The Spy Quartet. Len Deighton

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      ‘An English friend of Monsieur Byrd,’ Jean-Paul repeated as he took my hand and shook it. ‘Enchanted.’ His handshake was gentle and diffident as though he was ashamed to look so much like a film star.

      ‘Jean-Paul speaks no English,’ said Byrd.

      ‘It is too complicated,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘I speak a little but I do not understand what you say in reply.’

      ‘Precisely,’ said Byrd. ‘That’s the whole idea of English. Foreigners can communicate information to us but Englishmen can still talk together without an outsider being able to comprehend.’ His face was stern, then he smiled primly. ‘Jean-Paul’s a good fellow just the same: a painter.’ He turned to him. ‘Busy day, Jean?’

      ‘Busy, but I didn’t get much done.’

      ‘Must keep at it, my boy. You’ll never be a great painter unless you learn to apply yourself.’

      ‘Oh but one must find oneself. Proceed at one’s own speed,’ said Jean-Paul.

      ‘Your speed is too slow,’ Byrd pronounced, and handed Jean-Paul a glass of sherry without having asked him what he wanted. Jean turned to me, anxious to explain his apparent laziness. ‘It is difficult to begin a painting – it’s a statement – once the mark is made one has to relate all later brush-strokes to it.’

      ‘Nonsense,’ said Byrd. ‘Simplest thing in the world to begin, tricky though pleasurable to proceed with, but difficult – dammed difficult – to end.’

      ‘Like a love affair,’ I said. Jean laughed. Byrd flushed and scratched the side of his nose.

      ‘Ah. Work and women don’t mix. Womanizing and loose living is attractive at the time, but middle age finds women left sans beauty, and men sans skills; result misery. Ask your friend Monsieur Datt about that.’

      ‘Are you a friend of Datt?’ Jean-Paul asked.

      ‘I hardly know him,’ I said. ‘I was asking Byrd about him.’

      ‘Don’t ask too many questions,’ said Jean. ‘He is a man of great influence; Count of Périgord it is said, an ancient family, a powerful man. A dangerous man. He is a doctor and a psychiatrist. They say he uses LSD a great deal. His clinic is as expensive as any in Paris, but he gives the most scandalous parties there too.’

      ‘What’s that?’ said Byrd. ‘Explain.’

      ‘One hears stories,’ said Jean. He smiled in embarrassment and wanted to say no more, but Byrd made an impatient movement with his hand, so he continued. ‘Stories of gambling parties, of highly placed men who have got into financial trouble and found themselves …’ he paused ‘… in the bath.’

      ‘Does that mean dead?’

      ‘It means “in trouble”, idiom,’ explained Byrd to me in English.

      ‘One or two important men took their own lives,’ said Jean. ‘Some said they were in debt.’

      ‘Damned fools,’ said Byrd. ‘That’s the sort of fellows in charge of things today, no stamina, no fibre; and that fellow Datt is a party to it, eh? Just as I thought. Oh well, chaps won’t be told today. Experience better bought than taught they say. One more sherry and we’ll go to dinner. What say to La Coupole? It’s one of the few places still open where we don’t have to reserve.’

      Annie the model reappeared in a simple green shirtwaist dress. She kissed Jean-Paul in a familiar way and said good evening to each of us.

      ‘Early in the morning,’ Byrd said as he paid her. She nodded and smiled.

      ‘An attractive girl,’ Jean-Paul said after she had gone.

      ‘Yes,’ I said.

      ‘Poor child,’ said Byrd. ‘It’s a hard town for a young girl without money.’

      I’d noticed her expensive crocodile handbag and Charles Jourdan shoes, but I didn’t comment.

      ‘Want to go to an art show opening Friday? Free champagne.’ Jean-Paul produced half a dozen gold-printed invitations, gave one to me and put one on Byrd’s easel.

      ‘Yes, we’ll go to that,’ said Byrd; he was pleased to be organizing us. ‘Are you in your fine motor, Jean?’ Byrd asked.

      Jean nodded.

      Jean’s car was a white Mercedes convertible. We drove down the Champs with the roof down. We wined and dined well and Jean-Paul plagued us with questions like do the Americans drink Coca-Cola because it’s good for their livers.

      It was nearly one A.M. when Jean dropped Byrd at the studio. He insisted upon driving me back to my room over Le Petit Légionnaire. ‘I am especially glad you came tonight,’ he said. ‘Byrd thinks that he is the only serious painter in Paris, but there are many of us who work equally hard in our own way.’

      ‘Being in the navy,’ I said, ‘is probably not the best of training for a painter.’

      ‘There is no training for a painter. No more than there is training for life. A man makes as profound a statement as he is able. Byrd is a sincere man with a thirst for knowledge of painting and an aptitude for its skills. Already his work is attracting serious interest here in Paris and a reputation in Paris will carry you anywhere in the world.’

      I sat there for a moment nodding, then I opened the door of the Mercedes and got out. ‘Thanks for the ride.’

      Jean-Paul leaned across the seat, offered me his card and shook my hand. ‘Phone me,’ he said, and – without letting go of my hand – added, ‘If you want to go to the house in the Avenue Foch I can arrange that too. I’m not sure I can recommend it, but if you have money to lose I’ll introduce you. I am a close friend of the Count; last week I took the Prince of Besacoron there – he is another very good friend of mine.’

      ‘Thanks,’ I said, taking the card. He stabbed the accelerator and the motor growled. He winked and said, ‘But no recriminations afterward.’

      ‘No,’ I agreed. The Mercedes slid forward.

      I watched the white car turn on to the Avenue with enough momentum to make the tyres howl. The Petit Légionnaire was closed. I let myself in by the side entrance. Datt and my landlord were still sitting at the same table as they had been that afternoon. They were still playing Monopoly. Datt was reading from his Community Chest card, ‘Allez en prison. Avancez tout droit en prison. Ne passez pas par la case “Départ”. Ne recevez pas Frs 20.000.’ My landlord laughed, so did M. Datt.

      ‘What will your patients say?’ said my landlord.

      ‘They are very understanding,’ said Datt; he seemed to take the whole game seriously. Perhaps he got more out of it that way.

      I tiptoed upstairs. I could see right across Paris. Through the dark city the red neon arteries of the tourist industry flowed from Pigalle through Montmartre to Boul. Mich., Paris’s great self-inflicted wound.

      Joe chirped. I read Jean’s card. ‘“Jean-Paul Pascal, artist painter”. And good СКАЧАТЬ