the smoke from his cigarette squirmed above him. “It’s up to the generals. We just have to wait—and—see.”
More guests arrived. Madame Crotteau kissed Midhat’s cheek with a husky giggle, and her cold fur, wettened into prongs, rubbed against his neck. As he turned to greet Marian, Midhat caught sight of Jeannette through the open door, standing at the mirror by the bottom of the stairs, dressed in green and black. She touched her collar and looked herself in the eyes. Then her gaze slid over and met Midhat’s. He held it until she looked away.
“I love tennis,” said a woman with a lilac shawl. “I play it on the lower lawns with Ma’moiselle Briquot. Won’t you join us when the spring comes?”
“But we’re getting away from the central point,” came Docteur Molineu’s voice from across the room. “What was the central point?”
A young lady in a high-necked dress and an elderly gentleman cried greetings as they entered.
“When we exchanged our remarks, that it was a very moving funeral procession, and burial …”
“It was tremendously entertaining. It’s a shame you weren’t there …”
“But do you see anything hopeful?”
“It seemed that the family had been the ones comforting all of us, saying you have to go on, and so on.”
“Sometimes I do worry about Georgine.” Docteur Molineu was at Midhat’s side. His eyes were red. “I wonder if we ought to hire a second girl, to be her friend, you know.” He finished his drink and breathed.
“Laurent,” said Midhat, reaching for his friend’s shoulder. “I didn’t see you enter.”
“Cher Midhat,” said Laurent, turning around. “It’s good to see you. Goodness you look well. What a lovely suit. Do you know Carl Page?”
“Yes, I think we met.”
“I know you of course,” said Carl Page. “You are the famous Oriental guest. Well then what’s your take on this, as an Oriental? We’re talking about Flanders.”
“Oh,” said Midhat. He cleared his throat. “If you’re asking about the Turks, then … I think there are still losses from the Russian war that are … hanging over everything. But in terms of Europe—I mean, I think we’ll see some strategic manoeuvres from the French generals in the near future.” His voice deepened. “The balance of power, and so forth. And the Eastern Front, of course, with Russia. There might be a strike sooner rather than later, keeping eyes on all corners. And so forth.”
“I see.”
“Carl did you hear,” said Madame Crotteau, leaning across the back of the sofa, “about Mistinguett’s lover?”
Laurent grasped Midhat’s neck and laughed. “You very nearly sounded as if you knew what you were talking about. Oh I haven’t eaten a thing, those look quite edible.” He reached for Georgine’s tray offish rolls. “I have the most hilarious story to tell you. About your professor, what’s his name, Brogante.”
“Oh yes,” said Midhat.
“So he was cycling to the Faculty in the rain, I heard this from a surgeon, and by the time he arrived, this Brogante, he had a rash on his legs. The trousers were woollen, I suppose. And he’s apparently quite a large fellow, is that right? He borrowed a spare pair from someone else, but they were too small for him and he couldn’t do them up. But now the funny part is that he had to teach a class, so he wore them anyway and taught the entire lesson while standing behind a chair with his buttons undone. Isn’t that just the funniest thing.”
“Very funny,” said Midhat.
“Have you heard about Sylvain?” came a woman’s voice. A thin blonde, addressing a group of people Midhat didn’t recognise. “He was hit by a car and is very badly injured.”
“Isn’t true,” said Docteur Molineu, behind them. “Jeannette went to see him.”
The group made sounds and inclined their heads, as if to say: ah, indeed?
“He’s coming tonight, I think.”
A low chord sounded from the piano.
“Saint-Saëns!”
“They caught him within a week … poor fellow wasn’t built to fight.”
Carole Nolin was conferring with a silver-haired man in tails who had one knee on the piano stool. The man played the chord a second time, and Carole sang a probing note. Then they began in earnest, nodding together, and her voice swooped upward, and the room fell quiet.
“Prin-temps—qui—commen-ce! Portant l’espéran-ce, aux coeurs amoureux …”
“I saw it in Hamburg thirty years ago. With Talazac, before the French revival.”
Midhat’s glass was empty. His head thrilled with Carole’s singing. At the next crescendo the room seemed to lose interest, and the murmur surged again into a loose babble. One final clanging