The Mandarins

‘They don’t take pictures of exhibitionists,’ Dubreuilh replied.

‘That’s a shame,’ said Julien.

‘Drink up,’ Henri said, handing Paula a glass of vodka. ‘Drink up; we’re way behind.’ He emptied his glass, and asked, ‘But how did they know you were here?’

‘Yes,’ Julien said, looking at the others in surprise. ‘How did they know?’

‘I imagine the maître d’hôtel telephoned,’ Scriassine said.

‘But he doesn’t know us,’ Anne said.

‘He knows me,’ Scriassine said. He bit his lower lip, looking like a woman caught in the act. ‘I wanted him to give you the kind of attention you deserve, so I told him who you were.’

‘Well, it looks as if you succeeded,’ Henri said. Scriassine’s childish vanity never failed to astonish him.

Dubreuilh burst out laughing. ‘So it was he who betrayed us! Now I’ve heard everything!’ He turned abruptly towards Henri. ‘Well, what about that trip? Instead of playing, it would seem as if you spent your entire time attending conferences and conducting investigations.’

‘Oh, I managed to get in a lot of sightseeing, too,’ Henri said.

‘Your articles make one want to do one’s sightseeing somewhere else. It’s a sad country!’

‘It was sad, but it was beautiful too,’ Henri said cheerfully. ‘It’s primarily sad for the Portuguese.’

‘I don’t know whether you do it on purpose,’ Dubreuilh said, ‘but when you say that the sea is blue, blue somehow becomes a sinister colour.’

‘And at times it was. But not always,’ Henri smiled. ‘You know how it is when you write.’

‘Yes,’ said Julien, ‘you have to lie to avoid telling the truth.’

‘Anyhow, I’m happy to be back,’ Henri said.

‘But you didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to see your friends again.’

‘You’re wrong; I was,’ Henri replied. ‘Every morning I’ve been telling myself that I’d drop over to see you. And then, all of a sudden it was after midnight.’

‘Well, keep a sharper eye on your watch tomorrow,’ Dubreuilh said grumpily. ‘There’s a pack of things I have to bring you up to date on.’ He smiled. ‘I think we’re getting off to a good start.’

‘You’re beginning to recruit? Has Samazelle decided to go along?’ Henri asked.

‘He doesn’t agree on all points, but I’m sure we’ll be able to compromise,’ Dubreuilh answered.

‘No serious talk tonight!’ Scriassine said, motioning to the monocled maître d’hôtel. ‘Two bottles of Mumm’s, brut.’

‘Is that absolutely necessary?’ Henri asked.

‘Yes. Strict orders!’ Scriassine followed the maître d’hôtel with his eyes. ‘He’s really come down a notch or two since ’39. Used to be a colonel.’

‘Do you come to this joint often?’ Henri asked.

‘Whenever I feel like breaking my heart, I come here and listen to the music.’

‘But there are so many less expensive ways of doing it,’ Julien said. ‘Besides, all hearts were broken long ago,’ he concluded vaguely.

‘Well, my heart breaks only to jazz,’ Henri said. ‘All your gypsies do to me is ruin my feet.’

‘Oh!’ Anne exclaimed.

‘Jazz,’ Scriassine said musingly. ‘I wrote several definitive pages on jazz in The Son of Abel.’

‘Do you really believe it’s possible to write something definitive?’ Paula said haughtily.

‘I won’t discuss it; you’ll be reading the book soon,’ Scriassine said. ‘The French edition will be out any day now.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Five thousand copies! It’s ridiculous! They ought to make exceptions for worthwhile books. How many did they allow you?’

‘The same. Five thousand,’ Henri replied.

‘Absurd! After all, what you’ve written is the book on the Occupation. A book like that should have a printing of at least a hundred thousand copies.’

‘Fight it out with the Minister of Information,’ Henri said. Scriassine’s overbearing enthusiasm irritated him. Among friends, one avoids speaking of one’s books; it embarrasses everyone and amuses no one.

‘We’re bringing out a magazine next month,’ Dubreuilh said. ‘Well, let me tell you, getting paper was one hell of a job!’

‘That’s because the Minister doesn’t know his business,’ Scriassine said. ‘Paper? I’ll find him all he wants!’

Once he began attacking a technical problem in his didactic voice, Scriassine was inexhaustible. While he was complacently flooding France with paper, Anne said quietly to Henri, ‘You know, I don’t think there’s been a book in the last twenty years that’s affected me as much as yours. It’s a book … Well, exactly the kind of book you’d want to read after these last four years. Some parts moved me so much that I had to put it aside and take a walk in the street to calm myself down.’ Suddenly she blushed. ‘You feel idiotic when you say things like that, but it’s just as idiotic not to say them. Anyhow, it can’t do any harm.’

‘In fact, it even gives pleasure,’ Henri said.

‘You moved a great many people,’ Anne continued. ‘All those who don’t want to forget,’ she added with passion.

He smiled at her gratefully. Tonight she was wearing a Scotch-plaid dress which made her look years younger, and she had applied her make-up with care. In one way, she looked much younger than Nadine. Nadine never blushed.

Scriassine raised his voice. ‘That magazine could be a very powerful instrument of culture and action, but only on condition that it expresses more than the opinions of a tight little coterie. I maintain that a man like Louis Volange ought to be a member of your team.’

‘Out of the question,’ Dubreuilh stated flatly.

‘An intellectual’s lapse isn’t that serious,’ Scriassine said. ‘Name me the intellectual who has never made a mistake.’ Gravely he added, ‘Should a man be made to bear the weight of his mistakes all his life?’

‘To have been a Party member in Russia in 1930 wasn’t a mistake,’ Dubreuilh said.

‘If you have no right to make a mistake, it was a crime.’

‘It’s not a question of right,’ Dubreuilh replied.

‘How dare you set yourselves up as judges?’ Scriassine said, without listening to him. ‘Do you know Volange’s reasons, his explanations? Are you sure that all the people you accept on your team are better men than he?’

‘We don’t judge,’ Henri said. ‘We choose sides. There’s a big difference.’

Volange had been clever enough not to compromise himself too seriously, but Henri had sworn that he would never shake hands with him again. When he read the articles Louis wrote in the Free French Zone, he hadn’t been the least bit surprised by what they said. From the moment they left college, their friendship had gradually become an almost open enmity.