I also remember a certain Léon Grunwald. He came to lunch with my father several times a week. Tall, with wavy gray hair, face like a spaniel’s, drooping eyes and shoulders. Much later, I was surprised to find a trace of the man in Jesús Ynfante’s book on the “Broglie Affair”: In 1968, the president of a company called Matesa “was seeking financing to the tune of fifteen to twenty million dollars.” He had got in touch with Léon Grunwald, “who had helped arrange the primary financing to Luxembourg.” A memorandum of understanding was signed by “Jean de Broglie, Raoul de Léon, and Léon Grunwald”; if the loan went through, they stood to earn a commission of five hundred thousand dollars. According to what I read, Grunwald had died in the interim. From exhaustion? It’s true that these kinds of people have demanding jobs and spend many a sleepless night. By day, they schedule countless meetings with one another to try to sign their “memoranda of understanding.”
I would like to breathe purer air, my head is spinning, but still I recall several of my father’s “appointments.” One late morning I had accompanied him to the Champs-Elysées. We were welcomed by a short, bald, very vivacious man, in a cupboard-sized office where we could barely find room to sit. I thought he was one of the seven dwarves. He kept his voice down, as if he wasn’t supposed to be there.
Normally, my father held his “appointments” in the lobby of the Claridge, where he took me on Sundays. One afternoon, I stayed to the side while he conferred in undertones with an Englishman. He tried to grab a sheet of paper the Englishman had just initialed, but the latter snatched it away too quickly. What “memorandum of understanding” could this have been? My father had an office in a large, ochre-colored building at 1 Rue Lord-Byron, where he headed the Société Africaine d’Entreprise, along with a secretary named Lucienne Wattier, a former model whom he addressed with the familiar tu. This is one of my first memories of the Paris streets: walking up Rue Balzac, then turning right onto Rue Lord-Byron. One could also reach this office by entering the Normandie cinema on the Champs-Elysées side and following a tangle of hallways.
On the mantelpiece of my father’s room were several volumes of “maritime law,” which he was studying. Something to do with a cigar-shaped oil tanker he wanted to have built. My father’s Corsican lawyers: Maître Mariani, whom we would visit at home, and Maître Vizzavona. Sunday walks with my father and an Italian engineer, who held a patent for “pressure ovens.” My father became close friends with a certain M. Held, “water diviner,” who always wore a pocket watch on a chain. One evening, on the stairs, my father said something that I didn’t fully grasp at the time — one of the rare instances when he opened up to me: “One should never neglect the little details … Unfortunately, I’ve always neglected the little details.”
In those years, 1957 and 1958, another of his cronies appeared, a certain Jacques Chatillon. I saw him again twenty years later, by which point he was calling himself James B. Chatillon. At the start of the Occupation he had married the granddaughter of a merchant whose secretary he was, and during that time he had been a horse trader in Neuilly. He sent me a letter in which he talked about my father: “Don’t be upset that he died alone. Your father didn’t mind being alone. He had great imagination — though to be honest, entirely devoted to his business — that he nourished carefully and that nourished his mind. He was never alone, for he was always ‘conspiring’ with some scheme or other, and that’s what gave him that strange air that many found so unnerving. He was curious about everything, even things he didn’t agree with. He managed to give an impression of calm, but he could easily turn violent. When something annoyed him, his eyes would flash. He opened them wide, instead of keeping them hidden under his heavy eyelids. Above all, he was a dilettante. What always shocked his contacts the most was his reluctance to speak, to make himself clear. He would mumble a few allusions … punctuated with one or two hand gestures and a ‘there you have it’ … then clear his throat once or twice to top it off. Along with his reluctance to speak went his reluctance to set things down on paper, which he explained away as being due to his illegible handwriting.”
James B. Chatillon wanted me to write the biography of a friend of his, a Corsican mobster named Jean Sartore, who had just died and who’d associated with the Rue Lauriston gang and its boss, Lafont, during the Occupation. “I sincerely regret that you couldn’t write Jean Sartore’s memoirs, but you’re wrong to think he was an old friend of Lafont’s. He used Lafont as a screen for his gold and currency smuggling, since the Germans were after him even more than the French. That said, he knew plenty about the Lauriston bunch.”
In 1969, after my second novel came out, he had phoned me and left a name and number where I could reach him. It was in care of a M. de Varga, who was later implicated in Jean de Broglie’s murder. I remember one Sunday when we walked around Mont Valérien, my father and I and this Chatillon, a stocky, brown-haired fellow, with lively black eyes under pale lids. He drove us there in an old Bentley with collapsed leather seats — the only asset he had left. After a while, he had to part with that, too, and would come to the Quai de Conti on a moped. He was deeply devout. I once asked him, provocatively, “What good is religion, anyway?” He had given me a biography of Pope Pius XI with this inscription: “For Patrick, so that he might learn ‘what good religion is’ …”
Often my father and I were alone on Saturday evenings. We saw movies at the Champs-Elysées and the Gaumont Palace. One afternoon in June, we were walking — I don’t remember why — on Boulevard Rochechouart. The sun was very strong and we retreated into the darkness of a small movie house, the Delta. At the George V cinema, there was a documentary on the Nuremberg Trials, Hitler’s Executioners: at age thirteen, I discovered images of the extermination camps. Something changed for me that day. And what did my father think? We never talked about it, not even as we left the theater.
On summer nights we would get ice cream at Ruc or the Régence. Dinner at L’Alsacienne on the Champs-Elysées, or at the Chinese restaurant on Rue du Colisée. In the evening, on the dark red leather-covered record player, we’d listen to test pressings of vinyl records he wanted to put on the market. And on his bedside table, I remember one book: How to Make Friends, which today helps me understand his solitude. One Monday morning during the holidays, I heard steps on the inner staircase leading to the fifth floor, where my room was. Then voices in the large bathroom next door. Bailiffs were carting away all of my father’s suits, shirts, and shoes. What ploy had kept them from repossessing the furniture?
Summer vacations in 1958 and 1959 in Mégève, where I was alone with a young girl, an art student who watched over me like a big sister. The Hôtel de la Résidence was closed and looked abandoned. We crossed through the unlit lobby to use the pool. After 5 P.M., an Italian orchestra played around that pool. A doctor and his wife had rented us two rooms in their house. Strange couple. The wife, a brunette, seemed crazy. They had adopted a girl my age, sweet like all unloved children, with whom I spent afternoons in the deserted classrooms of the nearby school. Beneath the summer sun, a smell of grass and asphalt.