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Authors: Rupert Colley
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you.’
‘I have to know. I need to know what went on there. If I had time, I’d go every day.’
‘Would your mother thank you for it?’
‘She won’t know.’
‘It’s not for me to say, Isabelle, but… I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘You’re right.’ I enjoyed a moment of optimism until she looked straight at me. ‘It’s not for you to say.’
I got the bill.
*
I returned home. If I was worried about appearing in court before, now I was panicked. I found Michèle watching TV. I poured myself a beer and slumped on the settee next to her and pretended to take an interest in a documentary about President Kennedy. I wanted to tell her everything, she was still my wife after all, but the words wouldn’t come. I wondered how we’d become so estranged. Hadn’t I given her everything? I looked round our living room in all its glory – the leather three-piece suite, the Turkish rugs, the chandelier, our own cocktail cabinet, despite my preference for beer, the gold-framed mirror, the yucca plant. Upon the mantelpiece, various souvenirs from Morocco, including a decorative tagine and a brightly-coloured teapot with a long, curved spout. God, how ostentatious it looked, and how, all of a sudden, I hated it. I wondered whether she too had seen Hilda’s story in the papers. After all, she had also suffered at the hands of the Nazis. Our lack of children was the result, her inability to love me another. The documentary came to an end. She shuffled to the kitchen to make her cocoa and fill a hot water bottle, despite it still being warm, and we retired to our separate bedrooms.
Lying in bed, I picked up the telephone. I had to tell Isabelle the truth. Better now, I thought, than she found me in court, standing up for the woman who represented those responsible for her parent’s maltreatment and her father’s death. She answered on the second ring. ‘Jacques?’ she said.
Swallowing my disappointment, I said hello. ‘I… I wanted to make sure you were OK.’
‘Of course.’ She yawned and I couldn’t help but wonder whether she would have done so had it been Jacques at the end of the line. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘It’s just… well, you seemed a bit quiet tonight, a bit pensive.’
‘I’m worried, that’s all, about tomorrow. It’s a big thing for me, this court case. I’m nervous about how it might affect me, you know?’
‘Yes.’ It had to be now. ‘Listen, Isabelle, about tomorrow–’
‘I know, I’m just being silly. Ignore me; it’ll be fine. Look, it’s good of you to call, but I’m really tired. I have to go now. I’ll see you on Thursday, Maestro.’
‘But, Isabelle, wait…’
She’d hung up. I held the receiver for a while, its buzzing noise permeating my brain until, in a fit of frustration, I slammed it back into its cradle.
Paris, October 1968
Monsieur d'Espérey wasn’t expecting me until the afternoon session. I got myself ready and, in my haste, cut myself shaving. Never had I felt in such a state of anxiety. Even the biggest and grandest of concerts hadn’t reduced me to such a wreck. I deliberated over what to wear and finally opted for all black – as if going to a funeral. For a dash of colour, I added a fake carnation to my lapel then, deciding it inappropriate, removed it. Even Michèle, who never took an interest in my comings and goings, commented on my suit. A meeting with the record label bosses, I told her. She too was off out for the day and we made an elaborate dance of ensuring we didn’t leave together.
Le Palais de Justice , a grand grey-stoned building in central Paris, is a spectacular if intimidating place. I’d heard that Marie Antoinette had been imprisoned here before being executed. I made my way to the chambers, as instructed, and there, sitting on a bench in the corridor, waited for Monsieur d'Espérey and Hilda. Finally, they appeared, following a break, and, for only the fourth time in my life, I met Hilda.
‘I have to know. I need to know what went on there. If I had time, I’d go every day.’
‘Would your mother thank you for it?’
‘She won’t know.’
‘It’s not for me to say, Isabelle, but… I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘You’re right.’ I enjoyed a moment of optimism until she looked straight at me. ‘It’s not for you to say.’
I got the bill.
*
I returned home. If I was worried about appearing in court before, now I was panicked. I found Michèle watching TV. I poured myself a beer and slumped on the settee next to her and pretended to take an interest in a documentary about President Kennedy. I wanted to tell her everything, she was still my wife after all, but the words wouldn’t come. I wondered how we’d become so estranged. Hadn’t I given her everything? I looked round our living room in all its glory – the leather three-piece suite, the Turkish rugs, the chandelier, our own cocktail cabinet, despite my preference for beer, the gold-framed mirror, the yucca plant. Upon the mantelpiece, various souvenirs from Morocco, including a decorative tagine and a brightly-coloured teapot with a long, curved spout. God, how ostentatious it looked, and how, all of a sudden, I hated it. I wondered whether she too had seen Hilda’s story in the papers. After all, she had also suffered at the hands of the Nazis. Our lack of children was the result, her inability to love me another. The documentary came to an end. She shuffled to the kitchen to make her cocoa and fill a hot water bottle, despite it still being warm, and we retired to our separate bedrooms.
Lying in bed, I picked up the telephone. I had to tell Isabelle the truth. Better now, I thought, than she found me in court, standing up for the woman who represented those responsible for her parent’s maltreatment and her father’s death. She answered on the second ring. ‘Jacques?’ she said.
Swallowing my disappointment, I said hello. ‘I… I wanted to make sure you were OK.’
‘Of course.’ She yawned and I couldn’t help but wonder whether she would have done so had it been Jacques at the end of the line. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘It’s just… well, you seemed a bit quiet tonight, a bit pensive.’
‘I’m worried, that’s all, about tomorrow. It’s a big thing for me, this court case. I’m nervous about how it might affect me, you know?’
‘Yes.’ It had to be now. ‘Listen, Isabelle, about tomorrow–’
‘I know, I’m just being silly. Ignore me; it’ll be fine. Look, it’s good of you to call, but I’m really tired. I have to go now. I’ll see you on Thursday, Maestro.’
‘But, Isabelle, wait…’
She’d hung up. I held the receiver for a while, its buzzing noise permeating my brain until, in a fit of frustration, I slammed it back into its cradle.
Paris, October 1968
Monsieur d'Espérey wasn’t expecting me until the afternoon session. I got myself ready and, in my haste, cut myself shaving. Never had I felt in such a state of anxiety. Even the biggest and grandest of concerts hadn’t reduced me to such a wreck. I deliberated over what to wear and finally opted for all black – as if going to a funeral. For a dash of colour, I added a fake carnation to my lapel then, deciding it inappropriate, removed it. Even Michèle, who never took an interest in my comings and goings, commented on my suit. A meeting with the record label bosses, I told her. She too was off out for the day and we made an elaborate dance of ensuring we didn’t leave together.
Le Palais de Justice , a grand grey-stoned building in central Paris, is a spectacular if intimidating place. I’d heard that Marie Antoinette had been imprisoned here before being executed. I made my way to the chambers, as instructed, and there, sitting on a bench in the corridor, waited for Monsieur d'Espérey and Hilda. Finally, they appeared, following a break, and, for only the fourth time in my life, I met Hilda.
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