The Night Watch (3 page)

Place du Trocadéro. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda at my side, those two staunch companions. Maman used to tell me: ‘You get the friends you deserve.’ To which I’d always reply that men are much too garrulous for my taste, that I can’t stand the babble of blowflies that stream out of their mouths. It gives me a headache. Takes my breath away – and I’m short enough of breath already. The Lieutenant, for example, could talk the hind legs off a donkey. Every time I step into his office, he gets to his feet and with an ‘Ah, my young friend,’ or ‘Ah, mon petit’ he starts his spiel. After that, words come tumbling
in
a torrent so swift he scarcely has time to articulate them. The verbal torrent briefly abates, only to wash over me again a minute later. His voice grows increasingly shrill. Before long he’s chirping, the words choking in his throat. He taps his foot, waves his arms, twitches, hiccups, then suddenly becomes morose and lapses back into a monotone. He invariably concludes with: ‘Balls, my boy!’ uttered in an exhausted whisper.

The first time we met, he said: ‘I need you. We’ve got serious work to do. I work in the shadows alongside my men. Your mission is to infiltrate the enemy and to report back – as discreetly as possible – about what the bastards are up to.’ He made a clear distinction between us: he and his senior officers reaped the honour and the glory. The spying and the double-dealing fell to me. That night, re-reading the
Anthology of Traitors from Alcibiades to Captain Dreyfus
, it occurred to me that my particular disposition was well-suited to double-dealing and – why not? – to treason. Not enough moral fibre to be a hero. Too dispassionate and distracted to be a real villain. On the other hand, I was malleable, I had a fondness for action, and I was plainly good-natured.

We were driving along Avenue Kléber. Coco Lacour was yawning. Esmeralda had nodded off, her little head lolling against my shoulder. It’s high time they were in
bed.
Avenue Kléber. That other night we had taken the same route after leaving L’Heure Mauve, a cabaret club on the Champs-Élysées. A rather languid crowd were grouped together in red velvet booths or perched on bar stools: Lionel de Zieff, Costachesco, Lussatz, Méthode, Frau Sultana, Odicharvi, Lydia Stahl, Otto da Silva, the Chapochnikoff brothers . . . Hot, muggy twilight. The trailing scent of Egyptian perfumes. Yes, there were still a few small islands in Paris where people tried to ignore ‘the disaster lately occurred’, where a pre-war hedonism and frivolity festered. Contemplating all those faces, I repeated to myself a phrase I had read somewhere: ‘Brash vulgarity that reeks of betrayal and murder . . .’

Close to the bar a Victrola was playing:

Bonsoir

Jolie Madame

Je suis venu

Vous dire bonsoir . . .

The Khedive and Monsieur Philibert led me outside. A white Bentley was parked at the foot of Rue Marbeuf. They sat next to the chauffeur while I sat in the back. The street lights spewed a soft bluish glow.

‘
Don’t worry,’ the Khedive said, nodding at the driver. ‘Eddy has eyes like a cat.’

‘Just now,’ Monsieur Philibert said to me, taking me by the arm, ‘there are all sorts of opportunities just waiting for a young man. You just need to make the best of the situation, and I’m ready to help you, my boy. These are dangerous times we live in. Your hands are pale and slender, and you have a delicate sensibility. Be careful. I have only one piece of advice to offer: don’t play the hero. Keep your head down. Work with us. It’s either that, or martyrdom or the sanatorium.’ ‘A little casual double-crossing, for example – might that be of interest?’ the Khedive asked. ‘Very handsomely rewarded,’ added Monsieur Philibert. ‘. . . and absolutely legal. We’ll supply you with a warrant card and a gun licence.’ ‘All you need do is infiltrate an underground network so we can break it up. You would keep us informed about the activities of the gentlemen in question.’ ‘As long as you’re careful, they won’t suspect you.’ ‘I think you inspire confidence.’ ‘You look as though butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.’ ‘And you have a pretty smile.’ ‘And beautiful eyes, my boy!’ ‘Traitors always have honest eyes.’ The torrent of words was flowing faster. By the end I had the feeling that they were talking at once. Swarms of blue butterflies fluttering from their
mouths
. . . They could have anything they asked for – informer, hired killer, anything – if they would only shut up once in a while and let me sleep. Spy, turncoat, killer, butterflies...

‘We’re taking you to our new headquarters,’ Monsieur Philibert decided. ‘An
hôtel particulier
at 3
bis
Cimarosa Square.’ ‘We’re having a little housewarming,’ added the Khedive. ‘With all our friends.’ ‘“Home, Sweet Home”,’ hummed Monsieur Philibert.

As I stepped into the living room, the ominous phrase came back to me: ‘A brash vulgarity reeks of betrayal and murder . . .’ The gang were all there. With each passing moment, new faces appeared: Danos, Codébo, Reocreux, Vital-Léca, Robert le Pâle... The Chapochnikoff brothers poured champagne for everyone. ‘Shall we have a little tête-à-tête?’ the Khedive whispered to me. ‘So, what do you think? You’re white as a ghost. Would you care for a drink?’ He handed me a champagne glass filled to the brim with some pink liquid. ‘You see . . .’ he said, throwing open the French doors and leading me on to the balcony, ‘ . . . from today I am master of an empire. We are no longer talking about acting as a reserve police force. This is going to be big business! Five hundred pimps and touts in our employ! Philibert will help me with the administrative side. I have made the most of the
extraordinary
events we have endured these past few months.’ The air was so muggy it fogged the living-room windows. Someone brought me another glass of pink liquid, which I drank, stifling an urge to retch. ‘And what is more . . .’ – he stroked my cheek with the back of his hand – ‘you can advise me, guide me once in a while. I’ve had no education.’ (His voice had dropped to a whisper.) ‘At fourteen, the reformatory in Eysses . . . the penal military unit overseas . . . obscurity . . . But I crave respectability, don’t you see?’ His eyes blazed. Viciously: ‘One day soon I shall be
préfet de police
. They’ll address me as
MONSIEUR LE PRÉFET!’
He hammers both fists on the balcony railing: ‘
MONSIEUR LE PRÉFET . . . MONSIEUR LE PRÉ-FET!’
and immediately his eyes glazed and he stared into the middle distance.

On the square below, the trees gave off a delicate haze. I wanted to leave, but already it was probably too late. He’d grab my wrist, and even if I managed to break his grip I’d have to cross the living room, elbow my way through those dense groups, face an assaulting horde of buzzing wasps. I felt dizzy. Bright circles whirled around me, faster and faster, and my heart pounded fit to burst.

‘Feeling a little unwell?’ The Khedive takes me by the arm and leads me over to the sofa. The Chapochnikoff
brothers
– how many of them were there? – were scurrying around. Count Baruzzi took a wad of banknotes from a black briefcase to show to Frau Sultana. Farther off, Rachid von Rosenheim, Paulo Hayakawa, and Odicharvi were talking excitedly. There were others I couldn’t quite make out. As I watched, all these people seemed to be crumbling under the weight of their raucous chatter, their jerky movements, their heavy perfumes. Monsieur Philibert was holding out a green card slashed with a red stripe. ‘You are now a member of the Service; I’ve signed you up under the name “Swing Troubadour”.’ They all gathered around me, flourishing champagne flutes. ‘To Swing Troubadour!’ Lionel de Zieff roared and laughed until his face turned purple. ‘To Swing Troubadour!’ squealed Baroness Lydia.

It was at that moment – if I remember correctly – that I felt a sudden urge to cough. Once again I saw maman’s face. She was bending over me as she used to do every night before turning out the light, and whispering in my ear: ‘You’ll end up on the gallows!’ ‘A toast to Swing Troubadour!’ murmured one of the Chapochnikoff brothers, and he touched my shoulder shyly. The others pressed around, clinging to me like flies.

Avenue Kléber. Esmeralda is talking in her sleep. Coco Lacour is rubbing his eyes. It’s time they were in
bed.
Neither of them had any idea just how fragile is their happiness. Of the three of us, only I am worried.

‘I’m sorry you had to hear those screams, my child,’ says the Khedive. ‘Like you, I have a horror of violence, but this man was handing out leaflets. It’s a serious offence.’

Simone Bouquereau is gazing at herself in the mirror again, touching up her make-up. The others, relaxed now, lapse into a kind of easy conviviality wholly in keeping with their surroundings. We are in a bourgeois living room, dinner has just ended and the time has come to offer the liqueurs.

‘Perhaps a little drink would perk you up,
mon petit
?’ suggests the Khedive.

‘This “murky chapter” of history we are living through,’ remarks Ivanoff the Oracle, ‘is like an aphrodisiac to women.’

‘People have probably forgotten the heady scent of cognac, what with the rationing these days,’ sneers Lionel de Zieff. ‘Their tough luck!’ ‘What do you expect?’ murmurs Ivanoff. ‘After all, the whole world is going to the dogs . . . But that’s not to say I’m exploiting the situation,
cher ami
. Purity is what matters to me.’

‘Box caulk . . .’ begins Pols de Helder.

‘
A wagonload of tungsten . . .’ Baruzzi joins in.

‘And a 25 per cent commission,’ Jean-Farouk de Méthode adds pointedly.

Solemn-faced, Monsieur Philibert has reappeared in the living room and is walking over to the Khedive.

‘We’re leaving in fifteen minutes, Henri. Our first target: the Lieutenant, Place du Châtelet. Then the other members of the network at their various addresses. A fine haul! The young man will come with us, won’t you Swing Troubadour? Get ready! Fifteen minutes!’ ‘A tot of cognac to steady your nerves, Troubadour?’ suggests the Khedive. ‘And don’t forget to come up with Lamballe’s address,’ adds Monsieur Philibert. ‘Understood?’

One of the Chapochnikoff brothers – how many of them are there, anyway? – stands in the centre of the room, a violin resting under his chin. He clears his throat and, in a magnificent bass, begins to sing:

Nur

Nicht

Aus Liebe weinen . . .

The others clap their hands, beating time. Slowly, the bow scrapes across the strings, moves faster, then faster still . . . The music picks up speed.

Aus
Liebe . . .

Bright rings ripple out as from a pebble cast on water. They began circling the violinist’s feet and now have reached the walls of the
salon
.

Es gibt auf Erden
. . .

The singer gasps for breath, it sounds as though another note might choke him. The bow skitters ever faster across the strings. How long will they be able to beat time with their clapping?

Auf dieser Welt . . .

The whole room is spinning now; the violinist is the one still point.

nicht nur den Einen . . .

As a child, you were always frightened of the fairground whirligigs French children call ‘caterpillars.’ Remember . . .

Es gibt so viele . . .

You
shrieked and shrieked, but it was useless. The whirligig spun faster.

Es gibt so viele . . .

And yet you were the one who insisted on riding the whirligigs. Why?

Ich lüge auch . . .

They stand up, clapping . . . The room is spinning, spinning. The floor seems almost to tilt. They will lose their balance, the vases of flowers will crash to the floor. The violinist sings, the words a headlong rush.

Ich lüge auch

You shrieked and shrieked, but it was useless. No one could hear you above the fairground roar.

Es muß ja Lüge sein
. . .

The face of the Lieutenant. Ten, twenty other faces it’s impossible to make out. The living room is spinning too fast, just like the whirligig ‘Sirocco’ long ago in Luna Park.

der
mir gefällt
. . .

After five minutes it was spinning so fast you couldn’t recognize the blur of faces of the people below, watching.

heute Dir gehören
. . .

And yet, as you whirled past, you could recognise a nose, a hand, a laugh, a flash of teeth, a pair of staring eyes. The blue-black eyes of the Lieutenant. Ten, perhaps twenty other faces. The faces of those whose addresses you spat out, those who will be arrested tonight. Thankfully, they stream past quickly, in time with the music, and you don’t have a chance to piece together their features.

und Liebe schwören
. . .

The tenor’s voice sings faster, faster, he is clinging to the violin with the desperate look of a castaway . . .

Ich liebe jeden
. . .

The others clap, clap, clap their hands, their cheeks
are
puffy, their eyes wild, they will all surely die of apoplexy . . .

Ich lüge auch . . .

The face of the Lieutenant. Ten, perhaps twenty other faces, their features recognisable now. They who will soon be rounded up. They seem to blame you. For a brief moment you have no regrets about giving up their addresses. Faced with the frank stare of these heroes, you are almost tempted to shout out loud just what you are: an informer. But, inch by inch, the glaze on their faces chips away, their arrogance pales, and the conviction that glistened in their eyes vanishes like the flame of a snuffed-out candle. A tear makes its way down the cheek of one of them. Another lowers his head and glances at you sadly. Still another stares at you dazedly, as if he didn’t expect that from you. . . .

Als ihr bleicher Leib im Wasser
. . . (As her pale corpse in the water)

Very slowly their faces turn, turn. They whisper faint reproaches as they pass. Then, as they turn, their features tense, they are no longer focussed on you,
their
eyes, their mouths are warped with terrible fear. They must be thinking of the fate that lies in store for them. Suddenly, they are like children crying for their mothers in the dark . . .