Going Ashore (46 page)

“That Wishart,” said Bonnie, now fully awake and beginning to stroke Flor’s hair. “He really takes himself for something.”

“What is he taking himself for?”

Bonnie stroked her daughter’s hair, thinking, My mermaid, my prize. The carp had vanished from the dream, leaving an iridescent Flor. No one was good enough for Florence. That was the meaning of the dream. “Your hair is so stiff, honey. It’s full of salt. I wish you’d wear a bathing cap. Flor, have you got a fever or something?” She wants to tell me something, Bonnie thought. Let it be anything except about that boy. Let it be anything but that.

AT DAWN
, Wishart, who had been awake most of the night, buckled his suitcase. No porter was around at that hour. He walked to the station in streets where there was still no suggestion of the terrible day. The southern scent, the thin distillation of lemons and geraniums, descended from the hills. Then heat began to tremble; Vespas raced along the port; the white-legged grub tourists came down from the early train. Wishart thought of his new hostess – academic, a husk. She chose the country behind Grasse because of the shades of Gide and Saint-Ex – ghosts who would keep away from her if they knew what was good for them. He climbed into the bus and sat down among workingmen who had jobs in Grasse, and the sea dropped behind him as he was borne away.

In the rocking bus, his head dropped. He knew that he was in a bus and travelling to Grasse, but he saw Glad, aged twelve, going off at dawn with her lunch wrapped in an apron. What about the dirty, snotty baby boy who hung on her dress, whose fingers she had to pry loose one at a time, only to have the hand clamp shut again, tighter than before? Could this be Wishart, clinging, whining, crying “Stay with me”? But Wishart was awake
and not to be trapped. He took good care not to dream, and when the bus drew in at Grasse, under the trees, and he saw his new, straw-thin hostess (chignon, espadrilles, peasant garden hat), he did not look like a failed actor assailed with nightmares but a smooth and pleasant schoolmaster whose sleep is so deep that he never dreams at all.

THE NEW MINISTER
of the Interior has announced that no more phones are being tapped. Mr. Police Commissioner, my phone is still being tapped. The tapper is Mlle. Delphine Véhicule, aged 43, living at No. 79 Avenue de la Dislocation de l’Empire Carolingien, Building D, Staircase Z, third floor, second door to the right, between the elevator and the hot-water pipes. The basic qualities of Mlle. Véhicule’s character are envy and jealousy, and this, Mr. Commissioner, has led her to tapping. She usually calls at about ten o’clock at night. When I place the receiver to my ear, I hear a rhythmic tapping sound (I believe Mlle. Véhicule uses her fingernail) accompanied by light, regular breathing. Sometimes in the background can be heard vibrant echoes of the ten-o’clock news. Mr. Commissioner, Mr. Minister should remember his campaign promises. The best moment to arrest Mlle. Véhicule would be when she leaves the house at 7:45 in the morning on her way to work (floral displays). She takes the Métro when the weather is bad. Otherwise she takes the No. 96 bus.

I am disappointed that the change has not been as thorough as I, as a voter, had a right to expect. Not only has my daughter failed her end-of-term examinations but martial music is still being performed at public ceremonies. Could not this aggressive heritage from an obsolete past be replaced by the recorded words of our great Humanists and Philosophers? I would be honored to offer to the nation a tape of Jean-Paul Sartre ordering lunch at La Coupole in November, 1960. Above the clatter of cutlery, much of it right-wing, his voice can be heard saying clearly and decisively, “Veal Marengo for two.”

What I am trying to say is that my clients, M. and Mme. Ambroise Ballon, were simply victims of a joke of their own making. On the night after the election, M. and Mme. Ballon made a lighthearted wager as to how many five-hundred-franc banknotes could be stuffed under the seats of an ordinary Mercedes. Mme. Ballon won the bet with the figure of thirty-three million. In the merriment of the hour, my clients forgot to remove the money from under the seats. Some time later, after that long rainy spell so injurious to agriculture and the vineyards of Burgundy, my clients decided to lunch somewhere in sunshine on the Swiss side of the border. For the rest, you have the biassed version of events as presented by the Public Prosecutor.

In the last act of the ballet, La Marseillaise rises and mingles with Cod Fishermen of Brittany – “Unite! Unite!” (Berlioz orchestration) – while a large fishing net drops over the orchestra seats, symbolically holding the bourgeoisie captive. The balcony audience then throws chocolate minnows into the net as the entire company fills the stage and the dancers coöperate in hauling in the catch. The chocolate could then be distributed to the deserving, or eaten on the spot. I think this fulfills the spirit of your instructions: “Halt! No aesthetic delusions at this most proletarian hour!”

I noticed that while he was reading the news tonight, Firmin Roman-Fleuve deliberately mispronounced the name of the Minister for Wormwood Control. One could tell it was deliberate from the way Roman-Fleuve paused and looked in a conspiratorial way into the camera. My family and I are among the thousands who have been waiting twenty-three years for the establishment of disinterested wormwood control, and we wholly approve of Mme. Emeline Lune as Minister. Roman-Fleuve is
an unwelcome reminder of the days when wormwood had virtually taken over our institutions, with the help of banks and to the detriment of small shareholders. As you may be thinking of making some necessary changes soon, we are sending along a video cassette of my brother-in-law reading some poems of his own composition.

“Hope Undeferred” was commissioned in the heady days of the Popular Front, but the government of that time never got round to paying for it. By the time my late husband had completed his monumental group, three decades had gone by and the nation was in the grip of artistic reaction. The time has come to move the monument out of the studio and into the street. The center of the group is formed by three city Councillors with their arms linked. To the left, kneeling, is the figure of Veracity, who bears the features of the wife of one of the Councillors. On the right is the charming figure of the Socialist-Populist leader Apollinaire Crocus, portrayed as a child wearing a sailor suit. Crocus has his eyes fixed in wonder on a secular, Republican angel flying over the Councillors’ heads and bearing a garland of grapes, apples, melons, and hops, signifying the four great regions of France. The clear gaze of the angel is particularly well rendered. All the figures in the monument are fully clothed. The most suitable niche for the monument might be opposite the Stock Exchange, as a reproach, or perhaps at the top of the staircase before the Sacré-Coeur, where it would act as a counterpoise to superstition. The group is made of plaster. The cost of casting it in bronze could be met by public subscription.

Inter-Ministerial Note: Many new staff members are still lodged on a barge tied up to a quay forty kilometers from the Ministry. Melancholia caused by a feeling of Ministry rejection and an epidemic of septic-throat infection have sadly decimated this enthusiastic administrative unit; worse, creeping damp rot has rendered most of the files unreadable – particularly
some valuable statistics on pet food. Our mortification may easily be imagined, as the Old Order had turned over the pet-food figures quite dry. I know that the Prime Minister has ordered the government to be “transparent,” but if we could in just this one instance remain opaque, the Sub-Ministry (barge division) would be grateful.

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WHY DID THE GIRARDS
let Lucie’s cousin Gilles drive them to Burgundy? Lucie and Jérôme could so easily have rented a car or asked someone in their hotel about trains. The offer was not even a kindness: Gilles had to be in Dijon that weekend and he wanted company on the road.

In youth Gilles had looked like Julius Caesar, but now that he had grown thickly into his forties, he reminded people of Mussolini. Sometimes a relation from Quebec ran into Gilles – the cousin who had chosen the States, educated his daughters in Paris, had never come back to Canada except for funerals. “Gilles is like Mussolini now,” Lucie had heard, but it was said with admiration.