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Martin called at five o’clock. I was at my desk writing something. I can’t remember what. Most likely something pointless. I didn’t have too much trouble understanding him. He speaks English with an accent that’s a mixture of American and Dutch. He might be Jewish as well. It makes for an overall effect that is a little unusual, but on my phone, it’s okay. I had to be at his hotel in rue Notoire-du-Vidame at seven-thirty, and wait. He was short a drummer. I said to him, “Stay here, I will call Doddy right now.” And he said, “Good, Roby, I stay.” Doddy wasn’t at his desk. I asked for him to call me back. There were seven hundred and fifty francs to be made by playing a gig in the suburbs from eight till midnight. I called Martin back and he said to me, “Your brother can’t play?” And I said, “Too far. I must go back home now, and eat something before I go to your hotel.” And he said, “So! Good, Roby, don’t bother, I’ll go and look for a drummer. Just remember you must be at my hotel at seven-thirty.” Miqueut wasn’t there, so I took off at quarter to six. Half an hour to kill. I went back home to get my trumpet. I had a shave. When you play for the Red Cross, you never know; if you’re playing for officers, it’s embarrassing to be dirty. At the very least your face should be clean. Can’t do anything about the clothes, though they wouldn’t know anyway. My face was red raw. I can’t shave two days in a row. It hurts too much. Still, it’s better than nothing. I didn’t have time to eat a proper dinner. I had a bowl of soup, said goodnight and left. The weather was mild. I was still heading towards my office. I work in rue Notoire- du-Vidame as well. Martin said to me, “We’ll be paid right after we’ve finished
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playing.” I liked that better. Usually with the Red Cross, they make you wait weeks before they pay you, and then you have to go to rue Caumartin, which doesn’t suit Miqueut. I didn’t like the idea of playing with Martin again. When he plays the piano, he drowns out everyone. He’s a professional and he complains when we don’t play well. If he didn’t want me, he wouldn’t have called. Heinz Neuman was sure to be there as well. Martin Romberg, Heinz Neuman. Both Dutch. Heinz spoke some French. “Je voudrais vous reverrer? C’est comme ça qu’on dit?” That’s what he asked me last time at the Normandie Bar. That’s where that faggot, Freddy, was during the war. He would lock himself away to use the phone that was hidden in a large wardrobe and he would say, “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes…” in that very high-pitched voice the Germans have, with that vague laugh of his that seemed quite contrived. It’s awful, the Normandie, with its false exposed beams made of compressed cork. Even so, I had pinched a copy of the 28 August edition of New Yorker and the September edition of Photography from there. That’s the one where you can see the mug of citizen Weegee, the guy who gets his kicks by taking photos of New York from all different angles, especially shots from high up. During heatwaves, it’s of people in the heavily populated areas sleeping on the landings of fire stairs, sometimes five or six kids and half-naked sixteen and seventeen year-old girls. Maybe in his book you can see even more. It’s called Naked City, and you probably won’t find it in France. I arrived at rue de Trévise. It’s dark. It’s a drag, this way every day. Then I went past my office. It’s at the top of rue Notoire- du-Vidame, and right at the other end is Martin’s hotel. He wasn’t there. Nobody was there. Neither was the truck. I poked my head through the door of the hotel… to the left, there was a man and a woman at a cane table with something in front of them, deep in conversation. Through an open door at the back you could see the table where the manager, or the owner, was having dinner with his family. I didn’t go in. Martin would have been waiting there for me. I stood my trumpet case upright on the footpath and sat down on it while I waited for the truck, Heinz and Martin. The phone rang in the hotel foyer and I got to my feet. It was bound to be Martin. The boss came out, “Is Mr Roby…” “That’s me.” I grabbed the receiver. That phone didn’t work as well as the one in the office. It had a higher pitch and I had to get him to repeat everything. He was near Doddy’s, but Doddy wasn’t there and we had to go
If I Say If
around and get him at Marcel’s place, 73 rue Lamarck, seventy-three. Okay, so he’s been around there having dinner. Too lazy to go back to his hotel. The truck should be able to drop by and pick him up. I tried to phone Temsey to at least have a guitar. OK by Martin. No Temsey. That’s allright. We’ll play trumpet, clarinet and piano, but it’s not as mellow… and all the lights are out in the street. A blackout. I sat down on my trumpet case, leaned against the wall to the right of the hotel and waited. A young girl ran out of the hotel. She jumped to the side when she saw me, and when she came back she kept her distance. It was very dark in the street. A fat woman with a shopping bag walked past. I had seen her when I arrived. Dressed in black, she looked like one of those old women from the country. No, she’s walking the street. That’s funny, because this is not an area with a lot of passing trade. There were headlights at the end of the street. Yellow ones. It wasn’t the truck. American ones are white. A black 11 for a change. Then a lorry, but a French one. Twenty to the hour, at the very least. Then the right one. It pulled up, half on the footpath, and the driver turned off his lights, just so he could take a piss against the wall. Signs of acknowledgement. We had a chat. Are the others going to turn up? There is only one other — Heinz. Already five to eight. The guy, a former driver for TCRP, dressed in an American uniform. I didn’t know what to say to him. He seemed quite nice. I asked him if the truck was clean inside. Last time, in the one belonging to the showboat, I sat in some oil and grubbied my raincoat. No, this one is clean. I hopped into the back and dangled my legs over the side. We were waiting for Heinz. The guy couldn’t be kept waiting too long. His American colonel was expecting him at quarter past nine and he had to pick up his car from the garage. I asked him if he drove around everywhere in the truck and if he would be much better off using his car. “Not really… it’s not an American car. It’s an Opel.” I heard footsteps. It still wasn’t Heinz. The lights suddenly came back on, and the driver said to me: “We can’t wait any longer. I have to make a call so the guy at the garage can get a jeep ready for you, while I go and pick up my colonel. You speak English?” “Yes.” “You’ll explain to them…” Good. Heinz turned up. He started complaining as soon as he found out we had to go and get Martin. He bitches about him all the time, but when they are together, they spend all their time joking around in Dutch and taking the piss out of the rest of the band. Anyway,
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I know what I am talking about, because I understand some of what they say. It’s like German. Dutchmen, they are all bastards, half Krauts, even bigger arse-lickers when they want something from you. And tight, like you have no idea. And I don’t like the way they suck up to the customers for cigarettes. After all, at least we have a bit of class. They are manipulative, and that makes me… Yes, I am an engineer, which, put simply, really is the most stupid job in the world. But it brings you respect and the feeling that you are doing something worthwhile. But if all it took was to push the button. Bang!… No more Martin. No more Heinz. Goodbye. Just because they are musicians is not a reason. Professionals are all bastards. The driver came back and we climbed back in. Heinz thought he had a drummer lined up for nine o’clock. But where were we going? The driver had to take us to 7 Place Vendôme. That’s all he knew. There wasn’t much time. So we took off along rue de Rivoli towards rue de Berri. He was complaining because army trucks can’t go any faster than twenty miles an hour. He turned sharply to avoid going up a one- way street. Damn reruns. What was that we just passed? Oh, yes. The Park Club at Ambassadeurs. I haven’t played there yet, but I have played the Colombia. That day it was full of pretty girls. It’s a shame to see them with the Americans, but then, that’s their business. The prettier they are, the more stupid they are. I couldn’t care less. I don’t want to screw them. I’m too tired. I just want to look at them. There is nothing I like more than looking at pretty girls. Yes there is… burying your nose in their hair when they are wearing perfume. There’s nothing wrong with that. He jammed on the brakes. We were at the garage. A tall guy dressed in an American uniform. French? American? Maybe Jewish as well. He had the Stars and Stripes emblazoned on his shoulder. It’s the garage that belongs to the newspaper. Heinz asked if he could use the phone to call his drummer. I explained what was going on to some guy who didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t going to move. Heinz came back. No drummer. “Okay, so will we all fit into a jeep?” “Yes, but we don’t have a driver.” Enough of this shit. I’ll let them sort it out. I am sick of talking to them, and besides, you pick up that disgusting accent, and then the English look down their noses at you. And bugger it, they all give me the shits. They sorted it out. The driver had worked it out. “We’re going to take the Opel, pick up Martin and then he’ll take us to Place Vendôme.” The Opel was grey. It’d
If I Say If
do. He brought it around the front and parked it across the driveway. We squeezed in next to Heinz. It’s better than the truck, at least. Heinz was having a good old laugh. But it’s a heap of shit. It was shaking and rattling, and the idling was appalling. I remember the Delage. You could put a glass of water on the mudguard, not a ripple. Its six-cylinder engine can be more finely tuned than any other. The driver didn’t get in. They were making him wait for his exit pass. We were already twenty minutes late. I didn’t care. After all, it’s Martin who’s boss. He will sort it out with them. A jeep with a trailer pulled up at the garage. The guys inside look like something from the 1900s, in their leather goatskins, sitting on split seats, their lanky legs and knees tucked up under their chins. We were blocking their way. One of them jumped into the Opel and reversed it a couple of metres. After the jeep had gone past, he put it back in the same spot. What a dickhead. I was starting to lose it. The driver finally got his pass. We took off. Heap of shit. It almost made you throw up the way it handled corners. Everything was sloppy, suspension, steering. That figures. I had learned about that. A certain phase value makes you seasick. The Germans must surely know this too, but maybe a different phase value makes them seasick. Outside Saint-Lazare, we almost collided with a Matford. The guy crossed the intersection without looking. We went up rue Amsterdam, along the outer boulevards, to rue Lamarck. Number 73, it’s on the right, I told him. I got out in front of Marcel’s place. Martin was sitting at a table, watching the door, when he saw me. That’s what it is. Bastard. Too damn lazy to go back to rue Notoire-du-Vidame, and he’s even had a feed. The sign he made through the door as he approached was very gangsterish. He and Heinz started jabbering away in Dutch. There they go, they are at it again. Heinz wasn’t abusing him at all, that’s for sure. We roll around another corner. “It’s like being on a swing!” the driver said. Number 7 Place Vendôme, Air Transport Command. There weren’t many lights on. “Goodbye!” the driver said to me, as we shook hands. “I’m off to get the colonel.” There is nobody here. “This isn’t it,” I said. “If you can’t find anyone, call Elysée 07-05,” he said. “It’s the garage. They are the ones who told me to bring you here. But obviously, it’s quarter to nine, which makes you three quarters of an hour late.” He left. “Go and ask, Roby,” Martin said to me. “Go and ask yourself. You’re the boss!” We went inside. Definitely not here. Nobody knew anything. It was eerie. You
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would have thought you were in a post office. So we went back out. “Where’s this driver?” Martin asked. A girl wearing some sort of white sheepskin thing, and an American saw us. “That’s the band!” “Yes,” Martin said, “we’ve been waiting for half an hour.” He’s got some cheek, but I got a good laugh out of it anyway. The brunette, not a bad body. We’ll soon see. We followed them. Finally, a half-decent car. A black 1939 Packard with driver. The driver was complaining, “I can’t take them all! It will blow the tyres.” You have got to be joking! You obviously know nothing about Packards! Three in the back: two girls and a Yank. On the fold-out seats: Martin, Heinz and me. In the front: the driver and two more Yanks. Rue de la Paix, Champs-Elysées, rue Balzac. First stop, Hôtel Celtique. The two in the front got out. We waited. Opposite, there was the sky-blue Chrysler belonging to the US Navy. I have already seen it go past a few times in Paris. I wonder if it is the fluid drive model, with oil- lubricated gear change. They were jabbering away inside the car, Heinz and Martin in Dutch, the driver in French. Oh! They’re a pain. One of them climbed back in the front seat. He passed something between Heinz and me to the guy behind. “There’s a gift from Captain,” whatever it was. “Thank you Terry,” the guy in the back said as he unwrapped it. It was the size of a packet of cigarette papers. He handed it back. We took off. A navy officer and two women climbed into the Chrysler and followed us. We immediately turned off to the right. Now this is a car! Even so, the driver was complaining about Bernard or O’Hara. One and the same. And eight in the car were too many. I wasn’t listening to what they were saying in the back. Before we got to the Bois de Boulogne, we had to go through Garches and Saint-Cloud. There was a blonde with big breasts in the middle. To her left was the brunette, and to her right an American. Hollywood… “I heard Santa Monica is nice,” the girl in the middle said to nobody in particular. Of course you’d say something like that, bimbo. You’re bloody hopeless and I don’t like the look of you, it serves you right. The other one, the brunette, she was better. She can’t be American. They are all saddle-backed, except for those two I saw one night on the showboat. Wearing pants, with tiny little waists and well rounded backsides. You would have thought they were blow-up dolls that had been squeezed tightly around the middle to make their chests and bums stick out. It was awful. “What’s the name of that friend of yours, Chris…” the American guy asks the brunette. “Christiane,” she answers. “Nice name, and she’s nice too.” “Yes,”
If I Say If
she replies, “but she’s got a strange voice” — what a good friend! — “and when she’s on the stage, she makes such an awful noise… yes… but she’s nice. Maybe we’ll