I remember it as if it was yesterday. The expedition took place the morning after an extraordinary dinner party during which the maestro had, if anything, only added to his reputation as the most entertaining and distinguished of hosts. As instructed, I’d served the guests two cases of the finest champagne and tiny spiced shrimp-stuffed crêpes, each separately prepared in special molds shaped like the hands and feet of babies. No one, not the women in black gowns, their necklines adorned with pearls and diamonds that floated like lifeboats adrift on the flushed and rising swells of their exposed cleavage, nor the orchestra executives, politicians and critics in their stiff coats, dared comment on the host’s seersucker tuxedo and fox-fur gloves nor utter so much as a word about the personalized organic favors which decorated each guest’s plate.
It was still dark when Ylek burst into my room in a flash of sudden light, his purple hip-length waders squeaking as he walked, his fishing gear posed at the ready, his distinctive ten-inch cigarette erect in its silver holder, and shouted, “Antony, my faithful Moor, resurrect yourself at once, quit for today your flirtations with death and rise, for the fish are waiting in legions to be taken! And do hurry, as I fear the sunrise will spoil everything.”
I distinctly remember sitting upright in my bed, straightening the tassel of my red velvet nightcap and checking the clock on my nightstand: it was precisely three hours after midnight. Though the maestro had never before displayed the least interest in sportsmanship or open-air adventuring, indeed had, to the contrary, often passionately and persuasively declaimed against what he called “the conspiracy and horror of the giantess nature,” do not think that I was surprised, only a bit stunned by the dizzying suddenness of my climb up from the deep vault of sleep.
I rolled out of bed and reached for my dressing gown and slippers, but the maestro, passionately involved with this new undertaking, insisted: “No time for that my dear fellow,” he said, tapping ashes onto the white carpet as he directed my attention to a sturdily wrapped packet at the foot of the bed. Inside, I found everything I needed: rubber boots, camouflage trousers with neatly tailored cuffs, a red chamois shirt and matching camouflage bow tie, and a canvas waistcoat with dozens of zippered pockets filled with an exquisite assortment of tiny bottles of colored salmon eggs, synthetic mosquitoes made from feathers and hooks, and innumerable lead balls of varying sizes and weights.
Outside, in the courtyard of our building, awaited a fully stocked military vehicle with massive axles and immense balloon tires, which Ylek had borrowed, along with its crew, from his friend, General Letruc. After Ylek had finished pointing out to me the particular features and merits of this armored transport, not the least of which was the 75mm canon enclosed in a fully rotating turret, we climbed into the machine, which promptly rumbled along the cobblestones and through the gate, past a man in uniform who hailed our departure with a sharp salute. Soon we were passing through one of the poorer districts, and Ylek lowered the hatch, dropping at each corner several printed leaflets, a stack of which he held in his lap. Then, after we’d crossed the Pont Neuf and turned toward the Champs-Elysées, the maestro hummed a most-impressive medley of lesser-known marches between puffs of his cigarette. “Que la vie d’un pecheur simple doît être douce, tellement douce,” I remember him remarking to the driver.
When we reached the Bois de Boulonge, we were met by a policeman on a motorcycle who escorted us past a barricade and onto a dirt road which wound its way through the grassy knolls and woodlands of the park proper. On we rolled through the forest darkness until we reached a stand of poplar trees, at which point we were diverted from our course via another uniformed agent with a flashlight. Suddenly we crashed through a makeshift hole in the underbrush and found ourselves at the edge of the Lac Supérieur. There the particulars of our bivouac it seems had long since been arranged, for a number of well-lit and colorful tents and pavilions, which, from their massive size, showed every indication of having once been part of a circus, dotted the shoreline, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee and baking bread permeated the chill air.
“We’ll end our fast here before confronting the wilderness,” said Ylek, pointing to the largest of the tents, a veritable big top, even as a platoon of workmen busied themselves unloading our provisions. “And try not to look so glum, Antony. If I’m not mistaken, your lip is quivering like that of a spoiled child who has been asked politely, but against his momentary desire, to run an errand for his poor mum. I should think a rustic meal taken in country air might even do you some good. You’ve had an air of constipation about you of late.” Wrapped as he was in his fur cape, the maestro could hardly be expected to appreciate the degree to which one such as I, who as it had turned out was improperly, or at least not fully, attired—that is to say without an overcoat—would suffer from the elements; hence his misdiagnosis.
“As you wish, sir,” I replied, my words vaporizing and floating in the chill air in front of my face, but already he was far ahead of me, fairly trotting toward the dozens of acquaintances, well-wishers, and vile hangers-on who had gathered out front to greet him, and I doubt that he heard me over the sudden fanfare of brass instruments that gaily exploded from one of the nearby pavilions.
At breakfast we encountered a number of tuxedoed and otherwise formally dressed musicians—mostly players of string instruments that had not been needed for the fanfare—who had come in out of the cold and were sitting around the banquet tables more or less engaged in card games. Though Ylek made great show of congratulating each of them—slapping the men on the back and insisting they each, regardless of their age and health, imbibe a small glass of eau-de-vie, and kissing the women’s hands and cheeks with practiced solemnity, some of them later confessed to me in a conspiratorial whisper that they halfway resented being roused from their beds in the middle of the night for such an impromptu performance.
Always the loyal servant, I did my best to assure them that their sacrifices, like my own, most certainly did not go unnoticed nor unappreciated, and I was careful to remind them of any number of similar gatherings in the past—his staging, for example, of Orff’s “Carmina Burana” in a champagne cave in Riems where the orchestra had been assembled in the largest underground grotto, the chorus lined the walls of the narrow passageways, and the audience was packed in like so many sardines in a tin against the sweating barrels all throughout the echoing labyrinth—that had at first seemed equally trying if not entirely outrageous but that nevertheless lived on in the minds of all who had participated, as well as many who had only learned of them second-hand or through accounts in the media, as memorable, remarkable, even legendary events.
Suddenly, Ylek clapped his hands together loudly and called for attention. His clear baritone voice resonating within the massive tent. When everyone was silent, he climbed atop one of the tables and began addressing the assembled entourage:
“First let me thank each of you, my dear friends, for joining me here in this latest installment of the joyous celebration I call life. I’ve taken the liberty of bringing with me several dozen cases of champagne with which to toast the ascension of the sun into the heavens, and I invite you to partake of this, my private bounty, my lifeblood, in the best of health. I’ve also asked some of my neighbors to join us here later this morning for what I’ve promised will be nothing short of a ‘Bucolic Holiday’ to include, among other, more spontaneous diversions, a free concert, at which I’ll be conducting Handel’s ‘Water Music,’ along with a breakfast of fresh fish, wine and warm bread. Some of you will share my pleasure in presenting this concert, as you’ve been selected to play in the orchestra. As for the rest of you, my equally-dear-though-nonmusical colleagues, I can only hope that during this musical feast you will be toasting my good name, enjoying the fruits of our watery harvest, or making love somewhere in this splendid re-creation of Eden. But first, my friends, we must all go help collect our bounty.”
At this unexpected news, a collective murmur, like a giant sighing in a fitful sleep, filled the tent. Ylek tapped his fishing pole impatiently on the tabletop.
“Oh, now, please, there’s no need to worry, as I’ve brought along everything we need to accomplish our recreational task: poles and reels aplenty, nets, buckets, stringers, fish eggs, fish cheese and fish ham, tackle boxes packed with every imaginable kind of hook, line and sinker. Furthermore, my dear friend monsieur Dupont, who oversees the public gardens of this, the most brilliant of cities, has assured me that the lake has only recently been abundantly stocked for the occasion. Alors, bon pêche!”
His speech concluded, Ylek leaped from the table and headed out into the dark hour that precedes the dawn, holding his fishing pole aloft in his hand like the eagle of an ancient legion. A sudden roar of chaotic voices filled the air, then the crowd rose up as one and followed behind him, as enthusiastic and uncertain as a noisy pack of schoolchildren on their first visit to the museum. They stopped to collect their poles and paraphernalia and hurried to find a place along the shoreline.
“Antony, cherished mahogany prince, poet of motion, won’t you select something organic with which to bait my hook?” the maestro said, as I joined his side once more. Torches set onto poles driven into the sand had been lit, casting a red glow over the scene. I set off at once and Ylek called out after me, “nothing too sublime—I don’t want to frighten the fish.” Nearby I found a wooden cask teeming with fat night crawlers, selected with tongs what I believed to be a prime specimen, and brought it hence. When I held it up for inspection Ylek clasped me firmly on the shoulder. “I can always count on you, my friend. What would I do without you?” Then he focused his full attention on the bait. “Godspeed, brave worm,” he intoned, then leaned forward and kissed the slithering creature. “Do put him on the hook now, Antony, and please, be gentle.”
When I had completed the task, the maestro handed me the pole and bid me cast the line into the water. “Now see if we don’t get a bite,” he said, “while I tend to the champagne,” then disappeared into the darkness. All up and down the shore of the artificial lake I could see men and women in evening dress baiting hooks and casting lines. At the extreme end of the pool several groups of people were engaged in launching rowboats.
By now, a faint streak of gray had appeared in the sky as an intimation of the coming dawn and I knew that Ylek would be busy distributing glasses to the many guests. For some reason, I felt foolish holding onto a pole to which was attached a string to which was attached a hook upon which I vividly imagined a crucified worm was twisting beneath the water, so with mixed feelings of guilt and relief I left the fishing pole on the sand and began serving magnums of champagne.
I admit that I was anxious to see how the others were making out, so it was with a certain glee that I approached the first group of fellow anglers. “Champagne, sir?” I asked. He shook his head no.
“I’m in no mood for celebration,” he replied sullenly. I noted in a glance that his feet were wet and muddy and he had somehow managed to wipe bait of some sort all over the front of his tuxedo trousers.
“No luck?” I asked.
“Not even a nibble.”
And so it went all up and down the shoreline. Here someone had slipped and fallen into the lake, there someone else had put a hook through her finger, and still no one had managed to catch even a single fish.
When the sun finally made its appearance it was greeted by a weak and uninspired toast. Ylek, of course, was furious, though, as always, he remained philosophical. “What do these fools expect? I create for them the atmosphere of a carnival and they complain about the cold, the deprivation of sleep, the stains on their shirts, the lack of fish in their baskets, all the while refusing to laugh, refusing to join me in a toast to the sun.” He turned to me. “Do you plan to die someday, Antony?”
His question hung in the air and I paused for a moment before answering, “Yes, of course, maestro.”
“You know, my friend, I think that we are all perhaps too comfortable at times in our little suits of skin and bones. We should try to remember that life is not a dull dinner party, but rather a feast, a celebration that is over far too soon.”
Just then a captain of the gendarmes approached and informed us that a huge crowd of unruly people had entered the park and was rapidly approaching on foot. Though reinforcements from every arrondissment had been summoned, it was doubtful that the mob could be contained. ”What will we do?” I cried out.
“Please, Antony, control yourself,” said Ylek, “champagne, captain?”
I was indeed beside myself with terror: “When they find out . . . Surely there will be a riot!”
But Ylek had already turned away and was striding purposefully, called forth, no doubt, by some mysterious inspiration. I looked at the captain, who was pulling on his moustache, his brow furrowed with worry. He hunched his shoulders, then shook his head sadly.
Then I heard the scratchy sound of a diesel engine cough once and come to life. Off in the distance, the maestro had perched himself atop our military vehicle. As the tank rumbled into position along the shoreline Ylek waved his arms and called out for everyone to clear the lake and move to a safe distance. When the area was vacated and the fatigued musicians, partygoers, cooks and workmen were standing together on the grass overlooking the lake with glazed yet bulging eyes, the turret of the tank rotated toward the water, canon barrel rising as it swiveled.
Suddenly the artillery piece fired off a round that rocked the ground we stood on and nearly sent the maestro toppling. Voices cried out in terror as the shell landed in the middle of the lake and exploded underwater. A tremendous geyser shot into the air. Then the armored vehicle turned and ambled up the grassy slope, Ylek waving happily as he rode. It came to a halt before us. “Captain,” Ylek called down, “Can you handle a boat?”
The captain hunched his shoulders again and looked blankly at me. “Do you know how to row, to manipulate the oars?” Ylek tried again.
“Yes, of course,” replied the captain.
“Excellent. Then you two climb aboard and the sergeant here will take you to where the boats are moored. And Antony, if you’ll be so kind as to collect the fish that are now floating on the surface of the lake while the captain propels you, we’ll get on with our little celebration.”
We scrambled aboard even as Ylek himself was disembarking. As we pulled away I could see the maestro shaking hands with his concertmaster and a short time later, from the middle of the lake, I heard the orchestra tuning.
And so you see, that is how Ylek, while conducting his orchestra in concert (oh, to have a recording of such a performance!) earned the reputation as the greatest fisherman in France.