Симона де Бовуар – The Mandarins (страница 38)
‘That’s my profession,’ he said.
‘It’s a funny profession!’
They continued walking in silence. When they arrived at the door to the newspaper Nadine said dryly, ‘I’m going home. See you tomorrow.’
‘So long.’
Hesitantly, she turned back and stood before him. ‘Between nine and ten – that’s rather late, isn’t it? We won’t have much time to do anything. Can’t we begin the evening a little earlier?’
‘I won’t be free before then.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘All right then, at nine-thirty. But what’s the use of being famous and everything if you don’t take any time out to live?’
‘To live!’ he thought as she turned on her heels and walked briskly away. ‘To them that always means only one thing; to spend your time with them. But there’s more than one way of living!’
He liked that familiar smell of stale dust and fresh ink that greeted him as he entered the building. The offices were still empty, the basement silent. But soon a whole world would rise from this stillness, a world which was his creation. ‘No one will ever lay his hands on
He went through his mail quickly and looked at his watch. He had an appointment with Preston in half an hour, which left him ample time to have it out with Sezenac. ‘Ask Sezenac to come to my office,’ he said to his secretary. He went back to his desk and sat down. It’s all well and good to have confidence in people, but there were a lot of guys who would jump at the chance of taking Sezenac’s place and who deserved it more than he did. When you stubbornly decide to give one man a chance, you arbitrarily deny it to another one. And that was not right. ‘Too bad!’ Henri said to himself. He recalled how promising Sezenac had seemed when Chancel had first brought them together. For a year he had been the most zealous of the liaison agents; maybe he needed extraordinary circumstances to bring out his best. But now, pale, puffy, glassy-eyed, he constantly trailed in Vincent’s wake and he was no longer able to write a coherent sentence.
‘Ah! There you are! Sit down.’
Sézenac sat down without saying a word. Henri suddenly realized that he had been working with him a whole year and that he knew him not at all. He was more or less familiar with the lives of the others, their tastes, their ideas. But Sezenac kept things to himself.
‘When are you going to turn in something better than the junk you’ve been giving us lately?’ Henri said much more sharply than he had intended to.
Sézenac shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
‘What’s wrong?’ Henri asked. ‘Not getting laid enough? Got yourself in a jam?’
Sézenac sat quietly, rolling a handkerchief between his hands and staring stubbornly at the floor. It was really difficult to get through to him.
‘What’s wrong?’ Henri repeated. ‘I’m willing to give you another chance.’
‘No,’ Sézenac said. ‘Journalism just isn’t my dish.’
‘At first you were doing all right.’
Sézenac smiled vaguely. ‘Chancel helped me a little.’
‘He didn’t write your articles for you, did he?’
‘No,’ Sézenac replied without assurance. He shook his head. ‘No use in pressing the matter. It’s not the kind of work I like.’
‘You could have told me sooner,’ Henri said with a trace of annoyance. Again there was a brief silence, and then Henri asked, ‘What would you like to do?’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll get along.’
‘How?’
‘I’m giving English lessons. And I’ve been promised some translations.’ He stood up. ‘It’s really been good of you to keep me on so long.’
‘If you ever feel like sending us something …’
‘If I get round to it.’
‘Can I do anything for you?’
‘You can lend me a thousand francs,’ Sézenac said.
‘Here’s two thousand,’ Henri said. ‘But that’s no solution.’
Sézenac shoved his handkerchief and the money into his pocket and then, for the first time, he smiled. ‘It’s a temporary solution; they’re the surest.’ He opened the door. ‘Thanks.’
‘Good luck,’ Henri called after him. He was disturbed. It seemed almost as if all Sézenac had been waiting for was a chance to escape. ‘I’ll get news of him through Vincent,’ he thought in order to reassure himself. But it bothered him a little not to have been able to make him talk.
He took out his fountain pen and placed a sheet of writing paper in front of him. Preston would be along in fifteen minutes. He didn’t want to think too much about the magazine before he was sure, but his head was full of plans. The weeklies that were being published since the end of the Occupation were all rather pitiful; that would make it all the more fun to put out something really good.
Henri’s secretary poked her head in the door. ‘Mr Preston is here.’
‘Ask him to come in.’
In his civilian clothes, Preston didn’t look at all like an American. The very perfection of his French, however, made him somewhat suspect. He came to the point almost immediately.
‘Your friend Luc must have told you that we saw each other several times during your absence,’ he said. ‘Both of us deplored the state of the French press; it’s really sad. It would be a very great pleasure for me to help your paper by furnishing you with additional newsprint.’
‘Yes, that would fix us up fine!’ said Henri. ‘Of course, we couldn’t think of changing our format,’ he added. ‘The agreement with the other papers is still in effect. But there’s nothing to stop us from bringing out a Sunday magazine supplement, and that would open up a whole new area.’
Preston smiled reassuringly. ‘As far as the newsprint is concerned,’ he said, ‘there’s no problem. You could have it tomorrow.’ He slowly lit a cigarette with his black enamelled lighter. ‘I have to ask you a very blunt question.
‘No,’ Henri replied. ‘Why?’
‘To my way of thinking,
He stopped speaking, but his voice hung in the air.
‘Well?’ said Henri.
‘I followed the beginning of your series on Portugal with great interest. But this morning I was a bit surprised to read in an interview you recently gave that you intend – in regard to the Salazar régime – to criticize American policy in the Mediterranean area.’
‘As a matter of fact, I do find this policy unfortunate,’ Henri said rather sharply. ‘Both Franco and Salazar should have been booted out a long time ago.’
‘Things aren’t that simple, as you know very well,’ Preston said. ‘It goes without saying that we have every intention of helping the Spanish and Portuguese to regain their democratic freedoms – but at the right moment.’
‘The right moment is immediately,’ Henri said. ‘There are people in Madrid’s prisons who have been sentenced to death. Every day counts.’
‘That’s my opinion, too,’ Preston said. ‘And I’m certain that the State Department will take the same position.’ He smiled. ‘That’s why it seems to me especially inopportune to turn French opinion against us now.’
Henri smiled in turn. ‘Politicians are never in a hurry; the best thing just now, it seems to me, is to back them into a corner.’
‘Don’t fool yourself,’ Preston said amiably. ‘Your paper is well thought of in American political circles. ‘But don’t expect to influence Washington.’
‘I don’t expect to,’ Henri said. ‘I say what I think, that’s all.’ He added heatedly, ‘You were just congratulating me on my independence …’
‘And it’s exactly that independence which you are going to jeopardize,’ Preston said. He looked at Henri reproachfully. ‘In opening that campaign, you play directly into the hands of those who want to picture us as imperialists.’ He paused a moment and added, ‘You take a humanitarian position with which I fully agree, but one which is not politically sound. Give us a year, and the republic will be re-established in Spain – and under the most favourable conditions.’
‘I have no intention of opening a campaign,’ Henri said. ‘All I want to do is point out certain facts.’
‘But those facts will be used against us,’ Preston said.
Henri shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s not my business. I’m a journalist. My job is to tell the truth.’
Preston looked Henri firmly in the eyes. ‘If you knew that printing certain truths would have unfortunate consequences, would you print them?’
‘If I were absolutely certain that truth would be harmful, then I could see only one solution: I’d resign; I’d give up journalism.’
Preston smiled engagingly. isn’t that a rather rigid ethical concept?’
‘I have Communist friends who’ve asked me exactly the same question,’ Henri replied. ‘But it’s not so much the truth I respect; it’s my readers. I admit that under certain conditions telling the truth can be a luxury. That may well be the case in Russia,’ he said, smiling. ‘But in France, today, I don’t recognize anyone’s right to suppress the truth. Maybe it isn’t so simple for a politician, but I’m not on the side of those who are doing the manoeuvring; I’m with the ones they are trying to manoeuvre. They count on me to keep them informed of what’s happening as well as I can, and if I remain silent or if I lie I’d be betraying them.’