The Mandarins

Unhappily, Henri pushed open the downstairs door, which banged noisily against a garbage pail; the concierge’s dog began barking. Before he even had a chance to knock, Paula had flung open the door to the flat.

‘It’s you! It’s really you!’ For a moment she remained motionless in his arms, and then she stepped back. ‘You look wonderful. You’re all sunburned! Was the trip back tiring?’ She smiled, but a little muscle in the corner of her mouth was quivering spasmodically.

‘Not at all,’ he replied, setting the suitcase down on the couch. ‘Here are some things for you.’

‘How sweet of you!’

‘Open it.’

She opened the suitcase. Silk stockings, doeskin sandals and a handbag to match, lengths of material, scarfs, gloves. He had chosen every article with anxious care and he was a little disappointed when, moved and yet vaguely indulgent, she only looked down at them, without touching them, without even bending over to examine them closely.

‘How really sweet of you!’ she repeated. And then, suddenly turning towards him, she exclaimed. ‘Your suitcases! Where are they?’

‘Downstairs in the car. Did you hear that L’Espoir got a car? Vincent picked me up in it,’ he said animatedly.

‘I’ll call the concierge and get him to bring them up,’ Paula said.

‘Don’t bother,’ Henri said, adding very quickly, ‘How did you spend the month? The weather wasn’t too bad, was it? Did you get out a little?’

‘A little,’ she replied evasively, her face cold and expressionless.

‘Who did you see? What did you do? Tell me all about it.’

‘Oh, nothing very interesting happened,’ she replied. ‘Let’s not talk about me.’ Quickly, but in a listless voice, she added, ‘Your book is a sensation, you know.’

‘I haven’t heard a thing yet. Do they really like it?’

‘Oh, the critics really didn’t understand anything, of course. But even so, they scented a masterpiece in it.’

‘It’s good to hear that,’ he said with a reserved smile. He would have liked to ask her a few questions, but he found Paula’s manner of speaking insufferable. He changed the subject. ‘Did you see the Dubreuilhs? How are they?’

‘I saw Anne for a moment one day; she’s up to her ears in work.’

She answered his questions reluctantly, tight-lipped. And he, he was burning with impatience to get back to his life!

‘Did you keep the back issues of L’Espoir?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t read them.’

‘No?’

‘There was nothing of yours in them. And I had other things to think about.’ She sought his eyes and suddenly her face came to life. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this past month and I’ve come to understand a great many things. I’m sorry about that scene I made before you left. I’m sincerely sorry.’

‘Oh, let’s not talk about that!’ he said. ‘First of all, you didn’t make a scene.’

‘Yes,’ she insisted, ‘I did. And I repeat, I’m truly sorry. I’ve known for a long time that a woman can’t be everything to a man like you. Not even all the women in the world. But I never really accepted it; I’m prepared now to love you with complete generosity, to love you for what you are and not for what I want. You have your mission and that has to come above all else.’

‘What mission?’

She forced a smile. ‘I’ve come to realize that often I must have been a burden to you; I can understand your wanting a little solitude. Well, you need not worry any more. I promise you your solitude, your freedom.’ She looked very intensely at Henri. ‘You’re free, my love, and I want you to know this and believe it. Besides, you’ve just finished proving it, haven’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he said, adding feebly, ‘but as I explained to you …’

‘I remember,’ she said. ‘But with the change that’s taken place in me, I can assure you you no longer have any reason to move to a hotel. Listen, you want independence, adventures; but you want me, too, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then stay here. I swear you won’t have any reason to regret it. You’ll see for yourself how much I’ve changed and how little I’ll get in your way from now on.’ She stood up and reached for the telephone. ‘The concierge’s nephew will bring your things up.’

Henri rose and walked towards the stairway leading to the bedroom. ‘Later,’ he said to himself. He couldn’t after all, begin torturing her again the moment he came back. ‘I’m going to clean up a little,’ he said. ‘They’re waiting for me at the office. I just stopped off to give you a kiss.’

‘I understand perfectly,’ she replied tenderly.

‘She’s going to bend over backwards to prove to me I’m free,’ he thought unhappily as he got into the little black car. ‘But it won’t last. I won’t stay there indefinitely,’ he said to himself bitterly. ‘I’ll start taking care of that little matter tomorrow.’ But for the moment, he no longer wanted to think about Paula; all he wanted was to luxuriate in his happiness at being back in Paris. The streets were grey and the people had been cold and hungry that winter; but here, at least, everyone wore shoes. And then, you could speak to them, speak for them. In Portugal, the thing that was so depressing was the feeling of being a completely impotent witness to a totally foreign disaster.

Getting out of the car, he looked affectionately at the façade of the building. How had things gone at the paper while he was away? Was it true his novel was a success? He climbed the stairs quickly and when he reached the top he was greeted with cheers. A streamer hanging across the hallway read ‘Welcome Home!’ Standing with their backs to the walls, his colleagues formed a military arch, but in place of swords, they held their fountain pens. They began singing an unintelligible couplet in which ‘Salazar’ rhymed with ‘gal and car’. Only Lambert was missing. Why?

‘Everyone to the bar!’ Luc cried out, giving Henri a hearty slap on the back. ‘How did it go?’

‘What a sunburn!’

‘Look at those clodhoppers.’

‘Are you going to do an article on Portugal?’

‘Hey! Look at that shirt!’

They fingered his suit, his tie; they shouted and joked and asked question after question while the bartender filled and refilled their glasses. Henri in turn questioned them. Circulation had dropped off a little, but the paper would soon be going back to a larger format, which would help make up the loss; there had been some trouble with the censor – nothing very serious; everyone had nothing but praise for his book, and he had received a tremendous amount of mail; on his desk, he would find every issue of L’Espoir for the month he had been away. Preston, the Yank, was trying to arrange for a larger allotment of paper, enabling them to put out a Sunday magazine supplement. And there were a great many other things to discuss. But all this noise, the voices, the laughter, the problems, added to three nights of fitful sleeping, made him dizzy – dizzy and happy. What a silly idea to have gone to Portugal in search of a past that was dead and buried, when the present was so joyfully alive!

‘All I can say is I’m damned happy to be back!’ he exclaimed, his face beaming.

‘And we’re not exactly unhappy to have you back, you know,’ Luc said. ‘In fact we were even beginning to need you. I warn you, though, you’re going to have a hell of a lot of work to catch up on.’

‘Well, I hope so!’

The typewriters were clicking away. They separated in the hallway after a few more jokes and bursts of laughter. How young they seemed after coming from a country in which everyone was ageless! Henri opened the door to his office and sat down in his chair with the satisfaction of an old bureaucrat. He spread out the latest issues of L’Espoir before him. The usual by-lines, the same careful layout – not a fraction of an inch of space wasted. He jumped back one month and began leafing through the issues, one after another. They had got along wonderfully without him, and that, of course, was the surest proof of his success. L’Espoir wasn’t merely a wartime adventure; it was a solid enterprise. Vincent’s articles on Holland were excellent, and Lambert’s on the concentration camps even more so. No question about it, they had hit precisely the right note – no nonsense, no lies, no humbug. Because of its scrupulous honesty, L’Espoir appealed to the intellectuals, and it attracted the masses because it was so alive. There was only one weak point: Sézenac’s articles were rather thin.

‘Can I come in?’ Lambert asked, standing in the doorway and smiling timidly.

‘Of course! Where’ve you been hiding? You could at least have come to the station, you lazy bum.’

‘I didn’t think there’d be enough room for four,’ Lambert explained. ‘And their little party …’ he added with a grimace. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

‘Not at all. Pull up a chair.’

‘Was it a good trip?’ Lambert asked. ‘I guess you’ve been asked that question twenty times already,’ he added with a shrug of his shoulders.

‘Good and bad. A beautiful setting, and seven million people starving to death.’

‘They certainly have excellent cloth,’ Lambert remarked, examining Henri approvingly. He smiled. ‘Is that the style there, orange shoes?’

‘Orange or lemon. But it’s good leather. There’s plenty of everything for the rich; that’s the lousiest part of it. I’ll tell you all about it later, but first fill me in on what’s been happening here. I’ve just finished reading some of your articles; they’re damned good, you know.’

‘I felt as if I were back in school writing a composition: Describe your impressions while visiting a concentration camp,’ he said ironically. ‘I think there were more than twenty of us there writing on the same subject.’ Suddenly his face brightened. ‘Do you want to know something that’s really good? Your book. I started it after driving a whole night and day without sleep, and believe me I was really beat. But I read it straight through, couldn’t go to sleep until I finished it.’

‘You make me happy,’ Henri said.

Compliments always embarrassed him. Yet what Lambert said gave him real pleasure. It was precisely the way he had dreamed of being read – straight through in a single night by an impatient young man. That alone made writing worthwhile. Especially that.

‘I thought maybe you’d like to see the reviews,’ Lambert said, tossing a thick yellow envelope on the desk. ‘You’ll find my two cents’ worth in there, too.’

‘You’re damned right I’d like to see them. Thanks,’ Henri said.

Lambert looked at him questioningly. ‘Did you do any writing there?’

‘An article on how I found things.’

‘And now you’ll be starting another novel?’

‘I’ll get to it as soon as I have the time.’

‘Find the time!’ Lambert said. ‘While you were away, I was thinking …’ he began, his face colouring. ‘You have to defend yourself.’

‘Against whom?’ Henri asked with a smile.

Lambert hesitated again. ‘It seems that Dubreuilh has been waiting impatiently for you to get back. Don’t let yourself get involved in his schemes …’

‘I’m already more or less involved in them,’ Henri said.

‘Well, if I were you, I’d get myself disinvolved fast!’

‘No,’ Henri replied, smiling. ‘It just isn’t possible nowadays to stay apolitical.’

Lambert’s face grew sombre. ‘I suppose that means you disapprove of me, doesn’t it?’

‘Not at all. What I mean is that it’s impossible for me. We’re not the same age, you know.’

‘What’s age got to do with it?’ Lambert asked.

‘You’ll find out. You change, you begin to understand a lot of things when you get older.’ Henri smiled and added, ‘But I promise you I’ll find time enough to continue writing.’

‘You have to,’ Lambert said.

‘I just remembered something, my sermonizing friend! What happened to those short stories you were telling me about?’

‘They aren’t worth a damn,’ Lambert replied.

‘Let me have them. And then we’ll have dinner together some evening and talk about them.’

‘Right,’ Lambert said. He got up. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll want to see her, but little Marie-Ange Bizet is dead set on interviewing you. She’s been waiting for two hours. What’ll I tell her?’

‘That I never give interviews and that I’m up to my ears in work.’

Lambert closed the door behind him and Henri emptied the contents of the yellow envelope on his desk. On a bulging folder, his secretary had written: ‘Correspondence – Novel.’ He hesitated a moment. He had written the novel during the war without ever having given any thought to what the future might hold for him; he hadn’t even been sure that the future would hold anything at all for him. And now the book had been published, people had already read it. All at once, Henri found himself judged, discussed, classified, as he himself had so often judged and discussed others. He spread out the clippings and began going through them one at a time. ‘A sensation’, Paula had said, and he had thought she was exaggerating. But, as a matter of fact, the critics also used some pretty impressive words. Lambert, of course, was prejudiced; Lachaume, too. All those young critics who had just come into their own had a natural predisposition for the writers of the Resistance. But it was the admiring letters sent by both friends and strangers that confirmed the verdict of the press. Really, without getting a swelled head about it, it was certainly enough to make any man happy. His pages, written with deep feeling, had actually stirred people! Henri stretched happily. In a way, it was miraculous – what had just happened. Two years earlier, thick curtains had veiled blue-painted windows; he had been completely shut off from the black city, from the whole earth; his pen would pause hesitantly over the paper. Now those unformed sounds in his throat had become a living voice in the world; the secret stirrings in his heart had been transformed into truths for other hearts. ‘I should have tried explaining it to Nadine,’ he said to himself. ‘If others don’t count, it’s meaningless to write. But if they do count, it’s wonderful to gain their friendship and their confidence with words; it’s magnificent to hear your own thoughts echoed in them.’ He raised his eyes; someone was opening the door.

‘I’ve been waiting for you for two hours,’ said a plaintive voice. ‘You could at least give me fifteen minutes.’ Marie-Ange planted herself solidly in front of his desk. ‘It’s for Lendemain. A big front-page spread, with pictures.’

‘Look, I never give interviews.’

‘Exactly. That’s why mine will be worth its weight in gold.’

Henri shook his head, and Marie-Ange said indignantly, ‘You wouldn’t ruin my whole career just because of a principle?’

He smiled. Fifteen minutes meant so very much to her, and it would cost him so very little! To tell the truth, he even felt like talking about himself. Among the people who liked his book, there were certainly some who wanted to know the author better. And he felt like telling them about himself, telling them so that their approval would really be directed at him.

‘You win,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to tell you?’

‘First of all, where do you come from?’

‘My father was a pharmacist in Tulle.’

‘And?’

Henri hesitated. It isn’t easy to begin talking about yourself out of a clear sky.

‘Go ahead,’ Marie-Ange prodded. ‘Tell me a few things about your childhood.’

Like everyone else, he had memories enough, only they didn’t seem very important to him. Except for that dinner, in the Henri II dining-room, when he finally delivered himself of his fear.

‘All right, here’s one for you,’ he said. ‘Actually, it’s nothing, but for me it was the beginning of a great many things.’

Her pencil poised above her note-book, Marie-Ange gave him an encouraging look.

‘The major subject of conversation between my parents,’ he began, ‘was the disasters that were menacing the world – the red peril, the yellow peril, barbarism, decadence, revolution, bolshevism. And I imagined them all as horrible monsters who were going to swallow up all humanity. Well, at dinner one evening, my father was doing his usual prophesying – the revolution was imminent, civilization was foundering. And my mother was nodding agreement, a look of terror on her face. And then suddenly I thought, “But no matter what happens, the winners will still be men.” Maybe those aren’t exactly words I used, but that’s the gist of it.’ Henri smiled. ‘The effect was miraculous. No more monsters. It was all here on earth, among human creatures, among ourselves.’

‘And then?’ Marie-Ange asked.

‘So, ever since then I’ve been hunting down monsters,’ he replied.

Marie-Ange looked perplexed. ‘But your story?’ she asked. ‘How does it end?’

‘What story?’

‘The one you just began,’ she replied impatiently.

‘It’s finished; there is no other ending,’ Henri answered.

‘Oh,’ Marie-Ange said, disappointed. ‘I was hoping for something picturesque,’ she added plaintively.

‘There was nothing picturesque about my childhood,’ Henri said. ‘The pharmacy bored me to death and living out in the country was annoying. Fortunately, I had an uncle in Paris who managed to get me a job with Vendredi.’

He hesitated. There were a great many things he could say about his first years in Paris, but he didn’t know which ones to choose.

‘Vendredi was a leftist paper?’ Marie-Ange said. ‘You had leftist ideas even then?’

‘Let’s say I loathed all rightist ideas.’

‘Why?’

Henri thought for a moment. ‘I was very ambitious when I was twenty, and that’s precisely why I was a democrat. I wanted to be the best – but the best among equals. If the race is fixed from the start, there’s no point betting.’

Marie-Ange scribbled in her note-book. She didn’t look too intelligent, and Henri tried to think of simple words with which to express himself. ‘Between a chimpanzee and the lowliest of men,’ he thought to himself, ‘there’s an enormously greater difference than between that man and an Einstein! A consciousness that gives evidence that it exists is one of the absolutes.’ He was about to open his mouth, but Marie-Ange spoke first.

‘Tell me about your start.’

‘What start?’

‘Your start in literature.’

‘I’ve always scribbled a bit.’

‘How old were you when The Accident was published?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘Dubreuilh was the one who gave you your start, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, he helped me a lot.’

‘How did you get to know him?’

‘They sent me over to interview him once, and he made me do the talking. He asked me to come back and see him again, and I did …’

‘Give me more details,’ Marie-Ange said plaintively. ‘You’re not very good at explaining things.’ She looked at him. ‘What do you talk about when you’re together?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Everything and nothing, like everyone else.’

‘Did he encourage you to write?’

‘Yes. And when I finished The Accident, he got Mauvanes to read it, and Mauvanes accepted it at once.’

‘Was it successful?’

‘Call it a succes d’estime. You know, it’s funny …’

‘Yes, tell me something funny!’ she said eagerly.

Henri hesitated. ‘It’s funny how you begin by having big dreams of glory. And then, with the first little success, you’re completely happy.’

Marie-Ange sighed. ‘I already have the titles and dates of your other books. Were you in the service?’

‘In the infantry. Ordinary private. I never wanted to be an officer. Wounded the ninth of May at Mont Dieu near Vouziers; evacuated to Montélimar; back in Paris in September.’

‘What exactly did you do in the Resistance?’

‘Luc and I founded L’Espoir in 1941.’

‘You did other things, too, didn’t you?’

‘Nothing very interesting. Skip it.’

‘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.