She was in the cream-walled salon with her father, reporting loudly that it was a lie. Sylvain had no trouble walking, and though it was true he had fallen to the ground, the car had barely grazed him.
Docteur Molineu laughed. “Midhat, you’re welcome to come in. It’s not quite a lie, is it dear, only some of the details were exaggerated.”
“I am extremely embarrassed.”
“Oh, la. One ought to telegraph in advance I suppose. I did say you should take Midhat. It’s not really appropriate for a young lady, I’m sure everyone must think I’m horribly irresponsible.” He picked up a wooden table and set it down behind the piano. “Humans and rumours. Would you help me with the chaise longue, Midhat? I think we’ll put it in the hall.”
“Don’t you see how embarrassing this is? I brought him flowers and there was nothing wrong with him, and he was so …” She expelled a syllable of air. “I’m really in agony.”
“I don’t see why you are making such a fuss. Did you explain yourself? Sylvain is not stupid, I’m sure he knows you only meant to be kind. It’s an easy mistake. The guests will be here from seven o’clock, and I’m going to work before then. I’m a little afraid we may have invited too many. Not usually a cause for—since one counts on half to stay at home. But these days it seems people are in need of a party …”
Midhat put his hands under the chaise.
“Thank you, Midhat,” said Molineu.
“Not at all,” said Midhat. “It is my pleasure.”
Jeannette flicked her eyes to him, but her expression did not change.
In the mirrored doors of his armoire, Midhat’s white collar threw light up at his face. He licked his fingers and touched his hair. Georgine’s voice came through the floorboards.
“Les Mademoiselles Carole et Marie-Thérèse, et Docteur Patrice Nolin.”
He pushed up his tie, plucked at his sleeves and shirttails, and started down the stairs.
“It’s the Arabian man,” said Patrice Nolin, shaking the droplets off his hat by the door. His cheeks were especially red with the shock of heat on cold skin.
“Good evening, cher docteur,” said Midhat.
The girls took turns greeting Midhat, and coils bounced behind their ears: both had attached artificial hairpieces to their chignons.
“Good evening, ladies.”
Docteur Molineu led the Nolins into the salon. There was no sign of Jeannette.
“How is the Faculty?” said Patrice Nolin, passing Midhat a champagne glass.
“My classes are interesting. But it is only the preliminary sciences in the first year. We also have had the introduction to dissection, and we are beginning to attend the clinics in the mornings, where we observe the doctors and the patients and make notes, and we discuss afterwards. And sometimes—” He stopped. He had just remembered that Nolin used to be a professor at the Faculty, and surely knew all this. “But yes, what I mean is, I am enjoying it. This snow has also been remarkable.”
Molineu presented an open case of cigarettes. “Patrice, I have been wanting to ask your opinion. How do you think it will turn, now that we’ve won at Flanders? The picture I draw from Le Matin and the wireless is very indefinite.”
Nolin cleared his throat. “I think we can expect to see a few strategic manoeuvres. I’m no military expert, but of course they’ll obviously be looking for ways to weaken the enemy. At the same time, we’ve got to keep our eyes on the other corners of the globe, on the balance of forces. And Russia is next, so, my guess is we’ll see a push to draw the Germans over from the Eastern Front, to ease up that side of things. But this is just speculation.” He waved his hand and the smoke from his cigarette squirmed above him. “It’s up to the generals. We just have to wait—and—see.”
More guests arrived. Madame Crotteau kissed Midhat’s cheek with a husky giggle, and her cold fur, wettened into prongs, rubbed against his neck. As he turned to greet Marian, Midhat caught sight of Jeannette through the open door, standing at the mirror by the bottom of the stairs, dressed in green and black. She touched her collar and looked herself in the eyes. Then her gaze slid over and met Midhat’s. He held it until she looked away.
“I love tennis,” said a woman with a lilac shawl. “I play it on the lower lawns with Ma’moiselle Briquot. Won’t you join us when the spring comes?”
“But we’re getting away from the central point,” came Docteur Molineu’s voice from across the room. “What was the central point?”
A young lady in a high-necked dress and an elderly gentleman cried greetings as they entered.
“When we exchanged our remarks, that it was a very moving funeral procession, and burial …”
“It was tremendously entertaining. It’s a shame you weren’t there …”
“But do you see anything hopeful?”
“It seemed that the family had been the ones comforting all of us, saying you have to go on, and so on.”
“Sometimes I do worry about Georgine.” Docteur Molineu was at Midhat’s side. His eyes were red. “I wonder if we ought to hire a second girl, to be her friend, you know.” He finished his drink and breathed.
“Laurent,” said Midhat, reaching for his friend’s shoulder. “I didn’t see you enter.”
“Cher Midhat,” said Laurent, turning around. “It’s good to see you. Goodness you look well. What a lovely suit. Do you know Carl Page?”
“Yes, I think we met.”
“I know you of course,” said Carl Page. “You are the famous Oriental guest. Well then what’s your take on this, as an Oriental? We’re talking about Flanders.”
“Oh,” said Midhat. He cleared his throat. “If you’re asking about the Turks, then … I think there are still losses from the Russian war that are … hanging over everything. But in terms of Europe—I mean, I think we’ll see some strategic manoeuvres from the French generals in the near future.” His voice deepened. “The balance of power, and so forth. And the Eastern Front, of course, with Russia. There might be a strike sooner rather than later, keeping eyes on all corners. And so forth.”
“I see.”
“Carl did you hear,” said Madame Crotteau, leaning across the back of the sofa, “about Mistinguett’s lover?”
Laurent grasped Midhat’s neck and laughed. “You very nearly sounded as if you knew what you were talking about. Oh I haven’t eaten a thing, those look quite edible.” He reached for Georgine’s tray offish rolls. “I have the most hilarious story to tell you. About your professor, what’s his name, Brogante.”
“Oh yes,” said Midhat.
“So he was cycling to the Faculty in the rain, I heard this from a surgeon, and by the time he arrived, this Brogante, he had a rash on his legs. The trousers were woollen, I suppose. And he’s apparently quite a large fellow, is that right? He borrowed a spare pair from someone else, but they were too small for him and he couldn’t do them up. But now the funny part is that he had to teach a class, so he wore them anyway and taught the entire lesson while standing behind a chair with his buttons undone. Isn’t that just the funniest thing.”