Читать книгу The Paris Herald - James Oliver Goldsborough - Страница 11

Ben Swart stepped into the rickety elevator, clanked the outside metal door, slid shut the inside wooden gate, and pressed number four, which took him to the fifth floor. The elevator was a relic. One day it jerked to a stop between floors, trapping him. He pushed every button but red SECOURS, which would have been too embarrassing, and stomped a few times before deciding that stomping was not a good idea. Nothing worked until, like an angry ape in its cage, he began rattling the gate, apparently rattling it closed. The thing started up with a spine-shattering jolt and he continued on his way down.

Stepping off on the fifth floor, he carefully closed the gate and door and sent the elevator back down, which he sometimes forgot to do. He headed into his office, wondering what Martine was wearing. Whatever it was it would be more than she’d had on a few hours earlier. Even when Norma was in the States and he slept over with her he always left early, enjoying the walk from her little place off the avenue Mozart to his house in Villa Montmorency. Better not to arrive together at the Herald. She should arrive first. She was, after all, his secretary – in addition to the other thing.

Spring had come and she was dressed in a tight sleeveless yellow jumper. It was new and he liked it.

“The Elysée Palace called,” she said, not looking up. Sometimes when he left her too early she came in cranky. He’d never taken her to his house, which with the neighbors and friends of his children was risky. “They’d like you and Mr. Stein to come down at four today – if that is convenient of course. I am to call them back.”

“The Elysée Palace?” he said, surprised. “Who, de Gaulle himself?”

“No, not the president.” She was cranky. Perhaps tomorrow he’d take her to breakfast. “You have an appointment with M. Henri de Saint-Gaudens, chief of staff.”

“Sonny and me?”

“Sonny and you.”

“Why Sonny?”

She didn’t bother to answer.

“Why me?”

“How should I know?”

“You didn’t ask?”

Finally she looked up and he could see the color in her face. God how he loved her when she was like that. “Of course I asked.”

She was making him squeeze it out of her. “He must have said something.”

“Something about the future of the Herald.”

“Ah. I don’t suppose you were speaking English to him.”

“Why would two French people be speaking in English?”

“Do you know if he speaks English?” How could women be comfortable in clothes that tight, he wondered.

“It would be extraordinary,” she said, slowly, “for a Frenchman in his position not to speak several foreign languages.”

“Yes, yes, I know how superior you all are, but sometimes they won’t speak English. De Gaulle, they say, speaks English. The man lived in England for three years – how could he not speak English? He simply refuses. Apparently he wouldn’t even speak English to Churchill. You’d better come with us today.”

“Of course I won’t come with you,” she said. “When M. de Saint-Gaudens sees that you both are – how should I put it – linguistically inadequate, I’m sure he will accommodate you.”

“Have you told Sonny?”

“He isn’t in yet. I left the message with Connie.”

Swart felt a little nervous. “So what’s this all about? Why is the Elysée suddenly interested in the future of the Herald? I didn’t even know de Gaulle read the Herald. Of course even if he did he wouldn’t admit it. Apparently he won’t even serve whiskey at receptions anymore – either kind. He hates us equally.”

She smiled. “Perhaps, but I hear the champagne is very good.”

Now she was being snotty. “Say – whose side are you on?”

“Must I choose?”

She was making him angry – deliberately. “Tell Connie to have Sonny come up when he’s in.”

“Yes, sir!”

Al and Helen Lodge walked in after lunch at the Val d’Isère, the rue de Berri’s best restaurant. “Sonny back yet?” Helen asked.

“He’s upstairs with Ben Swart,” Connie said. “They’ve been summoned to the Elysée Palace this afternoon.”

“Whaaat?” said Helen.

Helen and Connie had a decent enough relationship, more or less the same relationship as Al had with Sonny, which is to say they would never have been friends if they weren’t colleagues though they might have been friendlier as colleagues if Al and Sonny had been closer. Helen was friendly with Rachel Stein, Sonny’s wife, and Connie knew it, which was part of the problem.

Sonny saw the surprise on the Lodges’ faces when he walked in.

“Don’t ask because all I know is that the Elysée wants to see us at four. I didn’t even know de Gaulle read the Herald.”

“Tea with the General,” said Helen, “how quaint. Take notes, Sonny, and we’ll run it on the back page.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Sonny,” she said, “before you disappear, here’s my thought. With Steve Fleming gone, we need a Paris features writer. What about Archer?”

“Hey, we’ve just made him into a decent editor.”

“We’ve got Wayne back,” said Al.

“Oh, the Times didn’t offer him enough?”

“Something like that,” said Helen. “Anyway, I need someone. He says he speaks French so why not try it?”

“What, he learned French in six months?”

“Some do, you know. Anyway, here’s how we find out. This new book everyone’s talking about–le Défi Américain, by our neighbor at l’Express, Servan-Schreiber. We’ll have Archer do a book review for the back page.”

“The one about America taking over Europe?”

“That’s it.”

“It’s in English?”

“Not yet. They’re translating it as The American Challenge. Jean-Jacques called me about it.”

“Are you sure you want to give it to Archer?”

“I’m sure.”

“OK by me.” He turned toward his office and motioned for Connie to follow. “Say, by the way. That thing with Fleming was weird. He never even came in to say good-bye.”

“He called,” said Al. “Said L.A. wanted him right away. Apologized – said they were on their way.”

“It had something to do with her miscarriage,” said Connie.

“Probably did,” said Helen.

At 3:30 that afternoon Swart and Stein set out on foot for the Elysée Palace, down the rue de Berri, right on the rue d’Artois, angling over to Faubourg St.-Honoré. It was a short pleasant spring walk, acacias budding, shops lively, a walk they’d made many times though never together and never heading for the Elysée. When Swart went that way he was usually going to see Charlie McCloud, a crony of Jock Whitney’s who since being named ambassador had become his own friend, though Norma’s absences were making socializing difficult. With his own money, McCloud had renovated a beautiful old mansion next to the Elysée purchased a few years before by the State Department. Just beyond the new residence was the British Embassy, where Swart had also been a guest.

When Sonny Stein went that way it was because he’d taken the evening off and was walking Connie home to her place in the Marais. In truth it was their place since he’d moved out of the house on the rue Vaugirard that he shared with Rachel. Sonny had never been to the Elysée. He’d been a few times to ambassador’s residence and once to a garden party at the British Embassy. What struck him was that the front gardens of the Elysée, the U.S. residence, and the British Embassy all connected with each other, separated only by a few hedges. Someone could just pop over for a cup of sugar. He liked walking with Ben. In New York they used to walk together around Bryant Park after lunch at Manny’s deli on Forty-Fourth Street. This was their first walk together in Paris.

A blue-uniformed member of the Garde républicain stopped them at the entrance and took them into a little office where passports and French identity cards were checked against a list of visitors. A call was made and they were led across the courtyard, up the broad marble stairs on which de Gaulle greeted foreign dignitaries, through the main entrance, past gilded furniture and ancient tapestries, and upstairs to the first floor. Apart from the uniformed huissier who guided them, they saw no one else. They entered an anteroom, took seats on an antique sofa under a tapestry showing a fleet of longboats and a helmeted warrior with sword ready to debark.

“William the Conqueror,” said Swart, “about to make England French.”

In front of them the wide Elysée lawns and gardens stretched toward the trees of the Parc Champs Elysées.

A well-tailored French woman emerged from an inner office and M. de Saint-Gaudens was at the door to receive them. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he said in impeccable English, leading them into a spacious inner salon. “I know how busy you are and won’t intrude on you for long.” He motioned toward a corner alcove where a tea service was set out.

Henri de Saint-Gaudens looked his name and looked his position. He was tall, pinstriped with silver hair, an aquiline nose, and thin, pale lips in a face that would no doubt wear that same ironic smile whatever the circumstances. It was the face of a French diplomat – an aristocratic French diplomat – long, elegant, world-weary behind hooded eyes. His English was of England, not America. He made pleasant small talk while pouring tea from the Limoges service and inviting them to help themselves from the plate of madeleines.

“I read the Herald every day, gentlemen, do you know that?”

Ben smiled, but Sonny couldn’t resist nodding toward the gilded double doors leading deeper into the palace. “And…?”

“Ah, you wonder if the General…” he chuckled and sipped his tea. “All the Paris newspapers are on his desk each morning, Mr. Stein. Naturally, I cannot say which ones he reads and which he does not. But all are there.” He gazed outside at the gardens. “Paris in the springtime. I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. Can you?”

“Certainly not New York,” said Stein.

“You are both from New York?”

“We both worked there,” said Swart. “I’m from Rhode Island.”

“Ah, Rhode Island, of course. Then you know of the Battle of Newport, where the French under Admiral d’Estaing destroyed five British frigates during your revolution. I believe it was 1778, was it not?”

“August eighth, 1778,” said Swart. “And a fierce storm then drove the French fleet into Boston harbor for repairs. I was in the navy. We studied that battle. Do you know Rhode Island?”

“Lamentably, no. I’ve spent a good deal of time in the States over the years, Washington mainly, but with a bit of traveling, regrettably never to Newport. Washington in springtime is very nice. Summer not so nice.”

“Neither is New York,” said Swart. “Perhaps sometime when we’re both in the States you will come up to Newport. We have lovely summers. Do you sail?”

“My paternal family is from Saint-Gaudens, of course, landlocked in the Pyrenees, but on my mother’s side they are sailors. La Rochelle – do you know it? You have a New Rochelle in New York, I believe. On my mother’s mother’s side, the family is from Orléans. Surely you know Orléans.”

They nodded. M. de Saint-Gaudens dipped a madeleine into his tea and bit into it.

“What we see here, gentlemen, are some of the – how should I say it – the common points between our two countries, the history we share. We both know it; we don’t have to go over it – Admiral d’Estaing, Lafayette, Pershing, Normandy, Newport, New Rochelle, New Orleans. It is a long list.”

“Very long,” said Swart, “very impressive.”

“A friend of mine at the Quai d’Orsay – I am a diplomat, you may know, seconded to the presidency. In any case, my friend likes to refer to Franco-American ties as de la sauce Lafayette.”

The Americans smiled.

“It may be de la sauce Lafayette, but it is a rich, wholesome sauce, sauce that is good for everyone. Good for the world, you might say. For two hundred years we’ve always stood together. Despite our differences, despite Algeria, despite Vietnam, the basis of our friendship is – de la sauce Lafayette, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Absolutely,” said Stein, a touch giddy with the magnificence of it all but with no clue where Saint-Gaudens was going.

“Oh,” said de Saint-Gaudens, “how could I have failed to mention Bennett? Few have done more to make la sauce Lafayette rich and savory than James Gordon Bennett, Jr. Wouldn’t you agree?”

For the first time Swart understood the purpose of the visit and wondered how Saint-Gaudens could possibly have heard and why he would be interested. Theo le Tac’s trips to Zurich, Munich, and Geneva were the Herald’s most guarded secret. On the second floor only Sonny (and probably Connie) knew, and on the fifth floor only Martine and le Tac. In the basement, where Tonton Pinard ruled, no one could possibly know.

“They tell me the Herald is the second oldest daily newspaper in Paris, just behind Le Figaro. In two years you will celebrate your eightieth anniversary in Paris – eighty years – do you know that’s longer than Louis XIV ruled? Imagine that.” He looked from one to the other, the delicate smile never leaving his lips. “We would like to help you celebrate your anniversary. What better way could there be to cement our friendship?”

“I can’t think of any,” said Swart, wondering why the seventy-fifth might not have been even better. “What a generous offer.”

“So you accept?”

Lying in bed that night, he told Martine he’d felt intimidated and had Suzy look up Henri de Saint-Gaudens in the library: noble family, distinguished diplomatic career as first secretary in Washington and Bonn, ambassadorships in Italy and the Netherlands, poised to be named ambassador to the court of Saint-James when called by de Gaulle to the Elysée. In 1940 he’d been among the first of the diplomatic corps to join the General in London and later was dropped behind German lines in France.

“Impossible,” Swart said, running his hand over her silky body, “not to be impressed. A man like that, you know it in your gut, is afraid of nothing – not the Gestapo, not torture, nothing. A man who knows how to die.”

“I’m sure you held your own,” she reassured him.

“I can see why he’s chief of staff – tough, elegant, well-honed steel.”

“But how did he know about le Tac?” she said. “It must be through the unions.”

“The CGT is not present in the cities Theo visited.”

“No, but there are communists in the unions in those cities. They keep in touch with each other, you know.” She ran her hand through his fine blond hair. “Did he explain why the Elysée wants to help?”

“Not exactly.”

“Did he explain how the Elysée wants to help?”

“He was vague about it. He knew the Herald Tribune had folded and that we were on our own. He knew Whitney was talking to people about buying in. He knew we had someone going around Europe looking at other sites.”

“So he knew everything.”

“He knows more than I do. And then came the strange part – how much the government can do to help us, not to think that because we have certain problems – taxes, unions, distribution, et cetera – that solutions can’t be found. French law is more flexible, he said, leaves more room for the human element.”

“The French way.”

Surprised, he came up to an elbow. “Exactly. How did you know he said that?”

“I’m French.”

He chuckled. “Speaking of the French way, I told him how one of our managers once tried to fire a union maintenance worker for putting French toilet paper in the johns, the scratchy stuff we can’t stand – you know, the stuff you use.”

She pinched him. “Don’t be rude.”

“We kept telling old Pierrot to put in American toilet paper and he kept refusing. ‘If it’s good enough for us it’s good enough for you,’ he said.”

She rolled over to him. “Good for old Pierrot.”

“Old Pierrot had twenty years seniority, I told Saint-Gaudens. It would have cost us a half million francs to fire him. That’s the French way. It was the only time he laughed all afternoon – threw back his head, showed his teeth and belly-laughed.”

“Why does de Gaulle care if the Herald stays in Paris?”

“The Herald makes Paris seem like the center of Europe.”

She snuggled closer. “We like being the center of attention.”