The Mandarins

‘Right. Exactly when did you write your last book?’

‘Between ’41 and ’42.’

‘Have you started a new one?’

‘No, but I’m going to.’

‘What’ll it be? A novel?’

‘A novel. But it’s still very vague.’

‘I’ve heard some talk about a magazine.’

‘That’s right. Dubreuilh and I are going to put out a monthly called Vigilance. It’ll be published by Mauvanes.’

‘What’s this political party Dubreuilh’s founding?’

‘It’d take much too long to explain.’

‘In a few words, then.’

‘Ask him.’

‘You can’t get near him.’ Marie-Ange sighed. ‘You’re funny, you know. If I were famous, I’d be getting myself interviewed all the time.’

‘Then you’d have no time left to do anything and you’d stop being famous. Now, you’re going to be a nice little girl and let me get back to my work.’

‘But I still have a lot of questions. What did you think of Portugal?’

Henri shrugged his shoulders. ‘It stinks.’

‘What stinks?’

‘Everything.’

‘Make that a little clearer. I can’t just say to my readers: It stinks.’

‘Well, tell them that Salazar’s paternalism is nothing but an unspeakable dictatorship, and that the Americans ought to get rid of him in a hurry,’ Henri said rapidly. ‘Unfortunately, it won’t happen tomorrow; he’s going to sell them air bases in the Azores.’

Marie-Ange frowned, and Henri added, ‘If that upsets you, don’t use it. I’m going to break it soon in L’Espoir, anyhow.’

‘Of course I’ll use it!’ Marie-Ange said emphatically. She studied Henri seriously. ‘What inner motives made you take that trip?’

‘Listen, you don’t have to ask idiotic questions to be a success as a newspaperwoman. And I repeat again that that’s enough. Be a nice girl and leave quietly.’

‘I’d have liked a few anecdotes.’

‘I don’t have any.’

Marie-Ange minced out. Henri felt a sense of disappointment; Marie-Ange hadn’t asked the right questions, and he had said none of the things he had had to say. But after all, just what did he have to say? ‘I’d like my readers to know who I am, but the trouble is I’m not quite sure myself.’ At any rate, in a few days he would get back to his book and he would try to define himself systematically.

He began going through his correspondence again, and he was staggered by the number of telegrams and clippings there were to be read, the letters to answer, the people to see! Luc had warned him; he had his work cut out for him. The following days he spent shut away in his office; he went home to Paula’s only to sleep. He had just barely enough time to prepare his article and the printers grabbed it from him page by page. But after his too-long holiday, he was happy to get back to this excess of activity.

Without enthusiasm, he recognized Scriassine’s voice on the telephone. ‘Listen here, you quitter, you’ve been back four days now, and nobody’s seen you. Come over to the Isba right away. Rue Balzac.’

‘I’m sorry but I’ve got work to do.’

‘Stop feeling sorry and come over. We’re all waiting to drink a champagne toast to you.’

‘Who’s we?’ Henri asked cheerfully.

‘I, among others,’ said Dubreuilh’s voice. ‘And Anne, and Julien. I’ve got a thousand things to tell you. What in hell are you doing over there anyhow? Can’t you crawl out of your hole for an hour or two?’

‘I was planning to come over to see you tomorrow,’ Henri said.

‘Well, come over to the Isba now.’

‘All right! All right! I’m on my way.’

Henri hung up the telephone and smiled; he was really looking forward to seeing Dubreuilh again. He picked up the telephone and called Paula. ‘It’s me. The Dubreuilhs and Scriassine are waiting for us at the Isba … Yes, the Isba … I don’t know any more about it than you. I’ll come and pick you up in the car.’

A half hour later they went down a stairway flanked on either side by magnificently dressed Cossacks. Paula was wearing a new evening dress and he realized that green did not, as a matter of fact, become her.

‘What a peculiar place!’ she murmured.

‘With Scriassine, you can expect just about anything.’

Outside, the night had been so empty, so quiet, that the Isba’s lush luxury was disturbing; it made one think of a perverse antechamber to a torture dungeon. The quilted walls were blood-red, the folds of the draperies dripped blood, and the gypsy musicians’ shirts were made of crimson satin.

‘There you are! Did you slip by them?’ Anne asked.

‘They look safe and sound to me,’ Julien said.

‘We were just attacked by a mob of reporters,’ Dubreuilh explained.

‘Armed with cameras,’ Anne added.

‘Dubreuilh was wonderful,’ Julien exclaimed, stammering with enthusiasm. ‘He said … Well, I forget exactly what he said, but anyhow it was damned well put. A couple of questions more, and he’d have sailed right into them.’

They were all speaking at once, except for Scriassine, who was smiling and wearing a slightly superior look.

‘I really did think Robert was going to start swinging,’ Anne said.

‘He said: “We’re not a bunch of trained monkeys,”’ Julien quoted, beaming broadly.

‘I’ve always considered my face my own personal property,’ Dubreuilh remarked with dignity.

‘The trouble is,’ Anne said, ‘that for people like you nudity begins with the face. Just showing your nose and eyes is exhibitionism.’