— You are aware, — said Monsieur Delatour again to Monsieur Huppert (but now his voice was more relaxed, more conciliatory) — you are aware, I hope, that if you want to regain the lost territory at this point, the only remaining choice is X-21. Moreover, if you had followed my advice, you’d have settled the terms last year.—
Monsieur Huppert did not yet seem completely restored from the slight dispute. He was still pale; I noticed that his lips trembled imperceptibly. He talked with his eyes lowered, on the defensive, that fool Monsieur Huppert. It seemed he was going to purposely ruin the whole evening, which until this moment had been very precariously restored.
— But it’s not possible … — he mumbled. — You understand, Monsieur Delatour … it’s not a question of it being a whim of mine … I mean it’s a thing …—
As I anticipated, Monsieur Delatour lost his patience once and for all, blood surged to his face, his neck muscles tensed. Monsieur Huppert’s obstinacy had succeeded in ruining the evening.
— It’s a thing…? — he said, trying to control himself. — It’s what kind of thing?—
— Let’s say that it leads to imprisonable falsifications, — said Monsieur Huppert.
— Oh! — murmured Monsieur Delatour sadly. — Progress has its own risks, dear Monsieur Huppert, don’t you think so? Civilization is always paid in some way. One doesn’t pass with impunity from caves to refrigerators.—
Monsieur Huppert was silent, staring stubbornly at the pineapple mousse which he’d left on his plate. There was a very long moment of silence. The only sound was the crackling of the fire in the fireplace.
Monsieur Delatour assumed a conciliatory, almost good-natured tone. He spoke as if to a child who had committed some unintentional foolishness. — Never mind what I told you about not conquering the market with your methods. I don’t want to teach you your job, for God’s sake, but after all you can’t claim to sell certain products accompanied by certificates of guarantee. How many other times have you brought those poor people the refined products of our civilization without writing treatises of ethics on them? …. You need good manners … you understand … delicacy…. Find a name that’s a little innocuous and … conventional, that’s it, and possibly attractive. They’re primitives, believe me. Monsieur Huppert, the primitives love poetic names, mythical names. Don’t consider leaving any signed documents, it’s always better to leave … how do you say? … a pseudonym.—
His eyes wandered around. His gaze rested on the fireplace, on Madame Huppert who was watching the fire, on me who was staring at him, on the champagne, on the Ikebana in the middle of the table.
— For example, — he whispered insinuatingly, in the tone of someone who has had an excellent idea — for example, begin by selling them a million dollars’ worth of “Heavenly Bliss.’’—
Just at that moment Giuseppe appeared to ask if he should serve the coffee.
— In a few minutes, — said Madame. — We’ll have it by the fire.—
DOLORES IBARRURI SHEDS BITTER TEARS
He was a happy child, really happy. He was always laughing, so happy, and he even had a sense of humor. For instance, my sister Elsa was crazy about jokes, she knew a hundred of them, and when he saw her he would run up to her and cry, Aunt Elsa, a joke! Aunt Elsa, a joke! And he would laugh, but as if he were amused, like an adult. Perhaps he really got that happiness from Elsa, who was so vital, even too much so, maybe a little reckless, but at least she enjoyed her life, after all, in her own way. Affectionate, too. And he remained that way when he was grown-up. Happy, well, no, but very affectionate. Never once did he forget my birthday, even when he was far away, always something, a rose from Inter-Flora, a telegram … Would you like to see his telegrams? I have them here in this little Droste cocoa tin. Look, from 1970 to today there are eight telegrams. This one here, for instance, is from four years ago. Listen, it says He thinks of you with gratitude for the life that you gave him. Yes, it’s signed Piticche, we called him that. It’s never come out in the newspapers, nobody knows it, it’s something kept in the family. For us it was a pet name. I’d be grateful if you’d be quiet about it, too. Afterwards in the newspapers it comes between quotation marks after his real name: “called ‘Pilicche.’” It’s awful, don’t you think? How do you get people to understand that Piticche’s a pet name? Even you don’t understand it. If only I could explain to you the origin of the name, its meaning, but no one can understand what it means to me. In names there’s the time spent together, persons who have died, things done together, places, other names, our life. Piticche means little one. He was really tiny when he was young. He was blond, look at this photograph, he’s four years old — not that one, he’s eight there — this one here crouching near Pinocchio. Don’t you see that Pinocchio is taller than he is?
At our house there was a lemon tree. It grew espaliered against the facade facing south. Its branches reached the window of the upper floor. He spent his childhood playing with a Pinocchio, this one here in the photograph. “Oh, ho! Here comes Pinocchio! …” I still hear his voice repeating that refrain down there in the courtyard. At that time Rodolfo was already sick, I spent a lot of time in the bedroom taking care of him. His little voice came to me through the window. He was always playing with Pinocchio, it was his only company. He usually made him die, hanging him from the lemon tree as the cat and wolf disguised as brigands do in the book, and then he would make him a little grave of earth with a cross of reeds, but naturally he hid Pinocchio somewhere else. Then the fairy with the dark blue hair would arrive and go and cry over the tomb of her Pinocchio — that is, over the flower bed by the lemon tree. I was the fairy. He would watch me mischievously, because it was all arranged between us. I would kneel down in front of the lemon tree and cry, “Pinocchio, my poor little Pinocchio, I’ll never see you again, oh! oh! oh!” And then I would hear a weak voice, because the pretense was that it should seem to come from under the ground, which said, “My beautiful little sister, do not be in such despair. If you love your Pinocchio, he’s alive!” I would look around in amazement, searching for that voice, and see him standing like a puppet on his matchstick legs, thrusting out his arms to me, moving them like a marionette, and I would run to hug him and hold him tight to my breast. And while this scene was going on, he was laughing crazily, jumping up with his hands behind his back and doing a kind of ballet, singing, “Oh, ho! Here comes Pinocchio!” And the game was over.
Yvette gave him his name, Piti, but it was he who called himself Piticche, pointing to his chest. It was ’49. Elsa had brought Yvette and Gustave, she’d found them in the station at Livorno some years before. They didn’t know where to go. They had with them four frying pans and a Siamese cat they called Mayer that died a month later. He was a beekeeper in the Ardenne. They escaped to the south without a plan, just to escape, otherwise they’d have been deported. Elsa told them they could come, to our house, soup was always a good remedy. They said they’d go when the front had passed, then they stayed for four years. They were refined persons, they became like relatives. Yvette died last year. They have a son, a dentist in Marseilles, she was pregnant later when they returned to France…. Am I straying from the subject? I know that I’m straying. Let me stray, then I’ll come to the point.