The Foundling Boy. Michel Deon
Normandy, calvados is my drink.’
‘I wouldn’t say no. They used to give us a glass before we went over the top.’
They drank for a while, silent, then carefully exchanging a few words that let each place the other. Antoine would willingly have finished the bottle, but there were still a few kilometres to go, and the smashed face in front of him depressed him terribly. So many soldiers went to war with the idea of sacrificing their life, or possibly their left arm, but not one imagined that they might as easily come back with their face a pulp, and look like a monster for the rest of their days. He was conscious of his own cowardice, but without cowardice, as without lies, life was impossible. It looked as if there was a night of reminiscing ahead, scenes and stories spilling out in bulk across the tablecloth, stoked by the warmth of the grappa.
‘Were you an officer?’ the man asked, his expression wary.
Antoine felt sorry for him. He had no desire to leave a bad impression, or deepen the certain bitterness of this defeated man.
‘No,’ he said, ‘corporal. Finished as a sergeant.’
‘Like me. Stay a bit longer.’
‘I need to get to Menton.’
‘She’ll wait for you …’
‘It’s my daughter.’
‘Ah! I understand. Well, come by again one day. We don’t stick together enough. My name is Léon Cece.’
Antoine got back into the car and freewheeled down to Menton. The cicadas sang in the pine woods and tomato fields. The town was already deeply asleep. It felt like the sleep of a sick person, so respectful was the silence of the deserted streets. The fragrance of lemon trees in blossom and the dimmed glow of the streetlights were redolent of hospitals. The houses were hidden deep in jungly gardens, walled behind high gates. Not a fishing boat moved in the dock. Antoine drove cautiously along the Promenade and eventually found a passer-by who told him the way to the clinic, a large turn-of-the-century detached house deep inside a silent park. The windows were shuttered and the doors locked. He switched off the engine, turned up the collar of his jacket, rested his head and arms on his steering wheel, and went to sleep.
It was not the dawn that woke him, but the sound of a pair of shutters opening on the balcony above his head. Geneviève appeared in a white nightdress with a ribbon in her hair. She seemed terribly thin to him, and pale, but more beautiful than before, a creature so fragile that the morning breeze or a shaft of sunlight might kill her.
‘It’s you, Papa!’ she said. ‘I thought it was. I was sure I heard the sound of a Bugatti last night. Is it the new one?’
‘Well, it’s the new one for now, the Type 22, four cylinders. Bugatti’s planning to replace it soon with the 28, which is apparently a marvel.’
‘I already like that one!’
Antoine puffed himself up. ‘Do you want to go for a spin?’
‘It’s difficult so early. The door’s still locked. A bit later, if you like.’
‘I’ll go and have a coffee. Look, I’ve brought you some nougat.’
He tossed two boxes up to the balcony, and Geneviève retrieved them.
‘Thank you! It’s so sweet of you to think of spoiling me. I adore nougat. When you come back, could you be really kind and bring me cigarettes and matches?’
‘You smoke? That’s not good.’
‘Nothing is good from where I’m standing.’
‘Really? I thought you felt better. You’re worrying me.’
From her pout he recognised his daughter from several years before, his little girl whom he had kissed on the doorstep of La Sauveté on the morning in August 1914 when he had left to join his unit. She had changed quite suddenly: now she was this frail young woman with an oval face and loose blond hair, who made him feel shy and intimidated.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said.
‘But you won’t get better!’
‘Do we get better?’
He realised that he wasn’t sure enough of the answer to be able to convince her. He could only think of distractions.
‘Do you need perfume?’
‘Well, if you can find something fairly modern …’
‘I’ll try.’
A figure in pyjamas appeared on the next balcony, a dishevelled man who began to gesticulate, showering them with insults.
‘What the hell is going on? Are you mad? There are people asleep here, sick people, and you don’t give a damn!’
‘Calm down, Piquemal,’ Geneviève said in a gentle voice. ‘It’s my father. We haven’t seen each other for five years. Anyway, he’s going. He’ll come back later.’
‘Your father, your father!’ Piquemal shouted, but said no more as he was choked by a fit of coughing.
‘You know you mustn’t get angry. It’s very bad for you.’
Piquemal, doubled up with coughing, retreated into his room.
Geneviève leant down to her father.
‘Don’t be offended. He’s half mad. In any case he hasn’t got much longer.’
‘I’ll be back soon,’ Antoine said.
‘See you very soon, Papa.’
The sloping drive allowed him to roll the Bugatti back to the gate, where he dropped the clutch and had the satisfaction of hearing the engine fire immediately. Menton was waking up in a golden dawn, an oblique light that slid across the oily sea and stroked the trees in the gardens. On the quay fishermen in straw hats were untangling their nets. He eventually found a barber, who shaved him and let him wash. He bought a new shirt and discarded the one he was wearing. Throughout his journey he had not burdened himself with anything: shirts, socks, undershorts, toothbrushes marked his route, tossed in ditches or available rubbish bins. It was harder to find somewhere to buy perfume at this early hour, but he came across a shop that advertised ‘goods from Paris’. Lacking in expertise, he relied on the saleswoman’s advice, then looked for a florist’s and ordered an enormous bouquet of white roses. The thought of burdening his Bugatti with roses threw him for a moment.
‘Would you like me to have them delivered?’ asked the florist, a small brown-haired woman with a downy upper lip.
‘That’s not a bad idea. With this package, if you don’t mind. Be careful, it’s perfume.’
‘Do you have a card?’
He found one in his wallet and wrote carefully and legibly,
My little Geneviève, these flowers will express all my affection much better than I could do it myself. Here also is the perfume you asked for. If you don’t care for it you can exchange it; I’ve left the name of the shop on the packet. Your papa, who kisses you.
Feeling much calmer, he headed west once more and drove as far as the outskirts of Roquebrune, to the restaurant where he had stopped the previous evening. On a chair outside, still dressed in his grubby singlet, the patron was plucking a chicken.
‘Hello!’ Antoine said, without getting out of the car.
‘All right? So, your daughter is well?’
‘Much better, thanks.’
‘Are you eating with us?’
‘It’s a bit early and I’ve a long way to go. Another time. I’ll be back.’
‘Always in a hurry. Like a fart in a fan factory, you are.’
‘That’s life!’ said Antoine, who would never have thought