The Foundling Boy (34 page)

Jean was down to zero press-ups. He felt guilty, got up half an hour earlier, and resumed his exercises with pleasure. At the same time he realised that, as he counted each upward push of his body, he thought about Geneviève. He had never met anybody like her. Not only was she attractive and desirable, but after he had left her, her charm continued to work on him. He found himself trying to remember the tone of her voice, the sparkle of her eyes, the shapes made by her pink mouth. He could not even compare her to Chantal de Malemort. They belonged to two different species. Jean reassured himself: he loved both of them. It was his misfortune that they both seemed unattainable.

Unattainability was not a feature of the middle-aged Englishwomen who invited him to the country with Palfy. Jean noticed that they were paying him more and more attention. He surrendered with a certain anxiety, not knowing where it would lead him.

‘Nowhere, absolutely nowhere,’ Palfy said repeatedly. ‘Rosalind and Margaret would walk straight past you tomorrow if they met you anywhere in the least bit smart.’

Palfy encouraged Jean’s pleasures of the moment. But why did he not sacrifice himself in the same way?

‘I haven’t talked much about myself,’ he admitted. ‘The truth is very simple: I’m neither homosexual nor impotent. Let’s just say that I don’t feel particularly strongly about “it”. I need rather special conditions, which aren’t very easy to bring together. To cut a long story short, I prefer professional women. It does no harm to anybody and actually enriches a sizeable group of idlers who look after the modest business it produces and keep it within the bounds of propriety. Having said that, the lovely Geneviève du Courseau has not called us. Many days have passed. Telephone that strange person, will you? I believe I have learnt how the prince who maintains her on such a lavish scale keeps his immense fortune topped up from day to day.’

‘How?’

‘That is a secret, dear boy.’

Jean felt he was groping his way through a world where he recognised nothing. Who were these society ladies who offered themselves to him in a bedroom adjoining their husband’s and the next day looked straight through him? What goal was Palfy pursuing? As time went on it became impossible to doubt that he had, at least that particular year, sufficiently large means to live extravagantly. He slipped easily into that relatively closed society in which money counted as much as titles. He was at ease in it from his years at private school, then Oxford. How far that person was from the priest who stole from collection boxes and coaxed his old Mathis up the Nationale Sept! Jean occasionally had to do a double take, for he had only known
people who were always the same and incapable of concealing a second or a third face behind the first. The abbé Le Couec was never anybody else but himself. The same was true of Monsieur Cliquet, Captain Duclou, Marie-Thérèse and Antoinette du Courseau. The only person who did not fit the mould was perhaps Michel. With him in mind Jean found an excuse to call Geneviève.

‘I wondered what had become of you,’ she said. ‘I thought you had vanished. London is so big. Every day dozens of people go up in smoke here, leaving no trace. Yes, yes, I promise you, it’s a bewildering city, where cannibals, serial killers and vampires prosper mightily. You wouldn’t think so: everything’s so gentle and subtle, and Londoners are so tactful that you never know whether the man who’s so kindly giving you directions to the West End is really a murderer …’

‘I’m still alive.’

‘Well, try and stay that way.’

‘There’s something I wanted to show you: an album of your brother’s drawings.’

‘Michel draws? It’s the first I’ve heard of it. I should never have expected to find an artistic temperament in our family. What does he draw? Pigeons, the sea at Grangeville, the sailors’ cemetery?’

‘No. Portraits. He’s already had several exhibitions.’

‘Bring me the album. Tomorrow. At lunchtime. I imagine that your friend Calfy—’

‘Palfy.’

‘… your friend Palfy has lunch at his club. Come without him. We’ll talk.’

When Jean told him about the invitation, Palfy smiled.

‘I would happily have made an exception for that delicious creature, but it’s better this way. Having said that, what an idea, inviting you to lunch at home! She’s remained very French, from what I can see.’

We shall not recount Jean’s lunch in detail, which he experienced as if in a trance. Geneviève was startled by her brother’s talent and kept Jean’s album to show it to a gallerist she knew. She smiled without comment when she saw that all the portraits were of Jean, as himself, as a cyclist, as an oarsman. She made him talk, laughed at their failed meetings in Grangeville, London and Rome, and let him know that the prince, whom she called Ibrahim, would be coming back with Salah in a few days’ time. Oh yes, Salah was an extraordinary man: he knew and understood everything, and you could never give him orders because he anticipated them all. Then, passing quickly on, with a mischievousness that went unnoticed by Jean, she probed him about his girlfriends. He said nothing about Antoinette – out of respect for her – and regretfully too, because far away from her as he was, and knowing nothing of her actions, whenever he thought of her he was assailed by waves of tenderness – but he spoke at length about Mireille, who was roughly the same age as Geneviève. Her questions were spontaneous and subtle. He also confessed to his feelings for Chantal de Malemort, and by placing her on a high pedestal made Geneviève aware that he was capable of love. Later he became aware of her skill at questioning him; but I repeat, at this moment he felt that he was just opening his heart to her with all the impulsiveness of youth and no sense whatsoever of the risks he might be running. She questioned him about his successes since he had been in London, and he blushed. Palfy might have been happy to boast of his protégé’s fleeting conquests; Jean would willingly have drawn a veil over them, but now he did not know how to stop, and mentioned some names. Geneviève reproved him mildly: this was not done. It was clumsy; if women found out he was indiscreet, they would not come near him. But he needn’t worry: she would not say anything. He could trust her. By now Jean would happily have gone down
on his knees to speak to her. He had never met such an attractive woman. She kissed him on the cheek.

‘Come and have dinner with your friend Palfy,’ she said. ‘He’s an interesting man. Call me one morning.’

She rang for Baptiste, and as soon as he was outside Jean felt that he had been ejected. He was at such a loss that he went into a cinema and sat through a stupid film in which he thought he could spot a thousand allusions to the state he was in. That evening Palfy guessed everything.

‘You are a billy goat, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘I thought as much. That exquisite woman is just at the age when young flesh starts to seem tempting. Her feelings for you are twofold, sensual because she’s ripe for something new and different, motherly because you could be her son. Having said that, she is upsetting my intentions. A good general never lets himself be taken by surprise. Let us therefore change our plans …’

‘Our plans? I don’t even know what they are.’

Constantin thought for a moment, lit his pipe, and asked Price to bring the brandy decanter and leave them alone for the rest of the evening.

‘In three months’ time, I shall not have a penny to my name.’

This news landed on Jean like a ton of bricks, as he suddenly realised how, in a very short space of time, he had let himself fall into the trap of a life of ease. Even Price – whose judgement had turned out to be so sound – even Price considered him a gentleman, and had stopped laying out for him every morning his most worn-out shirt and saggy drawers and darned socks that brought back his hard year as an unskilled labourer at
La Vigie.
It all seemed very long ago. And how easily one got used to all this luxury and the well-timed provision of life’s pleasures. Jean, who ordinarily drank very little, poured himself a large glass of brandy and downed it in one.

‘You will no doubt point out to me,’ Palfy went on, ‘that I could reduce my expenses. For example, sell the Rolls and the Morgan and
make do with an Austin, dismiss Price and take on a charwoman for two hours a day. An error, a profound error! We would merely be jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. No one would ever trust us afterwards. The only thing that counts in the world, believe me, is pure show. Yes, dear Jean, one must
appear
. Because if one fails to appear, one is scorned by fools.’

Jean thought about Geneviève. She didn’t ‘appear’, she was exactly what she was: a woman whose face does not lie.

‘Who are you thinking about?’ Palfy asked.

‘Geneviève du Courseau.’

‘Do you believe in her?’

‘Yes.’

‘A little tedious! But … at your age …’

‘I’ve never met anyone like her.’

‘She isn’t as rare as all that.’

‘You don’t know who you’re talking about!’

‘You’re in love with her!’

‘No, not yet, but if it happened it would be marvellous.’

‘We’re getting a long way from the matter in hand.’

‘What matter?’

‘Do you want to know?’

‘I’ll take a chance.’

The idea was ambitious. The plan was to sell, via interested amateurs, a new and extraordinary toothpaste. Different levels of vendors were planned, each purchasing their stock and reselling it to subcontractors who, in turn, would subcontract to others. From the outset, an unpaid capital was guaranteed by the first vendors. The company would launch without a penny in the bank and sell before manufacturing began.

‘What is so extraordinary about your toothpaste?’

‘Nothing, absolutely nothing. It will be a toothpaste just like the others, any old paste perfumed to taste like English sweets, a minty flavour or, I don’t know, whatever works at the time.’

‘Do you mean that you haven’t got a product organised yet?’

Palfy made an irritable gesture.

‘No. I’ve turned the problem around: first you sell, then you manufacture.’

‘That’s dangerous!’

‘Yes, if it gets out of control it’s fraud, pure and simple, and if I succeed it’ll be glory, profits and respect.’

‘What’s my job in all of this?’

‘The initial subcontractors to bring me their money against x amount of merchandise are Peter Ascot, Jonathan Sandow and Rory Afner.’

The truth began to dawn on Jean. On their country weekends he had slept with the wives of all three of these dupes.

‘They’ve nearly signed up,’ Palfy went on. ‘A word from their wives will make sure they don’t shillyshally too much.’

‘If I understand you correctly, you took me on as your gigolo.’

‘Oh, at your age you’d make love to a goat, wouldn’t you?’

‘Lily Sandow and Marina Afner are not goats.’

‘No, but Jane Ascot—’

‘She raped me. She threw herself at me and I didn’t know how to say no. Palfy, you’re a dreadful cynic.’

‘Not at all, not at all. I’m enjoying myself.’

‘And what’s my share if I help you?’

‘Nothing. I take all the risks, so I take all the profit. You’ve been living with me for six months. I’m presenting you with the bill.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Oh no you don’t. You shit or you get off the pot, here and now.’

‘And if I get off the pot—’

‘Impossible. So we agree. It’s late. I’m going to bed.’

He stood up, and Jean grasped his arm.

‘One last question. Where did the money come from that you’ve been spending so lavishly for the last few months?’

Palfy affected the expression of a man grieving, lowering his dancing-girl’s lashes over his dark eyes.

‘I am going to disappoint you, dear Jean. I neither stole it nor fiddled it. It’s my uncle Thomas’s inheritance, my mother’s brother. He worked for forty years to amass a decent lump sum to leave to me, and I’ve spent it in eighteen months. Quite moral of me, don’t you think? I’ve always been against inheritance.’

Alone in his room, Jean opened the notebook he had started at Roquebrune, noting down reflections inspired by his life at that time. Months had passed without him having the urge to reflect on what he had discovered. He wrote: