there’s no point betting.’
Marie-Ange scribbled in her note-book. She didn’t look too intelligent, and Henri tried to think of simple words with which to express himself. ‘Between a chimpanzee and the lowliest of men,’ he thought to himself, ‘there’s an enormously greater difference than between that man and an Einstein! A consciousness that gives evidence that it exists is one of the absolutes.’ He was about to open his mouth, but Marie-Ange spoke first.
‘Tell me about your start.’
‘What start?’
‘Your start in literature.’
‘I’ve always scribbled a bit.’
‘How old were you when The Accident was published?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Dubreuilh was the one who gave you your start, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he helped me a lot.’
‘How did you get to know him?’
‘They sent me over to interview him once, and he made me do the talking. He asked me to come back and see him again, and I did …’
‘Give me more details,’ Marie-Ange said plaintively. ‘You’re not very good at explaining things.’ She looked at him. ‘What do you talk about when you’re together?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Everything and nothing, like everyone else.’
‘Did he encourage you to write?’
‘Yes. And when I finished The Accident, he got Mauvanes to read it, and Mauvanes accepted it at once.’
‘Was it successful?’
‘Call it a succes d’estime. You know, it’s funny …’
‘Yes, tell me something funny!’ she said eagerly.
Henri hesitated. ‘It’s funny how you begin by having big dreams of glory. And then, with the first little success, you’re completely happy.’
Marie-Ange sighed. ‘I already have the titles and dates of your other books. Were you in the service?’
‘In the infantry. Ordinary private. I never wanted to be an officer. Wounded the ninth of May at Mont Dieu near Vouziers; evacuated to Montélimar; back in Paris in September.’
‘What exactly did you do in the Resistance?’
‘Luc and I founded L’Espoir in 1941.’
‘You did other things, too, didn’t you?’
‘Nothing very interesting. Skip it.’
‘Right. Exactly when did you write your last book?’
‘Between ’41 and ’42.’
‘Have you started a new one?’
‘No, but I’m going to.’
‘What’ll it be? A novel?’
‘A novel. But it’s still very vague.’
‘I’ve heard some talk about a magazine.’
‘That’s right. Dubreuilh and I are going to put out a monthly called Vigilance. It’ll be published by Mauvanes.’
‘What’s this political party Dubreuilh’s founding?’
‘It’d take much too long to explain.’
‘In a few words, then.’
‘Ask him.’
‘You can’t get near him.’ Marie-Ange sighed. ‘You’re funny, you know. If I were famous, I’d be getting myself interviewed all the time.’
‘Then you’d have no time left to do anything and you’d stop being famous. Now, you’re going to be a nice little girl and let me get back to my work.’
‘But I still have a lot of questions. What did you think of Portugal?’
Henri shrugged his shoulders. ‘It stinks.’
‘What stinks?’
‘Everything.’
‘Make that a little clearer. I can’t just say to my readers: It stinks.’
‘Well, tell them that Salazar’s paternalism is nothing but an unspeakable dictatorship, and that the Americans ought to get rid of him in a hurry,’ Henri said rapidly. ‘Unfortunately, it won’t happen tomorrow; he’s going to sell them air bases in the Azores.’
Marie-Ange frowned, and Henri added, ‘If that upsets you, don’t use it. I’m going to break it soon in L’Espoir, anyhow.’
‘Of course I’ll use it!’ Marie-Ange said emphatically. She studied Henri seriously. ‘What inner motives made you take that trip?’
‘Listen, you don’t have to ask idiotic questions to be a success as a newspaperwoman. And I repeat again that that’s enough. Be a nice girl and leave quietly.’
‘I’d have liked a few anecdotes.’
‘I don’t have any.’
Marie-Ange minced out. Henri felt a sense of disappointment; Marie-Ange hadn’t asked the right questions, and he had said none of the things he had had to say. But after all, just what did he have to say? ‘I’d like my readers to know who I am, but the trouble is I’m not quite sure myself.’ At any rate, in a few days he would get back to his book and he would try to define himself systematically.
He began going through his correspondence again, and he was staggered by the number of telegrams and clippings there were to be read, the letters to answer, the people to see! Luc had warned him; he had his work cut out for him. The following days he spent shut away in his office; he went home to Paula’s only to sleep. He had just barely enough time to prepare his article and the printers grabbed it from him page by page. But after his too-long holiday, he was happy to get back to this excess of activity.
Without enthusiasm, he recognized Scriassine’s voice on the telephone. ‘Listen here, you quitter, you’ve been back four days now, and nobody’s seen you. Come over to the Isba right away. Rue Balzac.’
‘I’m sorry but I’ve got work to do.’
‘Stop feeling sorry and come over. We’re all waiting to drink a champagne toast to you.’
‘Who’s we?’ Henri asked cheerfully.
‘I, among others,’ said Dubreuilh’s voice. ‘And Anne, and Julien. I’ve got a thousand things to tell you. What in hell are you doing over there anyhow? Can’t you crawl out of your hole for an hour or two?’
‘I
