I believe you, said a chastened and somewhat surprised Flavia. Do you know anything about your fathers finances?
Not a thing. Nor do I want to know.
There was a bank statement and cheque-book in his apartment with monthly payments of money. Quite a lot of money. Where did it come from?
Ellman sighed. I really dont know or care. I just know that when it was late, last year, I mentioned it and he said not to worry, he was going to sort it out the next day. The next day I rang and Madame Rouvet said hed gone on a trip. Sure enough, the money came in regular as clockwork after that. Thats all I can tell you. We barely communicated, except when we had to.
My father and I did not get on too well, he said. In fact we hated each other. He was a vicious and mean man. A monster in his small-minded way. He didnt even have the grandeur to be a big monster. He as good as killed my mother through his neglect and cruelty, and I remember my own childhood as being one long nightmare. He sucked people dry. I loathed him.
But you asked for money, and he gave it.
And didnt he hate it.
But if he was as bad as you say, why did he give it?
Ellman gave a smile which Flavia thought initially was apologetic, until it became clear that it was a smile of pure pleasure at the memory. Because I was blackmailing him, he said.
Pardon?
I was blackmailing him. The Swiss are very punctilious people, and my father concealed certain matters when he got his citizenship. Like what his real name was. Had they found out, he would possibly have been prosecuted, and would certainly have lost his citizenship and his job. About a decade ago I found out about it, and suggested then that he started contributing to my charitable work. By way of recompense.
You did that to your own father?
Yes, he said simply. Why not?
But why did he change his name?
Nothing terrible, you know. He wasnt a bank-robber on the run or anything. At least, I dont think so.
He said it with the tone of someone who had almost certainly made some enquiries. Its the way it was, it seemed; people wanting to find out about their fathers, the good and the bad. What a lot of trouble it caused.
But why did he change his name?
Nothing terrible, you know. He wasnt a bank-robber on the run or anything. At least, I dont think so.
He said it with the tone of someone who had almost certainly made some enquiries. Its the way it was, it seemed; people wanting to find out about their fathers, the good and the bad. What a lot of trouble it caused.
It was the need for a job. The original Ellman was a comrade killed in the war. A childhood friend, I gather, although its difficult to imagine my father having friends. My father was the town layabout and thug, Ellman was the studious, hardworking type. Before they both went into the army, my father drank and chased girls, Ellman studied and got a degree. He was killed, so when he came to Switzerland in 1948 my father assumed his name, and the degree, and got a well-paid job on the basis of it. Jobs were short after the war. He reckoned he had a right to all the help he could get. He was like that.
What was his original name?
Franz Schmidt. About as common a name as you can get, really.
I see, she said. A new variety of family life, she thought. Which was worse, a father like that, or a son like him? Maybe they deserved each other. Ellman seemed untroubled by what he said; he lived in a topsy-turvy world where bad means corrupted good ends and he was incapable of noticing. What made such a man tick, she wondered after shed ended the interview and gone back to the train. Did he end up working for an African charity to cancel out his father? Didnt it occur to him that maybe he was re-creating his father behind a smoke-screen of virtue? It would have been so much easier had he been a simple, straightforward, no-nonsense playboy she could have disliked.
By the time Argyll got back from his errand, Flavia was making up for lost time. Shed bathed, collapsed on the bed, and was so profoundly unconscious she could well have been in advanced rigor mortis. Argyll found her, breathing softly, her mouth open, her head resting on her arm, curled up like a hamster in full hibernation and, much as he wanted to prod her and tell her his little stories, he let her be. Instead, he watched her awhile. Watching her snooze was a favourite occupation of his. How you sleep is a good indication of what you are like: some people thrash around and mutter to themselves, constantly in turmoil; or regress to childhood and stick their thumbs in their mouths; some, like Flavia, manifest a deep-seated tranquillity that is often disguised when they are awake. For Argyll, watching Flavia sleep was almost as restful as sleeping himself.
As spectator sports go, however, it could command the attention for only a short time, and after a while he left to go for a walk. He was feeling quite pleased with himself. See if you can talk to Rouxel, Flavia had instructed and, obedient as he was, that was exactly what hed done. When hed left Jeanne Armand, hed promised to bring the picture round the next day; the implication was that he would take it round to her apartment. But there was no reason why he shouldnt indulge himself in a little misunderstanding so, taking the picture, a taxi and what money he had, hed gone out to Neuilly-sur-Seine.
A suburb just outside Paris proper, Neuilly is very much a place for the rich middle classes who have the funds to indulge their tastes. Apartment blocks began to spring up in the 1960s, but many of the villas built there still survive, small monuments to Frances first flirtation with the Anglo-Saxon ideal of gardens and privacy and peace and quiet.
Jean Rouxel lived in one such villa, an 1890s rusticated art nouveau affair, surrounded by high walls and iron gates. When he arrived, Argyll rang the bell, waited for the little buzzer indicating that the gate had been unlocked, then marched up the garden path.
Rouxel had taken the possession of a garden seriously. Although the English eye could fault the excessive use of gravel and look a little scornfully at the state of the lawn, at least there was a lawn to look scornfully at. The plants were laid out with care as well, with a distinct attempt at the cottage-garden look of domesticated wildness. Certainly there was none of the Cartesian regimentalism with which the French so frequently like to coerce nature. Just as well; however geometrically satisfying, there is always something painful to the English eye about French gardens, creating a tendency to purse the lips and feel sorry for the plants. Rouxel was different; you could tell at a glance that the owner was inclined to let nature take its course. It was a liberal garden, if you can attribute political qualities to horticulture. Owned by someone who was comfortable with the way things were, and didnt want to tell them how they should be. Good man, thought Argyll as he crunched up the path. It is dangerous to form an opinion about someone merely on his choice of wisteria, but Argyll was half inclined to like Rouxel even before theyd met.
He was even more so inclined when he did. He found Rouxel outside, around the side of the house, looking pensively at a small flower-bed. He was dressed as people should be on a Sunday morning. As with gardens themselves, there are two schools of thought on this: the Anglo-Saxon, which prefers to slope around looking like a vagabond, in old trousers, crumpled shirt and sweater with holes symmetrically located at both elbows. Then there is the Continental school which dons its best and presents itself to the outside world in a haze of eau-de-Cologne after hours of preparation.
However much he was the epitome of French values, Rouxel belonged, sartorially, on English territory. Or at least on an off-shore island: the jacket was a bit too high-quality, the trousers still had a crease in them and the sweater only had one, very small, hole in it. But he was trying, no doubt about it.
As Argyll approached with an amiable smile on his face and Socrates under his arm, Rouxel grunted, bent over stiffly, as youd expect from a man in his seventies, but with signs of suppleness none the less and pounced on a weed, which he ripped out and eyed with triumph. He then placed it carefully in a small wicker basket hanging on his right arm.
Theyre a devil, arent they? said Argyll walking up. Weeds, I mean.
Rouxel turned round and looked at him puzzled for a moment. Then he noted the package and smiled.
Youll be Monsieur Argyll, I imagine, he said.
Yes. Do forgive me for disturbing you, Argyll said as Rouxel looked placidly at him. I hope your granddaughter told you I would be coming...
Jeanne? She did mention shed met you. I didnt realize youd be coming here, though. No matter, youre most welcome. Let me just get this little one here...
And he bent down again and resumed the attack on his incipient bindweed problem. There, he said with satisfaction when this too had been consigned to the basket. I do love my garden, but I must confess it is becoming a bit of a burden. A brutal occupation, dont you think? Constantly killing, and spraying and rooting out.
He had an impressive voice, mellow and well modulated with an underlying vitality of considerable power. Of course, he had been a lawyer, so it was probably part of the job; but from the voice alone, Argyll could see why a run at politics had been tempting. It was the sort of voice that people trust as well as being the sort of well-honed instrument that could change in a flash to threat, anger and outrage. Not a de Gaulle voice; not the rolling oratorical style which gains your wholehearted support even if, like Argyll when he first heard one of the Generals speeches, you dont have a clue what hes talking about because its all in French. But certainly a match for all modern French politicians Argyll had ever heard.
So while they both looked carefully for any more weeds, Argyll apologized once more and explained that hed wanted to return the picture as soon as possible so he could get back to Rome. As hed hoped, Rouxel was delighted, considerably surprised, and, as any well-brought-up gentleman should, responded by insisting, absolutely insisting, that dear Mr Argyll should come in and take a cup of coffee and tell him the whole story.