The Predators (14 page)

Maurice laughed. “We can’t afford it. We are really poor. Jacques, don’t be an ass. The best place for Jean Pierre is to stay there. Not only for his education but his learning about a new world. A world that will someday control everything in business.”

“The Americans are stupid,” Jacques said. “There’s nothing Jean Pierre could learn from them,” Jacques snapped at his father.

“Jacques,” his father said soothingly. “They are not stupid. Mark my words, in a very short time they will chase the Germans out of England and Europe.”

“Their President Wilson said that he will not bring America into the war,” Jacques said.

“Their President Wilson is a very brilliant politician, and what he wants is a second term. Do you think he could become president again by telling people he wants to bring them into a war? Only the stupid European countries want to rush into war. If we had been intelligent we would have never gone to war against the Germans. We have forgotten what they did to us in the Franco-Prussian War. We were thankful then to get some of our country back.”

Jacques looked at his father. “You have no faith in us.”

Maurice laughed again. “My dear son, the French are not warriors. They are lovers.” He leaned back in his chair and reached for a cigar. “We can bring Jean Pierre home when the war is over and then we can teach him about our business. And there will be no interference from a war to bother him. By that time he will be maturing into a man and we will make sure that he is one of the most respected and successful businessmen in all the world, not only in France.”

15

The League of Nations—1919

A light mist was covering the streets of Paris. Jean Pierre came into the house, placing his umbrella in the stand next to the door and hanging his cap and raincoat next to a mirrored wall with clothes hooks. It was nearly five o’clock as he went into the library.

As usual, his grandfather was seated in his large comfortable leather chair; a small table next to him held his cognac and a Baccarat ashtray, where his cigar smoldered. He looked at his grandson. “You seem very excited.”

Jean Pierre held out an envelope. “Read this letter and you will know why I am excited.”

Maurice smiled as he took the letter out of the envelope. “If it’s a letter from that American girl you correspond with, your father will not be that thrilled.”

“Grandpapa, please, just read the letter.”

Maurice read the letter quickly. He looked at Jean Pierre in surprise. “The Americans are offering to let you be translator for them at the first League of Nations meeting to be held in Paris.”

“Yes,” Jean Pierre said with obvious excitement.

“Why did they choose you? It’s very strange. You have just turned sixteen years old.” He held out the letter as he spoke. “This is a task for someone more mature.”

“No, Grandpapa, almost five years in American schools in Boston has given me a very good knowledge of the language in the States.”

“That’s true,” he said. “But that doesn’t tell me why they chose you.”

“Did you read the signature on the letter?”

Maurice glanced down at the signature and then looked up at Jean Pierre. “It says that it’s from the head of the translation committee, one of President Wilson’s assistants.”

Jean Pierre was growing impatient. “But the name, Grandpa,” he said. “Elisha Barnett. He was my first headmaster who then arranged for me to live with his family in Boston while I finished my schooling in the U.S.”

“And the American girl? She is his sister?”

“But only he will be in Paris, not her,” Jean Pierre replied.

Maurice looked at him. “Did you have an affair with him?” His voice expressed curiosity.

“Not really, Grandpapa,” Jean Pierre answered. “He had many friends closer to his own age.”

“Then what did ‘not really’ mean exactly?” asked Maurice.

“We played,” Jean Pierre answered. “I masturbated him and sometimes pushed my hand into his derriere.”

“Did you have an affair with his sister? The girl you correspond with?”

“No, Grandpapa.” Jean Pierre smiled. “We were very close friends and I think she tried to find out if Elisha seduced me.”

“She didn’t try to seduce you herself?” he asked.

Jean Pierre laughed. “No. She is almost five years older than I am, and besides, she always liked American boys who were athletic.”

Jacques walked into the library. “I just heard your last words. Who was athletic?”

“American boys,” Jean Pierre said. He held the letter out to his father. “I’ve been offered a position during the League of Nations’s Parisian congress.”

Jacques read the letter. He stared up at his son. “But this is from the American delegation?”

“My former headmaster from Canada, whose family I lived with in the States, has offered me this position as a translator for one of the American groups.”

Jacques turned to his father. “I don’t like it. Jean Pierre is French, not American. He should not work for them.”

Maurice shook his head. “No, Jacques, you told me that you wanted Jean Pierre to become a worldwide businessman. Without the United States he will never become what you want him to be.”

Jacques looked down at his father. “I don’t see how it could benefit him to work in the League of Nations.”

“You’re not thinking, Jacques.” Maurice continued looking at his son. “Remember just a few years ago, you laughed because the Stales were starting to sell Coca-Cola here in Europe. Do you also remember that I wanted you to make a deal to distribute Coca-Cola here in France? And look at it now. Coca-Cola is the favorite drink for young people and is second only to beer.”

Jacques stood shaking his head. “How will it help our business?”

“America will be the next market for us,” Maurice said very assuredly. “Maybe not in my time, and maybe not in yours, but in Jean Pierre’s time, when Plescassier is his own, he will send our water to the States. If today he works in the American delegation, he will make contacts and acquaintances who might be helpful when Plescassier becomes the most successful bottled water in the world.”

Jacques turned to Jean Pierre. “And what do you think?”

Jean Pierre answered, “I’d like to do it.”

Jacques stared at his son. “Are you in love with your former headmaster?”

Jean Pierre laughed. “I’m too young to fall in love.”

16

The Second World War—1940

JEAN PIERRE

Jacques leaned back comfortably in his leather-stuffed chair behind the antique ornate desk in his Paris office. He asked his secretary to call his father in his villa in Cannes. That was one thing he had been pleased about. Finally he had been able to persuade his father to retire in the south of France, where there was no pressure from the businesses and no nasty Paris winter weather. After all, his father was eighty-six years old, and even though he was bright and sharp as a tack, there was no reason to put up with the everyday pressures of the business world, especially with all the disruptions that the war had created in France.

The butler at the villa answered the telephone. “Villa Plescassier.”

Jacques spoke into the telephone. “Hugo, is my father about?”

“Monsieur Jacques,” the butler answered. “I am sorry but Monsieur Maurice is taking a nap.”

“Could you please ask him to call me when he is awake. I will be leaving the office in a few minutes. He can call me at home.”

“Oui, Monsieur Jacques,” the butler answered politely.

“Merci,”
Jacques said, and put down the telephone. He buzzed his secretary and stood up and reached for his overcoat.

The secretary came into his office. “Monsieur?”

“I’m going home. If Jean Pierre calls ask him to call me there. You can let him know that Monsieur Weil, the banker, will be joining me for dinner.”

“Oui, monsieur,” she said, and helped him on with his overcoat and then held the door open for him.

His limousine was already waiting for him in front of his office building on the Champs-Elysées. Robert, his chauffeur, was holding the door to his large Citroen open.

Silently, he stepped into the automobile. Quickly he picked up the afternoon paper that Robert had left for him on the seat. The news was grim. It was June the third and the German Luftwaffe had chased the British army of almost four hundred thousand infantry along with a large French army troop across the English Channel into England. There were several other stories, including General de Gaulle taking control of the French army in England and naming it the Free French Army.

He was thoughtful as he watched Robert crank the motor. He was pleased that he had bought the Citroen with its old-fashioned crankcase system. The new automobiles with the electric starting systems had many problems and fell apart very quickly. He was startled when the door next to him swung open.

Jean Pierre laughed at his father’s surprised face. “I’m French, Papa,” he said. “Not Boche.”

Jacques was angry. “Why are you here so early? I thought you were still working at the army headquarters.”

Jean Pierre pointed to the new stars on his uniform. “I’ve just been appointed a captain.”

“Who made you a captain?” Jacques asked. “There’s no one in the headquarters.” He pointed to the headline in the newspaper. “Maréchal Pétain is meeting with the Germans for an armistice.”

“General de Gaulle promoted me,” Jean Pierre said.

“How can he do anything? He’s already fled to England.”

“He has asked me to join him. He wants me to work in the intelligence division. He is impressed with my knowledge of language with the British and the Americans.”

“The Americans are not even in the war with us,” Jacques said with disdain.

“De Gaulle has told me it’s only a matter of time,” Jean Pierre answered. “I’m leaving tonight for London.”

“You will not leave. I forbid it,” Jacques answered adamantly. “I am your father and I will not allow you to go.”

Jean Pierre looked directly at Jacques. For the first time Jacques heard anger in his son’s voice. “You have nothing to say about it, Father,” Jean Pierre snapped. “I’m thirty-seven now, not the child you sent to Canada.”

Jacques looked at his son. “I love you,” he said. “I don’t want anything to hurt you.”

“And I love you, Father,” Jean Pierre said. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

For a moment they embraced, and then Jean Pierre spoke. “I have to be on my way, Father. The British are bringing a transport plane to take my intelligence group to London.”

17

Maurice awakened slowly from his nap at five-thirty. He rolled over on his bed and pressed the button on the night table to call the butler. By the time he had sat up and put the pillows behind his back, the butler was already there with the afternoon tea.

The butler placed the tray with its legs across his lap. Quickly he poured the tea in the cup and added a little milk. Then he took the sterling silver cover and lifted it off of the small plate of cookies.

“Merci,”
Maurice said, and saw the note that had been left by the telephone. He sipped his tea for a moment and then gestured to the butler to call Jacques. He had already eaten the first cookie by the time the call went through.

“Why have you gone home so early?” he asked Jacques.

“I’ve invited Monsieur Weil, the banker, here for dinner. I thought it would be an appropriate time to rearrange our bank loans. Interest is still low and I know the rates will go higher now that the Germans are in Paris and Pétain is already negotiating an armistice with the Germans.” Jacques’s voice sounded depressed.

“And what did the Jew bastard say to that?” Maurice asked.

“He agreed with me,” Jacques said. “He also suggested that I borrow even more money.”

“That’s strange,” Maurice answered with curiosity. “Weil is never anxious to lend us more money. Usually we have to kiss his ass for it.”

“Monsieur Weil is worried. He has learned that the Nazis are already slaughtering the Jews in the other countries that they have occupied,” Jacques said. “Now that Pétain has capitulated and is begging Germany for an armistice, he is afraid that the Germans will destroy France like they have the other countries that they have been in. He is giving his best customers the opportunity to borrow more money.”

“Then what does he plan on doing, if he is frightened of the Germans? He’s not going to loan out all of his money. He is a Jew—he will keep plenty for himself,” Maurice said sarcastically.

“You’re smart, Father,” Jacques said. “Weil is smart as well; he has already sold his property in France. His family has been sent to Switzerland, and he has made a business partnership with a private Swiss bank. He plans to finish all of his business and will be in Geneva in two weeks.” Jacques laughed. “I thought he was nuts. France is not like other countries. The Germans have too much respect for the French.”

“He’s not that crazy, he’s a Jew,” Maurice said. “France was crazy to believe in Pétain. He gave the country away for free.”

“Are you afraid, Father?” Jacques asked. “Do you want to return to Paris?”

“I’m not that crazy,” Maurice answered. “I am safer here than in Paris. The Côte d’Azur will always be a recreation area. There’s no reason for a war to come here.”

Jacques paused for a moment. “Jean Pierre has gone to England with de Gaulle. He has promoted him to captain.”

Maurice laughed proudly. “The little son of a bitch is smarter than all of us. He will be important with de Gaulle, he speaks as the Americans do, and he will be a great asset to them. In time de Gaulle will become the savior of France and in time president.”

“But Jean Pierre hasn’t even stepped into the business world,” complained Jacques. “He’s spent his life just having a ball. He has fucked more men than I have ever dreamed.”

Maurice laughed out loud again. “You’re just jealous of your son. Now he’s a man. He sees into the future. He’s the new generation.”

“Damn!” Jacques swore. “And what generation are we?”

“The last generation,” Maurice answered. “It won’t be long until our generation will be a memory.”