E-Book, Englisch, 289 Seiten
Déon The Great and the Good
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80533-399-9
Verlag: Pushkin Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 289 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-80533-399-9
Verlag: Pushkin Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Michel Déon published over fifty works. He was the recipient of numerous awards, including the Prix Interallié for his 1970 novel, Les Poneys Sauvages (The Wild Ponies). His 1973 novel, Un Taxi Mauve, garnered him international renown when it received the esteemed title of the Grand Prix du roman de l'Académie française. His novels have been translated into numerous languages. He was considered one of the most innovative French writers of the 21st century. A member of the Académie française, Déon was one of just forty members who are elected by their peers to serve for life. Déon died in 2016.
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Concannon was lying on his back, his eyes closed, his head supported by a large pillow, the sheet tucked under his arms. A tube connected his right arm to a drip. His immobile left arm ended in a half-open wax-coloured hand, as if the blood had stopped circulating in it. The professor’s face, its veins usually flushed with the first glass of alcohol, had taken on a grey-mauve pallor and yet, crowned by his flossy white hair and accentuated by the line of his bushy black eyebrows, his features seemed singularly calm, although at each exhalation his cracked lips swelled barely enough to open and make the whistling sound of a steam engine about to come to a final stop after a few last pathetic hiccups.
Summoned by a bell, the nurse left Arthur alone with him. The room’s lowered blinds diffused the bright orange-red rays of the setting sun.
‘Professor!’
Could he hear, lost amid the confused images that filled his sleep? Arthur held his waxy left hand and squeezed it. The nurse had said, ‘We don’t understand. The haemorrhage is localised on the left side and shouldn’t have affected his language or thought processes, but the patient is apparently aphasic.’
‘Professor, it’s Arthur Morgan,’ he repeated in the ear of the motionless figure.
An eyelid fluttered open, revealing an unmoving blue eye, veiled but more lively than might have been expected. The lips tensed into a smile. Concannon extended his right hand as far as the drip would let him. The fingers flickered, beckoning Arthur closer.
‘I’m … dying …’
Arthur had no time to protest.
‘… I’m … dying … of thirst.’
A muffled laugh set off a horrible mucous cough. Arthur handed him a glass of water and a straw without getting up.
‘Sweet heaven! Ugh!’
The voice was dramatically hoarse.
‘Either it’s a miracle, or you’re putting on an act with the doctors.’
‘Hush!’ Concannon said, opening the other eye.
‘I only found out when I got back last night. I was in New York.’
‘With her?’
‘No. With Elizabeth.’
How could he think about that in the state he was in?
‘Why are you refusing to talk to the staff?’
‘Nurse too ugly … doctor an idiot … want them to leave me be … Not you … I’ve always liked the French …’
He closed his eyes after the extreme effort. Arthur tried to think of something to say. Sunk into himself, Concannon let out a long, deep sigh. From out of his self-imposed darkness his words came more clearly.
‘I knew, very early on, I’d end up … gaga …’
‘You’re not gaga at all.’
‘I’m pretending to be gaga … it’s worse. I feel sleepy …’
‘I’ll leave you to rest.’
Concannon shook his right hand so abruptly that the drip came out.
‘I’ll call the nurse.’
‘Did you know … I was the best dancer … in the whole university?’
‘Yes I did. But I prefer to hear it from you.’
Concannon started to snore, so noisily that it sounded like wheezing. Arthur pressed the call switch and the nurse appeared immediately. She was, as Concannon had said, a woman of average physical looks but an incontestable authority.
‘This is the third time he’s pulled the drip out.’
‘He’s started to snore.’
‘With lungs as clogged as his are, I’m not surprised.’
She put an arm around Concannon, and with unexpected strength lifted him to plump his pillow and settle his head, which was lolling.
‘Did he talk to you?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘No,’ Arthur lied.
‘Don’t be misled … he’s still in shock. In a semi-coma. But he knows you’re here. You mustn’t tire him.’
Arthur held Concannon’s working right hand and squeezed it tightly, receiving in reply a slight pressure from his fingers. His cheeks swelled and his lips parted, exhaling a gust of rank breath. Arthur was sure that the gesture was directed at the nurse.
‘The most painful thing,’ the nurse said, ‘is when they want to speak and they can’t manage to find their words. The doctor’s on his way. He said no visits. I have to ask you to leave now.’
A night with Elizabeth had changed nothing in his life. A few minutes at Concannon’s side had changed it much more. Back at his room, he wrote to his mother, to his uncle Eugène, to Sister Marie of the Victory, moved by a feeling of remorse at having neglected those who loved him in all their naivety, his mother especially, who was so good and so clumsy.
His classes had almost ceased to interest him. He had the feeling that he knew all he needed to know and that he was just marking time. There was an incredible amount of information available at the fingertips of students who hardly used it. Everyone specialised in very particular areas. John Macomber, whose father Arthur had met on the train that brought him to Boston, was only interested in the battle of Gettysburg. Within ten years he would know more than if he had taken part in it as a staff officer. Beyond the topography of the battlefield and General Lee’s shattering defeat at the hands of Union forces, John was a member of the university football team and played cards regularly with Getulio, who usually wiped the floor with him. One day John would take over running his father’s Massachusetts dairy company and steadily drive the board of directors to distraction by likening every commercial decision to the battle of Gettysburg.
With Getulio, Arthur’s relations had become increasingly formal. If the Brazilian had read the message from his sister that Arthur had left on his worktable while he was away from his room, he would just have to make sure it did not happen again.
With Concannon’s death, Arthur lost a generous supporter. The professor’s funeral was remarkably gloomy. The dean and a small group of students assembled at the crematorium. A short address summarised his university titles and achievements and minimised his tormented personal life. He could not be praised as an example to his students: the scandals had been too many and too noisy. Among the group that dispersed sadly after the ceremony was a stocky young woman wearing a black straw hat with a ribbon. She came towards Arthur and he recognised the nurse from the hospital. Had she, beneath her brisk exterior, a heart after all?
‘Perhaps you were his only friend,’ she said. ‘After his stroke we found a handwritten card in his papers that said, “In case of accident, inform Arthur Morgan.” That’s why I phoned you. He spoke to you, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. Only a few words.’
‘He wasn’t aphasic, I was sure of it. A few minutes before his heart stopped, he looked me in the eye and said, very distinctly, so that I wouldn’t forget, “Tell my friend Arthur: Ad Augusta per angusta. He’ll understand.” I expect you know what he meant.’
‘Yes, perfectly.’
‘Is it Italian?’
‘No. Latin. It’s a Latin play on words.’
‘Is it indiscreet to ask what it means?’
‘“To greatness through difficulties.”’
‘Was it a kind of code between you?’
‘In a more specific sense Augusta’s also the name of a girl we both found attractive and who does seem to be a difficult nut to crack.’
‘I feel I’m being indiscreet.’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t mean to be. I’ve often seen people die. You get used to it … and then one day a man dies who you don’t know anything about and who means nothing to you, and it breaks your heart. I imagine Professor Concannon was an admirable man.’
‘You’re right, he was.’
*
At Easter Arthur spent two days with Elizabeth. When he questioned her about Augusta she was stubbornly vague: she was away or she was sick.
‘I’m not refusing to cooperate, I promise.’
‘That’s a pity. I’d have been flattered.’
‘Liar!’
He was lying, a little. Elizabeth was alive in the pleasure he gave her, and she him. Once he was back at Beresford work took over and he was content, no more. He forgot her for a time and instead wrote long letters to Augusta and put them away in a locked drawer. Getulio treacherously offered to go with them both to Chicago.
‘I can’t afford it.’
‘Augusta will be disappointed.’
‘You know perfectly well that I can’t.’
‘Borrow.’
‘Who from?’
‘I’m sorry I can’t even lend you a quarter. I’m very short right now.’
After he...
