Malraux smiles, a rare expression on his face, never in photos, the delight of a cat who’s been at the cream, perhaps a few woman are entitled to see this expression.
‘Cat to the front!’
Max has shouted out.
‘Cat to the rear! Cat everywhere. Raminagrobis be with us!’
A sudden hush, Max stares at his plate, everyone is looking at him, he remains silent, the Consul starts fiddling with his pipe-cleaner again, Max doesn’t look at anyone, could these people guess how kids used to play with cats in the back streets of Rabat? Lyautey played croquet, the kids played shooting-star cats, in the towns, not in the Riff, there weren’t any animals left in the Riff, nothing edible, like us in the trenches, a cat you caught was called a rabbit, the agent for Native Affairs said they don’t even have standard scarcity fare, no wild artichokes, mallow stems, prickly pears, roots, nor tobacco or hashish to beguile hunger, hunger eats at your muscles, what with the bombs and hunger they eventually gave up, they came down hoping to get something to eat, they had nothing left to sell, they traded parts of their clothes, in certain douars in the Riff there wasn’t a single man left alive, the women sold themselves, we behaved very decently, we staged surrender ceremonies, large gatherings, the colours of France and the flag of the Shereef, the whole shooting match.
An order, atten-shun! heels click, brains close, the conquered standing in a semi-circle, bugles, drums, let the ceremony begin, it’s called the targuiba, the conquered chief brings a bull to the conquering chief, a single stroke with a knife, hamstring severed, the bull collapses, thrashes around, and thus the violence ends, allegiance sworn, pardon given, bull on its side, ten men to hold it, bull kicking out, a thrust of the knife to slit its throat, it’s the only thing moving in front of the crowd which watches it die, the violence drains away through the aorta, the smell of warm blood in the noses of those in the front rows, if the tribe didn’t have a bull then the military government provided the sacrificial beast, to be paid for in kind by forced labour, Bournazel was there, with his Arab scouts, no, he didn’t die during the Riff wars, that was later, further south.
Foot of the Sargho hills, March 1933, very simple, he charges and takes a bullet in the stomach, legend has it that Giraud had ordered him to wear a grey djellaba over his red cloak, that took away his baraka, from the notebook of Dr Viaclass="underline" ‘At the orifice made by the bullet I found a very large intestinal and peritoneal hernia, already strangulated and its pedicle twisted, extremely painful’, Bournazel’s nose looks pinched, bloodless lips, ‘I’m cold, Doctor, I’m a long time dying, what a bloody way to go’, that was it, had he kept his red cloak on? The shooting-star cats in the back streets of Rabat, the youngsters dipped their tails in oil, put a match to them, such brilliant flashes in the night, with added sound effects.
Max waves his right hand slowly in the air, watches it, comes out with one last phrase:
‘The Cheshire cat from Alice’s Wonderland!’
‘Alice played croquet too,’ said the young woman.
She looks at de Vèze, he says nothing, he’s so gauche, he’d like to sleep with me, it’s obvious what he means by sleeping: it means taking, then disappearing, and reappearing whenever he fancies, though there’d be a few walks together, at the beginning, and then you’d forget, Mr Good-Looking, you are so manly and I expect that when you can’t do what you want a third time, you too will throw your pillow against the wall.
‘The cat is the spirit of the place,’ concludes the young woman. ‘And of the writing,’ says Malraux.
‘Who does this thieving tom belong to?’ asks the young woman as she prevents the cat getting its nose into her plate.
‘To me,’ says Max, ‘it was a present from my author, I take him with me wherever I go, otherwise he yowls and upsets the guests at the hotel.’
‘What did you call him?’ the young woman asks Malraux. ‘Orpheus,’ says Malraux, ‘I have one just like him in Paris, but I didn’t have time to teach this one his manners.’
De Vèze tells himself that he will put his foot on the young woman’s foot and do it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she will throw the contents of her wineglass in his face, no, all she’ll do is shoot him a withering look, why not wait for a better opportunity? Why not wait ten years while you’re about it? You spend your life waiting, waiting to go away, waiting for a woman, you could wait for her to make all the moves, dream about it, where did I read that? A dinner, Louis XV, a man keeps staring at a woman sitting opposite him, he tries to be brilliant, witty remarks, best wines, the woman removes her shoe under the table and places her foot on the man’s crotch, he has no idea what to do, can a woman really do that? You can dream about it and wait and then go away with nothing.
Max looks at de Vèze:
‘A cat is less trouble than a kangaroo.’
Malraux:
‘The kangaroo in the bedroom watching Ferrai, it’s because I needed something a touch grotesque, between the lines.’
‘Only writing can still do that,’ adds Max, ‘in the cinema, a one-second shot of the kangaroo would be enough to get the whole audience laughing while Ferrai is dreaming that he’s tearing Valerie limb from limb and devouring the pieces.’
‘Actually I didn’t write it quite in that spirit,’ Malraux corrects him.
‘No matter,’ says Max, ‘there’s a hint of Bluebeard in there, and also of kangaroo.’
‘It wasn’t done to lower the tension,’ said Malraux, eyes down, right palm up towards Clappique, ‘it was for comic relief, it doesn’t go anywhere.’
‘Ferral’s mistake,’ says the young woman, ‘was to think we are little girls he could butcher and gobble up.’
She looks at de Vèze, thinks he looks like Ferrai, only better, on the far side of folly, would he be capable of gobbling a person up? Can he do anything else? He’d like to eat me up, and it wouldn’t be too unpleasant to be his supper for one evening, but could he also walk down the rue Lepic eating cherries out of a paper bag that we’d be sharing? It would be our first walk together, then on another day, when we’re a bit more used to each other, we could buy shrimps, the little grey ones, wash them in the fountain ourselves and eat them just as they are, while we watch the world go by, he’d learn that there’s more to life than erections, why not give it a try? Philippe is so distant, he sits there facing me, if it were someone else instead of him it wouldn’t make the slightest difference to anything.
He doesn’t love me, he wanted to get married, that’s all, when I was little I wanted to marry a hero, what boldness is he capable of now, apart from the way he stares, what test could I set him? He says we’re equals, we both work, we earn practically the same amount, he takes the rubbish out, but for him a loving wife is a woman who lives entirely through what her husband does.
He says he’s all mine, but everything I like in life I’m supposed to feel through him, all the other couples we know, modern women, they all know their husbands’ careers inside out, the wife who tells you straight out exactly what her hubby isn’t after: the Cochin job, the Sorbonne professorship or the chairmanship, so-and-so is a bastard, especially when so-and-so is the hubby’s rival, hubby smiles, darling you mustn’t exaggerate so, he takes the bin out half the time, he’s the one who chooses where we go when we travel, he never cried when I passed my exams, ah! so you are Morel’s wife, and Morel always out in front.