Ring Roads Read Online Free PDF Page A

eat out on the veranda,’ suggested Sylviane Quimphe. ‘It’s such a lovely evening . . .’
    Marcheret would have preferred to dine by candlelight, himself, but eventually accepted that ‘the purple glow of twilight has its charm’. Murraille poured the drinks. I gathered it was a distinguished vintage.
    ‘First-rate!’ exclaimed Marcheret, smacking his lips, a gesture my father echoed.
    I had been seated between Murraille and Sylviane Quimphe, who asked whether I was on holiday.
    ‘I’ve seen you at the Clos-Foucré.’
    ‘I’ve seen you there, too.’
    ‘In fact I think we have adjoining rooms.’
    And she gave me a curious look.
    ‘M. Alexandre is very impressed by my magazine,’ Murraille said.
    ‘You don’t say!’ Marcheret was amazed. ‘Well, you’re the only one. If you saw the anonymous letters Jean-Jean gets . . . The most recent one accuses him of being a pornographer and gangster!’
    ‘I don’t give a damn,’ said Murraille. ‘You know,’ he went on, lowering his voice, ‘the press have slandered me. I was even accused of taking bribes, before the war! Small men have always been jealous of me!’
    He snarled the words, his face turning puce. Dessert was being served.
    ‘And what do you do with yourself?’ Sylviane Quimphe asked.
    ‘Novelist,’ I said briefly.
    I was regretting introducing myself to Murraille in this curious guise.
    ‘You write novels?’
    ‘You write novels?’ echoed my father.
    It was the first time he had spoken to me since we sat down to dinner.
    ‘Yes. So what do you do?’
    He stared at me wide-eyed.
    ‘Me?’
    ‘Are you here . . .on holiday?’ I asked politely.
    He looked at me like a hunted animal.
    ‘Monsieur Deyckecaire,’ Murraille said, wagging a finger at my father, ‘lives in a charming property close by. It’s called “The Priory”.’
    ‘Yes . . . “The Priory”,’ said my father.
    ‘Much more imposing than the “Villa Mektoub”. Can you believe, there’s even a chapel in the grounds?’
    ‘Chalva is a god-fearing man!’ Marcheret said.
    My father spluttered with laughter.
    ‘Isn’t that so, Chalva?’ Marcheret insisted. ‘When are we going to see you in a cassock?’
    ‘Unfortunately,’ Murraille told me, ‘our friend Deyckecaire is like us. His business keeps him in Paris.’
    ‘What line of business?’ I ventured.
    ‘Nothing of interest,’ said my father.
    ‘ Come, come!’ said Marcheret, ‘I’m sure M. Alexandre would love to hear all about your shady financial dealings! Did you know that Chalva . . .’ his tone was mocking now ‘ . . . is a really sharp operator. He could teach Sir Basil Zaharoff a thing or two!’
    ‘Don’t believe a word he says,’ muttered my father.
    ‘I find you too,
too
mysterious, Chalva,’ said Sylviane Quimphe, clapping her hands together.
    He took out a large handkerchief and mopped his forehead, and I suddenly remember that this is one of his favourite tics. He falls silent. As do I. The light is failing. Over there the other three are talking in hushed voices. I think Marcheret is saying to Murraille:
    ‘I had a phone call from your daughter. What the fuck is she doing in Paris?’
    Murraille is shocked by such coarse language. A Marcheret, a d’Eu, talking like that!
    ‘If this carries on,’ the other says, ‘I shall break off the engagement!’
    ‘Tut-tut . . .’ Murraille says, ‘that would be a grave error.’
    Sylviane breaks the ensuing silence to tell me about a man name Eddy Pagnon, about how, when they were in a night-club together, he had waved a revolver at the terrified guests. Eddy Pagnon . . . Another name that seems naggingly familiar. A celebrity? I don’t know, but I like the idea of this man who draws his revolver to threaten shadows.
    My father had wandered over and was leaning on the balustrade of the veranda railing and I went up to him. He had lit a cigar, which he smoked distractedly. After a few minutes, he began blowing smoke rings. Behind us,