The Wine of Solitude

by Irene Nemirovsky

  ‘Fortunately, I’ve put all the money in Bella’s name,’ he consoled himself. ‘When nothing’s left there will still be several million, but we have to hold on to that for the end …’

  One day in Paris he spat up more blood than usual. Hélène was alone with him. He had just received a letter informing him that a company in which he held the majority of shares had gone bankrupt. He had read it impassively and all he said to Hélène was, ‘What rotten luck, eh? But things will work out …’

  A little while later blood began to spill in waves from his panting mouth. Hélène managed to stop it as the doctor had showed her, then, while he was resting, pale and weak, she ran out to find her mother. She was in the bathroom with the beautician; the smell of cream, herbs and camphor filled the room. Bella was sitting in front of the three-panelled swing mirror and a woman stood in front of her, covering her face with a thick liquid.

  Hélène, out of breath, cried, ‘Come, come quickly, quickly, he’s coughing up blood again …’

  Bella leaned forward. ‘My God, this is so awful!’ she said, sounding very upset. ‘Go back to him, quickly! I’m not supposed to move …’

  ‘But I’m telling you that he’s coughing up blood, you have to come right now!’

  ‘And I’m telling you that I’m not supposed to move. This is a very delicate procedure, she’s removing the outer layer of skin from my face and it could get damaged. What are you still doing here?’ she shouted angrily. ‘Phone the doctor. Make yourself useful instead of standing there like a statue. I’ll be there in five minutes.’

  When she finally arrived the bleeding had stopped; Karol was calm; he gestured to Hélène. ‘Go out, my darling, I need to talk to your mother …’

  They remained in the room for the rest of the afternoon. A heavy silence filled the apartment. Hélène paced from one window to the other, feeling weak, miserable and lost before the tragic horror of life.

  Finally, her mother came out, in tears. ‘He wants me to give him back the money he gave me,’ she said to Hélène, upset. ‘But I don’t have any left. Barely a hundred thousand francs. He doesn’t know it, but I put everything into that sugar deal where he’s just lost all his money. It’s his fault! He told me it was a wonderful investment. What can you do? That’s the way it goes. But in any case, the poor man wouldn’t have been around very long to enjoy the profits.’

  ‘She’s such a liar,’ thought Hélène. ‘She’s holding on to the money for her lover.’

  ‘Besides,’ Bella continued, ‘I don’t understand what your father is saying. It isn’t possible that he has nothing left, it just isn’t …’

  ‘Why is it impossible?’ Hélène asked coldly.

  ‘Because he had a considerable fortune.’

  ‘Well, he lost it very quickly, that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘What can you do?’ Bella said again, shrugging her shoulders, ‘It’s horrible …’

  She started crying again. In the past she had taken everything she wanted in a grasping, imperious, forceful way, but in the end growing older had broken her down. Men no longer loved her, didn’t obey her as they had before. She reverted to habits that returned from long past, during her childhood, when she was a fat little girl spoiled by her doting mother: whining, whims, tantrums, floods of tears that came so easily, groaning and shouting: ‘I’m so unhappy! What have I done to God to be punished this way?’

  Boris Karol heard what she’d said; he came into the room, barely able to walk; he gently stroked her hair. ‘Don’t cry, my darling. It will all work out. I’ll get better, everything will be fine, we’re just going through a bad patch, just a bad patch,’ he said again, his voice weak and panting.

  When she went out he turned towards Hélène. ‘Poor woman, I shouldn’t have entrusted her with that money.’

  ‘She’s lying, Papa,’ said Hélène through clenched teeth.

  But he turned and looked at her in a rage. ‘Be quiet! How dare you talk about your mother like that?’

  Hélène looked at him, sadly, and didn’t reply.

  ‘Even if it’s true,’ he said more softly, ‘she’s right. I’d lose it all. My luck’s deserted me.’ He hesitated, then repeated, ‘Even if it’s true …’

  He fell silent, but Hélène knew he was thinking, ‘Even if it’s true, I’d rather not know.’

  For a man needs a certain amount of breathable air, a small dose of oxygen and illusion in order to live. He still saw his wife as the proud young woman in a ball dress, the woman who wore lace dressing gowns, put perfume in her long hair and was, to him, the very image of refinement and a happy, luxurious life. He had known other women who were younger or more beautiful, but he had never stopped loving and admiring his own wife. Or perhaps he was simply too proud to admit he’d been defeated, even in his home life. He had always refused to see the truth. Hélène remembered what had happened in St Petersburg when she was still a child and had secretly written words in her schoolbooks that were too obvious, too truthful. He slowly rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Come with me. I want to put my papers in order.’

  She followed him into his office.

  He gestured to her. ‘Take this key,’ he said, his voice weak and breathless. ‘Open the safe.’

  It contained a box of cigars, a bottle of vintage cognac and a few wads of hundred-franc notes in an old purse, a souvenir from his first trip to Monte Carlo. He picked them up, touched them fondly, then pressed them into her hands. ‘My darling, take out the piece of paper that’s in the yellow envelope and read it out clearly, but keep your voice down …’

  Hélène read: ‘Seventeen thousand shares in the Brazilian Match Corporation …’

  He hid his face in his hands and replied in a low, monotonous and muffled tone of voice, ‘Bankrupt.’

  ‘Belgian Steelworks: twenty-two thousand shares …’

  ‘In compulsory liquidation.’

  ‘The thermal baths in Sancta Barbara: twelve thousand shares …’

  ‘Bankrupt.’

  ‘The Casino in Bellevue: five thousand shares …’

  He didn’t even bother to reply, just shrugged his shoulders with a weary little smile. She continued to read; at every name, he replied in the same gloomy voice, ‘There’s nothing we can do at the moment …’

  Hélène slowly folded up the list. ‘That’s everything, Papa.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, ‘thank you, sweetheart. Go to bed now, it’s late. There’s nothing to be done. It’s not my fault, I never dreamed it could be over so fast. Life goes by so quickly …’

  Hélène left him; he had been sleeping alone since he became ill, in another wing of the house, and he never crossed the sitting room at night, as the doctor had given orders to leave the windows open night and day in order to purify the air. Hélène went back to her room. The lights were on in her mother’s bedroom and by going into the bathroom that separated the two back rooms she could see through the glass door, for she had heard the distinct sound of scissors cutting through bundles of thick paper. Bella was sitting on the bed, half naked, her face ready for bed, covered in a mask of cream and her chin held tightly in place by a rubber band. On her knees she had a stack of papers, each folded many times, on which Hélène could read ‘National Savings Bank …’ She was taking some of the dividend coupons from the pile and putting them in an envelope.

  ‘A little present for her lover,’ thought Hélène.

  She pressed her face to the glass and held her breath, staring at her mother. She felt as if she had never seen her so clearly, looked at her so coldly and calmly. She still had a good figure, attractive arms and shoulders, ‘a regal bearing’, a body maintained by lotions, massages, exercise, but, just as if someone had glued the head of a different woman on to a decapitated body, above her beautiful, white, plump shoulders rose the neck of a hag. It was on her neck that the forced slimming regimes took their toll; it consisted of a series of rolls of flesh, furrows, in which her strands of pearls sank. Her fa
ce bore the marks of all the beauty treatments that should have made it smoother and younger, but which had only succeeded in transforming it into a laboratory, a place to perform experiments. But most of all, what no amount of make-up could hide was the soul of this woman who Hélène knew could be egotistical, harsh and flawed, yet still human, capable of tenderness, even if only towards Max, and which old age had turned to stone, transformed into a monster. Harshness and impatience were visible in her cold eyes, wide open between the little straight lines of her painted eyelashes; evil was obvious in her withered mouth; lies, duplicity, cruelty and cunning showed on her pale, tense, immobile face, even through its mask of make-up.

  Very quietly, Hélène walked out. ‘Papa has to see this,’ she thought, ‘he has to get his money back.’

  But when she went through the sitting room and saw her father asleep, looked at his pale face and closed eyes, the little exhausted wrinkles round his lips, she realised that he was about to be free and it would happen very soon. She leaned towards him and gently kissed his forehead.

  ‘Is that you, Bella?’ he whispered and, without opening his eyes, let out a little sigh of satisfaction and went back to sleep.

  He died shortly afterwards. In the hours before, he was calm and slept continuously. He was stretched out in bed; his head had fallen into the space between the bed and the wall; he didn’t have the strength to lift it up; it seemed to be pulled down towards the ground by some invisible force. His long, silvery hair fell over his neck. It was a June day, but cold and damp; he impatiently pushed off the covers, revealing his naked feet, deathly pale and icy cold. Hélène took a delicate foot in her hands and tried to warm it up, but in vain.

  He waved his hand and pointed to his wallet on the table; he gestured to Hélène to open it. It contained five one-thousand-franc notes. ‘For you,’ he whispered, ‘just for you. It’s all I have …’

  Then he groaned and looked at the window. The nurse closed the curtains.

  ‘Are you going to sleep now, Papa?’ asked Hélène.

  He sighed. ‘To sleep …’ he said softly.

  He put his head in his hand and, at the moment of death, his face took on the sweet, confident smile he’d had as a child. Then he closed his weary eyes, let his body go stiff and went to sleep for ever.

  11

  Karol was buried one cold, rainy summer morning. It was early and very few people managed to get up in time to attend, but the flowers were beautiful.

  Hélène felt that not a single tear would find its way from her heart: grief had turned it to stone.

  Bella thought she shouldn’t wear any make-up, so her face was deathly pale and swollen beneath her crêpe veil. She cried as she raised her damp cheeks to be kissed by the old hags plastered in make-up who looked just like her.

  ‘I’m all alone now,’ she said over and over again. ‘Ah, no matter what you say, you can’t replace a husband. But I can’t really cry over him. He suffered so much. He wanted to be at peace …’

  In the car that took them back to the house she sobbed continuously, but as soon as they were inside she called her lover to come over and they began trying to open the dead man’s safe with all his keys.

  ‘Keep going, keep going,’ thought Hélène with cold, vengeful joy, recalling the open wardrobe and the empty box she’d seen a few weeks before. ‘I’d love to see the look on their faces …’

  She looked around her and slowly brought her hands to her face. ‘What am I doing here?’

  She let out a deep groan, but she still couldn’t cry. She held both hands to her chest, as if she were trying to push away some weight that was crushing her. In vain. Her heart was as hard and heavy as stone.

  ‘Why should I stay here?’ she murmured. ‘What am I doing here? What’s keeping me here now that the poor man is dead? I’m twenty-one. My father was much younger than I am when he left home. He knew how to make a good living. He was just fifteen. He told me about it often. I’m only a girl, but I’m strong and brave.’ She clenched her fists.

  Above her head she could hear the sound of doors opening and closing. They were obviously going through the rooms that the dead man had occupied, searching the drawers and the pockets of his clothes.

  Hélène took the money her father had given her and put it in her bag. She had thrown her hat and crêpe veil on to the bed; she put them on again; her hands were trembling, but one thing and one thing alone concerned her at that very moment: how she would take her cat, Tintabel, away with her. Fortunately, he was still young and very light. She put him in a basket and got out a small suitcase that she filled with clothing. Before leaving, she walked over to the mirror and smiled sadly at her reflection. Pale and thin in her black clothing, the crêpe veil wound round her neck, holding a suitcase in one hand and the cat in the other, she looked like a child of immigrants who’d been forgotten at some port. But at the same time a sense of freedom swelled through her, opening her heart. She breathed more easily, nodding her head.

  ‘Yes, it’s the only thing to do. She won’t come looking for me. First of all I’m over twenty-one. And besides, she’ll be only too happy to be rid of me.’

  She rang for the chambermaid. ‘Juliette,’ she said, ‘listen to me carefully. I’m going away. I’m leaving this house for good. You must wait until this evening and then tell my mother that I’ve gone and that it’s pointless looking for me because I’ll never come back.’

  ‘Poor Mademoiselle.’ The chambermaid sighed.

  Hélène felt her heart warm a little; she gave her a kiss.

  ‘I could call a taxi and help you with the suitcase and the cat,’ the young maid said. ‘Or if Mademoiselle wants to leave him here until tomorrow, you could give me your address and I’ll bring him to you?’

  ‘No, no,’ Hélène said quickly, holding Tintabel close to her heart.

  ‘Shall I call a taxi?’

  But Hélène had no idea whatsoever where she would go and refused once more. She opened the door. ‘Go back upstairs, don’t make any noise and make sure you say nothing to her before this evening.’

  She slipped outside, quickly turned the corner and found herself on the Champs Elysées. She sighed and dropped down on to a bench. The first step was easy. A car. A hotel. A bed.

  ‘I want to sleep,’ she thought, but she didn’t move. She breathed in the cool, brisk air with sheer delight. She had wrapped her crêpe veil round her neck but the humidity had made it damp and heavy. She had lived confined in the sick man’s room for such a long time that she felt an overwhelming desire to breathe in fresh air. She took off one glove, slipped her hand under the cover of the basket and gently stroked the purring cat.

  ‘Fortunately, he isn’t heavy. I think I would have stayed rather than leave him behind,’ she thought. ‘Tintabel, my darling, I’m sure you can’t appreciate exactly what saying that means. You’ll see, we’re going to be happy, you’ll see,’ she said to the cat.

  For the first time, floods of heavy tears flowed down her face. She was alone. The rain had left the Champs Elysées deserted. Little by little she began to warm up; her blood started flowing more quickly, more lightly through her veins.

  She raised her head. The wind was picking up. Lights from the little toy stores and sweet shops shone in the rain. It had nearly stopped now; it was just a light drizzle that dried in the wind as it fell. Only the sand on the lower paths was drenched in still, rust-coloured water.

  ‘I never would have left my father,’ thought Hélène, ‘never. But he’s dead, he’s at peace now, and as for me, I’m free, free … free from my house, my childhood, my mother, free from everything I hated, everything that weighed heavily on my heart. That’s all in the past now; I’m free. I’ll work. I’m young and healthy. I’m not afraid of life.’ She looked lovingly at the cloudy sky and the sturdy green trees, their leaves heavy with raindrops; a ray of sunlight appeared between two clouds.

  A child passed by; he bit into an apple, looked at the marks his teeth had ma
de and laughed.

  ‘I should go,’ thought Hélène.

  Then immediately: ‘But why? Nothing’s keeping me here and I have nothing to go to. I’m free. How peaceful …’

  She closed her eyes and listened happily to the wind. It was blowing in from the west so must have come from the coast, carrying with it the smell and taste of the sea. Every now and then the clouds would part to reveal an astonishingly warm, bright ray of sunlight, then close up again to form a thick, heavy blanket. But when the sun shone for a moment everything sparkled, the leaves, the tree trunks, the damp benches and the little light drops of glittering water that fell to the earth from the branches. With warmer cheeks, and holding her hands tightly between her knees, Hélène listened to the wind; she strained to hear it as if listening out for a friend’s voice. It began softly beneath the Arc de Triomphe, rushed through the tops of the trees making them bend, then surrounded Hélène, whistling and swirling with joy. This strong, cleansing wind cleared away the insipid smell of Paris. It shook the trees so hard it seemed as if some heavy, powerful hand were rocking their trunks, a hand as terrible as the hand of God. The chestnut trees swung back and forth, swishing wildly. The wind dried Hélène’s tears, burned her eyes; it seemed to penetrate her head, calmer and lighter now, to warm her very blood. Suddenly she took off her hat, rolled it up in her hand, threw her head back and realised with inexpressible astonishment that she was smiling, that she was gently parting her lips to hold on to the taste of the whistling wind as it swept over her.

  ‘I’m not afraid of life,’ she thought. ‘The past has given me my first experiences of the world. They have been exceptionally difficult, but they have forged my courage and my pride. And that immutable treasure is mine, belongs to me. I may be alone, but my solitude is powerful and intoxicating.’

  She listened to the sound of the wind and felt she could sense, within its raging, a hidden rhythm, solemn and joyous, like the rhythm of the sea. Its sounds, shrill, raucous and piercing at first, merged into a powerful harmony. She could perceive a sense of growing coherence, like the beginning of a symphony, when the astonished listener hears the first notes of a leitmotif, then loses them and, disappointed, seeks them out once more; then suddenly the theme returns and this time you understand that it will never be lost again, that it is of a different order, more beautiful, more intense, and you listen, reassured and confident as the life-giving tempest crashes against your ears in waves.