The Foundling Boy (22 page)

‘Blah blah blah … Everyone has their good Jew.’

‘There are others.’

‘Well, your reaction doesn’t surprise me. You French are rotten to the core. You don’t even realise the difference between an Aryan and a non-Aryan. When the next war comes, we’re just going to thrash you.’

‘Will you shoot at me?’

‘No. Not at you. At your friend, yes. You can be my good Frenchman.’

They swam in the lake. Jean swam faster and better than Ernst. He beat him over a short distance, and as the price of his victory held Ernst’s head underwater for a good minute.

‘You’re not completely rotten!’ Ernst spluttered as he surfaced, red in the face.

‘I’m not rotten at all.’

‘Let’s be allies, the whole world will be ours.’

‘We won’t do anything with it.’

‘Wretched dilettante.’

‘I’m not a dilettante. At the next Olympics in 1940 I shall win gold for my country with my scull.’

‘That I have to see!’

‘No question about it.’

They quarrelled like this as far as Rome, happy to be alive, to confirm themselves in opposition to each other. Jean could not resist the pleasure of reading to Ernst the pages Stendhal had devoted to Goethe. ‘“The Germans possess only one man, Schiller, and two volumes worth reading out of Goethe’s twenty … We shall read the
latter’s biography, for his excessive absurdity is worth reading about: a man who believes himself sufficiently important to tell us in four octavo volumes the manner in which he had his hair dressed at the age of twenty, and that he had a great-aunt called Anichen. But this proves that in Germany they do not possess the
sense of absurdity …
In literature the Germans have only pretensions.”’

Ernst appeared sincerely devastated, and Jean regretted having gone as far as he had. He consoled his companion.

‘I should never have read you those pages. They’re a bit too French.’

‘Why not? It’s not me you disappoint, it’s my father. He swears by Goethe, and I can promise you he means it. He would have done better to leave my
Mein Kampf
in my satchel. I’m going to burn Goethe. Stendhal’s right.’

They rode through Civitavecchia, which seemed to them to correspond entirely to the boredom Stendhal had felt there when he served as consul. Joseph Outen received another postcard. ‘This city can only have known one moment of glory in its long history, when our dear friend livened up a bourgeois society that was dying of depression. Tomorrow, I enter Rome. Greetings and brotherhood!’

As they arrived, Rome appeared so majestic to them that they both instantly dug into their luggage to find a clean shirt and long trousers. Since they had met on the road to Parma, they had been riding in shorts, shirtless. Ernst, having narrowly avoided turning the colour of a lobster, had developed a warm tan colour that ennobled his handsome blond barbarian’s head. Jean had turned a bolder brown. Neither of them passed unnoticed, but their youth preserved them from self-consciousness and vanity. Their eyes were so wide open, all they could see were the ruins of the Forum and the Colosseum. Nothing distracted them from their rigorous sightseeing. Ernst was better informed than his companion. Since childhood he had heard talk of Rome from his father, a gentle man who had brought him up to respect Roman virtues and intellectual recreation. Ernst could,
without fuss, quote Seneca, Livy and Tacitus. At home they had practically spoken only of them, at mealtimes or when they were out walking. Jean realised the full extent of his ignorance. At La Sauveté such names were unknown. He knew them only through extracts set at school, and the stale tedium that hung over his Latin compositions, but Ernst treated these authors as living writers who had vanished too soon, young men full of ardour, burning for pleasure like Virgil, or adults whose stern maturity was masked by irony, like Seneca. Ernst no longer opened his Goethe. Jean read, in secret, a few lines of Stendhal on the character of the Romans. He would have liked to meet them, but the girls he encountered were reticent and
well-behaved,
and at the youth hostel where they slept the old woman who polished the stair-rail said nothing when he spoke to her. Other young men of their age, from Finland, England and America, stayed the night and moved on, more intoxicated by the sun and beaches than ruins. On Sunday Jean went alone to Saint Peter’s Square to receive the blessing of Pope Pius XI. All he could make out was a little man in a white skullcap, whose arm rose to make the sign of the cross over a crowd of inquisitive and not very contemplative faithful. But Jean would be able to tell Jeanne that he had attended, and Monsieur Le Couec would draw a deep satisfaction from his pilgrimage. Ernst had refused to accompany him.

‘To mingle with the congregation? No thanks. I don’t care for that sort of crowd. Masses fed on homilies aren’t going anywhere. I’ll invite you to Nuremberg for next year’s First of May. You’ll see the difference.’

When they were not visiting museums, churches and palaces they would stop at a Roman piazza, and for the price of a drink on a café terrace observe for hours on end the procession of tourists photographing fountains and girls in pairs talking with a delightful vivacity and hand gestures that seemed to harmonise with their musical accent, that Roman sound that was so lovely, serious and
light at the same time. Despite their best efforts, the two friends had not managed to meet a single one. As soon as they ventured a word, the girls turned away, giggling, and quickened their step. The only women who would have listened to them were the tarts they saw in their greatest numbers one evening when they deserted their favourite haunts – Piazza Navona and around the Pantheon – for Via Veneto. Dazzled for a moment, Jean and Ernst were rapidly disgusted. This was not their Rome, among these tourists, among the pretentious spoilt youth and girls with aggressive smiles, whose breasts made their satin blouses gape. They felt themselves more strangers there than in the city’s poorer districts, where a constant flow of shabby Romans tried to sell them all sorts of things, unable to distinguish them from the thousands of other visiting punters. Their lean look of nondescript youngsters gorged on sunshine but ill-nourished held no interest for the society of the Via Veneto. Both were so disappointed by this aspect of Rome that they fled to the Trinità dei Monti. From there and the Pincio, at least, the city welcomed everyone who came: red and ochre at sunset and dawn, veiled in bluish smoke that wafted between domes and steeples, enlivened by a continual murmur, as though a single confused being, the people of the streets, adjusted its quarrels and shouts to the time of day.

As they walked past the Adler Hotel, Jean suddenly caught sight of a Hispano-Suiza whose yellow coachwork and chrome gleamed mockingly at them in the light from the streetlamps. A black chauffeur in a white uniform was reading a book balanced on his steering wheel.

‘I can’t believe it! It’s Salah!’ Jean said.

‘Who?’

‘A friend.’

‘Do you mean to say that that Negro is your friend?’

‘He is a great person. He knows everything and understands everything.’

Ernst gaped. He looked from Jean to the chauffeur, absorbed in his reading, and back again, and failed to discern why there should be a friendship between the two.

‘Listen, dear Hans,’ he said, ‘that man is a Negro, a servant. I’d also like to point out that, according to the car’s Arabic registration plates, he is an Arab’s chauffeur, that is to say a Semite. You must explain to me how you could make such a mistake about this individual. Up till now I liked you. Of course you’ve mocked Goethe, but it was because of your Stendhal: it’s a French quirk, as my father says. I forgive you much because I myself don’t terribly like Goethe and because you’ve opened my eyes, in a sense. However, I must warn you that if you come over all chummy with that Negro, you will no longer be my friend.’

‘Ernst, you’re a perfect fool! That man is as good as we are, a hundred times over. In London he was my mentor.’

‘Ach, obviously in London … London is a very special sort of decadent place, a cesspit that Europe sensibly wants nothing to do with. The white race has given everything to the world. The world owes it everything. But it can only take on that mission if it defends itself against racial pollution. I am warning you: I’ll agree to laugh with you at my enthusiasms, but I refuse to go along with your weaknesses.’

Jean was not listening. With Salah’s presence on the other side of the road, memories he had nursed fondly since his last journey came crowding back: the London light, the mystery of Soho, Hampton Court and the revelation of the glories of rowing, his beautiful bike sacrificed on the altar of modern art by an unknown sculptor.

‘Wait here for me!’ he said.

‘No. If you speak to that Negro I shall leave.’

Jean crossed the road and approached the chauffeur.

‘Salah!’

Salah did not recognise him immediately.

‘You don’t remember me? In London, my red bicycle, Madame Germaine, the Maries of Chelsea?’

‘Jean Arnaud! A man now. You’ve grown into a fine,
healthy-looking
lad. Well, well … I was not expecting to see you here.’

He put down his book and got out of the car to take Jean by the arm.

‘It was written … we were meant to see each other again. But why in Rome? Only God knows the answer. Ah, my dear Jean, I didn’t forget you. At least you won’t find any lecherous vicars here. But I know two people who will be happy to see you …’

‘The prince?’

‘Yes. And Madame Geneviève. They’re here. I’m waiting to take them to dinner in Parioli, they should be here any moment now. Are you on your own in Rome?’

‘No, I’m here with a friend, Ernst, he’s German.’

Jean turned around to look for Ernst, but he was no longer standing on the far pavement.

‘Isn’t he with you?’

‘He was, but it looks as if he’s run away. He’s shy.’

‘Unless he doesn’t like people with black skin,’ Salah said, lighting a cigarette.

‘I don’t think that’s the reason. He’s really just very unsociable.’

Jean admired himself for lying so well, but Ernst’s disappearance disconcerted him.

‘He must be waiting for me at the bottom of the steps. A strange boy: he can stand there for hours watching a fountain. Oh, Salah, I’m so glad to see you again.’

‘Me too, me too. How many years has it been?’

‘Four.’

‘No time at all. Are you still on your bicycle?’

‘Yes, but no more training, no more races. I’ve got an old man’s bike. I’m rowing now, at Dieppe Rowing Club.’

‘Ah, now I understand why you look so fit.’

‘How’s your father?’

‘He died. In my absence my half-brothers and sisters took everything he possessed. One less thing for me to worry about … Ah, here comes the prince.’

The doorman from the Adler, cap in hand, walked ahead of a tall, thin man in a coat with a velvet collar who, despite the warmth of the evening, seemed about to faint from cold.

‘Monseigneur,’ Salah said in French, ‘this is Jean Arnaud.’

‘Little Jean from Grangeville?’

‘Yes, Monseigneur, it’s me.’

‘I don’t recognise you, but I’m sure it is you. What are you doing in Rome?’

‘I’m visiting with a German friend. I must thank you. It’s thanks to you—’

‘I hate people saying thank you. If you want to thank me one day, you must warn me in advance.’

The doorman was holding the door of the limousine open. Jean did not know what to say. Salah, witnessing his embarrassment, came to his aid.

‘Are we waiting for Madame, Monseigneur?’

‘Madame is tired, she won’t be coming.’

As if he had realised the terseness of his last remark, he added in a softer and more controlled voice, ‘Come with me, Jean. Salah will bring you back here when he has delivered me.’

Inside the Hispano-Suiza it was almost pitch dark. The car could have been driving through the London suburbs, and its passengers would have been none the wiser. It was apparent that the prince was doing his best not to show his ill humour. Was Geneviève really tired, or had they quarrelled?

‘It’s a very good thing to travel,’ the prince said after a silence. ‘Boys like you must see the world. There are so many things to learn. I hope you have everything you need.’

‘Everything, Monseigneur.’

‘Have you taken your baccalauréat yet?’

‘Yes, with distinction.’

‘Your parents must be very pleased.’

‘I think they are. They haven’t told me so.’

‘La Sauveté has been sold, apparently.’

‘Yes.’

‘To whom?’

‘Some neighbours. The Longuets.’

‘Longuet? That name rings a bell.’

‘To you, Monseigneur?’

Jean saw him smile in the dark.

‘Perhaps it’s a namesake. I vaguely remember meeting a Longuet once. His wife was from Alsace.’

‘That’s them!’ Jean said, surprised.

‘Extremely vulgar people. The sort of vulgarity that reaches the heights of comedy.’

‘That’s definitely them.’

‘So I see.’

They both fell quiet. Through the coupé’s glass panel Jean gazed at the back and white cap of Salah, who was driving like a silent automaton.

‘What are you going to study now?’ the prince asked.

‘My father would like me to go to a technical school: radio, or mechanics.’

‘And you?’

‘I’d like to work. To earn my living. Be independent.’

‘And what will you do with your independence?’

‘Row. I row for Dieppe Rowing Club. I’ve got four years to be selected for the 1940 Olympic Games.’

‘I admire your confidence in the future. Nineteen forty? What could happen between now and then? Never mind … I am a pessimist. I shall see if I can find something for you. My secretary will write to you at La Sauveté.’

The Hispano-Suiza slowed and stopped outside a ravishing, brilliantly lit palace. Two valets in white gloves and high-cut frock coats stood at the gate.

‘Goodbye, Jean,’ the prince said. ‘Salah, take our friend back to his hotel. I shall see you here at eleven.’

‘Yes, Monseigneur.’

Jean watched the frail figure climb the steps of the little Renaissance palace.