Jealousy and in the Labyrinth (30 page)

The man in gray spats and shiny black shoes, on the contrary, no longer gave the slightest sign of complicity. The ringed hand had even fallen back and eventually returned to the coat pocket. The right hand, the one holding the handle of the umbrella, was wearing a dark-gray leather glove. The soldier supposed for a moment that this man was keeping silent on purpose: that he was, in fact, the recipient in question but refusing to make himself known, and that having learned what he himself wanted to know he was concealing his identity . . . This was obviously absurd. Either the business had nothing to do with him or else he had not yet realized that what the soldier was trying to tell him was of the greatest importance to him. Since he had not immediately clutched at this straw being offered to him, the soldier had to choose between two solutions: to speak more openly or else to beat an immediate retreat. But he had not had time to choose one course or the other, and he had persisted in both directions at once, which further risked discouraging his interlocutor if he were, in spite of everything, etc. . . .

The soldier must finally have fallen silent, for they are now standing opposite each other again, frozen in the same position as at the start: the soldier has both hands in his overcoat pockets and stares obliquely at the man in the fur-lined coat who half extends his gloveless left hand, a signet ring with a gray stone on the ring finger, while in his right hand he holds his umbrella at arm's length, stuck at an angle in front of him into the hard-packed snow on the sidewalk. About three yards behind him is the cast-iron lamppost, a former gas light with old-fashioned ornamentation, now equipped with an electric bulb that shines with a yellowish luster in the leaden daylight.

Yet the man has derived some information from the soldier's fragmentary and contradictory stammerings, for after a moment's thought, probably quite a long moment, he asks: "Then someone was supposed to meet you not far from here?" And he adds a moment later, as though to himself: "A man, in the street, these last few days."

Then without waiting for confirmation or asking a complementary question, he begins explaining that he himself, it seems most likely, has seen the person in question: a bare-headed man of medium height, wearing a long brown coat, who was standing at the foot of a corner apartment house. He had noticed him there on several occasions—at least two—when he had passed by: this morning, yesterday as well, and even the day before perhaps. This solitary person, dressed in dark brown, who had been standing in the snow for a long time judging by his position—his hip and shoulder leaning against the cast-iron shaft like a man who is tired of standing—yes, he remembered perfectly having noticed him.

"How old?" the soldier asks.

"About thirty ... or forty."

"No," the soldier says, "that wasn't the one. He was supposed to be over fifty and dressed in black . . . And why would he have come back like that, several days in a row?"

The last argument hardly stands up, he realizes, for he himself has returned on many occasions, as a matter of fact—and again this morning—to what he supposed was the meeting place, however variable. Moreover, his interlocutor points out that a change in the clothes agreed upon might have been compelled by the snow then falling so thickly; as for the age, he is not certain of that, having glimpsed this figure at some distance, especially the second time.

"Besides," the soldier says, "it might have been me."

But the man assures him he would not have confused an infantry uniform with civilian clothes. He urges the soldier to examine the place he indicates, at least to give it a look: it is so close by it is worth the trouble, particularly if the matter is an important one.

"That box you have under your arm, you were saying it . . ."

"No," the soldier interrupts. "That has nothing to do with it."

Since he has virtually no other resources, he decides, despite his certainty of the uselessness of such a procedure, to go to the crossroads in question: he must turn right at the third street, then go to the end of the block of houses, if not to the next cross street. He has set off without turning back, leaving the stranger behind him still leaning on his umbrella. This prolonged delay has frozen his body through. Although all his joints are numb with fever and fatigue, he experiences a kind of relief in walking again, particularly since he has the prospect of a precise and not too distant goal. Once he has ascertained the futility of this last hope (which is not even that), there will be nothing left to do but get rid of his burdensome package.

It would obviously be best to destroy it, the contents in any case, since the box itself is made of iron. But if it is easy to burn the papers inside it, or to tear them up into tiny pieces, there are also other objects more difficult to tear up—the exact nature of which, moreover, he has never checked. He will have to get rid of the whole thing. To throw away the package without even unwrapping it would be the simplest solution from every point of view. As he crosses a side street, the soldier happens to notice a sewer mouth in front of him near the rounded curb of the sidewalk. He approaches it and, despite the stiffness of his joints, leans down in order to make sure the box is not too large to pass through the arched opening in the stone curb. Fortunately the layer of snow is not thick enough to impede the operation. The box will just fit. All he needs to do is to push it through horizontally until it falls over onto the other side. Why not get rid of it right away?

At the last minute, the soldier cannot make up his mind to do it. Having reassured himself by twice checking that the operation can be accomplished without difficulty, he straightens up at the crucial moment and begins walking straight ahead in order to look over there first, to see whether by some chance ... But the mere fact of having to step over the curb of the sidewalk, some eight inches, keeps him motionless for a moment, so greatly has the insignificant effort he has just made exhausted him.

As soon as he stops moving, the cold becomes unbearable. He crosses the gutter and takes another two steps. Suddenly he is so exhausted that he can manage to go no farther. He leans his hip and shoulder against the cast-iron shaft of the street light. Was it here that he was supposed to turn right? To see if the man with the gray ring has not remained where he was, leaning forward on his umbrella, in order to show him from a distance the place where he is supposed to turn, the soldier glances behind him. Twenty yards away, walking in his tracks, is the boy.

The soldier, who has immediately turned his head away, has begun walking again. After five or six steps he looks behind him again. The boy is following him. If he were able to, the soldier would begin running. But he is completely exhausted. And probably this child has nothing against him. The soldier stops and turns around once again.

The boy has stopped too, his wide, serious eyes staring at the soldier. He no longer has his beret on his head. He is no longer holding his cape closed around him.

The soldier now moves toward the boy, almost without moving his body, his steps extremely slow, as if he were frozen stiff. The boy does not back away.

"Do you have something to tell me?" the soldier asks in a tone of voice meant to be threatening but which scarcely escapes his lips.

"Yes," the boy answers.

However he does not say anything more.

The soldier looks at the snow-covered stoop two yards to his right, beneath a closed door. He would feel the cold less if he could take shelter in the doorway. He takes a step. He murmurs:

"Well, I'm going to sit down a little."

Having reached the doorway, he leans in the corner, half against the wood, half against the stone jamb.

The child has pivoted to watch the soldier. He has opened his mouth slightly. He examines the face with the black growth of beard, the body slumped backward, the package, the heavy boots a few inches apart on the stoop. Gradually the soldier lets himself slide down against the door, bending his knees until he is sitting in the snow which has accumulated in the right side of the doorway on the narrow stoop.

"Why did you want to throw away your box?" the child says.

"No, I ... I wasn't going to throw it away."

"Then what were you doing?"

His low voice is now without mistrust, his questions are not hostile.

"I wanted to see," the soldier says.

"To see? ... To see what?"

"If it would go through."

But the child does not seem to be convinced. He grasps the edges of his open cape, one in each hand, and sways his arms in cadence, back and forth, back and forth. The cold still does not seem to bother him. At the same time, without coming any closer, he continues his careful scrutiny: the brown package now hugged between chest and thighs, the overcoat collar with the insignia removed, the legs bent, the knees pointing under the flaps of khaki material.

"Your coat," he says at last, "isn't the same as yesterday."

"Yesterday ... Did you see me yesterday?"

"Of course. I've seen you every day. Your coat was dirty . . . Did they clean it for you?"

"No . . . Yes, I guess so."

The child pays no attention to the answer.

"You don't know how to wrap your leggings," he says.

"All right . . . you'll teach me."

The child shrugs his shoulders. The soldier, exhausted by the conversation, fears still more that his companion will run away, abandoning him in the empty street where night will soon fall. Is it not the same boy who has already taken him to a café that was still open and to a barracks dormitory? The soldier forces himself to ask in a friendlier tone of voice:

"Was that what you wanted to tell me?"

"No," the boy answers, "that wasn't it."

Then they heard the distant sound of the motorcycle.

No. It was something else. It is dark. There is another attack, the dry, staccato sound of automatic rifles quite close behind the little woods, and on the other side too, now and then, against a low, rumbling background. The dirt path is now as soft as if it had been plowed. The wounded man grows heavier and heavier, can no longer lift his shoes, is unable to walk any farther. He must be supported and dragged at the same time. Both men have abandoned their knapsacks. The wounded man has also dropped his rifle, but the other man has kept his, although its strap has broken and he is forced to carry it in his hand. It would have been better to take another one: there was no lack of rifles to choose from. He has preferred to keep the one he was accustomed to, though it is useless and awkward. He carries it horizontally, in his left hand. His right arm is around the waist of his wounded comrade, whose left arm is crooked around his neck. In the darkness they stumble at each step on the soft earth; there are many ruts and furrows, and only fleeting gleams of light.

Afterwards he walks alone. He has neither knapsack nor rifle nor comrade to carry any more. All he is carrying now is the box wrapped in brown paper under his left arm. He advances through the night across the fresh snow covering the ground, and his footsteps appear one after the other in the thin, uniform layer of snow, making a sound regular as clockwork. Having reached the crossroads under the yellow light of the street light, he approaches the gutter and bends down, one foot on the edge of the sidewalk, the other in the street. The stone arch of a sewer mouth appears between his stiff legs; he bends over farther and holds the box toward the black opening, where it immediately disappears, swallowed up by the void.

The next image shows the dormitory of a barracks, or more precisely, of a military hospital. The rectangular box, which is the size and shape of a shoe box, is lying on the kit shelf next to an aluminum cup, a mess-tin, some neatly folded khaki clothes, and various other small objects. Beneath, in the white-painted metal bed, a man is lying on his back. His eyes are closed; the lids are gray, as are the forehead and the temples; but the two cheekbones are bright pink; over the hollow cheeks, around the half-open mouth, and across the chin there is a black beard of four or five days' growth. The sheet, pulled up to his chin, rises periodically with the wounded man's slightly wheezing respiration. One reddish hand sticks out of the brown blankets on one side and hangs over the edge of the mattress.

To the right and left, other bodies are lying on other identical beds lined up against one bare wall, along which, a yard above their heads, is attached the shelf filled with knapsacks, wooden boxes, folded clothes either khaki or olive drab, and aluminum dishes and cups. A little farther along among the toilet utensils is a large round alarm clock —doubtless stopped—whose hands indicate a quarter to four.

In the next room, a considerable crowd has gathered: men standing, mostly in civilian clothes, talking in small groups and making many gestures. The soldier tries to clear a path but without success. Suddenly someone he saw only from the rear, standing in his way, turns around and motionlessly stares at him, his eyes squinting slightly, as though with a great effort of attention. Gradually the men nearby turn to look at him, all suddenly motionless, silent, squinting slightly. He soon finds himself in the center of a circle which grows progressively larger as the figures step back, only their pale faces still visible, farther and farther apart, at equal intervals, like a series of street lights along a straight street. The row sways slightly, becoming a receding perspective: the shafts of black cast-iron stand out sharply against the snow. In front of the nearest one is the boy, who stares at him wide-eyed: