At the beginning of December, Monsieur Huppert returned from a long trip on the Ivory Coast with a precious gift for Madame. It was a stone statuette that represented a man squatting and holding a curious old-fashioned rifle. He explained that stone sculpture is extremely rare in Africa because it requires an artisan organization possible only in certain civilizations with a fairly well-developed social structure. For example, that piece came from the Mintadi people in the Upper Congo and decorated the ancient necropolis. It was a reliquary image of great antiquity, as the 1514 chronicles of Alfonso the First, King of the Congo, already attested. But the greatest value, at least for me, was the bracelet that the statue was wearing on its wrist, a very thin strip of gold with a row of tiny diamonds, simply splendid.—This, however, is a modern piece—smiled the engineer as he slipped it on Madame’s wrist. I thought it very delicate.
Monsieur Huppert was a polite man, exquisitely kind, a little shy, and looked happy that Madame had found some agreeable company “who would make her convalescence less oppressive,” as he said. Excluding the day of Monsieur Huppert’s arrival, I always had supper with the Hupperts. It was a custom begun when I had first come to the villa, and to Madame it seemed inopportune to interrupt it. Besides, I busied myself with the table, the flowers (every evening I composed a tiny Ikebana, simple and graceful), the wine. That stupid Constance had no gift of delicacy, even though she was a delight as a cook, and certainly in matters of taste one couldn’t count on her. As for Giuseppe, well, it was really a miracle to get him to work in a striped jacket and white gloves. He held the tray as if he were handling a pair of pruning shears. But you had to be indulgent with him: after all, he’d been hired as a gardener.
The conversation usually concerned Monsieur Huppert’s passion, that is, the Dark Continent, for which he nurtured a love that bordered on idolatry. His work of importing the best materials on behalf of important European firms had allowed him, in ten years of travel, to consider Africa as his chosen land. And to hear his stories, Africa still seemed the continent of Livingstone, of Stanley, and of Savorgnan di Brazza, so well did Monsieur Huppert understand its most secret heart, its most mysterious witchcraft, its less touristy itineraries. Listening to him talk I seemed to delve again into my schoolbooks or into the dreams of my childhood, into the tales of Tarzan, the adventures of Cino and Franco, the films of Ava Gardner and Humphrey Bogart. He knew all the trails off the beaten track, for instance, which safaris to choose among those which left from Fort Lamy and Fort Achambault, which seasons to avoid in order not to fall into the bedlam of rich Americans seeking thrills. He knew the best guides in Nairobi, the paleolithic dwellings of Olor-Gesalie, the rock paintings of Cheke, the mysterious ruins of Zimbabwé, which some believed were the mythical King Solomon’s Mines. But he also knew the fascination of the Victoria Falls, the luxury of the N’gor Hotel at Dakar, the picturesque cottages on the slopes of Kilimanjaro where the rich Rhodesians spent their vacations, the emerald golf courses of South Africa. During supper I remained silent listening to him tell stories. What else could I do, after all? And once in my room I took down muddled notes in a notebook that I’d entitled Voyage en Afrique. I created an ideal tourist itinerary for a trip on which I was certain sooner or later the Hupperts would invite me to accompany them. I was aware, with perfect objectivity, that my prestige was clearly in ascent. Among other things, the victory over the gallery in Zurich, which had responded congratulating me and accepting my conditions, scored an indisputable point in my favor.
When the telephone call came from Monsieur Delatour, I was alone in the house. The Hupperts had gone shopping in town (Madame had to buy some Christmas decorations) and had entrusted the villa to me, as by this time they did when they went out. In such cases I answered the telephone, signed receipts for possible registered mail, paid the tradesmen, gave instructions to Constance for supper.
More than surprised, Madame became greatly agitated when she learned of Monsieur Delatour’s arrival the next day. She said that it was a catastrophe, my God, we had nothing in the house, we were out of everything, and then, was he coming alone or with Madame Delatour? I didn’t know? But, holy heaven, it was jondamentale, it was so embarrassing to receive guests uncivilly, and then the Delatours! Oh, how foolish not to have bought flowers in town, there wasn’t even material for a decent Ikebana.
The next day was a feverish one; in the morning Madame tried to compose a Shinsei with pine and magnolia leaves, but she thought it turned out poor and clumsy, and she took it apart. I suggested a good-omened Jushoku to her, with chrysanthemums, fern, and a branch of kaki, Japanese persimmon. It had the advantage of being a simple composition, and then the kaki from the garden, with its shiny red fruit, was really splendid. For a base we used a modern, very elegant Turkish blue vase from Venini. The composition came out satisfactorily, although as a centerpiece it was really nothing to rave about. At best, it might go well on the chest of drawers in the dining room, or rather on the buffet. Flanked by the fruit, it looked picturesque, but nothing more.
The blue carnations which I had ordered from the shop in Sanremo arrived unexpectedly to save us. I’d almost forgotten them; they had slipped my mind. A small delivery van from the shop came to bring them, along with the bulbs. That they were not a natural color an expert eye noted at once. I’ve never understood if the coloring substance was absorbed through the ground or if the flowers were sprayed. In any case, they arrived in perfect condition, very fresh, truly providential. Madame and I made our excuses to the engineer, we hoped he understood, that day we really couldn’t keep him company at dinner. We had a very quick snack of sandwiches and grapefruit juice and proceeded immediately to the Ikebana. We aimed for grandeur. To tell the truth, the composition wasn’t very orthodox, but probably Monsieur Delatour wasn’t an expert in this area, and we allowed ourselves some liberty. Our moribana provoked a little épater with its milk-white Celadon tray, the ferns, and the blue spot of the six carnations in the middle. But as a centerpiece it had a very strong personality, so much so that it set the tone for all the rest. The rest I had to hurriedly deal with all by myself, because Madame retired to her room for her maquillage, and I succumbed to dreadful doubt over the choices. I decided on a very elegant, unpretentious theme: a very simple while linen tablecloth, nineteenth-century Dutch porcelain, crystal stemware. I finished at seven o’clock, exactly when I heard a car screech on the gravel driveway. From the window I saw that it was a dark blue Bentley with a driver, but I didn’t have time to see how many persons there were in the back seat. In any case, I had no time to waste. I had just barely an hour left to rush to my room and make myself presentable. The responsibility of the flambé at supper had been entrusted to me as had Madame’s evening gown. I hadn’t had time to try it yet, but I was sure that it would age me greatly. And I was worn out.
Madame was a treasure to introduce me as her “artistic secretary, Mademoiselle Rossi-Fini.” It helped me to find the self-composure I’d needed. Not that I felt embarrassed, let’s be quite clear about this, but I don’t deny being a little excited, yes. And then the Delatours weren’t exactly the kind of people who put you at your ease, especially Madame Delatour. As a young girl, she must have been gorgeous. Now she cultivated a kind of austere beauty, à la Grace Kelly, but more haughty and cold: very thin eyebrows, ash-blonde hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, the stretched face of women who go to Swiss clinics. On the other hand, the years gave Monsieur Delatour a touch of charm, as happens sometimes to men who aren’t very good-looking: silvery temples, lines and crow’s-feet around his eyes, a light tan, blue eyes. He was a Von Karajan type, but more solid, less esthetic.
Giuseppe entered bringing the avocado cocktails. In their silver cups the pistachio green of the avocado cubes sprinkled with a very light coating of shaved ice and with a drop of ketchup looked magnificent. Oh, a trifle (I pretended to be evasive, emphasizing that I was pretending to be evasive), old Francine had taught me to make it. Papa was so f
ond of avocados, actually he adored all exotic fruit, perhaps for esthetic reasons, who knows? (He had a terrible esthetic sense, Papa did.) An artist? No, no, he was in mining. (Ah, yes, really a terrible esthetic sense.) Actually, a certain exotic fruit is an authentic pleasure for the eyes, no? Don’t a pineapple, a papaya, a guava, an avocado put together make in their own way an Ikebana? An Ikebana without a title, that’s all.
—And what is this one called?—
Madame Delatour’s question caught us by surprise, an authentic cold shower. In the haste to prepare it, in the agitation of the unexpected arrival, Madame and I had certainly not thought to give it a name. I was silent, waiting for Madame’s answer. Instead, Madame elegantly extricated herself with an inviting gesture toward me. —Please, dear, you tell her,—it meant. —I don’t want to deprive you of this pleasure.—
I groped desperately in the search for a title worthy of the occasion. Madame Delatour’s eyes pierced me like two pins, searching and skeptical. —Bliss … Heavenly Bliss,—I said. —It’s a traditional moribana,—I continued in one breath. —It means the enchantment that is born in the soul of the masters of the house upon the arrival of welcome guests.—
Madame Delatour finally let her glacial expression melt. Her drawn face relaxed (it seemed to me to be uglier, I must say) and opened in an affable smile. She was about to surrender. I left it to Giuseppe, who was coming in with the cart, to conquer her once and for all. The roast pheasant, gently laid on the flambé tray, was superb. Before entrusting me with the cart, Giuseppe drew out the tail feathers which ornamented the tray, uncorked the champagne, and opened the cognac with impressive calm, and only then did he say—Monsieur Delatour, there’s a telephone call for you from Paris.—He had some unexpected talents, the good Giuseppe, perhaps I had underestimated him. In the meantime the ladies had united against Monsieur Huppert in regard to hunting. Proceeding from the pheasant the conversation had come to hunting in general, and Monsieur Huppert, somewhat rashly, had confessed his passion for safaris.
—What!—(Madame Delatour spoke in her detached tone of voice but was visibly scandalized.) To shoot down a gazelle, that mass of élan vital contained in the gracefulness of a slender body, to kill that marvel of creation, was not this a crime against nature?
Monsieur Huppert tried to explain, without too much enthusiasm, that on safaris not only gazelles were killed, or at least not exclusively. He appealed to the thrill of danger, of man pitted against the animal, he even cited Hemingway. But he was clearly at a disadvantage. And then he was isolated. I refrained from getting into the situation. It seemed risky to me.
Monsieur Delatour returned with a rather worried expression, sat down distractedly, seemed to be far away. The conversation resumed with a certain weariness. It was just the moment to flamber. It would revive the atmosphere a little. —Oops,—I said, carrying the match from the fireplace like a torch. —The infidel is condemned to the funeral pyre. Justice is served!—It seemed an appreciable witticism to me, but nobody laughed. I made a fiasco.
—At Dakar didn’t you make the contacts we had decided on?—Monsieur Delatour suddenly asked, staring at Monsieur Huppert.
Monsieur Huppert started slightly, was silent for a moment as if uncomfortable, drank a sip of champagne. —I’ll explain later,—he said. —It wasn’t very easy this time.—
—I don’t believe it’s necessary,—continued Monsieur Delatour. —I have received some very confidential information from Paris, and you know from which source.—He spoke in a dry, neutral tone, without a shade of courtesy, as if he had never seen Monsieur Huppert. —The Germans settled the deal, as was foreseeable. Now we can leave everything in the warehouse to age.—
The cognac on the pheasant was burning merrily, with a sizzling blue flame full of promise. The recipe called for at least one minute of flame, but probably it didn’t last that long; I hadn’t put on much cognac. On the other hand, it was better this way. I felt it was just the moment to come to the point: the eye had had its share, now it was the stomach’s turn. I carved hurriedly and called Giuseppe to serve. Madame Delatour took a morsel of breast hidden under a truffle. She was on a strict diet, the embalmed beauty. Damn! Madame Huppert, perhaps not to embarrass her guest, followed her example. When Giuseppe offered me the tray, I remained undecided whether to do the same. There was an upper thigh with two threads of meat of much reduced dimensions that might do well enough, inasmuch as after supper I’d always be able to pay a little visit to Constance. Then it struck me that Giuseppe and that greedy Constance would have made a clean sweep of the leftovers, happy as clams that the gentry had such small appetites, and I served myself a generous slice of breast. As I said, I’d eaten practically nothing since morning, the sandwich for dinner had only tickled my stomach, the day had been stressful … and, after all, I deserved that pheasant.
—I don’t know if you’re aware of the problems that your lack of timeliness is causing us,—Monsieur Delatour said in the same tone as before.
Monsieur Huppert said that he was aware of them.
—Good,—continued Monsieur Delatour. —Now try to translate these problems into dollars.—
Probably Monsieur Huppert did the translation mentally, because he grew pale; the fork with the truffle remained in mid-air. His forehead was beaded with a veil of perspiration.
—Monsieur Huppert,—said Monsieur Delatour in a cutting tone—are you aware that we pay you to sell? You cease to sell, we cease to pay.—
I blessed Giuseppe, who came in with dessert. It was a frozen pineapple mousse garnished with candied cherries, Constance’s masterpiece, which I knew from memory: I was crazy about it. When Giuseppe served me, I whispered to him to bring more champagne. (I had providentially put two more bottles in the fridge an hour before.) And to do it at once. Then I got up to light the fire, not without remarking that that evening I felt exactly like a vestal. Vestal or pyromaniac, the choice was up to them. Madame Huppert had a good laugh, and Monsieur Delatour joined her. The atmosphere was frankly brightening. I thought that there was nothing better than a good fire in the fireplace to relax the nerves. And then Giuseppe came in with the bucket of ice and the Dom Perignon wrapped in a snow-white napkin (impeccable, the old Giuseppe—he was behaving like a maître d), drew the cork from the bottle with a pop, and refilled the glasses.
—You are aware,—said Monsieur Delatour again to Monsieur Huppert (but now his voice was more relaxed, more conciliatory)—you are aware, I hope, that if you want to regain the lost territory at this point, the only remaining choice is X-21. Moreover, if you had followed my advice, you’d have settled the terms last year.—
Monsieur Huppert did not yet seem completely restored from the slight dispute. He was still pale; I noticed that his lips trembled imperceptibly. He talked with his eyes lowered, on the defensive, that fool Monsieur Huppert. It seemed he was going to purposely ruin the whole evening, which until this moment had been very precariously restored.
—But it’s not possible …—he mumbled. —You understand, Monsieur Delatour … it’s not a question of it being a whim of mine … I mean it’s a thing …—
As I anticipated, Monsieur Delatour lost his patience once and for all, blood surged to his face, his neck muscles tensed. Monsieur Huppert’s obstinacy had succeeded in ruining the evening.
—It’s a thing…? —he said, trying to control himself. —It’s what kind of thing?—
—Let’s say that it leads to imprisonable falsifications,—said Monsieur Huppert.
—Oh!—murmured Monsieur Delatour sadly. —Progress has its own risks, dear Monsieur Huppert, don’t you think so? Civilization is always paid in some way. One doesn’t pass with impunity from caves to refrigerators.—
Monsieur Huppert was silent, staring stubbornly at the pineapple mousse which he’d left on his plate. There was a very long moment of silence. The only sound was the crackling of the fire in the fireplace.
Monsieur Delatour assumed a conciliatory, almost g
ood-natured tone. He spoke as if to a child who had committed some unintentional foolishness. —Never mind what I told you about not conquering the market with your methods. I don’t want to teach you your job, for God’s sake, but after all you can’t claim to sell certain products accompanied by certificates of guarantee. How many other times have you brought those poor people the refined products of our civilization without writing treatises of ethics on them? …. You need good manners … you understand … delicacy… . Find a name that’s a little innocuous and … conventional, that’s it, and possibly attractive. They’re primitives, believe me. Monsieur Huppert, the primitives love poetic names, mythical names. Don’t consider leaving any signed documents, it’s always better to leave … how do you say? … a pseudonym.—
His eyes wandered around. His gaze rested on the fireplace, on Madame Huppert who was watching the fire, on me who was staring at him, on the champagne, on the Ikebana in the middle of the table.
—For example,—he whispered insinuatingly, in the tone of someone who has had an excellent idea—for example, begin by selling them a million dollars’ worth of “Heavenly Bliss.’’—
Just at that moment Giuseppe appeared to ask if he should serve the coffee.
—In a few minutes,—said Madame. —We’ll have it by the fire.—
DOLORES IBARRURI SHEDS BITTER TEARS
He was a happy child, really happy. He was always laughing, so happy, and he even had a sense of humor. For instance, my sister Elsa was crazy about jokes, she knew a hundred of them, and when he saw her he would run up to her and cry, Aunt Elsa, a joke! Aunt Elsa, a joke! And he would laugh, but as if he were amused, like an adult. Perhaps he really got that happiness from Elsa, who was so vital, even too much so, maybe a little reckless, but at least she enjoyed her life, after all, in her own way. Affectionate, too. And he remained that way when he was grown-up. Happy, well, no, but very affectionate. Never once did he forget my birthday, even when he was far away, always something, a rose from Inter-Flora, a telegram … Would you like to see his telegrams? I have them here in this little Droste cocoa tin. Look, from 1970 to today there are eight telegrams. This one here, for instance, is from four years ago. Listen, it says He thinks of you with gratitude for the life that you gave him. Yes, it’s signed Piticche, we called him that. It’s never come out in the newspapers, nobody knows it, it’s something kept in the family. For us it was a pet name. I’d be grateful if you’d be quiet about it, too. Afterwards in the newspapers it comes between quotation marks after his real name: “called ‘Pilicche.’” It’s awful, don’t you think? How do you get people to understand that Piticche’s a pet name? Even you don’t understand it. If only I could explain to you the origin of the name, its meaning, but no one can understand what it means to me. In names there’s the time spent together, persons who have died, things done together, places, other names, our life. Piticche means little one. He was really tiny when he was young. He was blond, look at this photograph, he’s four years old—not that one, he’s eight there—this one here crouching near Pinocchio. Don’t you see that Pinocchio is taller than he is?