Villa Triste (7 page)

If I could find one of the tourist information office’s programs — white cover and, in green, the Casino and the silhouette of a woman drawn in the style of Jean-Gabriel Domergue — I could read the list of festivities and their exact dates, and that would give me some reference points.

One evening we went to see Georges Ulmer, who was singing at the Sporting Club. I believe this happened at the beginning of July, and it must have been five or six days after I’d moved in with Yvonne. Meinthe went with us. Ulmer wore a very creamy light blue suit I couldn’t take my eyes off of. That velvety blue had a hypnotic power over me, so much so that I nearly fell asleep staring at it.

Meinthe suggested we have a drink. In the semidarkness, surrounded by dancing people, I heard them talk about the Houligant Cup for the first time. I remembered the light airplane and its enigmatic streamer. Yvonne was concerned about the Houligant Cup. It was the prize in a sort of concours d’elegance. According to Meinthe, you had to own a luxury automobile to take part in the competition. Would they use the Dodge, or would they rent a car in Geneva? (It was Meinthe who raised this question.) Yvonne wanted to try her luck. The jury was composed of various well-known personalities: the president
of the Chavoires golf club and his wife; the president of the tourist information office; Haute-Savoie’s sub-prefect; André de Fouquières (I jumped when I heard that name and asked Meinthe to repeat it: yes, it was indeed André de Fouquières, long known as “the arbiter of elegance,” whose interesting memoirs I’d read); Monsieur and Madame Sandoz, the managers of the Windsor Hotel; the former skiing champion Daniel Hendrickx, owner of very chic sports shops in Megève and l’Alpe d’Huez (the man Meinthe called a “swine”); a film director whose name has escaped me (something like Gamonge or Gamace); and, finally, the dancer José Torres.

Meinthe too was excited about the contest, delighted by the prospect of competing for the Cup as Yvonne’s gallant cavalier. His role would be limited to driving the car up the Sporting Club’s long gravel drive and stopping in front of the jury. Then he was to get out and open Yvonne’s door for her. The Great Dane would naturally be part of the show.

Meinthe assumed an air of mystery and, with a wink, handed me an envelope: the list of contestants for the Cup. He and Yvonne were the last couple entered, number 32. “Doctor R. C. Meinthe and Mademoiselle Yvonne Jacquet” (her family name has just come back to me). The Houligant Cup was awarded on the same date each year for “beauty and elegance.” The organizers of the contest managed to create a fair amount of hype for their event, so much so that — as Meinthe explained to me — it sometimes got mentioned in the Paris newspapers. According to him, taking part in it would be an excellent career move for Yvonne.

And when we got up from the table to dance, she couldn’t stop asking me what I thought: should she, yes or no, compete for the Cup? A serious problem. There was confusion in her look. I saw Meinthe sitting there alone with his “light” port. He was shading his eyes with his left hand. Could he possibly be crying? Now and then he and Yvonne seemed vulnerable and disoriented (disoriented is the exact word).

But of course she had to take part in the Houligant Cup. Of course. It was important for her career. With a little luck, she’d be Miss Houligant. Indeed she would. Besides, they had all started off that way.

Meinthe decided to use the Dodge. If he got it polished the day before the contest, it was still capable of making a positive impression. The beige convertible hood was practically new.

As the days passed and Sunday July 9 got closer and closer, Yvonne showed ever-increasing signs of nervousness. She knocked over glasses, she couldn’t sit still, she spoke harshly to the dog. And in return he would give her a look both merciful and mild.

Meinthe and I tried to reassure her. Competing for the Cup would certainly be less demanding than making the movie. Five little minutes. A few steps in front of the jury. Nothing else. And, should she lose, the consolation of knowing that among all the contestants, she was the only one who’d already acted in a film. A professional, in a way.

We ought not to be unprepared, Meinthe opined, and he proposed a dress rehearsal on Friday afternoon, on a wide,
shaded avenue behind the Alhambra Hotel. I sat on a garden chair and represented the jury. The Dodge slowly moved forward. Yvonne fixed her lips in a strained smile. Meinthe drove with his right hand. The dog turned his back to them and remained immobile, like a figurehead on a ship.

Meinthe pulled up directly in front of me and, bracing his left hand on the car door, sprang vigorously over it. He landed elegantly, legs together, back straight. He dipped his head, sketching a bow, walked around the Dodge with neat little steps, and deftly opened Yvonne’s door. She got out, holding the dog tightly by the collar, and took a few timid steps. The Great Dane cast his eyes down. They got back in the car, and Meinthe leaped over the driver’s door again, regaining his post behind the wheel. I admired his agility.

He was determined to repeat this act in front of the jury. Couldn’t wait to see the look on Doudou Hendrickx’s face.

The evening before, Yvonne wanted to drink champagne. Then she slept restlessly. She was the little girl on the day of the school pageant, almost in tears before stepping up onto the stage.

Meinthe had made a morning appointment with us: in the lobby, ten o’clock sharp. The Cup was scheduled to begin at noon, but he needed some time beforehand to see to certain details: general inspection of the Dodge, various instructions for Yvonne, and maybe also some stretching exercises.

He insisted on being present at Yvonne’s final preparations. When she hesitated between a fuchsia turban and a
big straw hat, he cut her off impatiently: “The turban, my dear, the turban.” She’d chosen a white linen coat dress. Meinthe was wearing a sand-colored shantung suit. I’ve got a good memory for clothes.

We went out into the sun, Yvonne, Meinthe, the dog, and I. I’ve never known such a July morning, either before or since. A light breeze stirred the big flag flying from the top of a mast in front of the hotel. Blue and gold. What country’s colors were those?

We coasted down Boulevard Carabacel.

The other contestants’ cars were already parked on both sides of the very wide drive that led to the Sporting Club. Upon hearing their names and numbers called out over a loudspeaker, the couples had to present themselves at once before the members of the jury, who were installed on the restaurant terrace. As the drive ended in a rotary below them, they would be looking down on the proceedings.

Meinthe had ordered me to place myself as close as possible to the jury and to observe the competition for the Cup in meticulous detail. I was to pay particular attention to Doudou Hendrickx’s face when Meinthe performed his acrobatic routine. If necessary, I could jot down some notes.

We sat in the Dodge and waited. Yvonne virtually glued her forehead to the rearview mirror and checked her makeup. Meinthe had donned some strange steel-rimmed sunglasses and was patting his chin and temples with his handkerchief. I stroked the dog, who turned upon each of us, one by one, a look of desolation. We were parked alongside a tennis court where four players — two men and two women — were engaged in a match, and in an attempt to
distract Yvonne, I pointed out that one of the men resembled the French comic actor Fernandel. “What if it’s him?” I suggested. But Yvonne didn’t hear me. Her hands were shaking. Meinthe concealed his anxiety behind a little cough. He turned on the radio, which drowned out the monotonous and exasperating sound of the tennis balls. We stayed there unmoving, the three of us, our hearts beating, as we listened to a news bulletin. Finally, the loudspeaker announced, “Will the contestants for this year’s Houligant Elegance Cup please make themselves ready.” Then, two or three minutes later: “Couple number 1, Madame and Monsieur Jean Hatmer!” Meinthe grimaced nervously. I kissed Yvonne and wished her good luck, and then I took an alternate path to the Sporting Club restaurant. I was feeling pretty emotional myself.

The jury was seated behind a row of white wooden tables, each adorned with a green-and-red parasol. A great press of spectators crowded around. Some were lucky enough to be sitting down and drinking aperitifs; others remained on their feet, dressed in their beach attire. In accordance with Meinthe’s wishes, I slipped through the throng and got as close to the judges as I could, close enough to spy on them.

I immediately recognized André de Fouquières, whose photographs I’d seen on the covers of his works (my father’s favorite books, which he’d recommended to me, and which had given me great pleasure). Fouquières wore a Panama hat with a navy blue silk band. His chin rested on the palm of his right hand, and his face expressed elegant weariness. He was bored. At his age, all these summer
holidaymakers in their bikinis and their leopard-skin swimsuits looked like so many Martians. Nobody here to talk to about Émilienne d’Alençon or La Gándara. Except for me, had the occasion arisen.

The man in his fifties with the leonine head, blond hair (did he dye it?), and suntanned skin: Doudou Hendrickx, for sure. Talking nonstop to his neighbors, laughing loudly. He had blue eyes and emitted an aura of healthy, dynamic vulgarity. A woman, a brunette very bourgeois in appearance, was smiling knowingly at him: the Chavoires golf club president’s wife, or the tourist office president’s wife? Madame Sandoz? Gamange (or Gamonge), the cinema man — that must have been the guy with the tortoiseshell glasses and the business suit: gray with narrow white stripes, double-breasted jacket. If I make an effort, a personage of about fifty, with wavy gray-blue hair and a greedy mouth, appears before me. He kept his nose in the air, and his chin too, doubtless wishing to look energetic and supervise everything. The sub-prefect? Monsieur Sandoz? And what about José Torres, the dancer? No, he hadn’t come.

Already a garnet-red Peugeot 203 convertible was proceeding up the drive. It came to a halt in the middle of the rotary, and out stepped a woman wearing a puffy dress and carrying a miniature poodle in one arm. The man remained behind the wheel. The woman took a few steps in front of the jury. She was wearing black shoes with stiletto heels. A peroxide blonde of the type supposedly preferred by ex–King Farouk of Egypt, about whom my father had spoken so often and whose hand he claimed to have kissed. The man with wavy gray-blue hair announced “Madame Jean
Hatmer” in a toothy voice, molding each syllable of the name. She let go her miniature poodle, which landed on its paws, and began to walk, trying to imitate runway models in fashion shows: eyes vacant, head afloat. Then she got back into the Peugeot. Feeble applause. Her husband had a crew cut. I noticed how tense his face was. He backed up and executed a deft U-turn; you could tell he considered it a point of honor to drive as well as possible. He must have polished his Peugeot himself, to make it shine so bright. I decided they were a young married couple, the man an engineer from a respectable upper-middle-class family, the woman of humbler origins, both good at sports. And following my habit of setting everything somewhere, I imagined them living in a “cozy” little apartment on Rue du Docteur Blanche, in Auteuil.

Other contestants followed in their turn. Alas, I’ve forgotten all but a few of them. The thirtyish Eurasian woman, for example, with her fat, red-haired escort. They were in an aqua-green Nash convertible. When she got out of the car, she took one robotic step toward the jury and then stopped. She was seized with nervous trembling. Her panic-stricken eyes darted all around her, but she didn’t move her head. The big redhead in the Nash called to her: “Monique … Monique … Monique …” and it sounded like a lament, an entreaty meant to soothe an exotic and mistrustful animal. He too got out of the car and took her by the hand. He pushed her gently down onto her seat. She burst into tears. Then they roared away, wheels spinning in the gravel, nearly sideswiping the jury when they turned. They were followed by a nice sexagenarian couple whose names
I remember: Jackie and Tounette Roland-Michel. They drove up in a gray Studebaker and presented themselves to the judges together. Tall and red haired with an energetic, equine face, she was dressed in tennis clothes. He was of medium stature, with a little mustache, a substantial nose, a mocking smile, and the physique of a real Frenchman as imagined by a Californian film producer. An important couple, for sure, because the guy with the gray-blue hair announced: “Our friends Tounette and Jackie Roland-Michel.” Three or four members of the jury (among them the brunette and Daniel Hendrickx) applauded. As for Fouquières, he didn’t even deign to honor them with a glance. They inclined their heads in a synchronized bow. They looked quite fit, the two of them, and most pleased with themselves.

“Number 32. Mademoiselle Yvonne Jacquet and Doctor René Meinthe.” I thought I was going to faint. At first I couldn’t see anything, as if I’d suddenly jumped up after spending the whole day lying on a sofa. And the voice that pronounced their names reverberated on all sides. I gripped the shoulder of someone sitting in front of me and realized too late that it was André de Fouquières. He turned around. I stammered some feeble excuses. It was impossible for me to remove my hand from his shoulder. I had to lean back and bring my arm to my chest, little by little, tensing my body to combat the heavy torpor I felt. I didn’t see them drive up in the Dodge. Meinthe stopped the car in front of the jury. The headlights were on. My faintness gave way to a sort of euphoria, in which my perceptions became abnormally sharp. Meinthe sounded the horn three times, and
several judges looked somewhat astonished. Fouquières himself seemed interested. Daniel Hendrickx had a smile on his face, but in my opinion it was forced. Besides, was it really a smile? No, a frozen sneer. They didn’t budge from the car. Meinthe was flashing the headlights on and off. What did he think he was doing? He turned on the windshield wipers. Yvonne’s face was smooth, impenetrable. And suddenly, Meinthe jumped. A murmur ran through the jury, the spectators. There was no comparison between this jump and the one he’d made at Friday’s “rehearsal.” Not content with clearing the door, he bounded up over it, rose into the air, spread his legs crisply, and made a nimble landing, all in one fluid movement, a single electrical discharge. And I could sense so much rage, nervousness, and fanciful provocation in his gesture that I applauded. He walked around the Dodge, stopping from time to time and standing stock-still, as though he were crossing a minefield. Every member of the jury was watching him, openmouthed. He seemed to be in certain danger, and when he finally opened the door, some judges breathed a sigh of relief.