And for Max it is unheard of to see Hans do such a thing, Hans, eyes shining, cheeks red, finger raised in the direction of the front of the Senate building, a letter by Flaubert, he recites:
‘“The woman…”’
Hans tries to capture the manner of a teacher dictating Thales’s theorem in the middle of the Jardin du Luxembourg, but his face goes red the moment he starts, he cannot control his face, he recites in French:
‘“The woman you fuck…”’
He hesitates, or pretends to hesitate, he specifies, it’s a letter to Bouilhet. And for Max, it’s unprecedented, if it had been in German Hans would never have dared. He recites in his virtually accentless French, one finger towards the Senate:
‘“…who you fuck doggy-style, naked, in front of an old veneered mahogany pier-glass,” Max, I think it was particularly the pier-glass and the mahogany that interested him, veneered mahogany.’
‘You’re right,’ says Max, ‘and in your novels you too have put some very fine furniture.’
‘True, but not everything a man can do when he’s enjoying the company of a lady.’
‘Not even in a first draft?’
Hans does not reply, a short silence, Max restarts the conversation, how will Hans manage to make his descriptions stick? trade secret, says Hans, but why don’t you tell me your story that has no chimney sweeps from Savoie in it but contains tartiflette, a true story, which I take to mean ninety-five per cent made up; no, Hans has got it wrong, it really is a true story, Max spent two weeks up there and was told it by the whole village and the valley; Hans continues to have his doubts, a couple, a stroll, a hunting-dog, that rings true enough, but it would be enough to hold the reader? it needs something which is out of the ordinary, and fast.
‘What struck me,’ says Max, ‘is that the man had a wooden leg.’
‘And these days is a wooden leg particularly striking? Did he come back with it from the war?’
‘Douaumont. The woman had this strange look in her eye, intense and absent, a faint smile, she was physically stronger, but it seemed that he was supporting and guiding her. She looked as if she was miles away.’
‘Yes…’
Hans almost said ja or even yo, that ever-so-slightly below-the-salt yo used by his friend Johann, all those years ago, at the start of the war, just before the sabre-thrust, that’s what’s left of Johann in Hans’s mind, a hesitation between ja and yo, has been happening several times a day for fifteen years, but Hans says oui, in Paris he takes more trouble, he forces himself to say every last word in French, to get oui to come as naturally as it does to any true-born Parisian is the most difficult thing of all, he says:
‘Yes, the enigmatic female, that can give you up to twenty thousand readers; in Maupassant, she’d be the woman who has been spurned and has not forgiven, her burning jealousy will henceforth be unspoken, she has the smile of a woman who has every day the rest of her life to wreak her revenge, you could do worse, but watch out for clichés, and what about the dog?’
Max smiles, his face brightens, a splendid Irish setter, nothing delicate about him, Max’s hands draw a rounded shape in space, a dog muscled from its runs in the open air, racing through the long grass, only two spurts of flame visible, its ears, at intervals. It’s a story which is out of the ordinary, Hans, the man is a native of the place, the woman has come from Switzerland, before the war, they met in 1913, in Geneva, on the Pont du Mont Blanc, it was early one afternoon, she was leaving the Valais to go to France, he was going to the shops, he could never remember which one, maybe he was going to Payot’s for some books.
Hans visualises the scene, you’d need to check if Payot’s bookshop existed at the time, your hero sees the woman from a distance, that gives us time to sketch the background, he’s reached the middle of the bridge, the water and the mountains sway gently, their looming bulk tinged with blue, a few well-fed birds watch the hands of the passers-by, on the roofs of the great hotels flags flap, bright sun, Hôtel des Bergues, we’ll need to say a word about the Hôtel des Bergues at this point, you need occasionally to be able to do the postcard stuff, now for the woman!
‘It’s the fluid way she walks that first strikes Thomas,’ says Max, ‘the man’s name is Thomas, Thomas de Vèze, old aristocracy badly mauled by history, I think I’ll only use his Christian name, an attractive walk, somewhat unusual for a woman at that time, neither uneven nor constricted, as flowing as her skirt, steady rhythm, he told me that women often have one foot more forthright than the other, but not her, she comes towards him, brisk, resolute, dark hair, no hat, in Geneva, can you imagine? She’s not wearing gloves, doesn’t lower her eyes, her clear blue eyes.’
‘It’s as vivid as if I was there,’ says Hans, ‘when she passes Thomas he turns, like any self-respecting Frenchman he is inspecting her backside, that “royal rear-guard when amorous battle is joined”, and he starts to follow her.’
‘No, you’re not even close, even today Thomas still has no idea what got into him: just as she is about to walk past him, he calls out, “You are so beautiful!”’
‘This Thomas de Vèze is a novice, Max, even in Germany no one would do a thing like that.’
‘She answered: “And who might you be?” They stayed together, they walked along the north side of the lake.’
‘Max, I can see her, she’s just eaten, she felt sated, drowsy, now she has forgotten how full she felt, for the setting I suggest initially a furtive note, a light breeze, from time to time it turns the leaves on the trees and shows their silver backs.’
Max has told Hans don’t mock, Thomas wants to know everything, the woman says her name is Hélène, she has just left her whole life behind, for reasons which do not concern him, her voice is low. ‘Right,’ says Hans, ‘a contralto, I’ve always liked contralto voices.’ And Hans’s mouth stays open, his chin begins to tremble, like the chin of a person who is about to cry, Hans is completely lost for words, you think you’re strong, you’ve managed to get everything in perspective, memories all in order, sorted, 1913, Arosa, Waltenberg, the giggles, the frozen lake, the large eagle, the bicycle rides, the raised bed, the hole in the chair, the recriminations when he looked at his watch, tea-time, the first time, her hand around the back of his neck, pink on the mountain tops, her breast outlined against the light in the window recess, and even that silly business one day at the Waldhaus, America too is tidied away, relegated to the distant future, transformed into the abstract idea of a destination, and Hans has met other women, some of them ‘hurt’ him as they say, an excellent feeling, to be able at last to say ‘contralto voices’ without shaking, without blushing, we used to go to see Madame Nietnagel, each week we’d go down to Lucerne, I loved it, we looked like an old married couple on an outing, when Lena looked at me as she sang, Nietnagel would say don’t turn your head like that, it strains the vocal cords, puts a strain on everything, Nietnagel’s crocodile eyes on me, she would say ‘Kappler, too many consonants in this name’, her crocodile gaze went over my head, became vague, I knew she was looking out of the window, she was watching for the sun, its rays on the pale yellow walls of the room, she really made Lena work, on the way back, in the train, Lena would lean her head on my shoulder, once she said ‘Kappler, Kappler, I like your name.’
You think you’ve succeeded in settling everything down, you say ‘contralto voices’ and then your stupid chin starts to tremble, an itty-bitty muscle, a stupid spasm, you close your mouth, but then your lower lip starts doing it too, and the lower jaw joins in, actually during the war I’d stopped crying altogether, Lena could be there, in the middle of the track, she could walk down the middle of the track, a wool dress in autumn colours, or hold my arm instead of Max’s, Max says nothing, he has taken Max by the elbow, he falls in step with him, he doesn’t ask a question but Hans answers it all the same: