Part Two: Strategic Warfare — Chapter 4 - The Barman of the Ritz

SEPTEMBER 12, 1940

Whenever Sacha Guitry enters a room, he does so as a theater director. He falls silent, he surveys the space, he takes his time. Now, as he stands on the threshold of L’Aiglon, his eagle eye analyzes the space, gauges the dimensions, senses the mood. He tries to discern what people are thinking in their heart of hearts. He listens, he insinuates himself, he slips into their skin. This is his talent.

Seeing him, the maître d’hôtel rushes over. Guitry clenches his jaw and raises a finger to the heavens to signal that the maestro is not yet ready to begin his performance. This evening, he is wearing a tailored three-piece Prince of Wales check suit in gray wool, a jacket with six buttons and Neapolitan shoulders, a white shirt with a starched collar set off with a black velvet cravat, and a Borsalino fedora in charcoal gray tipped at a rakish angle as though to ward off a blow. With his Greek nose, his piercing eyes, and the budding jowls of a man in his fifties, Guitry has the face of a master strategist. For the past ten days, he has spent every morning in his office on the Avenue Élisée-Reclus working on a new play. Élisée-Reclus—Reclusive Paradise. Rarely has a street been so aptly named.

And this hardworking wordsmith is also a newlywed: only last summer, he married Geneviève de Séréville. Sacha Guitry’s fourth wife is a young actress; she is the fourth act in a life he has devoted to the theater, and the opening scenes are being played out during the German Occupation.

Frank Meier watches his friend as he might a tightrope walker, with a mixture of admiration and anxiety.

It was Guitry who suggested that they meet at L’Aiglon on the Rue de Berri. Frank has always hated the place: everything about it is tacky and artificial, from the menu to the mauve dahlias on every table. Perhaps it is a style favored by the Germans. They are out in force tonight, preening and posturing.

Why on earth would Guitry want to meet here?

Edmond, the maître d’hôtel, spots Frank, who has been killing time torturing a napkin. The pot-bellied little man scuttles across the room and greets the barman of the Ritz, a little too affectedly to be sincere.

“I hear they have closed your bar?” he says with feigned concern.

Frank suspects that Edmond is keeping an eye out, should his post suddenly become vacant.

“Only for a few days. The Ritz is getting ready to welcome a very distinguished guest—it’s all very hush-hush.”

This little white lie is one that Frank has already served up a dozen times this week. Like everyone else, Edmond whispers conspiratorially, “Ah! I see!”

There is so much to see these days.

“I believe you are dining with Monsieur Guitry this evening? Here he comes now.”

Frank smiles and nods.

“You know, I think perhaps I’ll have a Blue Bird.”

“Our barman will be quaking in his boots when he finds out it’s for you.”

“Monsieur Jean will do an excellent job. Please give him my regards.”

Looking down, he notices that the menu is now in German.

Clearly on the Champs-Élysées they have a keen instinct for business.

Frank resolves not to order the Black Forest trout or the sauerkraut with foie gras and Blutwurst.

“I sincerely hope you have not been taking my name in vain, Frank?” says a powerful voice with a metallic twang. Sacha Guitry arrives at his table, all smiles, the very picture of elegance.

“Good evening, Sacha.”

“You look like a man who got out of bed on the wrong side, if you don’t mind my saying. Don’t give me that long face, I will not have you looking miserable on your day off!”

“Apologies, I think perhaps it’s the company…”

“Oh, I know,” says Guitry, glancing around at the tables thronged with German soldiers. “But I simply adore their tête de veau with potato salad.”

The playwright has retained his devastating charm. An implacable need to play the peacock, as though it might save him from the abyss. And a quick-witted conversational style which may seem innocuous but conceals sharp barbs. “Do you know,” he says, “only this morning I was thinking about something the great writer Nicolas Chamfort said on his deathbed. Since he did not want to receive the last rites, he turned to one of his friends and said: ‘I shall simply pretend that I am not dying.’ Inspirational, don’t you agree?”

Frank wonders what Guitry is getting at, then suddenly it clicks.

To endure the worst, you must learn to pretend it is otherwise.

“Could I have a glass of the Pol Roger? As Winston Churchill always says: ‘In victory, I deserve it. In defeat, I need it.’ The comeback of the confirmed alcoholic.”

Frank raises his glass.

“You can always make me smile, Sacha. Thank you.”

“I’m relieved to hear it! Now, how else can I be of service?”

Over the past few days, Frank has wondered how to broach the subject. At the last minute, he decides to be blunt.

“Actually, it’s very simple, even if I feel a bit strange asking you. I would like you to start coming back to my bar at the Ritz from time to time, if that’s possible.” There. He’s said it. The Widow would be proud of him.

“Would that make things easier for you?” Guitry takes a long drink of his champagne.

“In a sense. At the moment, the bar is closed, but we should be reopening very soon. The Widow has returned to the fold.”

“Oh, I see.” Guitry’s eyes light up at the news.

“Yes. Old Mother Ritz would like to relaunch her little artistic soirées. She is relying on you, among others, to restore our former wit and elegance. If you could see your way to persuading Cocteau or Lifar to join you, that would be perfect. That way, we can all pretend not to be dying.”

Guitry grins rakishly, he loves being quoted back to himself. He raises his glass.

“You are a fount of wisdom, my dear Frank. You are heart and mind in concert. Let us raise a glass to my return to the Place Vendôme. I imagine there are quite a few curious specimens to study?”

“You will not be disappointed. Soon, we shall even be hosting a man-eating crocodile.”

“Ah! And might this flabby, bloated reptile be festooned with military medals?” asks Guitry with a twinkle in his eye.

Two hours later, Frank Meier leaves L’Aiglon with a heavy stomach and a bitter taste in his mouth.