A Favourite of the Gods and a Compass Error

by Sybille Bedford

“Monsieur n’a pas faim,” said the maid who brought their soup.

  There was little conversation, and presently the maid returned to say, “Monsieur demande Madame.” Therese rose at once.

  Paul said, “It really is a disaster. He will attempt these monstrous huge things.”

  “Loulou is in arrears with his dealer,” Giles said. “This thing would have helped.”

  “It wouldn’t go by the square foot?” Flavia said.

  “As a matter of fact it does. Contracts go by the square inch.”

  “Hadn’t we better leave?” Bobbie said.

  “Therese would want us to finish dinner first.”

  They decided to do that and leave afterwards.

  At the gate Flavia said, “Will he go to Belgium now?”

  “Very likely.”

  •

  At the villa, she found a screw of paper in the flower-pot where she had left the key. Feeling quite sick already, Flavia undid the scrap.

  Disappointed to find that Mme L. has stolen a march on me. (Again!)

  A.

  2.

  The next morning too was wretched. When Flavia remembered that tomorrow was going to be her essay day she ran up to the tower to fetch some essential books which she set out with grim awareness on the dining-room table at the villa. She made a few attempts and found that she could not work, she could not even read.

  What does one do, she asked herself. What can one do?

  At 2 p.m., rather than face more questions from the femme de ménage, she ladled the food that had been left for her to eat into one bowl and carried it some way down the hill to a place where she knew it would be picked up by stray dogs and cats. Half an hour later she could hold out no longer: she drank a cup of coffee and two glasses of cold water, put some money in her pocket and walked into St-Jean. It was very hot. The port lay somnolent, the shops were shut. So was the post office. She waited outside in the street, shaking in anticipation of the telephone call.

  Soon she was joined by a peasant woman dressed in black who told her that she was trying to get on to the hospital in Toulon for news of her son. As the woman spoke she cried. Flavia looked and listened as if to events taking place at one remove.

  The woman pressed a paper into Flavia’s hand. “You are going to help me, the post ladies have no patience.” Duly the office opened. Flavia, none too practiced herself, managed to get the number. It took time. She stood in a dark stifling cell, the woman mumbling by her side. “You will speak for me,” she said. There was an answer.

  Flavia whispered urgently, “Whom do I ask for?”

  “Rintini, Joseph.”

  There was a wait and another voice and another wait. Then, “There’s been no change, you may inquire again in the evening.” Flavia transmitted, the woman cried some more and said, “Go and ask what I owe them.” Flavia did. The woman counted out the sum conscientiously. Flavia said, “I hope you will have good news this evening.” “It’s nothing to you,” said the woman.

  Flavia followed her out of the post office. The air was cleaner, the heat different. She had been spared telephoning after all—she realized that she did not even know whom to ask for at the hotel in Bandol.

  She walked on to the Fourniers’ house, dragging every step. Constanza would have carried it off, casually, lightly: By the way your charming guest the other night—so stupid of me——

  But when Flavia turned into the Fourniers’ drive she saw that she had been spared that errand as well, for there, shining, immobile, unconcerned, stood the long car.

  Her first impulse was to turn and flee. Then she saw that the verandah doors were open and inside in the shade on two wicker-chairs, talking earnestly to one another, were Rosette and Andrée. Flavia’s second impulse was to flee.

  Too late. She had been seen. She walked straight in, feeling she had never needed as much courage in her life before.

  Madame Fournier did not open fire. She seemed to wait for an initiative from her friend. Andrée took her time. She looked up lazily then said in her cooler manner. “Talk of mad dogs and Englishmen, how brave of you to go visiting at this hour, Rosette and I haven’t stirred a finger for ages.”

  Flavia could think of nothing at all to say. “Albert and the others are out, he’s taken them to le Lavandou for the day.” When this didn’t lead to anything, Rosette continued, “They’ll be so sorry they missed you.”

  “That’s the remark you ought to have made,” said Andrée.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s heat-stroke—Rosette, you’d better get her a long cool drink, go and make her some lemonade.”

  Rosette Fournier got up to do as she was told.

  “Well, big-eyes?”

  Flavia said, “I would like to speak to you.”

  “Well?”

  Flavia looked at the open doors. Rosette could be heard talking in the kitchen. “Not here.”

  Andrée shrugged. “My dear, this is not my house.”

  “Couldn’t you leave?”

  “Like that? With you? You must be mad. Besides I promised Rosie-Posie to stay for tea.”

  Flavia turned away, took a few steps, came back and stood still: keeping her eyes on Andrée’s face she said with complete intensity, “I love you.”

  Andrée from her chair said, “Well?”

  “Well?” Andrée said again.

  Flavia said, “I had to tell you.”

  “And did. What next?”

  “I am asking you—after this solemn declaration, what next?”

  “I don’t know,” Flavia said. “Nothing.”

  “Are you in the habit of making that world shaking announcement?”

  “No!”

  “Then since you appear to be singling me out, what do you expect me to do? Fall in your arms? Exchange rings? Are you sure you’ve got your first premise right? Aren’t you going on from a mistake? We’re of the same sex, let me remind you, we’re not supposed to fall in love with one another. Most women’s tastes are not as catholic as Therese Loulou’s.”

  Flavia, almost relieved to have reached as much firm ground, said, “I didn’t think you were . . . I didn’t know about . . . your inclinations. I didn’t feel . . . I almost knew it was not possible.”

  “How sure you are of everything. But I’m not talking about my inclinations, as you call them. Of course you know nothing about them. Again unlike Madame Loulou, they are not generally known. What I was talking about are your inclinations and I would suggest that you know nothing about them at all.”

  “But I do.”

  “You are having the kind of crush that is natural in a girl your age, and if you hadn’t been seduced by a certain person (whose name I shall not mention again since you dislike it so) that would be that.”

  “No—no.”

  “You have not reached the stage at which you can know. You’ve had no conclusive experience, have you? You haven’t had an affair with a man—that’s understood at your age—but have you had a feeling for a man?”

  Flavia said, “I don’t think I connect men with . . . love.” Then she thought of Loulou and felt confused.

  “So until you know a little more of what it’s all about, don’t expect me to take you seriously. A second point—impudence or naïvety? You come here to offer me your undying devotion while you have an entanglement with the lady whom we don’t seem to be able to keep out of the conversation.”

  “It has ceased to exist,” Flavia said grandly.

  “Has it?” Andrée said. “How very sudden.”

  “I’d do anything you want me to.”

  “That’s what people say. Do you want me to take advantage of it?”

  “Yes,” said Flavia.

  “Don’t wait for orders. It’s up to you, it’s always up to the suitor to present an acceptable brief. And now we’ve had enough of the subject.”

  Flavia said, “Your head seen against the white wall, it shows up the structure, I know now whom you remind me of, I saw it when I first met
you, but could not place it, it’s not a literal resemblance, it’s something basic, you do look like someone I know.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s a man. You have heard of him—they must have talked about him. Michel.”

  Andrée said, “Oh, yes, we’ve been told that before, people seemed to find it surprising. It isn’t. Michel and I were cousins, not first cousins of course——”

  “You are related to Michel?”

  “Why not?”

  “Your name, then?”

  “Devaux of course.”

  Flavia said, “That’s rather delightful. And now I do see—the car? Only that yours is a Panhard and his a Delahaye, the year must be the same. Is it a family taste?”

  “A shared taste,” Andrée said. Then not ungently, “I ought to tell you, they did talk to me about him, it can’t be news to you what they are saying, that Michel has run off with your mother and that he wants to marry her. Which doesn’t mean that I am convinced, I would never rely on Rosie-Posie’s gossip alone.” And before allowing Flavia to indicate a stand, “By the way what is she doing?” And suddenly in French, in a voice as shrill as a stationmaster’s whistle, “Rosette—come back! that lemonade must be getting hot.”

  Flavia said quickly, “You will let me see you again?”

  “Very likely.”

  “When?”

  “Bull-dog. Tomorrow evening. I’ll call for you—no, come down to the port and look for me, I may be there. If you’ve been good.”

  3.

  Flavia walked away from the Fourniers’ house seeing the next stage of her course.

  She had never been to the house on the bay at that end of the afternoon, and found Therese abstracted and busy. She was taking crates out of her car; Flavia gave her a hand.

  “He’s started again and he’s pleased about it,” Therese said. She had been to most of the early-morning markets as far as Hyères. “Let’s hope they will keep this time.” They had been advised not to keep them too cold and also to cover them with waxed paper. “Now he has got fascinated by the paper as well, he’s made it look like a field of bridal veils, but it’s going to be difficult to keep it in place when we move it at night. You have no idea how heavy flowers can be.”

  When they had finished unloading, Therese said, “My coco, I shall be helping Loulou for the next week or two, I don’t like leaving him much when he’s working on those big things. Afterwards you and I will have a day on the island.”

  “Flavia said, “I have to tell you something.”

  Still preoccupied, Therese said, “Yes, coco?”

  After Flavia had stated, baldly, that she had fallen in love with someone, Therese gave her a look. “Good,” she said, “I hope it will go well for you.”

  There was a pause while Flavia waited, half hoped, for the questions which she realized Therese would not ask; while Therese too, perhaps, was waiting.

  When it was clear to each that the other would not speak, Therese said, “But you don’t look happy, my darling, that’s often the way it goes. It’s seldom easy and never for long. But one comes out of it. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Oh no,” Flavia said, but had the grace to add, “thank you.”

  “We shall be seeing you at dinner presently?”

  “I don’t know,” Flavia said with open wretchedness, “I don’t think I ought to come so often now.”

  Therese said, “That is all right, coco, come when you feel you can. Well, bon courage, and good luck.”

  •

  Going through the gate Flavia nearly cried. She told herself, It would not really be doing something for Andrée if it did not come hard.

  It was cooler and beginning to get dark. Flavia set out on an aimless walk. She remembered the early summer when she was really alone without anyone to talk to: how fast the days went, too fast. Now it was the hour when they brought out the pastis and big water-jug and lit the scented candles on the terrace above the bay and Paul and Jean-nine and the rest of them were beginning to arrive and Therese was telling them what there would be to eat. Flavia longed to go back and slip into her place just as the soup was brought and hear them telling about Loulou’s day. But she felt she was under orders (there was some comfort in that) to spend the evening in the wilderness. She was headed towards Bandol but checked herself half-way and returned in a semi-circle. It struck ten o’clock as she walked into St-Jean. She was hanging about the waterfront when she heard steps behind her. “Flavia—what luck!” It was the Fournier’s nephew. He looked flushed and pleased. “Oh, we’ve had such a marvellous day, Uncle Albert took us to the Marine Museum and then we went on to collect sea-shells ourselves, he knew where to go for them, we found hundreds; and we had a lobster picnic. We only just got back; the others have gone home, I was stopping for cigarettes when I saw you. What a perfect end to a perfect day, come and have a drink with me, please.”

  Flavia accepted.

  “In the afternoon we went to the festival concert, the Bach violin and Schubert, that was marvellous, particularly the Bach, it made me feel one could be like that—you would know what I mean?”

  The waiter, who was an Italian, remembered Flavia from old days. There was some long-time-not-see and he asked about her mother.

  “What are you going to have?” the young man said.

  “A brandy and soda, if I may.”

  “Two,” said the young man.

  The waiter brought two tall glasses and filled them a good way up with Courvoisier.

  “Whoa,” said the young man.

  “Your syphon’s going to splutter,” Flavia said.

  It did. The waiter looked delighted.

  “A la vôtre,” the young man said before he drank. He looked a long pull. “Goodness, I was thirsty.”

  Flavia took a long pull too.

  “Do you realize that I haven’t seen you for three whole days, Flavia? I’ve been thinking of you though. Today, too; how I wished you had been with me at the concert. And now—here you are.” He went on in a similar vein. “But you are very silent tonight? I’m not offending you by what I’ve been saying?”

  “Of course not,” Flavia said, trying to pull herself into the present. He began talking about the state of the world, saying that he hadn’t even looked at a newspaper all day, when one was enjoying oneself one too easily forgot everything that was not on the personal level: and yet how desperately the economic situation was deteriorating everywhere week by week, it could not end well, it might lead to anything. As for the French government, the French general public for that matter, “It hasn’t hit us yet, so nobody cares? I bet you and I, Flavia, are the only people in St-Jean who have heard of The Economic Consequences of the Peace.”

  Flavia entered the conversation sufficiently to say, “Heard; not read. Not yet.”

  “One of the things I like you for,” the young man said, “is that there is no pretence about you. French girls are always out for something. With you I would feel I had an ally.” That’s what a man needed in his life and work, a friend, an ally, not an idol or a toy.

  “Oh, quite.”

  “But I’m talking too much—it’s having you all to myself for the first time.”

  An idea struck Flavia. The conclusive experience?—here it was. On a platter.

  She got up. “Shall we go?” she said.

  “May I see you home?”

  They walked up the hill side by side. When they spoke it was generalities. Flavia was thinking of her essay with a pang, and of the prep she had failed to do in the morning, the morning—could it be?—of this same unending day. She took herself in hand, the essay she told herself firmly had to be shelved: one step before the other.

  At one point she stopped in her tracks.

  “You know—I feel awfully light-headed.”

  “The air——?” he said with some concern.

  Flavia almost giggled.

  They dragged their steps as they approached the villa. Flavia was thinking o
f the monstrous mass of tuberoses now reposing inside that vast refrigerator under their paper veils. She wished it could be dear Loulou.

  Onward Christian soldiers.

  Outside the front door he kissed her. She did nothing to help and nothing to hinder. She hoped he would go on. He did go on. She said politely, “Would you like to come in for a last drink?”

  She unlocked the door and they stepped inside. She said, “I usually don’t turn the lights on when I come home at night, it’s a habit I have. Is that all right?” Then, still in the tones of an uncertain hostess anxious to do well, she said, “I have a room upstairs.”

  If the young man was surprised or taken aback, he did not show it. He was twenty-two or three, he was French, and to him also the encounter may have appeared as something handed on a platter.

  To Flavia like that other first time it was both half-known and startling. Memories of her grandmother’s judgements obtruded themselves and she closed her mind against them. Her own refrain went: This is not for me.

  The young man said, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Meekly, Flavia said, “Would you do something for me?”

  Indeed.

  “Would you get me something to eat? I think I’m going to faint, I’m so hungry.”

  Reassured, the young man became almost gay, “Let’s go and raid your larder—let me cook you my scrambled eggs.”

  “You won’t find a scrap in the house, all the food . . . well, it’s gone. Shall I tell you a secret? I’ve had no lunch and dinner.”

  So he took her down the hill again. When they got to St-Jean it was only a little past midnight and the cafés were still open. The young man ordered two large ham sandwiches and Flavia devoured them while he drank a glass of beer. “Thank you,” she said, “that was kind of you. And now don’t dream of walking me home again. No, don’t. I insist. I’m used to being on my own and you’ve had a long day.”

  Baffled or relieved, the young man let her go.

  4.

  Flavia got up next morning when the alarm clock rang: Andrée in the evening; meanwhile an honest day’s work (for a change).

  She went to the tower and buckled down. Bull-dog is who bulldog does. To her tutor she wrote a frank if casual note apologizing for not sending an essay this week. She had slipped into doing no work for some days, would he look at it, please, as a kind of holiday—after all she had not had one since they had started on the course—she hoped she would be able to do better again next week. When later on she went down to the sea she felt almost as cheerful again as in pre-Andrée days. Had she been asked that minute what her exact feelings were, she might have said, I have done what I can for Andrée; if she’s going to blow cold again, if she doesn’t want to see me any more, vogue la galère, I shall have to survive, I shall. I always knew that she was not going to stay—perhaps I’ll be better without her.