Life Embitters (20 page)

“And do you think nothing can ever be mutual?”

“No, it’s a monologue, pure show. The person talking feels pleased that
someone is listening. Other people’s sensuality is in the listening. I will go that far. Other people’s vanity is completely out of my control. In any case, it must be like mine: huge!”

“But isn’t love also about listening a little?”

“Listening to what?”

“To what a woman is saying, for example …”

“But do women ever say anything?”

“You are so unfair! One of the most astonishing things in this world is the wonderful flexibility of a woman in love …”

“In novels, for sure …”

“And in trains sometimes …”

“But don’t you find,” I replied, not rising to the bait, “that, if they listen to you and at the same time find pleasure in so doing, that the harmony is too great for one to say it is love?”

“Why do you over-complicate things so? Reciprocity isn’t an unattainable ideal. It exists.”

“Yes, it exists, but it’s no longer love. It has become a habit, like eating everyday at the same time with the same person …”

She lowered the window and put her head out, with a cigarette between her lips. The cigarette burst into flame and the sparks flew into her hair. I rushed to put them out with my hand. Her very short hair felt silken. My hand fell slowly from her hair to her neck. She looked at me in distress, but not in anger.

“Why were you crying?” I asked.

She didn’t answer. She shut the window and tidied her hair. In the meantime I said rather sarcastically: “Being in love is so sad …”

“I’m not in love.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“In what way?”

“You seem anxious, extremely worried, and are smoking nervously …”

I stopped, amazed by my ability when it comes to trying my luck. I’d astonished myself, as somebody who is so shy on
terra firma
and such a chatterbox in a train corridor, and at that time of night. It was obviously the train. Everyone becomes charming and dreamy-eyed on a train, not to say bold and daring. I couldn’t stop looking into her green eyes.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“You’re so interesting. Besides, I think I’ve seen you …”

“I can’t possibly be of interest to you. Where did you see me?”

“In Le Jardin du Luxembourg. I live in Montparnasse.”

“I live quite close. On the Avénue d’Orléans.”

“You’re very lucky. It’s a delightful place.”

“Too bourgeois, perhaps; too manicured, and rather exhausting.”

“Lots of teachers …”

“Yes, we’re all quite mad. We’re a band of harmless dreamers. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“But it’s so pretty. The trees on the Avénue d’Orléans are such a warm green, I know a restaurant where the food is excellent, the children are so angelic. Do you have any children?”

“Any children?” she repeated, shocked.

“You’re married …”

“How did you find
that
out?”

“If you had a child, you’d be asleep in your compartment now …”

“Maybe. Who can say!”

“That’s the solution.”

“The solution to what?”

“To marriage.”

She stared at me, after a pause: “Do you think so? Do you speak from experience?”

“No, not from experience. I simply think …”

“It’s such fun talking about
other
people’s problems.”

“No, I am really interested in these things.”

“It’s not worth the candle. Life is so fickle. Nothing holds up, or at least very little. If you’re unfortunate enough to harbor expectations …”

“I want to put on a bold front, at the very least.”

Suddenly: “Look, the moon is coming out …”

I opened the window and we both put our heads outside. She pointed to the glow on the horizon. With her arm still reaching into the darkness she asked, “Is it the moon?”

“I don’t know … If it is, it’s a very strange moon.”

“Perhaps it’s the glow from Limoges.”

“No, that’s another hour.”

“Still!”

“Are you in a hurry?”

“If only you knew!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! It’s not worth …”

I looked insistently at her. I did find that woman interesting. Conversely, I needed to kill time. I didn’t know how. We started to talk about other things. What didn’t we talk about? Our journey went on like that, for ages.

Where were we when the dramatic moves took place? We can’t have been far from Limoges. All of a sudden she looked at me, and laughed so sadly as she asked: “Where are you going?”

“To Barcelona.”

“Why don’t you keep me company in Limoges? I’d really like that.”

I was dumbfounded and thought I must be hallucinating. Then I replied, “Will you be there long?”

“Why? Won’t you keep me company if I stay very long?”

“If one wants to be your friend, one shouldn’t have other commitments, right?”

“Oh, I see! You’ve lots to do.”

“I thought I did a few seconds ago.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll stay in Limoges for a day – in fact, not in Limoges really. Tomorrow I have to go to a nearby town, to Le Dorat. If you like, we can go together.”

The train was entering the station.

“Take your luggage. Get off,” she said forcefully. “You’ve time …”

Half a minute later I was on the platform with my things. I put my cases in the left-luggage and we left the station. It was three
A.M.

The Hôtel du Commerce carriage started off over cobblestones that were extremely worn. We clattered up and down. We were alone. I was young and admit to feeling very excited. We said nothing for a good while. She still seemed to have that sad smile on her lips. I was quietly trying to assume what one could describe as a victory in language that wasn’t at all boastful. That’s to say, I looked quite detached.

“Can I ask you something?” I queried, given the situation.

“Ask away …”

“Can you tell me why you asked me to get off in this town?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Naturally.”

“You’re so childish … Why do you want to know?”

“Maybe I am, but please tell me why you made me get off …”

“You really want me to?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell you in brief. You guessed that I am married. It’s true. This is my first journey anywhere since I married. And, you know, I’m convinced that my husband will deceive me today. I asked you to accompany me … in case you want to deceive him …”

“That’s odd …” I replied after a short pause, turning bright red and quivering.

“Do you really think so?” she asked with a glint in her eyes. “I feel it’s altogether natural.”

“You may be right. It’s not surprising, however, if I fell bemused. It’s hardly an everyday occurrence.”

“I’ll be even more precise,” she said, getting up and sitting next to me. “I can tell you that I know the person with whom my husband is going to deceive me: she’s a very close friend of mine … And you asked me whether I’d been crying. For God’s sake!”

I felt very uneasy and quite at a loss. On the one hand, I was intrigued by the situation, it seemed a delightful adventure, and I felt thrilled to be involved. On the other, I felt very sorry for that woman. By virtue of a perfectly understandable atavistic instinct we find it particularly repellent when horrible things happen to people who are physically attractive. I could so easily have condemned the arrant frivolity of her unfaithful husband. Conversely, I was rather upset that she’d revealed her hand. I was to blame. I felt as if I’d acted like a complete animal. Familiarity with the elements that lay behind this adventure considerably diminished my victory airs. I no longer looked detached. I looked angry.

With that, the carriage stopped outside the entrance to the hotel.

I asked for two rooms. They didn’t have two next door to each other. They were all a distance away. They gave us two on the same floor.

“Is any food available?” she asked.

“I’ll have a look,” said the concierge, leaving his desk.

He brought us bread and chocolate.

“That’s all there is …” he commented, as if to pre-empt any complaints, as he climbed upstairs. We ate while we followed him. He showed us first my room and then hers.

“Is there a bathroom?” she asked offhandedly.

“Of course, it’s that door there.”

When the concierge left, we were alone again. She took off her gloves, coat, and hat and continued eating her chocolate, seated on the side of the bed. I sat on a chair near the door. We began a rather icy exchange. Then she suddenly exclaimed: “I’m so upset to be here …!”

“What are you thinking?”

“It’s horrible …” she answered, misty-eyed.

“What’s so upsetting?”

“I’m thinking about my husband … It’s so shaming!”

“I must say I don’t really understand your husband,” I said, looking the other way.

“What do you expect? That’s life. I didn’t have any great hopes when I married him, but all the same … So soon! Though I saw it coming … It was inevitable. My husband is a man. It was so easy to have my friend. I’m sure …”

“Please allow me to make an observation …” I said, unable to restrain myself any longer. “I’d simply like to say that you seem to attach a lot of importance to your husband. I’m surprised …”

“I don’t understand …”

“Do you love him?”

“A lot.”

“Have you always loved him?”

“Right now I think I love him more than ever.”

“I wouldn’t like to contradict you, but what you’re saying strikes me as ridiculous.”

She blanched, seemed taken aback, and stared vaguely in my direction. Silence. We both looked at the floor. A long time went by. Finally I stood up.

“Would you excuse me for a second? I’d like to sort my things out.”

I left her bedroom.

I cursed myself as I washed my hands. This completely unexpected conversation had thrown me back into my previous unpleasant state of confusion. I’d been terribly annoyed by what she’d said about her husband. How could you square what she’d just said with what she’d said before? Unfortunately, the tendency to see things in their most favorable light tends to win out, and guile even more so. For a moment I even concluded she might think her words were a kind of aphrodisiac. However, the nagging doubt remained: what if she had spoken the truth? What exactly
was
my role? I decided that my shyness made me look quite stupid. Why – I wondered – didn’t you throw yourself at her? Her willingness is quite apparent. She is emphatic on that front. She won’t resist. She doesn’t want anything else, probably … We’re all made of the same clay and know how appallingly cynical the human imagination can be. On the other hand, I didn’t like the idea that I was playing a merely instrumental role in all that. My vanity was up in arms. Today, if it were to happen again, I’d probably not be so vain. Experience has since taught me that the best tactic when offered fruit from the tree of life is to dive straight in and not stand on ceremony. Caution often creates unpleasant situations one later regrets. When I think back to the outcome of this episode, I feel sad, even today.

So then: I left my bedroom, ready for action, even if I felt totally at a loss. I remember taking my watch out in the passage, as I tiptoed along, and saying like Stendhal’s Sorel: “This woman must be mine in the next three minutes.”

I came to a halt in front of her door, and while I listened I put my hand
on the key that was in the key-hole. It was on the outside. She’d left it there. So, the door was open. All I had to do was turn the key and walk in. I heard a soft sound inside. The moment was ripe. A small push …

I went so far as to wrap my fingers round the key. Perhaps I even made the effort to turn it. Perhaps I just thought I did. My heart thudded. My wide-open eyes almost touched the wood as a thousand things flashed through my head. I’d been upset by what she said about her husband and it was paralyzing me. The fact I was standing there for exactly the same reasons anyone else might have stood there stopped me in my tracks. I was tortured by vanity. Only fear of acting the fool led me on. However, unfortunately, on that occasion, it wasn’t strong enough to induce a state of semi-consciousness and drive me on. I didn’t turn the key. I looked at my watch. I heard her getting into bed. Five minutes passed. I took my hand away from the keyhole and wiped my forehead. Then returned to my bedroom with a parched mouth.

The following morning we met in the hotel restaurant. When I appeared, I thought she gave me look of surprise.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked with a smile.

“Very well, and how about yourself?”

“I slept very little. I wrote a letter to my husband.”

“A long one?”

“A very long one.”

“A love letter?”

“A bit of everything.”

“Are you happy? Have you seen how wonderful the weather is?”

“Very.”

“If only we could have this weather in Paris!”

We caught the local train to Le Dorat at two o’clock. We were alone in the compartment. Leaning back on my shoulder, smoking her scented cigarettes, she recounted her life story. I don’t remember the detail. It was a warm, bright, beautiful day. I listened to her in a state of wonder. I alighted at one station and made a bouquet with roses that were growing on a border and gave it to her. The whole journey was enchanting. When she laughed, I laughed. When she told me of her sorrows, my eyes moistened – genuinely.

I have a very vague memory of Le Dorat. When we reached the town, we went our different ways. She said she had two hour’s business at the notary’s. She mentioned a restaurant on a square that I have forgotten. We agreed we’d meet at seven for supper. I wandered through the town at random. I’d lost my taste for the peace and tranquility of the countryside and felt overjoyed. The fresh air stung my face. The town seemed almost dead. I skirted round the church, walked down three or four deserted streets, then stopped to breathe in the smell of the hayricks, of lucerne, and hay in the stables. A dark, gloomy building stood outside the town: it was an abandoned monastery. A low, long wall enclosed a meadow with short grass behind the monastery. Ten or twelve mares, horses, and colts were grazing there. The colts were jumping, running, and pointing their noses at the sky and then cavorting on the ground. One mare had a bell around her neck that rang sweetly. Glistening dark green giant chestnut trees towered over the far end of the meadow. I leaned on the wall and contemplated the enclosure for a long time, amazed by the beauty of the land I seemed to be rediscovering and by the ineffable sounds of twilight.