Authors: Albert Cohen
Among other matters, you will allude, with all the requisite tact and judgement, to . . .'
Et cetera. Van Vries rambled on vaguely about the political dimension and among other things recommended Deume to avoid offending the legitimate susceptibilities of duly constituted national authorities, to convince them of the sympathetic interest with which the Secretariat of the League followed their tutelary endeavours, which were as generously assumed as they were difficult to execute, and which constituted a major contribution to civilization, and above all to approach all questions with the said authorities in a flexible frame of mind which took account of the political imponderables which were always so crucial.
'Flexibility, my dear Deume, flexibility and still more flexibility.' After a quarter of an hour, handing over Adrien's travel warrant, van Vries rang down the curtain on what he called his 'commandments' or sometimes even his 'precept', then stood up. With a smile and a cordial handshake, he wished his dear Deume fair winds and a successful outcome, promising himself that one of these fine days he would put a spoke in this young upstart's wheel.
CHAPTER 30
'Sweetie! I'm so glad to have got through to you, I was afraid you might have gone out! Listen darling, something's happened that'll have tremendous repercussions for my career in the service! I've been given a twelve-week official visit! A political tour, calling for tact and judgement! The only fly in the ointment is that I've got to leave tomorrow night! It's short notice, still I didn't dare say anything, it's a golden opportunity from the career point of view. Just think of what an official visit of this calibre will look like on my file, it'll stand me in tremendous stead later on, you do understand that, don't you, but we'll talk about it when I get home. So, anyway, I'm off to Paris tomorrow night, but the train doesn't go till twelve fifty, which means that dinner with S is still on: that's S as in Suzanne, get it? It'll be fine if I leave the Ritz half an hour after midnight, that'll give me heaps of time, it's not far to the station. I've already got my warrant. I've just been down to the Travel Section, they'd already been notified by V ..., Monsieur van Vries. They're wonderful! First-class sleeper, single of course, already booked! Suite ditto at the George V with bathroom and political, sorry, private toilet. Hotels don't come any better than the George V, it's the tops, super de-luxe, four hundred and nine rooms, I looked it up in the Michelin. And another thing: Monsieur van Vries said I can have the day off tomorrow to get everything ready. Fortunately I've got my packing index, you remember, I showed it to you, my card system for everything I need to take with me according to length of time away. Another good thing is that you don't need special injections for the Middle East. So all I need do is call in at the Palais tomorrow afternoon to pick up my official letters of introduction, signed by Sir John — no less! — and also my Thomas Cook tickets. And
non solum
that,
sed etiam
my letter of credit, which Finance has ordered in a great rush from the Credit Suisse. Oh and darling, I've something else I must tell you, but I'm going to use nods and winks so try to take the hint. Look, I don't really believe that a certain person would have taken an initiative of this importance off his own bat, whatever he says to the contrary, you see who I'm getting at, starts with one of the last letters in the alphabet. The way I see it, the idea came from way up. Looks to me like the real source of the thing can be traced back to somewhere in the vicinity of Suzanne! Get it? The Suzanne we're having dinner with tomorrow night. But we'll talk about that later. Hey, I'm forgetting the most important bit. Listen, I have an idea we'll be dining in his suite. I'll tell you what makes me say that. I have it on good authority from a well-informed source, beginning with the letter K, whom I swore to secrecy before mentioning tomorrow night's dinner, that he has a full suite at the Ritz, full meaning not just bedroom and bathroom of course but also a sitting-room and a dining-room as well! A dining-room! Just imagine what his weekly bill for that little lot must come to! Moreover, I hear he's got an Annamite servant, nothing to do with the hotel, it'll be his man, his personal valet! I think this valet must have a room in the hotel too, but I wasn't able to find out about that. So, I put these two bits of info - drawing-room and valet - together and I come up with the near certainty that we shall be having dinner in his suite. Anyway, we'll know for sure tomorrow night. But how are you feeling, darling? Good, splendid. Must take care and have an early night so that you're all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for tomorrow. I say, you wouldn't fancy coming with me on my visit? Paris, London, Brussels! Syria, Palestine, the mysterious Orient! You see, with my living expenses plus my entertainment allowance, we could just about manage it without having to put our hands in our own pocket. No? Oh all right, whatever you say. I would have loved to have you along, of course I would, but it's entirely your decision. Right, I'd better ring off now because I've mounds of work to get through, so I'll stay here for lunch, but I'll get home early so I can make a start with the packing tonight. Monsieur van Vries says it's fine for me to leave a little earlier this afternoon as soon as I've got shot of what I've got left to do. So cheerio, darling, see you soon.'
He replaced the receiver and gave a childish smile. By God, he'd been having nothing but luck of late, the luck; of the Irish! He'd been an A for a week, was dining with the USG tomorrow night, after which he was off on an official visit at ten to one in the morning!
'In my first-class sleeper, I take off my dinner-jacket, put it in my trunk carefully so that it doesn't crease, I get into my pyjamas and slip into lovely bed! And a single sleeper too, old sport! I don't have to watch the pennies! I'm one of life's royals!'
He gazed at one of life's royals in his pocket-mirror, made admiring faces at his reflection, told it he was Adrien the Well-Beloved, a real brigand, a success-merchant first class! The only snag was those twelve weeks without her. How could he imagine not seeing her each evening when he got back to his hotel? Three months, still it would go by quickly. Besides, think of the home-coming, she in his arms and him cutting a dash as the negotiator just back from the Middle East, tanned and trailing clouds of glory! In the meantime, on his first night in Paris, which would be the day after tomorrow, in the George V, he'd be tucked up in bed by eight with a detective novel and he'd order himself a feast of a dinner, only things he liked, rich hors-d'oeuvre with Vire chitterlings, followed by pig's trotters, stuffed or just simply grilled, grilled was just as good, with pureed potato and a mustard sauce, and a whole heap of other tasty items and a very good wine, he'd have to see their wine list, and to finish off a great big helping of fruit cake, and he'd have it all served in bed, they had specially designed trays, and wouldn't he just relish getting outside that little lot while reading his detective story! The high life! He stood up, spun round twice to get the real feel of his coming tour.
'And now for something to eat. I'm starving. Let's away!'
Out in the corridor, he strode along quickly, his step light with happiness, monarch of all he surveyed. Good God, when one of the top brass made you up to an A by direct selection and to boot invited you to dinner like that without prompting, there was no denying that you had most definitely clicked! Suddenly, in his mind's eye, he had a picture of himself at tomorrow night's sumptuous table sitting on the USG's left: witty and debonair, smoking a rakish cigarette, admired by his boss, who was amazed by all the things he came out with about Proust and Vermeer. Who knows, the day might come when he'd drop the 'sir' or even call him plain 'Solal', forget the formalities over brandy and fat cigars. 'Listen, Solal.' Who gave a damn about VV? VV wasn't dining with the USG! And who really gave a damn about all that literary stuff? It was a whole heap smarter being a diplomat in the field who put up at the George V and had his own toilet!
In the canteen, his lips twitching with excitement, he forced himself to be calm as he broke the news that he was going off on an official visit. He shook hands all round. He felt the greatest sympathy for these poor swine who would be staying behind cooped up in their little offices, hunched over their monotonous tasks, while he would know the spangled life of night-sleepers, palaces and five-star blowouts with VIPs! When questioned, he was discreet with his answers, saying it was just a fact-finding tour, giving no details, but somehow implying that his mission was confidential. When there was no more to be said on the subject, he took a lively interest in the current burning issue, which was: who would replace the Head of the Disarmament Section, who had just been made minister of war back home?
Returning to his office, he lit the expensive cigar which he had bought to celebrate his official visit, inhaled a cloud of victory with an expansive gesture, and decided that he was not in the right frame of mind to deal with an Acknowledgement, which was in any case routine business and beneath the notice of a negotiator. In his position, he could get away with murder! Chewing on his cigar like an authentic man of action, he picked up the Cameroon file and wrote on the minute-sheet inside the front cover: 'Monsieur Le Gandec. For action, please. A.D.' That was the way! Now, what time was it? Twenty to three. Obviously it was still a bit early to leave. But what the hell! He had his bags to pack and, dammit, he was dining tomorrow night with the USG!
'Stir your bones, we're off!'
He locked the drawers of his desk and ensured they were secure by tugging on the handles one after the other, paying special attention to the Lazar House and the Boneyard. When he'd finished, to make sure he'd remember checking everything and thus be free of all worries on that score during the three months of his tour, he declared aloud, to drum it home: 'Locked, checked, rechecked, double-checked, signed, sealed and delivered by the undersigned.' He combed his hair, brushed his suit, and set his felt hat at an angle, for the raffish effect. It was a lovely feeling to be sloping off at quarter to three in the afternoon while all those without benefit of official visit were left like convicts chained to their desks to sweat over their files! He cast a last look over his desk! Hell and damnation, the British Memo!
'I'm sick of the sight of you,' he told it.
What should he do? Pass it on with the other thing to Le Gandec for comments? Hm. That would be taking things a weeny bit far and make himself an enemy. But he certainly wasn't going to sit down and stay shut away indoors lapping up hundreds of pages on a lovely day like this! Without even bothering to sit down, he leaned over the file and wrote on the minute-sheet: 'M. van Vries. I have read this important document with the keenest interest. It is a full and satisfactory statement of the current situation in Palestine. Consequendy, I see no reason why it should not be approved in toto by the Permanent Mandates Commission. A.D.'
With an unsavoury word to speed it on its way, he gaily tossed the British Memorandum file into his out-tray and left, free as air, his stout walking-stick under his arm, a man with a mission, his eye alight with self-importance, blissfully happy, aware with every atom of his being that he was on the up and up, that he had the backing of the powers that be, and that he had his feet firmly under the social table, and never dreaming for one moment that he was born to die.
CHAPTER 31
A dumpling with chubby lips, nose like a parrot, and dead eyes, old Madame Ventradour, when shown into the drawing-room by Ariane, who had answered the door to her, flung herself upon her dear Antoinette, embraced her, shook Monsieur Deume's hand limply and young Adrien's firmly: she diagnosed Presence in him. When she was seated, she rearranged the front of her dress with its cameo and whalebone-stiffened bodice, took a moment to recover her breath, apologized for being late, and told of the dreadful happenings which had quite dislocated her day.
First there was her watch, which had suddenly stopped this morning, at ten past nine. That meant she had been forced to fall back on her stand-by, to which she was not used. Then dear Jeanne Replat, who came every Friday unfailingly at eleven on the dot, because before sitting down to table it was their custom to spend at least half an hour together in religious meditation, well, would you believe it, dear Jeanne Replat had arrived late for the very first time in her life, oh it wasn't her fault, but still she was frightfully late, she'd arrived at ten past twelve, which meant that they had not been able to start their meditation until twelve fifteen, which meant it had only lasted ten minutes, which in turn had left her thirsting spiritually and put her entirely out of sorts. And then, of course, instead of sitting down to table at noon as usual, they had not begun lunch until half past twelve, well twenty-eight minutes past to be exact, which had done nothing for the roast potatoes, which were hard and dry. So, instead of going for her nap at one as usual, it had been five and twenty to two before she'd been able to take herself off, which had completely thrown her off course, turned everything upside down, so that she had no idea where she was with her plans, her whole timetable being now in a shambles. Not to mention that her regular baker had not delivered her breadsticks, which always came on Tuesday and Friday mornings, and she'd had to send out for some in a hurry from the nearest bakery, but their breadsticks were distinctly odd and had made her feel quite peculiar. So, after her nap, to get to the bottom of it, she'd gone round to her regular baker's herself to ask what he meant by it, but unfortunately he wasn't there and the girl at the counter couldn't explain, so she had been forced to wait for the baker himself to get back. In the end the whole thing was cleared up, it was the fault of the new delivery-woman, a foreigner, a Frenchwoman who wore lipstick, who had been given a good telling-off there and then, and quite right too.