The Wine of Solitude (22 page)

All those old words of love that, to her, were so new went straight to her heart, in spite of herself.

‘I don’t have the courage,’ she thought. ‘It’s not hard to conquer the demon of sensuality, but the demon of flirtatiousness, of cruelty, of the pleasure in playing with a man’s love for the very first time …

‘I wouldn’t have the courage,’ she said to herself again; she made a superhuman effort, lowered her eyes and thought, with the black humour she had inherited from her father, ‘I’m earning my place in heaven …’

She replied to him in a calm, measured voice. ‘Max, don’t. I don’t love you, I was playing at being in love.’ But she was
really thinking, ‘Hypocrite, that will only make him want you more.’

He turned white, looked at her harshly and suddenly, she was afraid of losing him. It was all so amusing, after all.

‘And why give him up? To avoid hurting a woman I’ve always hated? I don’t want to! I’m having fun!’ She felt a strong wave of pride and pleasure surge through her heart; gently she took his hand. ‘There, there, what a terrible look … I was teasing you.’

He shuddered when she touched him and looked at her childlike face with its womanly expression almost with fear. He wanted her so much. He loved every one of her gestures, still gauche and awkward, her long hair floating over her slim shoulders, her delicate neck, her thick eyelashes and dazzling eyes that retained a look of pride and childlike innocence, her long legs, strong fingers, the shy, capricious way she pulled away from his embrace, her sweet breath … They were alone; he leaned towards her, put his arms round her and said softly, ‘Kiss me.’

She quickly kissed him on the cheek and he felt a kind of uneasy emotion; she kissed like a little girl, but the way she let him kiss her, silently closing her eyes, was like a woman …

‘What am I doing?’ Hélène thought.

But it was too late to stop the game.

It was only when they got back to Paris that Hélène realised how much power Max had over her. He was becoming as tyrannical, jealous and cruel towards her as he’d been with Bella in the past. Men learn how to love, just as they learn everything, and the method they use never changes; it’s the same with every woman, in spite of themselves.

‘Marry me,’ he kept saying. ‘You’re unhappy living at home.’

She refused. He would then fly into a rage that left him pale and trembling as he swore at her. He knew very well that she was toying with him, but that knowledge was no longer enough to keep him calm; he entered into that phase of unrequited love that resembles mournful folly and Hélène watched in consternation at the madness she had unleashed within him; it was eating him up and she couldn’t understand it. The first time she said, without thinking ‘If my mother knew …’ he burst out laughing.

‘Tell her, go on, tell her. You’ll see how wonderful your life will be then, my girl. She’ll never forgive you, never. You’re still only a child, a kid. She’ll make you pay, and dearly …’

Meanwhile, he continued his affair with Bella for so many reasons. He took his frustration with Hélène out on her, venting his irritation and using her to satisfy his mad desire, since Hélène refused his caresses, which filled her with horror and repulsion. ‘It’s your fault,’ he would say in despair, ‘it’s all your fault. I’m offering you a proper, normal life and you’re refusing.’

In the evening he made Bella come to his flat so he could safely telephone Hélène, since he knew she’d be alone at home. Bella would come home at midnight looking pale and haggard; but the next day she would go back when he called and Hélène would tremble as she waited for the ringing telephone to echo through the empty apartment.

Hunched over, her eyes staring blankly out into space, pressing her trembling hand to her cheek, she would wait, without the strength to run away and free herself from temptation.

The telephone rang; she picked up the receiver and heard Max’s voice.

‘When will you come? Why did you let me kiss you if you don’t love me? I’ll do whatever you want. Just come. I won’t touch you. I’m begging you to come.’

‘No, no, no,’ she would reply, feeling her blood run icy cold. She turned towards the door, afraid that her father, her mother, the servants, would hear what she was saying, while Max, in despair, endlessly repeated the same things, his voice sounding tender and bitter both at once. He seemed to hiss out each word.

‘My darling, my darling, my darling Hélène, come to me, come, have pity on me …’

Then, suddenly, he stopped and hung up; she heard the little clicking noise that ended the connection.

‘She’s just arrived,’ she thought, angry and in pain. ‘She’s ringing the bell. He’s going to answer it and … but I’m not jealous! I was supposed to win … But I wanted this … it’s my fault.’ Then she tried to laugh through her tears. ‘It’s what you wanted, Georges Dandin,’ she said, thinking of the Molière play, ashamed at being so upset. ‘What have I done? And where will I find the courage, my Lord, to conquer myself and to forgive, to forget, to leave vengeance only to God?’

And as soon as she was in bed, about to fall into that peaceful, contented sleep she had retained from her childhood, which invariably took her back to memories long past, joyous and innocent, the telephone would ring again, pull her out of bed and once more she would hear that loving, evil voice.

‘Hélène, Hélène, I want to hear your voice. I can’t sleep
until I’ve heard your voice. Say something, just one word, make a promise, even if you don’t keep it, tell me you’ll love me one day.’ Then suddenly he would shout in a fit of blind anger, ‘Be careful, I can hurt you; I want to kill you!’

‘You’re behaving like a child,’ she replied, shrugging her shoulders.

‘Well, then, leave me in peace,’ he cried in despair. ‘Why were you always hanging around me? You’re nothing but a stupid kid, a liar and a flirt! I don’t love you, I couldn’t care less about you, I … No, Hélène, don’t leave me, forgive me, I’m begging you to come, just once. When I feel your young, smooth cheek beneath my lips, it drives me mad. Hélène. My darling, my darling, my darling …’

Hélène heard the sound of the main gate opening outside her window. ‘Let me go now,’ she whispered. ‘Let me go. I can’t talk any more.’

A sense of decency prevented her from saying, ‘My mother’s home.’

But he had no trouble understanding and, happy to be the stronger, the one to be feared, at least for a moment, he replied, ‘Good! If you don’t swear that you’ll come and see me tomorrow, I’ll keep calling all night long until your mother hears the phone. Don’t push me too far, Hélène, you don’t really know me. I’ve known how to manipulate other women!’

‘But they loved you.’

‘Fine, I’ll call all night long then, do you hear me? Your mother will find out everything, and your father, Hélène? He’ll find out everything, you understand what I’m saying? Everything. The past and the present. It’s monstrous, I know that very well, but it’s your fault, you’re forcing me
to behave this way! Listen to me, just promise. Just this once! I love you! Take pity on me!’

Hélène heard her mother’s footsteps outside her bedroom. She heard the door open where Karol was asleep. ‘I promise,’ she whispered.

One rainy day the two of them were driving through the Bois de Boulogne with no specific destination in mind, just happy to take refuge in the damp, deserted lanes where they wouldn’t run into anyone they knew. It was autumn, the beginning of October; they could hear bursts of heavy, cold rain beating against the windows. Sometimes the driver would stop, shrug his shoulders and look at Max. Max tapped on the window impatiently. ‘Keep going. Wherever you like.’

The car continued on its way; every now and again it got stuck in the mud on the horse trails. After a while they crossed the Seine and found themselves in the countryside; a cool, bitter scent filtered in through the open windows. Hélène looked at the man sitting next to her as if she were in some embarrassing nightmare: he was crying and talking to her without even bothering to wipe away his tears. She felt both pity and repugnance towards him.

‘Hélène, you must try to understand me. I can’t go on living like this. We’ve never talked about
her
,’ he said, to avoid saying the name of his mistress. ‘What I’m doing is
horrible. But it’s better to talk about it and be done with it once and for all. You … you’ve … known about our affair for a long time, haven’t you?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Didn’t you realise that even when I was a child I would have had to be blind and a fool not to guess what was going on?’

‘Do you believe that anyone gives a thought to children?’ he exclaimed, and for a moment she saw his face contort with scorn and weariness, the way it used to; she could feel the past hatred stirring in her heart.

‘I know very well that no one ever thinks about children,’ she murmured.

‘But what has that got to do with it? We’re talking about you now, a woman I love and a woman I once loved, sincerely loved. I can’t continue betraying her like this. I’ve lived through these past few months as if I were in some depressing nightmare. I feel as if I’m waking up. I understand how horrible and miserable I’ve been. Or rather, I knew very well how I felt, but I couldn’t stop myself, I loved you too much, I was mad,’ he said softly, ‘but I can’t carry on like this, I hate myself.’

‘You betrayed my father for years with no remorse,’ she said bitterly.

‘Your father?’ he murmured, ‘Do you know what he thinks? Has anyone ever known what he was thinking? You’re fooling yourself if you think you know him. As for me, I have no idea what he knows or doesn’t know. Hélène, if you wanted …’

‘Wanted what?’ she asked, pulling her hand away from his burning cheek.

‘Marry me, Hélène, you’ll be happy.’

She slowly shook her head.

‘Why not?’ he said in despair.

‘I don’t love you. You are the enemy of my entire childhood. I can’t explain it. You’ve just said: “It has nothing to do with you when you were a child.” But it does, it does have to do with that. I’ll never change. The feelings I had when I was fourteen – even younger … much younger – are and will always be the same. I could never forget, never. I could never, ever be happy living with you. I want to live with a man who’s never known my mother, or my house, who doesn’t even come from the same country or speak the same language, someone who will take me far away, anywhere, miles from anywhere, just far away from here. I’d be unhappy with you even if I did love you. But I don’t.’

He clenched his fists in fury. ‘You let me kiss you …’

‘What has that got to do with love?’ she said wearily.

‘In that case I want to go away. My sister is in London. She’s written to ask me to come and join her. I want to go away,’ he said again, groaning.

‘Well, then, go, my dear Max.’

‘Hélène, if I leave you’ll never see me again. You might need a friend one day. Think about it; you have no one in the world apart from your father. He’s old and ill …’

She shuddered. ‘Papa? What do you mean?’

‘Come on now,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Have you looked at him? He’s finished. Worn out. What will you do then? You and your mother will always be enemies.’

‘Always,’ she echoed, ‘but I don’t need anyone.’

‘I feel as if I haven’t felt any true emotions in ten years,’ he said in despair. ‘I’m ashamed of myself. My love for you
is bitter and disturbing, full of malice and venom. And yet, I do love you.’

She raised her arm and tried to read the time on her wristwatch in the pale ray of light that fell from a street lamp. ‘It’s nearly eight o’clock. Let’s go home.’

‘No, no, Hélène!’

He clung on to her clothes, passionately kissed her neck and the delicate soft skin on her arms. ‘Hélène, Hélène, I love you, I’ve never loved anyone but you. Take pity on me, my God, don’t send me away. It just isn’t possible that you hate me so much!
I
never did anything to hurt you! I’ll go away for ever. You wouldn’t care?’

‘No,’ she said cruelly, ‘I’m happy. At least, with you gone, my house would be decent and honest again.
She’s
old. She’ll be forced now to be content with her husband and child. Perhaps one day I’ll have a mother like everyone else. You were the cause of my unhappiness.’

He didn’t reply. In the darkness of the car she saw him turn his face away and place his trembling hands over his eyes. She leaned forward and told the driver to go back to Paris.

They separated without saying a word. The next day he left for London.

The following years flowed quickly by. Life was swift, uneasy, tumultuous, like a river that overflows its banks. Later on, when Hélène thought about the two years after Max left, she always pictured them as a torrent of deep, raging water. She had matured, aged during those two years, but her gestures remained brusque and awkward, her face pale, her arms slim and delicate. Among the dazzling young women who wore make-up and jewellery, she seemed to fade into the background, for she was silent, only rarely emerging from her shyness, when she would display a detached, passionate and ironic cheerfulness. But the boys forgave her for being so quiet, for not wearing lipstick, for the indifferent way she accepted their kisses, because she was a good dancer and that was a valued quality at the time, equal to the greatest intelligence and highest moral standards.

After Max’s departure and right up until the brief, cold letter in which he announced his marriage, Bella had looked only half awake, subdued and exhausted. Then she had taken lovers she paid for, just like all the other old women. Life
was easy, they had millions. It was the happy days when the Stock Market continued to climb towards previously unimaginable heights, when all the tycoons in the world came to Paris, where you could hear people speaking every language on earth. Women of fifty wore dresses known as ‘rich kids’ that were tight on the hips and revealed their strong legs up to the thigh. It was the age of the first short haircuts, close-cropped, showing off powerful necks adorned by scarves and many strands of pearls. In Deauville, behind closed doors, Englishwomen slipped great wads of pound notes, as thick and crisp as dead leaves, into the hands of handsome young men as swarthy as cigars, tobacco and gingerbread.