Poum and Alexandre

by Catherine de Saint Phalle

  Now it is time to leave. We return to the hotel. We both move towards the window as if by saying goodbye to the prisoners we are saying goodbye to the whole place. My father must have remembered the time of their walk, because the prisoners are there. It’s not so dark. One of them suddenly notices us and yells out at the top of his lungs, ‘Whose are ya?’, taking me for the daughter of one of the prisoners.

  I look at my father.

  ‘He wants to know which one of them you belong to.’

  He waves down.

  ‘Wave to him, Catherine, wave to him,’ he says.

  25

  THE EMPTY PEDESTAL AT THE CHTEAU DE SAINT-CLOUD

  My father and I return to certain places, as if they were the outer geography of his moods. This morning we’re off to see the Château de Saint-Cloud. There’s something magic going on in its gardens – an exciting emptiness. The sky wrenches itself away from Jupiter’s domination and Hera’s nagging. As on Bognor Beach, the air is fine, clear and free.

  This is some other realm altogether, away from school, from the city, even away from France. Clouds as flimsy as lacy curtains in an old maid’s window hang in the sky. The cropped grass lies in the sun, ready and welcoming. The sandy paths make every footstep crunchy and precious. The stone benches and the statues of gods and goddesses frozen in different positions are waiting just for us.

  The golden haze of the park of Saint-Cloud encompasses the few people strolling around, the trees, the air, even the dark metal hoops delimiting the grass from the gravel. We stroll along the high castle walls, my father nibbling a blade of grass. He shows me the ramparts and the battlements where they poured boiling oil on their assailants. He tells me about the people on the stone pedestals populating the castle’s gardens until we reach an empty one. We look at the inscription – Julian the Apostate.

  ‘Where has he gone?’ I ask.

  My father squeezes my hand and shakes his head sadly.

  ‘Have you never heard of the emperor who gave up on the Christian god and went back to worship the pagan ones?’

  Of course I haven’t. He waits a diplomatic second or two and enlightens me.

  ‘Julian the Apostate became emperor after the death of Constantine’s dreadful sons Constantine II, Constantius and Constans. But before that, he was a reader of myth, literature and philosophy and a great general. He truly believed in the old gods and hated Christianity and its hypocritical bishops.’

  As this sinks in, I think of my parents’ disapproving relatives and I am sure that my father is thinking about them too. They wouldn’t approve of Julian the Apostate, which immediately endears him to me. He could be a Carthaginian. Then my hand is dropped. My father has climbed onto the empty pedestal. Standing straight with one leg forward, he looks up at the sky. Suddenly Rome is there with its slaves, its senators in togas, its circus games, its generals and its barbarians at the frontiers of the empire.

  ‘Look, Catherine, I am a Roman emperor. The Emperor Julian, Julian the Apostate.’ Then he jumps to the ground. He’s very supple. He points to his nostril. ‘See, I even have a Roman emperor’s nose.’

  He has. It is quite true.

  ‘Niki’s sculpture didn’t even look like you,’ I comment.

  They had shown it to me in the newspaper. It was hunched over with a round nose, like a Hobbit. It didn’t have an eagle beak, as my father also calls his nose. Alexandre is looking at me thoughtfully.

  ‘It’s part of things, little one.’

  ‘Like the old aunts?’

  He smiles.

  ‘She’s much prettier than an old aunt. And,’ he adds slowly, ‘she’s my brother André’s child.’

  He walks down the sunny path, opening up his arms to the sun as the other statues smile mysteriously around him, then he stops in his tracks.

  ‘You know,’ he lowers his flattened palm like a descending lift, ‘Julian the Apostate was very short.’

  I imagine him about my size.

  ‘He was a slim, fair youth; he even looked a bit girlish. He lay on a sofa all day long, reading mythology. Then his cousin Constantius – the one who had already murdered all his family; a sworn Christian – named him Caesar (it was just a title by then) and packed him off to a remote campaign against the barbarians, banking on Julian getting killed at the first skirmish. The empire was in a dire situation. Roman forces were retreating on every front. Constantine’s sons had made a mess of their father’s work, not only in Rome but also in the provinces.’

  I nod. I know all about the dreadful brothers: they are the spoilt, cruel sons of Constantine and the horrible Fausta. Poor Julian … We are walking again, the castle looming over us in the sunshine. My father squeezes my hand encouragingly.

  ‘So, one bright morning, Julian finds himself in a camp surrounded by smirking troops. He is Caesar. He has to give a speech. At the sight of this frail youth, the men are in stitches. Even the famous Roman discipline can’t keep them from taunting and sniggering. Some of them haven’t seen Rome in months, even years. Who is this weakling who’s never carried a weapon in his life, telling them how to fight? Paying no attention, as if he were waking from a dream, Julian starts warming to his subject and, little by little, the crowd of soldiers grows silent.’

  My father’s eyes are shining. His free hand, the one that isn’t holding mine, takes off towards the sky, even beyond the Saint-Cloud castle’s battlements. I can’t help gazing at it as if it had a mind of its own. For me it’s over there, on the borders of the Roman Empire, in front of the pockmarked faces of the soldiers. My father stops in his tracks. I can feel his breath on my face, the breath that always smells of honey. Wasn’t honey found in the tombs of Egyptian pharaohs? Alexandre thinks it’s the cure for everything so he eats vast quantities of it.

  ‘You see, Catherine, Julian knew exactly what to do. He explained his plan to the men in front of him. Soon they found themselves listening intently. He started off by changing all the defensive positions into positions of attack. And that was the last thing the barbarians expected. All good generals know that surprise is the essence of attack.’

  My father heaves a deep satisfied sigh.

  ‘Julian got the men ready, giving each cohort its specific instructions. The battle was won so quickly, no one could get over it. And he hadn’t lost a single soldier. Quite by chance and against all odds, Rome had acquired another natural strategist and genius of organisation.’

  I pull at his hand. ‘Like Caesar, Constantine and Hannibal for Carthage?’

  The list wouldn’t be complete without a Carthaginian.

  ‘Exactly!’ he breathes.

  He looks down at me and puts a hand on my shoulder. We both stare at the Saint-Cloud castle walls as if Julian were camping at the bottom of them right now.

  ‘And the very same troops that had jeered at Julian on that first day were now devoted to him body and soul and were ready to follow him into hell. They loved him so much they would end up proclaiming him imperator. The people of Rome were going to be very happy too, for they had hated the horrible Constantine brothers from the start.’

  ‘Constantius must have been furious Julian was not killed straightaway.’

  My father smiles at me.

  ‘He was fuming. He even set out with the other part of the army to try and get rid of Julian, but on the verge of being routed by Julian’s troops, he caught the fevers and died. It was the flu, probably.’

  ‘The flu?’

  I had the flu the other day and I didn’t die. My father shrugs.

  ‘Oh, yes, you know people died like flies in that time.’

  ‘And did Julian become emperor?’

  I hear my father’s sigh.

  ‘Yes, yes … He was proclaimed emperor by his own soldiers, but not for very long, unfortunately.’

  We lapse into silence. Suddenly, we are back under the sun-drenched walls of the Saint-Cloud castle. As soon as I like someone, they go off and disappear. I don’t ask what happened to Jul
ian straightaway so he can live longer. Instead I ask: ‘Did he have circus games like the other emperors?’

  My father shakes his head.

  ‘Oh, no. Julian, contrary to his contemporaries, hated cruelty. He was also very busy with his campaigns. Because of Constantine’s awful sons, the Romans had fallen into decadence and the barbarians were nibbling at more and more territories on the fringe of the empire.’

  That’s a relief. I don’t like the yelling crowds in the circus, the gladiators killing each other or the people being eaten alive, which my father describes all too well.

  ‘So he didn’t become like the other emperors?’

  ‘No, no, he never changed. He continued to read and to love the gods and goddesses, offering them libations, following all the pagan rites and, though he hated the Christian bishops, he never persecuted them.’

  The more you hear about him, the more you like him.

  ‘What about his soldiers? Did he stay with them?’

  ‘Yes, he did. He cared for and protected his soldiers until his last day. He knew them all by name. All great generals have that talent.’

  I look up at him.

  ‘You have it too.’

  He gathers me against his hip a second with a happy sadness because we both know he could have beaten the barbarians too, instead of being harnessed to a suit and tie. When he can’t sleep, just as when he was on that seat at the German checkpoint, he recites all the Roman emperors, all the popes and all the American presidents to himself, instead of the soldiers he’d rather remember.

  I still don’t dare ask what happened. I only hope it wasn’t as sad as it was for Napoleon and Caesar. I try to put it off to give Julian a reprieve.

  ‘Was he a good emperor?’

  My father looks at me measuringly. ‘One of the best. But he didn’t have a lot of time left. Like me.’

  I am staring at his enormous feet in the dead leaves. What could possibly kill my father? Boiling oil thrown over the battlements? A spear thrust? A curse? I visualise him dying in a rush, the same way he brushes his teeth. Poum always says he will not die at all, but will be carried off to heaven in a flaming chariot. He’s looking straight at me.

  ‘I’m nearly sixty years older than you. The fact that I’ll die before you is a mathematical certainty.’

  I always have the same answer for this.

  ‘Why couldn’t we die together?’

  Shaking his head, my father drags me against him again. My nose pressed against the tweed jacket he also wears on Saturday mornings, we walk lopsidedly for a while as the twigs snap under our shoes. Then he takes my hand back in his and acquires a set look.

  ‘Do you know what happened to Julian afterwards?’

  I look at the leaves. Every one of them has a different face. He waits a bit and then it has to happen.

  ‘Well, one day he was fighting with his soldiers as usual. It was a beautiful summer day, everyone was happy, they hadn’t had any losses and the barbarians had been run to the ground. Suddenly, just as the battle was about to be won, Julian let out a deep cry – an arrow had hit him. A lone archer had been stalking him.’

  My father squeezes my hand to give me courage.

  ‘His soldiers rushed him to safety, carried him to his tent and laid him on his bedding. A doctor was immediately sent for. Ushered to the emperor’s couch, he was quick to give his diagnosis. He explained to Julian that the arrow didn’t seem to have touched any vital organ. But there was a danger.’

  I hold my breath.

  ‘The liver wasn’t far from the wound. If the liver was unharmed, he would live, but if he had blood in his urine, he could consider himself lost. Julian nodded and thanked the doctor with his usual sweetness. You see, he had never lost it, even after all his campaigns. He had toughened physically, of course, but his culture, his gentleness and his love for the gods and goddesses had remained. He never stopped praying to them and burning offerings on their altars right to the end. The doctor left the tent and Julian, lying on his camp bed, surrounded by his soldiers, waited.’

  I am hoping the arrow hasn’t come close to Julian’s liver, that things can be changed, that he can be saved. My father heaves a great sigh.

  ‘An hour or two later, Julian asked for a container. They brought a copper basin. Nearly twenty of his soldiers crowded his tent. One of them handed him the bowl and Julian smiled up his thanks.’

  In Alexandre’s voice, the sunlight flickers on the weapons lying on the floor, on the butterfly hovering at the opening of the tent and on every line on the soldiers’ faces. One feels almost more sorry for them than for Julian. My father squeezes my hand.

  ‘The barbarians were strangely silent. It was warmer than usual, nearly balmy, when Julian’s urine flowed bright red against the gold of the copper bowl. So he propped himself up on an elbow and said goodbye to his soldiers, who were all in tears. He died a few hours later.’

  The Saint-Cloud castle gardens are silent too. I can’t even hear the birds sing.

  ‘Couldn’t they do anything to save him?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘No, nothing at all.’

  I touch his arm.

  ‘Couldn’t they call another doctor?’

  My father lifts me up and sits me on the back of a stone bench. His hands land on my shoulders and my face is almost as high as his. I feel his fingers dig into me.

  ‘Catherine, even today with all their modern methods, they couldn’t have saved him. The day comes when each of us must die, you know.’

  I nod. How can I tell him I’d just rather it weren’t Julian the Apostate or him?

  ‘His soldiers must have been so unhappy.’

  He sighs.

  ‘They were desperate. He was on their side, you see. Those poor soldiers – nobody in Rome cared about their fate. They were packed off to fight the barbarians whenever there was an invasion. And when they were old, if they hadn’t been killed before that, they were given their weapons to keep and a piece of land to own on the far reaches of the empire where they were used to protect the frontiers. People called them the men from Mars, the god of war. That’s why there are many people named Martin or Martinez in all the old countries on the fringe of the Roman Empire.’

  I sigh. We look at each other helplessly. All we can think about are those Roman soldiers far from home, remembering their friend Julian the Apostate. Then he lifts me back to the ground.

  Walking away from the park of Saint-Cloud feels unreal; but eventually we have to go, leaving Julian behind, dead in his tent. The soldiers are getting his funeral pyre ready. Before returning to the car, we stroll along the high walls of the Château de Saint-Cloud. The flicker of its many windows blink in the sunshine; it is much nicer than Versailles. We wander around its moat. I tug at my father’s hand.

  ‘Maybe Julian would have liked it here.’

  He beams at me.

  ‘Maybe, little one, maybe.’

  One day, a lifetime later, I return to the Château de Saint-Cloud with a friend keen on castles. I have described it in detail, but when we get there, we search all through the park and can’t find it. Finally, I ask a man in a raincoat and glasses with the air of a retired professor.

  ‘Do you think you could tell us where the Château de Saint-Cloud is, please?’

  ‘But, Mademoiselle, it was standing right here, underneath your feet. See the plaque?’

  And he points to a copper memento on a stand right next to us. I read: You are standing on the exact location of the Château de Saint-Cloud which was burnt down during the Revolution in 1789.

  My friend is extremely disappointed in me.

  26

  PLEASING POUM

  Alexandre wants to please Poum. He often brings home flowers, a Saxe or Meissen plate signed by the monks with a little sword, a Russian jade egg, an icon or a mountain of sweets which they both devour with moans of pleasure. The teetering piles of plates in the dining room cupboard await guests that are very rarely
invited. Guests are like the plague to my mother. As if they came only to snoop and to spy, to torment and to torture, her face becomes a mask of pain and fear. Her painstaking courtesy brings them Zen servings of lacy biscuits on the Saxe and Meissen plates and monastic amounts of tea in trembling teacups and saucers. Her poor hands hover over the teapot and her large, silent eyes cry for help. My father, appearing in the room, throws himself on the sofa with exclamations of welcome, and eats all the biscuits like a hungry wolf, leaving only crumbs for the visitors. Guests are always there for a reason: old aunts or cousins have to be placated, friends need to be comforted, or total strangers are brought in on a mysterious tide and soon escape with worried looks on their faces.

  Members of both Poum’s and Alexandre’s sides of the family are related and familiar to each other. There’s no escape. The situation is common knowledge and treated in myriad ways. For my father, this mined territory hardly exists, except when it explodes in his face. For my mother, it’s a living nightmare. When something dodgy and un-Catholic happens, however, my parents are often consulted. Their customary excommunication is suddenly ignored – they who have broken all the rules should know what to do.

  One Sunday afternoon, a relative who usually keeps out of their waters phones unexpectedly. She descends on Poum for tea. It soon transpires that her son has not only fallen in love with his first cousin but plans to marry her. My mother’s sisterly spirit awakens gently, masterfully, and murmurs all the right things. Alexandre, who has come home early from the country, dozes on the sofa, waking up from time to time with a comment. Putting a boring situation to good use, he can fall into a deep, restorative sleep for a few seconds in any position and awake completely refreshed, just like Napoleon. The words ‘marriage between first cousins’ are the first words he hears on returning to the surface.

  ‘Marriage between first cousins! But that produces monsters!’

  Offers of new biscuits, more tea, even wine in the middle of the afternoon cannot heal the breach and the sufferer withdraws. The front door is hardly closed before my father lets out his usual excited sigh and mantra of relief: ‘Well, I thought she was delighted!’