That Mad Ache & Translator

by Françoise Sagan

  “Just one more bridge now,” announced Antoine as he made the turn toward Marnes. “How many bridges you and I have crossed together!” This was the first allusion to their recent escapade. All at once Lucile recalled how she’d stayed hidden behind his jacket in that little café, something she’d entirely forgotten about. Feeling flustered, she replied, “Yes, that’s quite true — it’s…”

  And as she vaguely waved her hand in the air, Antoine caught it in his and squeezed it tenderly, not letting go. They were entering the Parc de Saint-Cloud. “Let’s see,” thought Lucile, “he’ll hold my hand while we cross Saint-Cloud, it’s springtime… Nothing to panic over — I’m not a sixteen-year-old girl, after all.” But her heart was throbbing wildly and it felt as if all the blood was flowing out of her face and hands and was collecting in her throat and choking her.

  When he pulled over to the side of the road, Lucile’s head was spinning. He took her in his arms, kissed her passionately, and she could feel him trembling as much as she was. He sat back up, looked at her, and she returned his gaze without flinching at all, and then he reached for her again. This time he kissed her slowly, deliberately, kissed her temples, her cheeks, then back to her mouth, and as she looked at this calm, sensitive face hovering just above her own, she knew beyond a doubt that she would see it again many times just like this, and she knew that from this moment on, she would be like putty in his hands. She had totally forgotten that one can hunger for someone so deeply. She must have been in a long, deep sleep. For how long? Two, three years? But she couldn’t think of any other face that had had such an impact.

  “What’s come over me?” whispered Antoine uneasily while nuzzling Lucile’s hair, “What’s come over me?”

  As she smiled, Antoine felt her cheek rubbing against his, and he smiled back.

  “We’ve got to rejoin the others,” said Lucile softly.

  “No,” said Antoine, “No…”, but a moment later he released her, and the sudden loss they both felt left no doubt as to the power of what was happening to them.

  Antoine quickly started the car and Lucile crookedly put her makeup back on. When they pulled up at the restaurant, they saw the Rolls was already there, and they realized in a flash that they could have passed it in Paris, that it could have been behind them as they entered Saint-Cloud, and it could easily have come up behind them and surprised them in its headlights, like two birds in the night. This hadn’t occurred to them for a second. But there it was now, reigning over the small square, a symbol of power and luxury and of their ties to the others, and the little blue convertible parked next to it seemed ridiculously childish and vulnerable.

  Lucile was taking off her makeup. She felt totally exhausted and she was scrutinizing the tiny wrinkles that were beginning to appear at the corners of her eyes and mouth, wondering what meaning they had, and who or what had provoked them. These were not wrinkles due to passion or to hard work. There was no doubt that they were signs of her easy life, her idleness, her frivolity — and, for a brief moment, she revolted herself. She wiped her forehead with one hand, thinking to herself that in the past year she’d been having more and more of these flashes of self-loathing. She would have to go see her doctor soon. Surely it was just a matter of blood pressure. All she’d need to do was take some vitamins, and then she could once again start wasting her life (or dreaming it away) every bit as gaily as before. She heard herself saying, with a trace of rancor, “Charles… Why did You let me go off alone with Antoine?”

  The moment she said it, she realized that she was seeking to provoke a scene, a drama — anything other than this calm self-loathing. And she knew Charles would be the one to pay the price, the one who would suffer. It was one thing for her to be drawn only to extremes, but it was quite another to demand that others indulge this peculiarity of hers. Anyway, the query had already been launched, and, like a javelin, it was now sailing across her bedroom and across the landing and was heading straight for Charles, who was unhurriedly undressing for the night in his own bedroom. He was so tired that for a brief moment he thought he might dodge her question and just say,

  “Oh, You know, Lucile — I was just worried I was catching a cold.” She wouldn’t have asked for more clarity; her quests for truth, her moments russes, were never terribly long-lived. But at this point he felt a need to know, perhaps to suffer, for he had long since lost his youthful craving for security, a craving once so deep that it had caused him to overlook, for twenty-some years, all the escapades of his various mistresses.

  “I thought You’d taken a shine to him.” He didn’t turn around, but just stared at himself in the mirror, noting with surprise that he hadn’t turned pale.

  “So You’re quite determined to throw me into the arms of any man I’m attracted to?”

  “Don’t be so harsh on me, Lucile. Things are looking too worrisome this time.”

  But in fact, she’d already crossed his bedroom and was now wrapping her arms around his neck while cooing, “I’m sorry, so sorry” in a soft, blurry voice. As he looked in the mirror, all he could see, spilling over her shoulder, was Lucile’s dark hair — a long shock of it falling onto her arm — and he felt surging up in him a familiar constriction of the heart, a familiar anguish: “She’s all in the world I care for, and she’ll never truly be mine. She’ll leave me. How could I ever have imagined loving any other shock of hair, or any other human being?” Clearly, he mused, love must derive its power solely from this impression of irreplaceability.

  “I didn’t really mean what I said,” said Lucile. “It’s just that I don’t like it when — ”

  “You don’t like it when I’m so damn obliging,” said Charles, now turning to face her. “But I assure You that I wasn’t trying to oblige You. I just wanted to see if I’d been right about something, that’s all.”

  “If You’d been right about what ?”

  “About the look on Your face as the two of you arrived at the restaurant. About that way You had of not looking at him. I know You too well, Lucile. He’s turned Your head.”

  Lucile dropped her arms to her sides. “Well, so what?” she said. “Is it set in stone somewhere that if you’re attracted to one person then that means some other person has to suffer? Won’t I ever be able to find inner peace? Is this some kind of law of nature? And what have You done with all Your free time when apart from me? And with… with…”

  She was growing confused and starting to sputter, but at the same time she had the very clear sensation of having always, her whole life through, been misunderstood.

  “I never took any advantage of my free time away from You,” said Charles as a sad little smile crossed his face, “because I’m in love with You, as You know very well. And as for Your freedom, it seems to me that life is wide open to You. You’re drawn to Antoine, and that’s a fact. Either You’ll follow up on it or You won’t, and either I’ll find out about it or I won’t. But there’s nothing I can do about it in any case.”

  He had stretched himself out on his bed, in his dressing gown, while Lucile was standing near him. He sat up on the edge of the bed.

  “It’s true,” said Lucile dreamily, “It’s true… I’m very drawn to him.”

  They looked at each other. “If something started up between us, would You suffer?” said Lucile unexpectedly.

  “Yes,” said Charles. “Why?”

  “Because if You said no, I would leave You,” she replied starkly, and then stretched out partly on Charles’ bed, her head on her hand, her knees pulled up to her chin, and her face filled with relief. In but two minutes, she was fast asleep, and Charles Blassans-Lignières had a very rough time sharing the blankets equitably with her.

  CHAPTER 7

  He got her number from Johnny and called her the next morning. At four o’clock, they met up at his place, in the half-bohemian, half-conventional room that he lived in on the Rue de Poitiers. As she entered, she didn’t even see the room — all she saw was Antoine who kissed her without say
ing anything, not even a simple greeting, as if they hadn’t been apart for an instant since Saint-Cloud. What then took place is that which takes place between a man and a woman who are invaded by a mutual fire.

  Within moments, they were both sure they had never before known so intense a pleasure. They lost track of the boundaries of their bodies, and soon it became utterly irrelevant how modest or how crude were the words they were exchanging with each other. The notion that in only an hour or two they would have to part struck them as obscene. They already knew that from now on, whatever the other one did would always be welcome, and as they whisperingly rediscovered the vulgar, awkward, and puerile words of physical love, and also the pride and the gratitude for pleasure given and pleasure received, they constantly tossed them back and forth. And they knew that this moment was truly rare and that life offers no higher reward than the discovery of one’s long-sought missing half. Physical passion — once unforeseeable but now unavoidable — was going to turn what might have been merely a fling into a full-blown love affair.

  The sky was darkening but neither one of them was willing to look at the clock. They smoked side by side, staring up at the ceiling, retaining on their bodies the mingled scents of love and tussling and sweat, and together they breathed them in as if they were warriors exhausted from a long fight from which both had emerged victorious. The sheets were lying scattered on the floor, and Antoine’s hand was resting on Lucile’s hip.

  “I’ll never again be able to run into you without blushing,” said Lucile, “nor watch you leave without it hurting, nor talk to you in front of someone else without looking away.”

  Turning sideways and propping her head up on her hand, she surveyed the messy room and the narrow window. Antoine moved his hand to her shoulder and observed how straight and smooth her back was; a gulf of fifteen years, indeed an entire lifetime, separated her from Diane. As she looked back towards him, he squeezed her shoulder and then reached over and touched her face, gripping her lower jaw almost fiercely. He clenched his fingers around her face, covering her mouth with his palm. They stared at each other and, without exchanging a word, promised each other that no matter what, they would somehow share a thousand more hours just like these last few.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Wipe that frown off Your face, old boy,” said Johnny. “We’re at a cocktail party, not a horror show!”

  And he handed a glass of wine to Antoine, who smiled vacuously while focusing intently on the front door. They’d been there for an hour, it was already around nine o’clock, and there was still no sign of Lucile. What the hell was she doing? She’d promised him she would come. He clearly recalled how she’d said, “Tomorrow, tomorrow,” as she was walking out of his apartment. He hadn’t seen her since then. Could she be mocking him? After all, she was living off of Blassans-Lignières — she was his mistress — and she could surely find young and willing males like him anywhere she looked. Maybe he’d simply dreamed the whole Rouge et Noir afternoon of the day before, or maybe for her it had merely been one of countless similar casual flings. Or else maybe he was just a conceited fool.

  Diane, meanwhile, was heading his way with their host tight in tow — an American who everyone had told him was “nuts about literature”.

  “William, of course You know Antoine,” she chirped confidently, as if it were inconceivable that anyone could be unaware that Antoine was her lover.

  “Why yes, to be sure!”, replied William, casting an admiring glance at Antoine.

  “So what’s next — is he going to open my mouth and inspect my teeth?” thought Antoine to himself, trying to contain his annoyance.

  “William’s been telling me all sorts of racy anecdotes about Scott Fitzgerald,” resumed Diane. “He was a close friend of William’s father. Antoine simply adores Fitzgerald. You’ve got to tell him everything, William, and don’t hold anything back…”

  But whatever else she said was lost on Antoine, for Lucile had just come in. Her eyes darted rapidly all around the room, and all at once Antoine understood Johnny’s earlier quip: her face radiated terror, exactly as his must have just five short minutes ago. She caught sight of him and stopped her scan, and right then, out of pure reflex, Antoine, overcome by a flash of desire, started to move towards her. “I’m going to go right up to her, take her in my arms, kiss her on the mouth, and the hell with everyone else.” Even from afar, Lucile detected his urge and for a split second she almost let him go ahead and do it. The night and the day had just been too long for her to bear, and then Charles had been so late coming home from work that for two whole hours she’d been frightened sick that they’d get to the party too late. And so there they stood, motionlessly facing each other now like two cars idling at a red light, and then suddenly, without warning, Lucile turned away with a quick jerk reflecting her exasperated sense of helplessness. She couldn’t let Antoine do this, and she tried to convince herself that her motivation was to spare Charles, but deep down she knew that she was really reacting out of fear.

  Johnny, standing nearby, gave her a smile and looked at her with a peculiar sense of concern. She returned his smile and he took her arm to lead her to the buffet.

  “You gave me a fright,” said Johnny.

  “I did? How?” She looked him straight in the eye. Oh, no — was it already all starting, after just one day? Your coterie of confidants, and your friends (the ones who know and the ones who don’t), and all the snickering behind your back…? For God’s sake, please, no…

  Johnny shrugged his shoulders. “I’m terribly fond of You,” he said gently. “You don’t give a damn, but I care a great deal for You.”

  Something in his voice touched Lucile. She looked at him. He must be terribly lonely. “Why wouldn’t I give a damn?”

  “Because all You really care about is the things You Yourself like. Everything else is just in Your way. Don’t You agree? Anyway, the chance to be part of our little circle here is pretty nice. And it’ll let You stay sane a bit longer than otherwise.”

  She heard his words but they didn’t register. Antoine had disappeared in a jungle of heads somewhere at the other end of the salon. Where was he? “Where are you, my crazy fool, my lover, Antoine, where have you hidden that great big bony body of yours, what good do those beautiful yellow eyes do you if you don’t see me here, just a few steps away from you, my fool, my darling fool?” A wave of tenderness washed over her. What was Johnny prattling on about, now? Well, yes — obviously she only cared about things she liked — and right now, what she liked was Antoine. It struck her that for the first time in many years, something in her life was dazzlingly clear.

  Johnny pondered this sudden clarity with a mixture of envy and sadness. There was no doubt that he was genuinely fond of Lucile — he liked her reticence when in public, the way certain things bored her, the way she laughed. But now he was seeing her face afresh — a younger-seeming, rather girlish face, almost wild from longing — and unbidden, a memory from deep in his past bubbled up of how he, too, had once felt such a wild longing, more powerful than anything else in the world. It had been Roger. Yes, he too had waited anxiously for someone to appear at salon gatherings, and he too had bounced between feelings that life was ending and that it was beginning to blossom again. But how much truth was there, and how much fantasy was there, in all these love stories?

  Anyway, this brash young Antoine certainly hadn’t wasted a moment — wasn’t it only yesterday morning that he’d called, asking for Lucile’s phone number? And so calmly, too, as if it were merely a routine kind of man-to-man thing. It was odd, but there definitely was, in their connection, a sort of masculine camaraderie, and it had never once crossed Johnny’s mind to tell Claire about that phone call, even though it would surely have given her a frisson of secret delight. No, there were still a few little things that Johnny wouldn’t do for Claire, even though, God knows, he needed money terribly.

  Diane hadn’t noticed Antoine’s spontaneous step towards Lucile, since her
dress had miraculously gotten snagged on the corner of a low pedestal at the very moment when Lucile walked in, so that only William had been caught off guard by the young man’s abortive attempt to dart off just as Scott Fitzgerald’s name came up. But in any case, only a moment later Antoine had regained his composure and was helping unsnag Diane, although as he did so, a few bits of glitter fell from her dress to the floor.

  “Antoine, your hands are trembling,” said Diane a little too loudly. Generally, she addressed Antoine with vous when they were in public, the hidden intent being that she could then audibly drop a tu every so often, as if by accident — but lately, these little “accidents” had been taking place just a tiny bit too often, and Antoine despised her for that. In fact, for the past two days he’d despised most everything about her. He couldn’t stand her sleepiness, her voice, her elegant style, her way of moving — in short, he resented her very existence and the fact that the only thing she represented now for him was an entrée into these glitzy salons where Lucile might show up. And on top of it all, he hated himself for not having been able to bring himself to touch her since yesterday. She’d soon notice it and would get very upset. In this arena, Antoine had always acted very properly and reliably, in that curious way that a blend of sensuality and insensitivity tends to bring about. He had no idea, though, that this very weakness of his was a source of hope for Diane, who at times was terrified of her very efficient, unexpressive, unromantic lover. Thus it is that human passion is fueled by the slightest scrap, even by signals that are diametrically opposed to one’s hopes.