Recherche du Temps Perdu, Part II

16 July 1956

Dear Folks
This morning, at 0115, the last liberty boat pulled away from the fleet landing at Cannes and, with a salute to Marc and Michel—who stood behind the Shore Patrol barricade waving, we left France.

As the Ti moved out, about 0800, I went topside to catch a last look at the ruins where we’d had so much fun. I really hated to leave Cannes, and will always remember it.

Going ashore yesterday afternoon, the water was so rough we were almost an hour late. When we got to the ruins, Michel was the only one there. The water, usually sheltered by the squared U formed by the jetties, was washing over the landing, while small geysers shot up from holes in the floor. We made our stand on a flight of bombed stairs, which led nowhere. Michel hadn’t been in the water, as there was quite a bit of debris floating around, and the usually clear water was milky-grey. He produced from under his folded bluejeans the bottle of champagne and a bottle of red wine, which he took and placed in a water-filled pothole in the landing floor.

Marc soon came along, as did Phil, Tom’s buddy. Guntar and Yoakeim (correct spelling—I asked Marc) never did show up. Michel was anxious to drink the champagne, and kept suggesting it every two minutes. Finally we gave in, and polished it off in a short time. Tom had brought a blanket, which we spread over a landing on the steps, and Phil brought a radio, but didn’t change into his swimming suit since he thought the water was too rough to swim. Every now and then an especially big wave would hit the other side of the jetty, and cold spray would fly all over us.

Phil left after awhile, and Michel and I walked six blocks (in our swimming suits) to a small delicatessen, where we bought some bread, small cakes, and dried apricots. When we returned, we opened the bottle of wine, and lay all curled up and overlapping (the stair landing wasn’t big enough for four people) like a bunch of snakes. We began singing songs (“C’est si Bon”; “Hi Lili,” “Allez-vous-En,” “Brigadoon,” etc.)—Michel and Marc in French, Tom and I in English.

Tom got to feeling pretty well on the wine—he drank most of my share because I didn’t care much for it--and he and Marc bundled up in the blanket and tried to sleep. Michel and I sat on the steps, comparing feet and exchanging names of various parts of the body.

Later we decided to go swimming. As I’ve said, water was washing over the landing where we’d laid the previous two days, and out at the end, where the landing wound around the end of the jetty, the waves washed across two feet high. Nobody wanted to be the first one in so, holding hands, we all made a dash for it and jumped in. Either the water was warmer than it had been, or we were more accustomed to it, but anyway it was quite nice.

Michel wanted to go out to the end of the landing and lay down, letting the water run over him, which he did. I went with him, but Marc and Tom decided to stay farther down toward our stairs. Michel laid down, and I was standing over him, when a huge wave, about three and a half feet high, swept over the edge of the landing. I was knocked off my feet and washed over the side into the water, bruising my ankle and skinning my elbow. Anyway, it was fun.

We laid around the rest of the afternoon, and about six thirty decided we’d better go and eat. I suggested we go to the little bar we’d gone to the first night, so off we went, leaving our ruins while long shadows stretched off in front of us.

Since it was such a long walk, we thought we’d take a bus. In Cannes, the busses all leave from one place and do not, I don’t believe, stop at each and every corner.

We got off about two blocks past the bar and walked back, past a large orange apartment building where several little boys and girls waved at us from the walled front yard.

For supper, we had chicken soup again, salad, and steak, which Helen, the proprietess, went out and got for us. That, plus one bottle and six glasses of wine, a huge loaf of French bread and two lemonades (for me, since I didn’t like that wine either and was thirsty), and a desert made from fresh plums, came to a grand total cost of 3200 Francs ($6.00 for four of us).

We stayed there until about ten o’clock, drawing caricatures and joint-project sketches on the paper tablecloths.

When we left the restaurant, we walked down to the sea—the beaches were all deserted, and the moon spread across the water in a wide, silver path. The waves washed against the sand as they’ve done for millions of years, unseen and unheard. We walked along in the sand, while cars rushed by on the raised highway not half a block from the water. I wrote our names in the sand and a large wave came up and washed them away, getting my feet wet.

By the time we reached fleet landing, it was eleven o’clock. We were hoping boating might have been secured, but we could see a bunch of white-clad bodies and knew it hadn’t. Marc offered to buy us one last drink, so we hurried back into Cannes and up an alley to their favorite bar.

Behind the polished brown bar, which ran along the right-hand wall, a bar-room mirror reflected a large bunch of gladiolas, doubly bright because of their more colorless surroundings. In front of the gladiolas stood a woman who might just have stepped out of a French comedy—heavy set, with kept-in-check brown hair that looked like it would love to fly all over the place but didn’t have the nerve. Her cheeks had just enough rouge to heighten the effect; thin, penciled eyebrows which looked comfortably out of place on her large face. Her gestures, the way she talked, and her expressions as she described some hilarious episode to a customer in French, made it no less funny for us. She was fascinating.

Unfortunately, the mood at our table was not as festive as it might have been. Tom and I kept eyeing the clock on the wall as it edged closer and closer to 12 o’clock, when we must be back at the landing or turn into pumpkins.

We all exchanged addresses and promises to write, and Marc asked “How you say in English ‘Triste’?” Triste means sad.

We walked back to the Fleet Landing and stood around, not saying much. The French police came and rounded up a group of Algerians who were peddling rugs and scarves to the sailors.

Next year both Marc and Michel must go into the army, to be sent to fight in Algiers, to try and keep hold of France’s fast-dwindling empire.

Boat after boat came and went. We waited as long as we could, until at last everyone was gone but us. We shook hands all around, and got into the boat.

“…and, with a salute to Marc and Michel, who stood behind the Shore Patrol barricades waving, we left France….”

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