Chapter One
Renault's "princess"—the 1956 Renault Dauphine—made René
Roccard proud, a feeling that millions of his French compatriots also shared.
So, when he bought a Dauphine sedan from the first consignment that the auto
manufacturer shipped to the United States of America, his co-workers were not
surprised at all. However, people started raising their eyebrows when he made
it a point of intoning stanzas of France’s national anthem, La Marseillaise or honking whenever he
saw a Dauphine or drove past one.
The patriotic Frenchman regarded the car as a testament to France's recovery after its
humiliating defeat and four-year occupation by Germany during the Second World
War.
However, the automobile did not make René feel proud or
concerned as he navigated the streets of New York City that afternoon. The
expression of grim determination on his face relaxed a little only as he left
East 48th Street behind him and joined the crawl of traffic through Broadway.
The Frenchman’s preoccupation with the details of his self-assigned mission made
him completely oblivious to the skyscrapers on both sides of the road and even
distracted him to the point where he was just inches away from hitting the back
bumper of the blue Ford Fairlane sedan right in front of him when he stepped
hard on the brake pedal. The Renault Daphne jerked to a sudden stop, thrusting
his body forward and bringing his head close to hitting the steering wheel.
“Merde…merde, les salopards!” René cursed and hit the
steering wheel repeatedly. He only stopped when the cars hooting from his rear
alerted him that he was lagging behind the flow of traffic.
The Frenchman moved the car forward, in rhythm with the other
vehicles in front of him and then looked at his perspiring palms one after the
other, sighed, and then narrowed his eyelids. The contorted expression on his
face only eased a little as he drove into 1st Avenue/United Nations Plaza,
steering the vehicle through a variety of residential neighborhoods.
“Cette circulation est agaçante,” he hissed under his
breath.
True, he hadn’t anticipated the heavy traffic at that hour of
the day and never imagined the temperature could hit ninety-seven degrees
Fahrenheit that afternoon. Nothing should mess up my plans, he thought.
René looked less agitated when he parked the car in the
Turtle Bay neighborhood, got out, opened the trunk, and then pulled out a
guitar case with hardly recognizable rifle parts inside.
“La Bastringue”
by the chansonnier Mary Rose-Anne Bolduc crossed his mind for the first time
the moment he shut the trunk. However, he started humming the Quebecer’s song
under his breath only after he locked the driver's door and pocketed the key.
“You have a nice baby there,” a voice with a distinct Boston
accent sounded from behind René, sending a chill up his spine.
The Frenchman froze for a moment
and then turned around with a half-angry and half-surprised look on his face.
“What did you just say?” he asked with a sneer.
“It is a beautiful piece of machinery. Oh yes! As a matter of
fact, my wife is buying one tonight,” the smiling American replied and then ran
his hand on the hood of the Renault Daphne as if caressing it.
“Thank you, Sir! Believe me, your wife will love it,” René
retorted, making no effort to disguise his thick Gallic accent. Then he
regarded the man for a moment with narrowed eyelids before turning around and
adding in a monotone, “Excuse me, Sir! I must leave now.”
The Frenchman did not even dart a look at the man he
addressed the words to as he waved the American goodbye and walked away. He
hurried across the park with quick steps in the direction of the Tudor City
apartments, conscious of the growing dampness on the back of his shirt.
“Ignore it,” he hissed.
René increased his pace as he approached the apartment block
directly opposite the impressive complex that is the United Nations
Headquarters, situated right across First Avenue. He even covered the remaining
twenty yards to the apartment door with half-running steps.
“What am I doing to
myself?” he mumbled, mindful of his panting and the slight trembling of his
hands.
The Frenchman pulled out the bunch of keys from his back
pocket, picked out an inconspicuous silver key, unlocked the entrance door, and
then pushed it open. He was muttering a torrent of curses under his breath as
he stepped inside Giuseppe Matteotti’s two-bedroom apartment. Then he locked
the door behind him and hurried to the casement window.
It was only a month ago that he made the Italian painter’s
acquaintance in a bar, got his invitation to his apartment to see his paintings
and then decided to copy the painter’s key after he told him he would be away
in his old country for half a year.
René took less than three minutes to assemble the sniper rifle and then set aside fifteen minutes for
his high level of adrenaline to subside while he waited for his target. But the
target did not show up until forty-three minutes later, exiting the United
Nations building with a crowd. But he never stayed for more than a second or
two in the crosshairs of René’s rifle scope, a development that agitated the
Frenchman even further.
And even though the target was sporting a beard, René was
certain it was Ruben Um Nyobè, the energetic six-foot leader of “The Union of
the Populations of the Cameroons (UPC)”, the civic-nationalist political party
that morphed into the Cameroonian Underground Organization by taking up arms
against France in French Cameroun following its banned by the French
Trusteeship administration in 1955 over its eight-year campaign for the
reunification and independence of French Cameroun and British Cameroons. To René,
the French Camerounian was an irritant, a virus against French interest in
Africa that needed to be eliminated. Observing him talk and gesture to the five
men and a lone woman around him with an air of confidence and a smile on his
face triggered a flow of bile up René’s throat. He swallowed it back and licked
his lips.
René’s heart skipped a beat when the diplomats started
walking with the French Camerounian away from the building. His cardiac turmoil
was followed by an ache in his stiffened trigger finger as he focused his aim
and waited for the moment to deliver the shot that would avenge the death of
his brother. However, just as he was about to press the trigger, his target
stopped, held the shoulder of one of the foreign diplomats and then moved away.
The unexpected movement made René gasp
without intending to. Now, his view of the target was almost completely blocked
by the burly diplomat, a development that infuriated him even further, leaving
his nerves more overwrought than before. The Frenchman bit his lip as he
watched the other diplomats encircle the target and walk with him to the
waiting car. Then the gray sedan drove away seconds after the French
Camerounian got in.
The rage that swept over René made him quiver for a moment
before he buckled under the weight of his failure, slumped to the floor, and
then rolled over. He hit his thighs with both fists, emitting a series of
grunts that seemed to give a peculiar rhyme to the vocal manifestation of his
tribulation. The Frenchman hardly knew what he was doing when he leaned
backwards on the wall and closed his eyes, muttering barely audible curses as
he banged the back of his head on the partition.
René Roccard’s lip movement stopped for a moment, followed by
a deep frown, an unconscious facial movement that created a look of extreme
rage on his face. Then, without even opening his eyes, he nodded to himself
several times as if acknowledging an inner voice. Yes, it was his inner voice
all right. He would try again for the third time, and if the next attempt should
turn out to be unsuccessful too, then and only then would he make the journey
to French Cameroun and finish the job there.
René closed his eyes again and tried to shake off the
haunting Monday, January 6, 1958,
headline in the New York Times, but it kept imposing itself on his mind.
France Sends Troops to Crush Red-Led Uprising in Cameroons;
Acts to Prevent New 'Algeria' in African Territory Where Rebels Burned 60
Villages.
“Les idiots, les imbéciles!” he growled and
pulled his hair, “The rebellion in our Cameroun isn’t different from the one
in Algeria. That’s why Marc is dead,” He mumbled with quivering lips,
ruffled his hair, and then closed his eyes.
A moment of silence ensued before he buried his head in his
hands and started weeping. His weeping subsided into a snivel hardly a minute
after, following shortly by a humming sound of the World War II song "La Complainte du Partisan"
(The Complaint of the Partisan―"The Partisan"). Still, he did not
stop shedding tears until he came to the end of the first stanza, when he growled the lyric “… I took my gun and vanished.”
René was angry with himself when he went to bed that night
and woke up the next morning feeling dejected. He was still feeling grumpy as
he brushed when he stopped suddenly for no apparent reason, then started
humming "La Complainte du
Partisan". He crooned the
partisan song to the end again and again as he took a shower and ate breakfast.
The song must have had a palliative effect on him that morning because he
looked more solemn than sad when he sat behind his office desk that morning.
However, that emotion did not last for long because news from Paris reporting
General Charles De Gaulle’s return to power in France reached the consulate
hardly an hour after he got there. The afternoon report brought a genuine smile
to his face for the first time that week.
**************
The month of May 1958 is remembered in the annals of French History as
the month of the second and most important Algiers Putsch—an attempt launched
from the capital of French Algeria to overthrow the reigning government in
Paris.
This was after the French populace grew tired of governments
that were plagued by recurrent cabinet crises that, in turn, increased the
misgivings of the French Army and the French settlers in the colonies,
especially in Algeria. The plotted revolt of these French soldiers was a
culmination of years of political instability originating from the shortcomings
of the parliamentary system of the French Fourth Republic, which saw twenty
prime ministers govern France within eleven years, the vast majority of them
coming from parties on the left of the political spectrum.
Following years of chafing against the incompetence of
different French governments to quell the rebellions in Algeria and French
Cameroun, the army became convinced that even the current right-wing government
of the ethnic German and Alsace-born Pierre Eugène Jean Pflimlin was about to
act out of political expediency and order
another precipitated pullout from the territories, just like the previous
center-left government of Pierre Mendès France left French Indochina in 1954,
thereby sacrificing French honor in the process.
That was why, from the balconies in Algiers in Algeria and
Yaoundé in French Cameroun to the
corridors of power in France itself, patriotic voices were heard calling for
the return to power of General Charles De Gaulle. The cry for the return of the
towering French warrior and statesman to the political scene carried with it a
fervor that was almost religious in nature.
The people had every reason to seek political salvation from
their hero of the Second World War. It was Charles De Gaulle who saved French
honor during the four years that Germany occupied France, but then surprised the nation by resigning from public
office in 1946 as his own way of decrying the weaknesses of the French Fourth
Republic, its constitution, and the parliamentary system of government. Now, he
was vindicated.
Just like millions of discontented and despondent French
citizens, René Roccard regarded the French legend as their only hope in
rallying the French nation again. He saw the general as the only person capable
of giving a sense of direction to France’s relationship with its evolving
territories and colonies, and saw the general as the only French figure capable
of making France highly respectable in its engagements with the rest of the
changing world. What is more, René was convinced that France was entering a new
era in its history, a phase that would allow patriots like him to accomplish
their self-assigned missions for the fatherland and be acknowledged at the same
time as French heroes who saved France
from irrelevance.
Chapter Two
René Roccard was in a state of
heightened anxiety the night after the French consulate in New York granted his
request to travel to France, so that he barely had enough hours of sleep to
keep him alert the next day. With his anticipation fueled by his constant
thoughts on French Cameroun, he was consumed by doubts, too. There was much
about the territory to keep abreast of—a lot to learn, personalities to know,
and strategies to devise.
He arrived in Paris that
late spring without letting his friends, family and relatives know about it and
then reported the next day to the Ministry of Overseas Territories for a
meeting with the new minister. The appointment was set for Thursday.
René was in high spirits
when he showed up at the former Hôtel Majestic in central Paris, once a massive
establishment that politicians decided to transform into a hub for diplomacy.
He was even more effusive when a secretary ushered him into the minister’s
office. But the meeting was a flop even before it ended, or so he concluded
prematurely. The new minister’s partial grasp of the situation in French
Cameroun left René infuriated to the point where he almost called the man a
moron, a concern he thought of informing his superiors about.
A faint expression of
suppressed rage at the lack of substance of the meeting could be seen on his
face as he rose to leave. But then André Colin rose too and extended his hand
to him. René hesitated for a moment before shaking it, musing on the fact that
he stood a head taller than the minister. But then, André Colin made him smile
for the first time that afternoon as he walked him to the door.
“I don’t think you know
about this, but Monsieur Pierre Messmer is eager to meet you. In fact, he asked
me to schedule a rendezvous with you for Tuesday next week, right here in my
office.”
“Messmer?” he exclaimed,
dimming his eyes suspiciously.
“Oui, Roccard!
Pierre Messmer himself.”
René smiled, shaking his
head in acknowledgment. “I will be here next Thursday; that’s for sure. At what
time is the rendezvous?”
The meeting was scheduled
to take place at three o’clock on Tuesday. But René was at the imperial
building half an hour early. He was eager to meet his former commander again.
Their last encounter was during Pierre Messmer’s first year as the High
Commissioner of French Cameroun. So, when the new government acknowledged
Pierre Messmer’s impeccable grasp of the developments in French Africa by
promoting him to the strategic post of High Commissioner of French Equatorial
Africa five months ago, it did not surprise René Roccard at all. His former
commander was the right person to talk to.
A secretary ushered him
into the office a minute early. And there at the window was Pierre Messmer.
André Colin was nowhere in sight.
“René, René Le
formidable,” Pierre Messmer bellowed, opened his arms wide and approached
René Roccard with a warm smile.
“Mon Commandant,”
René muttered with a smile spread across his face.
“Look at you. You haven’t
changed much,” Pierre Messmer chuckled.
The two men had little to
say to each other for the next couple of seconds as they clung to one another
in a bear hug.
“I feel extremely honored
by the fact that you set aside some of your precious time to see me. Especially
with the busy schedule you have to keep
up with,” René said, looking satisfied.
“What are you talking
about? If I can’t be available for someone like you, then who else is out there
for me to accommodate with my worries about France?”
“I guess there is much we
need to talk about.”
“I am at your disposal.
We have all the time in the world. Monsieur Colin made arrangements for some
brandy to keep us going while we grapple with the problems haunting France.”
“Magnifique! Cognac?”
“Bien sûr que oui! Now, if my memory isn’t playing games with me, you have always been
particularly fond of Brandy. In fact, your taste buds for the drink were good
back in the day. You might not have known about this, but you amazed me with
your ability to distinguish the different qualities of brandy without blinking
an eye.”
“What a drink!”
“Excellent! Mon Dieu! You and I loved Brandy back in the day! Huh! Brandy was so
scarce back then in Indochina,” Pierre Messmer offered.
René grinned at the
mention of Indochina. Like Pierre Messmer, he too was sent to Indochina right
after the Second World War to help restore complete French control in the
colony after the departure of the Japanese invaders, and to eliminate the
influence of the Marxist Vietminh forces of the Vietnamese revolutionary and
liberation leader Ho Chi Minh.
It was René’s first posting to Asia at the
time, and there were few distractions in the jungle to make Indochina
interesting. That is, until he developed
an extreme fondness for oriental women and brandy. It was in Southeast Asia
that he discovered his strong attraction for women with a high degree of
pigmentation.
“Brandy is still my
thing,” he said to Pierre Messmer with a smile.
René Roccard listened to
Pierre Messmer as he small-talked. He never took his eyes off his former boss
as he picked up two glasses from the open cabinet and poured them both a drink.
Then Pierre Messmer handed him a glass.
“Vive La France,”
Pierre Messmer toasted.
“Vive La France,”
René repeated and clinked glasses with Pierre Messmer before bringing his drink
to his lips.
“Well!”
“Merci!” René
responded after a good gulp, “C’est merveilleux!”
“Certainement! It tastes better than the ones we had over there. You
won’t believe it, but I experienced an unusual craving for brandy during those
two months that I chaffed in Vietminh captivity.”
“I understand,” René said
with a nod, locking eyes with Messmer’s in reaffirmation of their mutual trust.
“I know you understand
because you also suffered the same indignity.”
“Five months,” René
muttered and closed his eyes for a couple of seconds as if savoring the
recollection.
“I take it you know what
it means for you, for me and for our
other compatriots who made it to glory in Paris with Parisians lining the
streets, cheering us for restoring their honor which Hitler’s men trampled upon
during those four years of German occupation of our holy city and sacred
country. We didn’t stop at Paris but went on to sweep through the rest of
France, achieving one victory after the other in battles buoyed by the spirit
of Paris’s liberation. And the glory and vindication that came with chasing the
Nazis all the way to Germany after liberating our land.”
“Merveilleux!”
“And what happened a few
years after our glorious ride to victory?”
“Well!”
“I am talking about the
humiliation of finding ourselves in bamboo prisons controlled by swarthy,
dwarfish illiterates whose concept of war belongs to the dark ages. Hmm! And
then we ended up losing Indochina to the savages after that because our
politicians lacked the will to fight. Humiliating!” Messmer growled.
“I understand.”
“I knew you would
understand. We fought side by side in France, Germany,
and Indochina. We returned home after those wars only to find France gripped by
chaos. Yes, René! I took the diplomatic post as an escape from my beloved
France because I could no longer tolerate its squabbling politicians,
especially those of the left.”
“I also did the same
thing,” René interjected.
“Hmm! So, you sought
peace of mind in America. Hmm! But it is obvious you never stopped worrying
about our cherished France; you never stopped grappling with the challenges
confronting this beautiful country.”
René Roccard nodded his
head several times in acknowledgement. “Certainement!” he mumbled with
half-closed eyes.
“René, Le Formidable!
I’ll go ahead with the purpose of our meeting.”
“Bien sûr!”
“When I learned of your
request to go to French Cameroun, I said to myself— ‘Here is the man we need.’”
“I don’t want to recall
the number of times I made that request.”
“René, René, René! Your
kid brother was serving in French Cameroun! How much sacrifice could France
demand from a single family at a given time?”
René shook his head but
said nothing in reply.
“I am sorry about Marc.”
“He is dead, and we have
a job to do. Those bandits should not be allowed to succeed.”
“I am glad you are
committed to the land your brother sacrificed his life for. The New France
won’t be led to flee French Cameroun or Algeria as left-led France abandoned
Indochina to Ho Chi Minh’s red bandits. Général Charles De Gaulle is
back, and so too is our glory.”
“I like your language,”
René said, sipping his brandy and licking his lips.
“You won’t believe it if
I tell you that the first native we put there as prime minister wanted me to
authorize the army to use Napalm on Um Nyobé’s people. He wanted us to ‘wipe
the Bassa people out’, as he put it.”
“André-Marie Mbida is a
moron. His utterances against Um Nyobé and the UPC partisans the fellow is
leading make our campaign look bad.”
“Good, you understand the
liability we created. He certainly is a bad son of a bitch, but he is our son
of a bitch for all I know. The Americans have a better way of phrasing it,
don’t they?”
René nodded. “My
experiences in French Cameroun taught me that Mbida’s ethnic group is not fond
of the Bassa people. So, you understand why I think getting rid of this Mbida
guy was the right thing to do. All the same, we must not ostracize the other Beti
groups or the collective Beti people in the process. They are a strategic asset
in our control of that land.”
“You are right about the
Beti factor. Andre-Marie Mbida is gone, and now we have our new man as the prime
minister there. He would be a lot more useful in serving our designs. If you
ask me, getting rid of André-Marie Mbida was the only good thing Jean Ramadier
did when he replaced me as the High Commissioner of French Cameroun.”
“The bastard! I heard he
was planning to lift the ban on the UPC and make it legal again.”
“Had Jean Ramadier
succeeded in doing that, it would have spelt an end to our project in the
Central African region. He took us years back during his three-week tenure in
office there. Allowing the UPC to operate as a legal entity would mean allowing
our enemies to take over French Cameroun. Believe it or not, we found out about
the bastard’s plans shortly after he got there. Believe it or not, he was on very warm terms with Sekou Touré during the
time that he served as the High Commissioner of Guinea. Now, you understand why
we had to get him out of our Cameroun
without delay.”
“I never trusted our
left-wing politicians. My mistrust of them goes back to the time of the
Resistance in France. And in a way, Jean Ramadier proves to be like his father.
They are more committed to their socialist agenda than to the interests of
France.”
“Like father, like son!”
René affirmed.
Pierre Messmer thought
for a moment and then shook his head.
“The son, to all intents
and purposes, is more to the left than the father. Paul Ramadier’s decision to end
his party’s alliance with the Communists while he was the Prime Minister of
France in 1947 still intrigues me.” René said ponderingly and shook his head as
if trying to sober up.
“You have a point there, Mon Commandant.”
“As I was saying, pulling
the rug under the Mbida fellow’s feet was the only good thing Jean Ramadier
did, but implementing our long-term plans for French Cameroun and the rest of
Francophone Africa is a task we still have to accomplish.”
“How is Ahmadou Ahidjo
doing?”
“Good! I see you are
versed with the fellow. So far, he has been fulfilling his purpose.”
“Good!”
“I am glad we are on the
same page on so many things. Hmm, René! We are about to enter a new era in our
relationship with the colonies and territories, with those lands that we
adopted. They have a sense of the direction they want to go. But where they actually
head to depends on how we want our future ties with them to be.”
“It shouldn’t be in the
direction Indochina took. The communists are roaming all over Vietnam today,”
René said tersely.
“I agree with you, René. Général
De Gaulle is of the same opinion. We are at the doorstep of a new age in
our history as we embark on a strategy to loosen our grip on our overseas
backyard. We will relax our control, but we won’t let our colonies and
territories go the way the British allowed theirs in Asia and Africa to wander
off. Yes, the British are turning their backs as if it is of no consequence,
even as their former colonies go about embracing the Soviet Union and Marxism.
India and Ghana are with the East, Nasser hates the West, and U Nu is about to
deliver Burma into the arms of the Russian bear.”
“Our politicians must
have copied the British policy by letting Indochina go the way it did,” René
said with a sigh.
“I agree with you, René.
We also risk the complete loss of our colonies and territories in Africa if we
lose our nerve and allow France to be swept off its feet by the decolonization
wave. It is a small wave now, but I see all the signs of a tidal wave
developing there in the coming months and years if we lose French Cameroun and
Algeria. We have vital interests in Africa, René! There is no way we can defend
those strategic interests after the decolonization process unless we completely
defeat the Algerian and the Kamerunian nationalists.”
“You are right,” René
said with a nod, “I lived in America and learned something very important
during my stay there. The heartland of capitalism thrives on interest. Wealth, power, and glory stem from the ability to
procure, secure and defend your interests; and ultimate power lies with those
who are most effective in guarding their interests and spheres of influence. We
have a huge interest in Africa, and losing or maintaining it is our decision
alone to make. That decision should not be based on righteousness but on the
wisdom to accept the fact that we have a collective destiny with the
francophone territories in Africa because we are their mentors.”
Pierre Messmer nodded, a
slight smile corrupting the sides of his mouth. “I agree with you, René.”
“Through the scheme of
things beyond the understanding of our mortal minds, France was given a
responsibility to be involved in the destiny of peoples it managed to bring
into the fold of humanity, into modern civilization as we all know it. That is
why shying away from those lands now is not an option to consider, because
doing so would only haunt us tomorrow.”
“René, René! You said it
beautifully. I like your philosophy,” Pierre Messmer enthused and raised his
hands in the air.
René nodded with a smile.
“Merci, Mon Commandant!”
“I want you by my side in
French Cameroun,” Pierre Messmer began, cracked his knuckles, and then
continued, “I need someone who can direct the wind while I am away as my duties
expand to French West Africa. I see a lot of political developments taking place
in Francophone Sub-Saharan Africa by the end of the year. Général
Charles De Gaulle, you, I, and a host of other like-minded patriots think we
should have the right order and the right Africans in place before we allow the
colonies and territories there to become members of the United Nations Organization.”
“You are right.”
“Our purpose should be
for the new France,” Pierre Messmer intoned and rested his hand on René’s
shoulder.
René nodded. “I agree
with you.”
“That’s why I think you
have a strong shoulder to lean on,” Pierre Messmer said, dropped his hand and
caressed his chin. Then he nodded and added, “I see your focus is on French
Cameroun. I cannot count the number of times I told the buffoons who were in
power in Paris that the war in French Cameroun is winnable. Very few of the
leftist sissies in the past governments believed me. Oh!
They disheartened me. I am glad they are gone.”
“I understand your
position. Believe me, I do.”
“I have devised a
strategy,” Pierre Messmer said and emitted a light guttural sound, “In fact, I
am looking forward to working with you and other like-minded patriots in
perfecting and implementing this plan of action. Mind you, Cameroun presents us
with a very rare opportunity to practice all the theories of
counter-revolutionary warfare that we devised in Vietnam.”
“How?” René asked with
dimmed eyes.
“This is how it is going
to work. We shall create pacification zones throughout our French Cameroun. And
after doing that, we shall separate the civilian population there from the
rebels in the bush. We shall relocate these civilians from their scattered
villages and hamlets to roadside settlements in those pacification zones. The
civilian population would be guarded by our troops, and also by French
Cameroonians who accept our rule. That’s how we shall alienate the guerrillas
from their support base. The zones I am talking about shouldn’t be more than
two percent of the territory of French Cameroun.”
“We must not lose again,”
René whispered.
“Believe me, victory is
ours and losing isn’t an option. René, I am choosing you for many reasons, but
the most important one is your determination to see France win in French
Cameroun. There is a divine scheme in our involvement in Africa. It goes beyond
tradition, human comprehension, and
national conscience. It is based on a belief, René; it is based on a belief
that cannot accommodate doubts.”
“I agree with you, Mon Commandant!” René said, picked up
the bottle of brandy and refilled their glasses, “Vive La France,” he
toasted, making it sound like a battle cry.
“Vive La France,”
Pierre Messmer echoed, emptied his glass of drink, and then started humming
Anna Marly’s LE CHANT DES PARTISANS―Chant de la Libération (THE SONG OF THE PARTISANS ― Song of
the Liberation), which was the most popular song of the Free French Forces and
the French Resistance during the Second World War. René joined him as they
articulated the lyrics:
Ami, entends-tu Mate, do you hear
Le vol noir des corbeaux The dark flight of the crows
Sur nos plaines? Over our plains?
Ami, entends-tu Mate, do you hear
Les cris sourds du pays The muffled clamor
Qu'on enchaîne?
Of enchained countries?
Ohé! partisans, Hey, partisans,
Ouvriers et paysans, Workers and peasants
C'est l'alarme! This is the signal
Ce soir l'ennemi Tonight the enemy
Connaîtra le prix du sang Will know the price of blood,
Et des larmes!
And tars!
Montez de la mine, Join the sabotage,
Descendez des collines, Get off the hills,
Camarades!
Comrades!
Sortez de la paille Get out of
the straw
Les fusils, la mitraille, The rifles, the grape-shot,
Les grenades... The Grenades…
Ohé! les tueurs,
Hey, killers,
A la balle et au couteau, With a bullet or by knife,
Tuez vite!
Kill swiftly!
Ohé! saboteur, Hey, saboteur,
Attention à ton fardeau: Pay attention to your burden:
Dynamite!
Dynamite!
C'est nous qui brisons It's us who are smashing
Les barreaux des prisons The prison bars
Pour nos frères, For our brothers,
La haine à nos trousses,
The hatred at our heels,
Et la faim qui nous pousse, And the hunger that drives us,
La misère...
The misery…
Il y a des pays There are countries
Ou les gens au creux de lits Where people deep in
their beds,
Font des rêves; Weave dreams;
Ici, nous, vois-tu, Here, we, you see,
Nous on marche et nous on tue, We march, We kill,
Nous on crève.
We die.
Ici chacun sait Here everyone knows
Ce qu'il veut, ce qui'il fait What he wants, what he does
Quand il passe... When it takes place…
Ami, si tu tombes Mate, if you go down,
Un ami sort de l'ombre A mate out of the shadows,
A ta place.
Takes your place.
Demain du sang noir
Tomorrow black blood
Séchera au grand soleil Will be drying under the sun,
Sur les routes.
On the roads,
Sifflez, compagnons, Whistle, companions,
Dans la nuit la Liberté At night, freedom
Nous écoute... Is listening to us…
“Merveilleux!” René said at the end of the song and shook his head
repeatedly, “How it inspired us. It drove us to get back our honor from the
Germans.”
Pierre Messmer nodded
too, his hand tightening around his glass, straining the muscles. “They are
beginning to call themselves Maquis, as if clothing themselves in the name of our
rural guerrilla bands of French Resistance fighters during the German
occupation of France is going to make them acceptable.”
“As if there is anything
in common between them and us,” René growled.
“The vermin!” Pierre
Messmer snarled too.
“Merde!” René growled again.
Pierre Messmer nodded but did not utter a word for a moment,
“Damn the UPC. Damn Um Nyobè! Damn Moumie! Damn Kingue! Damn Ouandie!” he
exploded.
René exited the imperial building that
evening with a smile on his face. From the time he left the United States of
America right up to the moment he showed up for the meeting, he had been
wondering whether the Overseas and Defense Ministries would transfer him to
French Cameroun to put the Cameroonian partisans out of business. And just when
he was becoming desperate about it, Pierre Messmer showed up and offered him a
high-profile assignment in the United Nations Trust territory of French
Cameroun. He had not expected things to work out so well.
Chapter Three
Even though Clement Coulther slept
through most of the transatlantic flight to Paris, he was half-awake just
seconds before the air hostess announced that the plane was about to land.
Clement opened his eyes, yawned, and stretched his body. At least, I feel
better now, he thought. He sat up in a lackluster manner, turned around and
then smiled at the elderly English lady by his side.
"You have slept very
well. Do you feel refreshed?" the neighbour in the next seat intoned with
a broad smile on her face.
“I feel great! I am glad
I’m up just in time.”
“Did you say just in
time?”
“Uh-huh!”
“Oh, you mean for the
landing?”
“Yes, Mrs. Moore. I can’t think of a sight better
than an aerial view of Paris.”
“It is marvelous. Call me
Barbara.”
Clement nodded. “It
certainly is marvelous, Barbara. All the more reason I wouldn’t miss the
opportunity of catching one for the sake of the best treasures in this world,”
he muttered and smiled wider, but with a mischievous glint in his eyes that was
aimed at an approaching flight attendant, “Even for that woman who could break
my heart,” he added in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Hasn’t it been broken
already?”
“Huh! Never! What are you
talking about?”
“I heard you mutter her
name in your sleep.”
“Really! Who?”
Silence reigned between
the two for a moment before the English lady said in a forthcoming tone, “You
repeated her name a couple of times. It could have been Helen or Elaine or
something similar.”
“What else did I say
besides a name?”
“I am hazy about it, but
this one stuck out,” she said with a flush and then put her hand over her
mouth.
“It is okay, Mrs. Moore! Go ahead and tell me?” he urged
with a smile.
“Call me Barbara! Well!
You said her name and something like ‘lost treasure’ afterwards. There were
other things in-between.”
“Lost treasure?”
“Uh-huh! There was more.”
“What else did I say?”
“Did you kiss and embrace
others in front of her?”
“Damn!”
“You must be in love with
her.”
“Uh-huh!” Clement said
and sighed, “I still think of her even as I kiss and embrace other women.
Perhaps that’s what I was trying to say in my sleep.”
“I am sorry.”
“Huh!” Clement grunted,
turned his face away from the old lady and frowned.
“Forgive me for poking my
nose. I couldn’t help listening.”
He nodded but did not
turn around to face her again. Instead, he dropped back into his seat and shut
his eyes. “I was tired; I was truly tired,” he said, more to himself than to
the lady by his side.
Clement placed the source
of his listlessness with the disorientation that started haunting him a couple
of months ago. It was sapping his energy and the will to carry on with life the
way it was before he lost his bearings in life. But he was determined to
overcome that—first by getting over the bitterness of his divorce from Helen
and then by dispelling the haunting memory of the loss of his son.
He was still trying to
understand why some of his friends
marveled at his newfound freedom and thought he had so much to look forward to,
because he alone knew the turmoil in his soul. The return to a life of
full-time bachelorhood quickly lost its appeal as he became a jaded womanizer
who even feared being there for the woman
expecting his child. His image in that regard was not helped by the parties,
nightclubs, and one-night stands that followed his divorce. That is, until the phone call less than forty-eight
hours ago sent him packing his bags for Paris.
“See how beautiful Paris
looks from above,” he mumbled, daring a glance at his neighbor.
“I love it,” she replied
with a warm smile.
“I can’t wait to walk its
streets,” he half-whispered, fixing his eyes again on the city they were
wafting over.
The lady said something
in reply, but Clement did not pay attention to her words. His mind had drifted
again, back to a yesterday that held so many fun memories.
The last head-wrecking drama began at
a party organized by his friend Peter Miller in a suburb of Harrisburg,
Pennsylvania. He had consumed more than his fair share of drinks; he had danced
with more blondes, brunettes, and
redheads than he could care to remember; and he had not closed his eyes long
enough afterwards, thanks to the effort of an energetic twenty-three-year-old
that made him doubt his vigor for the first time.
Fate appeared to have
been on his side the next morning when his host appeared at the doorway of the
room he had spent the night in and told him that Jason Montgomery, his pal from
the News Syndicate, wanted him on the phone.
“Tell him I will call
back,” he had responded and then went
about nursing his hangover with the blonde nibbling his ear.
Peter Miller had returned
a couple of minutes later with a smile on his face.
“Jason said you will like
this one. The assignment involves Paris.”
“What the hell,” he had
wheezed.
“He said it has something
to do with Charles De Gaulle and ‘The French Rooster’.”
“Yeah!” he had added and
continued kissing the blonde’s hand in a disinterested manner.
“He said ‘The French
Rooster’ has already left America and returned to Paris.”
He had thought about that
last piece of information for a moment and then sat
up abruptly. The blonde was startled when he tossed her hand off his thigh as
if she were an itchy blanket and then jumped out of bed and hurried to the
phone.
Jason had to be right.
Something was brewing in France. Charles De Gaulle, the French hero who saved
France’s honor in the Second World War by championing French resistance against
the German occupation of the country and by leading the liberation of Paris;
Charles De Gaulle, the statesman who distinguished himself as France’s greatest
post-war hope, but then shocked the world in 1946 by quitting the French
political scene, was back in politics as the new Prime Minister of France.
Also, the fact that René Roccard, alias “The French Rooster”, hurriedly packed
his bag and returned home, buttressed Clement’s suspicions even further that
monumental developments were afoot in France and its overseas possessions.
The New York Times needed
a correspondent in the field right away, and Clement’s bosses thought he might
want to do the job.
Of course, he wanted to
do the job. Paris happened to be the one place on earth that never failed to
pull him from the downside of life into making a fresh start, like a phoenix
rising from its funeral pyre. He had made his debut there as a journalist working
for the Air Force magazine, using the print media to report the excesses of the
Free French Forces against the former supporters of Marshall Petain and his
Vichy regime, whom they accused of collaborating with the German military
during the years that Nazi Germany occupied France.
Clement thought it was
ironic that the first time he met René Roccard was on his first day in Paris.
The French capital became his favorite city in Europe and inspired him to
return home and finish his journalism program at Rutgers, the State University of
New Jersey.
The drive to New York was
a long one, but he stopped only twice to relieve his bladder and get something
to eat and drink. Coffee and Coca-Cola kept him awake throughout the drive, and
sandwiches did a great job of keeping his digestive juices at bay. He reported
upon arrival at the New York Times building on 42nd Street when dusk was on the
horizon. The process went faster than anticipated. He even signed his contract
with a smile on his face and then picked up his plane ticket and left the
building.
Clement looked out of the window of
the airplane just in time to spot the shining River Seine snaking its way
through the city. His eyelids narrowed a little as he marveled at the rows upon
rows of classic buildings that swept past his eyes. The beckoning Palace of
Versailles and its beautiful fountains disappeared from his view and revealed the
imposing Eiffel Tower moments later.
He took a deep breath as
he prepared to disembark.
“What else do you have in
there?” the customs officer asked pointedly, never taking his gaze off
Coulther’s eyes as he rested a hand on his luggage.
“Nothing! Nothing to
spoil my first night in Paris in two years and nothing to stop me from having a
bite of one of your famous Parisian croissants,” he beamed.
The official let Clement
through without a fuss.
Finding a taxi to the
center of the city was equally seamless,
so he was en route to the St. Petersburg hotel hardly fifteen minutes after
going through the inspection. Even though he felt tired and made no effort to
engage the driver in a conversation, he could not shake off his excitement as
he leaned on the back seat and closed his eyes.
Clement often wondered
why the city of Paris stirred his instincts, accelerated his impulses, and
warmed his blood so much, filling him with ideas and memories of a past he
seemed to love and hate. Yet, the answer was simple. Paris epitomized the
essence of beauty, freedom, liberty, and hope. Paris was the place that
furnished him with so many answers to some of life’s
deep questions since the first day he walked its streets following the
liberation of the city in August 1944. It was in the French capital that he
first unleashed his passion for publishing and broadcasting the war, first as
an amateur military journalist and later as a professional who covered Europe,
Asia, and Africa—reporting on war, terrorism, revolution, uprisings, and coups. The city also made it
possible for him to meet all sorts of fanciful women.
The exhausted Clement
heaved a sigh of relief when the taxi stopped in front of the hotel. He stepped
out of the car, stretched his body, and then pulled out his wallet and paid the
fare. The driver helped him to take out his luggage,
but did not follow him inside.
Clement felt a pleasing
sense of change when he finally settled into the comfort of his hotel room.
There was so much to do, so many people to get back in touch with, and so many
places to visit. But first, he needed water on his body.
The shower had its
desired effect as it made him feel more relaxed than he had been in weeks. He
walked out of the bathroom, flung his tired body onto the bed and dozed off
right away. He did not wake up until it was already nightfall.
Clement left the hotel at
19:53 hours for the Cafe Zinc district. He chose to settle in Jacques Melac’s
famous Bistrot Melac, noted for its hearty traditional Aveyron-style dishes,
excellent wine selection, and grapevine. To some of the diners there, he looked
like the average American exploring the city’s cuisine. But he felt like he was
reliving his past as he ordered a Southern French menu with the air of
confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was leaving out. He even gave an
acknowledging nod when the waiter told him that it came from Jacques Melac’s
native Aveyron.
Clement ate quietly,
absorbing everything around him—from the staff to the customers and even the
scenes outside. A glass of wine from Jacques Melac’s stockade off Rue de
Charonne spurred him to his feet again.
He intended his next stop
to be the Grand Boulevards, where he had sung a ballad at a popular bar during
his previous visit to Paris, but he found himself at Boulevard des Italiens
instead. He wanted to walk a little; he wanted to put his subconscious mind to
work for tomorrow and the days after, because he would have to get on René
Roccard’s trail, get into the recesses of plots by men of the former Free
French Movement who were bent on creating the
new French Republic. He was determined to be on top of reporting
Europe’s next big story.
Clement acted out of an
impulse and made a left turn into Rue Louis Le Grand. The street, though quiet
and less crowded than Boulevard des Italiens, was picturesque in its own right.
Less than a hundred yards
of walking brought him a couple of feet away from the door to the apartment of
Emilie Villiers, his ex-Franco-Cambodian girlfriend. He stopped for a moment, but then steeled himself from knocking
on it. His recollection of their first encounter on her twenty-fourth birthday
made him wince a little. Emilie found the door into his life at a time when she
was still reeling from the stigma of being the former lover of a Vichy minister
and for having had an affair with a German soldier.
He smiled without
intending to as he recalled some of the games they played with each other’s
hearts. His affair with Emilie had boosted her self-esteem to overcome her
humiliation, but he didn’t think he had much of a future with a woman who drank
champagne almost every day, glowed in the presence of the rich and the famous,
and seemed to enjoy her frequent mood swings as if the relationship was all
about her. All the same, he could not stop himself from wondering about her as
he walked past her door, six years after he slipped out of her life, and five
years after her childhood friend Marie Rocheteau updated him on her unstable
life.
A half-oriental herself,
Marie suffered a similar humiliation when a Parisian mob shaved her head and
paraded her half-naked in the streets with other women accused of sleeping with
German soldiers. Marie’s older full-blooded Vietnamese half-sister, Christelle
Nguyen, was dating René Roccard back in 1953.
Clement was about to turn
right at the next intersection onto Place D’Opera when a figure jumped in front
of him, brandishing a knife.
“Ton
portefeuille...ton wallet...Vites, vites, vites,” the intruder said rapidly
and approached Clement with a menacing look on his face.
Clement disarmed the
fellow even before he said the last words. Quick karate kicks knocked the knife
out of the mugger’s right hand to the point where the man had no idea of what
was coming when Clement twisted his arm hard and flipped him, crashing down on
the cobblestones.
“Watch out who you run
into,” Clement warned as he kicked the miserable-looking thief repeatedly in
the abdomen, forcing the guy to curl over. Then he spat next to the groaning
man, turned around and started walking away without even looking back, but
conscious of the fact that the mugger got up and ran away in the opposite
direction.
Clement felt irked by the
incident. He figured me out as a foreigner, probably because of these Levi
jeans and flannel shirt. Hmm, I need to get new clothes tomorrow to fit into
the Parisian crowd, he thought.
But his attacker never
imagined he was confronting a decorated ex-soldier and a winner of black belts
in judo and Isshin-ryū karate.
With the surge of his adrenaline
subsiding, Clement sank gradually into a pensive mood, unconscious of the
reduced pace of his strides. He stopped suddenly in front of the gigantic
Second Empire Style Paris Opera building for no apparent reason and then shook his head repeatedly like
someone pondering a puzzling phenomenon. His countenance changed moments after,
and an enigmatic expression on his face as he peered at the building. The
structure always seemed to be revealing something new and exciting each time he
visited.
The deep brightness of
his eyes made it plain that he was seeking deeper meaning in the green cupola
and the winged groups of sculptured figures. What did the architects and
builders have in mind when they created these expressions of life, or the
gargoyles in the neighboring buildings? He wondered.
“Exultation, exaltation,
uplifting flight of the spirit to the highest pinnacles of joy and happiness?”
he mumbled to himself.
Clement stuck his hands
deep into his pockets but did not take
his eyes off the building, oblivious to those by his side or those walking
past, as he sank deeper into his memories. It was in this building that he
watched his first opera and fell in love with Charlotte Aglionby, one of the
opera’s divas who opened his eyes to the world of classical music and made him
appreciate French composer Georges Bizet’s opera “Carmen”
and the hedonistic “La Traviata” by his Italian counterpart Giuseppe Verdi. She
was the one who spurred him to become a connoisseur. A rueful smile caressed
his lips as he dwelled on his past with Charlotte.
Charlotte Aglionby, the
vivacious diva, strove to live her life like Violetta Valery, the heroine in
the opera “La Traviata”. She must have fancied him to be her eternally loyal
and understanding lover like Alberto, Violetta’s admirer, because she brought
more men into her life than he could stomach, and she made him weep several
times in jealousy until the day he almost choked the life out of her in a brief
moment of insanity that continues to leave him with a residue of bitterness and
rue each time he thought about it. He remembered quivering in remorse as he
watched her get up from the floor, stagger to the sink and drink a glass of
water, still holding her throat and gasping for breath. She had laughed at him
afterwards, taunting him for failing so miserably to be as brave as Othello in
sending her to her grave.
“You are my damnation,
bitch, but I love you,” he had told her.
“I love you too,
Clement,” she had cooed, pronouncing his name in that sweet French manner that
he liked so much.
He had avoided her kiss
that night, left her home without looking back and then asked the next day to
go back home to the United States of America. He met Helen Alston, the southern
belle, hardly a month after he returned home, and convinced himself shortly
after that that he could become a gentleman after all. Still, the memory of Charlotte’s voice producing melodious sounds
of Brindisi—The Drinking Song, from
“La Traviata”—clouded his mind.
The rueful expression on
Clement’s face turned into a reflective smile of sweet reminiscences as he
started singing “Brindisi” with closed lips, not articulating the words until
he got to the second stanza.
‘Let us drink from the goblets of
joy…
…In life, everything is folly which
does not bring pleasure.
...Life is nothing but pleasure, as
long as one is not in love.
...That’s my fate...
Be happy... wine and song and
laughter beautify the night;
Let the new day find us in this
paradise.
Clement took a deep look at the
building, cocked his head, turned around and started walking away—destination Le Cafe Rive Droite, where he would find
someone to put him on René Roccard’s trail, drink some nice French wine, sing a
little and find a woman for the night that would be a song for his ears.
Chapter Four
The sun seemed to have cast a warm
spell on Paris that day, as the beauty of the city’s magnificent structures reflected
in ways that gave further credence to the position the metropolis held in the
eyes and minds of connoisseurs, travelers, and revelers as the most beautiful
city in the world. Clement Coulther was not the only person enlivened by the
comfortably high temperature. The balmy day stirred the zest of life in the
majority of Parisians, exciting most of them to venture outdoors to the parks,
restaurants, cafes, streets, and other relaxing spots of the city. However,
Clement decided to make it the day to close in on René Roccard after an
exhausting time getting on the path of his trail, a task facilitated by the
mutual contacts they once shared.
The prospects of finding
the French enigma first gained traction only after he contacted Marie Rocheteau
the day before. Marie did not know Christelle Nguyen’s new address, but she
knew where her friend lived. She helped him find Christelle’s friend that morning, and she did not disappoint. She turned out to
be the link that helped him finally close in on René.
Clement was surprised to
find a large and boisterous crowd carousing in Bar Chantellier that night when he walked in. Jokes, laughter, and shouting mingled in the air,
giving the place a liveliness that he liked in an instant. However, he was
quick to observe that not all the customers in the joint were affected by the
merry atmosphere. The English tourists who made up the majority of the crowd there
were upbeat, but most of the French customers looked like they did not welcome
the rowdiness of their neighbors across the English Channel.
Clement spotted René at
the far end of the bar but decided not to approach him right away. Instead, he
walked up to the counter and ordered a glass of wine, sharing words and smiles
with some of the English revelers while he kept an eye on René. He observed a
waiter bring René a plate of a hero sandwich, and he even thought of ordering
one for himself, but changed his mind when the bartender failed to respond to
his first call. However, he would have missed seeing another waiter refill the
Frenchman’s glass with red wine had he not turned around again just in time to
see the action.
“Wondering about that
bloke over there?” one of the Englishmen with a high accent muttered, regarded
Clement intensely for a moment and then fixed his eyes on René before turning
around again to Clement.
“He aroused my curiosity.
I mean, sitting there alone as if nothing is going on around him.”
The English guy chortled
for a moment and then cleared his throat.
"Won’t have believed it had I not seen the whole thing with my own eyes.
One of my friends invited him to join us, but the guy made it known in no
uncertain terms that he prefers to be alone,” he said, shrugged and then
extended a hand and added, “My name is Jerry, Jerry Parker.”
He shook it. “I pass
around as Clement Coulther. So, what brings you guys here?”
“Huh! Nothing in
particular.”
“I see quite a jovial
atmosphere around me.”
“Hah! You can tell from
our language that we are nothing but a bunch of old vets who wore down their
boots while treading the beaches, mud paths and streets of the mainland during
the last days of the war. One of my pals came up with this brilliant idea that
we take a tour of the continent, get to appreciate these countries in
peacetime, relax and have fun. And as you can see, we all went for it.”
“I can see what you mean.
I observed your friend over there guzzling beer like someone in a contest.”
“Nah! Can’t say that
much,” Jerry said and chortled, “Blimey! Todd is a fine lad, but his binge
drinking is something I sometimes find worrisome. The guy tends to spoil for a
fight whenever he compromises his sobriety. I won’t say he has reached that
level already.”
“Spoils for a fight all
the time?”
“Often, I would say. But
not all the time.”
“Just out of curiosity,
you know! You guys are in wine country, yet you carry on drinking beer as if
you don’t want to discover anything new about the traditional French alcohol.”
“I am drinking wine,”
Jerry said and raised his half-empty glass.
“I know. I mean your
buddies.”
Clement and Jerry carried
on with their conversation as low-pitched and high-pitched voices mingled in
the air. Clement had to bend backwards several times to catch a glimpse of René,
who, after he finished his sandwich, kept looking at his watch every so often,
like someone expecting a visitor.
Todd attracted Clement’s
attention again when he held his bottle of beer above his six-foot-two frame
and roared, “To show my gratitude to you, dear English gentlemen, for providing
me with such wonderful company, I am making an offer to pay for one round of
drinks for our thirsty throats. Breakfast will be at my expense too…but …” Todd
stopped in mid-sentence and stared wide-eyed in the direction of the main
entrance.
A wondering expression
crossed Clement’s face as he tried to figure out the cause of Todd’s sudden
silence. He was not the only person there who thought Todd’s unexpected
muteness was strange. However, he completely understood what was going on when
he found the object of the cheerful Englishman’s fixation.
An oriental lady in her
mid or late thirties, whose beauty would have made her the perfect image of Princess
Turandot in Giacomo Puccini's opera “Turandot”, was at the door, looking
around the place wonderingly. It was Christelle. Aging appeared to have made
her even more beautiful. She was trendy in her dressing too—spotting a
silhouette with a pyramidal trapeze outline crossed high with wide sashes, narrow
strips, drawstrings and slanted high-to-low lines.
Her face lit up when she
spotted the person she was looking for. Clement followed her with his eyes as
she picked her way through the tables and approached the seated René. Then a
figure hurried in her way. Clement held his breath when Todd intercepted her,
positioning himself between her and René’s table.
“Mademoiselle,
Mademoiselle, please honor my invitation and join us over there. I might be
known for coming across as a bumbling fool, but I have great respect for beauty
and sophistication. I even make it a point of voicing my appreciation whenever
I see a woman with those qualities,” he said and bowed.
The confused Christelle
opened her mouth to say something, but the words couldn’t come out. All she did
was shake her head no.
“I don’t mean any harm,”
Todd enthused and offered her his hand.
“The lady doesn’t want to
be with you,” René said emphatically and rose to his feet.
“Jesus Christ, Todd
again!” Clement heard Jerry mutter under his breath as he put his drink down on
the counter.
Clement looked at Jerry
for a moment and then turned around again
just in time to see Todd shove René aside. It did not have much of an effect,
but René staggered backwards a little, knocking down some chairs in the
process. He quickly steadied himself on his feet again, advanced at lightning
speed and aimed a jab at Todd that sent the Englishman sprawling to the floor.
Christelle screamed and backed away.
“No! Goddam it! She is
his woman,” Clement shouted at the top of his voice as five of the revelers
jumped to their feet and approached René menacingly.
Clement made it to the
scene a moment too late after one of the men had lunged at René’s waist,
crashing him to the floor while another kicked him on the back. Jerry was
shouting now, ordering his buddies to end the fighting, holding the other two
who were trying to surge forward to join in the melee, while the fifth helped
Todd up to his feet. Clement forced himself in front of the kicker, urging him
to stop.
The place seemed so
normal a quarter of an hour after Christelle walked in that it was hard to tell
that a drunken brawl had taken place in the bar that night. Jerry even joked
that the fight was so foolish he would instantly become ashamed of himself the
moment he moved his lips to tell his sons about it.
“Aren’t we all former
soldiers who not long ago prided ourselves as comrades in arms fighting Nazi
Germany in a war to build a new Europe? So why
fight one another when our politicians with a reputation for squabbling are
making the modest effort to create the structures of a united and peaceful European
community,” Jerry pointed out.
“Because of a dame?” one
of the guys who didn’t get involved in the altercation shouted.
“An oriental dame to be
precise,” the guy next to him said in a monotone.
“And a beautiful one at
that,” Todd added in a raucous voice.
René smiled, smoothed
Christelle’s hair and then looked at his watch. “I must leave you guys now,” he
said in English, got up and shook Todd’s hand, “I am sorry for knocking you
down.”
“It is okay, man. Didn’t
know the dame was here to see you. You are lucky,
pal!” Todd said with genuine admiration in his voice.
The war vets exchanged
more pleasantries before René bade them goodbye and then walked out of the bar.
Clement joined him before he stepped on the street.
“I didn’t offer my
special thanks to you for coming to my rescue,” René said.
“No problem. I did what I
had to do.”
“I received a surprise
phone call from my sister today. She told me Clement has been looking for you,”
Christelle interjected.
“D’accord!” René intoned with dimmed eyes, indicating that she could
go ahead with her account.
“I told her you are about
to leave for French Cameroun,” Christelle blurted out with a ring of excitement
in her voice.
René plastered her with a
hard look and then turned to Clement
again. “What are you here for, Clement?”
“I had this strange idea
that you could feed me with some news about the political developments in
France from the day your hero General Charles De Gaulle returned to active
politics.”
“Is this one of your
little games again?”
“What exactly do you
mean?”
“I don’t like your
reputation, Clement. You have a nose for smelling trouble, but your mind is
unreliable, and you have a mouth for reporting things the wrong way. You never
seem to get it. The great powers have interests to defend and obligations to
fulfill. The responsibility for humanity’s survival rests on their shoulders.
Your journalism or reporting fails to recognize that fact.”
“I beg we differ on
that.”
“What do you want, Clement?”
“I am chasing the news,
that’s all.”
“Then you are in the
wrong place.”
“You are news, René.
Wherever you go, whatever you put your foot on, whatever you stretch your arms
at or whatever you hold becomes news. What are you aiming at, René?”
“You got all the news you
want here, Clement. We are back. You will find enough news in France to keep
you busy for the next decade. The Gaullists are back in Paris.”
“You put it perfectly,
René!”
“What is perfect about
it?”
“I have a trail to
follow.”
“What trail?”
“You are the trail, René.
You will lead me to all the good stories in France.”
“Hah, hah…hah, hah, hah!” René chortled, “France isn’t where the action is, Clement. Go to Algeria.
Go to Africa.”
“You can say that only if
you are going there yourself. Is that what you really plan to do?”
René Roccard was quiet
for a moment. “I don’t need you breathing down my neck again. France is,
without doubt, where your buddies need you.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You Americans have no
taste for news from places you had no clue existed in this world.”
“What do you have in
mind?”
“Leave me alone,
Clement!”
“Huh, René! I am glad I
returned to France.”
“Stay away from me.”
“I am your friend, René.
You make the news, and I report it. Our symbiosis is perfect for everyone. You
see why there is no point in threatening your friend here!”
“You heard me,” René
gritted, glared at Clement for a moment and then turned to Christelle. “Let’s
go,” he said with a jerk of the head and a wave of the hand and then started
walking away.
Christelle wrapped her
right arm around her lover’s elbow, looked back fleetingly at Clement and then
batted her eyelids as if to say, ‘he is like that’. She had come to perceive
the world as a place where men fight to make a point while having peace of mind
as their ultimate goal.
Clement Coulther smiled
back as he watched the pair fade away into the Parisian night, walking
arm-in-arm. He wondered what to do next. He didn’t feel like rejoining the
carousers in the bar, and he didn’t have
the urge anymore to get someone to keep him company
for the night. Just then, the thought of Duke Ellington’s “Take the A Train”
crossed his mind, and he winced with half-closed eyes. It had been a while
since he last heard the song; it was years, probably―five or six at least. He
started humming the lyrics softly as he stretched his arm for an approaching
taxi. But even as he tried to be upbeat during the ride to his hotel room, the
revelation Christelle made about René’s intention to go to French Cameroun and
René’s discomfort about it lurked at the back of his mind as a puzzle he could
not shake off....
