Vertigo (11 page)

Her lustrous hair crackled under the comb. It felt warm to his touch and smelt of burnt prairies, like the fumes of new wine. Flavières held his breath. Renée, her lips slightly retracted, showing her teeth, abandoned herself to the soothing, caressing movements of the comb. Soon he was forming a bun at the back of her neck—with much too many pins, of course, but he didn’t pretend to be an expert. He only wanted to remodel the shape of her head, giving it the noble line, the serenity of a Leonardo. To put it differently, he was painting the portrait of the Madeleine he remembered. And he was succeeding! There was the fine forehead now, the delicate ears revealed. Putting in the last pin, he straightened himself, and looked in the glass to survey his work.

Yes, it was good. There, within the frame of the mirror touched by a slanting ray of sunshine, there, clear and limpid
as a water-colour, was the pale, mysterious face, withdrawn and thoughtful.

‘Madeleine!’

He murmured the name, but she didn’t even hear him. Was that really the reflection of a woman that he was staring at in the glass? Or was it some subjective vision like the things seen in a crystal? He crept round the chair to face her. No, he hadn’t deceived himself. It was Madeleine as he had known her. For the slow rhythmic movements of the comb had plunged her into a sort of dream, a mood of grave meditation.

Realizing she was being scrutinized, she heaved a sigh, shook herself, made an effort to smile.

‘If you’d gone on a little longer,’ she said, ‘I’d have fallen fast asleep.’

She looked casually into the glass.

‘Not bad,’ she commented. ‘Yes, it’s perhaps better like that. It’s another matter whether it’ll hold.’

She shook her head, and the pins began falling out. Another shake, and her hair fell down altogether. She burst out laughing. He laughed too, though, with him, it was rather the reaction from the intense fear which had gripped him.

‘
Mon pauvre chéri
,’ she said.

He went on laughing, holding his hands to his head, but he felt he couldn’t remain in that room any longer. He found it suffocating. He needed the sunshine, the rumbling of the trams, the jostling of the crowd. He needed to forget as quickly as possible what he had seen. He dashed into the bathroom to get ready. His hands fumbled with the taps; when he brushed his teeth, he nearly dropped the tumbler.

‘I’ll go down ahead of you,’ she suggested.

‘No. Wait for me. You can wait a moment, can’t you?’

His voice was so changed that she came to the bathroom door.

‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Nothing… What makes you think there is?’

He noticed she now had her hair arranged as usual, but couldn’t make up his mind whether to be angry or relieved. He tied his tie anyhow, slipped on his jacket, and took her arm.

‘You needn’t think I’m lost,’ she remarked jokingly.

But he couldn’t bring himself to laugh now.

When they left the hotel, they didn’t know what to do with themselves. Every prospect seemed equally boring. Flavières felt tired already. His headache was hammering at his skull. He had to sit down in a public garden, but they were no sooner installed than he said:

‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’ll have to go back… I’m not feeling well at all.’

She pursed her lips and avoided looking at him, but she obediently helped him back to the hotel. There she settled down to darn some stockings, while he tried to pull himself together. How long would she consent to remain shut up with him in that dreary room, as little homely as a waiting-room? He had no right to hold her against her will. He guessed he had not succeeded in reassuring her—not altogether. At lunchtime he tried to get up, but sank back on to the bed again, feeling giddy.

‘Would you like me to put a cold compress on your forehead?’

‘No… no… It’ll pass off… Go and have lunch.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I mean it. I’ll be all right.’

Yet, when she shut the door behind her, his face was at once distorted by intense anxiety. It was silly, he knew. All her
things were there in the wardrobe. She couldn’t run off, she couldn’t disappear…

‘But she might die,’ he thought.

That idea was no less silly. He put both hands to his forehead, trying to banish it. The time passed. Grain by grain he could hear it drop, as through an hour-glass. The waiters were slow, he knew. All the same, she could have skipped a course or two. No doubt she was, on the contrary, taking advantage of being alone to guzzle, choosing all the things she had usually to go without because he didn’t like to see her eating them. The animal side of her—how he hated it!… Already in the little café at Courbevoie, when she had emerged from the kitchen dressed like a skivvy, how he had suffered!

She’d been gone an hour now. One might think she was starving! By the end of an hour and a quarter, worry and anger were added to his headache. Tears of impotent rage welled up into his eyes. When she came back at last, he looked at her balefully.

‘An hour and twenty minutes to swallow down a wretched bit of steak!’

She laughed, sat down on the bed, and took his hand.

‘There were snails,’ she said. ‘I thought the menu was never coming to an end. What about you?’

‘Me! As though—’

‘Now, now! Don’t be childish.’

He clung to her cool hand, and gradually calmed down. Presently he dozed off, still clinging to it as though it was some precious toy. When he woke up a little after four, he felt a little better and wanted to go out.

‘But not far. Tomorrow I’ll go and see a doctor.’

They went down. On the pavement, Flavières pretended to have forgotten something.

‘Wait a moment, will you? I’ve just got to put through a telephone call.’

Dashing into the bar, he ordered a whisky.

‘As quick as you can.’

He was trembling with impatience, like a traveller who fears to miss his train. Perhaps she wouldn’t wait… Perhaps she would have already turned the corner. Perhaps… He took a long draught, relishing the warmth spreading through his chest. His eyes fell on a menu propped up on the bar.

‘Is that the menu for lunch?’

‘Yes, Monsieur.’

‘I don’t see any mention of snails.’

‘There weren’t any snails.’

Deep in thought, Flavières finished his drink and wiped his mouth.

‘Put it down on the bill,’ he said, and hurried out to join her.

He was pleasant; he talked a lot; he could be quite brilliant when he took the trouble. In the evening he took her to a smart restaurant down by the Old Port. Yes, he was amiable, but could she see what was behind it? Probably not. His manner was too unaccountable, their relations too artificial, for her to notice.

They got back late and stayed late in bed next morning. When lunchtime approached, he again complained of a headache.

‘You see what it does to you to keep late hours,’ she said.

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m only sorry on your account. You’ll have to have lunch alone again today.’

‘I shan’t be long this time.’

‘Don’t hurry.’

Flavières listened to her retreating steps, then sneaked down after her. A glance round the hall, another round the dining-room. No sign of her. Going out he spotted her at once some distance down the street.

‘Here we are!’ he said to himself. ‘It’s beginning all over again.’

She was wearing the grey suit. Around her danced the shadows of the lime trees. She walked quickly, looking at the pavement, taking no notice of anything. As before, there were plenty of officers about. On the placards, the news too was much the same:
Bombardements… Défaite Imminente
… She turned down a side street, and Flavières drew closer. It was a narrow street with shops on either side. Mostly books and antiques. Hadn’t he seen it before? Not it, but another like it, the Rue des Saints-Pères. Renée crossed over to the other side and dived into a little hotel. Flavières couldn’t bring himself to follow. A superstitious fear rooted him to the pavement, staring at the marble plaque on which was written
Central Hôtel
and at the notice hanging on the handle of the door which said:
Complet
.

All the same he had to go. His legs felt weak, but he dragged himself across the road and opened the door through which she had disappeared. His eyes took in the poky hall and lighted on the board behind the desk, from which, no doubt, she had just taken her key.

‘Yes?’ asked the man at the desk.

‘That lady?… The lady in grey… Who is she?’

‘The one that just came in?’

‘Yes. What’s her name?’

‘Pauline Lagerlac,’ answered the man with a horrible Marseilles accent.

When Renée got back to the hotel, Flavières was lying down.

‘How do you feel?’ she asked.

‘A bit better. I think I’ll get up.’

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Like what?’

He sat up, trying to smile.

‘You certainly gave me a queer look,’ she insisted. ‘Have I done anything to upset you?’

‘No… Really not.’

He got up, combed his hair, and brushed his jacket. In this small room they were absolutely on top of each other all the time. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, nor could he make up his mind to remain silent. What he really wanted was to be alone, alone with the terrible mystery.

‘I’ve got to go out again,’ said Renée. ‘I’ve a few things to do.’

‘What things?’

‘First of all I must get my hair washed, and I must buy a pair of stockings.’

To get her hair washed, to buy a pair of stockings—that sounded homely and comforting. In any case she was looking at him now with such engaging frankness that it was impossible to suspect her of lying.

‘May I?’ she asked.

He made a gesture of tenderness, but his hand faltered like a blind man’s.

‘You’re not a prisoner,’ he murmured. ‘You know very well which of us is in captivity here.’

Another silence. She powdered her nose in front of the looking-glass, Flavières standing behind her.

‘You get on my nerves,
chéri
,’ she remarked.

Her hair tumbled playfully over her ears. He gazed at a tiny vein on her temple through which he could almost feel the blood coursing. Yes, this body was full of vitality, and, if his eyes were more penetrating, he would be able to see it, like an aura. He touched her neck; the flesh was smooth and warm. Quickly he withdrew his hand.

‘Really, what is the matter with you?’ she said, adding a touch of red to her lips.

He sighed. Renée… Madeleine… Pauline… What was the good of asking her the same eternal questions?

‘Run along,’ he said gently. ‘Be as quick as you can.’

He handed her her gloves, her bag.

‘I’ll be waiting for you downstairs… You will come back, won’t you?’

‘Don’t be silly! What an idea!’

He forced himself to smile. He was terribly unhappy. He had all the air of a defeated man, and he was conscious of her sudden pity. Yes, she was hesitating to go, like someone ashamed of leaving the bedside of a condemned man. She loved him, yes; but in the expression on her face he could see at the same time great tenderness and great cruelty. She took a step towards him, lifted her head, and kissed him on the lips. What did she mean? Was she saying good-bye to him?… He gently stroked her cheek.

‘Forgive me… little Eurydice!’

She seemed to turn a little paler beneath her make-up. She blinked rapidly.

‘Be reasonable,
mon chéri.
Have a good rest. Stop teasing your poor brain for a little while.’

She paused at the door and waved to him. Then she was gone. He stayed where he was, gazing at the handle, but it didn’t turn. Would it ever?… Yes. She would come back… But when? He felt like rushing out into the corridor and shouting after her:

‘Madeleine! Madeleine!’

But it was true what he had said just now: it was he who was the prisoner. What could he hope for? To keep her with him in that room? To stand guard over her night and day? Even that would never give him access to what was hidden in the depths of her memory. The real Madeleine was free, but she lived elsewhere. This replica of her she had vouchsafed him was merely a sop. A temporary one at that. Their separation sooner or later was inevitable. For their love was something monstrous, foredoomed to death… To death!

Flavières gave a savage kick to the chair in front of the dressing-table. Rubbish! What about that hotel in which she had already taken a room? Nothing mysterious about that. It pointed to one thing and one thing only—flight. After Gévigne there had been Almaryan, with perhaps others in between. Then Flavières—with others after… Was he jealous? And, if so, of whom? Madeleine! Did that make any sense?

He lit a cigarette with the gold lighter and went down to the bar. He wasn’t hungry. He didn’t even want a drink, but ordered a cognac just to give himself the right to occupy one of the easy chairs. The place was practically dead at that hour.
A single light lit up the many-coloured bottles; the barman was reading the paper. Leaning back in his chair, with his glass in the hollow of his hand, Flavières could at last shut his eyes. And the first image that rose to his mind was Gévigne’s. He had treated Gévigne disgracefully. It served him right, no doubt, if he was now in the same position himself. In a sense he had become Gévigne. It was his turn now to live with a strange elusive woman. And if, like him, he had had an old friend to turn to, wouldn’t he have done so? Of course; and he would have asked him to keep an eye on Renée; for he had reached that point now… He could see Gévigne sitting in his office; he could hear him saying:

‘She’s queer… I’m worried about her.’

He opened his eyes.

‘Waiter! Bring me another.’

Fortunately Gévigne had never suspected the truth. If he had… what would he have done? The same as Flavières had, no doubt: taken to drink. Or would he have put a bullet through his head? For there are some truths which you can’t dwell on without feeling that giddy nausea of the soul which is a hundred times worse than anything that can happen to the body… And he, Flavières, had been chosen from amongst all mankind to bear the burden of this secret. A secret which brought no joy, which merely made it twice as hard to live.

He felt perfectly calm now and quite extraordinarily clear-headed. He could even delve back into the past without flinching, seeing the crumpled body at the foot of the tower, the blood on the stones. Later, Gévigne had wept over the body of his wife, which the old woman had laid out. Detectives had
examined it too and asked all sorts of questions. That didn’t bother him: he was as indifferent as the Roman soldiers playing dice at the foot of the cross. The ordeal started when he thought of Pauline Lagerlac’s suicide, when he thought of Madeleine’s first words to him: ‘It doesn’t hurt’, and above all when he conjured up the scene in the church and her serene resolve… Life had become too much of a strain to her and she was going quite simply to walk out of it… But was Renée’s life any less of a strain? Probably not. In that case… With that thought, Flavières’ head began to swim, and he was assailed by a horrible feeling of emptiness, an emptiness like space itself, limitless, unceasing, and without reprieve.

‘Waiter.’

This time he was genuinely thirsty. He gazed despairingly at the sombre upholstery around him and the row of bottles behind the bar. Was he still in the land of the living himself? Yes. His forehead was perspiring, his hands burning. Yes, he was alive and his mind was imbued with a frightening acuity. He was well aware, with a painful intensity even, of the absurdity of the situation. He would now no longer be able to sleep with Renée, no longer be able even to speak to her. She was too
different
. A barrier had been raised between them by that visit of hers to the little hotel. She would inevitably fall into the arms of some other man, who would be able to love her in ignorance. That was what she wanted, no doubt; Gévigne had almost found out, and she had killed herself. Now…

He let his glass slip out of his hand and the brandy spilt all over his knee. He wiped it with his handkerchief. With a shame-faced look at the barman, still deep in his newspaper, he picked up the sticky glass. He was furious with himself for
not having guessed sooner. Now she was obviously running away. No doubt she had already transported some of her things to the little hotel, taking a few at a time… She might well be planning the next hop, buying a ticket for Africa or America… And that, for him, would be worse than death.

He stood up, tottered, grasped the back of the chair. The barman looked up.

‘Are you feeling queer, Monsieur?’

He came round and took Flavières’ arm.

‘Let go. I’m all right.’

Flavières held on to the chromium rod that ran along the front of the bar, staring stupidly at the white jacket of the barman at his side.

‘Really. I’m better now, thanks.’

‘What about a whisky to put you right?’

‘Yes… Thanks… A whisky.’

He gulped it down. He was disgusted with himself for being so weak, but he knew the whisky would soon pull him together. He would find a way to stop Madeleine going. As a matter of fact it was entirely his fault if she was planning to, with his ceaseless allusions and insinuations. He had, little by little, been recreating Madeleine, without suspecting that, by doing so, he was preparing her departure. How could he undo that work? How could he convince her that they could go on living as before? He couldn’t: it was too late.

He looked at the clock. Half past four.

‘Put it down on my bill.’

He tried letting go of the chromium rod. He staggered slightly, then found his feet. He went out into the hall and beckoned the Buttons.

‘Is there a ladies’ hairdresser’s near here?… A smart one, of course.’

‘
Chez Maryse
… That’s the nearest.’

‘How far?’

‘Barely five minutes’ walk. You go along the boulevard, then take the third turning on the right. You’ll find it between a café and a florist’s. You can’t miss it.’

‘Thank you.’

Flavières went out looking dazed. He’d made a mistake not having any lunch. The glitter of the sun on the tramlines was almost unbearable. Life flowed through the streets like a river in spate and Flavières had sometimes to hug the walls, not to be swept along by it. He found the hairdresser’s without difficulty and peered in through the window like a beggar. There she was, with a complicated apparatus over her head. Yes, it was Renée. She was there. A respite had been granted them.

‘Merci!’
he muttered.
‘Merci!’

Then he passed on and went into the café next door.

‘A glass of beer and a sandwich, please.’

From now on he was going to take care. Of his health, too, for he needed all his energies. He would have to be strong to prevent her going. He would have to be prudent to allay her misgivings. He must avoid any allusion to the past. He must renounce the attempt to make her confess.

He sighed and gave up trying to finish his sandwich. The beer disgusted him. His mouth was foul from too much smoking. He fidgeted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position. He had a view of the pavement in front of the hairdresser’s, so she couldn’t give him the slip. She’d go straight back to the hotel, no doubt. How were they then to get through the long
evening? Should he ask her forgiveness, beg her to forget their quarrels?… Gazing out of the window, he had the impression he was sitting for a very difficult exam: questions were being fired at him and he couldn’t find the answers. He understood himself well enough to know he would never give up trying to find out. What he loved in her was, not that she was Madeleine, but that she was alive. And it was just that, her bubbling vitality, that she declined to share with him. She was too rich, he too poor. All right; but he would never accept being shut out from the secret… Where was he getting to now?

The time passed slowly. From a distance the proprietor of the café watched the peculiar customer who muttered to himself and who seemed unable to take his eyes off the street. And Flavières’ sombre meditations went on. There was no way out, at least no good one. Madeleine was bound to leave him. He had no means of preventing her. The first suitable opportunity, and it would be all over. He would no longer be able to afford a headache and stay in bed for half a day… Perhaps it was already too late. Perhaps, instead of going back to the hotel, she would go to the station or to some ship on the point of sailing. Leaving him with nothing to do but die.

Suddenly Madeleine came out. She appeared as suddenly as if she had risen from the pavement. She was bare-headed. Her hair, done in a bun at the back, was lightly tinted with henna.

Flavières dashed out. She walked in front of him with a leisurely step, her black bag under her arm. She wore the grey suit he had bought her. She was just as he had conjured her up in his dreams. He gained on her a little. It was all exactly like that day on the banks of the Seine, even to the point of his catching a whiff of her perfume, which smelt of the autumn, of
the earth, of dead leaves. Flavières walked like a sleep-walker. One hand was pressed to his heart; his mouth was open. It was altogether too much for him. He stumbled; he brushed past people, who stared at him in astonishment. Was he going to fall down? Or burst into tears?

She walked down, rather aimlessly to all appearances, towards the ruins of the Old Port. She certainly wasn’t making for the hotel. How right he had been to keep her under observation. Was she going to meet someone? Or just taking a walk—enjoying a last half-hour of peace before plunging back into the torments of a relationship that had become impossible? Or was she already elsewhere, a stranger in a strange town?

The growl of bulldozers could be heard behind blackened mutilated walls, plastered with posters. Children played among the ruins. With her easy, swinging walk, Madeleine reached the Quai des Beiges. She stopped for a moment to look at the wreckage of the transporter-bridge. The grey water reflected the yellow hulls of sailing-boats, moored up side by side and sleeping peacefully. A boy standing astride in the stern-sheets of a boat was sculling with an oar over the transom. Here and there a disused lighter was rotting against the wall. This was Marseilles, but it was also Courbevoie. The past merged into the incomprehensible present. Flavières had the feeling he had stepped out of time altogether. And those ripples on which bits of wood and orange peel bobbed up and down—perhaps they didn’t really exist at all. Nor Madeleine either… All the same there was that scent which the smells of the port couldn’t altogether obliterate.

Madeleine followed the quays towards the tidal basins. Was she going to board a liner? Or had she merely come to gaze at
the ships, dreaming of some country she hankered after? Men of nondescript race, dressed in American jumpers and trousers with enormous pockets, wandered casually about the quays and warehouses, but Madeleine seemed not to notice anyone. She studied the water shimmering here and there with a film of oil, then, lifting her head, looked through the forests of masts and spars over to the black walls of Fort Saint-Jean. Here and there a sentry, his rifle at the slope, stood guard over a dump of military stores. Tired as he was, Flavières didn’t even think of stopping. He was waiting for the inevitable.