Matters of Honor (36 page)

Unintentionally, she told me, unintentionally, that business was between that man and me, and I never told Henry. Sure, I teased him about his great patron and mentor, because he was always telling me these marvelous things Jim had said and done. Perhaps I overdid it. Or perhaps poor Jim let something slip out during all those hours and hours they spent together working, though I wonder whether that’s possible, Jim was so careful, kept each thing in its own little compartment. But one day I realized that Henry knew or almost knew. Something to the effect that he would never forget that he was in my debt. I began to feel that the knowledge gnawed at him, but there was really nothing I could do about it. We’ve never discussed it.

I nodded.

She opened another half bottle of wine and poured me a glass. We drank in silence until I returned to the purpose of my visit and said that I hoped she would tell me how I could reach him. She assured me she had told the truth when she said that she didn’t have his address, but, in the end, gave me all I needed to know. Henry White had transformed himself into Henri Leblanc, and he lived not far from Avignon.

How did you find out? I asked.

She laughed and said that during those five to sevens there are also moments when one rests and talks nonsense about what isn’t and what might be.

A
NEW
M
INITEL SEARCH
yielded Henri Leblanc’s telephone number and address in a village southwest of Avignon. I didn’t think it would be any use to call him in advance. Instead, I flew to Paris, rested for a couple of days, and took the high-speed train to Avignon. By five in the afternoon I was at the station. There was a café across the street and I called from there. He answered the telephone in French, but there was no mistaking his voice. Henry, I said, I am less than thirty minutes away from you. That gives you just enough time to get out some ice. I’ll want a pastis after my train ride.

There was a long hesitation. Then he said, in English, I asked you not to do this.

Never mind all that, I answered. That was long ago. I’m here now and I want to see you.

After another hesitation he said all right and dictated the directions.

The taxi deposited me at a large
bastide.
He came to the door, and I was relieved to see that he hadn’t changed much, except that his hair had gone from red to an odd shade of blond. We shook hands and then—as though he had been struck by the formality of the greeting—he held out his arms and embraced me.

I’m glad you’re here, you old rascal, he said, come in. Let’s sit on the terrace on the other side of the house. Mireille will be home soon. I had better clue you in so you won’t say anything stupid. But first I’ll see about that pastis.

He went into the house and returned minutes later followed by an old lady dressed in black who brought the drinks. We sat down, and he told his story with the seriousness and concision I had known so well.

He had bought the house three years after he became a partner—bought it for a song and spent considerably more, a sum that was for him then a fortune, on restoring it. The idea was to have a hideaway from everyone, including Margot and me, and everything. Once the work on the house was done, he came down as often as he could, which certainly wasn’t every weekend since at the time it was a five-to-six-hour drive over dangerous roads. Going by train for just a couple of days was impractical. Sometimes he cooked for himself and sometimes he went out to a restaurant, and, when he went out, he liked company. He fell into the habit of inviting the real estate agent who had sold him the house, a very young woman, really a girl, recently divorced, with two little boys. Then he fell in love. What to do about it tormented him, because she was not meant for the life of a Wiggins partner’s wife, in Paris or New York, and she had no intention of uprooting the children. That would have been, in any event, impossible because of the custody rights of the father, who lives in Aix. At the same time the feelings he had about the fundamental falseness—no, hideousness—of the life he led, which he had expressed to me with so much feeling at our last dinner, were percolating. How he would have resolved the conflict between Paris and the need to be near Aix if Hubert hadn’t proved such a prick he couldn’t really tell. Probably he would have cobbled together some weekend husband arrangement, but, knowing himself and Mireille as a couple as well as he did now, he was certain it wouldn’t have worked. Neither of them would have put up with such constraints. The kick in the ass arrived just in time. Within months they were married. They had one child together, a boy now in the
lycée
in Avignon. I would see him, because Mireille was picking him up on her way home from work. She insisted on working—real estate in the region was booming—and he had helped her financially to open an agency of her own.

It’s a terrific business, he said, the best thing I could have done with that money. The odd consequence is that it has gotten me into the part-time practice of law. Mireille thought it would be unhealthy for me to sit around at home all day reading books and playing with little Sam while she worked. As a majority of her clients are foreigners—I mean not French—she came up with the idea that I might give them tax advice on setting themselves up in France in a way that works well here and in whatever country they’re from. That happens to be something I know how to do exceedingly well. The result is that I have a five-star clientele of international oddballs. I call myself a
conseil fiscal,
tax counsel, which I have a perfect right to do.

Henry, I said, you sound pretty happy, you look happy too. Are you? Is this the life you wanted?

He smiled at me benignly. I am very happy, he told me. Two-thirds of it is Mireille, one-third is Sam, and then, as a dividend, I have all this. He made a gesture encompassing the house, his olive trees, the hills on the horizon, perhaps the entire world. It’s wonderful here, don’t you think? And for the first time I am absolutely myself. Leblanc is no more my name than White, but everyone here knows that I wasn’t born Leblanc and no one cares. Although my French is easily as good as my English, people realize that I am a foreigner. That defines me. There’s nothing to explain; no one to betray. I’ve behaved well here, and I’ve been treated with great discretion and indulgence. When I don’t feel like eating what Madame Susanne wants to prepare for lunch, I take my bicycle and go to the café in the village. I even play
pétanque
with the locals. Finally a use for what I learned during my rare visits to a bowling alley in Brooklyn. They are glad to have a pastis with me after the game, and they don’t ask any questions. If they did, I’d tell them the truth. Simplified perhaps, but still the truth.

And what happens when you meet Americans? Aren’t you likely to run into Americans in this practice of yours, even people who might know you?

It hasn’t happened yet, but if it does, and someone recognizes me, I’ll deal with it. It isn’t as though I’d escaped from Devil’s Island! By the way, you’ve received my letters, haven’t you?

Yes. But I couldn’t thank you for them.

In the future you will.

And you called him Sam.

Yes, he answered, and smiled.

Henry, I asked, why did you have to cut yourself off from me, from George, from your friends and partners, why have you done this to people who cared about you so much?

He became very serious. You had all been my accomplices, always busy aiding and abetting. There was no leaving my old life of crime with you at my side. I had to leave you behind.

He stopped speaking and listened. I listened too. It was the sound of wheels on the gravel.

It’s Mireille, he said. She knows all about me and a great deal about you, including your novels. I am so glad that you will finally be able to meet her. Briefly. After that you’ll have to leave.

She was short and cheerful looking, with the kind of strong Mediterranean face one associates with the region, and lustrous black hair. Her laugh was like a young girl’s. Little Sam was as tall as his father. He had his mother’s coloring. We talked pleasantly for a few minutes and then I said that I must go. Henry asked where I was staying. In Villeneuve, I told him. In that case, he replied, Sam will drive you.

Night had fallen. As Sam and I walked to the car, I looked up at the sky. It was full of stars.

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Louis Begley lives in New York City. His previous novels are
Wartime Lies, The Man Who Was Late, As Max Saw It, About Schmidt, Mistler’s Exit, Schmidt Delivered,
and
Shipwreck
.

Also by Louis Begley

SHIPWRECK

SCHMIDT DELIVERED

MISTLER’S EXIT

ABOUT SCHMIDT

AS MAX SAW IT

THE MAN WHO WAS LATE

WARTIME LIES

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

Copyright © 2007 by Louis Begley

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

www.aaknopf.com

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Begley, Louis.

Matters of honor / Louis Begley.—1st ed.

   p. cm.

1. Harvard University—Students—Fiction. 2. Nineteen fifties—Fiction. 3. Jewish college students—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction. 5. Antisemitism—Fiction. 6. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

PS
3552.
E
373
M
38 2007

813'.54—dc22 2006046581

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

eISBN: 978-0-307-26731-3

v3.0