Jigsaw (25 page)

It was Alessandro’s idea. We must have a party. For all our friends. Here.
Tonight
. And let’s dress up. As what? We can pretend we’re on a ship – we’ll have a boat party. Tell everyone to come as sailors, that’ll be simple enough, they won’t need real sailors’ clothes.

We set to work there and then. We took turns driving around in the Peugeot giving out invitations (
tout Riseholme
, I would have liked to say but could have shared the joke only with my mother; Alessandro did not care for the Lucia books, any more than he did for nonsense verse, he found Edward Lear embarrassing; I also had to suppress the unwelcome thought that there was a touch of Lucia in Oriane). We got in provisions, we collected what was needed, Madame Panigon lent us a large bowl, we took the washtub and every glass we could lay hands on from Les Cyprès, Louis offered to go into Toulon to get Chinese lanterns, we borrowed more glasses, a gramophone and a stack of dance records, Chez Schwob let us have a block of ice.

By sundown Alessandro and I got down to making the cup, our notion of a planters’ punch: we poured bottles and bottles of dry white wine from the Co-op at Saint-Cyr into the bowl, and quite a lot of white rum, added a lemon and kilos of peaches (peeled and stoned). We set the bowl into the washtub on the block of ice, and went home to dress up.

Alessandro lent me a pair of his tennis trousers (we had to roll up 
the legs a bit), striped French sailor jerseys we both already owned, and
voilà tout
. Then he made us up. That he said was important,
that
would make us look disguised. He flattened and darkened my hair, which was very light and flying about, he gave me a deep walnut complexion, black eyebrows and sideburns drawn with charcoal. When I saw myself in the glass, I was entranced: I didn’t recognise the boy I saw, I
felt
disguised. I had not worn trousers before (women were just beginning to wear them on the Riviera side of the coast, calling them beach pyjamas; we didn’t yet, except for Renée Kisling). Nor had I been to a fancy-dress party, so did not know what it could do to one. It was with surprise and delight that I began our evening.

Which went awfully well. People liked the gangplank and the
half-dark
empty house, they admired the way we had hung the Chinese lanterns from the rafters and the trees – it felt a bit like being on a ship, say a river boat. They liked our punch. Madame Panigon, otherwise in ordinary dress, wore a French sailor’s hat with pompon. We danced on the terrace; we all danced, regardless of age or sex. I felt carried away, ecstatic, outside myself, I was probably quite tipsy but less by wine than by disguise. Everyone was a bit tipsy, not very tipsy, the punch can’t have been very strong and one did not drink
very
much: it was a summer-night’s romp.

Renée was not there, she’d sent word that the night was ideal for fishing. I was aware that the Desmirails hadn’t come but it didn’t damp the
élan
. I bounced about re-filling glasses, dancing with
everyone
, men and women, I even seized Madame Panigon and led her into a foxtrot. She did not seem displeased.

At midnight (as it was later established, we weren’t aware of the time) there was a sudden great bang: pistol shots and savage yells – a young pirate swung down from the rafters, knife in mouth, skull flag in hand, leapt lightly to the ground … Two more were storming the gangplank … Surrender …! Surrender …! Levantine pirates, their stylish captain in wig and kerchief, sea-boots and cloak, scimitar in hand … his slim lieutenant bristling with daggers and cutlass in belt … they wore half-masks … The dancing had stopped, all stood still – for a minute the illusion held – not of a live pirates’ attack but of 
a mêlée with some precisely executed ballet where the principals looked stunning. Then revealed: Louis, Philippe, Oriane.

They had conquered. Gossip and envy were suspended, showing up our slapdash efforts not minded, the Desmirail touch had made something of our party (with
much
ingenuity and trouble): for that night everybody admired, cherished, loved them.

When it was over, it was the break of a clear beautiful morning. Alessandro and I stood among the débris, feeling well, feeling fine, still charged with energy.

Let’s leave this mess, he said. We went down to Port Issol and swam, then drove home to Les Cyprès, got what was left of the make-up off our faces and changed into ordinary fresh clothes. It hadn’t occurred to either of us to go to bed.

It was Sunday. Need we really go back and face the job? Alessandro said. The
femme de ménage
might be got to see to it tomorrow. Let’s go off somewhere. Let’s go and spend the day at Saint-Tropez. I said yes at once, the party was still in my bones. So we walked out of the house, put the key under a flowerpot and set off.

First we stopped for some breakfast at Chez Schwob which was already open. Whom did we find there but the three young Panigons eating ham sandwiches with their bowls of coffee; they too were loath to call it a day. We told them where we were off to.

Chic alors
, said Frédéric. Saint-Tropez, then as now, was the place to
faire la bombe
where people thought they’d have a wild and with-it time. The Panigons asked if we could take them. Why not, said
Alessandro
. Let’s all go. I was not enthusiastic. Annette was a nice
child
; Frédéric saw himself as a rebel and an original young man; Cécile, though rather sweet, was grindingly genteel. Between them they kept telling us how fortunate we were to live in such an advanced, artistic, stimulating family, what a privilege it was for them to know my mother. At the moment they would have to ask theirs for permission. She’ll be in bed, I thought. Anyway, you had better get your bathing-suits, I said.

Up at their house, Monsieur Panigon was still or already about, reading
Le Petit Var
. Frédéric handled the negotiation. He made the 
idea of a Sunday’s outing in the company of an older man, a married man, sound reasonable. (Alessandro, in fact, was somewhat nearer to thirty than twenty.) You’re of age, my son, said Monsieur Panigon, do as you like; as for the girls,
non
. Annette is far too young – out of the question. Very well, said Annette, with a little sulk, she hadn’t seemed too keen in the first place. ‘
Papa
…
!’ Cécile turned her great cow’s eyes on her father. Frédéric didn’t let her go on. Please, he said in manly tones, may I take my sister, I promise to look after her.

He combined sounding respectful and a man of the world. It worked (he must have tried this before, I thought). Very well, my children, said Monsieur Panigon; he called Alessandro last night’s amiable host. No need to wake your mother.
Amusez-vous bien.

So we started. The two men in front, Cécile and I in the back. She began again about how much she admired my mother.
Si fine, si cultivée, quelle intelligence
…

‘
Tu as de la chance, ta maman te fait lire
.’

My mother made me read?
I
read.
I
wanted to read. Then I had to retract this in my mind – it must have come from her, from my mother, the example, the inspiration, the impulse. I said as nicely as I could to this girl who bored me, ‘
Yes
, my mother made me read.’

She went on to tell me that things were otherwise in
her
home.

From Sanary to Saint-Tropez was (in pre-autoroute days) an eighty kilometre drive. After Hyères we discussed whether to take the sea route and bathe or go inland and have a
casse-croûte
at the Auberge de la Forêt du Dom. As it was still early we decided to do both. We swam – the Panigons quite passably – then climbed back on to the N98 by the narrow zig-zag above Bormes-les-Mimosas, and at the Auberge they gave us
pissaladino
– hot bread baked with black olives, anchovy, olive oil – and slices of smoked wild boar (a beast said to be rampant in those woods) with a
coup de blanc.

On the last lap, I drove with Alessandro sitting beside me. You’re getting quite good, he said.

‘Philippe Desmirail has been putting me through my paces. Double de-clutching … He says one should learn to change gear, up
and
down, without using the clutch at all.’ 

‘Don’t try it now.’

‘Oriane says
he
can drive when he’s asleep.’

‘Don’t try that either.’

‘Philippe says I
shall
be quite good after a few years’ practice – a good average driver.’

‘Not very flattering,’ said Alessandro.

‘He says I haven’t got it in me – getting to the top.’

‘What does he say about my driving then?’ said Alessandro.

‘That you are a natural, you’ll be alpha minus.’

Titters of approval from the back of the car.

At Saint-Tropez we found that the yacht belonging to some clients of Alessandro’s was in port, the Schroders, Americans who had bought a picture through him and might buy another. The four of us were made welcome on board, finding a number of people of various nationalities on deck below an awning, about to start making cocktails. Mrs Schroder, who kissed Alessandro on both cheeks, was impeccably sunburnt, smoked through a holder, and looked extremely smart. They all looked extremely smart – ages I guessed to be between thirty and forty, and Mr Schroder, who wore a yachting cap, much older. The cocktails were orange-blossoms: gin and orange-juice shaken with crushed ice. They tasted fresh and cool, and we were very thirsty. I sat facing the colour-washed houses of the Saint-Tropez waterfront, with the sea gently moving under the boat, and felt that life was good. This bliss was prolonged as luncheon was very late – I’d never waited so long for a meal before – there was much talking and more
orange-blossoms
got shaken, when we ate it was well after three o’clock. Lunch was served by a member of the crew, and was long, slow and delicious. The main component was a great deal of lobster. Afterwards everyone retired. Cécile and I were given a small cabin. We still felt well awake and Cécile started prattling.

‘
Tu sais, il est beau, Alessandro
.’

The French use beautiful more easily for a man. I supposed I knew what Alessandro looked like, though when one sees somebody every day …

‘Yes, he is that,’ I told her, ‘
beau
.’ (Not like Philippe: different.)
I heard her ask whether my stepfather possessed a heart. Sleep cut me off.

We were aroused with long glasses of iced tea and offers of a shower. Presently the whole party went ashore and met at the Escale for apéritifs. It was near sunset. Euphoria held. Later on we had dinner. Mr Schroder kept ordering wine. Then came brandy. We danced during dinner and afterwards. There was a tangible eroticism over the whole of the Escale, being with the Kislings had taught me to recognise it, feel it. Alessandro danced with all the women in our party, coolly, impartially. He danced with Mrs Schroder, whom he called Betty, he danced with a very
good-looking
Rumanian woman (who fascinated me), he danced with Cécile.

I too danced the whole time, with men from our party and once or twice with men from other tables; with some – so I thought – I had interesting conversations. Frédéric Panigon asked me a second time, which I found superfluous. He was better looking than he was in the Café de la Marine days, he had filled out a bit, he was a quite well
set-up
young Frenchman, though all very average, nothing to write home about. I let
his
conversation wash over me. It was again about how he felt wasting his time being a law student, how encouraging it was for him getting to know people like us, it might even persuade his family to let him study art. My guess was that Madame Panigon did not rate us much above gypsies.

By this time I was really quite tight. I did not feel outside myself as I had the night before, just far from daily life, free, carried along, floating. I didn’t like, nor was interested in anyone in that crowd – except perhaps the Rumanian woman, but she took no notice of me – nothing mattered much, as long as the fête went on.

When the Escale closed down, it was proposed to move on to a club in the upper town. Is it two o’clock? Alessandro said. It was. Two a.m. in the morning.
Your parents
!
, he said to Frédéric who said, ‘
Bougre
, some Sunday outing.’ That was nice and cool. Cécile said, ‘
Oh mon Dieu
,’ and looked terror-stricken. As well she might.

What shall we do? Drive home as quickly as we can, was Alessandro’s first decision. Goodbyes all round had to be said and thank-you and kissings on both cheeks and when shall we meet again. That took time. 
We were none of us sober now. At last we four went to find the Peugeot. What can we
say
, we asked each other on the way, we
are
in the soup. Drive back as quickly as we can, Alessandro repeated. We’ll think up a story en route.

We got into the Peugeot and Alessandro drove off in fine style. The street leading out of Saint-Tropez from the port is a one-way street, cobbled, narrow. Alessandro accelerated, hit a gutter, hit the kerb: there was a jolt, there was a clink, he attempted to drive on, but the car was stuck. The men got out. The right front wheel was dented and the tyre flat. The men swore. Got to change the wheel. They set to.
Alessandro
swore – the spare was flat, he meant to get it seen to yesterday, Saturday that was the day of our party, and forgot.
What shall we do?

No garage would be open, let alone willing to mend a tyre at this time of night. Better get some sleep, make an early start, sensible thing, got to find an hotel.

Saint-Tropez in July is always chock-a-block. We tried a few of the smaller hotels in back-streets, the sign on the doors said
Complet
. We saw another modest hotel plunged in darkness but without the
forbidding
sign. We roused a disagreeable and disgruntled man who looked us over coldly. No luggage. Alessandro pulled out his wallet. Two rooms left,
Messieurs-Dames
, small ones, separate floors – along here, this way … He shuffled on in front of us, then behind us, and before we knew where we were Frédéric and I had been pushed into a cubicle filled by a large bed. The man had disappeared, so had the others – up some staircase. Once more, Frédéric said
bougre
. I opened the window and the solid shutter, letting in the cool night air. Frédéric switched off the light, a bulb on the ceiling. We got out of our clothes, we didn’t wear many, and into the bed. Frédéric began making love to me. I had expected nothing and anything during the last twenty-four hours. My main thought now was: soon I shall know all about it.