30

THE BATTLE OF SALAMIS

We’re in England and Poum is putting Easter eggs in the garden for some children they have met. Of course, everyone is interested, not only the two bewildered children. But a few hours later, when the hunt starts, as usual, all the eggs have gone. My father asks her where they are, but she looks vague.

‘Poum, you must remember!’

Her mouth is so full of chocolate she can hardly speak.

‘Poum!’

She smiles that rare, unusual smile of the dispossessed, the robbed, the abandoned – the Remi Boncoeur smile in On the Road. If only there were enough chocolate in the world!

It’s a time when my father invites strange guests with sons of marriageable age, even though I would nearly be a child bride. One evening, in winter, he takes them by the pool he’s just built at the end of the last period of plenty – a swan song of luxury.

My father suddenly turns towards me: ‘Dive, Catherine!’

It does not occur to me not to jump in with my clothes on.

‘Look, she swims like a fish!’ he tells them proudly. He doesn’t have time to tell them that I can ride, run very fast and am in excellent health. He can’t add tennis because the tennis teacher gave him back his money at the end of the first lesson. He can’t add golf or bridge for the same reason. His listing of my attributes does not seem to convince them, for they depart rather quickly, taking their sons with them. Alexandre must soon leave for Paris. He’s in a bad patch. ‘The dogs are barking too hard,’ he whispers to himself, ‘the army will never get through.’ Just before his departure, he wakes me up at five o’clock in the morning, as he often does when we are together in England. We creep down the stairs; luckily there’s a thick carpet. We open the door and pass by the old yew tree.

‘The English always planted a yew tree near their house because they used yew wood to make arrows. If they needed weapons, they had some at hand. Wasn’t that clever of them? Take off your slippers!’

We step out of them and I turn around to look at the tracks of our four bare feet on the white, dew-soaked grass.

‘You know, walking in dew, especially at dawn, is the best thing for your health!’

Without warning, he clenches his fists.

‘Catherine! I am in a bit of a pickle. This is the time to remember the Battle of Salamis!’

Soon, the garden vanishes. We’re in Greece, 480 BC. He explains it to me in detail, as if everything hinged on it.

‘That night, according to Themistocles’s plan, the Athenians hid their women and children on another island and set fire to Athens, their beloved city. Hidden in a small inlet, Themistocles and his men watched their homes burn. One of the young soldiers couldn’t bear it anymore. He sprang to his feet in the boat and lifted his arm as if to strike Themistocles: “What are we waiting for? What does it matter if they are twice as many as we are? How much longer are you going to make us hide here like rats?” The old general looked at him without blinking and answered his famous phrase: “Strike me, but listen.” He was waiting for the Persian fleet to rush after them into the Salamis Strait. Then, when the Persians were stuck in the strait, he attacked. He beat them to a pulp. The Persian, Xerxes, who stayed at the top of a mountain to see the Greek triremes sink, had to leave with half his fleet.’

‘But wasn’t Athens burnt?’

‘Yes, but it didn’t matter. Athens was burnt, but Athens rose from its ashes to become the strongest city of the Peloponnese.’

It becomes obvious to me that in some situations you’re Themistocles, in others you’re the women and children hiding on an island, and in others you have to look at Athens burning without doing anything.

‘But the greatest general of them all was Alexander!’

We’re soon in the midst of one of Alexander the Great’s campaigns. The Sussex dawn is crowded and busy with war cries. The mysterious white garden and the clatter of battle sink into my sleepy mind. Barefoot in the Sussex winter dew, I’m not cold for a minute.

‘Alexander’s army was dying of thirst. They hadn’t had a drop of water for more than a week. Suddenly, behind a dune, a soldier found a tiny trickle of water between two rocks.’

My father squats next to me.

‘So he filled his helmet to the brim and, instead of drinking it …’

He looks at me and pauses as I nod encouragingly.

‘… Instead of drinking it, do you know what he did? He ran to give it to Alexander.’

‘That was nice of him.’

My father gets up and pulls me to my feet.

‘The whole army was thirsty, the living god just like the others. And do you know what Alexander did? He thanked the soldier, cupped the helmet between his hands and lifting it up to the sky for all the army to see, he then slowly poured it into the sand as an offering to Apollo. No wonder his men followed him to the ends of the earth!’

He drops his arms again and lapses into silence. His stories often finish abruptly, like nightfall in Africa or Inuit fairytales. Suddenly we’re back in the dew, when a few seconds earlier we were dying of thirst at the other end of the world.

‘Did they all die in the desert?’

‘Of course not! Alexander never lost a battle in his whole life. He was probably the world’s greatest military genius. One day, he was celebrating a victory in a conquered palace. He had handed over the town to his soldiers. Wine ran freely. The entire army was drunk. They broke into homes, caught the women and killed those who tried to stop them. They raided shops and storehouses, and rolled precious materials underneath their breastplates, getting their hands on anything of value.’

‘Did Alexander behave like that too?’

‘Oh, he was more drunk than anybody else.’

‘Julian the Apostate wouldn’t do that.’

‘No, Catherine. Anyway, Alexander was so drunk, he set fire to the curtains and the whole palace burnt down, then he carried on drinking in the flames and they had to drag him out bodily to another palace. You see, he thought he was a living god and nothing could harm him. He was so drunk, his friend Cleitus cried out: “Ha! Look at the god now!”’

My father raises his arm.

‘Alexander jerked up and, in a blind fury, threw a javelin at him. Cleitus, his best friend, who had fought at his side in all his battles, crumpled to the ground. Alexander had such herculean strength, he felt he had thrown a matchstick at him.’

‘Was Cleitus all right?’

Maybe there’s still a chance.

‘Oh, no, he died on the spot. The javelin went right through his heart. Brutally sobered up, Alexander shook his dead friend, crying out his name. Then he threw himself onto the body and carried it into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. You know, they didn’t always have women on their campaigns. For the Greeks, it was perfectly natural anyway.’

Sometimes my father is a little obscure.

‘Locking himself up with him, he sobbed for three days, clasping Cleitus in his arms, refusing to open the door. You know, a dead body gives out a terrible stench if you don’t bury it straightaway, especially in hot countries. When the smell became terrible, they finally managed to persuade him to open it.’

‘Was he too unhappy without Cleitus? Did he stop his conquests?’

‘Oh, no, Alexander was an extraordinary case. He never encountered defeat. One day, he was on the frontier of India next to a stone landmark. You know, at that time India was uncharted territory. They had conquered so many countries, so many people, so many palaces already. An old counsellor called Parmenion put his hand on Alexander’s shoulder and said: “If I were called Alexander, I’d stop here.” Do you know what Alexander answered?’

I shake my head, as my father puts Alexander’s hand on my shoulder.

‘I would too, if I were called Parmenion.’

‘So they went on?’

‘Of course! The old lion had lost a battle, but he hadn’t lost the war, had he, Catherine?’

I know he’s not talking about the Greek Alexander anymore. He doesn’t wait for my answer; our walk suddenly ends in large strides and when I turn my head, he’s gone.

A while later we return to Paris. The apartment has become invaded by clocks. They must have one or two clocks in each room, as if time were running thin, as if they wanted to hear it slip through their fingers. The clocks peal every hour, half or quarter of an hour, each one with a different chime. Some strike out loud and sure, others twinkle with a tiny melody or ring hesitantly with metallic or watery echoes. You never know when they’re going to go off and only the new cook can wind them up. With a practised gesture, she picks them up as a vet would handle wounded animals without getting bitten. My parents creep behind her, holding their breath.

Alexandre is still in a bad patch. Even the furniture appears to be on its tiptoes. He often speaks about Themistocles, who no one would listen to even though he was right. I try and remind him of the Carthaginians or Julian the Apostate, but it doesn’t work. The gods have changed. They’re not the same anymore.

One afternoon he picks me up at school in Neuilly – a thing that never happens. Seeing him waiting for me there, one hand on the wheel, the other waving behind the windscreen, feels like winning Waterloo if you’re English. It’s a Friday. For two whole days I won’t be going back to the dreaded place. He’s come straight from his office. Escaping from Neuilly, from school, we are driving away to I know not where. I fling my textbooks on the floor and hop in beside him. Even when I was tiny, he never put me in the back, scoffing at the idea. ‘These people, obsessed with security, they’ll all die anyway, I can tell you that,’ he’d comment. It’s summer. Paris is drunk with light. The leaves are bright green. Everyone is out on the pavement, sitting on the rickety café chairs.

‘Catherine! I have very good news. You’re going on a trip.’

‘A trip?’

‘Yes, I am going to take you to see this man in his office in the Champs Élysées and you are going off to Switzerland with him!’

‘Can’t you come too?’

‘No, that’s the whole point.’

He frowns a short while and explains.

‘You see, my little one, in the Resistance, I got used to carrying cash from one cell to the other on my bike. The important thing was to get the money safe for the next action. The important thing was not to get caught. In times of peace, things are a little different. The French are so bureaucratic and nitpicking. The administrative fixation has killed their spirit of adventure. I didn’t quite realise this when I came back from America to fight in the war …’

He sighs.

‘You see, I have certain habits. I never went to school. Your grandfather taught us at home, so I don’t understand all these tricks. The honourable thing is that those who trust you, those who rely on you, don’t lose a franc. These legal intricacies are a waste of time!’

‘You mean the dogs bark but the caravan passes?’

He smiles.

‘Yes! You see, I slap someone’s hand and the deal is made. Like in the country. No one in their right mind would betray that. Do you think we had time for papers in the Resistance? Not a franc was lost, everything tallied. The waste of money and energy these bureaucrats create! Anyway, this poor man wants to take some money to Switzerland, and if you go with him, they will take him for your grandfather or your old uncle and leave him in peace. Then you can say goodbye to him, stay a night in a hotel and come back the next day. Will you do that for me?’

I have no more hesitations than Napoleon’s mamluk would have had.

‘Well, that’s settled. The plane is leaving at eight. Let’s have something to eat before I drop you there. You can stay in your school uniform. Yes, that’s even better. The hotel in Geneva will give you all you need. It’s all organised.’

He’s patrolling the smaller streets of the seventh quarter, absent-mindedly scanning the buildings, trying to locate some sort of bistrot. He grinds to a halt and finds a park all in one breath.

‘We’re in luck! Look at that little place. Just what we need! Aren’t you hungry?’

I don’t have to answer. He’s already hurrying towards an open doorway. We walk in, there’s no one; just here and there, a cluster of little tables with red-and-white chequered tablecloths and extremely shiny glasses. It’s still rather early for dinner in Paris. My father prowls round the empty room, holding his wrist in the small of his back, until he suddenly finds a bunch of grissini. A tall waiter dressed in black and white appears out of a solemn void. He looks like the forbidding actor Michel Jouvet, a sort of French Jeeves, who plays judges, butlers and dignified criminals.

He’s contemplating us with a stern, disapproving eye, but before he can open his mouth, my father shakes his breadstick with enthusiasm: ‘Ah, we’re so happy to see you! May we dine? We’re very hungry!’

‘Dinner, Sir? For two?’

My father turns round, suddenly vague, as if he were looking for his mamluks. In fact, he’s probably looking for my brothers and sisters. In little things like that, I realise he’s probably used to having a troop with him – instead of just me.

‘Eh, yes. And can you give us the wine list, please?’

His smile is happily unaware of any disapprobation. Without waiting to be led to a table, he casts his fancy on the closest one and flings his napkin open with a flourish.

‘Ah, the serviettes are nice and large. You can tuck them under your thighs, just as when I was a little boy at your grandparents’! This little place is just what we needed! Ah, Catherine, we’re going to have dinner at last! And you’re going to drink some very good wine, better than at the Mont Saint-Michel. That’s something Sylvia couldn’t teach you.’

I nod. Often with my father you don’t really have time to answer. I’m very thirsty anyway.

‘Ah, thank you, we’ll take this one. Let’s taste a Saint-Amour, Catherine, a Beaujolais, a wonderful year.’

Hardly looking at the menu, he makes the rest of our order at lightning speed.

‘Vegetables for my daughter, yes, and a boeuf bourguignon for me, yes, thank you.’

He glances around him with satisfaction and takes a sip of wine. An abstracted mood overtakes him as he waits for our dinner. But his frown is more than hunger.

‘Things are not so easy at the moment, little one.’

I take a sip of wine too, as if that could lead me into his thoughts.

‘Do you remember Fausta?’

‘The awful Fausta? Of course!’

‘Well, it’s a bit like this: Someone has acted like Fausta instead of acting like Crispus.’

The horrible Fausta was the Emperor Constantine’s wife. He heard she was unfaithful to him. So he asked two soldiers to go to her bedroom, behead any man who was with her, and bring back his head. They returned with a bag. In it was his favourite son’s head: Crispus. Crispus was his illegitimate child who went with him on all his campaigns and was already a military genius. His sons by Fausta, Constantine II, Constantius and Constans, were good-for-nothings. Crispus had been lured by the dreadful Fausta and had refused her demands on him. When Constantine realised he had killed an innocent and the person he loved most, he had Fausta tied to the middle of a fountain, surrounded by his soldiers, and had them throw lances at her until the fountain was red with her blood.

I need no more explanation to know that something terrible has happened, something that will not come out in the open. Fausta is enough to fill me in on my father’s state of mind, to know he feels betrayed, anxious, alone at heart, much worse than I am at school, much worse than Sylvia going away, a pain I cannot fathom, that leaves us staring at each other without words or consolations. But somehow he climbs out of it, smiles at me and takes my hand. Then he squares his shoulders and pours us more wine. When his boeuf bourguignon arrives, he takes a first mouthful, frowns, and eats it with small moans of surprised pleasure.

‘This is really very good, mmmm … And the Saint-Amour is like velvet.’

I nod. He’s right. If stained-glass windows were liquid, they would taste like this, of blood and rubies, of peacock feathers. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the waiter. He’s folding his arms in the dark. He doesn’t like us. He wishes we’d go away. Suddenly I’m sleepy. My father pours me some more wine and looks at me attentively.

‘Do you feel a bit funny?’

With my periscope, from the bottom of the sea, I notice everything: the gleaming glasses, the stark white serviettes even whiter than the ones in Chartres, and the man’s two eyebrows, getting more and more like two dark prison bars holding us in custody. I can see my father’s happy smile as he plunges his knife and fork deep into the meat and tightens his pale blue eyes slightly to observe me.

‘Catherine, by now I’d say you are as drunk as a wheelbarrow. I want you to remember it well. I don’t want any other man after me to see you like this. Even your husband. It’s a threshold you must know. You can drink as much as you want just as long as you don’t cross it. Do you understand?’

I manage to nod.

‘And now, let’s order a good dessert to make us better. Garçon!’

He lifts his arm to the ceiling with a bright smile. The menacing waiter is instantly at my father’s elbow. He swings round in his chair towards him.

‘Listen, this was delicious! Don’t forget to tell the patron. We are delighted to have discovered you. What a lovely little bistrot you have! You have treated us royally.’

Mysteriously the man relaxes and becomes quite summery. He even smiles. Yet I would have sworn he didn’t like schoolgirls or people who ate his grissini without asking him. My father isn’t like other people who try to frighten or impress each other. He rolls up, enthusiastic, hungry, sleepy or content. Like the dogs he loves so much, never doubting his welcome, he’s at home everywhere. It never crosses his mind to wonder if he’s admired or despised.

One day, when I was three or four, I was pointing at a poodle and laughing at him. Three children had put a little hat on his head and a little cape on him. My father came up, whipped the hat and cape off him and knelt down, speaking to the dog tenderly. Then, ignoring the others, who scattered in terror, he caught my arm, lifted me off my feet and beat me hard. Then he put me back on the ground and looked at me with contempt.

‘Never do that again, do you hear? Laughing at a dog is the most dishonourable thing you can do.’

Dessert arrives. He’s rubbing his hands expectantly.

‘Now, what do you have for us? Another wonder?’

My head is swimming so much I can’t finish my ice-cream, so he has to help me.

‘Let’s ask for the bill! Garçon!’

He hates staying at the table when there is nothing more to eat. The man comes up with a little chest, before disappearing again. My father opens the lid, throws an indifferent eye on the bill, then suddenly sits up in his chair, before getting his glasses out. He shakes his head gently:

‘There must be some mistake. Garçon!’

The man comes back, patient, nearly friendly. My father smiles at him.

‘I think there must be a little mistake.’

‘No, Monsieur, not at all, if Monsieur would care to check the prices on the menu …’

My father bends over obediently, pushing his glasses firmly back on his nose.

‘I’m afraid you’re right. Well, Catherine, I think we had lunch in a much more elegant restaurant than we had bargained for!’

His eyes twinkling at the waiter over the top of his glasses: ‘It will be good for her education, don’t you think?’

‘Certainly, Monsieur.’

The man sees us out with a warm smile on his face. We are back on the sidewalk which seems to be swaying strangely between the shafts of sunlight.

‘Well, Catherine, without even knowing it, I think we’ve just had dinner in a cordon bleu restaurant.’

Seeing my worried look, he puts his arm around my shoulders.

‘Don’t fret, little one, in a period of lack it’s good luck. A gift from the gods! Now to the Champs Élysées and off to the airport! The baraka is back!’