Low life
Lunching with Greene
Jeffrey Bernard
Antibes ne of the fringe benefits of dying is that the journey to heaven is not via Heathrow. A harrowing place. It is very crowded here too. It was a mad time of year to come here but to have spent as much time as I have with Graham Greene has not only been a privilege but a delight. But first I went to see She, sans ironing board, in Haut de Cagnes. I was trapped there for three days in the square at the top of that small mountain town since my legs could not cope with the amazing steepness of the streets. An attractive prison though, and She cooked some good omelettes with salads which we ate on a balcony with a splendid view to the sea also appreciated by swifts and house-martins, bats homing in at dusk. The cloud with that silver lining was the heat of the nights. I was stuck to the sheets and no shower but just a wash basin. Then She drove me to Antibes before driving herself home.
I do not quite know what to make of this place, the ice-cream capital of the world. The Vieille Ville has charm and a food market that made me long for it to be possible to cook in a hotel room. But is it a posh Blackpool? The boats in the Port Vauban, sleek layabouts, certainly were not earning their keep. I like a scruffy, working fishing boat or two. And what a gritty lot the French here are although they show great compassion for their wretched dogs. Then I met Mr Greene for a drink at the appointed bar, Felix au Port. I was apprehensive. People who excel in their craft — especially to the extent that he does — tend to make me feel slightly ridiculous. Thank God, however, the Grand Old Man is not in the slightest bit grand. The drink turned out to be an excellent and friendly lunch. Incidentally, I noticed that he sat with his back to the view which he says enhances the restaurant. We lingered over 'the one' for two hours and then he was kind enough to help me find a hotel. We said goodbye and that, I thought, was that.
The next day, he rang me to invite me to his flat for a drink. That surprised me. On arrival he presented me with his new book and a tube of vitamin tablets which he said with sad but twinkling eyes would give me `the courage to go on'. Yes, he is funny too. After some excellent vodka — it seems that we are both moderately addicted to the stuff — he took me to lunch in a piss-elegant restaurant. He said he had been too lazy to go out to buy some smoked salmon. He said he did not like the restaurant much, it being good for short stories'. I saw his point but it was a very good meal if not simplistic. But he said he did know several good 'short story' restaurants. Furthermore, he suggested I attempt the short story. It was tremendous- ly gratifying that he should have taken the slightest notice of a single word in this column. Yesterday we had lunch again, this time in a 'short story' restaurant. I would very much like to see what his novel restaurants in Cuba and Indonesia must have been like in times gone by.
Now, sitting here waiting for the clock to tick to another lunch with him the noise of the traffic is horrendous. The waiter is aggressive and the ice melts at an almost visible speed. But the sun, like sleep when you can get it, is a great healer. Yesterday I lay in it for a few hours. I went up to Roquefort Les Pins to a lovely spot of a hotel to have lunch and play boules with two old friends from the Lambourn valley. I could get hooked on boules. Some already are. I was told by one of my friends that he was watching Yves Montand play- ing that game. When he spoke he was asked to be very quiet. 'They are playing for 40,000 francs,' he was told. It would be good were it easier to get a game of boules in England. I have only seen it played there once and that was in the back yard of a restaurant in Wimbledon. Who knows, perhaps there are boules hooligans here.
Anyway it has certainly been Graham Greene week. Very memorable, even for an amnesiac. Another lunch with him today and then farewell cocktails this evening. At 83, Graham Greene, 27 years my senior, makes me feel like a burnt-out case. I shall miss him.
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