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By Root 2265 0

that he was a vivid and influential personality, the owner of several newspapers, radio stations, and art galleries; a friend and confidant of members of government and high society. I would have been delighted to meet him. Unfortunately he wasn’t interested. I spoke to an army of secretaries but was unable to persuade them to put me through. I asked diplomats and clergymen for help, but to no avail. The great Chateaubriant was too busy. If he wasn’t traveling, he was in a meeting or delivering a speech or writing an editorial. In short, he was never there, and if, by chance, he dropped by his office, he was not to be disturbed.

But sometimes the good Lord has a wry sense of humor. On my way home to Paris, as I was waiting to board my plane, I noticed excited activity around a short, unimpressive-looking man. Obsequious assistants and secretaries trailed him all the way to the gate. As soon as he came aboard, the captain rushed out to greet him, and the stewardesses fell all over themselves to charm him. Curious, I discreetly asked one of them who he was. “Oh, didn’t you know? That’s Chateaubriant.” As he eased into the seat next to mine, I thought that I would get my interview after all. But then I had a better idea. I decided to pay him back for the time I had wasted pursuing him. With what I hoped was great nonchalance, I took out a French book and began to flip through it. Evidently, he was in the mood for conversation.

“Oh, are you French?”

“No,” I replied curtly.

“Algerian?”

I shook my head.

“But you read French?”

“It would seem so.” Realizing I was disinclined to chat, he fell silent. An hour went by. I took out an Israeli paper and began taking notes intently.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Hebrew.”

“Are you Israeli?”

“No,” I replied, not deigning to look at him. Another hour passed before he returned to the attack. “What brought you to Brazil? Business?”

“No.”

“Vacation?”

“No.”

“An official mission, perhaps?”

I shook my head, and then, after a silence, added, “I’m a journalist.”

He was delighted to hear it. “Really? In that case we’re colleagues. I’m a journalist too.”

My eyes widened. “Oh, what’s your name?”

He brightened. “Surely you’ve heard of me. Assis Chateaubriand.”

I pretended to search my memory. “Chateaubriant, Chateaubriand … Like the great writer, you mean?” Yes, he said, that’s it. “But with a t instead of a d. And not René. Assis.”

I looked at him more closely. “I’m sorry, sir. The name doesn’t register. No doubt it’s my fault, but I don’t think I know you.” Disbelief crept over his face. “I cannot believe that nobody mentioned my name,” he said. I pretended to search my memory. No … “I met with a lot of important people in Rio and São Paulo. Senators, industrialists, high officials. I visited the editorial offices of the great dailies, but …”

He seemed dejected. “And no one spoke of me?” I drove in the final nail. “No. No one.” He muttered something in Portuguese that I didn’t understand. Some of his certainties had crumbled. He was silent for several hours.

Just before we landed in Madrid, I took pity on him and confessed the truth. He was as famous as he had thought, after all. “Thank you,” he exclaimed, clasping my arm. “Thank you for the lesson. From now on I’ll meet with any foreign journalist who wants to see me.” Between Madrid and Paris he offered me a job with one of his papers. I promised I would think about it.

Perhaps I should have accepted. If I had married Hanna, as I was then ready to do, my meager Yedioth Ahronoth salary wouldn’t have paid for the wedding or anything else. Nor would there have been a shortage of articles to write for Chateaubriant, for in that year, 1954, Paris once again became important and newsworthy. Pierre Mendès-France—charismatic, popular, energetic, and imaginative—intrigued not only the French, but newspaper readers throughout the world.

PARIS

Pierre Mendès-France: a magical, legendary name that aroused enthusiasm and hatred in equal measure. Was he too intellectual to serve as prime minister? Perhaps he had too much integrity.