Moved, shaking all over, my mother put her arms around him, then around me. She kissed me. I felt her heart beating against my chest and her tears sliding down my neck. Embarrassed by Gino’s presence, she hid her face with her scarf and ran to take refuge in the kitchen.
I walked Gino home. It was a magnificent night, fragrant with amber and mint. The sky glittered with millions of constellations. A group of young men were laughing their heads off under a street lamp. We walked in silence to Boulevard Mascara. An empty tram passed us. I felt light, fresh; an honest joy filled my lungs. I was proud of myself.
‘I’m sleeping at my mother’s tonight,’ I said to Gino when we got to his door. ‘I’ll just go up and drop my bag.’
Gino put on the stair light and went up ahead of me.
When he reached his mother’s room, transformed into a living room, he gave a start. On the chest of drawers stood a brand-new horn gramophone and a pile of records in their sleeves.
‘It’s my gift to you,’ I said.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ he said with a lump in his throat.
‘Do you like it?’
‘Of course I do!’
‘And I got you all the Jewish-Andalusian music I could find. This way, you won’t have to venture out into dangerous areas at ridiculous hours.’
Gino looked through the pile of records. ‘Where did you buy these?’
‘In a very smart shop in the centre of town.’
Gino burst out laughing. ‘Well, smart or not, they took you for a ride. These are all military band records.’
‘No!’ I said in astonishment.
‘They definitely are. Look, it’s even written on the sleeves.’
‘The crook! How did he know I couldn’t read? I was all dressed up like a matinee idol, with brilliantine in my hair. I swear I insisted on records of Jewish-Andalusian music. I told him it was for someone who loves that kind of thing … The bastard! Plus, they cost me a fortune. I’m going to have a word with him tomorrow morning.’
Touched by my disappointment, Gino let out another boyish laugh. ‘Come on, it’s not that bad. Now I won’t need to go to the bandstand to hear this kind of music, that’s all.’ He gave me a big hug. ‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart.’
*
Two weeks later, De Stefano stopped me in the doorway of the gym. His face was radiant with a joy he couldn’t contain. The Duke had thought it over! ‘It’s in the bag,’ Francis said, rubbing his hands. Frédéric Pau was perched on the edge of the ring, his legs crossed, his thumbs in his braces, smiling from ear to ear. ‘Put it there, son,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘From now on, we’re partners.’ He told me that his boss was inviting De Stefano and me to his house to seal the deal. I told him I wouldn’t sign anything without Gino, much to the dismay of Francis, whose face immediately darkened. Frédéric told me we hadn’t got to that point yet, that this was just a friendly meeting. In the afternoon, a gleaming car pulled up outside the haberdasher’s on Boulevard Mascara. Gino and I were on the balcony, sipping orangeade. Filippi got out of the car in a tight-fitting bellboy’s tunic, a cap jammed on his head. He stood to attention and gave us a military salute.
‘Did Bébert fire you from his garage?’ Gino shouted down to him.
‘No.’
‘Then what are you doing in that uniform? You look like a soldier in his Sunday best.’
‘I’m a chauffeur. The Duke was looking for a driver. De Stefano told him about me, and the Duke hired me immediately. He has a good business head, the Duke. For the price of one employee, he’s got himself a chauffeur and a mechanic … I have something for Turambo.’
‘Come up, it’s open.’
Filippi carefully took a package from the back seat and joined us upstairs. There were two suits in their wrapping, one black and the other white, two shirts and two ties.
‘They’re from the boss,’ he said. ‘He wants to see you looking handsome tonight. Go to the hammam and get yourself cleaned up. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty. Make sure you’re ready; the Duke’s a stickler for punctuality.’
Filippi came back at sunset. I’d had my bath and put on the black suit, and Gino had helped me knot my tie. I stood in front of the wardrobe mirror, combed, scented … and barefoot. I didn’t have any suitable shoes. Filippi offered me his own shoes, not the ones he was wearing, but the ones he had at home, in Delmonte. It was on our way. We made a detour to pick up De Stefano and, at eight on the dot, we were at the Duke’s door.
The Duke lived in a big villa in the south of Saint-Eugène, or to be more accurate a magnificent manor house surrounded by a huge, luxuriant garden. An Arab guard opened the gate, which had a gold thistle on it. We had to go a good thirty metres along a gravel drive lined on either side with hydrangeas and small bushes pruned into cubes before we reached the canopied front steps of the house.
Frédéric Pau was waiting for us on the top step in a charcoal-grey frock coat that made him look like a heron. He adjusted De Stefano’s tie, asked him to take off his straw boater, then looked me over and adjusted a few things, a crease in my jacket, a hair out of place.
Members of polite society were chatting in a big, high-ceilinged room, beneath a massive chandelier. There were elegant ladies with elbow-length gloves, accompanied by distinguished-looking gentlemen with outlandish moustaches. When he saw me, the Duke opened his arms wide and cried, ‘Ah, there’s our hero!’ He didn’t embrace me, or even hold out his hand; he merely introduced me briefly to his guests, who looked me up and down, some with interest, others with curiosity, before turning away from me and returning to the sophisticated hubbub. They were all of a certain age, women and men, probably married couples, reeking of successful business and high positions. De Stefano whispered in my ear that the fat man with the swollen nose was the mayor and the skinny gentleman with the greying temples was the prefect. Out on the veranda, a Parisian dignitary in a tailcoat and top hat was pretending to take the air in order to distance himself from the locals and enhance his metropolitan aura.
A servant passed between the guests with a tray of glasses. De Stefano eagerly accepted a glass of champagne; I didn’t take anything, intimidated by the luxury around me, the ladies’ sophisticated clothes, their companions’ regal disdain.
A neat, bouncy young girl approached me, hands twisted behind her back, her face red with embarrassment and curiosity.
She was cute, with her blonde plaits and her big blue eyes.
‘I’m Louise, Monsieur Bollocq’s daughter.’
I didn’t know what to say in reply. In the distance, De Stefano winked at me, which annoyed me for some reason.
‘Papa’s convinced you’re going to be world champion.’
‘The world’s a big place.’
‘When Papa says something, it always happens.’
‘…’
‘I love boxing. Papa won’t take me to see matches, so I listen to them on the radio. Georges Carpentier’s fights are amazing. But I won’t cheer him on the way I used to now that Papa has his own champion …’
Shyly she went up on tiptoe. Her tongue moved back and forth over her thin lips.
‘How can you take the blows round after round? The announcer almost fainted when he described the flurry of blows you exchanged in the ring.’
‘You train a lot to keep going.’
‘And does it hurt when you box?’
‘Not as much as a toothache.’
A refined lady came along and cut short our conversation. She must have been in her forties and was very grand and aggressive. Barely glancing at me, she seized the girl by the arm and led her away from me.
‘Louise, my dear, you should leave this young man alone. We’ll be sitting down to eat soon.’