Everybody wanted St. Raphaël, but the evening dragged on at l’Hôtel du Cap instead. Maybe the Negronis were a little strong. Plus there was lots of Gershwin, for Mr. Deluxe. And then there were the Arrigos installed on the terrace, who could resist those two, a pair of perfect McKiscos, bickering and bitter, too cocasse, totally revved up by ten o’clock, like they’d just stepped out of Tender Is the Night, and it was impossible to shake them, to go to St. Raphaël. Poor things never knew they were the McKiscos, maybe never even heard of Fitzgerald. “And your novel, Perri, how far are you in your novel?” Mrs. McKisco would always ask the same question, she was polite, apologetic, wore very elegant scarves and a pearl shamrock on the collar of her white jacket. You never saw her without that white jacket. I said it wasn’t going badly, yeah, it really wasn’t going too badly, I was at a good place, you see, the story already had everything, meaning, the drama, but also a touch of frivolity, frivolity is good for drama: two destinies that don’t meet, a life full of mistakes, two lives full of mistakes…Despair? sure, but only in moderation. A death, maybe. His or hers, I couldn’t say, or maybe, I don’t know, some huge betrayal. But mainly, an inadequacy to life, like nothing’s ever enough, and a sense of dissipation, along with something like non-reason, and depraved egoism. Mrs. McKisco gave me an understanding sigh, as if to say: but when does anyone find that life is enough? Her voluminous bosom rose, the pearl shamrock sparkled, Mr. McKisco watched her grimly, like he might sink his teeth into her, she looked sad, ill at ease, her unhappiness was touchingly simplistic; off with you, Mrs. McKisco, I wish I could console you, rest your generous bosom on my shoulder and let it out, sob away: true, your life’s a waste, your husband’s an orangutan filled up with Pernod, you have too much money and now you’re asking yourself what good is money, what’s the point of paper mills, but the hell with it all, right Mrs. McKisco? You’d have liked children, and instead you find yourself here, trying to staunch old age and solitude, you’d like to convince yourself that children aren’t everything, and you stare at the lights of Cannes and feel a strong urge to cry. Come over to the railing with me, let’s stare out to sea, and I’ll tell you about a frivolous, desperate novel, and we’ll laugh like crazy, all very Fitzgeraldesque, he’s the writer of a single book, he had a decayed childhood that aches now and then, sharp waves of pain, his methods for coping with life haven’t been exactly clean, you might say he’s a bit debauched but basically kind – you want to hear the beginning? – it could begin like this, for instance: In 1959, when this story’s protagonist was thirty-five, it had already been two years since irony – today’s Holy Spirit – had, at least theoretically, descended upon him. Irony was the last polishing swipe to his shoes, the last dab of the clothes-brush, an intellectual “There you go!”: and yet, on the brink of this story, he still hasn’t gone beyond the stage of consciousness…The truth is, it’s not my beginning, dear Mrs. McKisco, only the dates are mine, but it hardly matters.
Around midnight, Mr. McKisco collapsed on the table and had to be physically raised. Bishop was fairly drunk, too, and kept giggling, a happy drunk, she felt in top shape now to pop over to St. Raphaël’s – and we’re off – a race to eat a couple of shrimp – I broke away then, I preferred waiting for you at home: you’d be back in an hour or so. You want to know why I didn’t come back that night of August twelfth? I never wondered why you didn’t, and I don’t want to know – I don’t care. But I want to tell you why I didn’t come back – it’s really funny. Because it was San Macario Day. My father was named Macario, and I wanted to remember him on my own, uninterrupted, away from your place. And I had Scottie’s picture in my pocket. I’ve got it here in front of me now. Taken when she was four years old. She’s in a flowered dress, white socks, her braids bleached by the sun. She’s holding onto a stuffed toy, a sad-eyed basset hound, she’s got it dangling by one ear, named Socrates – do you remember Socrates? – I bought him. There’s a hole in the picture: that’s you. And there in the background, that’s the villa, taken from the west side, the stairs covered in fox grape vine leading up to Scottie’s rooms, the white door with the lead-glass window, English-style. So I had Scottie’s picture in my pocket, and I sat down in a café. I felt pretty good. My plan was perfect, and in various spots toward Menton you could see fireworks, it had to be a patron saint festival, a good omen, I thought. For a month and half, every Saturday night, I’d drive my car across the border. There was a customs agent who started his shift at ten o’clock on the dot, a boy from Benevento, who was used to seeing me by now, I’d go to Italy for an espresso, and at ten thirty I’d cross the border again – “homesick for Italian coffee, sir?” – he’d greet me, hand to his visor, and I’d respond to his salute, sometimes stop and chat a little, to him I was some rich guy obsessed with Italian coffee, he’d never dream to look in my car. Asleep under a plaid blanket, Scottie could easily get through.
I loitered for a little while along the promenade, watching the fireworks toward Menton. They’d be for tomorrow evening. It was the San Macario festival, a beautiful night, I thought about my father dead in a stinking Baltimore hotel; I stopped at the “Racé” to pick up some money, I was involved in some dealings there, but this would be the last time: I needed the money to set up an honest business in Italy – not that I was short on money, but the more I had the better – those first days wouldn’t be easy. There was a jam session going on at the “Racé,” and this incredible musician was doing a perfect imitation of Rex Stewart, Ellington’s cornet player in the thirties, he was happy, playing “Trumpet in Space” and “Kissing my Baby Goodnight,” imagine that, and I was happy too, I stayed a bit, then left, went for a long walk because I wanted some fresh air. There you go. The slightest thing, and a whole life can change. Or stay the same.
Time is treacherous – it makes us believe it never passes, and when we look back, it’s passed too quickly. You’d enjoy a line like that in my story, wouldn’t you, Martine? Granted. Time is treacherous – I look back, and it’s passed too quickly, and how slow it’s been to pass! Almost twenty years have passed, and Scottie’s still four years old, to us. But in the end, I’m also the same age as then, to you. Because I’m unattainable, in a way eternal, here, where I find myself. I’m beyond the curve in the road, do you understand this idea? Twenty years should be enough to understand this sort of idea. But you, no, you’ve kept to the straightaway, exposed. You’ve aged, Martine, that’s normal. You’ll finally be unafraid when old age comes: it has already. Bishop’s left no trace behind – she disappeared into England. But I know what happened to her: she’s half-nun, never married, lives in a convent in Sussex, teaches American culture to girls from good homes. By God, even Deluxe has aged, has lost his aviator looks. He’s visited you a few times but can’t resume the game, he gets nothing from it now. He’s a portly gentleman with a blue Citroën, a business consultant in the suburbs: so long, Tom Barban. And the villa – how it’s aged. I went by recently and imagined going in. On the outside wall, by the gate, is a blue-tiled panel of a brigantine with blowing sails. We bought that in Èze Village, remember? The white paint’s peeling off the wrought-iron gate. It’s bubbled up from the salt and sun, large swellings that crumble to the touch, revealing, below, a fine, very yellow rust. You must have to push hard on those double wings, otherwise, with their stiff hinges, they won’t open. Impatient, you give the gate a shake, and at last it opens, letting out a quiet, prolonged creaking, like a far-off groan that’s finally reached us. Once, I happened to glance up, searching for the source of that cry, and then I saw the sky-blue of the sea. Past the gate and to the right, beneath a palm tree, is the gatekeeper’s lodge, painted yellow, a little room like a miniature house. The caretaker used to keep his tools there, but I can imagine what’s there now: a baby carriage with one of those folding hoods, like you see in photos from the thirties; a cordless toy xylophone; some old, scratched-up records. Unbearable things, impossible to look at, impossible to throw away: you need
to find some little room. But why am I describing things that you know better than me? To create a note of longing in my story, a sense of dissipation? You always preferred desperate, futile lives: Francis and Zelda, Bessie Smith, Isadora…I do what I can – it depends what we have at our disposal. Ah, yes, the villa’s really looking rundown, it needs a good makeover: the façade, windows, garden, grillwork…but money’s scarce; they don’t have Perri’s discreet little business dealings, so questionable and so lucrative – you can’t eat tradition for dinner. If you’d just consider making use of everything. It’s an unusually elegant location, the rooms are magnificent, so delightfully art nouveau; you could retire to Scottie’s rooms, so you’d be even closer to the memory of her – and two rooms are enough for you now – turn the rest into a hotel. A small, elitist hotel: ten rooms, dining room on the main floor, lamps with green shades on the tables, a pianist on the terrace for after dinner, lots of Gershwin, moonlight and Bacardi. The rich, middle-aged Swiss adore that sort of place. Find the right name, sophisticated and clever: “Au petit Gatsby,” say. And then you could face a quiet old age, spend your days in blessed peace staring at the coast and thinking about the future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter – tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…And one fine morning…It’s a Fitzgerald finale, of course.
Translated by Janice M. Thresher
Cinema
The small station was almost deserted. It was the station of a town on the Riviera, with palms and agaves growing near the wooden benches. At one end, behind a wrought-iron gate, a street led to the center of the town; at the other a stone stairway went down to the shore.
The stationmaster came out of the small glass control room and walked under the overhanging roof to the tracks. He was a short, stout man with a mustache. He lit a cigarette, looked doubtfully at the cloudy sky, stuck out a hand beyond the roof to see if it was raining, then wheeled around and with a thoughtful air put his hands in his pockets. The two workmen waiting for the train on a bench under the sign bearing the station’s name greeted him briefly and he nodded in reply. On the other bench there was an old woman, dressed in black, with a suitcase fastened with a rope. The stationmaster peered up and down the tracks then, as the bell announcing a train’s arrival began to ring, went back into his small room.
At this moment the girl came through the gate. She was wearing a polka-dotted dress, shoes laced at the ankles, and a pale blue sweater. She was walking quickly, as if she were cold, and a mass of blond hair floated under the scarf tied around her head. She was carrying a small suitcase and a straw handbag. One of the workmen followed her with his eyes and elbowed his apparently distracted companion. The girl stared indifferently at the ground, then went into the waiting room, closing the door behind her. The room was empty. There was a large cast-iron stove in one corner and she moved toward it, perhaps in the hope that it was lit. She touched it, disappointed, and then laid her straw handbag on top. Then she sat down on a bench and shivered slightly, holding her face between her hands. For a long time she remained in this position, as if she were crying. She was good-looking, with delicate features and slender ankles. She took off her scarf and rearranged her hair by shaking her head. Her gaze wandered over the walls of the room as if she were looking for something. There were threatening signs on the walls addressed to the citizenry by the Occupation Forces and notices of “wanted” persons, displaying their photographs. She looked around in confusion, then took the handbag she had left on the stove and laid it at her feet as if to shield it with her legs. She hunched her shoulders and raised her jacket collar. Her hands were restless; she was obviously nervous.
The door flew open and a man came in. He was tall and thin, wearing a belted tan trenchcoat and a felt hat pulled down over his forehead. The girl leaped to her feet and shouted, with a gurgle in her throat: “Eddie!” He held a finger to his lips, walked toward her, and, smiling, took her into his arms. She hugged him, leaning her head on his chest. “Oh, Eddie!” she murmured finally, drawing back, “Eddie!”
He made her sit down and went back to the door, looking furtively outside. Then he sat down beside her and drew some folded papers from his pocket.
“You’re to deliver them directly to the English major,” he said. “Later I’ll tell you how, more exactly.”
She took the papers and slipped them into the opening of her sweater. She seemed fearful, and there were tears in her eyes. “And what about you?” she asked.
He made a gesture signifying annoyance. Just then there was a rumbling sound and a freight train was visible through the door’s glass panel. He pulled his hat farther down and buried his head in a newspaper. “Go and see what’s up.”
The girl went to the door and peered out. “A freight train,” she said. “The two workmen sitting on the bench climbed aboard.”
“Any Germans?”
“No.”
The stationmaster blew his whistle and the train pulled away. The girl went back to the man and took his hands into hers. “What about you?” she repeated.
The man folded the newspaper and stuffed it into his pocket. “This is no time to think about me,” he said. “Now tell me, what’s your company’s schedule?”
“Tomorrow we’ll be in Nice, for three evening performances. Saturday and Sunday we play in Marseille, then Montpellier and Narbonne, one day each, in short, all along the coast.” “On Sunday you’ll be in Marseille,” said the man. “After the show you’ll receive admirers in your dressing room. Let them in one at a time. Many of them will bring flowers; some will be German spies, no doubt, but others will be our people. Be sure to read the card that comes with the flowers, in the visitor’s presence, every time, because I can’t tell you what the contact will look like.”
She listened attentively; the man lit a cigarette and went on: “On one of the cards you’ll read: Fleurs pour une fleur. Hand over the papers to that man. He’ll be the major.”
The bell began to ring again, and the girl looked at her watch. “Our train will be here in a minute. Eddie, please…”
He wouldn’t let her finish. “Tell me about the show. On Sunday night I’ll try to imagine it.”
“It’s done by all the girls in the company,” she said unenthusiastically. “Each one of us plays an actress of today or of the past. That’s all there is to it.”
“What’s the title?” he asked, smiling.
“Cinemà Cinemà.”
“Sounds promising.”
“It’s a disaster,” she said emphatically. “The choreography is by Savinio, just imagine that, and I play Francesca Bertini, dancing in a dress so long that I trip on it.”
“Watch out!” he joked. “Great tragic actresses simply mustn’t fall.”
Again she hid her face in her arms and started to cry. She was prettier than ever with tears on her cheeks. “Come away, Eddie, please, come away,” she murmured.
He wiped her tears away gently enough, but his voice hardened, as if in an effort to disguise his feelings. “Don’t, Elsa,” he said. “Try to understand.” And, in a playful tone, he added: “How should I get through? Dressed like a dancer, perhaps, with a blond wig?”
The bell had stopped ringing and the incoming train could be heard in the distance. The man got up and put his hands in his pockets. “I’ll walk with you,” he said.
“No,” she said, shaking her head resolutely. “You mustn’t do that; it’s dangerous.”
“I’m doing it anyhow.”
“Please!”
“One last thing,” he said; “I know the major’s a ladies’ man. Don’t smile at him too much.”
She looked at him supplicatingly. “Oh, Eddie!” she exclaimed with emotion, offering him her lips.
He seemed nonplussed for a moment, as if in embarrassment or because he didn’t have the courage to kiss her. Finally he deposited a fa
therly kiss on her cheek.
“Stop!” called out the clapperboy. “A break!”
“Not like that!” The director’s voice roared through the megaphone. “The last bit has to be done again.”
He was a bearded young man with a long scarf wound around his neck. Now he got down from the seat on the boom next to the camera and came to meet them. “Not like that,” he snorted with disappointment. “It must be a passionate kiss, old-fashioned, the way it was in the original film.” He threw an arm around the actress’s waist, bending her backward. “Lean over her and put some passion into it,” he said to the actor. Then looking around him, he added, “Take a break!”
2
The actors invaded the station’s shabby café, jostling one another in the direction of the bar. She lingered at the door, uncertain what to do, while he disappeared in the crowd. Soon he came back, balancing two caffè lattes, and beckoned to her with his head to join him outside. Behind the café there was a rocky courtyard, under a vine-covered arbor, which served also for storage. Besides cases of empty bottles, there were some misshapen chairs, and on two of these they sat down, using a third one as a table.
Message from the Shadows Page 19