The Bark Tree (18 page)

“I apologize for my curiosity,” said Etienne.

“Not at all, not at all,” said Pierre. “You probably think I don’t answer your questions very frankly. That’s not so. But where shall I begin? Have I any children? no; a wife? no; any mistresses? not at the moment. A father? no. A mother? yes, with whom I live. And I have a brother, too. Look, they’ve all gone. They won’t be back until morning
...
”

They were near the harbor, now; phonographs and radios were bawling; people were enjoying themselves like anything, because not a minute of liberty must be spoiled. Behind one wasted moment there were eleven months of worries, anxieties or servitude. This resort was almost entirely frequented by clerks or petty officials; everyone felt at home; many met there every year. A few shopkeepers from the nearby big town came there to spend the week-end with their women, they shocked the population and drank American drinks; they were having a good time, eh. Apart from them, almost everyone was extremely respectable, and the extramarital affairs could be counted on the fingers of one hand. The swimming instructor had hairy legs; you were forbidden to urinate against the wall of the school; in the evening, after 10 o’clock, you were requested to respect your neighbor’s sleep; you had to ring once for a waiter and twice for the chambermaid, and it was always the other one who came, which in any case wasn’t the slightest importance. Et cetera. Et cetera.

“That’s enough small talk,” said Etienne. “What about your brother?”

“I’m going to see him tomorrow. I shall stay with him for a few days. It’s not far from here.”

“I had a brother,” said Etienne, “two years older than me. He taught me to make cages for flies, and to draw tankers. I don’t know why, but he didn’t like those boats; I don’t think he’d ever seen one; in shape, they looked like any other boat, but my brother decreed that they were tankers. He died of Spanish flu, in 1919.”

“Mine is a professor of mathematics.”

“Ah,” said Etienne. “Younger?”

“Two years older,” replied Pierre.

“It’s odd,” Etienne went on, “that lady we saw just now, she lives near me, in Obonne.”

“The girl with her was charming,” Pierre observed.

“Yes, she is. I know her, anyway. Isn’t it funny. Just think, she’s the maid, Catherine.”

“They look more like two friends.”

“Odd.”

“And Théo, does he know Catherine?” Pierre insinuated, malevolently.

Etienne pretended to be deaf. The remark displeased him, but he admitted to himself that it was idiotic not to have thought of it sooner. And how had Théo got the necessary money for the journey? He hadn’t thought to ask him, and, after all, what importance could it possibly have? He was beginning to find these paternal worries singularly disagreeable. And any minute now, meeting of Théo, Alberte and Mme. Pigeonnier; and perhaps even Catherine. Feeling aggressive, he preferred to turn on Pierre.

“And Narcense, do you know him well?”

“A little; a charming young man.”

“Oho, a charming young man; that’s too much. I do find him a little odd, though.”

“Oh yes, I was forgetting. Has he said anything to you about me?”

“Yes,” said Etienne simply, “we talked about you a lot.”

They had come to the harbor. Alberte and Théo were waiting for them.

That young man was drinking a lemon squash in silence; his nose in his glass, he was sucking at his straws, the second volume of
Les Misérables
was lying in some sugar and soda water. The two men finally found some chairs and sat down. A few superficial remarks were exchanged; these ready-made utterances killed time for a few minutes.

There was much animation around the Marcel family’s table. The café tables had invaded the harbor; the Paris papers had just arrived, alcohol filled the glasses, and ash the saucers. Phonographs and radios were screeching. Taking advantage of a lull, Etienne told them whom he had met, and watched Theo; but Theo was sucking at his straws, and didn’t blench.

—oooooo—oooooo—

A huge car stopped; its occupants got out; they weren’t the usual sort of visitors to X
...
. They ought instead to be going to Y
...
, the fashionable resort thirty miles farther on.

Pierre, who had recognized Shibboleth, hurried over to him.

Shibboleth was driving four women to Y
...
to enhance the luster of his night club; two of them were going to do a dancing act, the only merit of the others was to sleep with him. He was fond of haremizing. The gang sat down with a good deal of commotion; the harbor kids came up to study the great big bus; Shibboleth, who was sporting a pink sweater and riding breeches with small checks, did a few exercises to restore the circulation in his legs. In short, it was a sensational entrance.

“Le Grand. It caaaaaaaan’t be. What are you doing here, my dear fellow? Having a real vacation? No, you live here? Ah, I must introduce my women; Oréa and Koukla, Oriental dancers; Camille, who used to be the mistress of a poet, and little Oque. Ah! sit down and have a drink. What’ll you have? Hey waiter, we’ve been waiting five minutes. D’you think we’ve got time to waste? You don’t move very fast. Send us a couple of picon-cassis and four red ports. And no garbage, eh.

Yiy-yi! what a hole, what a hole. Just look at the mugs of those wage slaves. You can smell the bureaucrat a mile off. A family resort. Yiy-yi-yi, and what families! And these pure young ladies, oh mother, no doubt they sneak up to the top of the cliffs in the evenings and get tickled by future tax collectors. So you’re vegetating here, eh? What a trip, though. Have you seen my new car? I’m very pleased with it, you know. I left Paris this morning, and I’ll be in my dump by 8. It goes like a treat, a car like that. What about you, do you still have the same one, the eight-cylinder one with a supercharger? Of course, it isn’t bad. What’s your gas consumption like? I don’t get more than nine or ten out of mine, but I do up to ninety-five on the straight. Hey, Koukla, stop making eyes at that choirboy in his Sunday best. Waiter, oh waiter, do you really think that anyone can drink picon without ice? Think again. Nothing more necessary, and transparent ice, eh? This is a moron’s paradise, my poor Le Grand. And they’re Parisians, too. No really, just look at that fellow with a face like a tadpole, sucking his lemonade! and their clothes are all two years out of date, at that. It’d make me sick if I had to stay in a dump like this. By the way, did you know that Ted and Léon are cruising with the de la Sentines on their yacht; the last time they got smashed, it was at my place a week ago. Claude Poupou is in Norway and Odéric Sauleil in the Tyrol. In short, there’s absolutely no one who’s anyone left in Paris. How’s your brother, all right? Still the great highbrow? They can’t even manage to serve a picon-cassis. Well, Oque, is their port good? After all, there’s nothing you can do about it, you have to put up with what you get when you’re traveling. Did you read Paul Tontaine’s last book? He didn’t put himself out all that much. My champagne doesn’t seem to inspire him. Did you see that little thing over there, the one in green, she isn’t bad, but just look at her getup. By the way, you haven’t told me what you’re doing here. Then you really are spending your vacation in this cheap little hole? Are you trying to start a new fashion? But you’ll ruin me, my friend. You’ll ruin me. Well, children, feeling better? Another round? What about you, are you going to have another? Waiter! Waiter! He’s always miles away, this waiter. Ah, there you are, well, the same again.

What, you’ve forgotten already? Four ports and two picon-cassis! Yi-yiy-yiy, what a barbarian. Oréa and Koukla are going to do an Oriental dance number. You must come and see it. Very original. A great novelty. Beats the Negro dancers to a frazzle. Hm. Apart from them, I’ve got a new jazz band, it’s terrific. You must come and hear it. Not like this foul music, listen to it! No but really, listen to it! and these people drinking in these ancient old tunes. Yiy-yi-yi, poor France. Look at the way those brats are ogling my women; they’re vicious, these kids; and they’re only babies, pinch their noses and milk would come out. And you know, at Y
...
I’ve got my regular customers, the Prince of Wales, the Aga Khan, the Trouvadja of Bizère and the Duke of Sentinel. People above all these depressions, my boy. And who guarantee me a rich and respectable old age. For you, the first bottle of champagne will be on the house. You see, permanently openhanded, that’s me. What’s the time? Oh hell, a quarter to. I must go, I must fly. Come on waiter, get moving. How much for all the swill? Six saucers at six and four at three. You’re just giving it away, not like at my place. And keep the tip. Come on, girls, get going. Well, my friend, don’t vegetate too much here. It’d be bad for your health. No but really, just look at that car. What a line, eh, what a line! A classic beauty, and does she go! Yiy-yi-yi! how she goes! And your first bottle of champagne on the house, eh! Come on, kids, don’t squabble, it’s Camille’s turn to be in front. And my regards to your brother. There’s another one who won’t make my fortune. By the way, young Lanlalaire, he just killed himself. A bad business. Well, girls, fairtish? Oak, eh. ’Bye, my friend, enjoy yourself, but don’t stay here too long, it’d be bad for your health, just a friendly word of warning. Don’t forget to come and see me.”

The engine started to turn over, in silence.

“By the way, Shibboleth, you wouldn’t have a job for a saxophonist at the moment, would you?

“For a saxophonist? But my friend, I’m positively giving them away, saxophonists and drummers, the whole bunch. It’s raining saxophonists, positively raining them. Nice to see you. ’Bye! Your first bottle of champagne on the house!”

The car drives off amid general admiration; something of the Grandiose is left Boating in the Atmosphere. Pierre goes and sits down again at the Marcel family’s table.

—oooooo—oooooo—

“Did your parents believe what you told them?”

“Yes, or else they pretended to. Which comes to the same thing, for me.”

“Now that your father’s seen me, haven’t they changed their minds?”

“How should I know? They haven’t said anything to me. If they leave me in peace, that’s all I ask. We’re here on vacation, aren’t we? They’ve turned up—just too bad!”

“You oughtn’t have written to that Meussieu Narcense.”

“How could I have known?”

“And the young man that’s always with your father, who is he?”

“He’s gone off to see his brother at Z
...
, today.”

“And who is he?”

“He’s in business, so Dad says.”

“What sort of business?”

“Howshd I know?”

“It he a friend of your father’s?”

“Yes, he juss can’t do without him any more, doesn’t talk of anything but him, an’ what he says. It’s getting monotonous.”

“But how did they get to know each other?”

“His taxi knocked my father down outside the Gare du Nord. He was inside. That’s how they got to know each other. He drove them here in his car. What business is it of his, the snooper!”

Théo was walking up and down in the room, trying to look important, furious and fuming. Secretly, he was pleased that his escape had finished so well. The journey with Mme. Pigeonnier and Catherine had scared him stiff; his flight had filled him with anxieties and fears. Now that everything had turned out for the best, he was sorting out his feelings and keeping only the most high-flown—the taste for risk and adventure, the awareness of responsibility, the virile decision and the scorn for the common opinion. He had thus attained ethical heights of which, up to now, he had not even had the slightest suspicion. He was walking in the clouds, and breathing the pure air of heroism.

Mme. Pigeonnier, on the other hand, had flown from Obonne in a spirit of absolute unconcern; she considered this adventure the best she’d ever had. She was still radiant with joy, she was beginning to get worried now. She multiplied her anxieties. Wouldn’t the Marcels discover all, simply by using their reasoning powers? For how could they not see some connection between her presence here and Théo’s flight. And should she not also fear that some mischief-maker would reveal all to his parents? Or that Théo would give himself away in the course of conversation? or that she would? Didn’t the law punish her act as a crime? She could already imagine herself up before the judges, or even with a public hue and cry after her. And so, lying on her bed, she was tormenting herself in multifarious ways, while Théo, standing at the window, was lighting a cigarette and looking Life in the face.

There’s a knock at the door; it was Catherine. She came in apologizing for disturbing them and, sitting down on Mme. Pigeonnier’s bed, at her feet, started telling them the various things that had been happening among them that, early that afternoon, a young man had accosted her, and that the said young man was Meussieu Marcel’s friend. He had tried, so she said, to “worm” various things out of her, but she’d “played the innocent,” and he hadn’t found anything out. But he certainly suspects something: he looks very bright, that young man.

“And he’s such a gentleman, Madame.”

Catherine went into ecstasies over various sartorial details that had struck her and described the elegance of his speech and the distinction of his gestures, then she went on to say that he had paid her a lot of compliments, that he’d told her that he had something to do with the movies, that he’d find her a part in a film, and that she would certainly become a star.

“Must be crazy to believe such whoppers,” opined Théo.

The two women didn’t answer him.

“He’s gone off to visit some property he’s got at Z
...
today,” Catherine went on. “He made a date with me for when he comes back.”

Théo shrugged his shoulders and began turning over the pages of
The Three Musketeers,
Mme. Pigeonniers favorite reading. While Catherine was starting to tell them about her flirtation with Alexis Considérable, the son of the Mayor of X
...
, Théo was pondering the subject of a poem; a man loves a woman in silence; she either loves someone else or despises him; he doesn’t dare declare his love; he writes a sonnet to describe all this; the woman who has inspired it reads it, but she doesn’t understand that it’s about her. There. He’d just found the first line:
Mon âme a son mystère, ma vie a son secret,
but, counting on his fingers, he discovered that his alexandrine was walking on thirteen feet; he tried to think of a synonym for
mystère, Enigme,
no,
Cacher,
all right; but the corresponding noun? Se
taire,
not bad.
Mon âme se tait,
no. It didn’t work. Once again, he counted on his fingers the number of feet in:
Mon âme a son mystère, ma vie a son secret.
There really were thirteen.
{11}
Mme. Pigeonnier asked him: