Paris: The Novel

de la Paix, across Saint-Honoré with its chic boutiques, through the heartland of fashion, finding everything on strike. Once or twice Max glanced at his father, wondering if he might not be getting tired, but the tall seventy-year-old was striding like a young man.
    They left the world of fashion, passed through the Ninth Arrondissement, then up past the back of the Gare du Nord, and into a little poor district known as the Goutte d’Or, where, finding a small bar run by an Algerian, they finally sat down.
    “A good journey,” his father remarked. “From the Triangle d’Or to the Goutte d’Or.” He ordered cognacs and coffee to celebrate what they had seen. “Today, the world changes,” he announced.
    “It’s certain that Blum’s government are going to offer a huge package of reforms,” Max agreed. “It will transform the life of every worker in France.”
    “Of course,” said his father, “but that’s not what I mean. It will go much further than that. All we have to do now is keep the strike going, and power will pass into the hands of the workers. It has nowhere else to go.”
    “But we already have an elected socialist government,” Max pointed out.
    “Exactly. And as Marxists, they will see the inevitability of the situation as it unfolds. The Popular Front has served its purpose. Now as the workers take power, everything else will crumble away. Give the strike a month and I tell you, a new state will be born.”
    And it was now that Max looked at his father and wondered whether it was time to break the news to him. He didn’t want to do it, but he felt that he must.
    It was only when they had finished their drinks, however, and Max had insisted on buying a second round that he plucked up the courage.
    “You know, Father,” he said quietly, “in another couple of days, the strike is going to end. It’s already been decided.”
    “By whom?”
    “By us, Father. By the communists.” He paused while his father stared at him in stupefaction. “We don’t want to upset the capitalists. We need them.” He smiled sadly. “Those are the orders.”
    “Orders? From whom?”
    “From Russia.”

    Max had been a boy when fascism began, in Italy, where the former socialist Mussolini decided that authoritarian nationalism worked better. If Il Duce was supposed to be like some ancient Roman Caesar, it was harder to know what to make of the next Fascist Party when it had suddenly sprung up in Britain a few years ago, and he’d read the accounts with fascination.
    A genuine English aristocrat, of ancient lineage, was leading huge rallies of men in black shirts against his own British establishment.
    It seemed to Max, however, that Sir Oswald Mosley was far closer to the military men of the French right who were fearful of the communists and socialists, and disgusted with the liberal weakness of their governments. “If the left wants revolution and will use force to get it, then the only defense is to beat them at their own game.” Mosley doubtless considered that he was fulfilling the role he was born to, as a forceful leader of national regeneration.
    When there were scenes of violence at a big rally at Olympia, however, the placid British public turned against him and the movement fell apart.
    But Germany was another matter.
    Max found it easy to understand why the German fascists had arisen so rapidly. During the twenties, with the miseries that followed the war compounded by the crippling demands of reparations from the Allies, and a runaway inflation that wiped out everyone’s savings, the Weimar Republic had been brought to ruin and despair. It did not surprise him that people were looking for a strong leader who could hold out the promise of hope and regeneration.
    “Unfortunately,” his father had remarked, “Adolf Hitler is a messianic speaker, but he’s also a lunatic. There’s an imperfect French translation of his book
Mein Kampf
and I’ve actually read it. The most turgid stuff. But it sets out his whole plan. He seems to believe Germany’s problems are caused by the Jews, and he plans to conquer France and eastern Europe. The whole thing is evil, but it’s also insane.”
    “Yet people don’t treat him as a lunatic.”
    “No. And I think I know why. He’s anti-Semitic. So are most of the ruling class in the Western world, and most Catholics, too. Think of our own Dreyfus affair. Or the recent Stavisky scandal. A French Ukrainianfinancier defrauds a huge number of