The Other Side of Silence Read online

  I thought about Anne French and what she might say when I told her I’d been invited up to the Villa Mauresque. It was possible she would perceive my invitation as an affirmation of her own strategy: to learn bridge in order to meet Somerset Maugham. But it seemed equally possible that she would see it as some kind of betrayal. And while for a brief moment I considered simply not telling her in order to spare her feelings, it seemed to me that my being there at all could only help to facilitate her own invitation. Alternatively, I might be her spy and report on how things really were at the Villa Mauresque, providing her with the color she needed for her book.

  “But I feel I ought to read one of his novels,” I said. “I’d hate to have to admit that I haven’t read any. Which one would you recommend?”

  “A short one. My own favorite is The Moon and Sixpence. Which is about the life of Paul Gauguin. I’ll lend you my own copy if you like.”

  Robin Maugham looked at his watch. “You know, it occurs to me that we could still make dinner at the villa. That is if you haven’t already dined. Willie keeps a very good table. Annette, our Italian cook, is wonderful. Willie was in a good mood today. Rather absurdly, an invitation to the forthcoming wedding of Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly in Monaco seems to have left him as delighted as if he was getting married himself.”

  “I got an invitation myself but sadly I shall have to decline. It would mean finding all my decorations and buying a new suit, which I can ill afford.”

  Robin smiled uncertainly.

  I looked at my own watch.

  “But sure. Let’s go. I don’t mind interrupting my alcohol consumption with some food.”

  “Good.” Robin drained his wineglass, scooped up the terrier, and pointed toward the end of the terrace. “Shall we?”

  I climbed into my car and followed the Englishman’s red Alfa Romeo up the hill and out of the town. It was a lovely warm evening with a light sea breeze and an edge of coral pink in the blue sky as if some nearer Vesuvius were in fiery eruption. Behind us the lightly clad myrmidons of Hermès filled the many waterside restaurants and narrow streets, while the miniature Troy that was the little port of Cap Ferrat bristled with innumerable tall masts and hundreds of invading white boats that jostled for undulating position on the almost invisible glass water, as if it mattered a damn where anyone was going or anyone came from. It certainly didn’t matter to me.

  FIVE

  Approached along a narrow, winding road bordered by pine trees, the Villa Mauresque stood on the very summit of the Cap and behind a large wrought-iron gate with white plaster posts on one of which was carved the name of the house and what I took to be a sign against the evil eye, in red. It didn’t slow me down and I drove through the gates in Robin Maugham’s dust as if I had the nicest baby blue eyes in France. The place couldn’t have looked more private if King Leopold II of Belgium had been living there with his pet pygmy and his three mistresses and his private zoo, not to mention the many millions he’d managed to steal from the Congo. By all accounts he had quite a collection of human hands, too, lopped off the arms of natives to encourage the others to go into the jungle and collect rubber, and I think the king could have taught the Nazis a few things about cruelty and running an empire. Unlike Hitler, he’d died in bed at the age of seventy-four. Once, he had owned the whole of Cap Ferrat, and the Villa Mauresque had been built for one of his confidants, a man named Charmeton, whose Algerian background had left him with a taste for Moorish architecture. I knew this because it’s the sort of detail a concierge at the Grand Hôtel is supposed to know.

  According to Robin Maugham, his uncle had owned the villa for more than thirty years. It was the type of place you could easily imagine a novelist writing about except that no one would have believed it, for the house seemed even more elaborate—inside and out—than I could have expected. Anne French was renting a nice villa. This one was magnificent and underlined Maugham’s international fame, his enormous wealth, and his impeccable taste. It was painted white, with green shutters and tall green double doors, horseshoe windows, a Moorish archway entrance, and a large cupola on the roof. There was a tennis court, a huge swimming pool, and a beautiful garden full of hibiscus, bougainvillea, and lemon trees that lent the evening air the sharp citrus scent of a barber’s shop. Inside were ebony wood floors, high ceilings, heavy Spanish furniture, gilded wooden chandeliers, blackamoor figures, Savonnerie carpets, and, among many others, a painting by Gauguin—one of those heavy-limbed, broad-nosed, Tahitian women that looks like she must have gone three rounds with Jersey Joe Walcott. Over the fireplace was a golden eagle with wings outspread, which reminded me of my former employers in Berlin, while all the books on a round Louis XVI table were new and sent from a shop in London called Heywood Hill. The soap I used to wash my hands in the ground-floor lavatory was still in its Floris wrapper, and the towels were as thick as the silk cushions on the Directoire armchairs. The Grand Hôtel felt like a cheaper version of what there was to be enjoyed at the Villa Mauresque. It was the sort of place where time and the outside world were not welcome; the sort of place it was hard to imagine could still exist in a ration-book economy that was recovering from a terrible war; the sort of place that was probably like the mind of the man who owned it, an elderly man in a double-breasted blue blazer that looked as if it had been made by the same London tailor as Robin’s, with a face like a Komodo dragon lizard. He stood and came to shake my hand as his nephew made the introduction, and when he licked the lips of his thin, broad, drooping pink mouth, I would not have been surprised to have seen a tongue that was forked.

  “Where have you been, Robin? We’ve delayed dinner for you, and you know I hate that. It’s most inconsiderate to Annette.”

  “I dropped into the Voile for a drink and met a friend of mine. Walter Wolf. He’s German and he’s a keen bridge player and he was at a loose end so I thought I’d better bring him along.”

  “Is he indeed? I’m so glad.” Maugham placed a monocle in his eye, looked directly at me, and smiled a rictus smile. “We d-don’t see n-nearly enough G-Germans. It’s a good sign that you’re returning to the Riviera. It augurs well for the future that Germans can afford to come here again.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve got me wrong, sir. I’m not here for the season. I work at the Grand Hôtel. I’m the concierge.”

  “You’re very welcome all the same. So, you play bridge. The most entertaining game that the art of man has devised, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir. I certainly think so.”

  “Robin, you’d better tell Annette that we have an extra guest for dinner.”

  “There’s always plenty of food, Uncle.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I thought we could make a four with Alan, later.”

  “Excellent,” said Maugham.

  While Robin went to speak to the cook, Maugham himself took me by the arm and into the dark green Baroque drawing room, where a butler wearing a white linen jacket materialized as if from thin air and proceeded to make me a gimlet to my exact instructions and then a martini for the old man, with a dash of absinthe.

  “I dislike a man who’s not precise about what he wants to drink,” said Maugham. “You can’t rely on a fellow who’s vague about his favorite tipple. If he’s not precise about something he’s going to drink then it’s clear he’s not going to be precise about anything.”

  We sat down and Maugham offered me a cigarette from the box on the table. I shook my head and lit one of my own, which drew yet more of his approval, only now he spoke German—albeit with a slight stammer, the way he spoke English—probably just to show that he could do it, but given it was probably a while since he’d done it, I was still impressed.

  “I also like a man who prefers to smoke his own cigarettes rather than mine. Smoking is something you have to take seriously. It’s not a matter for experiment. I myself could no more smoke another brand of c
igarette than I could take up marathon running. Tell me, Herr Wolf, do you like being the concierge at the Grand Hôtel?”

  “Like?” I grinned. “That’s a luxury I simply can’t afford, Herr Maugham. It’s a job, that’s all. After the war, jobs in Germany weren’t so easy to come by. The hours are regular and the hotel’s a nice place. But the only reason I’m doing it is for the money. The day they stop paying me is the day I check out.”

  “I agree. I have no time for a man who says he’s not interested in money. It means he has no self-respect. I myself only write for money these days. Certainly not for the pleasure of it.” A tear appeared in his eye. “No, that went out of it a long time ago. Mostly I write because I’ve always done it. Because I can’t think what the hell else to do. Unfortunately, I have never been able to persuade myself that anything else mattered. I’m eighty-two years old, Herr Wolf. Writing has become a habit, a discipline, and, to some extent, a compulsion, but I certainly wouldn’t give what I write to anyone for free.”

  “Are you working on anything at the moment, sir?”

  “A book of essays, which is to say, nothing at all of any consequence. Essays are like politicians. They want to change things and I’m not much interested in any change at my age.”

  A large and lumpish man with bad psoriasis and wearing a garishly colored shirt appeared and went straight to the drinks tray, where he mixed himself a drink as if too impatient to wait for the butler to fix one for him.

  “This is my friend Alan,” said Maugham, reverting to English. “Alan, do come and say hello to a friend of Robin’s. Walter Wolf. He’s German and we’re hoping he’s going to play a couple of rubbers with us after dinner.”

  The lumpish man came and shook hands just as Robin Maugham reappeared and announced that dinner was ready.

  “Thank God,” said Maugham.

  “Ronnie Neame rang when you were in the bath,” the lumpish man told Maugham. “It seems that MGM are going to make Painted Veil but want a different title. They want to call it The Seventh Sin.”

  “Ugh.” Maugham grimaced. “That’s a fucking awful title.”

  “It’s the seventh commandment,” said Robin.

  “I don’t care if it’s in the Treaty of Versailles. No one’s shocked by adultery these days. Not since the war. Adultery’s common. After Auschwitz, adultery’s a minor misdemeanor. You mark my words: The film will make a loss.”

  We went into dinner.

  Robin Maugham had not exaggerated; his uncle kept an excellent table. Dinner was eggs in aspic jelly, chicken Maryland, tiny wild strawberries, avocado ice cream—which I didn’t care for—all washed down with an excellent Puligny and then an even better Sauternes. Afterward, Maugham lit a pipe, fixed a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles onto his nose, and led the way to the card table, where I partnered Robin and we played and lost two rubbers. The old man was a bridge demon.

  “You’re not a bad player, Herr Wolf. If I might give you a tip it’s this: Never take a card out of your hand before your partner has declared. It preempts his play. Don’t overreach for a card until it’s your turn to play.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  When we’d finished playing cards Maugham sat next to me on the sofa with his legs tucked underneath him, revealing silk socks and sock suspenders, and asked me all sorts of personal questions.

  “Are you married?”

  “Three times. I’ve not had the best of luck with women, sir. The ones I married least of all. They’re odd creatures who don’t know what they want right up until the moment they decide on exactly what they do want, and when you don’t give it to them right away, they’re apt to get sore with you. The rest of the time, with the rest of the women I’ve known, it was my fault. My most recent wife left me because she didn’t love me anymore. At least that’s what she told me when she walked out with most of my money. But I think she was trying to let me down gently.”

  Maugham smiled. “You’re bitter. I like that. Tra la la. Would you like another drink?”

  “No, sir. I’ve had enough.”

  We talked a while longer until, at exactly eleven o’clock, W. Somerset Maugham declared that it was his bedtime.

  “I like you, Herr Wolf,” he said before he went upstairs. “Do come again. Come again soon.”

  SIX

  Anne French was thrilled when, the following night at her house in the hills above Villefranche, I told her that I’d been up to the Villa Mauresque to have dinner and play cards.

  “How exciting. What’s it like? Is it very camp?”

  “Camp” was not an English word I understood, and Anne had to explain.

  “It’s very English,” she said, “although its origins are French, oddly enough. From the French term se camper, meaning ‘to pose in an exaggerated fashion.’ But in English we use it to describe anything outrageously or ostentatiously homosexual.”

  “Then, yes, it’s very camp. Although I can’t fault the old man’s taste. He lives very well. Everything is the best. There’s a staff of about ten, including a butler and several gardeners. He doesn’t eat a lot and doesn’t drink much. Just talks and plays cards. Although there’s no talk allowed when we’re playing cards. He’s a ferocious player. We’re going to have to work hard to get you up to a standard where I can recommend that you take my place.”

  “Until then you can be my spy. The next time you go I want detailed descriptions of everything. Especially the house and gardens. Are there naked statues? Who still comes to stay? And find out what his opinions are on writers today. Who he rates. Who he hates. And his friend, of course. Do find out about him. By all accounts, the last one, Gerald, was a complete drunk and a rotter. Tell me, were there lots of boys? Was there an orgy?”

  “No. That was disappointing. Maugham’s friend and companion is a man with bad psoriasis named Alan Searle, who’s also his secretary. Not obviously queer, unlike the nephew, who I’m surprised to find that I like. He’s very genial and I think something of a war hero, on the quiet. It was all a very long way from Petronius.” I shook my head. “If it comes to that, I liked the old man, too. Felt sorry for him. He’s got all the money in the world, a beautiful house, famous friends, but he’s not happy. Turns out we have that in common.”

  “You’re not happy?”

  I laughed. “Next question.”

  “Is he writing?”

  “Essays.”

  “Oh. Nobody’s interested in those. Essays are for schoolchildren. Did you get a look at his writing room?”

  “No, but he told me you can see an exact reproduction of it in a television film called Quartet that was filmed in a studio three or four years ago.”

  “When are you going back?”

  “I don’t know. When they ask me, I suppose. If they ask me.”

  “Do you think they will?”

  “He’s eighty-two. At that age anything is possible.”

  “I’m not sure I agree. Surely—”

  “Time is short for someone like that. Chances are, yes, they’ll ask me again.”

  It so happened that it was the following night when I received a call at the hotel front desk asking if I might be free that evening; I was.

  This time the great man was in a more expansive mood. He talked about meeting the Queen, and the many other famous people who’d been to the villa, including Churchill and H. G. Wells.

  “What was Churchill like?” I asked politely.

  “Looked like an old china doll. Very pink. Very doddery. Hair like spider’s web. If you think I’m senile you should see him.” He sighed. “It’s very sad, really. Before the war—the first war—we used to play golf together. I made him laugh, you see. Lord, that must have been what—nineteen ten? Christ. Doesn’t time fly?”

  I nodded, and then for no reason that I can think of except that I
wanted him to know I could, I quoted Goethe, in German.

  “‘Let’s plunge ourselves into the roar of time, the whirl of accident; may pain and pleasure, success and failure, shift as they will—it’s only action that can make a man.’”

  “That’s Goethe, isn’t it?” said Maugham.

  “Faust.” I swallowed with difficulty. “Always chokes me a little.”

  Maugham nodded. “You’re still a young-looking man, Walter. With a good twenty years of action ahead of you. But don’t fuck it up, dear boy.”

  “No, sir. I’ll try not to.”

  “I’ve fucked and fucked up a great deal in my life.” He sighed. “Quite often of course they amount to the same thing. Seriously. I’d have been a knight of the realm by now if I hadn’t fucked quite so egregiously. But then I expect you’re used to that. You must see all kinds of egregious behavior down at the Grand Hôtel.”

  “Of course. But nothing I can talk about.”

  “The rich have time to fuck. But the poor only have time to read about it. They’re too busy trying to make a living to fuck a lot.”

  “I expect you’re probably right.”

  “And before the war, Robin tells me that you used to be the house detective at the Adlon Hotel in Berlin.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You must have seen some even worse behavior then. Berlin was the place to be in the twenties. Especially for someone like me. My first play was produced in Berlin. By Max Reinhardt. At the Schall und Rauch cabaret theater. Tiny place.”

  “On Kantstrasse. I remember it. Sadly, I seem to remember everything. There’s so much I’d like to forget but try as I might, it just doesn’t happen. It’s like I don’t seem to be able to remember how. It’s not too much to ask in life, is it? To forget the things that cause you pain. Somehow.”

  “Bitter and maudlin. I like that, too.” He lit a cigarette from the silver box on the table. We were awaiting dinner and afterward the inevitable game of bridge. “I’ve remembered now. That’s it. ‘Funes the Memorious,’” said Maugham. “It’s a story by Borges on just that very subject. A man who could not forget.”