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‘She was one of my girls,’ said Loiseau. Maria was surprised. Of course Loiseau had girls, he was no monk, but it surprised her to hear him talk like that to her. ‘One of them?’ She deliberately made her voice mocking.
‘Don’t be so bloody arch, Maria. I can’t stand you raising one eyebrow and adopting that patronizing tone. One of my girls.’ He said it slowly to make it easy for her to understand. He was so pompous that Maria almost giggled. ‘One of my girls, working for me as an informant.’
‘Don’t all the tarts do that?’
‘She wasn’t a tart, she was a highly intelligent girl giving us first-class information.’
‘Admit it, darling,’ Maria cooed, ‘you were a tiny bit infatuated with her.’ She raised an eyebrow quizzically.
‘You stupid cow,’ said Loiseau. ‘What’s the good of treating you like an intelligent human.’ Maria was shocked by the rusty-edged hatred that cut her. She had made a kind, almost loving remark. Of course the girl had fascinated Loiseau and had in turn been fascinated by him. The fact that it was true was proved by Loiseau’s anger. But did his anger have to be so bitter? Did he have to wound her to know if blood flowed through her veins?
Maria got to her feet. ‘I’ll go,’ she said. She remembered Loiseau once saying that Mozart was the only person who understood him. She had long since decided that that at least was true.
‘You said you wanted to ask me something.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course it matters. Sit down and tell me.’
She shook her head. ‘Another time.’
‘Do you have to treat me like a monster, just because I won’t play your womanly games?’
‘No,’ she said.
There was no need for Maria to feel sorry for Loiseau. He didn’t feel sorry for himself and seldom for anyone else. He had pulled the mechanism of their marriage apart and now looked at it as if it were a broken toy, wondering why it didn’t work. Poor Loiseau. My poor, poor, darling Loiseau. I at least can build again, but you don’t know what you did that killed us.
‘You’re crying, Maria. Forgive me. I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m not crying and you’re not sorry.’ She smiled at him. ‘Perhaps that’s always been our problem.’
Loiseau shook his head but it wasn’t a convincing denial.
Maria walked back towards the Faubourg St Honoré. Jean-Paul was at the wheel of her car.
‘He made you cry,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘The rotten swine.’
‘I made myself cry,’ said Maria.
Jean-Paul put his arm around her and held her tight. It was all over between her and Jean-Paul, but feeling his arm around her was like a shot of cognac. She stopped feeling sorry for herself and studied her make-up.
‘You look magnificent,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘I would like to take you away and make love to you.’
There was a time when that would have affected her, but she had long since decided that Jean-Paul seldom wanted to make love to anyone, although he did it often enough, heaven knows. But it was a good thing to hear when you have just argued with an ex-husband. She smiled at Jean-Paul and he took her hand in his large tanned one and turned it around like a bronze sculpture on a turntable. Then he released it and grabbed at the controls of the car. He wasn’t as good a driver as Maria was, but she preferred to be his passenger rather than drive herself. She lolled back and pretended that Jean-Paul was the capable tanned he-man that he looked. She watched the pedestrians, and intercepted the envious glances. They were a perfect picture of modern Paris: the flashy automobile, Jean-Paul’s relaxed good looks and expensive clothes, her own well-cared-for appearance – for she was as sexy now as she had ever been. She leaned her head close upon Jean-Paul’s shoulder. She could smell his after-shave perfume and the rich animal smell of the leather seats. Jean-Paul changed gear as they roared across the Place de la Concorde. She felt his arm muscles ripple against her cheek.
‘Did you ask him?’ asked Jean-Paul.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t. He wasn’t in the right mood.’
‘He’s never in the right mood, Maria. And he’s never going to be. Loiseau knows what you want to ask him and he precipitates situations so that you never will ask him.’
‘Loiseau isn’t like that,’ said Maria. She had never thought of that. Loiseau was clever and subtle; perhaps it was true.
‘Look,’ said Jean-Paul, ‘during the last year that house on the Avenue Foch has held exhibitions, orgies, with perversions, blue movies and everything, but has never had any trouble from the police. Even when a girl dies there, there is still little or no trouble. Why? Because it has the protection of the French Government. Why does it have protection? Because the activities at the house are filmed and photographed for official dossiers.’
‘I’m not sure you’re right. Datt implies that, but I’m not sure.’
‘Well I am sure,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘I’ll bet you that those films and photos are in the possession of the Ministry of the Interior, Loiseau probably sees every one of them. They probably have a private showing once a week. Loiseau probably saw that film of you and me within twenty-four hours of its being taken.’
‘Do you think so?’ said Maria. A flash of
fear rose inside her, radiating panic like a two-kilowatt electric fire. Jean-Paul’s large cool hand gripped her shoulder. She wished he would grip her harder. She wanted him to hurt her so that her sins would be expiated and erased by the pain. She thought of Loiseau seeing the film in the company of other policemen. Please God it hadn’t happened. Please please God. She thought she had agonized over every aspect of her foolishness, but this was a new and most terrible one.
‘But why would they keep the films?’ Maria asked, although she knew the answer.
‘Datt selects the people who use that house. Datt is a psychiatrist, a genius …’
‘… an evil genius.’
‘Perhaps an evil genius,’ said Jean-Paul objectively. ‘Perhaps an evil genius, but by gathering a select circle of people – people of great influence, of prestige and diplomatic power – Datt can compile remarkable assessments and predictions about their behaviour in everything they do. Many major shifts of French Government policy have been decided by Datt’s insights and analysis of sexual behaviour.’
‘It’s vile,’ said Maria.
‘It’s the world in our time.’
‘It’s France in our time,’ Maria corrected. ‘Foul man.’
‘He’s not foul,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘He is not responsible for what those people do. He doesn’t even encourage them. As far as Datt is concerned his guests could behave with impeccable decorum; he would be just as happy to record and analyse their attitudes.’
‘Voyeur.’
‘He’s not even a voyeur. That’s the odd thing. That’s what makes him of such great importance to the Ministry. And that’s why your ex-husband could do nothing to retrieve that film even if he wished to.’
‘And what about you?’ asked Maria casually.
‘Be reasonable,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘It’s true I do little jobs for Datt but I am not his confidant. I’ve no idea of what happens to the film …’
‘They burn them sometimes,’ Maria remembered. ‘And often they are taken away by the people concerned.’
‘You have never heard of duplicate prints?’
Maria’s hopes sank. ‘Why didn’t you ask for that piece of film of us?’
‘Because you said let them keep it. Let them show it every Friday night, you said.’
‘I was drunk,’ said Maria. ‘It was a joke.’
‘It’s a joke for which we are both paying dearly.’
Maria snorted. ‘You love the idea of people seeing the film. It’s just the image you love to project. The great lover …’ She bit her tongue. She had almost added that the film was his sole documentary proof of heterosexuality, but she closed her eyes. ‘Loiseau could get the film back,’ she said. She was sure, sure, sure that Loiseau hadn’t seen that piece of film, but the memory of the fear remained.
‘Loiseau could get it,’ she said desperately, wanting Jean-Paul to agree on this one, very small point.
‘But he won’t,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘He won’t because I’m involved and your ex-husband hates me with a deep and illogical loathing. The trouble is that I can understand why he does. I’m no good for you, Maria. You would probably have managed the whole thing excellently except that Loiseau is jealous of your relationship with me. Perhaps we should cease to see each other for a few months.’
‘I’m sure we should.’
‘But I couldn’t bear it, Maria.’
‘Why the hell not? We don’t love each other. I am only a suitable companion and you have so many other women you’d never even notice my absence.’ She despised herself even before she’d completed the sentenee. Jean-Paul detected her motive immediately, of course, and responded.
‘My darling little Maria.’ He touched her leg lightly and sexlessly. ‘You are different from the others. The others are just stupid little tarts that amuse me as decorations. They are not women. You are the only real woman I know. You are the woman I love, Maria.’
‘Monsieur Datt himself,’ said Maria, ‘he could get the film.’ Jean-Paul pulled into the side of the road and double parked.
‘We’ve played this game long enough, Maria,’ he said.
‘What game?’ asked Maria. Behind them a taxi-driver swore bitterly as he realized they were not going to move.
‘The how-much-you-hate-Datt game,’ said Jean-Paul.
‘I do hate him.’
‘He’s your father, Maria.’
‘He’s not my father, that’s just a stupid story that he told you for some purpose of his own.’
‘Then where is your father?’
‘He was killed in 1940 in Bouillon, Belgium, during the fighting with the Germans. He was killed in an air raid.’
‘He would have been about the same age as Datt.’
‘So would a million men,’ said Maria. ‘It’s such a stupid lie that it’s not worth arguing about. Datt hoped I’d swallow that story but now even he no longer speaks of it. It’s a stupid lie.’
Jean-Paul smiled uncertainly. ‘Why?’
‘Oh Jean-Paul. Why. You know how his evil little mind works. I was married to an important man in the Sûreté. Can’t you see how convenient it would be to have me thinking he was my father? A sort of insurance, that’s why.’
Jean-Paul was tired of this argument. ‘Then he’s not your father. But I still think you should co-operate.’
‘Co-operate how?’
‘Tell him a few snippets of information.’
‘Could he get the film if it was really worth while?’
‘I can ask him.’ He smiled. ‘Now you are being sensible, my love,’ he said. Maria nodded as the car moved forward into the traffic. Jean-Paul planted a brief kiss on her forehead. A taxi-driver saw him do it and tooted a small illegal toot on the horn. Jean-Paul kissed Maria’s forehead again a little more ardently. The great Arc de Triomphe loomed over them as they roared around the Étoile like soapsuds round the kitchen sink. A hundred tyres screamed an argument about centrifugal force, then they were into the Grande Armée. The traffic had stopped at the traffic lights. A man danced nimbly between the cars, collecting money and whipping newspapers from window to window like a fan dancer. As the traffic lights changed the cars slid forward. Maria opened her paper; the ink was still wet and it smudged under her thumb. ‘American tourist disappears,’ the headline said. There was a photograph of Hudson, the American hydrogen-research man. The newspaper said he was a frozen foods executive named Parks, which was the story the US Embassy had given out. Neither the face nor either name meant anything to Maria.
‘Anything in the paper?’ asked Jean-Paul. He was fighting a duel with a Mini-Cooper. ‘No,’ said Maria. She rubbed the newsprint on her thumb. ‘There never is at this time of year. The English call it the silly season.’
18
Les Chiens is everything that delights the yeh yeh set. It’s dark, hot, and squirming like a tin of live bait. The music is ear-splitting and the drink remarkably expensive even for Paris. I sat in a corner with Byrd.
‘Not my sort of place at all,’ Byrd said. ‘But in a curious way I like it.’
A girl in gold crochet pyjamas squeezed past our table, leaned over and kissed my ear. ‘Chéri,’ she said. ‘Long time no see,’ and thereby exhausted her entire English vocabulary.
‘Dash me,’ said Byrd. ‘You can see right through it, dash me.’
The girl patted Byrd’s shoulder affectionately and moved on.
‘You do have some remarkable friends,’ said Byrd. He had ceased to criticize me and begun to regard me as a social curiosity well worth observing.
‘A journalist must have contacts,’ I explained.
‘My goodness yes,’ said Byrd.
The music stopped suddenly. Byrd mopped his face with a red silk handkerchief. ‘It’s like a stokehold,’ he said. The club was strangely quiet.
‘Were you an engineer officer?’
‘I did gunnery school when I was on lieutenants’ list. Finished a Commander; might have made Captain if there’d been a little war, Rear-Admiral if there’d been another big one. Didn’t fancy waiting. Twenty-seven years of sea duty is enough. Right through the hostilities and out the other side, more ships than I care to remember.’
‘You must miss it.’
‘Never. Why should I? Running a ship is just like running a small factory; just as exciting at times and just as dull for the most part. Never miss it a bit. Never think about it, to tell you the truth.’
‘Don’t you miss the sea, or the movement, or the weather?’
‘Good grief, laddie, you’ve got a nasty touch of the Joseph Conrads. Ships, especially cruisers, are large metal factories, rather prone to pitch in bad weather. Nothing good about that, old boy – damned inconvenient, that’s the truth of it! The Navy was just a job of work for me, and it suited me fine. Nothing against the Navy mind, not at all, owe it an awful lot, no doubt of it, but it was just a job like any other; no magic to being a sailor.’ There was a plonking sound as someone tapped the amplifier and put on another record. ‘Painting is the only true magic,’ said Byrd. ‘Translating three dimensions into two – or if you are a master, four.’ He nodded suddenly, the loud music started. The clientele, who had been stiff and anxious during the silence, smiled and relaxed, for they no longer faced the strain of conversing together.
On a staircase a wedge of people were embracing and laughing like advertising photos. At the bar a couple of English photographers were talking in cockney and an English writer was explaining James Bond.
A waiter put four glasses full of ice cubes and a half-bottle of Johnnie Walker on the table before us. ‘What’s this?’ I asked.
The waiter turned away without answering. Two Frenchmen at the bar began to argue with the English writer and a bar stool fell over. The noise wasn’t loud enough for anyone to notice. On the dance floor a girl in a shiny plastic suit was swearing at a man who had burned a hole in it with his cigarette. I heard the English writer behind me say, ‘But I have always immensely adored violence. His violence is his humanity. Unless you understand that you understand nothing.’ He wrinkled his nose and smiled. One of the Frenchmen replied, ‘He suffers in translation.’ The photographer was clicking his fingers in time to the music.
‘Don’t we all?’ said the English writer, and looked around.
Byrd said, ‘Shocking noise.’
‘Don’t listen,’ I said.
‘What?’ said Byrd.
The English writer was saying ‘… a violent Everyman in a violent but humdrum …’ he paused, ‘but humdrum world.’ He nodded agreement to himself. ‘Let me remind you of Baudelaire. There’s a sonnet that begins …’
