Dragons in the Forest Page 5

  “Bonjour, Monsieur.”

  “Bonjour!”

  “Bonjour, Madame.”

  “Comment ca va?”

  “Très bien. Merci.”

  Most greetings were in French, some in English. As they invariably included polite enquiries about each other’s well-being, questions on the health of their families, as well as comments on the state of the weather, it was a protracted morning ritual.

  While the French went through this daily observance, the Japanese staff — consisting mainly of men too old for military service, and young women secretaries — performed their own salutations and bowed to each other. After that they all bowed to the French. The French bowed in reply. Alex was to learn that this same procedure occurred every morning, and not until the established ceremonial was over did the business of the day begin.

  Mademoiselle Patou sought him out and congratulated him on being accepted for the post. She spoke as if it was a huge honour, then introduced him to one of the Japanese typists.

  “Kimiko,” she said. “This young gentleman is Monsieur Faure, who is our new trainee clerk. Introduce him to the rest of the staff, show him the premises, then bring him back for a meeting with Monsieur Le Comte at 9.30.”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle,” Kimiko said. She bowed and spoke to Alex in a rather strange French accent, that he realised must have been acquired at a local language school. “May I welcome you, Monsieur Faure, and say we are glad to have you join the bank.”

  While bowing in acknowledgement, Alex wondered if it was always so polite and formal? So prim and proper. The muted voices, the sober dark suits of the men; it was more like a funeral parlour than a bank. Six months’ trial might be as much as he could stand of this atmosphere. Which could perhaps suit the system — six months of probation work with no salary — but it would certainly infuriate his mother.

  The Count’s secretary left them, her high heels clicking briskly on the marble floor, looking even more ornithoid, positively sparrow-like as she hurried away. Kimiko was a cheerful girl in her 20s. The moment they were alone she spoke to him in Japanese and asked his first name.

  “Alexander,” he said. “But I’ve always been called Alex.”

  “Alex is easier to say.” She had an engaging smile. “But I suppose they’ll insist that during office hours you’re Monsieur Faure.”

  “No thanks.”

  “It is the custom. In here everyone is most conventional.”

  “I’ve noticed. I’m too young to be conventional, and as far as I’m concerned, Monsieur Faure is my dad. Wakari masuka?”

  “Hai! Okay, “Kimiko said with a broad smile, readily agreeing that she understood his wishes.

  She took him to meet the Assistant Manager, where she reverted to her own brand of French.

  “Monsieur Ribot, this is Alex. Alex Faure.”

  “Ah yes,” Ribot said vaguely, perhaps surprised to hear a Christian name, or else trying to remember whether this young person was of any importance. Ribot was a tall man with a prominent brow and a fast-receding hairline. He looked more like a university don than a banker. “Yes, indeed.” He shook Alex’s hand, then seemed unable to find anything else to add. “I hope to see you later,” he finally said, but appeared to be saying this to Kimiko, before he went into his office and shut the door.

  She introduced him to the rest of the senior French staff, including the Chief Accountant, Monsieur Laroche, his assistant Monsieur Sardaigne, and several others. After this she took him on a tour of the building. They went upstairs to the top floor, which seemed quite unlike any part of a bank at all. It consisted of a one-bedroom penthouse. Alex was intrigued by what was a luxury apartment and, speculating whether it might be a love nest, he asked her if anyone lived there.

  “It’s unused now,” Kimiko said, “but it was once the Count’s place of assignation. His short-time house for affairs. Before he met his Vietnamese mistress.”

  “He has a Vietnamese mistress?”

  “It’s well known, so I’m not spreading rumours. He lives with her. She’s exotic and very glamorous.”

  “Is there a Countess?”

  “Yes. But Monsieur Le Comte is separated from his wife, and she lives in Paris. I’ve heard she says Paris is the only civilised city to live in, even with the Germans in occupation.”

  My father wouldn’t agree with her, Alex thought, and if I was in Paris I’d be in mortal danger. Especially if they knew my mother was half Jewish. It would make her — and me — candidates for a concentration camp. But he said nothing of this.

  “How does the Count feel about his wife living there?”

  “Relieved she’s not here, I gather,” Kimiko laughed. “He shares a house in an exclusive part of Tokyo with Moustique. That’s her name. She’s extremely beautiful.”

  Alex decided not to ask if she knew the word Moustique in French meant mosquito. It hardly seemed to equate with the exotic mistress, and he was enjoying this friendly gossip while learning far more about the bank and its people than he would have with the formal Mademoiselle Patou.

  They went down to the first floor, where Kimiko showed him the conference room, and a comfortable annexe for reading and recreation. There were magazines and newspapers from Paris, all at least a year out of date because of the war and lack of shipping. He was surprised to see papers even older than that; a June 1940 edition of Le Monde, with its massive headlines announcing the French surrender; another with front page photographs of Hitler gazing over Paris from the Arc de Triomphe, his arm extended in a Nazi salute while his army marched down the Champs-Elysees. He wondered why these sombre reminders of France’s defeat had been preserved here for so long. His father had burnt such newspapers with painful pictures two years ago.

  The rest of the first floor was a small kitchen where meals were prepared for the French dining room.

  “This is where you have lunch,” Kimiko showed him.

  “Where do you eat?” he asked.

  “We Japanese bring lunch boxes, and sit in the garden if the weather is fine. In winter, or if it’s raining, we use the cloakroom.”

  They descended to the ground floor with its cluster of offices and the public counter, where tellers were now busy dealing with customers. Kimiko pointed out the strong room with the latest electric alarm system, then delivered him back to Mademoiselle Patou and wished him luck. Promptly at 9.30 he was again closeted with the Count in his luxurious office, answering a series of questions.

  “Can you use a typewriter?” he asked.

  “Yes, Monsieur Le Comte.”

  “Two fingers?”

  “Ten,” Alex said. “Touch typing. I had lessons.”

  “Splendid. Was this at St Joseph’s?”

  “No, a tutorial after school. My father’s idea, to prepare me for university in the United States.”

  The Count looked at him, and shrugged sympathetically. “This war. It’s changed all our lives.”

  Alex knew how much it had changed his. Being a junior bank clerk was a far cry from his ambition to take an economics degree at Harvard. He wondered exactly how it had affected the Count’s life, but the banker did not enlighten him.

  “We have to hope the end of the wretched business — when it finally comes — will bring the correct result.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alex said, carefully non-committal. He had already learned it was safest to be impartial outside his own family, and refrain from expressing opinions even with friends. Although he could not help speculating on what the Count’s idea of a correct result to the war might be.

  “Your typing will be useful. An unexpected bonus.” He smiled at the expression on Alex’s face. “I’m not consigning you to the typing pool, if that’s what you fear. But there are certain documents in French that are too confidential for our local staff to handle. I’ve had to use a typist from the Embassy, but in future you can deal with it. Do you speak Japanese?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Fluently?”

/>   “Fluent enough. I can converse on most subjects.”

  “Good. None of my senior staff can manage more than basic words, and I could never cope with the language. Kimiko is our main interpreter, on daily matters, but …” he hesitated, then said, “there are occasions when I’d prefer to use a French national. In time you may be privy to some confidential matters. I hope I can trust you to be discreet.”

  “Of course, sir.” Confidential matters? He wondered what secrets he might be called upon to interpret.

  “I can see you’re going to be an asset to us. And I gather you’ve expressed a wish we dispense with our protocol, and call you Alex?”

  “If that’s acceptable, Monsieur Le Comte.”

  “It’s not been a normal practice here,” he smiled. “But times change, and I daresay we have to change with them.”

  In the late afternoon, when the bank closed its doors, the Count was driven home by his chauffeur. He owned a secluded house in Tokyo’s modish Azabu district, near the Meiji Shrine and its ornamental gardens. While the chauffeur took the Daimler to the garage behind the house, the Count paused to admire his own small garden. It was a vision of colour, luxuriant with peonies, camellias and chrysanthemums. A graceful willow and screens of bamboo sheltered the sculptured pool where golden carp swam. In a ceramic pot set in this landscape was the central jewel, a dwarfed cedar tree. It was reputed to be 100 years old, and was just 30 centimetres high. De Champeaux considered its perfection.

  While he studied the bonsai, marvelling at the skill of the craftsmen who had maintained its exquisite proportions over so many years — reminding himself it was time to call his own expert to trim the roots — elegant almond eyes watched him from within the house. He felt her presence and went eagerly inside. They bathed together, and after that he made love to the elegant Vietnamese woman who shared his life.

  The house was quiet, for his servants were trained in a daily routine, and the ritual hour His Excellency always spent in private with Madame after his return from the bank was well established. They only appeared from their staff quarters when Moustique-san rang for drinks to be served. But today the Count and his paramour spent more time than usual alone. They had matters apart from physical desire that occupied them. She knew of the decision he had made that day.

  “Do you think you can trust him?” she asked.

  She lay naked in their large bed, her light brown limbs vivid against the rumpled white sheet. It was another sight he cherished.

  “I think I can train him,” he said. “As for trust, we can but hope I’ve made the right choice. And only time will reveal if he’s to be trusted.”

  Alex walked through the late-afternoon streets to Tokyo Central Station, then endured the rail journey and his first experience of the commuter rush in peak hour. Fifty five minutes of strap hanging, wedged in more tightly at each stop as new passengers were forced into overcrowded carriages by the special pushers with their immaculate white gloves. He disembarked with relief when the train at last reached Yokohama. His mother and sister were eager for news about his first day.

  “An asset he called you? Did he indeed? Well, that’s a good start,” his mother said. “Mind you, you are an asset — since it’s not costing him a yen — or a centime if they use French currency.”

  Despite this complaint, she seemed in a better frame of mind, eager to know more. Was the Count approachable? What of the other staff? Who was this Kimiko he had so casually mentioned, she asked with sudden interest.

  Alex explained that Kimiko was the one cheerful face there, and he liked her. The rest of the staff, especially the senior French executives were rather conservative. This comment, of course, made his mother instantly want to know more about Kimiko; what did she look like, where did she live, what kind of family did she come from?

  “Give him a chance, Ma,” his sister said, “he’s only been there one day.” She turned to Alex and immediately asked, “Come on, don’t keep secrets. What is she like?”

  “Fat as well as friendly,” he said, a dreadful libel on the slim Kimiko — but achieving its purpose to effectively put an end to further cross-examination.

  After dinner, their mother told them she had something important to say. She was leaving at the end of the week to visit Shanghai.

  Shanghai? They were startled. How could she get permission for such a trip? Since the start of the war, neutral foreigners had to obtain an authority to travel anywhere. Even Alex needed a permit for commuting to Tokyo, which had to be renewed monthly.

  No questions, she told them. She would be away for 10 days.

  But why Shanghai? How could she afford to go there?

  How did she get the permit? Was it dangerous?

  Why 10 days? Was she meeting anyone there?

  She told them to stop asking questions, for she had no intention of providing answers.

  They learned the details after her return. She had sold a treasured and valuable necklace. Some of the money was used to obtain a permit to travel, some of it paid for her boat fare to China.

  “So you bribed an official?” Alex said.

  “Certainly not. He’s a friend who gave me a signed authority to make the journey. In return I gave him some money to buy presents for his children.”

  “That’s a bribe,” Mathilde declared.

  “It’s an exchange of favours. Now do you want to hear why I went, or would you rather keep interrupting?”

  They lapsed into silence, and heard the reason for her sudden venture. After years of successful trading, the Edward Faure Company in Kobe was closing. With no consignments possible through lack of shipping, all the staff had been dismissed. There would be no funds from Kobe, and no recovery of the firm, until the war ended. So she had decided urgent measures were called for.

  Through White Russian contacts she’d been put in touch with a jeweller in Shanghai, where she could buy diamonds cheaply. The jeweller arranged a hotel, and assisted her to purchase stock. Within a week she had bought all the diamonds she could afford, smuggled them home, and through a friend in the black market offered them for sale. They were bought by wealthy Japanese, anxious to convert currency into something more stable. She had sold the lot, and after the cost of her fare, plus commissions — and the bribe, if they insisted — she had doubled her outlay.

  She was well pleased. It would last six months until February, when Alex was to be granted an income at the bank. Provided, she said, that the perfidious de Champeaux kept his word.

  4

  WINTER DIARY ENTRIES

  ALEX’S DIARY: NOVEMBER, 1942

  The giant caretaker at the French bank is called Frankenstein. I’ve been told he always has been, and although it seems cruel, I must admit he does shamble along like the doctor’s monster — and even worse, he seems to have some resemblance. His wife and two small sons live in their quarters downstairs at the back of the building, and inevitably she is known as Mrs Frankenstein. The boys are called F major and F minor.

  Tomorrow will be three months since I began work. I just hope I can depend on the Count and his promises. I do have a problem, but I don’t like to think about it. The problem is this: He wrote down in his diary that we’re to meet to discuss the matter of salary six months from the exact day I began work. That’s next February. I started work on August 29th, which means we should have our discussion on February 29th. But there is no February the 29th. It is not a leap year, so is he making jokes, or playing games, or what?

  I dare not ask.

  DECEMBER 26th, 1942

  It was a rotten Christmas. The first without Papa. We’ve actually had several without him, but at least we knew he was in the country, living in Kobe with Ingrid or “her” as Mama was always inclined to refer to his paramour. We’d get cards and phone calls, and occasional times he’d actually appear in person, but always alone. Christmas dinner was different, too. Food is now scarce in the shops. Milk is hard to buy. There’s talk of stricter rationing.

 
Also, I’ve come to the conclusion the Count de Champeaux is making a fool out of me. I interpret for him — at confidential meetings. I type letters that no typists are entrusted with. Yet he has never once mentioned February — or raised the subject of my being paid soon. He didn’t even give me a Christmas bonus, like the rest of the staff. Just a card with his best wishes. I think I should make a statement. Leave the bank. Resign!

  But I’ll wait until New Year, pick some really busy time, then hand in my notice. Only it won’t really be a notice — because I’ve never been on the payroll. I have this uneasy feeling that where the French bank is concerned, I don’t exist!

  JANUARY 10th, 1943

  Today, for the first time, I saw American prisoners-of-war. They were working beside the railway line, repairing a bridge. I was crammed against a window in the jam-packed commuter train, and I didn’t care what anyone thought; I waved to the POWs. Other people in the carriage — Japanese people — looked out curiously. A few also waved to them.

  It seems strange sometimes; people in cinemas are stirred into a patriotic frenzy by newsreels showing their victories, yet some in the train waved to the Americans. Nobody shouted abuse at them. The papers report only news of Japan winning — which they are — and perhaps this is why they can wave at prisoners-of-war. Perhaps it’s why I and other foreign looking people walk in the streets and nobody accosts us. No-one calls us an enemy. The Count de Champeaux looks a bit like General de Gaulle, but nobody attacks him. (More’s the pity.)

  Which reminds me, I’ve decided to wait until February, to see if he keeps his promise. Having worked so hard, why resign now? It might be just what he wants, then he can employ some other dupe for a salary-free six months of what he likes to call training.

  FEBRUARY 5th, 1943

  Mama has been to Shanghai again. I’m not sure if I trust some of her White Russian friends, who seem to be taking a bigger commission for “helping” her. Mathilde and I were worried all the time she was away, and to our relief she said this will be the last trip. She made a profit on buying more diamonds to sell here, but the prices have gone up in China and the result was a great deal less profit than last time.