Thrilling Cities

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Thrilling Cities Page 19

by Ian Fleming


  Charlie Chaplin, in a plum-coloured smoking-jacket which, he said, he wore because it made him feel like a millionaire, exuded vitality tempered with the deprecation and self-mockery one expects from him. After dangerously skirting politics over the matter of Caryl Chessman’s execution (though he was disgusted with it, Chaplin said that, by his death, Chessman had achieved more for mankind than any other man since the war), we got on to Ben Hur, which Chaplin, who practically never goes to films or theatres and does not own a television set, had not seen. Chaplin immediately became airborne. He was going to make a really great film, it would be a mixture of half a dozen spectaculars – Ben Hur, Anna Karenina, South Pacific and others. It would be Around Romance in 80 Days. Certainly he would put in the chariot race. The villain with the big knives on his chariot wheels would overhaul the hero, ‘a chap called Gulliver or Don Quixote or one of those’. As the villain came alongside, the hero would nonchalantly hold out a side of ham which the knives on the chariot wheels would cut into thin slices which the hero would eat and gain strength so that he would win the race. All this splendid mirage was illustrated with unceasing dumb crambo.

  More seriously, he said that he would make one more ‘Little Man’ film. My wife suggested that the theme should be ‘the little man who had never had it so good’, and Chaplin seized the idea and tucked it away. He next enlivened us with a graphic account of being invited by the Duke of Westminster to a boar hunt in France, of the clothes he had had to borrow and how his horse had run away with him. And then he was off again, brilliantly ‘fed’ by Noel Coward, into memories of his early days on the boards in England, of the great actors and actresses he had worshipped, and of his own struggles and first notices.

  He is now writing his memoirs. He works every day from eleven to five and has finished nine hundred pages. On that day, there remained only twenty pages to go. He complained of being bedevilled by his Swiss secretary who constantly tried to improve his English. He said he was not surprised, as he had taught himself the language and suspected that his secretary knew it far better than he did, but, even so, he liked his own version and hoped that some of what he had actually written would survive the process of editing by his publishers. We all of course urged him to reject any kind of editorial censorship or correction, but his modesty will, one fears, allow Big Brother’s blue pencil to wreak its havoc. (How much better those who ‘don’t write’ write than those who do – Lord Attlee, Lord Moran, Viscount Montgomery and, latterly, Ralph Richardson!) The, evening had to end. It is wonderful when one’s heroes in the flesh are even better than in the imagination.

  It was the time of the Narcissus Festival, and the fields around Noel Coward’s house (which he has not, after all, called ‘Shilly Chalet’) were thick with the flowers that were to line my route round Europe – tulips in Holland, lilac in Vienna, narcissi in Switzerland and, later, bougainvillaea and hibiscus in Naples. Alas, I had to forsake these innocent Alps (what is the definition of an Alp, by the way, and when does an Alp become a Berg?) and spend my days in Geneva – Voltaire’s ‘shining city that greets the eye, proud, noble, wealthy, deep and sly’.

  Geneva is far, far wealthier than it was in Voltaire’s day when, as the Duc de Choiseul, Madame de Pompadour’s foreign minister, advised, ‘If you see a Genevese jump out of the window, jump right after him. There is fifteen per cent to be gained.’ Today, its economy bulging with the wealth of countless international organizations and of big foreign businesses attracted by tax advantages, such as Chrysler and Dupont, with a quarter of its residents foreigners and well over a million tourists every year, the town is bursting at the seams, and the small population of true Genevese – about fifty thousand – have a hard time trying to avoid being overlaid by the giant golden calf for whom, originally with enthusiasm but now with very mixed feelings, they provide pasture.

  Parking a car in any city these days is almost impossible. In the centre of Geneva it is totally so. Hunting round and round like a mouse in a trap, it crossed my mind that, for the motorist, ‘P’ has become the most desirable letter of the alphabet. How blessed it is to be able actually to stop and get out of the car and leave it without the fear of a torrent of abuse when you return to it! So far as Geneva is concerned, the only hope is for them to build vast parking places out over the famous lake.

  This beautiful lake, plus the highest fountain in the world and the Rhône that thunders so majestically through the town – all this and Mont Blanc too, do not make Geneva a happy town. The spirit of Calvin, expressed in the ugly and uncompromising cathedral that dominates the city, seems to brood like a thunderous conscience over the inhabitants. In the rue des Granges adjoining the cathedral, the great patrician families, the de Candoles, de Saussures, Pictets, set a frightening tone of respectability and strait-laced behaviour from which the lesser Genevese take their example. The international set – the delegates, staffs of the various organizations and staffs of foreign businesses – do not penetrate even the fringes of Genevese society. They even mix poorly among themselves. The lack of adjustment between the resident Americans, for instance, and Geneva life is such that a booklet – an excellent common-sense one, by the way – has been prepared at the behest of the President of the American Women’s Club of Geneva and the Chief of the Mental Health Section of the World Health Organization, to prepare Americans coming to work in Geneva for what is described as ‘Culture Shock’ – the impact of the European way of life on an American.

  The chief trouble is the language problem, closely followed by the business of bringing up children. In Geneva, as in the rest of Switzerland, Swiss children have butter or jam for tea. Swiss children are not allowed to go to most films until they are eighteen, and even the harmless Danny Kaye is forbidden to children until they are sixteen, to be proved by the presentation of identity cards. When a Swiss child comes back from a party, he or she is asked, ‘Were you good?’ whereas the American parent will ask, ‘Did you have a good time?’ The Swiss mother finds it difficult to make adult conversation to a foreign mother because only in 1960, and by a very narrow majority, did Swiss women obtain the vote, and then only in a minority of the cantons.

  Finally, the general values and moral judgements of the Swiss have hardly developed since 1914, whereas the foreigners’ have been turned inside out by two world wars.

  But, above all, it is the reserve of the Genevese that chills those many Americans who so much want to be loved (the British don’t particularly expect to be liked, or are too obtuse to notice if they aren’t). It was this reserve, this holier-than-thou attitude, that Voltaire endeavoured to dynamite in his constant forays against Calvinism. Today it is only the giant scandal that can fracture the smugness. Fortunately, from time to time, the Lord who, I have always believed, has little sympathy for Calvinism, visits just such a scandal upon Calvin’s present-day disciples. The echoes of such a visitation were still rumbling when I was in Geneva in May 1960 – the case of Pierre Jaccoud, Geneva’s senior lawyer, head of the Bar Association and chief of the all-powerful Radical Party in the town, and it was a real grand slam in scandals.

  The story is this: on May 1st, 1958, an elderly man, Charles Zumbach, was found shot and stabbed in his house on the outskirts of Geneva. His wife, on returning from a church meeting that night, was shot at and wounded by the murderer whom she described as a tall, dark man wearing a dark suit who had dashed out of the house and made his escape on a black bicycle. It was a headline story, but no headlines were black enough for the sensational arrest of Maitre Pierre Jaccoud a month later on the charge of murder.

  The scandal developed swiftly. It was revealed that, shortly after the murder, Jaccoud had gone to Stockholm and had his hair bleached, that he had tried to take poison during the police investigation, and that he had had a mistress, Linda Baud, a secretary at Radio Geneva. All this of one of Geneva’s sons who had been nicknamed ‘Calvin’ at school because of his puritanical nature; of a lawyer who had counted Aly Khan, Sacha Guitry and I
.G. Farben among his clients, of a Director of the Conservatoire de Musique and of the Orchestre de la Suisse Romande, of a Municipal Councillor and Deputy of the Grand Conseil of Geneva – worse, of a man who lived in a street that abutted on the rue des Granges!

  It turned out that Jaccoud had met Linda Baud, then in her twenties, at an official dinner when, as his lawyer claimed, ‘he was ready to love like a schoolboy, never having loved as a schoolboy’. The affair lasted ten years, with passionate ups and downs. His wife knew all about it but did nothing for fear of offending the conventions, and, when it ended, Madame Jaccoud, worn down by those ‘meals heavy with silence’, took him back and the marriage was mended.

  Unfortunately, in the summer of 1957, Linda Baud took another lover, a young technician from Radio Geneva called André Zumbach, to whom, out of jealousy, Jaccoud wrote anonymous letters. They were sordid ones:

  I have heard that you are a friend of Linda Baud and feel you should be informed of what is going on. After having been the mistress of a barkeeper, then of one of the employees of your organization, not to mention a number of other adventures, she has been the mistress of a married man for several years. I have just heard that she has relations with someone very dear to me. I saw them together on the 17th August and found by chance a most edifying photograph of the way they spend their time. I am enclosing this photo.

  [Signed] ‘SIMONE B.’

  The photograph was one of Linda Baud naked which, she claimed, Jaccoud had taken of her at pistol point one evening in the grimy little room they had used for their affair. André Zumbach accused Jaccoud of sending these letters and the prosecution maintained that Jaccoud, frightened by the accusation, had gone to Zumbach’s home to kill André Zumbach and get the letters back. Surprised by the father, Jaccoud had shot him and, panicking, had also shot the mother.

  The trial, in March 1960, lasted three weeks and was enlivened by the production of five hundred love-letters from Jaccoud to Linda Baud, the discovery of a Moroccan dagger, showing traces of blood and liver cells, at Jaccoud’s home, and of a button, found on the scene of the crime, of an English raincoat parcelled up in Jaccoud’s apartment to be sent to the Red Cross. To heighten the drama, the Public Prosecutor was a great friend of Jaccoud and they broke out into ‘tu’ in the court – the court where Jaccoud himself had so often pleaded. The judge also knew the accused, and the defence lawyers were old friends. The Public Prosecutor himself admitted acquaintance with Linda Baud, and the drama was intensified by the appearance of a famous Paris lawyer, Rene Floriot, for the defence, who spread mud still more widely over Geneva, to the fury of the inhabitants.

  Finally, with the natural respect of the Genevese for authority, titles and high society torn to shreds, Jaccoud was convicted and sentenced to seven years, subsequently reduced to three.

  Such cases – the Dubois espionage affair of 1957 was another one – burst upon the Swiss scene with all the greater impact because, though sordid crimes occur in every other country of the world, they really should not disturb a society that has ‘Mon Repos’ as its motto. These scandals have no more impact abroad than any other headline murder story, but, among the Swiss, it is as if a corner of the lid of the great pressure-cooker had lifted to emit a poisonous jet of steam – a whiff from the great cauldron of human chaos that is the supreme enemy of the symmetry that is Switzerland.

  Much, far too much, I fear, of what I have written will seem critical of the Swiss and of their surpassingly beautiful country. Yet it is not my wish to be critical, but merely to examine, to look beneath the surface of a country that holds so much more mystery than those that wear their hearts and psychoses on their sleeve. I was partly educated in Switzerland – at the University of Geneva where I studied Social Anthropology, of all subjects, under the famous Professor Pittard. I was once engaged to a Swiss girl. I am devoted to the country and to its people and I would not have them different in any detail. But, as I said at the beginning, Switzerland has a Simenon quality, an atmosphere of still-water-running-deep, which is a great temptation to the writer of thrillers. If I have revealed a wart here and a wen there and poked mild fun at the reserved, rather prim face Switzerland presents to the world, this is because the mystery writer enjoys seeing the play from back-stage rather than from out front, in the stalls.

  To conclude, I will draw the veil aside from one last Swiss secret that, amongst all, the world has perhaps found the most baffling: Swiss cheese has holes in it because, in the process of making Gruyere and Emmental, carbon dioxide is formed and, as the cheese solidifies, the bubbles remain.

  INCIDENTAL INTELLIGENCE

  Hotels

  Hotels in Geneva are usually top-heavy with conference delegates. This applies even to winter-time and even to conferences no one has ever heard of.

  Luxury hotels are growing like mushrooms, but the Richmond and the Hotel des Bergues are particularly favoured by visiting high society and statesmen, while the newer Hotel du Rhône is more frequently chosen by business magnates and sheikhs.

  For another type of luxury: quiet, remote lakeside setting and the atmosphere of a country manor, there is the less-known Clos de Sadex, near Nyon, twenty-five kilometres outside the town on the Route Suisse leading to Lausanne, and therefore only recommended to the motorised. The Clos de Sadex is run by English-speaking Mr and Mrs L. de Tscherner who have transformed their own home into a first-class residential hotel and who loan their own motor boat for lake excursions.

  A picturesque but not inexpensive retreat in Geneva itself is the Hotel Lamartine. This is an ‘authentic’ chalet in its own garden at Champel, chemin des Clochettes; it is mentioned in the Guide Michelin and caters mainly for bed-and-breakfast customers.

  Less money to spend? There is a pleasant pub-style pension on the lakeside a kilometre or so outside Geneva at la Belotte, chemin des Pecheurs, the Hotel de la Belotte. A limited number of rooms and the inconvenience of Sunday invasions of lunchers who come inter alia for perches du lac, a fresh-water fish speciality.

  Restaurants

  The gastronomic delights of Geneva are slightly overshadowed by the vicinity – within fifty kilometres – of Le Pere Bise, one of France’s three best restaurants, at Talloires, just after Annecy.

  Inside Geneva the Béarn, quai de la Poste, is the uncrowned king of local restaurants. After that the choice is vast and interesting, and advice will be tendered from every side.

  For fondue bourguignonne, a local speciality, Le Chandelier, 23 Grande Rue, in the old city, ranks high. This fondue consists of portions of cut-up raw steak which you impale on a stick and cook yourself in boiling oil and butter at the table. It is served with a variety of sharp sauces.

  Cheese fondue is rarely served in summer and it tastes better in any brasserie than in a restaurant. I always feel that this cheese-and-white-wine speciality takes the limelight from an even tastier speciality: raclette. Raclette is merely toasted cheese. But what toasted cheese! The performance takes place at an open fire and the chef scrapes the melted cheese straight from the fire on to a numbered plate: yours. You are automatically served with a fresh portion on the same easily identified plate until you beg for mercy. Raclette should be eaten in the mountains before the fresh cheeses and the cows come down to the valley. In Geneva the Café du Midi, round the corner from the Hôtel des Bergues, has a cellar, or carnotzet, which specializes in raclette – if you can stand the heat.

  It is cooler, less picturesque, and the raclette or fondue is just as good when served in a cafe called Le Bagnard, place du Marche, Carouge. The word Bagnard comes from Bagne cheese and not from a convict past in the café ownership.

  I hope habitués will forgive me for giving away the name of a bistro which serves excellent meals and charges according to the size of the portion asked for: Chez Bouby, rue Grenus I.

  At the other extreme, as a preliminary to night-clubbing, the only place where it is possible to dine to music and dance is the Gentilhomme, which belongs to the Richmond. (I
ncidentally all restaurants, including the Béarn, must be looked up in the telephone directory for booking purposes under the word ‘café’, for reasons unknown.)

  Night-life

  Night-clubs are numerous, cheaper than in England and as naughty as those in Paris, hope the Genevese.

  The Bataclan, run by Madame Irene, is famous for its strip-teasers. The floor show here is one reason why German Swiss, less privileged at home, find business visits to Geneva quite essential.

  La Cave à Bob, in an old town cellar, also has strip-teasers, chansonniers, and tries to be reminiscent of St-Germain-des-Pres. The Moulin Rouge usually has extremely good attractions from Paris and even New York.

  With a star show, night-clubs charge an entry fee of up to ten francs. Otherwise a whisky or a shared bottle of vin blanc can last you till 2 a.m. at a cost of about 10s. per person. It is of course possible and easy to spend more.

  12

  NAPLES

  OLIO SASSO! OLIO sasso!! olio sasso!!! The monstrous autostrada hoardings, demonstrating, even more forcibly than the Italians’ total lack of interest in their artistic and architectural treasures, that Italy is a race of Philistines, flip by with the kilometres. A tiny dot in the driving mirror becomes an Alfa or a Maserati. There is a searing screech from double wind horns, the Gatling crackle of twin exhausts from which the mufflers have been removed and, a few minutes later, nothing ahead but the white, empty ribbon of the autostrada vanishing into the glistening heat-mirage.

 

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