The Mandarins. Simone Beauvoir de

      Henri smiled at her. ‘I’ll bring you back some oranges,’ he said.

      Nadine glowered at him, and suddenly Henri saw before him Dubreuilh’s intimidating mask. ‘I’m not eight years old any more, you know.’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘You don’t! To you I’ll always be the little brat who used to kick the logs in the fireplace.’

      ‘You’re completely wrong, and the proof of it is that I asked you to dance.’

      ‘Oh, this thing’s just a family affair. I’ll bet you’d never ask me to go out with you, though.’

      He looked at her sympathetically. Here, at least, was one person who was longing for a change of air. Yes, she wanted a great many things, different things. Poor kid! It was true she had never had a chance to do anything. A bicycle tour of the suburbs: that was about the sum total of her travelling. It was certainly a rough way to spend one’s youth. And then there was that boy who had died; she seemed to have got over it quickly enough, but nevertheless it must have left a bad scar.

      ‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘I’m inviting you.’

      ‘Do you mean it?’ Nadine’s eyes shone. She was much easier to look at when her face brightened.

      ‘I don’t go back to the newspaper on Saturday nights. Let’s meet at the Bar Rouge at eight o’clock.’

      ‘And what will we do?’

      ‘That will be up to you.’

      ‘I don’t have any ideas.’

      ‘Well don’t worry, I’ll get one by then. Come and have a drink.’

      ‘I don’t drink. I wouldn’t mind another sandwich though.’

      They went to the buffet. Lenoir and Julien were engaged in a heated discussion; it was chronic with them. Each reproached the other for having betrayed his youth – in the wrong way. At one time, having found the excesses of surrealism too tame, they jointly founded the ‘para-human’ movement. Lenoir had since become a professor of Sanskrit and he spent his free time writing obscure poetry. Julien, who was now a librarian, had stopped writing altogether, perhaps because he feared becoming a mature mediocrity after his precocious beginnings.

      ‘What do you think?’ Lenoir asked, turning to Henri. ‘We ought to take some kind of action against the collaborationist writers, shouldn’t we?’

      ‘I’ve stopped thinking for tonight,’ Henri answered cheerfully.

      ‘It’s poor strategy to keep them from being published,’ Julien said. ‘While you’re using all your strength preparing cases against them, they’ll have all the time in the world to write good books.’

      A heavy hand came down on Henri’s shoulder: Scriassine.

      ‘Take a look at what I brought back. American whisky! I managed to slip two bottles into the country, and I can’t think of a better occasion than this to finish them off.’

      ‘Wonderful!’ said Henri. He filled a glass with bourbon and held it out to Nadine.

      ‘I don’t drink,’ she said in an offended voice, turning abruptly and walking off.

      Henri raised the glass to his mouth. He had completely forgotten what bourbon tasted like; he did remember, though, that his preference used to be Scotch, but since he had also forgotten what Scotch tasted like, it made no difference to him.

      ‘Who wants a shot of real whisky?’

      Luc came over, dragging his large, gouty feet; Lambert and Vincent followed close behind. They all filled their glasses.

      ‘I like a good cognac better,’ said Vincent.

      ‘This isn’t bad,’ Lambert said without conviction. He gave Scriassine a questioning look. ‘Do they really drink a dozen of these a day in America?’

      ‘They? Who are they?’ Scriassine asked. ‘There are a hundred and fifty million Americans, and, believe it or not, not all of them are like Hemingway heroes.’ His voice was harsh and disagreeable; he seldom made any effort to be friendly to people younger than himself. Deliberately, he turned to Henri. ‘I came over here tonight to have a serious talk with Dubreuilh. I’m quite worried.’

      He looked preoccupied – his usual expression. He always created the impression that everything happening where he chanced to be and even where he chanced not to be – was his personal concern. Henri had no desire to share his worries. Offhandedly, he asked, ‘What’s worrying you so much?’

      ‘This movement he’s forming. I thought its principal objective was to draw the proletariat away from the Communist Party. But that’s not at all what Dubreuilh seems to have in mind,’ Scriassine said gloomily.

      ‘No, not at all,’ Henri replied.

      Dejectedly, he thought, ‘This is just the kind of conversation I’ll be letting myself in for for days on end, if I get mixed up with Dubreuilh.’ From his head to his toes, he again felt an overpowering desire to be somewhere else.

      Scraissine looked him straight in the eyes. ‘Are you going along with him?’

      ‘Only a little way,’ Henri answered. ‘Politics isn’t exactly my meat.’

      ‘You probably don’t understand what Dubreuilh is brewing,’ Scriassine said, giving Henri a reproachful look. ‘He’s trying to build up a so-called independent left-wing group, a group that approves of a united front with the Communists.’

      ‘Yes,’ Henri said. ‘I know that. So?’

      ‘Don’t you see? He’s playing right into their hands. There are a lot of people who are afraid of Communism; by winning them over to his movement, in effect he’ll be throwing their support to the Communists.’

      ‘Don’t tell me you’re against a united front,’ Henri said. ‘It would be a fine thing if the left started splitting up!’

      ‘A left dominated by the Communists would be nothing but a sham,’ Scriassine said. ‘If you’ve decided to go along with Dubreuilh, why not join the Communist Party? That would be a lot more honest.’

      ‘Completely out of the question. We disagree with them on quite a few points,’ Henri answered.

      Scriassine shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you really do disagree with them, then three months from now the Stalinists will denounce you as traitors to the working class.’

      ‘We’ll see,’ Henri said.

      He had no desire to continue the discussion, but Scriassine fixed him insistently with his eyes. ‘I’ve been told that L’Espoir has a lot of readers among the working people. Is that true?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Which means you have in your hands the only non-Communist paper in France that reaches the proletariat. Do you realize the grave responsibility you have?’

      ‘I realize it.’

      ‘If you put L’Espoir at Dubreuilh’s service, you’ll be acting as an accomplice in a thoroughly disgusting manoeuvre,’ Scriassine said. ‘Dubreuilh’s friendship doesn’t matter here,’ he added, ‘you’ve got to go the other way.’

      ‘Listen, as far as the paper is concerned, it will never be at anyone’s service. Neither Dubreuilh’s nor yours,’ Henri said emphatically.

      ‘One of these days, you know, L’Espoir is going to have to define its political programme,’ Scriassine said.

      ‘No. I refuse to have any predetermined programme,’ said Henri. ‘I want to go on saying exactly what I think when I think it. And I’ll never let myself