of the roof,’ she said. ‘Would you advise that?’

  ‘I commend the principle, of course, but not here. Rarely have I seen such a lack of distinction in a château. I would hate to see you make a mistake by buying it, at any price.’

  Could Otto be sincere? Perhaps he didn’t want it for himself as a school, clinic, small hotel? Perhaps he only wanted to spare her? In fact, she decided, all his dealings with her had been kindly meant. Though she had been drawn to her image of him as worldly Eurotrash aristocrat, he was only a kindly, if portly, normally sensual businessman, if that was not an oxymoron. She began to feel friendlier toward him again. Still, as they drove to the hotel, Amy again began to think once more about how to handle any possible awkwardness, unable to formulate any actual objections to another little passage with the baron, but most unwilling to face one all the same. She would tell him how he had wounded her the night after her party. These concerns were drowned in astonishment, however, when they walked from the little gravel parking lot behind the hotel toward the front door just in time to observe Emile Abboud getting out of a taxi.

  But of course, Emile’s visit must have something to do with the château and the estate. He seemed surprised and not particularly pleased to see them, recognizing the baron from Géraldine’s party if not from Valméri. Amy was embarrassed to think he must believe she and the baron were here having a romantic weekend in a little country inn. Her color rose to think what he must think. ‘Yes, I have some matters to see the notaire about,’ he said. ‘And you?’

  ‘I came down to see about, um, investing in the château,’ she said.

  ‘Investment seems such a puritan justification. Can’t you just want something and buy it?’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re always talking about me and my national characteristics as if Americans were all puritans and all the same. Have you ever been to America?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Emile.

  ‘I have,’ remarked the baron Otto. ‘Several times to New York and once to Florida.’

  ‘I’ll get them to give me some supper, if it’s not too late,’ Emile said. ‘Won’t you join me, the two of you, have a digestif ? I suppose you’ve dined already.’

  Amy, seeing her chance to escape being alone with the baron, eagerly acceded. Seeing Emile had animated every conclusion about him that had plagued her during the past weeks, sexual turmoil and also her disturbing sense of a person she wanted as a friend. They took a table in the bar, and Emile waved for Madame the barman/cook. Otto and Amy had brandies, Otto handing Amy hers from waitress’s little tray with an almost proprietorial assurance. Amy’s heart began to pound with the desire that Otto go to bed and leave her alone with Emile, to whom she had as usual already said something combative – to whom, she could understand very clearly, she wanted to be very nice indeed. She wanted to sleep with him. Was there a chance of this?

  ‘Falling down, a ruin, a catastrophe,’ Otto began to describe his professional opinion of the state of the château, she supposed, but it could be a description of her uneasy mental condition. Otto settled in for an elaborate real-estate chat.

  ‘We should have a bottle from the estate vineyard, I’m afraid I don’t know what it’s called,’ Emile said. He asked the woman, who brought a bottle, conducting a jocular discussion in French that Amy couldn’t follow.

  ‘I wonder whether in general Prince Kropotkin would have approved of your project of buying the château and establishing the Venn heirs there. This would not be unlike Godwinian anarchism, but more like a monarchy,’ said Emile, with a smile. The words and the smile smote her heart directly. She knew he was intending them to, the allusion to the prince a direct message. She felt jubilation and panic in about equal proportion.

  ‘I hope she will not buy it. I have strongly advised against it,’ Otto said. Fortune hunter, he said to himself indignantly of Emile, guessing what he thought was Emile’s game, to influence Amy to buy the château and set his wife up there. And he was probably trying to sleep with Amy into the bargain – why else confront her here in an isolated hotel? Shameless. His chivalrous nature, such a natural part of his métier of real estate man, was stirred, and of course his affection for Amy.

  Of course I won’t buy it, Amy was thinking. Cold rooms, bricks, moats, are not for me. It was suddenly clear what she wanted, or, rather, clear that the château would never provide it, things would probably go wrong the way her other forms of helping had gone wrong. Instead of disappointing her, this moment of realism and self-discovery – could it lead to others? – was liberating, exhilarating, and told her that the heart has its directions you did ill to disregard, even if you must occasionally overule it. Her heart was fixed on Emile, so that it could be broken, and feelings, sadness, passion, all could rush into the breach. Her excitement grew.

  ‘Communal living was an approved form of mutual aid, but he would have wished us to o
wn the property in common, which is going a bit far,’ she said. ‘I’m too much a capitalist for that.’ Go to bed, Baron Otto. Emile, too, was gazing with something like exasperation at Baron Otto, who was calling for a beer. The baron for his part had begun to respond rather coldly to Emile and Amy’s prattle, clearly irritated by the presence of Emile and baffled by it, too, as by the appearance of a rowdy dog or importunate child.

  ‘Grand ou demi?’ the waitress asked.

  ‘Grand.’ The baron began to discourse on the state of the roof, and drainage problems inherent in old moats, however dry. Thoughts of Emile kept intruding on Amy’s concentration. She distracted herself by going room by room through the château in her mind.

  He would never leave Amy to the mercy of this predatory con man, Otto thought. Americans were naive and ambitious, always overestimating their powers. Women were always being taken advantage of by men of this type. ‘The pipes alone, almost entirely lead, fifty thousand euros at a start.’ He could not repress his private recollections of Amy, lovely creature, whom he remembered himself to have satisfied satisfactorily, as far as he could tell. ‘To say nothing of the eave drains, which should be lined with copper… Amy, you must be tired. You musn’t let us keep you up. We can discuss all this tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, I was just thinking of having another glass…’ she protested. Emile poured her another glass.

  ‘Géraldine is so hoping everything will work out for all the Venns and – your wife – and everyone,’ she said. ‘Did you see the press? Those beautiful old machines, the old-fashioned typefaces? There is something so romantic about fine printing…’

  ‘On the contrary, I think my mother-in-law is rather of the same opinion as the baron,’ said Emile. ‘She thinks you would make a mistake to buy it, and she thinks I have powers of persuasion. Dissuasion.’