Flash of the Sun
A Thriller
by
Janvier
Chouteu-Chando
TISI BOOKS
NEW YORK, RALEIGH, LONDON, AMSTERDAM
PUBLISHED BY TISI BOOKS
www.tisibooks.com
New York, spring 1958
Renault's
"princess"—the 1956 Renault Dauphine—made René Roccard proud of his
native land, a feeling he shared with millions of his French
compatriots. So, when he bought a Dauphine sedan from the first
consignment of the model that the auto manufacturer shipped to the
United States of America, his co-workers were not surprised at all.
However, people started raising their eyebrows when he made it a point
of honking or intoning stanzas of the La Marseillaise, the national
anthem of France, whenever he drove past a Renault Dauphine.
The fact that the Frenchman regarded the car as
testament to France’s recovery after the country’s humiliating four-year
occupation by Germany during the Second World War, said a lot about his
patriotism.
Even
so, René did not feel proud or concerned about the automobile
that afternoon as he drove through the streets of New York. The expression of
grim determination on his face relaxed a little as he left East 48th Street
behind him and joined the crawl of traffic through Broadway, completely
oblivious of the skyscrapers on both sides of the road. His mind was on his
self-assigned mission. The preoccupation almost made him hit the blue Ford
Fairlane right in front of his car had he not reacted to the impending impact
by stepping hard on the brake pedal, thereby forcing the Renault Daphne to jerk
to a stop. Then he hit the steering wheel repeatedly for no apparent reason.
“Merde…merde, les salopards!”
he cursed and didn’t cease until the sound of cars hooting from his
rear alerted him that he was lagging behind the flow of traffic.
René
moved the car forward, in rhythm with the other vehicles ahead of him,
and then looked at his left palm made damp by perspiration. The irony of
his nervousness brought a sigh out of his lips at the same time that
the skin over the median part of his eyes folded. However, the contorted
expression on his face eased a little as he gritted and drove into 1st
Avenue/United Nations Plaza, steering the vehicle through a variety of
residential neighborhoods.
“Cette circulation est agaçante,” he hissed under his breath.
True
René hadn’t anticipated heavy traffic at that hour of the day and never
imagined the temperature could hit ninety-seven degrees Fahrenheit. He
did not like the implication, afraid it might mess up his plans. He
parked the car in the Turtle Bay neighborhood, got out, opened the
trunk, and then pulled out a guitar case with hardly recognizable rifle
parts inside. He shut the trunk with a bang, locked the driver door and
pocketed the key.
“You have a nice baby there,” a voice sounded from behind René, sending a chill up his spine.
He
froze for a moment, turned around with a half-angry and half-surprised
look on his face.“What did you say?” he asked with lips slightly
corrupted by a sneer he could not shake off.
“It
is a beautiful piece of machinery. Oh yes! As a matter of fact, my wife
is buying one tonight,” the smiling American with a Boston accent
replied, and then ran his hand on the hood as if caressing it.
“Thank
you, Sir. Believe me; your wife will love it,” René said and regarded
the man for a moment with narrowed eye-lids, “Excuse me, Sir; I must
leave now,” he added as he turned around, making no effort to disguise
his thick Gallic accent. He did not even look at the man as he waved
goodbye and hurried away.
He
walked across the park with quick steps in the direction of the Tudor
City apartments, conscious of the dampness on the back of his shirt.
“Ignore it,” he said in an effort to shake off the mild feeling of irritation.
René
increased his pace as he approached the apartment block situated
directly opposite the United Nations Headquarters, right across First
Avenue. He even covered the remaining twenty yards to the apartment door
with half-running steps.
“What am I doing to myself?” he mumbled, mindful of his panting and the slight trembling of his hands.
He
pulled out the bunch of keys from his back pocket, picked out an
inconspicuous silver key, inserted it into the keyhole, and then
unlocked the entrance door. He pushed it open with heightened anxiety,
muttering a torrent of curses under his breath as he stepped inside
Giuseppe Matteotti’s two bedroom apartment. Then he locked the door
behind him and hurried to the casement window.
It
was just a month ago that he made the Italian painter’s acquaintance in
a bar, got his invitation to his apartment to see his paintings and
decided to copy his key after the painter told him he would be away in
his old country for half a year.
René
took less than three minutes to assemble the sniper rifle, and then set
aside fifteen minutes to wait for his target while his high adrenaline
level subsided. But the target didn’t show up until forty-three minutes
later; and even when he exited the United Nations building, he did so
with a crowd. And it turned out that the man never stayed for more than a
second or two in the crosshairs of René’s rifle scope, a fact that
caused his flow of adrenaline to start rising again.
Ruben
Um Nyobé, the energetic six-foot leader of the Cameroonian Underground
Organization fighting France in French Cameroun, appeared to be talking
and gesturing to the five men and a lone woman around him with an air of
self-confidence and a smile on his face that triggered a flow of bile
up René’s throat. He swallowed it back and licked his lips.
René’s
heart skipped a beat as the diplomats walked with the French
Camerounian away from the building. His cardiac turmoil was followed by
an ache in his stiffened trigger finger as he focused his aim and waited
for the moment to deliver the shot that would avenge the death of his
brother. But then, Ruben stopped, held the shoulder of one of the
foreign diplomats, and then moved away, forcing René to gasp without
intending to. Now, his target was hidden by the burly diplomat, a
development that infuriated him even further, leaving his nerves more
overwrought than before. The Frenchman bit his lip as he watched the
other diplomats encircle Ruben and walk with him to the waiting car.
Then the car drove away.
Rage
swept over René, setting off a quivering fit. He buckled under the
weight of his failure, slumped to the floor, and then rolled over. A
series of grunts escaped his lips as he hit his thighs with both fists.
Then he leaned backwards on the wall and closed his eyes, muttering
barely audible curses as he banged the back of his head on the barrier.
René
Roccard’s lip movement stopped for a moment, followed by a deep frown,
an unconscious facial movement that created a look of extreme rage on
his face. Without even opening his eyes, he nodded to himself several
times as if acknowledging an inner voice. Yes, it was his inner voice
all right. He would try again for the third time, and if the next
attempt turned out to be unsuccessful too, then he would have to go to
French Cameroun and finish the job there.
René
closed his eyes again and tried to shake off the haunting Monday,
January 6, 1958 headline in the New York Times, but it kept imposing
itself in his mind.
France
Sends Troops to Crush Red-Led Uprising in Cameroons; Acts to Prevent
New 'Algeria' in African Territory Where Rebels Burned 60 Villages.
“Les idiots, les imbéciles!” he growled, paused for a moment with an expression of deep pain on his face.
The rebellion in our Cameroun isn’t different from the one in Algeria. That’s why Marc is dead.
He quivered in an inaudible voice, and then closed his eyes. A moment
of silence ensued before he buried his head in his hands and wept.
René
went to work the next day feeling disheartened. But that emotion did
not last for long because news from Paris reporting the return to power
of General Charles De Gaulle reached the consulate hardly an hour after
he got there and settled down behind his desk. The afternoon report
brought a genuine smile to his face for the first time that week.
René
Roccard barely had enough hours of sleep that night to keep him alert the next
day after the French consulate in New York granted his request to travel to
France. With his anxiety fuelled by his constant thoughts on French Cameroun,
he had every reason to be anticipatory. There was much about the territory to
keep abreast of—a lot to learn, personalities to know and strategies to devise.
He
arrived in Paris that late spring without letting his friends, family
and relatives know about it, and then reported the next day at the
Ministry of Overseas territories for a meeting with the new minister.
The appointment was set for Thursday.
René
was in high spirits when he showed up at the former Hôtel Majestic in
central Paris, once a massive luxury hotel that politicians decided to
transform into a hub for diplomacy. He was even more effusive when a
secretary ushered him into the minister’s office. But the meeting was a
flop even before it ended, or so, he concluded prematurely. The new
minister’s partial grasp of the situation in French Cameroun left René
infuriated to the point where he almost called the man a moron, a
concern he thought of informing his superiors about.
A
faint expression of suppressed rage at the lack of substance of the
meeting could be seen on his face as he rose to leave. But then André
Colin rose too and extended his hand to him. René hesitated for a moment
before he shook it, musing at the fact that he stood a head taller than
the minister. But then, André Colin made him smile for the first time
that afternoon as he walked him to the door.
“I
don’t think you know about this, but Monsieur Pierre Messmer is eager
to meet you. In fact, he asked me to schedule a rendezvous with you for
Tuesday next week, right here in my office.”
“Messmer?” he exclaimed, dimming his eyes suspiciously.
“Oui, Roccard! Pierre Messmer himself.”
René smiled, shaking his head in acknowledgment.“I will be here next Thursday; that’s for sure. At what time is the rendezvous?”
The
rendezvous was scheduled for three o’clock that Tuesday. But René was
at the imperial building half an hour early. He was eager to meet his
former commander again. Their last encounter was during Pierre Messmer’s
first year as the Governor-General of French Cameroun. So, when five
months ago the new government acknowledged Pierre Messmer’s impeccable
grasp of the developments in French Africa by promoting him to the
strategic post of High Commissioner of French Equatorial Africa, René
Roccard was not surprised about it. His former commander was the right
person to talk to.
He was ushered into the office a minute early to find Pierre Messmer at the window. André Colin was nowhere in sight.
“René, René Le formidable,” Pierre Messmer bellowed, opened his arms and approached René Roccard.
“Mon Commandant,” René muttered with a smile spread across his face.
“Look at you. You haven’t changed much,” Pierre Messmer chuckled.
The two men had little to say to one another for the next couple of seconds as they clung to each another in a bear hug.
“I
feel extremely honored by the fact that you set aside some of your
precious time to see me. Especially with the busy schedule you have to
keep up with,” René said with a satisfied smile on his face.
“What
are you talking about? If I can’t make time for someone like you, then
who else is out there for me to accommodate with my worries about
France.”
“There is much to talk about.”
“I
am at your disposal. We have all the time in the world. Monsieur Colin
made arrangements for some brandy to keep us going while we grapple with
the problems haunting France.”
“Magnifique! Cognac?”
“Bien sûr que oui! Now,
if my memory isn’t playing games with me, then I remember you as
someone with a particular fondness for brandy. In fact, your taste buds
for the drink were good back in the day. You might not have known about
this, but you amazed me with your ability to distinguish the different
qualities of brandy without blinking an eye.”
“What a drink!”
“Excellent! Mon Dieu; you and I loved brandy. Huh! Brandy was so scarce back then in Indochina,” Pierre Messmer offered.
René
grinned at the mention of Indochina. Like Pierre Messmer, he too was
sent to Indochina right after the Second World War to help restore
complete French control in the colony after the departure of the
Japanese invaders, and to eliminate the influence of Ho Chi Minh’s
Marxist Vietminh forces. That was his first posting to Asia and there
were few distractions in the jungle to make Indochina interesting. That
is, until he developed an extreme fondness for oriental women and
brandy. It was in Southeast Asia that he discovered his strong
attraction for women with a high degree of pigmentation.
“Brandy is still my thing,” he said with a smile.
René
Roccard listened to Pierre Messmer as he small-talked. He never took
his eyes off his former boss as he picked up two glasses from the open
cabinet and poured them both a drink. Then Pierre Messmer handed him a
glass.
“Vive La France,” Pierre Messmer toasted.
“Vive La France,” René repeated and brought the glass to his lips.
“Merci!” he said after a gulp.
“It
tastes better than the ones we had over there. You won’t believe it,
but I experienced an unusual craving for brandy during those two months
that I chaffed in Vietminh captivity.”
“I understand,” René said and nodded, locking eyes with Messmer’s in reaffirmation of their mutual trust.
“I know you understand because you also suffered the same indignity.”
“Five months,” René said and closed his eyes for a couple of seconds at the recollection.
“I
take it you know what it meant for us who made it to glory in Paris. We
went on to sweep through the rest of France in victory, chased the
Nazis all the way to Germany, and then only to find ourselves years
later in bamboo prisons controlled by swarthy dwarfish illiterates whose
concept of war belongs to the dark ages. Hmm! and then to witness the
loss of Indochina to the savages because our politicians lacked the will
to fight.”
“I understand.”
“I
knew you would understand. We fought side by side in France, in Europe
and in Indochina. We returned home after those wars only to find France
gripped by chaos. Yes René! I took the diplomatic post to escape from
the France I have always loved because of its squabbling politicians.”
“I also did the same thing,” René interjected.
“Hmm!
So you sought for peace of mind in America. Hmm! But it is obvious you
never stopped worrying about our beloved France; you never stopped
grappling with the challenges confronting this beautiful country.”
René Roccard shook his head in acknowledgement.“Certainement!” he mumbled.
“René Le Formidable! I’ll go ahead with the purpose of our meeting.”
“Bien sûr!”
“When I learned of your request to go to French Cameroun, I said to myself—‘Here is the man we need.’”
“I don’t want to recall the number of times I made that request.”
“René,
René, René! Your kid brother was serving in French Cameroun! How much
sacrifice could France demand from a single family at a given time?”
René shook his head but said nothing in reply.
“I am sorry about Marc.”
“He is dead and we have a job to do. Those bandits should not be allowed to succeed.”
“I
am glad you are committed to the land your brother sacrificed his life
for. The New France won’t be led to flee from French Cameroun or Algeria
as the left-led France abandoned Indochina to Ho Chi Minh’s red
bandits. Général Charles De Gaulle is back, and so too is our glory.”
“I like your language,” René said, sipped his brandy and licked his lips.
“You
won’t believe it if I tell you that the native we put there as Prime
Minister wants me to authorize the army to use Napalm on Um Nyobé’s
people. He wants us to wipe the Bassa people out, as he puts it.”
“André-Marie Mbida is a moron. His utterances against Um Nyobé and the partisans he is leading make our campaign look bad.”
“Good
you understand the liability we created. He certainly is a bad son of a
bitch, but he is our son of a bitch for all I know. The Americans have a
way of phrasing it better than we do.”
“My
experiences in Cameroun taught me that Mbida’s ethnic group is not fond
of the Bassa people. Getting rid of this Mbida guy is the right thing
to do, but we must not ostracize the Beti people in the process. They
are a strategic asset in our control of that land.”
“You
are right about the Beti factor. I am glad we are on the same page on
so many things. Hmm, René! We are about to enter a new era in our
relationship with the colonies and territories. They have a sense of the
direction they want to go. But where they actually head to depends on
how we want our future ties with those lands we adopted to look like.”
“It shouldn’t be in the direction Indochina took. The communists are roaming all over Vietnam today,” René said tersely.
“I agree with you, René. Général De
Gaulle is of the same opinion. We are at the doorsteps of a new age in
our history as we embark on a strategy to loosen our grips on our
overseas backyard. We will relax our control, but we won’t let our
colonies and territories go like the British did in Asia and Africa.
Yes, the British are turning their backs as if it is of no consequence,
even as their former colonies go about embracing the Soviet Union and
Marxism. India and Ghana are with the East, Nasser hates the West and U
Nu is about to deliver Burma into the arms of the Russian bear.”
“Our politicians must have copied the British policy by letting Indochina go the way it did,” René said with a sigh.
“I
agree with you. We risk being deprived of our colonies and territories
in Africa too if we lose our nerve and allow France to be swept off its
feet by the decolonization wave. It is a small wave now, but I see all
the signs of a tidal wave developing there if we lose French Cameroun
and Algeria. We have vital interests in Africa. There is no way we can
defend those strategic interests after decolonization unless we
completely defeat the Algerian and Kamerunian nationalists.”
“You
are right,” René said with a nod, “I lived in America and learned
something very important while there. The heartland of capitalism
thrives on interest. Wealth, power and glory stem from the ability to
procure, secure and defend your interests; and ultimate power lies with
those who are most effective in guarding their spheres of interest. We
have a huge interest in Africa, and losing or maintaining it is our
decision alone to make. That decision should not be based on
righteousness but on the wisdom to accept the fact that we have a
collective destiny with the francophone territories because we are their
mentors.”
Pierre Messmer nodded, a slight smile corrupting the sides of his mouth.“I agree with you, René.”
“Through
the scheme of things beyond the understanding of our mortal minds,
France was given a responsibility to be involved in the destiny of
peoples it managed to bring into the fold of humanity, into modern
civilization as we all know it. Shying away from those lands now is an
option that would only haunt us tomorrow.”
“René, René! You said it beautifully. I like your philosophy,” Pierre Messmer said and raised his hands in the air.
René nodded with a smile.“Thank you!”
“I
want you by my side in French Cameroun,” Pierre Messmer began, cracked
his knuckles, and then continued, “I need someone who can direct the
wind while I am away as my duties expand to French West Africa. I see a
lot of political developments taking place in Francophone Sub-Saharan
Africa by the end of the year. Général Charles
De Gaulle, you, I and a host of other like-minded patriots think we
should have the right order and the right Africans in place before we
allow the colonies and territories there to become members of the United
Nations Organization.”
“You are right.”
“Our purpose should be for the new France,” Pierre Messmer intoned and rested his hand on René’s shoulder.
René nodded.“I agree with you.”
“That’s
why I think you have a strong shoulder to lean on,” Pierre Messmer
said, dropped his hand and caressed his chin, “I see your focus is on
French Cameroun. I cannot count the number of times I told the buffoons
who were in power that the war is winnable. The thing is that few of the
leftist sissies in the past governments actually believed me.”
“I understand. Believe me, I do.”
“I
have devised a strategy. We shall work together to perfect and
implement it. We are being presented with an opportunity to practice all
the theories of counter-revolutionary warfare that we devised in
Vietnam.”
“How?” René asked without really meaning to.
“This
is how it is going to work. We shall create pacification zones
throughout our French Cameroun and separate the civilian population from
the rebels in the bush. We shall relocate the civilians from their
scattered villages and hamlets to roadside settlements in those
pacification zones. The civilian population would be guarded by our
troops and by those French Camerounians who accept our rule. That’s how
we shall alienate the guerrillas from their support base. The zones I am
talking about shouldn’t be more than two percent of the territory of
French Cameroun. ”
“We must not lose again,” René whispered.
“I
am choosing you for many reasons, but the most important one is your
determination to see France win in French Cameroun. There is a divine
scheme in our involvement in Africa. It goes beyond tradition, human
comprehension and national conscience. It is based on a belief, René; it
is based on a belief that cannot accommodate doubts.”
“I agree with you,” René said, picked up the bottle of brandy and refilled their glasses, “Vive La France,” he toasted, making it sound like a battle cry.
“Vive La France,” Pierre Messmer echoed.
René
left the imperial building that evening with a smile on his face. When
he left the United States of America, he was wondering whether the
Overseas and Defense Ministries would transfer him to fight in French
Cameroun. And just when he was becoming desperate about it, Pierre
Messmer showed up and offered him a high-profile assignment in the
French Trust territory. He never expected things to work out so well.
**************
The
month of May 1958 is remembered in the annals of French History as the
month of the second and most important Algiers Putsch—an attempt to
overthrow the reigning government in Paris, launched from the capital of
French Algeria.
The
plotted revolt was a culmination of years of political instability
originating from the shortcomings of the parliamentary system of the
French Fourth Republic. This was after the French populace grew tired of
governments that were plagued by recurrent cabinet crises that in turn
increased the misgivings of the army and the French settlers in the
colonies, especially in Algeria. Following years of chafing at the
incompetence of different French governments to quell the rebellions in
Algeria and French Cameroun, the army became convinced that the current
government was about to act from political expediency and order another
precipitated pullout from the territories, just like it had done with
French Indochina in 1954, thereby sacrificing French honor in the
process.
From
the balconies in Algiers in Algeria and Yaoundé in French Cameroun, to
the corridors of power in France itself, patriotic voices disturbed the
air, calling for the return to power of General Charles De Gaulle. The
cry for the return of the towering French warrior and statesman carried
with it a fervor that was close to religious zeal.
Charles
De Gaulle had saved French honor during the four years of German
occupation of France, but then surprised the nation by resigning from
public office in 1946, decrying the weaknesses of the French Fourth
Republic and its constitution. Now, he was vindicated.
Just
like millions of discontented and despondent French citizens, René
Roccard regarded the French legend as their only hope in rallying the
French nation again. He was certain General Charles De Gaulle was the
only one capable of giving a sense of direction to France’s relationship
with its evolving territories and colonies, and with the rest of the
changing world. But above all, René was convinced that France was
entering a new era in its history, a phase that would allow patriots
like him to accomplish their self-assigned missions and be acknowledged
at the same time as French heroes.
Clement
Coulther slept through most of the transatlantic flight to Paris, but
happened to be half-awake when the air hostess announced that the plane
was about to land. Clement opened his eyes, yawned and stretched his
body. At least, I feel better now, he thought. He sat up in a lackluster manner, turned around, and then smiled at the elderly English lady by his side.
"You have slept very well. Do you feel refreshed?" she said and smiled back.
“I feel great! I am glad I’m up just in time.”
“Did you say just in time? Oh, you mean for the landing?”
“Yes, Mrs. Moore. I can’t think of a sight better than a view of Paris from the air.”
“It is marvelous.”
“The
more reason why I wouldn’t miss the opportunity of catching one for the
sake of all the treasures in this world,” he muttered and smiled wider
at an approaching flight attendant with a mischievous glint in his eyes
this time around, “Even for that woman who could break my heart,” he
added in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Hasn’t it been broken already?”
“Huh! Never! What are you talking about?”
“I heard you mutter her name in your sleep.”
“Really! Who?”
Silence
reigned between the two for a moment before the English lady said in a
forthcoming tone, “You actually repeated her name a couple of times. It
could have been Helen or Elaine or something similar.”
“What else did I say besides a name?”
“I am hazy about it, but this one stuck out,” she said with a flush, and then put her hand over her mouth.
“It is okay, Mrs. Moore! Go ahead and tell me?” he urged with a smile.
“You said her name and something like ‘lost treasure’ afterwards. There were other things in-between.”
“Lost treasure?”
“Uh-huh! There was more.”
“What else did I say?”
“Did you kiss and embrace others in front of her?”
“Damn!”
“You must be in love with her.”
“Uh-huh!”
Clement said and sighed, “I still think of her even as I kiss and
embrace other women. Perhaps that’s what I was trying to say in my
sleep.”
“I am sorry.”
“Huh!” Clement grunted, turned his face away from the old lady and frowned.
“Forgive me for poking my nose. I couldn’t help listening.”
He
nodded but did not turn around. Instead, he dropped back in his seat
and shut his eyes.“I was tired. I was truly tired,” he said, more to
himself than to the lady by his side.
Clement
placed the source of his listlessness with the disorientation that
started haunting him a couple of months ago. It was sapping him of
energy and the will to carry on with life like before. But he was
determined to overcome that—first by getting over the bitterness of his
divorce with Helen, and then by dispelling the haunting memory of the
loss of his son.
Even
though some of his friend marveled at his newfound freedom and thought
he had so much to look forward to, he alone knew the turmoil in his
soul. The return to a life of full time bachelorhood quickly lost its
appeal as he became a jaded womanizer who even feared being there for
the woman expecting his child. His image in that regard was not helped
by the parties, nightclubs and one-night stands. That is, until the
phone call less than forty-eight hours ago sent him packing his bags for
Paris.
“See how beautiful Paris looks from above,” he mumbled to his neighbor.
“I love it,” she replied.
“I can’t wait to walk its streets,” he half-whispered.
The
lady said something in reply, but Clement did not pay attention to her
words. His mind had drifted again, back to a yesterday that held so many
fun memories.
The
last head-wrecking drama began at a party organized by his friend Peter
Miller in a suburb in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. He had consumed more
than his fair share of drinks; he had danced with more blondes,
brunettes and redheads than he could care to remember; and he had not
closed his eyes long enough afterwards, thanks to the effort of an
energetic twenty-three-year old that made him doubt his vigor for the
first time.
Fate
appeared to have been on his side the next morning when his host told
him that Jason Montgomery, his pal from the News Syndicate, wanted him
on the phone.
“Tell him I will call back,” he had responded, and then went about nursing his hangover with the blonde nibbling his ear.
Peter Miller had returned a couple of minutes after with a smile on his face.
“Jason said you will like this one. The assignment involves Paris.”
“What the hell,” he had wheezed.
“He said it has something to do with Charles De Gaulle and ‘The French Rooster.”
“Yeah!” he had added and continued kissing the blonde’s hand in a disinterested manner.
“He said the French Rooster has already left New York and returned to Paris.”
He
had thought about that last piece of information for a moment, and then
sat up abruptly. The blonde was startled when he tossed her hand off
his thigh as if she were an itchy blanket, and then jumped out of bed
and hurried to the phone.
Jason
had to be right. Something was brewing in France. Charles De Gaulle was
back in the political scene and René Roccard, alias “The
French Rooster”, had hurriedly packed his bag and returned home. The
New York Times needed a correspondent in the field right away, and his
bosses thought he might want to do the job.
Of
course he wanted to do the job. Paris was the one place on earth that
never failed to pull him from the down side of life into making a fresh
start, like a phoenix rising from its funeral pyre. He had made his
debut there as a journalist working for the Air Force magazine, using
the print media to report the excesses of the Free French Forces against
the former supporters of Marshall Petain and his Vichy regime whom they
accused of collaborating with the German military during the years that
Nazi Germany occupied France.
He
thought it was ironic that the first time he met René Roccard was on
his first day in Paris. The French capital became his favorite city in
Europe and inspired him to return home and finish his journalism program
at Rutgers, the State University of New Jersey.
The
drive to New York was a long one, but he stopped only twice to relieve
his bladder and get something to eat and to drink. Coffee and Coca Cola
kept him awake throughout the drive and sandwiches did a great job of
keeping his digestive juices at bay. He reported upon arrival at the New
York Times building on 42nd Street when dusk was in the horizon. The
process went faster than anticipated. He even signed his contract with a
smile on his face, and then picked up his plane ticket and left the
building.
Clement
looked out of the airplane window and spotted the shining River Seine
snaking its way through the city. His eye lids narrowed a little as he
marveled at the rows upon rows of classic buildings that swept past. The
beckoning Palace of Versailles and its beautiful fountains rolled from
his view to reveal moments later the imposing Eiffel tower.
He took a deep breath as he prepared to disembark.
“What
else do you have in there,” the customs officer asked pointedly, never
taking his gaze off Coulther’s eyes as he rested a hand on his luggage.
“Nothing!
Nothing to spoil my first night in Paris in two years and nothing to
stop me from having a bite of one of your famous Parisian croissants,”
he beamed.
The
official let him through without a fuss. He had no difficulties finding
a taxi to the centre of the city, so that he was en-route to the St
Petersburg hotel fifteen minutes after he went through inspection. He
felt tired, yet excited.
He
often wondered why the city stirred his instincts, accelerated his
impulses and warmed his blood so much, filling him with ideas and
memories of a past he seemed to love and hate. Yet, the answer was
simple. Paris epitomized the essence of beauty, freedom, liberty and
hope. Paris was the place that provided him with so many answers to some
of life’s deep questions since the first day he walked its streets
following the liberation of the city in August 1944. It was in the
French capital that he first unleashed his passion for publishing and
broadcasting the war, first as an amateur military journalist and later
as a professional who covered Europe, Asia and Africa—reporting on war,
terrorism, revolution, uprisings and coups. The city also made it
possible for him to meet all sorts of fanciful women.
The
exhausted Clement heaved a sigh of relief when the taxi stopped in
front of the hotel. He stepped out of the car, stretched his body, and
then pulled out his wallet and paid the fare. The driver helped him to
take out his luggage, but did not follow him inside.
He
felt a pleasing sense of change when he finally settled into the
comfort of his hotel room. There was so much to do, so many people to
get back in touch with and so many places to visit. But first, he needed
water on his body.
The
shower had its desired effect. It calmed him down. Clement walked out
of the bathroom and flung his tired body onto the bed. He dozed off
right away and did not wake up until after darkness had fully engulfed
the city.
He
left the hotel at 19:53 hours for the Cafe Zinc district and chose to
settle in Jacques Melac’s famous Bistrot Melac. To some of the diners
there, he looked like the average American exploring the city’s cuisine.
He ordered a Southern French menu with the air of confidence of someone
who knew exactly what he was leaving out. He even gave an acknowledging
nod when the waiter told him that it came from Jacques Melac’s native
Aveyron. Clement ate quietly, absorbing everything around him—from the
staff to the customers and even the scenes outside. A glass of wine from
Jacques Melac’s stockade off Rue de Charonne spurred him on his feet
again.
Clement
intended his next stop to be Grand Boulevards where he sang a ballad at
a popular bar during his previous visit to Paris, but he found himself
at Boulevard des Italiens instead. He wanted to walk a little, put his
subconscious mind to work for tomorrow and the days after because he
would have to get on René Roccard’s trail, get into the recess of plots
by men of the former Free French Movement who were bent on creating a
new French Republic. He was determined to be on top in reporting
Europe’s next big story.
He
acted out of an impulse and made a left turn, into Rue Louis Le Grand.
The street, though quiet and less crowded than Boulevard des Italiens,
was picturesque in its own right.
Less
than a hundred yards of walking brought him a couple feet away from the
door to the apartment of Emilie Villiers, his ex-Franco-Cambodian
girlfriend. He stopped for a moment, but then steeled himself from
knocking on it. His recollection of their first encounter on her
twenty-fourth birthday made him wince a little. Emilie found the door
into his life at a time that she was still reeling from the stigma of
being the former mistress of a Vichy minister and for having had an
affair with a German soldier.
He
smiled without intending to as he recalled some of the games they
played with each other’s hearts. His affair with Emilie had boosted her
self esteem to overcome her humiliation, but he didn’t think he had much
of a future with a woman who drank champagne almost every day, glowed
in the presence of the rich and the famous, and who seemed to enjoy her
frequent mood swings. He wondered about her as he walked past her door,
six years after he slipped out of her life, and five years after her
childhood friend Marie Rocheteau updated him on her unstable life.
A
half-oriental herself, Marie suffered a similar humiliation when a
Parisian mob shaved her head and paraded her half-naked in the streets
with other women accused of sleeping with German soldiers. Marie’s older
full-blooded Vietnamese half-sister, Christelle Nguyen was dating René
Roccard back in 1953.
Clement
was about to turn right at the next intersection onto Place D’Opera
when a figure jumped in front of him, brandishing a knife.
“Ton portefeuille ….ton wallet….Vites, vites, vites...” the intruder said rapidly and approached Clement with a menacing look on his face.
Clement
disarmed him even before he said the last words. Quick karate kicks
knocked the knife from the mugger’s right hand to the point where the
man had no idea of what was coming when Clement twisted his arm hard and
flipped him crashing down on the cobble stones.
“Watch
out who you run into,” Clement warned as he kicked him in the abdomen,
forcing the guy to curl over. Then he spat on the groaning figure,
turned around and started walking away without even looking back, but
conscious of the fact that the mugger got up and ran away in the
opposite direction.
He felt irked by the incident. He
figured me out as a foreigner, probably because of this Levi jeans and
flannel shirt. Hmm, I need new clothes tomorrow to fit into the Parisian
crowd, he thought.
But
his attacker never imagined he was confronting a decorated ex-soldier
and a winner of black belts in judo and Isshin-ryū karate.
With
the surge of adrenaline subsiding, Clement sank gradually into a
pensive mood, unconscious of the reduced pace of his strides. He stopped
suddenly in front of the gigantic Second Empire Style Paris Opera
building for no apparent reason, and then shook his head as if pondering
a puzzling phenomenon. Then he peered at the building with an enigmatic
expression to his face. The structure always seemed to be revealing
something new and exciting each time he visited.
The
avid brightness of his eyes made it plain that he was seeking a deeper
meaning in the green cupola and the winged groups of sculptured figures. What did the architects and builders have in mind when they created them? He wondered.
“Exultation, exaltation, uplifting flight of the spirit to the highest pinnacles of joy and happiness?” he mumbled to himself.
Clement
stuck his hands deep into his pockets, but did not take his eyes off
the building, oblivious of those by his side or those walking past, as
he sank into his memories. It was in this building that he watched his
first opera and fell in love with Charlotte Aglionby, one of the opera’s
divas who opened his eyes to the world of classical music and made him
appreciate Georges Bizet’s “Carmen” and Giuseppe Verdi’s “La Traviata” to the level of a connoisseur. A rueful smile caressed his lips at the thought of Charlotte.
Charlotte, Charlotte, the vivacious diva who strove to live her life like Violetta Valery, the heroine in the opera “La
Traviata”. She must have fancied him to be her eternally loyal and
understanding lover like Violetta’s Alberto because she brought more men
into her life than he could stomach, and made him weep several times in
jealousy until the day he almost choked the life out of her in a brief
moment of insanity that he never fails to regret whenever he thinks
about it. The act had left him quivering in remorse as he watched her
get up from the floor, stagger to the sink and drink a glass of water
still holding her throat and gasping for breath. She had laughed at him
afterwards, taunting him for not being as brave as Othello and for
failing so miserably in sending her to her grave.
“You are my damnation, bitch, but I love you,” he had told her.
“I love you too, Clement,” she had cooed, pronouncing his name in a French manner that he liked so much.
He
had avoided her kiss that night, left her home without looking back,
and then asked the next day to go back home to America. It was hardly a
month after he returned home in his bid to be away from Violetta that he
met Helen Alston, the southern belle, and then convinced himself that
he could become a gentleman after all. Still the memory of Charlotte’s
voice producing melodious sounds of Brindisi—the drinking song, from La
Traviata, clouded his mind.
The
rueful expression on Clement’s face turned into a reflective smile of
sweet reminiscences as he started singing Brindisi with closed lips, not
articulating the words until he got to the second stanza.
‘Let us drink from the goblets of joy………
…In life everything is folly which does not bring pleasure.
...Life is nothing but pleasure, as long as one is not in love.
...That’s my fate...
Be happy ... wine and song and laughter beautify the night;
let the new day find us in this paradise.
Clement
took a deep look at the building, cocked his head, turned around and
started walking away—destination Le Cafe Rive Droite where he would find
someone to put him on René Roccard’s trail, drink some nice French
wine, sing a little and find a woman for the night that would be a song
for his ears.
