‘No, Ernst, you’re seriously getting on my nerves now. Here we are at Ostia, sitting on a beautiful beach, and there are girls playing catch right in front of us. Do you really think this is the time and place to be solemn? Save your propaganda for another day.’
With their mouths full of bread and salted veal, they continued to argue, half-serious, half-laughing.
‘No one will believe we could have been such stupendous failures on this trip,’ Jean said.
‘Failures?’
‘Clumsy, pathetic.’
‘Why?’
‘We haven’t managed to pull a single girl.’
‘Does that interest you so much?’
‘Yes. I’d like to. I’d have the feeling of being a man, at last.’
Ernst could not hide his disappointment.
‘Poor Hans, that’s not how you become a man. If every Frenchman is like you, within two or three years your country will be a German colony…’
‘… which will colonise Germany. It’s true that I don’t know a lot, only the curriculum for the bac, but according to the history books, those who are devoured will devour their devourers, in other words the best forces that Germany can muster will be undermined by the example of our carelessness and frivolity … Remember how the decadent Greeks corrupted their Roman conquerors.’
‘Ah, you believe that … but you’re talking about Latins and Greeks. They’re not Aryans. Aryan men are not so vulnerable in their victories, and Aryan women—’
He did not finish his sentence, but sprang up from his stool. Two boys, jumping on their bicycles, which they had left on the seafront, clearly in view, were about to ride away. In a single movement Ernst was on the first one. He grabbed him by the throat and rolled on the ground with him, followed by Jean who caught the second and had him full-length on the cobbles when he abruptly noticed that Ernst’s thief had the upper hand. He rushed to his aid, seizing the thief, who was pummelling the German’s already bleeding face, and holding him in an armlock. There was a brief struggle, amplified by the shouts of passers-by and the panic of the girls on the beach, and the thief was knocked out. The two friends stood up, to discover that in the course of the fight Jean’s bicycle had vanished. Someone pointed out the direction it had taken and they dashed that way. The bicycle appeared at the end of a narrow street and disappeared again. Ernst’s nose was bleeding, and his chest was splashed with blood.
‘Are you hurt?’ Jean asked, out of breath.
‘No, not at all. But what are you going to do without your bicycle?’
‘Had it. Gone for good. All my things too. My swimming costume’s all I’ve got left.’
‘We’ll share everything.’
‘That’s very decent of you, Ernst, but I’ve got to look after myself.’
At the beach a circle of passers-by and bathers had surrounded the thief, who sat on the ground spitting out his teeth. A policeman was bending over him, questioning him. An elderly gentleman in a boater and alpaca suit shouted at Jean in French, ‘You ought to be ashamed of your brutality! The boy only wanted to play a joke on you. Where do you think you are? In a land of savages? Well, I can tell you you’re not, you despicable brute, you’re in a civilised country, a thousand times more than your own …’
Dismayed, Jean scanned the curious faces around him, and the policeman who was regarding him with an inquisitive look. The boater and alpaca suit inspired respect. If it was his word against Jean’s, people might believe him.
‘What about the other one?’ Jean said. ‘He went a bit far with his joke, going off with my bike.’
‘If you hadn’t attacked his friend in such a cowardly manner, he would have given it back to you straight away, and if it wasn’t a joke the police would have arrested him. We do have a police force, Monsieur, and it knows what to do.’
Turning to the policeman, who was listening uncomprehendingly, he repeated his last sentences in Italian. The policeman, less convinced of his force’s effectiveness, nodded his head with a dubious expression and began a long explanation that the bystanders followed with interest, while the thief attempted to slip between their legs. Ernst stopped him with a kick in the ribs. The man in the boater flew into a rage and raised his stick at the German. He seemed to have convinced several onlookers. Ernst, unable to reply in his language, interrupted the policeman’s speech and indicated that it was time to go to the police station. They could explain themselves there, as could the thief, who was now lying in the road moaning, his face swollen.
‘What a nerve!’ the elderly gentleman said, furious.
‘Monsieur—’ Jean tried to reply.
‘Commendatore!’ the other corrected him.
‘Commendatore, would you like to explain to this policeman that my bicycle has been stolen by this thief ’s accomplice?’
The man sniggered. ‘Ah, ah, ah! But what proves you had a bicycle in the first place? Show us your papers.’
Jean was astonished by his ill will, which far exceeded anything he had experienced up till then. A police car arrived, cutting the discussion short. Ernst and Jean were bundled in, along with the thief. The commendatore handed his card to the policeman. He would act as a witness whenever he was required. At the station they found a young inspector who spoke French. The affair seemed to him as clear as day. He was also familiar with the so-called commendatore, and his false visiting card. He was a skilful fraud who managed a young band of thieves and pickpockets. The inspector called the policeman a naïve fool. If he had had his wits about him, he would have arrested the man in the boater. The two men embarked on a violent discussion, ignoring Jean completely.
‘But what am I going to do?’ he finally said. ‘I can’t go back to France in my swimming costume, without money or documents.’
‘You’ll have to ask your embassy to help you.’
‘Where?’
‘In Rome, of course.’
‘How can I get to Rome in a swimming costume?’
The inspector made an evasive gesture. The question did not interest him.
‘I can give you a shirt and shorts,’ Ernst said. ‘But I’ve got almost no money left, only just enough to get back to Germany. How will you manage?’
Jean felt overwhelmed. He thought he might have cried if Ernst had not been there. The worst part was the casual way in which the inspector announced that, as the superintendent would not be coming that afternoon, they would only be released the following morning. They were offered benches to sleep on. They slept badly, tormented by insects, and when the superintendent arrived next morning at ten o’clock, all he did was offer his terse apologies: they should never have been detained. They were free to go as soon as they had signed their statement. They were served with coffee and a slice of bread, then found themselves on the road back to Rome, Ernst pushing his bicycle, Jean barefoot and wearing a pair of German shorts that were too short and a shirt that was so tight he couldn’t do up the buttons. However, Jean refused to view the situation too tragically. At the Adler, Salah would let the prince and Geneviève know what had happened, and he would arrange everything. He reassured Ernst.
‘Don’t worry. They’ll help me. And I haven’t lost anything precious, apart from my Stendhal that Joseph Outen gave me. None of the rest amounted to much.’
‘You’re not telling me that you’re going to accept help from that Negro or his Semite employer?’
‘Why not?’
‘They won’t give you anything for nothing.’
‘They are the most generous people I know.’