“Very funny,” said Midhat.
“Have you heard about Sylvain?” came a woman’s voice. A thin blonde, addressing a group of people Midhat didn’t recognise. “He was hit by a car and is very badly injured.”
“Isn’t true,” said Docteur Molineu, behind them. “Jeannette went to see him.”
The group made sounds and inclined their heads, as if to say: ah, indeed?
“He’s coming tonight, I think.”
A low chord sounded from the piano.
“Saint-Saëns!”
“They caught him within a week … poor fellow wasn’t built to fight.”
Carole Nolin was conferring with a silver-haired man in tails who had one knee on the piano stool. The man played the chord a second time, and Carole sang a probing note. Then they began in earnest, nodding together, and her voice swooped upward, and the room fell quiet.
“Prin-temps—qui—commen-ce! Portant l’espéran-ce, aux coeurs amoureux …”
“I saw it in Hamburg thirty years ago. With Talazac, before the French revival.”
Midhat’s glass was empty. His head thrilled with Carole’s singing. At the next crescendo the room seemed to lose interest, and the murmur surged again into a loose babble. One final clanging note, applause, and it changed to a spirited tune about Paris. A dozen guests joined in, tilting their glasses with gestures that resembled dancing. Someone opened a casement at the far end and blew a cool shot of air over their faces.
Midhat looked around for Jeannette, with a pleasant nervousness in his stomach. His glass was full again, and the room listed as he turned his head. Sylvain Leclair was in the corner by a tapestry, hair parted to the side, curled and oiled, catching the light from a side lamp.
Paris c’est une blonde
Qui plaît à tout le monde
Le nez retroussé l’air moqueur
Les yeux toujours rieurs!
“Shut the window!”
It had jammed in the frame and a gentleman in a wine-stained waistcoat was attempting to wrest the handle from a Russian doctor named Andryashev whom Midhat recognised from the Faculty. He looked very drunk. Wine-stripes triumphed over Andryashev, and the Russian smiled and threw up his hands as though letting an opponent win at cards, before falling on the lady behind and dissolving in a wind of apologies.
Laurent was eating another fish roll. “Everything is old gossip. People are still talking about Henriette Caillaux, you hear her name all over the place. Half their sons—oh, this song’s by the woman who insured her legs for a million francs. What’s her name, she wears those funny hats.”
The tune had accelerated into an aggressive chromatic counterpoint, and two girls hopped near the piano, grabbing each other’s elbows. Midhat turned—where was Jeannette? There was Sylvain Leclair again, his silver hairline a crescent moon. And there she was, beside him, Jeannette, listening to Sylvain.
“I think I still love her,” said Laurent.
Midhat started. Laurent was looking in the same direction.
“They don’t go away easily, those things.”
“You love Jeannette?”
“You didn’t know.”
“No.” A cold liquid poured down Midhat’s spine. “I did not know that.”r
To his right, a woman with pink cheeks spun round and smiled at him.
“Nothing comes of nothing,” said Laurent.
Midhat peered at him. “What do you mean?”
“Hm?” Laurent ran a hand through his hair. “Only that it’s meaningless in the scheme of things.” In a sober tone, he added: “One can still love from afar, of course.”
Midhat tried to dwell on this remark. It kept escaping him.
“Sylvain does rather seem to be annoying her, doesn’t he? She looks angry.”
“Does she?” said Midhat. He studied Jeannette’s lamplit face. To him, her features appeared limp and without expression.
“Yes. That is what Jeannette looks like when she is angry. You’d do well to learn it fast, if you want to get along with her.”
Midhat directed his eyes down at his glass, seized by an undertow of resentment. He had thought Laurent was his friend. But then, how many months had they known each other? Three, three and a half. He made a prompt resolution to turn cold towards him.
“Everyone asks me that,” he said. “How am I getting along. As though it were the most difficult thing. You know, the hills here are the same as our hills. They seem to think I live in a desert.”
He swung his head back and slipped the remainder of his drink down his gullet.
“That’s not really what I meant,” said Laurent. “But, yes, that is silly. Try not to take it to heart. Unless a man has travelled, how is he to know?” He cleared his throat. “Actually Midhat, I have some news. I need to tell you.”
Midhat stared again at Jeannette. Her face cracked into a clear scowl. Her lips moved, she was saying something to Sylvain. Then she turned, and forced her way out of the room.
He must follow her. Bodies gave way under his hands like palm fronds. He reached the hall, and the doorway grazed his shoulder. Checked the exit points: front door, no; back door, no. Dining room, no. Stairs, no. He moved over to the coat stand by the front door and looked down at the handle of his new umbrella. An elegant pleat was carved into the bend.
“Do you know,” came Laurent’s voice behind him. “You look like you’ve drunk rather a lot.”
“So have you.”
“No, I haven’t. I just feel quite relaxed.”
“I didn’t know you loved Jeannette.”
“Yes. We were close at one point. You know how these things are. But I was being serious, I have something to tell you.”
“You love Jeannette.”
“No, not that. It’s that I’m going to war. In three weeks, after Christmas.”
The umbrella fell from Midhat’s hand and sighed as it lay upon the others. Laurent faced the open salon door, hands in pockets, arms very straight, as if he were cold. Midhat reached for his elbow.
“Of course it’s wretched,” said Laurent. “But we knew it was going to happen. I’ll be working as a doctor, actually, or something medical, which is … I mean, it means I won’t be on the front line. I worry about Xavier. You know”—he turned—“I feel guilty. They need doctors, but I can’t help feeling … but nothing is perfect, is it? It will be sad to say goodbye to you, dear Midhat.” He gripped Midhat’s shoulder, and shook it a little. “It has been wonderful. Oh, please don’t be like that. I’m supposed to be pleased.”
“My friend,” said Midhat, stricken.
“Yes.”
“Wait. Wait. I have a gift. Please wait, just here.”
Laurent closed his eyes on a half smile and nodded. Midhat climbed the stairs, keeping his eyes on Laurent’s blond head, watching as he shifted the pile of coats on the chaise longue and made a space to sit down. Around Laurent’s head Midhat drew a careful, stumbling circle, holding the banister. He grabbed the gold watch from his bedside and cradled it back down in two hands.
“Laurent. Please.”
“Oh no, Midhat. That’s too much.”