The Wretches

by Frédéric Dard

  I remembered that the pair on the end had some little ones that were just about ready for the pot. The evening before, Arthur had been talking about having them the Sunday coming. I had an idea. I ran and shouted to Mum.

  “Mum, would you come and wring the necks of these little pigeons for me?”

  “You’re not serious?”

  “It’s for the Roolands!”

  She really let me have it then. All the bitterness she had brewing inside her came right out in my face. She’d had it up to here with those Americans. They were taking everything from her and Arthur already, and now they were supposed to shower them with flowers and food too?

  I looked guiltily at Arthur’s flower bed—just a patch of stubble now. I let the storm blow itself out. Mum’s harelip had turned purple. When she ran out of breath, I took my chance.

  “Just listen, would you, instead of going off on one? I’ll pay for them. A good price too! I was just trying to do Arthur a good turn.”

  She didn’t only kill the birds, squeezing them under their wings, she plucked and gutted them for me too. I returned “home” in triumph, having picked up some fatty bacon and peas on the way as well. I’d never been much of a cook. There was certainly nothing fancy about what I ate at home with Mum and Arthur. But that hadn’t stopped me reading the recipes in women’s magazines. (Some of which even had colour illustrations!)

  And the recipe for pigeon flambé sur canapé was engraved on my memory…

  FIVE

  Monsieur Rooland got a shock when he came home, that’s for sure. I’d laid the cutlery for dinner out on a tablecloth (there was no actual tablecloth, but I’d made do with a couple of tea towels) and not straight onto the bare table like Madame Rooland had always done before me. There was a bunch of marigolds in a jar too, which brightened things up, and the smell coming from the kitchen… well, it was mouth-watering, even if I do say so myself. Monsieur Rooland asked his wife something in American. I think she must have told him that everything had gone well, because he gave me one of his water-skiing-commercial smiles.

  He washed his hands while his wife made them a couple of whiskies, then they went and sat in their swing seat under the blue canopy and talked about me for a while.

  Half an hour later, I went and got changed to serve them dinner. I still had a black dress that I’d bought for an uncle’s funeral. When I tied an apron on top of it I looked like a real maid. The only apron I had was pink, but then that was more cheerful in a way.

  And so I took them out my two pigeons, beautifully golden, draped with slices of bacon, all sitting on a bed of croutons. Now for the big moment—confidently, I grabbed the whisky bottle, glugged a measure over my two little birds, struck a match and—woosh! Ah, if you could have seen those flames leaping, and the Roolands’ stunned faces! I swear, there are people with the Legion of Honour who’ve done less for the glory of France than I did that day.

  They asked me to sit with them, but I refused. Everyone has their place. Mine was in the kitchen. I was washing the dishes as I served so as not to let it all get on top of me. What I wanted above all was to show them that, in a bright, happy house like theirs, everything should always be kept clean and neat. When they came inside, after God knows how many cigarettes, night had fallen. There was a glow in the sky over towards the factories, and insects zigzagged through the garden air, attracted by a nearby street lamp. The car’s chrome bumpers shone in its white light. Now that my work was over and I could feel the tiredness in my limbs I would have loved for Monsieur Rooland to take me out for a spin.

  I would have sat in the front, next to the driver, looking at all the dials on the dashboard. When it was running, the car made so little noise that you couldn’t even hear it coming. And there was the radio, of course. Yes, I could imagine myself leaning back on that white leather, soft music in my ears, watching Monsieur Rooland’s freckled hands on the steering wheel.

  “Louise!”

  He was standing behind me. He’d caught me looking at the car from the kitchen window.

  “Yes, Monsieur?”

  “I just wanted to say, well done. My wife and I are very pleased.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur. Me too.”

  He came a little closer, to see what I’d been looking at. Until then, men had always scared me a bit. If I was sure you wouldn’t laugh at me, I’d tell you why… Well, all right: it was because of their feet. Plenty of nice-looking boys had tried chatting me up, and I’d known some who could have charmed the birds from the trees with their patter. It’s crazy how cocky and confident the kids are round our way. There were times when their compliments, their fresh smiles, their eyes which seem to kiss you with a glance… There were times when all that had got to me. But the moment always came when I looked down at their feet and a strange sort of fear would take hold of me. I realized they were nothing but animals. The more I think about it, I reckon this fear of feet must come from my granddad. I was four when he died. They kept me away from the deathbed, but when they came to put him in the coffin with all the family gathered round in tears, I managed to sneak up close to take a look, and what shocked me, what scared me, wasn’t his white hands clutched tight around a rosary, wasn’t his pinched, waxy face, it was his big postman’s feet in his Sunday shoes, showing me their soles for the first time.

  Since then, men’s feet had terrified me. When a boy was kissing me, if I thought about his two shoes, flat on the ground in front of mine, I’d push him away as hard as I could and run. The kids round my way started saying I wasn’t right in the head, leaving only the new arrivals to flirt with me a bit. But a reputation’s a reputation and it never went very far.

  “Do you want to go back home to sleep, Louise?”

  “No, Monsieur.”

  Monsieur Rooland’s feet didn’t scare me at all. They seemed neat and peaceful to me in their canvas sandals. Maybe because they were small? Maybe because they were tanned? Maybe because they were American feet too? Who knows what really goes on, down in the depths of your brain? Anyway, for the first time in my life I’d met a pair of feet that felt normal to me.

  “But Louise,” he insisted, “you were looking so sadly out of the window. If you want to go home, you must say so.”

  “I don’t want to go home, I’m very happy here, Monsieur. I was just looking at your car, Monsieur. Admiring it.”

  He looked too.

  “It’s a Dodge,” he said. As if that explained something.

  In the shadows it looked like a slumbering monster.

  “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen a car like it.”

  He took my chin in his hand to look me in the face. His eyes were laughing.

  “You want to go for a ride, don’t you?”

  I looked away, but nodded.

  “OK, come on.”

  And off we went, just like that. Monsieur Rooland shouted to his wife that we’d be back, and Thelma didn’t ask any questions. Apparently, it seemed totally normal to her that her husband would take the maid for a ride at nine o’clock in the evening, him in short sleeves and the servant wearing an apron.

  He opened the gate. I stayed next to the passenger door—not daring, not knowing how, to open it.

  “Get in!”

  You had to push a little catch on the door handle with your thumb. He showed me how. It was easy. You wouldn’t believe how heavy the door was! A safe door couldn’t have been any heavier.

  Inside the car, it was even better than I’d imagined. The smell, more than anything: leather, perfume, the powerful engine. The windscreen had a slight blue tint to it. You couldn’t see it from the outside, but once you were inside the car that curved window would add a touch of beauty to even the most depressing landscapes. He put the radio on, just as I’d dreamt, and the music that burst into life came from everywhere at once, as if we were sitting inside a loudspeaker rather than a car.

  “Everything all right?” asked Monsieur Rooland.

  I croaked a “yes”, which made
him snort with laughter. He drove right across Léopoldville in a matter of seconds: our little town that I thought was a sprawl. As if! We took the straight road lined with double rows of trees that leads down to the Seine. I didn’t recognize the surroundings any more. The car transformed them. We drove slowly up the old towpath leading to the lock, its red lamps leaving long purple smears on the surface of the river.

  The barges moored up at the banks for the night were like a daisy chain of fainter lights.

  “All right?”

  Why did he feel the need to talk to me? And why on earth keep repeating that stupid question? Of course it was all right! It was wonderful in his car. I remember the radio was playing an arrangement of “Que Sera, Sera”. Everything was how I’d imagined it. Tiny red and green lights were blinking on the dashboard, Monsieur Rooland’s hands caressed the steering wheel, while his feet—his feet that didn’t scare me one bit—danced on the pedals.

  At the lock we took the bumpy road that leads back to the factories, hazel branches lashing at the car roof.

  Ten minutes later we were back at their house.

  *

  Madame Rooland had changed. Instead of her shorts and blouse, she was wearing a white terry-cloth dressing gown with yellow and green stripes, and it wasn’t hard to tell that she had nothing else on underneath. She was sprawled on the living room sofa, one leg in the air. On the floor an automatic turntable was playing Elvis Presley’s “Loving You”.

  “Hello!” was all she said, in English.

  All of a sudden I got the impression that she wasn’t herself any more—that she’d changed somehow while we’d been out. I caught a glance of the whisky bottle sitting next to the sofa and understood. Thelma had drunk a good third of it. With that, I understood the state of the house, and her reluctance to have someone at home with her all day. Maybe she missed America? Her husband must have used all his charm to get her to agree to take me on. He probably hoped I’d be a good influence.

  He went and sat down next to her. She grabbed the bottle clumsily.

  “Pour a glass for my husband, Louise!”

  When I came back from the kitchen with the glass she was lying across the sofa, pawing at Monsieur Rooland: “Jess, Jess.” It was enough to make anyone blush. I tried to make myself scarce, but she called me back.

  “No, Louise! Have a drink with us.”

  “I don’t drink, Madame.”

  “Just one, to make me happy…”

  So I went to the kitchen to get another glass. When I came back again, Jess had managed to get away from her. He was at the other end of the room, next to the fireplace, his glass in his hand. He looked unhappy—I’d not seen him like that before.

  He put his whisky down on the black marble mantelpiece, next to the clock stuck on six o’clock, and came to take my glass.

  “Just a little drop, Monsieur Rooland.”

  Thelma’s dressing gown had fallen open, putting everything on display that a lady would normally keep to herself. Her eyes were shining and she was laughing strangely, her lips drawn back like a dog about to bite.

  She was saying things I didn’t understand, and which seemed to be annoying her husband.

  “Chin-chin, Louise,” he said abruptly.

  I took a sip. It was so strong it burned my throat. How on earth could she drink it?

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No, Monsieur. Excuse me—may I go to bed?”

  “Of course, Louise.”

  Well there you go—what a mess life is. On my first evening at the Roolands’, instead of dancing for joy I cried.

  All because of the look Jess gave me when I said good-night—a look that seemed to express all the unhappiness of men.

  SIX

  She kept a lid on it for a few more days. (When I say she kept a lid on it, I mean she waited until dinner to start boozing.) But then what little willpower she had gave way. I walked in on her one morning to see her knocking back a glass of Scotch right after her first Camel of the day. She did absolutely nothing apart from drink and listen to records. Her red face had nothing to do with any Indian blood—it was the booze! She reminded me of Arthur when he was on a Negrita binge and his pasty face would turn purple.

  I’d often played “Loving You” on the jukebox in the café where I’d go for a drink with my factory mates during the cinema interval on Saturday nights. I loved Presley’s throaty voice. I don’t know why, but I told myself he must have nice feet… Anyway, pretty soon I was sick of that song. It wasn’t the record player playing it really, it was a bottle of whisky!

  Thelma dragged herself from the garden to the living room, and from the living room to the bedroom. She’d take several showers throughout the day—not to keep clean, but to sober up. Then she’d start drinking again. All that took the wind right out of my sails. I’m sure you can imagine, it was hardly an encouraging start to my employment. But what made up for it was Monsieur Rooland. He came back every evening at five thirty sharp. He’d get changed, and then allow himself a couple of drinks under the blue canopy, so as to join his wife where she was floating, a few centimetres above the ground He seemed to enjoy the little dishes that I tried so hard to put together for him. As these Americans seemed to know nothing about food, I started inventing my own recipes once I’d gone through all the ones in the magazines. They liked everything, and especially anything with a sauce.

  Over there, in their country, the sauces come in bottles and all taste the same. It’s only the label on the bottle that changes, as I realized when sneaking a taste of some of their precious supplies from the cupboards.

  Dinner was the best part of the day. I’d hide myself away in the kitchen and watch Jess eat from the window. He seemed more and more handsome to me every day, although if I’m honest he wasn’t really all that good-looking. The girls from the factory wouldn’t have found him to their taste, I’m sure. They wouldn’t have appreciated that slightly sad, casual charm, those bright eyes, those coppery freckles or the blinding white smile he’d flash at me when he caught me watching him.

  When I came to clear the table, he’d wink.

  “That was OK, Louise.”

  I blushed every time. It felt like my face had been wrapped in a hot towel. After dinner they’d go to the living room, and from then on it was whisky, the record player and Madame Rooland pawing at her husband.

  Often, Thelma would invent some reason to call me in. She wanted someone to watch—it excited her. I’d go and huddle at the end of the room, near the fireplace. I’d know how to make Jess happy, I told myself.

  What with all Thelma’s drunken antics, I was a lot less happy at the Roolands’ than I’d expected. Having said that, I wasn’t unhappy either. When I think back to that time, I’m left with a sensation of the days flying by at great speed, each one exactly the same as the last—more so than at Arthur’s, even. They were lined up one after the other, like pearls on a string. My housework, preparing dinner… Presley’s voice, the glugging of whisky, the tinkling of the ice cubes that Thelma rolled expertly round her glass, making sure the sides were coated in alcohol. Sometimes she’d call me into her bedroom, to try on her clothes.

  “I want to perceive elegance.”

  I let her do it. She draped me in dresses, pinched and pulled at blouses to take them in or loosen them, her thin hands lingering on my body. I stayed frozen, like a mannequin, not understanding what pleasure it could possibly give her to dress and undress me like that.

  When she’d finished, her clothes would all be strewn across the bed.

  “OK, Louise.”

  I went back downstairs, while she poured herself an even bigger glass than the others.

  The hours I spent in her company were strange and depressing, but from the moment the Dodge was parked in the driveway everything changed. I burst into song. I liked Sundays just as much. Not all of them, as they went to Paris once a month to see some American friends, but on the other three Sundays in the month they would stay at
home, and on those days the atmosphere was different. Technically it was a day off for me, but where better to spend it than in my new home? I’d lounge around in my bedroom, try on a dress, a blouse, put on a bit of make-up…

  “Come and sit in the garden, Louise.”

  There was room for three on the swing seat. Thelma sat in the middle, with me clutching the armrest on my side very tightly—I’ve never liked swings. She hid Monsieur Rooland’s body from me, but I could see his crossed legs and tell how muscular they were under his alpaca-wool trousers. His right heel dug into the grass as he pushed us back and forth. I’d lie back and let myself float in this dream, repeating to myself “I’m on the island! I’m on the desert island!” And I only had to look up at the clouds in the sky to find all the details missing from my surroundings: one of them was a palm tree, another a coral reef, and the blue of the sky was the sea. One day I even saw a cannibal, but this time he wasn’t floating in the sky, he was standing in front of the garden gate, and he looked so much like Arthur that I felt myself going green at the gills.

  Drunk Arthur. Mean Arthur. He cackled at the sight of me lounging next to the Yanks.

  “Tart! Tart!”

  He shook his fist at me. Monsieur Rooland got up to go and get rid of him, thinking that he was just some drunk or other, but I stopped him.

  “No, leave him, he’s my mum’s man.”

  “Is he drunk?”

  “Yes.”

  Jess Rooland was all too used to drunks. He sat down again.

  Arthur was making a right old scene, his eyes wild, his mouth wet and glistening.

  “Have you gone off your rocker?” I hissed, rushing over to him. “This isn’t exactly good manners, is it?”

  “You’re a whore, Louise,” he answered. “Hanging around these bastards like a little floozy. Nothing but a whore. My bitch Mirka’s got more self-control than you when she’s in heat. Either you come back home or I’ll drag you back, do you hear?”