The Mandarins

With a blasé air, Scriassine shrugged his shoulders and motioned to the maître d’hôtel. ‘Another bottle!’ Again, he stealthily studied the old émigré. ‘A striking head, isn’t it? The bags under the eyes, the droop of the mouth, all the symptoms of decay. Before the war you could still find a trace of arrogance on his face. But the weakness, the dissoluteness of their caste gnaws at them. And their treachery …’ He stared in fascination at the man.

‘Scriassine’s serf!’ Henri thought. He, too, had fled his country, and there they called him a traitor. That probably was the reason for his immense vanity: since he had no homeland, no one to stand up for him but himself, he needed always to reassure himself that somewhere in the world his name meant something.

‘Anne!’ Paula exclaimed. ‘How horrible!’

Anne was emptying her glass of vodka into her champagne glass. ‘It livens it up,’ she explained. ‘Why don’t you try it? It’s good.’

Paula shook her head.

‘Why aren’t you drinking?’ Anne asked. ‘Things are gayer when you drink.’

‘Drinking makes me drunk,’ Paula answered.

Julien began to laugh. ‘You make me think of that girl – a charming young thing I met on the Rue Montparnasse in front of a little hotel – who said to me, “As far as I’m concerned, living kills me.”’

‘She didn’t say that,’ said Anne.

‘She could have said it.’

‘Anyhow, she was right,’ Anne said in a drunk’s sententious voice. ‘To live is to die a little.’

‘For God’s sake, shut up!’ Scriassine half shouted. ‘If you don’t want to listen, at least let me listen!’ The orchestra had begun an enthusiastic attack on Dark Eyes.

‘Let him break his heart,’ Anne said.

‘In the breaking surf a broken heart …’ Julien murmured.

‘Will you please shut up!’

Everyone fell silent. Scriassine’s eyes were fixed on the violinist’s dancing fingers; a dazed look on his face, he was listening to a memory of time long past. He thought it manful to impose his whims on others, but they gave in to him as they would to a neurotic woman. Their very docility should have made him suspicious, as it did. Henri smiled as he watched Dubreuilh tapping his fingers on the table; his courtesy seemed infinite – if you didn’t put it too long to the test. You then learned soon enough that it had its limits. Henri felt like having a quiet talk with him, but he was not impatient. He didn’t care for champagne, or gypsy music, or all this false luxury; nevertheless, simply to be sitting in a public place at two o’clock in the morning was cause for celebration. ‘We’re home again,’ he said to himself. ‘Anne, Paula, Julien, Scriassine, Dubreuilh – my friends!’ The word crackled in his heart with all the joyfulness of a Christmas sparkler.

While Scriassine was furiously applauding, Julien led Paula on to the dance floor. Dubreuilh turned towards Henri. ‘All those old codgers you met in Portugal, are they really hoping for a revolution?’

‘They hope. Unfortunately Salazar won’t fall before Franco goes, and the Americans don’t seem to be in a hurry.’

Scriassine shrugged his shoulders. ‘I can understand their not being anxious to create Communist bases in the Mediterranean.’

‘Do you mean to say that out of fear of Communism you’d go so far as to endorse Franco?’ Henri asked incredulously.

‘I’m afraid you don’t understand the situation,’ Scriassine replied.

‘Don’t worry,’ Dubreuilh said cheerfully. ‘We understand it very well.’ Scriassine opened his mouth, but Dubreuilh cut him off with a laugh. ‘Yes, you’re farseeing all right, but you’re still no Nostradamus. Your crystal ball is no clearer than ours when it comes to predicting things that’ll happen fifty years from now. One thing is sure right now though, and that is that the Stalinist menace is purely an American invention.’

Scriassine looked at Dubreuilh suspiciously. ‘You talk exactly like a Communist.’

‘Do you think a Communist would ever say aloud what I just said?’ Dubreuilh asked. ‘When you attack America, they accuse you of playing into the hands of the fifth column.’

‘The line’ll change soon enough,’ Scriassine replied. ‘You’re just anticipating it by a few weeks, that’s all.’ He knitted his brow. ‘I’ve often been asked in what ways you differ from the Communists. And I have to admit I’m always at a loss for an answer.’

Dubreuilh laughed. ‘Well, don’t answer then.’

‘Hey!’ Henri said. ‘I thought serious talk was out of order tonight.’

With an irritated shrug of his shoulders, Scriassine indicated that it was frivolity that was now out of order. ‘Is that a way of getting out of it?’ he asked, looking at Dubreuilh accusingly.

‘Now look,’ Dubreuilh answered. ‘I’m no Communist, and you know it.’

‘I’m not so sure of that.’ Scriassine’s face underwent a sudden transformation; he gave Dubreuilh his most charming smile. ‘Really, I’d like to learn more about your point of view.’

‘I believe the Communists are backing the wrong horse just now,’ Dubreuilh said. ‘I know why they’re supporting Yalta; they want to give Russia enough time to get on her feet again. But as a result, the world is going to find itself divided into two camps with every reason to pounce on each other.’

‘Is that the only thing you have against them? An error of judgment?’ Scriassine asked severely.

‘What I have against them is not being able to see farther than the end of their noses,’ Dubreuilh shrugged his shoulders. ‘Reconstruction is all very well and good, but not when it’s done without considering the means. They go on accepting American aid, but one of these days they’re going to be sorry. One thing will lead to another, and eventually France will find herself completely under America’s thumb.’

Scriassine emptied his glass and banged it down on the table. ‘Now that’s what I call an optimistic prediction!’ In a serious voice, he continued rapidly, ‘I don’t like America and I don’t believe in the Atlantic community. But I sincerely hope America predominates, because the important question in this day and age is one of abundance. And only America can give it to us.’

‘Abundance?’ Dubreuilh said. ‘For whom? And at what price? That would be a pretty picture, to be colonized by America!’ he added indignantly.

‘Would you rather Russia annexed us?’ Scriassine asked. He stopped Dubreuilh with a sharp gesture. ‘I know. You’re dreaming of a united, autonomous, socialist Europe. But if Europe refuses the protection of the United States, she’ll inevitably fall into the hands of Stalin.’

Dubreuilh shrugged his shoulders. ‘Russia has no intention of annexing anything at all.’

‘In any case, that Europe you dream so much about will never come about,’ Scriassine said.

‘That’s what you say!’ Dubreuilh protested. ‘Anyhow,’ he continued heatedly, ‘here in France we have a clear-cut objective – to achieve a real popular front government. And for that, we need a non-Communist left that’s able to hold its own.’ He turned towards Henri. ‘We mustn’t lose any more time. At the moment people feel that the future is wide open. Let’s not wait until they become discouraged.’

Scriassine downed a glass of vodka and lost himself in contemplating the maître d’hôtel. He had given up talking sense to fools.

‘You say you’ve got off to a good start?’ Henri asked Dubreuilh.

‘We’ve started, but now we have to continue. I’d like you to see Samazelle as soon as possible. There’s going to be a committee meeting on Saturday and I’m counting on your being there.’

‘Let me have a little time to catch my breath,’ Henri said, giving Dubreuilh a slightly worried look. It wasn’t going to be easy defending himself against that nice, imperative smile.

‘I purposely delayed the meeting so that you could be there,’ Dubreuilh said reprovingly.

‘You shouldn’t have,’ Henri replied. ‘I assure you you’re overestimating my qualifications.’

‘And you your lack of them,’ Dubreuilh said. He looked at Henri severely. ‘You’ve got a pretty good picture these last four days of what’s been happening; things have been moving along at a damned rapid pace. You must have realized by now that neutrality is no longer possible.’

‘But I’ve never been neutral!’ Henri protested. ‘I’ve always agreed to go along with the SRL.’

‘Is that right? Well, let’s see now … Your name and a few appearances – that’s all you ever promised me.’

‘Don’t forget I have a newspaper on my hands,’ Henri replied.

‘Precisely. It’s the paper I have in mind more than anything else. It can’t remain neutral any more.’