The Mandarins

‘And what if you’re young?’ Nadine asked. She heaved a loud sigh. ‘If something would only happen …’

‘What, for instance?’

‘We’ve been in this so-called revolutionary era for ages. And yet nothing ever seems to change.’

‘Well, things did change a little in August, at any rate,’ Henri replied.

‘As I remember it, in August there was a lot of talk about everything changing. And it’s just the same as ever. It’s still the ones who work the most who eat the least, and everyone goes right on thinking that’s just marvellous.’

‘No one here thinks that’s marvellous,’ Henri protested.

‘Well, anyhow, they all learn to live with it,’ Nadine said irritably. ‘Having to waste your time working is lousy enough, and then on top of it you can’t eat your fill … well, personally, I’d rather be a gangster.’

‘I agree wholeheartedly; we all agree with you,’ Henri said. ‘But wait a while; you’re in too much of a hurry.’

Nadine interrupted him. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘the virtues of waiting have been explained to me at home at great length and in great detail. But I don’t trust explanations.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Honestly, no one ever really tries to do anything.’

‘And what about you?’ Henri asked with a smile. ‘Do you ever try to do anything?’

‘Me? I’m not old enough,’ Nadine answered. ‘I’m just another butter ration.’

Henri burst out laughing. ‘Don’t get discouraged; you’ll soon be old enough. All too soon!’

‘Too soon! There are three hundred and sixty-five days in a year!’ Nadine said. ‘Count them.’ She lowered her head and thought silently for a moment. Then, abruptly, she raised her eyes. ‘Take me with you,’ she said.

‘Where?’ Henri asked.

‘To Portugal.’

He smiled. ‘That doesn’t seem too feasible.’

‘Just a little bit feasible will do fine,’ she said. Henri said nothing and Nadine continued in an insistent voice, ‘But why can’t it be done?’

‘In the first place, they wouldn’t give me two travel orders to leave the country.’

‘Oh, go on! You know everyone. Say that I’m your secretary.’ Nadine’s mouth was smiling, but her eyes were deadly serious.

‘If I took anyone,’ he said, ‘it would have to be Paula.’

‘But she doesn’t like travelling.’

‘Yes, but she’d be happy being with me.’

‘She’s seen you every single day for the last ten years, and there’s a lot more to come. One month more or less, what earthly difference could that make to her?’

Henri smiled at her. ‘I’ll bring you back some oranges,’ he said.

Nadine glowered at him, and suddenly Henri saw before him Dubreuilh’s intimidating mask. ‘I’m not eight years old any more, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘You don’t! To you I’ll always be the little brat who used to kick the logs in the fireplace.’

‘You’re completely wrong, and the proof of it is that I asked you to dance.’

‘Oh, this thing’s just a family affair. I’ll bet you’d never ask me to go out with you, though.’

He looked at her sympathetically. Here, at least, was one person who was longing for a change of air. Yes, she wanted a great many things, different things. Poor kid! It was true she had never had a chance to do anything. A bicycle tour of the suburbs: that was about the sum total of her travelling. It was certainly a rough way to spend one’s youth. And then there was that boy who had died; she seemed to have got over it quickly enough, but nevertheless it must have left a bad scar.

‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘I’m inviting you.’

‘Do you mean it?’ Nadine’s eyes shone. She was much easier to look at when her face brightened.

‘I don’t go back to the newspaper on Saturday nights. Let’s meet at the Bar Rouge at eight o’clock.’

‘And what will we do?’

‘That will be up to you.’

‘I don’t have any ideas.’

‘Well don’t worry, I’ll get one by then. Come and have a drink.’

‘I don’t drink. I wouldn’t mind another sandwich though.’

They went to the buffet. Lenoir and Julien were engaged in a heated discussion; it was chronic with them. Each reproached the other for having betrayed his youth – in the wrong way. At one time, having found the excesses of surrealism too tame, they jointly founded the ‘para-human’ movement. Lenoir had since become a professor of Sanskrit and he spent his free time writing obscure poetry. Julien, who was now a librarian, had stopped writing altogether, perhaps because he feared becoming a mature mediocrity after his precocious beginnings.

‘What do you think?’ Lenoir asked, turning to Henri. ‘We ought to take some kind of action against the collaborationist writers, shouldn’t we?’

‘I’ve stopped thinking for tonight,’ Henri answered cheerfully.

‘It’s poor strategy to keep them from being published,’ Julien said. ‘While you’re using all your strength preparing cases against them, they’ll have all the time in the world to write good books.’

A heavy hand came down on Henri’s shoulder: Scriassine.

‘Take a look at what I brought back. American whisky! I managed to slip two bottles into the country, and I can’t think of a better occasion than this to finish them off.’

‘Wonderful!’ said Henri. He filled a glass with bourbon and held it out to Nadine.

‘I don’t drink,’ she said in an offended voice, turning abruptly and walking off.

Henri raised the glass to his mouth. He had completely forgotten what bourbon tasted like; he did remember, though, that his preference used to be Scotch, but since he had also forgotten what Scotch tasted like, it made no difference to him.

‘Who wants a shot of real whisky?’

Luc came over, dragging his large, gouty feet; Lambert and Vincent followed close behind. They all filled their glasses.

‘I like a good cognac better,’ said Vincent.