The Influence Peddlers

by Hedi Kaddour

  Belfrayn was succeeding with his plan. The cost of his mission had gotten around and had impressed those who had never had lunch at Aldo’s. The colleagues who hated Belfrayn had organized a good-bye party in his honor, and they got stinking drunk into the wee hours before accompanying the lucky guy to his boat, telling him to bring back some real dirt on those kings and queens of the screen. They sang, “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” emphasizing the “which nobody can deny” . . . my ass! That sack of shit was sailing off for a two-month vacation courtesy of the newspaper!

  At the bar of the Grand Hôtel Samuel finally calmed down, but he was really afraid of a catastrophe and even thought about going home before Belfrayn arrived, to avoid having Francis run the slightest risk, a difficult decision to make because it was he who would have to make it—Francis would never force him to do that—and Samuel was also afraid that his departure wouldn’t matter, and that Francis might even take advantage of his absence to do something stupid about which Belfrayn would have no difficulty finding out. He started to talk about it to Kathryn and Tess, asking them to keep an eye on his friend just in case he decided to leave.

  “You shouldn’t,” Kathryn told him, “You can’t give in to those bastards.”

  Tess knew Belfrayn. She added:

  “I was forced to put him in his place with my knee.” And Kathryn:

  “That wasn’t the smartest thing you’ve ever done.”

  “It was at your place. He was asking for it, and I know he’s a coward.”

  For Tess, Belfrayn was one of the worst:

  “When he’s not busy denouncing whites, he tries to screw blacks! And it’s not that he likes blacks . . . It’s to hate himself more! He reminds me of a joke back home, the guy from the South who goes to a hotel in New York, brought there by two friends. He wants a room for the night and to be woken up at dawn. The hotel manager has only a room with two beds. One of the beds is already occupied:

  ‘That doesn’t matter, I’m used to that.’

  ‘But . . . the guest is somewhat peculiar . . . ’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about that. Do his feet stink, is that it?’

  ‘No, he’s . . . a man of color . . . ’

  The guy’s friends laugh, tell him that at that time of night he won’t find anything else:

  ‘Take the room, we’ll empty another bottle, and you won’t think of the negro again!’

  The guy agrees.”

  “I wonder,” said Samuel, laughing, “if he would have agreed if they had told him the guy was a queer.”

  “Being black back home is a curse,” said Tess, also laughing, “not a mortal sin!”

  “Do you believe in mortal sins?” asked Samuel.

  “Only greed is a sin for Tess,” said Kathryn, “especially in bosses.”

  Tess continued: “The guy agrees, ordering the manager to wake him at five in the morning. He proceeds to get dead drunk, and goes to bed without waking up the black, immediately falls asleep. His friends take advantage of his stupor to put shoe polish on his face . . . At dawn the hotel manager shakes him, the guy gets dressed quickly, rushes to the train station, just manages to get his train, starts to relax. The other passengers look at him strangely, he goes to the toilets to wash up, sees himself in the mirror, and says: “Damned hotel manager . . . He woke up the negro!”

  “If you tell your joke too often,” said Samuel, “a screenwriter will end up stealing it from you!”

  “We couldn’t care less about The Face,” Neil said to Ganthier, “but the guy is a plague.” And as in the past before a plague arrived, the Americans decided that they had nothing more urgent to do than take advantage of the good days they had left.

  44

  GANTHIER’S PARTY

  To celebrate Kid’s recovery at the healing hands of the veterinarian Ganthier held a dinner at his home.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have a dining room,” he said.

  They dined in the surprising salon-library on his farm. When coffee was served they left the table and went onto the terrace, a circle of armchairs, footstools, and sofas. Some even sat on the arms so they wouldn’t enlarge the circle. People chatted with their neighbors. Sometimes two or three, sometimes even the entire group listened. Kid went from one guest to the next, batting his eyes, trying in vain to find someone who wouldn’t follow his master’s instructions: No treats, his liver is the size of an almond.

  Montaubain had come. Ganthier and he had argued a lot before the war, when Ganthier made fun of the “Grand Soir” and the “Red Dawn,” and Montaubain of the colonists “incapable of civilizing except with barbed wire,” but in the past few years they had begun to talk and to respect each other, Ganthier saying: “Montaubain doesn’t have the defect of most teachers, he never acts like he’s talking to idiots.” At one point Montaubain nodded his head toward Raouf and said to Ganthier, laughing affectionately: “He tries to act like a clever Parisian, but I remember the time when he only pretended to understand.” Raouf heard that remark:

  “You realized that, and you didn’t mention it?”

  “Yes, because when one pretends, in order not to be caught out, one has to catch up quickly . . . Your friend David was more open, but he was faster than you only in math.”

  Everyone started to talk about their school days, and Ganthier asked Gabrielle if she had been a good student. Gabrielle admitted she had won some awards, especially in her last years of lycée, which ones? She talked about placing third in sewing, “‘You never manage to go beyond third place,’ my mother always said to me, ‘You could make a little effort!’ I tried, everything went well up until hems, but I always messed up with buttonholes and tacking, so it was third place . . . I also won things she talked about less, first place in French composition . . . and Greek translation . . . and history . . . and other things. I came home from the awards ceremonies with my mother, very proud, my arms filled with big books with gilded edges, which smelled great, leather, and my mother told me to go straight up to my room, because your father, you understand, he’s already fed up that your brothers don’t do anything at lycée, but if in addition you start bringing home awards . . .”

  Gabrielle was talking a lot more than usual. It was rare, said Ganthier softly, usually she was the one who listened or who was content to make brief remarks to get others to speak. This time they let her speak. She looked at Ganthier, adjusted the ivory barrette she wore at the back of her head with her right hand, and Kathryn was silently amused to see Ganthier’s obedient eyes follow the rising of Gabrielle’s hand, elbow and breast.

  “My two brothers were terrible students, but each had a bicycle that they hadn’t even had to ask for. I asked for one, but without success, and if I insisted, I was told that my haircut cost more than the boys’. At the time I had long hair, brown waves, a tendency to frizz, but not too much. At fifteen my mother made me change my hairdresser. The new one let my hair down and said: ‘It’s full, thick, soft, shiny, a rare shine, and it falls almost to your ankles!’ He ran his hand through my hair while congratulating me. I was proud, but at the same time I knew it had nothing to do with me. He turned to my mother: ‘Seven hundred francs, Madame, if you allow me to cut it from the nape, seven hundred francs!’ My mother refused, that reassured me. The hairdresser was sad, he must have had buyers waiting. My mother said: ‘Obviously, that would buy the bicycle you keep asking for . . . ’ and after a pause: ‘We’ll be back!’ She didn’t want to stay in front of the temptation. I said: ‘You can cut it, but for eight hundred francs!’ My mother scolded me, she said to the hairdresser: ‘We don’t barter in our family!’ and I answered: ‘It’s my hair, I’m bartering!’ The hairdresser agreed. I got a bicycle, more beautiful than those of my brothers, and a subscription to L’Illustration. My father didn’t like that publication, he thought it was reactionary. I thought so, too, but it made me dream, and dreams are rarely reactionary.”

  Ganthier said to Kathryn: “Did you also have to have your hair cut?�
� Kathryn replied that at fifteen she was already living in Hollywood, an extra with short hair, because long hair was for the great actresses.

  Raouf’s attention was caught by a gesture between Francis Cavarro and Samuel Katz. They were seated side by side on one of the sofas, and were speaking together softly, very different from how they acted on the set or at the bar of the Grand Hôtel. They were helping each other light cigarettes, one of them cupping with his two hands the hand that held the flame even though there wasn’t any wind. A Legion officer was also there.

  “We were together with General Lyautey in another life,” said Ganthier, “It makes a difference.”

  At one point the officer recited to Gabrielle what he called an adage of the country: “Love lasts seven seconds, infatuation seven minutes, and misery one’s entire life.” The men laughed. “I feel sorry for your wives,” Gabrielle said. At the beginning of the evening Raouf had been surprised to see that Tess was there, not to help with the dinner, but as a guest, and not at the end of the table. Now he was looking for her, but couldn’t find her; then he saw her sitting on a windowsill behind the armchairs, next to Wayne, and he understood what Kathryn had meant when, in Germany, she had spoken of a situation that was difficult to share. He smiled at the couple, he was going to be able to talk about Montparnasse with them. Tess and Wayne responded to his smile, Tess thinking that Raouf was acting almost naturally toward them, almost . . . because she sensed in his kindness a bit of concern for acting correctly, but he must know about that, too, he must sense it, I imagine, the excess kindness, people who take advantage of your presence to show how tolerant and benevolent they are . . . a hypocritical benevolence . . . But in the end everyone wins.

  The other Americans seemed completely aware, as they were about Francis and Samuel. Gabrielle started to talk with Kathryn. Raouf didn’t hear what they were saying. Gabrielle had sensed Raouf watching them and said to Kathryn, a bit more loudly:

  “We should share our little stories with him.”

  “Absolutely not,” Kathryn said, “He doesn’t deserve them, he’s no longer a cherub, he’s a Casanova, who wreaks havoc between Berlin and Paris!”

  Kathryn’s gaze caressed Raouf. Gabrielle asked:

  “How are the young ladies in Paris, Raouf?”

  “Like you.”

  “That’s nice, but can you be more specific?”

  “I repeat, like you they have lovely lips, but they don’t like you to watch their lips when they say interesting things.”

  Everyone laughed. Cavarro said:

  “You’re a real son . . . ,” he interrupted himself, he refrained from saying of a bitch. He learned that some expressions don’t travel well from one continent to another.

  The night was still young. Conversations were getting softer. There was almost a full moon, a blue moon. Raouf had had a bit to drink, he liked everyone; the terrace undulated when he looked at the stars. Kathryn joined him, asking:

  “What are you thinking about?” He looked up at the stars:

  “Tasiru bina hadi llayali ke’annaha, these nights carry us off like . . . safa’inu bahrin . . . like ships on the sea . . . that don’t have an anchor . . . ma lahunna marasi . . .”

  “I know who that is.”

  “You can understand Arabic now?”

  “Neil told me that you were having him translate Al-Ma‘arri, and he’s struggling!”

  Ganthier was now standing on the edge of the veranda and talking with a young American woman, a set photographer. They said it was Neil’s new mistress. Gabrielle got up, joined them, and began to talk about photography with the young woman, telling Ganthier to stay, putting a hand on his shoulder and keeping it there.

  The cool air was late in arriving, and the stones of the terrace continued to emit the heat they had absorbed during the day. When the wind finally picked up, they realized that it was coming, not from the sea, but from the south. It was even warmer than the ambient air, and in the light of the lamps they could make out bits of red sand. Even by using a fan, they couldn’t obtain an illusion of cool. Gabrielle asked while looking into the night:

  “The light, over there, what is it?”

  “Your friend Rania’s farm,” Ganthier answered, “She must see us, as well . . .”

  “But she can’t come over,” added Gabrielle . . . “Do you still ride in front of her house to get to your piece of land? You know that in France people would gossip . . .”

  Gabrielle wanted to take a car and go get Rania . . . But she would refuse, she said to herself, she would tell me that it would be an absolute scandal, she would thank me and give me a kiss, and would think I’m a disaster.

  Ganthier wiped his forehead and neck with a handkerchief and asked the group:

  “Who has been to Aboulfaraj’s?”

  Aboulfaraj was a Syrian, or Iraqi, or Lebanese, no one really knew, who had opened a wonderful night spot in the heart of the old city. They would be able to find a bit of cool air there. Ganthier had never been, but he knew that Raouf had taken Montaubain and he was jealous.

  “You want to take us to a place of ill repute?” joked Gabrielle. And Ganthier said, laughing:

  “Do you think we’re going to ring bells in the dark?”

  Everyone piled into three cars, the windows lowered or the top down, seeking a bit of air on their skin. A half hour later they were in the medina, parked on the square of the hammam. They continued on foot, through the sleeping souks, all the stalls closed and locked. From time to time a lantern threw a pale light and revealed shadows that moved around it: bats. Kathryn was startled and seized the opportunity to take Raouf’s hand. Sometimes, above their heads, a ceiling of reeds or beams made it seem they were walking down a corridor. The ceiling could also turn into a vault of stone. The street became narrower, forcing them to walk single file, turning at right angles. It became wider. Ganthier pointed out on the side a superposition of stones that were larger than the others:

  “A Roman column!”

  “He’s happy!” said Raouf. A bark, followed by two or three others: some skinny dogs on a pile of garbage, and cats waiting a few yards away. Gabrielle couldn’t manage to get close to Ganthier, thinking he was keeping his distance on purpose. They walked in a street that was cleaner, but with doors that were as decrepit as the others.

  “This is the street where Belkacem lives,” said Raouf, pointing to a rickety door, “He’s a wholesaler, what’s inside is worth millions, and there’s a real door behind that one.”

  A shadow seated on a road marker, a beggar?

  “An armed beggar, he’s one of the guards,” said Raouf, squeezing Kathryn’s hand and thinking, I’m the one who is guiding Ariane in the labyrinth. It was simple, two hands that took each other, rather retook each other, and suddenly a year was wiped away, and the break, the jealousy, and the fights. We are but a pleasure being prepared, for the end of the night, not this night, wait for tomorrow afternoon, at Gabrielle’s, no, the hotel, when we come back from Aboulfaraj’s, too bad for the gossip, everyone knows everything now, no, wait, it would be too risky for her, even if she says that she doesn’t care, even if she takes advantage to accuse me of being too rational, as usual, this time I will say, So what? That’s it, respond: Yes, rational, so what? And we’ll be in love until the next departure, without hurting each other so much this time, we’re forewarned.

  The deeper they went into the city the cooler it became. They sometimes passed by the smell of garbage.

  “When the sun doesn’t come through,” said Ganthier, “the odors rise up!”

  At one point the road descended slightly for about a hundred and fifty feet under a vault. Yes, there were houses above them. It was an impasse closed by a door with an ordinary dirty copper knocker, an odor of gas lamps. They went into a small courtyard, two waiters with spotless clothes, and then a large rectangular room, the walls covered with white and pale green porcelain tiles. In the middle a fountain, surrounded by round tables with straw-bottom
chairs, a dozen or so solitary customers, great silence, very cool, nothing nauseating. They could breathe!

  “This is your night spot?” Gabrielle asked Raouf, “Your debauchees seem more like great melancholics to me!”

  “In the land of sun, melancholia is cultivated like a vice,” Raouf replied.

  They went into a second room, more comfortable, with whitewashed walls, with a fragment of Roman mosaic in the middle of one of them.

  “Orpheus fighting wild animals . . . Long live poetry and its optimism,” said Ganthier to Raouf. He got closer, passed a finger along the little tiles, then, in a scholarly tone:

  “Your Aboulfaraj must have some arrangement with the inspector of historical monuments . . . original mosaic . . . third century . . . C.E. . . .”

  Raouf didn’t react to the C.E. He asked:

  “Are you talking about the time when Rome granted citizenship to all the inhabitants of the empire?”

  Under the mosaic hung two grimacing terra-cotta masks, with grotesque hollows for mouths and eyes. There were no chairs in the room, but banquettes arranged in several circles around low tables. In the middle there was also a marble fountain with water shooting up, a large opening in the roof above the fountain, an upside-down well, that revealed a nice round piece of the starry sky.

  The little band from La Porte du Sud were already seated, most of them in silk jebbas. They said hello. The new arrivals went to sit a bit farther away. Gabrielle managed to seat herself next to Ganthier. They were brought glasses and bottles.

  “In the past, they would have served us fig or palm alcohol,” said Raouf, “but Aboulfaraj understood that today it’s better to sell whiskey and even vodka.”

  On the tables, in small dishes there were fresh almonds in their shells, pistachios, honey cakes. A man came in holding necklaces of orange flowers in one hand and in the other a platter of horns made out of fig leaves. Wayne wanted to buy the necklaces. No, said Kathryn, there’s something better! Raouf and Ganthier smiled. She bought several fig leaf horns, passed them around. They opened them. You’re going to learn something, said Kathryn, very proud, to Tess, Wayne, Francis, and Samuel. Here they don’t buy things ready-made, we have the night ahead! Each horn contained pine needles, a blade of esparto grass, and jasmine buds, thirty-two buds, thirty-two corollas to put on a pine needle. You assembled everything into a bouquet and tied it with a blade of esparto, Kathryn saying: