‘Where’s the army going?’ It was rare for Esmé to ask a direct question.
‘Going?’ Santucci pretended astonishment. ‘Why, to a war, of course, pretty dove! The details aren’t important, I assure you. They are soldiers. They know only fighting. One provides a service - in this case a war - which will satisfy their blood lust and keep them from doing much harm to honest civilians. But it is all a question of telegrams and the telephone. By now I have a good commission waiting for me in Benghazi. The secret is to have pockets of credit all over the world, then travel towards them. Spread the money as far as you can. Have people pay it into banks in London or Lahore. It gives you an incentive to visit places you might otherwise never go to. Once there, why a fresh opportunity usually presents itself. If someone is looking for a stockbroker, I am a stockbroker. If they want to buy corn, I become a corn merchant. It’s easy enough to be a middleman. One relies on the impatience, the greed, the uncertainty of one’s fellows. People would rather deal with a jack-of-all-trades who is personally attractive and willing to talk the dirty business of money and transportation, than with an expert who is aloof. Since the goods rarely pass through my hands, I remain innocent of any misuse or minor breach of the law. I’ll never have the massive fortune of a real entrepreneur, but I live well and, most important,’ he winked at Esmé, ‘I have girls in every port.’
‘I can’t think why more people don’t do what you do.’ She was honestly puzzled. His matter-of-fact tone had convinced her. She had missed his irony.
He stroked his perfect waistcoat then broke wind behind his hand. ‘Because they are not Annibale Santucci, little dove.’ He expressed sober regret. He was profoundly sympathetic of everyone else in the world. ‘I’ll take you back to the hotel. I have some personal business now. You’ll forgive me if I don’t invite you.’
The bill was paid in banknotes of intricate beauty.
We saw our friend briefly the following morning, when he kissed us both farewell and whispered to Esmé that the hotel bill was settled for the next two weeks. ‘By then you’ll be on your way to London.’ He turned to me. ‘I wish you luck with your inventions, professor. Write me a postcard. Invite me to stay with you when you have a place. There must be business I can do in London. It is after all a city of thieves - a nation of thieves, by God!’
Laughing, I told him I did not have his address in Milan. Where could I write to him?
‘To Mendoza’s in Rome. He’ll always find me. To The Wasp. Any of those regular cafés.’ He paused by the door to draw a piece of hotel notepaper from his inside pocket. ‘I have written down the address of some friends. Wonderful people. You’ll fall in love with them. They’re exiles here. I’ve written a note. Visit them if you can.’
We watched the gigantic green automobile move into the traffic of the Boulevard du Temple. She was like a ceremonial barge negotiating a fast flowing river. Her horn sounded. Her engine began to rage like a million demons as Santucci accelerated towards the animated statuary of the Place de la République. It was a beautiful morning. We did not go back into the hotel but, hand in hand as always, we turned down the Rue du Turenne in the general direction of the Hotel de Ville. A light rain was falling through the early autumn sunshine. Everyone had umbrellas except us and we did not want one; we welcomed this gorgeous rain as enthusiastically as we welcomed everything Paris offered. Most leaves were still green, but here and there they were golden or brown. There was a strange atmosphere, a mixture of sweet melancholy and a hectic, celebratory air. In Paris, since November 1918, a huge party had been taking place, twenty-four hours a day.
Before long we should be invited to join that party. We would unhesitatingly accept. For us at least the Jazz Age had its beginnings in Paris.
ELEVEN
PARIS IS NO COMMON HARLOT. She is still a queen-whore, disdaining pimps, dismissing suitors with careless flattery, knowing that if her beauty fades a little year by year, she still remains elegantly attractive, for what nature takes away, cosmetics can easily replace. Paris of course has no heart of gold. She is a cold, mercenary goddess, pricing sexuality as precisely as she weighs confectionery; and she can be surprisingly prim, because fundamentally she remains a provincial matron. She sets high store by appearances. She knows the exact value of every pretty sentiment and she retails Romance by the gram. She is lace starched into stone. She is a corset braced with bone. She is a lure, a fly, a scent; a whiff of delight designed to part you from your cash with a girlish wink. The wink alone is worth a hundred francs. Charm has its commodity price; it would be quoted on the Bourse if someone ever dared reveal the truth. But no one ever will, or will ever be listened to, at any rate: for Paris, more than any other city, is dedicated to obfuscation, disguise, misleading decoration, since where there is ambiguity, as everyone knows, there is always money to be made. Few Parisians would ever accept the truism that the more one finds talk of love, flirtation, declarations of undying sentiment, the more one will discover rapacity, venality and hard cruelty. Soft words often exist in direct ratio to the greed they disguise.