by Morris West
I was pouring the liquor so I didn’t have to meet her eyes as I asked the next question.
“Are you sure he’ll come back?”
“No. I’m not sure. After all, he did make a settlement on me and the children, which is more or less equivalent to the amount we could get in a divorce. So maybe that’s what he wants: to cut clean and start again. On the other hand, abrupt changes are symptoms of the illness. What he wants today he will reject tomorrow.”
I handed her the brandy and tilted her chin up so that she was forced to look at me.
“I need a straight answer to this one, Madi,” I told her. “Do you want Larry back in your life, in this house, as your husband?”
When she did not answer immediately, I returned to my own chair. She sat, eyes downcast, twisting the wedding band on her finger as I had seen her do at the office. There was a chill in her answer like the first breath of winter.
“I know what you’re asking, Carl, and why you have to ask it. Dr. Levy warned me long ago that Larry would infect me with his own disease. That’s exactly what has happened, in the sense that I’m forced to live in his rhythms. But deep down, I know the price I’m paying for the occasional joy is too high. There are too many agonies and uncertainties. But don’t you see? The children need him, need what he can still give them as a father. I can’t deny them their right to him. He loves them, they love him. Besides, he’s a sick man. I can’t let him be put down like an ailing animal. I can’t bear the thought that he’s somewhere out there trapped in his private hell with nobody to open the door for him.”
She broke then. She covered her face with her hands and huddled in her chair, weeping quietly. I knelt beside her, stroking her hair, murmuring small words, remembering how much, even as a child, she had needed the comfort of physical contact. Finally, when her tears were spent, she dried her eyes with my handkerchief, demanded another brandy, and led me upstairs to inspect the relics and personal effects of Laurence Lucas, missing in action on some far frontier of human experience.
3
MARC ANTOINE VIANNEY, our executive director for France and the Low Countries, met me at Orly Airport. He was one of the new breed of Eurocrats, young, lean, and fit, impeccably groomed, fluent in several languages and all the jargon of modern business. He was also faintly disdainful of American modes and manners and supremely confident that it was the destiny of France to revitalize Europe and civilize the barbarians beyond the Urals.
All this he managed to convey to me between his first cool handshake at the gate, a hair-raising drive in his Porsche from Orly to Paris, and a highly ceremonious arrival at Le Diplomate, where, he told me, I was booked into the suite recently occupied by my brilliant colleague, Larry Lucas. He suggested that I might prefer to rest a little before lunch. I told him I wanted to begin immediately and continue our discussions over coffee and sandwiches. Fine! Marc Antoine Vianney was as eager as I was to faire le branle-bas, clear the decks for action. But first there was a statement he felt duty-bound to make. I invited him to speak with absolute freedom; what he gave me was a barrage of bitter complaints—a firestorm of angers.
“Your father has written and spoken to me but I still have no precise idea of why you are here. I am told you will explain everything to me, but first I have things to explain to you. This company is about to be destroyed—by a collapse of confidence in itself and possibly by a mass defection of its members. Just at the moment when they should be celebrating a commercial triumph, they feel themselves insulted, demeaned, placed under degrading and totally unjustified suspicion.”
I opened my mouth to speak but he silenced me with a gesture.
“No! You will hear me out first, Mr. Strassberger. Consider this, consider it carefully: In cooperation with your Mr. Larry Lucas, this office has just brought off a financial triumph of the first magnitude. Everyone down to the humblest file clerk contributed to that triumph. Before he left for New York, Mr. Lucas gave an office party. He paid compliments and handed out personal gifts to everyone. He expressed in glowing terms the thanks of your father and the other principals in New York. He left, trailing clouds of goodwill, with the completed documents in his briefcase. That was—let me remember—on Wednesday. The next day your father sends me a personal note of commendation and a recommendation for special payments at bonus time. That was Thursday. On Sunday night he calls me at home and informs me that a snap audit and a general security check by Corsec will begin on Monday morning. He promises that he will make a full explanation in due course. I am troubled, yes, but I am not yet angry. I have respect for your father. I owe him much in my career with Strassberger and Company; but, when the Corsec people present themselves, it’s like a police raid.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Certainly! They were brusque, and impolite. They made demands in a manner that was almost threatening. They gave no explanations. They accepted what they were told with cold reserve, as though we were suspected of a crime.”
I knew exactly what he meant. More and more this has become the American way. Money business is conducted with a hard face and a big stick. It gives offense to a lot of people. It certainly would have offended me. Vianney pressed on with his complaint. “This is not our way, not here in this office. We feel, as I have said, insulted and degraded…I call your father, he apologizes for any unfortunate impression that may have been created but does not wish to explain the situation over the telephone. He is sending you as a special emissary to make everything clear to us. Frankly, we do not know whether to regard this as an apology or another insult. We have always understood that you are a scholar and an artist living and working here in France. We hear good things of you in your profession. Our common sense tells us that you are not an experienced banker…What more can I say? I hope you understand our position. I hope most fervently that you understand ours and that you will be able to explain the meaning of these extraordinary happenings, not only to me but to my colleagues. Service in Strassberger has always been a matter of pride. We hope—against hope—that our pride may be restored.”
In the silence that followed I had to take the measure of the man and of the situation he had described to me. I had no doubt that his grievance was real. On the other hand, I had very strong doubts about my father’s handling of the situation. He was a paragon of business rectitude, but in this case, it seemed that his tactics went hopelessly astray. He wanted to preserve at all costs the integrity of the Strassberger reputation. He was trying to protect Larry Lucas as well. He had failed on both counts, because he had refused to trust his own executives and had handed them over to poker-faced investigators from a hard-nosed security outfit. More than this, he had ignored the sensibilities of the French themselves and their long memories of enemy occupation and financial dependence on the United States. Now I had to tell them the truth and try to persuade Vianney to accept it at face value.
“Mr. Vianney, I was not in New York when this affair began. I was in my studio in Cagnes, working happily on a new etching. My father called me, told me he was in the middle of a family crisis, and asked me to come to New York. That, I gather, was more or less what he told you. He didn’t want to talk on the phone. He would explain later. Yes?”
Vianney nodded but said nothing. I pressed on, a little more confidently.
“As for myself, you’re absolutely right. I have no real talent for banking. I became an artist by choice. I can tell you the difference between a derivative and a debenture, and that’s the extent of my interest. However, I can see quite clearly the color of the events as you have described them to me. My father is a man of principle but he is not always tactful and he works sometimes in the modes of another generation. So I understand your distress and that of your colleagues. I will see that my father is informed of it as soon as we have finished our talk. You are welcome to be present while I speak to him. I hope by then you will have understood the real reason for these unfortunate events, which is a conflict of interest between fa
mily and business. This is a long story. Please be patient and feel free to ask any questions you wish. After that, if you want me to address your colleagues, I shall be happy to do so.”
Vianney was puzzled now but still wary. He had expected argument, a spirited plea for the defense. In the same low-key style, I told him the story of Larry Lucas’s illness, of his disappearance, and of our fears for his safety. I explained that my presence in Paris was based on pure guesswork, and I quoted Larry’s remark to Madeleine: “Paris is a haunting place…drowning in the backwash of a vanished empire.”
When my story was done, there was another silence, a long one this time. Vianney heaved himself out of his chair, walked over to the window, and stood staring out into the empty air. When he turned to face me, he was as pale as death and his lean features were like a stone mask. His voice was studiously neutral.
“I am glad that you have been open with me, Mr. Strassberger. I believe what you have told me. My only regret is that your father did not place the same trust in me from the beginning.”
“I’ve already explained his dilemma.”
“I am beginning to understand it, just as I am beginning to understand Larry: his wild enthusiasms, his passion in argument, his sudden angers. I respected his talents but I could not bring myself to like him or be close to him. We consulted, of course, at every stage—indeed almost every day—but I could not offer him friendship. I left that to others.”
“And how did others react to him?”
“The men were divided. Some found him arrogant and abrasive, others were attracted by the very things that repelled me.”
“And the women?”
“The women were drawn to him. Almost without exception they described him as charming and considerate.”
“What about his angers?”
“Brief but tolerable. That seemed to be the general opinion.”
“Did he work closely with any particular woman?”
“When he arrived, I appointed Mademoiselle Claudine Parmentier to act as his personal assistant. She is very good at her job; she has paralegal training; her English is excellent.”
“And how did they get along?”
“In the first weeks, not easily. Later they settled into a good working relationship.”
“Was the relationship confined to the office?”
Vianney gave me a swift, suspicious look. “Why do you ask that, Mr. Strassberger?”
“I have to find, if I can, someone who was close to him, someone who, perhaps only for a single moment, may have been admitted into his confidence or given a hint of his future plans. There is nothing sinister in my question.”
“Then I think you should ask it directly of Mlle. Parmentier. Once again I warn you that our people are sensitive about inquisitors from across the Atlantic.”
“Which brings me to the next decision we have to make. You want me to address the staff; how much do I tell them? From this moment we can’t afford any mistakes.”
“I agree. After listening to you, I recommend a direct personal appeal for help. Your French is fluent—if rather tainted by your residence in the midi.” He gave me a ghost of a smile. “No offense, Mr. Strassberger, but I am Parisian born and bred and we too have our parochial prejudices.”
I grinned and let the comment pass.
“How much do I reveal?”
“The whole truth. Nothing less will satisfy them. Nothing else will encourage them to offer you information.”
“When can you get them together?”
“Shall we say four o’clock this afternoon? Then, if someone wants to talk with you, you can either have coffee in the office or an aperitif elsewhere. As I said, the decision to send in the auditors has left a taste of lemon in everyone’s mouth.”
“Including yours?”
“Of course, including mine.”
“Do you object to my presence in the workplace?”
“Not at all. It’s only common sense to work from here. We have, in fact, put you in Larry’s old office.”
“I’ll probably need an assistant.”
“That too we can provide.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s after midday. I don’t think I can face coffee and sandwiches. May I offer you lunch at my club?”
“It’s a kind thought, but do you mind if I take a rain check? I’d like to shower and change and set a few notes in order before I face the lions at four o’clock.”
“Are you afraid of them, my friend? You shouldn’t be. They are just ordinary people, good at what they do, resentful that their jobs can be threatened by decisions made on the other side of the Atlantic.”
This time the humor was lost on me. I was tired of playing mind games in another language.
“No, I’m not afraid of them, Mr. Vianney,” I told him curtly. “If they all walk out at five o’clock tonight, Strassberger will still be in business—and I know at least enough to hold the fort until reinforcements arrive. What I’m really afraid of is a poor bastard with a bee in his bonnet, scuttling around somewhere between here and kingdom come. He’s my sister’s husband. He’s got two small children, and he’s got a caring psychiatrist who is herself very fearful of what may happen to him. I’m paying you and your people a compliment. I’m trusting you to think about the threat—the many threats—which hang over Larry Lucas. He’s a walking time bomb and I’ve got to find him before he explodes. This is not a bullfight, so I don’t need anyone sticking pics in my hide to soften me up for the matador!”
He was shocked by my outburst but he managed a calm-enough answer.
“I have offended you. I apologize. Before you arrive at the office this afternoon, I shall have briefed the staff, so that you will not be obliged to give long and painful explanations.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you.”
“I have been angry, yes, but never enough to play games with a man’s life. You see, I have experience of Larry Lucas’s illness. My eldest brother was a brilliant violinist with a great career before him as a concert performer. He killed himself the night before his first big concert.”
“My God, I’m sorry.”
“You owe me no sorrow, Mr. Strassberger. But please believe I am not a matador who wants to provoke you first and then kill you in a public spectacle. People purge their grief in many ways; mine is by anger and irony. I’ll see you at four o’clock.”
Before he walked out, we shook hands. It wasn’t exactly an entente cordiale; but at least it was a gesture toward a possible one.
Bathed, changed, and refreshed with coffee and a croque-monsieur, I still had two hours to kill before my encounter with the Strassberger staff. I decided to try my luck with one Gerard Marcel Delaunay, doyen of the concierges of Paris, who, like all senior members of the brotherhood, is a very important fellow indeed. He is discreetly rich, and his wealth is daily increased by cash gifts from satisfied clients, by tributes from his staff, and by commissions from all those whose services he mediates: airlines, travel agents, florists, escort agencies, hirers of limousines, operators of bus tours. His power is great and widespread. His arrangements with taxing authorities are also a matter of discreet agreement, because there is no way they can check on all the currency which passes through his hands and they have to content themselves with a reasonably estimated share of the very large revenue.
So my approach to M. Delaunay had to begin with a demonstration of sincere respect. I called his office, introduced myself as the latest occupant of the Strassberger suite, and asked if he would grant me the privilege of a fifteen-minute interview in private as soon as possible. His condescension was almost regal. He was inordinately busy, but he would be happy to receive me in twenty minutes. I thanked him and hung up.
Among the luggage which I had brought from New York was a small packet of leaflets which Dr. Levy had given me. The title of the leaflet was “Mood Swings—Coping with Manic-Depressive Illness.” The note she had attached to the packet said simply, If you can get people to read this, it will sa
ve you a lot of painful and wearisome talk. A.L.
I took out one of the copies and marked the passages which I thought might help me most in my discussion with Delaunay. One paragraph dealt with increased sexual activity; another described the profligate spending of money; a third was concerned with the reduced sense of danger and the susceptibility to gambling, dangerous sports, and indiscriminate sex encounters.
I tried to prepare myself for the interview with a worst and best prognosis. At worst, the concierge could decline all discussion. He supplied his clients’ needs but could not betray their confidence. Neither would he be too much inclined to reveal any of the sources of his service revenue.
At best, he might unbend enough to give me a carefully edited outline of Larry Lucas’s off-duty life in Paris. He could not, in any case, refuse me access to whatever clothing and effects were still being held in storage. Finally, since my concerns could best be expressed in financial terms, I put five hundred dollars into an envelope, put the envelope inside the brochure, tucked both into the inside pocket of my jacket, and rode downstairs to talk to the great man.
He was not, at first sight, impressive. He was middle-aged, running to fat, with a ruddy moon face, a crown of white hair, and a benign smile. His eyes were cornflower blue. They sparkled when he smiled and were alert when he listened. I had the impression that after one glance he would have been able to recite every detail of my dress and deportment.
His welcome was formal. He and his staff were wholly at my disposal at any time during my stay. He was more than interested to hear that I was Mr. Lucas’s brother-in-law and that I was in Paris on temporary assignment to fill his place. He had the most pleasant recollections of Mr. Lucas, who, he understood, would still be a fairly regular visitor. He was indebted to Mr. Lucas for some good financial advice which had enabled him to turn a useful profit on the bourse. If, therefore, I needed any special service, he would be happy to offer it.
It was the best cue I would get; I still moved tentatively.