The Mandarins

‘I’ll see Tournelle, his administrative assistant,’ Henri promised on the eve of his departure for Algarve. ‘He was a friend of mine in the Resistance.’

‘I shall map out a precise path and entrust it to you when you return,’ das Viernas said.

Henri was glad to get out of Lisbon. For greater convenience in making his round of lectures, the French Consulate loaned him a car and told him to keep it as long as he wanted. At last he would have a real holiday! Unfortunately, his new-found friends were counting on his spending his last week in Portugal conspiring with them. While he was away, they were going to assemble exhaustive documentation and also arrange for meetings with certain Communists from the Zamora dockyards. Turning them down was unthinkable.

‘That means we have exactly two weeks and no more to see the country,’ Nadine said sulkily.

They dined that night at a roadside inn on the opposite bank of the Tagus. A waitress served them slices of fried codfish and a bottle of cloudy pink wine. Through the window they could see the lights of Lisbon rising tier upon tier between the water and the sky.

‘With a car, you can cover an awful lot of ground in two weeks!’ Henri said. ‘Do you realize what a stroke of luck that was?’

‘Exactly. And it’s a shame we can’t take more advantage of it.’

‘Those men are all counting on me; I’d really be a louse to disappoint them, wouldn’t I?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘There’s nothing you can do for them.’

‘I can speak for them. That’s my job. If I can’t at least do that, there’s no point in my being a newspaperman.’

‘Maybe there isn’t.’

‘Don’t start thinking already about going back,’ he said soothingly. ‘Just think of the wonderful trip ahead of us. Look at those little lights along the water; they’re pretty, aren’t they?’

‘What’s so pretty about them?’ Nadine asked. It was just the sort of irritating question she enjoyed asking. ‘No, seriously,’ she added, ‘what makes you think they’re pretty?’

Henri shrugged his shoulders. ‘They’re pretty, that’s all.’

She pressed her forehead agains the window. ‘They might be pretty if you didn’t know what’s behind them. But once you know, it’s … it’s just another fraud,’ she concluded bitterly. ‘I hate that filthy city.’

It was a fraud, no doubt of it. And yet he was unable to keep from seeing a certain beauty in those lights. No longer did he fool himself about the hot stench of poverty, the colourfulness of rags and tatters, but those little flames twinkling along the edge of the dark waters moved him in spite of everything. Perhaps it was because they made him recall a time when he was unaware of the reality hiding behind appearances, or perhaps it was nothing but the memory of an illusion that made him like them. He looked at Nadine – eighteen years old and not a single illusion to remember! He at least had a past. ‘And a present, and a future,’ he said to himself. ‘Fortunately, there are still some things left in the world to like.’

And there were, fortunately. What a joy to have a wheel in your hands again! And those roads stretching out before you as far as the eye can reach! The first day out, after all those years of not having driven, Henri felt unsure of himself. The car seemed endowed with a life of its own, and so much the more so since it was heavy, had bad springs, was noisy and rather erratic. And yet it soon began obeying him as spontaneously as his own hand.

‘It’s really got speed! It’s terrific!’ Nadine exclaimed.

‘You’ve driven in cars before, haven’t you?’

‘In Paris, in jeeps. But I never went this fast.’

That, too, was a lie – the old illusion of freedom and power. But she gave into it without a qualm. She lowered all the windows and greedily drank in the wind and dust. If Henri had listened to her they would never have got out of the car. The thing she seemed to enjoy most was driving as fast as they could towards the horizon. She hardly took any interest at all in the scenery. And yet how beautiful it was! Hillsides covered with golden mimosas; endless groves of round-topped orange trees which brought to mind calm, primitive paradises; the twisted, frenzied rocks of Battaglia, the majestic pair of stairways which rose crisscrossing to a white-and-black church, the streets of Beja through which echoed the ancient cries of a lovesick nun. In the south, with its African atmosphere, little donkeys moved in endless circles to force a trickle of water from the arid ground. At distant intervals, half-hidden among blue century plants rising from the red earth, they came across the false freshness of smooth, milky white houses. They began driving back towards the north through country in which stones and rocks seemed to have stolen their intense colours from the most brilliant flowers – reds, ochres, violets. And then, on the gentle hills of Minho, the colours once more became flowers. Yes, a beautiful setting, a setting that flashed by so rapidly that there was no time to think of what lurked behind it. Along these granite shores as on the burning roads of Algarve, the peasants they saw all went barefooted. But they did not see many of them.

The holiday ended at red Oporto, where even the filth was blood-coloured. On the walls of hovels darker and danker than those of Lisbon and teeming with naked children, notices had been pasted up, reading: ‘Unhealthy! It is forbidden to live in this house.’ Little girls of four or five, clad in torn sacks, were rummaging about in garbage pails. For lunch, Henri and Nadine sought refuge in a dark corner of a restaurant, but all through the meal they had the uneasy feeling that, outside, faces were glued to the windows. ‘I hate cities!’ Nadine said furiously. She stayed in her room the whole day, and the following day on the road she hardly unclenched her teeth enough to speak. Henri made no attempt to cheer her up.

The day they were to return to Lisbon, they stopped to eat in a little port town three hours from the city. They left the car in front of the inn and climbed one of the hills overlooking the sea. At the summit stood a white windmill with a roof shingled in green tile. Small, narrow-necked, terra-cotta jars were attached to its vanes, and the wind sang through them. Henri and Nadine ran down the hill past leafy olive trees, past blossoming almond trees, and the childish music followed them. They dropped down on the sandy beach of the cove. Boats with rust-coloured sails were moving lazily on the pale sea.

‘Let’s stay here a while; it’s pleasant,’ Henri said.

‘All right,’ Nadine replied sullenly. ‘I’m dying of hunger,’ she added.

‘Naturally. You didn’t eat a thing.’

‘I ask for soft-boiled eggs and they bring me a bowl of lukewarm water and raw eggs.’

‘Well, the cod was good, and so were the beans.’

‘Another drop of oil and I’d have been sick,’ she said, spitting angrily. ‘There’s even oil in my saliva.’

Suddenly and calmly she pulled off her blouse.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Can’t you see?’

She was wearing no brassiere. Lying on her back, she offered up to the sun the nakedness of her firm, small breasts.

‘Nadine! No! Suppose someone should come …’

‘No one’ll come.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Anyhow, I don’t give a damn. I just want to feel the sun on my body.’ Her breasts exposed to the wind and sun, her hair spread out on the sand, she looked up at the sky and said reproachfully, ‘It’s our last day; we’ve got to take advantage of it.’

Henri said nothing.

‘Must we really go back to Lisbon tonight?’ she asked in a whining voice.

‘You know very well they’re expecting us.’

‘We haven’t even seen the mountains yet. And everyone says they’re beautiful. With a whole week left, we could see a lot of them.’

‘Nevertheless, as I’ve already told you a dozen times, I’ve got to see those people.’

‘Your old gentlemen in stiff collars? They might look pretty good in the showcases of the Musée de l’Homme. But as revolutionaries … don’t make me laugh.’

‘Well, they affect me differently,’ Henri said. ‘And they do take big risks.’

‘They talk a lot,’ Nadine said, sifting the sand between her fingers. ‘Words, nothing but a lot of words.’

‘It’s always so easy to feel superior to people who are trying to accomplish something,’ he said, slightly annoyed.

‘What I have against them is that they’re really not trying to accomplish anything at all,’ she replied irritably. ‘Instead of gabbling so much, I’d blow Salazar’s brains out.’

‘That wouldn’t help much.’

‘He’d be dead, and that would help. Like Vincent says, at least death doesn’t forgive.’ She looked meditatively at the sea. ‘If you’re willing to be killed with him, you could certainly get rid of him.’

‘Don’t you try it!’ Henri said with a smile. He placed his hand on Nadine’s sand-encrusted arm. ‘That’d be quite a spot you’d put me in.’

‘It would be quite an exit,’ Nadine said.

‘Are you in such a hurry to make yours?’ he asked.

She yawned. ‘Do you enjoy living?’

‘I’m not bored,’ he said cheerfully.

She raised herself on one elbow and studied him curiously. ‘Tell me. Scribbling from morning to night the way you do, does that really fill your life?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When I’m writing my life is full. In fact, I’m damned anxious to get back to it.’

‘What made you want to become a writer?’

‘Oh, that goes a long way back,’ Henri replied. Yes, it went very far back into the past, but he couldn’t decide how reliable his memories of the beginning were. ‘When I was a young boy,’ he said, ‘a book seemed like a magic thing to me.’

‘But I like books, too,’ Nadine said spiritedly. ‘Only there are so many of them already! What good will it do to add one more?’

‘We all have different things to say. Every writer has his own life, his own way of seeing things, his own way of writing about them.’

‘And it doesn’t upset you to realize that things have been written that are far above anything you’ll ever pound out?’ Nadine asked in a vaguely irritated voice.

‘At first I didn’t think that was true,’ Henri replied, smiling. ‘You’re very arrogant when you haven’t done anything. And then, once you get into it, you’re too interested in what you’re writing to waste time comparing.’

‘Naturally,’ she said sullenly. ‘You can always justify yourself.’ She let herself fall back on the sand and stretched out lazily, at full length.

He didn’t know how to answer her. It’s hard to explain the joys of writing to someone who doesn’t enjoy it. Besides, was he capable of explaining it even to himself? He didn’t for a moment imagine he would be read forever and yet while he was writing, he felt as if he were secretly settled in eternity. Whatever ideas he was able to shape into words on paper seemed to him to be preserved, fully rescued from oblivion. But how much truth was there in that feeling? How much of that also was only an illusion? That was one of the things he should have figured out during his vacation, but as a matter of fact he had figured out nothing at all. One thing was certain: he felt an almost agonizing pity for all who did not even attempt to express themselves – Paula, Anne, Nadine. Suddenly he remembered that this was the day on which his book was to be published. It had been a long time since he had last faced the public and it frightened him a bit to think that at that very moment people were reading his novel and talking about it.

‘Everything all right?’ he asked, bending over Nadine and smiling at her gently.

‘Yes, it’s nice here,’ she said a little peevishly.

‘It is, isn’t it?’

He lay back on the warm sand and laced his fingers in Nadine’s. Between the listless, sun-faded sea and the stark blue of the sky, happiness hung lazily in the air; a single smile from Nadine and he might have been able to grasp some of that happiness. She was almost pretty when she smiled, but now her lightly freckled face remained impassive.

‘Poor Nadine!’ he said.

She bolted upright. ‘Why poor?’

Certainly, she was an object of pity, but he wasn’t quite sure why. ‘Because you’re disappointed in the trip.’

‘Oh, I didn’t really expect too much out of it, you know.’

‘But you have to admit we had some pleasant moments, anyhow.’

‘And there could still be more,’ she said, the cold blue of her eyes growing warmer. ‘Why don’t you just forget those old dreamers? They’re not what we came here for. Let’s keep on the move; let’s enjoy ourselves while we can, while we still have flesh on our bones.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s not so easy to enjoy oneself.’

‘Well, let’s try, anyhow. Let’s drive through the mountains! Wouldn’t that be wonderful? You like driving so much. But those meetings and investigations, all they ever do is bore you.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘Well, why do you always have to be doing things that bore you? That’s no way to live.’

‘Try to understand. Can I tell those poor old men that no one’s interested in their misfortunes, that Portugal is too small, that no one gives a damn what happens to her?’ Henri leaned over Nadine and smiled gently. ‘Can I?’

‘You could ring them up and tell them you’re sick, and then we could head for Evora.’

‘It would break their hearts,’ Henri replied. ‘No, I just can’t.’

‘Say instead that you don’t want to,’ Nadine retorted bitterly.

‘All right,’ he answered impatiently. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘You’re even worse than my mother,’ she grumbled, turning her face to the sand.

Henri fell back and stretched out alongside Nadine. ‘Let’s enjoy ourselves!’ Years ago, he had known how to enjoy himself; yes, he would unhesitatingly have sacrificed the dreams of those old conspirators for the pleasures he had known then. He closed his eyes. He was lying on another beach beside a golden-skinned woman clad in a flowered sarong – Paula, the loveliest of all women. Palm trees were swaying lazily above their heads, and through the reeds he was watching three plump, laughing Jewish women inching their way into the sea, encumbered by their dresses, veils, and jewels. Sometimes at night they would sit together on the beach and watch Arab women, wrapped in their long garments, venturing into the water. And afterwards, in a tavern in an ancient Roman basement, they would sip syrupy coffee. Or they would sit in the market place and Henri would smoke a narghile while chatting with Amur Harsin. And then they would come back to their room and tumble happily on the bed. But what Henri remembered most nostalgically now were those mornings spent on the terrace of the hotel beneath the blue sky, amid the exciting fragrance of flowers. In the freshness of the newborn day, in the intense heat of noon, he would write; he would write, and under his feet the cement was burning hot. And then, dizzy from the sun and from words, he would go down to the shaded patio and drink a tall, cool anisette. The sky, the pink laurel bushes, Djerba’s violent waters, the gay talk of idle nights, and especially the freshness and excitement of the mornings – these were things he had come here to recapture. Why hadn’t he recaptured that burning, sweet taste his life had once had? He had wanted so much to take this trip; for days he had thought of nothing else, for days he had dreamed of lying on the sand under the sun. And now he was here, stretched out on a sandy beach, beneath a hot sun. Only something was missing, missing from inside himself. Happiness, pleasure – he was no longer quite sure what those old, familiar words really meant. We have only five senses, and they become satiated so quickly. Even now his eyes were growing weary of looking out on that endless blue which never ceased being blue. He felt like ripping apart that smooth, satiny surface, felt like tearing Nadine’s tender skin.

‘It’s getting cool,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she replied. Suddenly she pressed her whole body tight against him, and through his shirt he could feel her naked young breasts against his chest. ‘Warm me,’ she said.

He gently pushed her away. ‘Get dressed. Let’s get back to the village.’

‘Afraid someone will see us?’ Nadine’s eyes were gleaming, her cheeks were slightly flushed. But he knew her mouth would still be cold. ‘What do you think they’d do to us? Do you think they’d stone us?’ she asked, as if the prospect appealed to her.

‘Get up. It’s time to start back now.’

She pressed the whole weight of her body against him; he was barely able to resist the desire that was sweeping through him, numbing his arms and legs. He liked her young breasts, her limpid skin; if only she would let herself be gently lulled by pleasure instead of romping about in bed with determined shamelessness … She looked at him, her eyes half closed, and her hand crept down his linen trousers.

‘Let me … won’t you let me?’

Her mouth and hands were adroit, but he hated that look of triumphant assurance he saw in her eyes every time he gave in to her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, not here. Not like this.’

He freed himself and stood up. Nadine’s blouse was lying on the sand; he threw it over her shoulders.

‘Why not?’ she asked resentfully. ‘Maybe it would be a bit more fun out here in the open,’ she added languidly.

He dusted the sand off his clothes. ‘I wonder if you’ll ever grow up to be a woman,’ he murmured in a falsely indulgent voice.

‘I’ll bet there isn’t one woman in a hundred who enjoys getting laid. Most of them are just putting on an act, trying to be sophisticated.’

‘Let’s go; let’s not argue,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘Come on, we’ll buy you some cakes and chocolate to eat in the car.’

‘You’re treating me like a child,’ she said.

‘No, I know you’re not a child. I understand you a lot better than you think.’

She looked at him suspiciously, and then a little smile formed on her lips. ‘You know, I don’t always hate you,’ she said.

He squeezed her arm a little harder, and they walked silently together towards the village. The light of day was growing soft; boats were returning to the port and oxen were pulling them towards the beach. The villagers, standing or sitting together in small groups, watched silently. The men’s shirts and the women’s full skirts were brightly checkered, but the joyousness of those vivid colours was congealed in dismal immobility. Their stony faces were framed by black kerchiefs; their eyes, staring blankly at the horizon, were drained of hope. Not a gesture, nor a word; it was as if a curse had withered all their tongues.

‘They make me want to scream,’ Nadine said.

‘I doubt if they’d even hear you.’

‘What are they waiting for?’

‘Nothing. And they know they’re waiting for nothing.’

In the main square, life sputtered feebly. The widows of fishermen who had drowned at sea were sitting at the edge of the sidewalk, begging; children were bawling noisily. At first Henri and Nadine had detested those rich women with their thick furs, whose majestic reply to all beggars was a curt, ‘Have patience!’ But now, they, too, fled like thieves when the hands were held out to them; there were just too many.

‘Buy yourself something,’ Henri said, stopping before a pastry shop.

She went in. Two children with shaven heads were pressing their noses against the window pane. When she came out again, her arms laden with paper bags, the children began squalling. She stopped.

‘What are they saying?’

Henri hesitated. ‘They say you’re lucky to be able to eat when you’re hungry.’

‘Oh!’

With a furious gesture, she threw the swollen bags in their arms.

‘No, I’ll give them some money instead,’ Henri said.

She pulled him away. ‘Forget it; I’ve lost my appetite. Those filthy urchins!’

‘But you said you were hungry.’

‘I told you I lost my appetite.’

They got into the car and drove for a while in silence. Then, ‘We should have gone to some other country,’ Nadine muttered in a choked-up voice.

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know. But you must know.’

‘As a matter of fact, I don’t know,’ he replied.

‘Well, there must be some country in the world where people live decently,’ she said.

Suddenly, Nadine burst into tears. Henri looked at her incredulously; Paula’s tears were as natural as rain, but to see Nadine weeping was as disturbing as if he had stumbled on Dubreuilh sobbing. He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close to him.

‘Don’t cry,’ he said, stroking her rough hair. ‘Don’t cry.’ Why had he been unable to make her smile? Why was his heart so heavy?

Nadine wiped her eyes and noisily blew her nose. ‘Were you happy when you were young?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I was happy.’

‘You see.’

‘Some day you’ll be happy, too,’ he said.

He should have held her tightly, should have told her: ‘I’ll make you happy, Nadine.’ At that instant, he felt like saying it – a momentary desire to pledge her his whole life. But he said nothing. ‘The past doesn’t repeat itself; the past won’t repeat itself,’ he thought.

‘Vincent!’ Nadine cried out, racing towards the exit.

Clad in his war correspondent’s uniform, Vincent was waving his hand and smiling broadly. Nadine slipped on her crêpe-soled shoes and caught herself by grabbing Vincent’s arm.

‘Greetings!’ she said.

‘Greetings to the travellers!’ Vincent said cheerfully. He looked Nadine over and whistled admiringly. ‘That’s quite a get-up!’

‘A real lady, huh!’ Nadine said, spinning around. She looked elegant and almost feminine in her fur coat, her nylon stockings, her soft leather shoes.

‘Here, let me take that,’ Vincent offered, relieving Henri of a large duffle bag he was dragging behind him. ‘What’ve you got in here? A body?’

‘One hundred pounds of food!’ Henri replied. ‘Nadine’s going to restock the family cupboard. The problem now is how to get it over to Quai Voltaire.’

‘No problem,’ Vincent said triumphantly.

‘You stole a jeep?’ Nadine asked.

‘I stole nothing,’ he replied. He crossed the driveway and stopped in front of a small black car. ‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’

‘She’s ours?’ Henri asked.

‘Ours,’ Vincent said. ‘Luc finally managed to wangle a deal. What do you think of her?’

‘Very small,’ Nadine said.

‘Well, it’s going to be damned useful to us,’ Henri said, opening the door. They piled the baggage in the back as best they could.

‘Will you take me driving?’ Nadine asked.

‘Are you nuts?’ Vincent said. ‘This car’s a working tool.’ He sat down at the wheel, and the car started off with a painful sputtering. ‘With all your cargo in here, it’s a little crowded,’ he conceded.

‘Are you sure you know how to drive?’ Nadine asked.

‘If you’d seen me the other night zipping along over mined roads in a jeep without headlights, you wouldn’t insult me so gratuitously.’ Vincent turned to Henri. ‘I’ll drop Nadine and take you to the paper,’ he said.

‘Fine. How’s L’Espoir been doing? I didn’t get to see a single copy in that blasted country. Are we still using the postage-stamp format?’

‘We are. They just authorized two new dailies, but for us they can’t seem to find enough paper. But Luc’ll fill you in a lot better than I can; I’ve just got back from the front.’

‘Circulation hasn’t fallen off, has it?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

Henri was anxious to get back to the paper. Only Paula must surely have telephoned the station, must know that the train was on time. She would be sitting there waiting, her eyes riveted to the clock, listening attentively to every sound.

After they had left Nadine in the lift surrounded by her baggage, Henri said, ‘On second thoughts, I think I’ll go home first.’

‘But the boys are waiting for you,’ Vincent protested.

‘Tell them I’ll be over in an hour.’

‘All right. I’ll leave the Rolls to you,’ Vincent said. He stopped the car in front of the house. ‘Should I take the bags out?’ he asked.

‘Just that small one, thanks.’