On that morning in March, Gladys got up late and, as usual, before she had properly opened her eyes her hand automatically reached for the mirror. Ever since she had become a woman, this was her first gesture, her first thought when she woke up. For a long while she studied her face affectionately. The golden colour of her hair had darkened slightly; it was now that pale, light colour that was then called ‘ash’. She pushed back her dishevelled hair with one hand and tilted her long white neck. Her wide dark eyes seemed always to smile with a kind of secret amusement when she looked at her admirers, but when she was alone they grew sadder and deeper, clouded over, and her dilated, pulsating pupils made her eyes look strange and anxious.
Gladys was, and always would be, profoundly aware of her beauty. At every moment of every day she felt it was her inner peace. Her life was uncomplicated: get dressed, be attractive, meet with a lover, change clothes, be attractive … Sometimes she would think, ‘I’m forty years old.’ Before the war that was a terrible age to be, the ‘upper limit’. Women like her, whose beauty had remained intact at forty, were rare.
At such thoughts she would immediately frown and force herself to forget. She was so beautiful … It was so easy to forget …
She opened the shutters; the roses were swaying in the wind. She started to dress and complete her long, meticulous beauty regime.
Women came to see her, then left. She was always surrounded by women who, each and every one of them, were no more than a pale imitation of her, who copied her dresses, her whims, her smiles. Gladys loved this circle of painted faces that leaned so eagerly towards her, the jingling of jewellery as they followed her, their bright, false faces, full of envy and hatred, on which she could read a compliment even more easily than in the eyes of the men in love with her. Secretly they studied how she moved. They tried to bend their stiff bodies, held tightly in their corsets, with the nonchalant grace of Gladys. They moved in a herd from Cannes to Monte Carlo, turned up at Mimi Meyendorf’s, then at Clara Mackay’s or Nathalie Esslenko’s. All they thought about was stealing men from each other, and especially from Gladys Eysenach, the richest and happiest of all of them. They chattered, laughed, babbled, leaned forward lightly to kiss Gladys’s cheek.
‘My darling, my dear Gladys, how beautiful you looked last night …’
Large hats decorated with roses, held in place with gold pins, bobbed up and down all around Gladys. Tall Louis XV canes, the fad that summer, echoed against the paving stones of Sans-Souci.
Gladys looked at her women friends and smiled, half closing her beautiful eyes; sometimes she reproached herself for the rather base pleasure she took from having these women around her. ‘But they do so amuse me,’ she thought.
That day, when Gladys was ready, Lily Ferrer came in. She was Bavarian and had an unpleasant husky accent; she was tall and massive; her face was so plastered with make-up that it looked like a mask. Gladys liked her best: she felt towards women who were older than she was an extreme indulgence and affectionate pity.
They kissed. They sometimes spoke of intimate things, but in the way that women do: whimsically, frivolously, instinctively hiding their most secret thoughts yet revealing them, in spite of themselves, through a gibe or a sigh, using their light-hearted words to cover up some bitter experience that wafted through their vain words like the scent of incense or salt.
They started talking about the ball they’d attended the previous evening.
‘Nathalie drove me mad for a week wanting to know what dress and jewellery I’d be wearing,’ Gladys told her, laughing. ‘She’s just a little gold-digger from Central Europe who got herself a husband because he was off guard! And oh how it shows! Since I didn’t want to tell her, she thought I’d be covered in fabulous precious stones and wearing my Golconda jewellery, so she threw on everything she owned. She was flashing like one of those jewel-studded gilt boxes that hold the relics of saints.’ Gladys smiled as she thought of her white dress and bare arms, without any jewellery whatsoever, her hands with no rings, and the murderous look Nathalie had flashed her, crushed beneath her diamond armour. ‘Are you enjoying the social scene this summer?’
‘It’s deadly dull. But Gladys, where else would you go?’
‘I don’t know. But I want to leave. I’ve been feeling sad for some time now, weary. I feel a kind of cruel restlessness,’ she said lightly, trying to find the right words, then slowly shrugging her shoulders. ‘Yes, that’s the way I feel …’
‘But why?’ asked Lily Ferrer, screwing up her eyes. ‘Are you in love with someone?’
‘Oh, Lord no! I’m faithful to Mark.’
Lily Ferrer nodded. ‘Men who loved you when you were twenty, and who continue to see you the way you looked then are impossible to replace.’
‘Yes,’ said Gladys.
She thought that she would never forget, never be able to replace Richard. He had died two years before; that day, her life had changed for ever. Why? Ah! It was … impossible to put into words. At first, she hadn’t understood the depth of her loss. She had thought, ‘Mark …’ But no, nothing could replace Richard. They had spent their whole life together, on ships and in hotel suites. He had died in New York, in a room at the Plaza, soon after they had arrived. He had come into her room in the middle of the night, while she was asleep, and leaned over the bed. Waking with a start, she had seen his pale face coming closer and, for the very first time, a look of gentle weakness in his eyes. She recalled the noise of New York beneath their windows, the regular flashes of harsh light that shone through the curtains like the beacon of a lighthouse.
‘Don’t call anyone,’ he’d said. ‘This is the end.’
He had murmured something else as she took him in her arms for his very last kiss: ‘My poor darling, poor darling …’
She hadn’t understood then. She had grabbed his hand, but it was stiff; he was dead. Happiness is such a terrible gift when it is the kind of happiness that is too complete, too daring, and which ends, as all things must. From that day on she had begun to sense, through discreet little signs, that for her the light of day would falter and gradually fade away.
A few months after his death, she had been astonished to learn that he’d had a mistress throughout their entire marriage; she was an elderly actress, his confidante in his financial and political dealings. In his Will he requested that Gladys provide an allowance to this woman and she had scrupulously carried out his wishes. Yes, he had been unfaithful to her and she had also been unfaithful, but she had been happy with him. She would never be as happy with anyone else.
She sighed and looked sadly out at the garden. Dark little roses were growing beneath her window. She smiled at them. She loved roses.
‘What do you think of those new coloured wigs?’ Lily Ferrer asked.
‘They’re so hideous! Did you see the one that Laure was wearing last night, the aubergine one? Why did the Bilibines leave?’
‘They lost money gambling.’
‘I think that women who love gambling are happy,’ said Gladys.
‘Happy? Why bring up happiness? You’re happy, Gladys,’ the old woman said, sighing, ‘but you don’t know it yet. You’ll see, when you’re my age. When all is said and done, there is only one truth, only one kind of happiness, and that is youth. How old are you? Surely no more than thirty? Well, you’ve got ten years of happiness left. Forty is a terrible enough age. After that, well, I’d say that you adapt, you become less demanding. You enjoy the little pleasures of life,’ she said, sighing, thinking of her lover. ‘But when you’re forty you don’t realise you’re getting old. You live in the illusion that you’re only twenty, that you will be twenty for all of eternity, then suddenly it hits you. It can be anything: a word, a look in some man’s eyes, a child who wants to get married, oh, it’s horrible …’
Gladys shivered and tried to hide it by forcing herself to laugh.
‘Do what I do. Don’t count the years as they pass and they will only mark you lightly.’
&
nbsp; ‘Do you think so?’ the woman murmured doubtfully.
‘I want to go to Rome,’ Gladys said suddenly, ‘let’s go together.’
‘What about Sir Mark? How could you want to leave Sir Mark when he’s only just arrived?’
‘He’ll go where I go.’
‘How do you do it, my dear? How do you manage to keep men on a lead the way you do, as if they were puppies? I was young once too, and beautiful,’ she said, turning away from the large mirror, ‘and love brought me nothing but unhappiness. But what else is there in this world?’
‘I dislike being in love,’ said Gladys quietly.
‘But darling, then why …?’
‘Why Sir Mark?’
‘Sir Mark and the others …’
‘There are no others,’ said Gladys.
‘Come now,’ whispered the older woman in the warm, secret, sensual and sad tone of voice women use to speak of love when love is coming to an end for them.
‘Really,’ said Gladys, smiling.
She slowly powdered her bare arms.
‘Life is sad, when all is said and done, don’t you think? There are only moments of exhilaration, of passion … Like when you stand on a balcony at night and listen to some sweet, enchanting music. Or when you dance. Ah! I can’t explain it, but that’s what people are trying to find, that’s what true happiness is.’
A woman came in carrying a stack of sable furs over her arm; she briskly shook them out. She sold beauty products and was called Carmen Gonzales; Gladys had known her for many years: everywhere that Gladys went, a circle of masseuses, hairdressers and make-up women immediately surrounded her.
Carmen Gonzales was old, short and stocky, with a rough, gloomy face; she had on a threadbare black satin dress that clung tightly to her hips and a black straw hat that sat awkwardly on top of her head.
Gladys greeted her graciously. Gladys was always sweet and charming, and people took pleasure in serving her. But even with her, Gonzales retained the harsh, defiant expression that inspired respectful fear in her clients. She had courage, the kind of fierce bravery of the working classes who, whenever they feel tired and unhappy, grit their teeth and work even harder; she was a masseuse and a midwife, but she also supplied beauty products. Sometimes, during a massage, in a rare moment of effusiveness, she would stand up straight and sigh; her bare arm would wipe away the sweat from her brow with the same gesture a laundress might use. Then her face would light up with a fleeting smile and she would think, ‘What can any of you know about life? I’ve seen it all …’
She lived in three little rooms that smelled of herbs and camphor, and was filled from morning to night by veiled women who waited their turn and pretended not to notice each other. She wore rings that dug into the flesh of her thick, agile hands, but she knew how to transform all their tired faces, how to mould them, make their wrinkles disappear, how to create a deceptive mask out of their old flesh.
She bought dresses, jewellery and furs from courtesans who had gambled away everything, and sold them to her regular clients.
When Gladys saw the sable pelts, she shook her head and gently held Carmen at bay. ‘No, I don’t want to buy anything, no.’
‘Just have a look,’ said the old woman.
Gladys had turned away and was talking to Lily Ferrer.
‘Do speak to George,’ Lily was begging her quietly. ‘Make him understand that he is killing me. There is a limit to a woman’s patience. He’s not evil, but he’s so nonchalant, so cruel. He’s tempted by every woman he sees.’
‘Come on, now,’ whispered Gladys, slowly shrugging her lovely shoulders. ‘Lily! You must be more sensible than that. What’s the point of letting yourself suffer?’
The old woman sighed. ‘Love,’ she said, and a tear rolled down her painted cheek.
‘He cares for you very much.’ She took Lily’s hands in hers. ‘Darling, listen to me …’
She enjoyed talking about love, hearing secret confidences, wiping away tears. She knew how to console, appease, flatter. Love was the only thing she was interested in; everything else made her feel nothing more than gracious indifference.
Lily finally seemed calmer. Gladys left her alone and went to see Carmen, who was waiting in the next room.
‘Are you interested?’ asked Carmen, pointing to the sable furs.
Gladys slowly stroked the beautiful pelts. ‘No, I don’t need any new furs. But they are beautiful …’
‘They belonged to Celina Meller,’ said Carmen, naming an old courtesan who had been famous in the past. ‘They’re a set of furs that a lover gave her from Russia, a long time ago. She had a beautiful outfit made for the balls, but she had to sell it six months ago. These are the few that were left, which she wanted to use to have other outfits made. They must be sold now, along with everything else she owns. This one would make a very beautiful collar for your velvet cape, the white one.’
‘Celina Meller?’ murmured Gladys. ‘Is she that poor, then?’
‘Oh, yes! She’s got nothing left.’
‘She was so beautiful, and that was only ten years ago.’
‘Time goes fast at that age.’
‘Poor woman,’ said Gladys.
She had a sensitive, vivid imagination, but focused entirely on herself. Yet in a flash she imagined an old woman whose wrinkles made happier memories fade away.
‘How much does she want for them?’
‘Four thousand. It’s a steal. But she has no choice. Everyone knows she needs money and is offering her half that.’
‘All right, then. Leave them here. I’ll buy them to help her out, the poor woman.’
‘All right,’ said Carmen in her gloomy voice. ‘You’re getting a bargain; I know what I’m talking about.’
Lily came in to find them.
‘Come and have lunch with me, Gladys,’ she said. ‘That way you’ll get to see him,’ she added more quietly.
‘Oh, I can’t, darling, I promised my little daughter I’d have lunch with her. She complains that she never sees me and she’s right.’
‘You’re lucky to have a little girl,’ Lily Ferrer said, sighing.
She looked at the picture of the child in a gold frame that sat on the table. ‘She’ll be a beauty, but she won’t have your figure.’
‘She’ll be more beautiful than me,’ said Gladys affectionately.
She smiled at the adolescent face that seemed to look back at her with slight surprise and that strange and troubling seriousness of youth. It was a picture of Marie-Thérèse when she was thirteen: she had a small, delicate face, softly rounded, long straight blonde hair piled high on to the top of her head and held in place by a black bow.
The two women shook their heads.
‘No, she’ll never have your charm.’
‘She’s still a child, it’s an awkward time of life,’ said Gladys.
She sighed and smiled. Deep down in her heart, she couldn’t admit how old Marie-Thérèse really was, not even to herself. Eighteen. She was already a woman. She preferred to say and let people think: ‘Fifteen … nearly fifteen …’
All the women she knew did the same. They knocked off one, two or three years from the age of those children they weren’t able to hide away and, little by little, they themselves forgot the child’s real age, thus satisfying their delusions of themselves as both women and mothers. Gladys didn’t notice her daughter was growing up. When she spoke to her or looked at her, her mind re-created the features of a young girl of fifteen, who no longer existed except in her imagination.
‘I’ve brought you your rouge for tonight,’ said Carmen, taking some make-up out of an old bag.
‘Ah!’ said Gladys and her lovely face grew attentive.
She went over to the mirror, put some rouge on her cheek and dusted it with powder.
‘Yes, that’s better. Don’t you think? The other one was too light. A darker colour is better under the light.’
She turned round slowly, looking into the mirror wit
h intense seriousness. Then her lips parted in a sweet, triumphant smile. ‘That’s good … Yes, it’s good.’
Carmen, however, was on her way out. Lily and Gladys – who was finally ready – followed her and slowly walked through the garden. Near the road the air held the scent of sweet roses, petrol and the clean, cool smell of the mountains. The two women got into the car and headed for Nice.
5
To Gladys, the years had passed with the swiftness of a dream. As she aged, they felt shorter and seemed to fly by more quickly, but the days felt long. Certain moments were heavy and bitter. She didn’t like being alone: as soon as the chatter of women ceased around her, as soon as the sound of words of love faded away, she felt deep anxiety within her heart.
For some time, now, everything had bored and irritated her. She turned away if she saw certain women in the street. The beautiful little girls selling mimosa who ran barefoot through the dusty streets offended her with their carefree youth. She pushed them away with a harshness that surprised even her and made her feel ashamed. Sometimes she would call them back and give them some money, thinking, ‘It’s too hot here, oppressive, I’m bored …’
She was haunted by memories of her mother, whom she had detested; sometimes she pictured the curtains closed round the bed where Sophie Burnera slept in a morphine stupor. Then she would feel a kind of strange humiliation that nothing could pacify. She, Gladys Eysenach, who was beautiful, admired, loved, still sometimes felt the sadness, the loneliness of her adolescence deep within her heart. If Richard were alive, she would have admitted that to him. But Richard was dead.
She would visit one friend after the other. With them, time would pass more quickly, but eventually she had to go home and still it was daytime. There was nothing left to do but try on dresses and visit the jewellers on the little sloping street near the public gardens, where the sea breeze blew in. Finally, night would come and she would feel as if she had been reborn. She would go home to Sans-Souci, get dressed, admire how she looked. How she loved doing that. Was there anything better in life, was there anything more sensual than being attractive? The desire to be alluring, to be loved – a commonplace pleasure that all women felt – to her became an obsession, similar to the profound way men felt about power or money, a thirst that increased with each passing year and that nothing could ever completely satisfy.
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