LACKING VIRTUES (21 page)

When she had to interrupt him to serve the leg of lamb and pour from the bottle of Château Neuf du Pape, he felt as if she had stuffed a plug in his mouth to torture him.

But Sophie soon returned to her listening, wonderful Sophie. He ate lustily and described in excruciating detail their first night of love together, the explosions of passion, her virginity notwithstanding, the laughter, the tears – and how blown away he was that he, a guy with a past that seemed to stretch back to Eve, could feel so utterly in love with a nineteen-year-old girl.

They returned to the living room for cognac and coffee. He kept on talking, spilling his fears that she would be stolen away from him by tight-assed arguments from her bitchy house-keeper, who suspected something was up, her father, who was intent on selecting her mate, or the clerics who were being summoned in droves to “purify” her thoughts.

At last he sat back in his chair, feeling depleted. He smiled sheepishly. “I can’t believe it, Sophie. I have actually silenced you.”

“It was worth it, Steven. What a journey you’ve taken me on.”

“What about you? I really hogged the conversation. How’s the research on Michelet coming?”

“Slowly, but it’s coming. I’ve been all over town collecting information.” She glanced at her watch. “In fact, you and I must leave for an interview in half an hour.”

“What?”

“Relax, darling. We’ll be back in plenty of time for dinner. You don’t think you’ll ever be hungry again, but this is France and you will. I’ve reserved a table at Dusquenoy, my treat.”

“No, Sophie, it’s Aunt Janine’s turn. My stay in Nice must have cost you a fortune.”

“You’re not the cheapest to keep in the field. The best never are. But great things are going to come of your work, I can feel it in these old bones. Therefore, my treat.”

“Well . . . thanks. So, who are we interviewing?”

“An old priest who taught French history at Michelet’s high-school – St. Claude, the French Exeter. Father Roget was quite the cultural historian in his day. He wrote an excellent book on renaissance theater.”

“This is great. I’m really curious about the guy now, really curious. To hell with his politics. What I want to know is how a monumental prick like Michelet could produce someone as perfect as Nicole.”

“It happens, Steven. This world of ours is a strange place.”

“No kidding. Sophie, listen, I haven’t been doing my part in this whole thing. I want to apologize. I’ve gotten so caught up with Nicole I haven’t pushed to get to her father, or even to get stories about him out of her.”

“And I say to that, release yourself from the unbecoming grasp of Puritan self-flagellation. Your job was to maneuver yourself into a position to help me. You’ve performed brilliantly, so brilliantly, in fact, that I’m going to give you a raise. Now, shall we go?”

***

Father Roget lived with his 98-year-old mother in an apartment building in the industrial suburb of Billancourt. He wasn’t more than a few years older than Sophie, but he looked like the product of a different century. The few remaining hairs on his head were wiry and white, as if they had grown on a corpse. His complexion was gray, and he was so stooped his mother could have passed for his wife.

Sophie knew the secret of resuscitation, Steven thought, watching her greet the cadaver. He would have treated the old priest like a fragile antique vase. Not Sophie. She shook his hand vigorously and thanked him in her fabulous deep voice for the opportunity to chat. When he told her he had read and admired her pieces in
Le Monde
, and had even been looking forward to meeting her in spite of his hatred of interviews, she threw back her blonde head and filled the drab room with laughter.

Father Roget’s eyes came alive. His color seemed to improve. Steven could almost feel Sophie’s boundless energy flowing into him. The old man responded with a laugh of his own, a charming, urbane laugh, and the ice that had seemed so thick was broken. He introduced himself to Steven with a firm, friendly grip, whisked his mother into the conversation and went to the kitchen to pour drinks.

“Monseigneur, I expect you to hold me to my promise,” Sophie said when he returned and passed the glasses around.

“Please sit down, won’t you? I don’t recall any promises, Madame Marx.”

Steven watched Sophie sit, cross her legs and push her hair back. It was incredible. She was charming the robes off this priest. If they had met 40 years ago, the guy’s vow of celibacy wouldn’t have lasted as long as Steven’s vow of silence at lunch.

She said, “I promised, Monseigneur, that I would not press you to answer questions you did not wish to answer. You just have to let me know.”

Father Roget made a gesture with his hand. His mother looked up from her knitting. He said, “Michelet is in a position to help the Church. He might be in an even better position by the end of the decade. The Church helps millions of people, my people. Now, it so happens that Michelet remembers me fondly as his teacher. It would be unthinkable for me to jeopardize this fine relationship with too much candor.”

“I quite understand.”

“Boys will be boys, Madame Marx. There were, of course, some of the usual incidents. However, you have assured me that you are looking for insight rather than vilification. Judging from the high professional standards of your essays, I have no reason whatsoever to doubt you.”

“Tell me, then. How long did you have classroom contact with Georges Michelet?”

“Four years, Madame Marx. From the time he entered St. Claude until his graduation in nineteen fifty-three.”

“He was a good student?”

“Yes, above average. More importantly, I think, he was a very committed patriot even then. French history – military, cultural, all of it – was his true love. It was amazing to witness how much our national defeats pained him, and how much our triumphs elevated him. One had the impression he was living these events himself.”

“Did this vicarious participation in his country’s history make him a social misfit? I mean, what about girls? What about friends?”

Father Roget chuckled to himself and patted his mother on the arm. She ignored the missed stroke he had caused her knitting and smiled at him, a mother who loved her son.

“He was a born leader, Madame Marx. There is a difference. As for girls, when he came to St. Claude, he was already planning to marry the woman he eventually married then tragically lost to illness, Beatrice Bacault. I remember his talking about her to me, her family, their values.”

“An arranged marriage?”

“Semi-arranged in the French bourgeois tradition. The parents knew and approved of each other.”

“You say he was a leader. Who were the followers? Do you recall?”

“How could I forget? The two most gifted boys in his class, boys of truly exceptional intelligence. Though they had higher scores and grades, they treated him with great deference, as if he were already head of government. There is a very specific quality Georges Michelet has, Madame Marx, an aura of strength and boldness. He is someone others perceive as being able to get the job done, no matter what.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Yes. I remember thinking his tenacity would take him a long way in life, even though his grades in many subjects were unremarkable. Leadership, Madame Marx. It’s a strange quality, easy to identify but hard to define. Your Mr. Reagan, who appeared to us here in Europe more like a comic strip character than a serious statesman, had it in his own country; and Georges Michelet has it here.”

“You say the two most gifted boys in the class looked up to him, deferred to him. Did anything ever become of those two? Did you manage to keep up with them?”

“Oh, my. Oh, my.” He gave his mother a double pat, and this time she growled at him to watch what he was doing. Father Roget seemed not to hear her. “Madame Marx, one of them was named Albert Haussmann. You see, it was a good year for us at St. Claude!”

“Well that’s remarkable,” she said. “The world-famous French financial genius passed through your school. He must have learned more than his three Rs. And who, Monseigneur, was the second boy you mentioned?”

Father Roget, responding to a persistent tug at the sleeve of his black shirt, apologized to his mother. “I don’t remember his name, Madame Marx. He was not a student of mine, he was following the technical curriculum. But I knew from Albert and Georges that he had the highest scores in mathematics the school had ever seen.”

“Very interesting,” Sophie said. “Your class of fifty-three certainly was distinguished.”

“Yes, yes, quite a distinguished class,” Father Roget droned.

“Do you suppose you would recognize the second boy if I found a photograph of him?”

“I don’t know, Madame Marx. It’s been a long time and, as I said, he wasn’t a student of mine. I’d certainly be glad to try.”

“Thank you, Monseigneur. Well, what do you say? Shall we tackle the primary topic I came here to research, the origin of Michelet’s keen interest in politics?”

“Of course, Madame Marx, and here I think I can make a genuine contribution to your understanding. We must go back to De Gaulle, the Second World War, the way the Allies treated the Free French. Of course, Vietnam and Algeria are important, too, very important.”

Steven’s mind started to wander. To his surprise, he felt hungry again – for dinner and for Nicole. France had some major defects as a country, he thought, but when it came to stimulating the appetites, She was without equal.

***

Frank Warner arrived at Honolulu General Hospital two days after the crash. He was waiting in the corridor with Tim Simmons and Jeremy Little, an attorney for the Pilots’ Association, to speak with Captain Hutchinson’s physician.

Dr. Gary had brushed off their introductions when he came to examine his patient. He had disappeared into Hutchinson’s room, muttering about schedules and interference. When he came out, Warner stood. “Well, Doctor, how’s he doing?”

  “Physically, he’s doing fine,” Gary said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Mr. Warner, he’s having a normal reaction to learning that one hundred sixty men, women and children with whose safe transport he was entrusted did not make it. He feels guilty for being alive. He holds himself personally responsible for their deaths. These are all quite normal reactions to the type of trauma he’s been through. I’m confident he will get over them.”

“Yes, I’m sure he will. Right now I need to talk to him.”

“He’s in my care, Mr. Warner, and you are
not
going to talk to him. I have consulted with the staff psychiatrist, whom your pilot refuses to see. Having a person of your authority judge Captain Hutchinson’s performance at this fragile stage in his recovery could have severe long-term emotional consequences. You will have to wait until next week at the earliest.”

Warner, all six feet two inches of him, blocked the doctor’s passage, fixing him with the withering, red-eyed stare reserved for those who irritated him when he was exhausted.

“Look, Doc, you and I are going to get something straight. I don’t know what business you’re in, but I’m in the business of saving lives. We have no black box and no flight recorder from this crash. Other than the pilot, we have no adult survivors to tell us what happened. But that pilot is alive and healthy enough to talk, which is a miracle. We’re going to interview him, not to judge him but to gain insight into what caused the crash. Waiting could endanger every person who steps aboard a plane in the next week. Is this what you want, Doctor?”

The doctor tried to look Warner in the eye but couldn’t. “All right, if it’s that critical you may talk to him for a few minutes. But I insist on being in the room. That’s my condition.”