Dimanche and Other Stories (Vintage International)

by Irene Nemirovsky

She looked at her with detachment, as if she were a strange animal. Ginette, however, was experiencing the sweet satisfaction of having someone to talk to, of feeling that there was at least one human being in the world who would listen to her and understand her better than the bartender or Captain Alfred ever could. She felt her pain melting away and her depression lifting as she spoke.

  “He, Maurice, was my friend … a friend I lived with for ten years … no need for the priest or the mayor. But he died of a stupid throat cancer that killed him in a few months. These things only happen to me,” she muttered, trying to smile as she thought of Maurice’s once plump face, his cheeks yellow and hollowed out as if being eaten from within by his illness. “He used to say, ‘Don’t worry, Ginette! I’ll leave my money to you, not to my slut of a sister.’ But as his illness became worse, he could only think about himself. When they get close to death, people don’t worry much about those they’ll be leaving behind. It’s as if they’re jealous of them, that they think it’s enough just to be alive, and their resentment makes them think, ‘Oh well, let them manage as best they can. Their gratitude isn’t going to bring me back to this earth.’ Of course, when Maurice died, his sister took everything, even the furniture.”

  As she remembered her bed, made of lemon wood and decorated with shining dark bronze angels, cool and smooth to the touch, she felt downcast and her eyes filled with tears. She stretched out her hand feverishly.

  “You’ll give me one more cigarette, won’t you? Let’s not talk about all that anymore. Tell me about yourself. It does one good to see people who are happy and who love each other. He’s good-looking, your friend. Love is wonderful, you’ll see. Of course, there are things you don’t know about yet, a young girl like you, but you’ll be a fast learner, as they say. Ah! You have nothing to worry about.”

  “I know everything there is to know,” Christiane said, taking a peculiar and rather perverse delight in proving herself to be as mature and worldly-wise as this old sinner. She decided that Ginette had no idea who she was and would probably never find out her name.

  “In any case, I’m not obsessed about virginity,” she thought contemptuously.

  She flicked the ash from her cigarette and said, “I believe you have to find out beforehand if you’re physically suited. After all, that’s the most important thing about love, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is! Ah, you’re not stupid, are you? And of course, in one way you’re right, that’s why we were created and put on this earth. But in the long run, that’s not what keeps you together. What I miss most is … affection,” she said, having searched for a more intimate, gentle word to express what she felt. “I can assure you, I’m not looking for a boy who’s good-looking, although of course I’d prefer that,” she said, her mouth tightening in a little smile, while her eyes stayed fixed and sad. “If I could find a man who was kind, even if he was old, who would let me have a small monthly allowance and give me friendship, trust, and affection … but it’s difficult to find someone like that. They’re all the same: ‘Hello, good evening, lie down over there.’ And they’re mean as well, and rude. When you’ve known someone who respected you, who introduced you to his friends, who called you his wife. His wife, imagine that,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “That tells you all you need to know … And then from one day to the next, nothing, alone in the world, alone like a dog. Well, we’ll have to hope things will improve. I’m not asking for the moon; after all, I’m over forty. I know I don’t look it, that I look young, but inside,” she said, gesturing vaguely at her heart beating beneath the waist-length string of false pearls, “inside I feel the years, and they haven’t been easy at all … You’re starting life in the right way, mademoiselle.”

  “Yes,” said Christiane mechanically.

  She was overwhelmed by sadness and hardly listened to the woman, just nodded vaguely in agreement; she was looking at the time. Nearly four o’clock … She couldn’t help thinking, “If he really loved me, if he felt affection for me, like the woman says, he’d be here, he wouldn’t have left me alone tonight in this bar … And what is it he has to tell me that’s so important? I’m scared.” For the first time in her life she felt a tremor of fear about the unknown. It felt as if an icy hand were slowly crushing her heart. “You look for love and all you get are boys who want to sleep with you or who only want your dowry.”

  Like a changing stage set, life seemed to unfold in front of her, revealing dark and terrible depths.

  “I’ve drunk too much champagne. My head feels fuzzy and this woman is annoying me. What she’s saying has nothing to do with me.” And she looked at Ginette in the way that, from the shore, one might notice a man struggling in the water but decide to ignore him because he’s too far away and his cries too faint and he looks more like a grotesque doll than a human being.

  Ginette was still talking, but she was now so tired and so drunk that she had forgotten Christiane was there; her audience was herself and her memories.

  She clutched her gloves in her hand and said, “… He woke me up. He was calling out, ‘Ginette, I don’t feel well. I’m cold.’ I brought him a hot water bottle as quickly as I could, but he got irritable. He wasn’t ever very patient. He said, ‘For God’s sake, hurry up, you stupid girl. Can’t you see I’m going?’ Then he heaved a great sigh and said, ‘Leave it, my poor girl.’ I sat on the bed and he went on, ‘I would have liked at least to leave you the furniture but it didn’t work out.’ He sat up, kissed me, and lay back down. After that he didn’t know me anymore, he called me Jeanne—that was the name of the woman who had left him. Then he died.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek; she looked at Christiane. “Your life must be so exciting and happy.”

  Christiane shrugged. Actually, at four in the morning and given the circumstances, life was not that exciting. There were many things that did not bear examining too closely. Gerald, for example. But she put that out of her mind with a shake of her head and a frown, hastily pouring herself another glass of champagne and drinking it. No, the life of a young woman, even one as happy and fulfilled as she, was not much fun. There was always that uncertainty, that anxiety, that search for happiness, for the man who would make you happy … Later, once you were married, you could either be happy or unhappy, but at least you were calm, you were settled, you knew where you were. Christiane’s life was secret and difficult … There were so many things a young girl agreed to “so as not to look like a silly goose,” “to be the same as the others,” “because she doesn’t have any silly prejudices,” “because you have to experience everything,” “because real life is fantastic,” “because boys like that …” You weren’t quite yet a woman, nor were you still a girl; you were eager yet exhausted.

  The door opened and Gerald appeared. Christiane started, as if waking from a dream.

  “Here’s your friend,” said Ginette. Tactfully she moved her chair back, but Christiane had already stopped seeing her; in her eyes she was now part of the decor.

  “Jerry, at last!” she exclaimed.

  He spoke hurriedly, in a low voice. “Listen, I’ve been with Laclos. I’m exhausted. I’ve been at his house since nine o’clock yesterday evening. Things are serious. He’s allowed himself to get involved in something nasty. Bartender, a whiskey—Black Label.”

  He was silent for a moment, then went on, “Have you heard about the sugar scandal? Yes, of course you have…. Well, just imagine, the man who personified austerity in my eyes, who couldn’t find enough words with which to condemn the least dishonesty or impropriety in political life, imagine, this man is in the thick of it! It’s a scandal, he’ll be called in front of the House, might even be arrested, who knows … Oh, I’d had my doubts for ages, but I didn’t think he’d be stupid enough to get caught! He’s got himself into a hole … It’s a simple matter for me! I must choose between him and Beralde, his opponent. Laclos won’t recover; this business will break him. He’s admitted some terrible things to me. But if I dissoci
ate myself from him, I’ll immediately be entitled to Beralde’s gratitude. What do you think? Of course it will have to be done subtly and carefully. I’m talking to you,” he said, looking at her with cold eyes in which there was just a glimmer of real feeling. “Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m talking to you now as if you were already what I hope you will be in a few weeks’ time, my wife …”

  “And what about … her?” Christiane asked. This was how they referred to Gérard’s mistress.

  “Her? Oh, it’s over, of course! Laclos won’t wait for the police to nab him; he will leave and she will go with him.”

  “You don’t think she might leave him for you?” Gérard shrugged.

  “She probably doesn’t have a penny …”

  He wiped his brow slowly. In spite of everything, he was sad about Martine Laclos and, as he was still very young, now that the night’s excitement had subsided he felt weary and shaken and had a sudden urge to cry. But he pulled himself together. He was pleased to have made a decision at last. Christiane was an intelligent girl, and they would make an effective couple. Boehmer Sewing Machines had suffered comparatively little in the crisis. He imagined Christiane lying in his arms, attentive, concerned, perhaps slightly disappointed, the shape of her lovely body … Suddenly he felt desire and he murmured in a low voice, “So we’re engaged, darling …”

  As she left, Christiane, remembering Ginette, looked around for her and instinctively held out her hand for her to shake. Ginette gave a start, got up, and gave an awkward little curtsy, as if laughing at herself. Then, looking affectionately at the girl, she asked quietly, “Happy?”

  “Everything is working out just as I wanted,” Christiane said, her usual frosty arrogance returning.

  But Ginette murmured humbly, “I’m very happy for you. Allow me to wish you a Happy New Year … and thank you.”

  “Oh, nonsense!” Christiane said with a shrug, but the sad voice and grateful manner had touched her; suppressing a smile, she thought, “Poor woman … Well, here I am starting the year with a Good Deed, like when I was a girl guide …”

  She said, “Happy New Year to you, too, Ginette.”

  Ginette’s cheeks flushed slightly and her heart beat faster. These good wishes at the beginning of the New Year, and the beautiful young woman’s smile, would surely ward off bad luck.

  She half-closed her eyes, as if memorizing Christiane’s voice and words, then said, “Thank you, mademoiselle. Will I … will I see you again?”

  “Probably.”

  Ginette gave a muffled sigh.

  “I’d like that … It would make me happy … Happy New Year and good night.”

  After Christiane left, Ginette’s luck turned at once: it was as if those good wishes had an immediate effect, like roses that are in full bloom when they are delivered from the florist and instantly start spreading their delicious if fleeting scent. The door opened and a group of men came in. They were drunk, merry and happy, as fifty-year-old men are who have abandoned the provinces, and their wives, for the night. They invited Ginette to supper in a Montmartre brasserie, and toward morning one of them, a factory owner from Roubaix with smooth red cheeks and a shiny, bald head circled by a crown of gray hair, took her back to his room. It was lunchtime when they parted. The streets were bright under a cold, pink wintry sun, and families were on their way to a formal New Year’s Day lunch with a grandmother or an aunt. The parents walked arm in arm, the better-off women wearing a fox fur, the others carrying a new bag or gloves; the children walked in front, dressed in their Sunday best with white fur-lined jackets and leggings, each holding a little bunch of mistletoe or holly in one hand and clutching a new toy in the other.

  Ginette strolled along happily, buoyed up with exhilaration and hope. She thought the factory owner from Roubaix had liked her; she felt the calm pride and self-satisfaction of a good worker at the end of the day. She remembered his words: “When I come again next month, I’ll get in touch. We didn’t have a bad time together, did we? I’ll give you more next time and we’ll eat in a little bistro I know, where the patron does his own cooking. I hope you enjoy good food.”

  “Who knows,” thought Ginette. “Some love affairs do start like this. He seemed a bit stingy, as men are when you first meet them. But he liked me. I look good today, and I know it doesn’t take much, just the least glimmer of hope. One can change so quickly.”

  She opened her bag, and through a light cloud of perfumed powder looked smilingly at her parted lips and shining eyes reflected in the little mirror.

  “It was that girl yesterday who brought me luck,” she said to herself, happily picturing Christiane’s face to herself. “If it hadn’t been for her … I was at the end of my tether …”

  She crossed the Seine. As she glanced down at the water, she realized with surprise that she walked past this spot four times a day but had never had the courage to plunge into the dark, swirling water. The pale yellow sun was now disappearing behind a mass of clouds. She thought about her unhappiness the day before and how she had walked aimlessly through the cold, empty streets, thinking about the inevitable approach of the night when she would end up on one of those benches in the freezing darkness, alone, lost, useless, doomed. But that young thing had listened to her, had said sweetly, “Happy New Year, Ginette,” so genuinely, and had stretched out her hand, as if to a friend. She gave a hoarse little sigh.

  “My God, the things one can survive! It’s only when it’s over that you’re surprised you had the strength to get through it. That girl … I knew she felt for me. The way she said, ‘Yes, yes, I understand.’ Ah, I’d like to be able to do something for her, but what? At that age, one does such silly things … If there had been someone around when I was young to teach me about life, I wouldn’t have ended up like this. Life … that’s something I know about. I’ve seen a few things. I could advise her, stop her from making mistakes, prevent years of unhappiness, who knows? She’s rich, of course, and only twenty. Twenty,” she thought sentimentally, with just a touch of bitterness. “As the song goes, ‘I’d like to be that age once more, and know what I know now.’”

  And she imagined Christiane, a few years on, coming to visit her in secret, treating her as a mentor and confidante. She would never breathe a word to anyone about the visits. She would listen to her, suggest what she should do. She would say, “No my child, don’t do that. This man you’re telling me about, this friend of your husband’s, I don’t trust him. You must believe me, my child, I know about life, I could be your mother.”

  “Yes, I could have been her mother,” she sighed, thinking sadly about the passing of the years. But she imagined herself handing on love letters, or arranging meetings, always being discreet, reliable, and loyal. She thought how wonderful it would be if there were someone in the world who needed her, whom she could help, who might owe her, yes, might owe Ginette, the worn-out old tart, her happiness.

  She hummed to herself as she climbed the stairs of the Hotel de Berne and went into her dark, stuffy room; then she stretched out on her bed and fell peacefully asleep.

  At that very moment the first white engagement bouquets were beginning to arrive at Christiane’s home. Boehmer was nervously rubbing his pale, dry hands together as he waited for the wealthy old aunt whom Gérard had asked to make the formal request for Christiane’s hand. Mme. Boehmer, her heavy features flushed with heat, emotion, and indigestion, was wiping her eyes with a tear-stained handkerchief as she talked to her sister Hortense Vallier, of the Vallier de l’Orne family.

  “She told us this morning. Not a word to me, or her father … ‘I’ve decided … Gérard and I … I’ll do this, I’ll do that …’ Parents are apparently only useful to pay the bills. Well, we’ll see if they’ll be happier and cleverer than us. Poor child, I hope she’ll be happy.”

  “There, there, calm down, Laure,” Mme. Vallier said, her thoughts turning to the gift she would have to buy. “Laure can’t expect me to go mad. Now’s not the time for
it, not with what Georges and Jacqueline cost me!”

  Meanwhile, Christiane was telephoning her friends. “Tonight I’m going to celebrate the end of my single life. The official engagement party will be next week, but this evening I’m inviting a few friends around: Chantal, Dominique, Marie-Solange, Jérôme, Marie-Pierre, Jean-Luc. We’ll go dancing.”

  Happiness and pride shone in her face; yet it had a harsh, sardonic expression only partly disguised by her smooth skin and youth. Her cold, mocking eyes, her stiffly held head, the slightly contemptuous pursing of her thin lips, all hinted at the woman she would become in the 1940s, the woman who would say, “The president has sounded out my husband, but I believe …” and “It all depends on England,” and “Now is the time to forget one’s personal preoccupations and think only of the party!” and “Gérard, you must talk to the minister …”

  It was late, almost midnight, when a group of young women in ball gowns, holding party streamers, arrived at the little bar on the Rue du Mont Thabor. One of them was waving a stick decorated with ribbons and tiny bells, laughing as she said in her shrill and childish voice, “So this is where you’ve been meeting for the last two years, Cri-Cri and Jerry, and no one knew about it? Where did you find such a wonderful place? You’re amazing, you know. Listen, I’m going to take it over, I shall inherit it!” Some young men came in, Gérard among them.

  Ginette was sitting in her usual place. The morning’s lightheartedness had long since gone, and her face and shoulders sagged. Nobody looked at her. Nobody said a word to her. The bar had the sordid, grimy look of the morning after; the little flags decorating the bottles of whiskey drooped sadly, and some of the mistletoe berries had fallen on the floor, where they were crushed under people’s heels. The bartender had taken Ginette to one side. He was a kind if weak man, but he believed the first of January to be an important date in the calendar for its potential moral uplift. It was the day when you could write off the previous year’s mistakes, get rid of bad payers, reclaim what was owed to you, and feel the stronger and better for it. He had therefore made it clear to Ginette that she would need to settle her debts. As he thought about his wife and children, who could end up on the streets because of his generosity, he steeled himself with an interior monologue of self-evident truth: “It’s all well and good, but I mustn’t be an easy touch; if I fall ill tomorrow I’d like to know who’d give me credit?” Aloud he said, “And another thing, after tonight it’s over, my girl, okay? You’ll have to find somewhere else. The customers feel the same way as I do; they’ve had enough of being cadged off.”