Under the Net (26 page)

I sat drinking my coffee and watching this scene and reflecting on the difference between French and English literary
maurs,
when there was a screaming of brakes and a lorry drew up sharply at the kerb. The shirt-sleeved men precipitated themselves upon it, and in a moment they had formed a chain along which bundles of books were tossed rapidly from hand to hand. Inside the shop I could see that others were anxiously setting up the cardboard display cases in the empty window which, in a few minutes, was to be crammed from end to end with the monotonous and triumphant repetition of the winner's name. The whole episode had the hasty precision of a police raid. I watched with amusement as the lorry was emptied; while behind me now the window was whitening with books. I turned to inspect it; and there I saw something which stopped my smile abruptly.

Across the whole window, with the emotional emphasis of a repeated cry, I saw the name of Jean Pierre Breteuil; and underneath it in parallel repetition, NOUS LES VAINQUEURS NOUS LES VAINQUEURS NOUS LES VAINQUEURS. I started from my seat. I looked again at the notice which said PRIX GONCOURT. There could be no doubt about it. I paid my bill and went and stood by the window, while under my eyes the message was repeated ten, a hundred, five hundred times.
Jean Pierre Breteuil
NOUS LES VAINQUEURS. The mountain of books rose slowly in front of me; there was not one dissentient voice. It rose to a peak. The last book was put in place on the very top, and then the shop assistants came crowding out to see how it looked from the front. The name and the title swam before my eyes, and I turned away.

It was only then that it struck me as shocking that my predominant emotion was distress. It was a distress, too, which went so deep that I was at first at a loss to understand it. I walked at random trying to sort the matter out. I was of course very surprised to find Jean Pierre in the role of a Goncourt winner. The Goncourt jury, that constellation of glorious names, might sometimes err, but they would never make a crass or fantastic mistake. That their coronation of Jean Pierre represented a moment of sheer insanity was a theory which I could set aside. I had not read the book. The alternative remained open, and the more I reflected the more it appeared to be the only alternative, that Jean Pierre had at last written a good novel.

I stood still in the middle of the pavement. Why was this absolutely unbearable? Why should it matter to me so much that Jean Pierre had pulled it off? I went to a café and ordered cognac. To say that I was jealous was to put it too simply. I felt an indignant horror as at some monstrous reversal of the order of nature: as a man might feel if his favourite opinion was suddenly controverted in detail by a chimpanzee. I had classed Jean Pierre once and for all. That he should secretly have been changing his spots, secretly improving his style, ennobling his thought, purifying his emotions: all this was really too bad. In my imagination I was already lending the book every possible virtue, and the more I did so the more I felt a mingled rage and distress which drove every other idea from my mind. I ordered another cognac. Jean Pierre had no right to turn himself surreptitiously into a good writer. I felt that I had been the victim of an imposture, a swindle. For years I had worked for this man, using my knowledge and sensibility to turn his junk into the sweet English tongue; and now, without warning me, he sets up shop as a good writer. I pictured Jean Pierre with his plump hands and his short grey hair. How could I introduce into this picture, which I had known so well for so long, the notion of a good novelist? It wrenched me, like the changing of a fundamental category. A man whom I had taken on as a business partner had turned out to be a rival in love. One thing was plain. Since it was now impossible to treat with Jean Pierre cynically it was impossible to treat with him at all. Why should I waste time transcribing his writings instead of producing my own? I would never translate
Nous Les Vainqueurs.
Never, never, never.

It was striking ten before I remembered Madge. I took a taxi to her hotel, and as I went my rage was curdling inside me and turning into a sort of rash vigour, which hardened my sinews and lifted my head. I did not slink into the Hotel Prince de Clèves as I would normally have done. I strode in, making receptionists and porters cower. They did not need to affect to ignore, for I think they truly did not see, the leather patches on my elbows, such is the power of the human eye when it darts forth its fire. I commanded to be led to Madge; and in a moment or two I was at her door. The door opened, and I saw Madge reclining on a chaiselongue in an attitude which she had clearly taken up some time ago in expectation of my arrival. The door was closed softly behind me as behind a prince. I looked down at Madge; and it came to me that I was more pleased to see her than I had ever been before. Under my look her dignity dissolved, and I could see unfolded in her face how deeply moved, relieved, and delighted she was to see me. With a whoop I fell upon her.

Some time later it was necessary to start talking. I had been struck as I came in, only the impression had been submerged at once, by a further alteration in Madge. Now as she powdered her nose I sat and took this in. Her clothes were quieter and sleeker and desperately well cut, and her coiffure was completely transformed. The undulating English perm was gone, and her hair fitted her now like a scalloped cap. She seemed slimmer and more piquant; even her movements were more gracious. Clearly somebody new had taken Madge in hand, somebody far more expert than Sammy. She watched me out of the corner of her eye as she blocked in the tenderly proud mouth of a woman who knows that she is desired; and as I went to kiss her she turned her head and offered me with a regal movement the perfumed and artificial bloom of her cheek. It was unnerving to see someone transforming herself so rapidly: like seeing the stars moving or the world turning.

‘Madge, you are beautiful,' I said. We sat down.

‘Jakie,' said Madge, ‘I just can't tell you how glad I am to see you. I just can't tell you. You're the first human face I've seen for ages.'

I was already beginning to wonder what sort of faces Madge had been seeing lately; there would be time enough, however, to get this out of her. We had a great deal to tell each other.

‘Where shall we start?' I asked.

‘Oh, darling!' said Madge, and threw her arms round me. We put off starting for a bit longer.

‘Look,' I said at last, ‘let's begin by establishing what we both know: for instance that Sammy is a scoundrel.'

‘Oh dear!' said Madge, ‘I was so miserable about Sammy!'

‘What happened?' I asked.

Madge plainly wasn't going to tell me. I could see her selecting an evasion. ‘You don't understand Sammy,' said Madge, ‘he's an unhappy muddled sort of person.' This is a standard remark made by women about men who have left them.

‘Was that why you made him a present of my translation?' I asked.

‘Oh,
that
!' said Madge. ‘I did that for your sake, Jakie.' She kept me at bay with her big eyes. ‘I thought if anything came of it Sammy could help you. But how did you know he had it?'

I then gave her a highly selective version of my own recent adventures. I could see Madge hated the bits about Sammy and Sadie.

‘What a pair of crooks!' she said.

‘But surely you knew about Sammy's plan?' I asked her.

‘I had no idea until two days ago,' said Madge.

This was clearly false, since she must have known more or less what Sammy was up to when she gave him my typescript; but at that time she had doubtless been under the impression that it was herself and not Sadie who was to be the woman in the case. Indeed, perhaps Sammy had thought this too, to begin with. On the occasion of our sporting afternoon he had certainly manifested what had appeared to be a genuine interest in Madge. That Sammy was muddled was possible after all. Whether he was unhappy I neither knew nor cared.

‘Well now, suppose you tell me a few things,' I said. ‘What's this important talk you wanted?'

‘It's a long story, Jake,' said Madge. She poured me out a drink, and then stood looking at me reflectively. She had the withdrawn feline look of a woman who is conscious of power and seeing herself as Cleopatra. ‘Would you like to earn three hundred pounds down and a hundred and fifty a month for an indefinite time?'

While I considered this I contemplated Madge in her new role. ‘Other things being equal,' I said, ‘the answer is yes. But who is the paymaster?'

Madge walked slowly across the room. Her sense of drama was acute enough to electrify the whole atmosphere. She turned quietly to face me, with the quietness of somebody who knows that quietly is how they are turning.

‘Oh, cut it out, Madge,' I said, ‘and come clean. This isn't a screen test.'

‘A person,' said Madge, choosing her words with care, ‘who has made a great deal of money out of shipping or something in Indo-China, is proposing to put this money into the creation of an Anglo-French film company. It will be a very big enterprise. The people who are to control it are looking round for talent. Naturally,' she added, ‘all that I say to you now is in confidence.'

I stared at Madge. She had certainly been to school since I had last seen her. Where could she have picked up words like ‘enterprise' and ‘in confidence'?

‘This is very interesting,' I said, ‘and I hope that the eye of the talent-spotter has lighted favourably upon you; but where do I come in?'

‘You come in,' said Madge, ‘as a script-writer.' She poured out a drink for herself. The timing was perfect.

‘Look, Madge,' I said, ‘I appreciate this. I appreciate
all
your kind efforts on my behalf. But one can't just walk into a job like that. Script-writing is highly technical — I should have to learn it before anyone in their senses would pay me the sum you mentioned. Anyway,' I said, ‘I'm not sure that it's the sort of job I'd care for.
Ce n'esi pas mon genre
.‘

‘Stop acting, Jake,' said Madge. She had obviously been stung by my earlier remark. ‘You're panting for that money. Let me just tell you what you have to do to get it.'

It was true that I was not unmoved. ‘Give me another drink,' I said, ‘and tell me how you propose to drag me in.'

‘You don't need to be dragged in,' said Madge. ‘You come in quite naturally because of Jean Pierre.'

‘My God!' I said, ‘what has Jean Pierre got to do with it?' I seemed to be up to my ankles in Jean Pierre that morning.

‘He's on the board of directors,' said Madge, ‘or he will be when everything's signed. And just guess what our first production will be,' she said, with the air of someone whipping out a conclusive argument. ‘An English film based on his latest book!'

I felt sick. ‘You mean
Nous Les Vainqueurs
?' I said.

‘That's the one,' said Madge, ‘the one that got the what-not prize.'

‘I know,' I said, ‘the
Prix Goncourt
, I saw it in a shop as I came along.'

‘It would make a marvellous film, wouldn't it?' said Madge.

‘I don't know,' I said, ‘I haven't read it.' I sat looking at the carpet. I felt more like crying than I had for a long time.

Madge watched me as I sat there with my head drooping. ‘What's the matter with you, Jake?' she cried. ‘Aren't you well?'

‘I'm fine,' I said. ‘Go on telling me things.'

‘Jake,' said Madge, ‘everything has worked out wonderfully. You just haven't seen it yet. This is better than anything we ever dreamed up in Earls Court Road. That it should be Jean Pierre! It's all come out in a beautiful pattern.'

I could see that it had come out in a pattern. ‘Madge,' I said, ‘I'm not a script-writer. I know nothing about the cinema.'

‘Darling,' said Madge, ‘that's not the point, and it doesn't matter.'

‘I rather thought it wasn't the point,' I said.

‘You haven't understood,' said Madge. ‘It's all fixed. The job's yours.'

‘Is this job in your gift?' I asked.

‘What do you mean?' said Madge.

‘I mean, can you give it to anyone you like?'

We looked at each other. ‘I see,' I said, and settled back into my chair. ‘Fill up my glass, would you?'

‘Jake, stop being difficult,' said Madge.

‘I want to have things clear,' I said. ‘You're offering me a sinecure.'

‘I'm not sure what that is,' said Madge, ‘but I expect it's that.'

‘A sinecure is when you get money for doing nothing,' I said.

‘But isn't that exactly what you've always wanted?' said Madge.