Promise at Dawn, Page 5

  With a few expert movements I worked my way into the maze, replacing each log behind me, soon reaching the very center of the edifice, and there, with fifteen or eighteen feet of protecting carapace around me, I burst into tears. I cried for a long time, and then proceeded to examine the logs, choosing those I would have to shift to bring my wooden fastness crashing down on me and so deliver me from the world forever. I touched them, one by one, with a feeling of gratitude. I can still remember their friendly and reassuring contact, and the sense of peace that came over me at the idea that I was never again to be humiliated and unhappy. All I had to do was to push the logs simultaneously with my feet and back.

  I worked myself into the right position.

  Then I remembered that I had in my pocket a piece of poppy-seed cake which I had stolen that morning from the back of the pastry shop, while the owner was busy serving customers. I ate the cake. Then I reassumed my position, sighed, and got ready to push.

  I was saved by a cat. I suddenly caught sight of its face between two of the logs. For a moment, we stared at each other in astonishment It was an incredibly skinny, mangy, marmalade-colored tom, with torn ears and that knowing, speculative look which all toms acquire as a result of rich and varied experience.

  He studied me attentively and then proceeded to lick my face.

  I had no illusions about the motive for this sudden display of affection on the part of a stranger: there were still some crumbs of cake stuck to my cheeks and chin. His caresses were strictly self-interested. But I did not let that worry me unduly. The feel of the rough, warm tongue on my face made me smile with delight. I shut my eyes and surrendered to the moment—neither then nor later, in the course of my life, have I ever attempted to find out what, exactly, lay behind the marks of affection lavished upon me. What matters is a friendly muzzle, a warm and diligent tongue which comes and goes over your face with every appearance of friendliness and compassion. That is all I need to feel happy.

  By the time the tom had come to the end of his attentions, I felt a great deal better. The world was still full of pleasant possibilities and friendships. My marmalade savior was now rubbing himself against my face and purring loudly. I did my best to imitate him, and we had a whale of a time seeing which of us could purr the louder. I scraped up the last crumbs of cake from my pocket and offered them to him. He showed a marked interest and graciously deigned to lean against my face, with tail held stiff and straight. He nibbled my ear. In short, life was once again worth living. A few minutes later I scrambled out of my wooden shelter and made for the house, my hands in my pockets, whistling a tune, with the cat at my heels.

  I have always thought since that it is better to have a few crumbs of cake handy, if one wants to be loved in a truly disinterested manner.

  It goes without saying that the words frantzuski poslannik—French Ambassador—followed me for months wherever I went, and when the pastry cook, whose name was Michka, finally caught me tiptoeing out of his shop with a splendid piece of poppy-seed cake in my hand, all and sundry were called to witness that diplomatic immunity did not cover a certain well known part of my person.

  CHAPTER 7

  Not all the members of the audience found so screamingly funny the dramatic revelation of my future greatness made by my mother to the tenants of Number 16, Grand Pohulanka.

  There was among them a certain Mr. Piekielny—which in Polish means “infernal.” I do not know in what circumstances the ancestors of this excellent man came by such an unusual name, and perhaps there were some among them who did something to deserve it. But not so our neighbor. Mr. Piekielny looked like a melancholy mouse, meticulously clean and with a gentle, preoccupied air. He was as self-effacing as a man can be when, by force of nature, he is compelled to rise, if only so little, above the surface of the earth. He was an impressionable soul, and the complete assurance with which my mother had launched her prophecy, laying her hand on my head in the best biblical manner, had a profound and lasting effect upon him. Whenever he passed me on the stairs, he gave me a serious and respectful look. Once or twice he ventured to pat my head. He gave me a dozen lead soldiers and a cardboard Foreign Legion fort. Then, one day, he took me into his flat, where he plied me with pastry and Turkish delight. While I stuffed myself to the bursting point—who can say what tomorrow may bring?—the little fellow sat on the edge of the chair facing me, stroking his goatee stained yellow with nicotine. He invited me several times—and then one day came the moving request, the cry of the heart, the confession of the devouring and proud ambition which this kindly human mouse had been carrying hidden beneath his vest.

  “When you become . . .”

  He looked away with an embarrassed stare, as though conscious of his naïveté and yet unable to control it:

  “When you become . . . everything your mother says . . .”

  I studied him with absorbed attention. I had eaten the raisin cake but I had as yet scarcely touched the box of Turkish delight. I guessed instinctively that I had no right to it except by reason of the dazzling future which my mother had predicted for me.

  “I’m going to be a French Ambassador,” I said with complete self-assurance.

  “Have some more Turkish delight,” said Mr. Piekielny, pushing the box toward me.

  I helped myself. He coughed discreetly.

  “Mothers,” he remarked, “have a way of feeling these things. Perhaps you will really be someone of true importance. . . . Perhaps you will meet the famous and the great of this world. . . .”

  He leaned across and laid his hand on my knee.

  “Well then, when you meet them, when you talk to them, promise me one thing. Promise me to tell them . . .”

  His voice shook a little and there was a wild, crazy light of hope in the eyes of the mouse: “Tell them there was once a Mr. Piekielny who lived at Number 16, Grand Pohulanka, in Vilna. . . .”

  He stared into my eyes with a dumb look of supplication. His hand was still resting on my knee. I ate my Turkish delight, gazing at him for a while without committing myself, and then I nodded briefly.

  At the end of the war, in England, where I had gone to continue the struggle after the fall of France, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, mother of the present sovereign, came to inspect my squadron at the Hartford Bridge Airfield. When she stopped opposite me and, with the sweet smile which had made her so deservedly popular, asked from what part of France I came, I tactfully answered “from Nice,” so as not to complicate matters unnecessarily for Her Gracious Majesty. Then something happened in me. I could almost see the little man jumping up and down, stamping his feet and tearing at his goatee in a desperate attempt to attract my attention and remind me of my promise. I tried to choke back the words, but they rose unbidden to my lips, and, suddenly determined to fulfill the dream of greatness of one little mouse at least, I heard myself announce to the Queen in a loud and perfectly audible voice:

  “At Number 16, Grand Pohulanka, in the town of Vilna there lived a certain Mr. Piekielny. . . .”

  Her Majesty politely inclined her head and moved on. The officer commanding the “Lorraine” Squadron, my dear friend Henri de Rancourt, shot at me, as he followed her, a venomous look.

  But I didn’t care: I had at last earned my Turkish delight.

  The friendly mouse of Vilna long ago terminated his tiny existence in a Nazi crematorium, along with several million other European Jews.

  I, however, continue scrupulously to keep my promise in my various encounters with the great ones of the earth. From the United Nations building in New York to the French Embassy in London, from the Federal Palace in Berne to the Elysée in Paris, from Charles de Gaulle and Vishinsky to ambassadors and high dignitaries everywhere, I have never failed to mention the existence of the little man, and during my years in America I often had the pleasure of telling millions of television viewers that at Number 16, Grand Pohulanka in Vilna, there lived a certain Mr. Piekielny, may God bless his soul.

  But what has been
done cannot be undone, and the little man’s bones, transformed into soap, have long since served to satisfy the German people’s famous longing for cleanliness.

  I still have a passion for Turkish delight. However, since my mother always saw me as a combination of Lord Byron, Garibaldi, d’Annunzio, d’Artagnan, Robin Hood and Richard the Lion-hearted, I now have to keep a watchful eye upon my waistline. I have not been able to achieve any of the immortal deeds which she expected of me, but at least I have managed not to develop too prominent a paunch. Every day I twist and turn on the floor and twice a week I go for a run—I run, I run, I run—oh, how I run!—but somehow I never manage either to reach, or to leave behind—I don’t know which. I also indulge in other attempts at mastery—fencing, archery, target shooting, weight lifting, writing, juggling: it is, I agree, rather foolish, in your forty-fifth year, to believe everything your mother told and foretold you, but I can’t help that. I was to be a shining hero, a champion of the world, and what is left of me today still keeps trying, longing, remembering. I have not succeeded in reforming the world, in defeating the gods of stupidity, of prejudice, of hatred, in establishing a reign of dignity and justice among men, but I did win the ping-pong tournament in Nice in 1932, and so I can say that I have truly done my best.

  CHAPTER 8

  Just as winter was beginning its slow retreat from the streets of Vilna and the first larks were appearing in the sky, our future suddenly began to look brighter. By April, the hats “made in Paris” were enjoying a considerable success, and soon two girls were working busily in Aniela’s room to deal with the increasing demand. My mother no longer spent her time going from door to door: the “distinguished clientele” was now flooding to our showroom, and a plate appeared on our door, bearing an inscription in letters of gold: MAISON NOUVELLE, GRAND SALON DE HAUTE COUTURE DE PARIS. A new advertisement prominently displayed in the local newspaper proclaimed that “as the result of a special arrangement with Monsieur Paul Poiret” and “under the personal supervision of that great artist,” the firm had been granted the exclusive representation not only for hats, but for dresses as well. My mother never did things by halves. We were now standing on the threshold of success, but she still felt that we needed something that would push the door wide open, some masterly stroke of good fortune, or at least of imagination, that would transform our modest progress into a final and crushing victory. Sitting on the little pink sofa in the showroom, her legs crossed, a cigarette dangling from her lips, with an inspired look in her eyes, she stared into the distance, and I could tell that a daring plan was already taking shape in her mind, for her face gradually began to assume the expression which I was getting to know so well—a combination of cunning and naïveté—a smile that was both triumphant and a little guilty. I snuggled in an arm chair, a poppy-seed cake in my hand—this time legitimately acquired. Now and again I followed the direction of her gaze, straining my eyes, but could see nothing. The sight of my mother working on her fabulous schemes always plunged me into a state of awed suspense. I forgot my cake and hardly dared to move, watching her open mouthed and brimming over with pride and admiration.

  I must say that even in a little town like Vilna, in that distant province neither Lithuanian, Polish nor Russian, where publicity photographs were almost unknown, even there the daring plan devised by my mother might well have ended in disaster, and sent us once more tramping the roads, with our bundles on our backs.

  But she had taken the plunge, and soon it was brought to the attention of the “fashionable society of Vilna” that Monsieur Paul Poiret was coming in person from Paris for the official opening of the “Maison Nouvelle, Grand Salon de Haute Couture de Paris,” 16 Grand Pohulanka, at four o’clock in the afternoon.

  As I have said, once my mother had taken a decision, she followed it through to the very end, and sometimes even a bit further. When the great day came and the flat was crammed to bursting with excited fat ladies, she did not announce that “Monsieur Paul Poiret, owing to unforeseen circumstances, has been prevented from leaving Paris, and begs to be excused.” Such trivia were completely foreign to her nature. Determined to do things on a grand scale, at precisely four o’clock my mother opened the doors of her “Salon” and produced Monsieur Poiret in person before the dazzled audience.

  In the days of her “theatrical career” in Russia, she had known a small-time actor-singer, one of those pathetic figures without talent or hope, whose life is a perpetually empty theatre on a perpetual tour. His name was Alex—Sacha, to his friends—Gubematis. He was then leading a nameless existence in Warsaw, where he had set himself up as a theatrical wig maker, having tightened the belt of his ambition by several holes, that is, from a bottle of brandy to a bottle of vodka a day. My mother sent him a railway ticket, and eight days later, under the dazzling chandeliers of “Maison Nouvelle,” Alex Gubernatis was assuming the role of that famous master of the Paris fashion world, Paul Poiret, on our brightly polished floor. It must be said in all fairness that he put his best into his performance. Wrapped in an incredible Scottish plaid, wearing the tightest imaginable checkered trousers which, when he bent to kiss a lady’s hand, revealed two most remarkable pointed, bony buttocks, a French lavallière tie flowing under an enormous Adam’s apple, arrogantly spread all over an armchair, with his interminable legs reflected on the shining floor, a glass of sparkling wine in his hand, he spoke in a thin falsetto voice of the intoxicating splendors of Parisian “high life,” dropping once glorious names of the Boulevard stage who had not been heard from for twenty years, passing his thin fingers through his wig, like a drunken Paganini without a violin. Unfortunately, toward the end of the afternoon, losing his head completely, basking in admiration and longing for more, he called for silence and proceeded to recite to the assembled company the second act of L’Aiglon, after which, his true nature taking over, he started to sing in an unbelievably pederast voice excerpts from his old burlesque repertory, the interesting and somewhat enigmatic refrain of which has stuck in my memory:

  “Ah! Tu l’as voulu, tu l’as voulu, tu l’as voulu

  Tu l’as bien eu, ma Pomponette!”

  this last line punctuated with a kick of his heels on the floor, the snapping of his bony fingers and a particularly roguish wink directed at the wife of the conductor of the Municipal Orchestra. At that point, my mother thought it wiser to take him into Aniela’s room, where she left him stretched on the bed, still humming and snapping his fingers, behind double-locked doors. That same evening, he took his Scottish plaid and his bruised and battered artist’s soul back to Warsaw, vehemently protesting such ingratitude, such failure to understand and appreciate the gifts which Heaven had lavished upon him.

  Dressed in a black velvet suit, I had been allowed to be present throughout the ceremony; my admiring eyes were riveted to the superb Monsieur Gubernatis, and some twenty-five years later I used the poor fellow as unfaithfully as I could as a model for the character of Sacha Darlington in my novel The Company of Men.

  I do not believe that this minor swindle was inspired merely by motives of publicity. My mother was always waiting for the intrusion of the magical and marvelous into her life, for some deus ex machina that would suddenly come to her rescue, confound the doubters and the mockers, take the side of the dreamer and see to it that justice was done. When, in the weeks preceding the opening, she kept pressing me against her with that faraway look, I think I know what her eyes saw. They saw the real Monsieur Paul Poiret appearing before her dazzled customers, lifting his hand for silence and, with a dramatic gesture toward her, delivering for all to hear a eulogy of the taste, the talent and the artistic inspiration of his exclusive representative in Vilna. But that deeply realistic and even astute side of her nature which always kept a strong hand on her imagination nevertheless told her in a prudent whisper that miracles occur but seldom on this earth, and that Heaven had other fish to fry. And so with one of her slightly guilty smiles, torn between her common sense and her longing, she
had created her own miracle, and had forced the hand of Fate a little—but let us admit that Fate is a lot guiltier than my mother and more in need of forgiveness.

  Anyway, as far as I know, the little combinazione was never exposed, and “Maison Nouvelle, Grand Salon de Haute Couture de Paris” was launched like a proud ship upon the high seas of commerce. Within a few months, “the best people”—to use Aniela’s expression—were getting their clothes from us. Money poured in from all sides. The flat was redecorated; thick, soft carpets covered the floor; I stuffed myself with Turkish delight and watched the lovely ladies undress in front of me. For reasons of her own, my mother always insisted on my being present as often as possible during the fittings; she was, I have come to think, obeying some unconscious impulse and perhaps some dream of revenge—stories of a lioness teaching her cubs to hunt come to my mind, for there is no question that she was trying to raise me to resemble someone she had loved, to whose hunting instinct she herself had fallen victim. It is not a matter on which I wish to dwell; I shall only say that the sweet and noble memory of her own love made me fail, fortunately, where she wanted me to succeed. Day after day, dressed in silk and velvet, I was exhibited to those of the ladies toward whom my mother felt graciously disposed; I was led to the window, then told to raise my eyes so that their blue could be properly observed and admired. The ladies were politely ecstatic, and those who were astute enough to show more than an ordinary enthusiasm were usually granted a substantial reduction on the price of the latest “Paris model.” Having already no other ambition than to please my mother, I dutifully performed my act, raising my eyes to the light even before I was asked to do so, adding with a quickly acquired sense of showmanship a trick or two of my own, like wiggling my ears—a new and exciting art I had just learned from my playmates in the yard. Then, seated in the corner on a Louis XVI chair, I was present at the fitting, observing with growing curiosity all those interesting adornments of female anatomy which were then so strange and new to me.