by James Hanley
"Perhaps it is gone to the laundry, Captain. It was rather dirty if I remember rightly."
She got up and went and stood by the window.
"This man," she thought, "sounds a little queer to me. He has certainly got that poor man on the brain."
"But it was my uniform," he shouted.
She turned and looked at him.
"You may see Lucy to-night," Madame said, "it will cost you three hundred francs."
She crossed quickly to the door and opened it. "And now get out. You waste my time. What do I care about your misery, or whom you have killed. You are hardly a man at all, I suppose you are afraid to tell them the truth."
She stood waiting by the door. When he did not move she called out "Henri. Henri."
"Madame Lustigne," Marius said, he half rose from the bed, but promptly sat down again.
"Well?"
"I will tell you everything."
She waved her hands in the air.
"I don't want to hear a word," she replied, "I'm only waiting for you to go. Do you know what time it is? And think of the ship you may have missed, while you've been sitting here telling me how miserable you are. You're a coward, Captain, you are a spoiled child of your mother."
"I did kill him," Marius said, and he looked up at her, waited for her answer.
"I don't care who you killed."
"It was unfortunate," he said.
"Whining now," she said, her voice was pregnant with disgust, "you are hardly a man at all. I suppose you are living on them."
"I scratch along," Marius said, "do you mind if I smoke?"
She watched him fill and light a pipe, from which he took great long draws, as though from its stem he were sucking in some kind of strength. He stretched out his legs, looked up and said assuringly,
"I am sorry, Madame Lustigne, it is only that at the moment I am worried. Often I lie in my room and I talk, but there is no-one there, one cannot always be feeding on oneself. The others, they are as rocks. She is old, my mother is old. I did not say come, they came. They are there, alone, sitting, just sitting."
"Perhaps they are only waiting to bid you good-bye, Captain. Ships turn up when you are least expecting them."
When the knock came to the door she called, "all right, you may enter."
Henri came in.
"What is it?"
Marius studied him. He thought "this is her husband."
He saw a man in his sixties, grey, bearded, with tousled, dirty-looking hair.
"Is Lucy back?"
"She has just come in," he said, he never once looked at the man on the bed.
"Tell her I want her."
He went out, banging the door after him.
"You see, he is no Labiche," she said.
Lucy came.
"This gentleman was with you last evening?" said Madame Lustigne, a finger pointing towards Marius.
"Of course, what about it?" asked Lucy.
Marius sat, steadily watching her. Her thick black hair made a violent contrast to the green of her dress, and he noted an even more violently green handbag hanging on her arm. She plumped herself down on the other side of the bed.
"Well?"
The unchanging expression upon Marius's face amused her, she suddenly started to laugh.
"You see, Captain, Lucy is like that, she is always laughing, it's a sign of happiness at any rate. Now you may ask her what you wish."
"Here."
"Anywhere," Madame said.
She went to her desk and sat down, she ignored Lucy, had suddenly forgotten Marius. She took up some notepaper and a pen and began to write. Somewhere below she heard a child crying, and got up and closed the window.
"I am waiting for you to get out," she said, without pausing in her writing. She did not look up.
The sudden swish of a skirt told her that Lucy had got up. She heard her cross to the door.
"Close the door after you, please."
Marius listened to the scratching of the pen. Then he, too, rose and went out, closing the door silently behind him. He glimpsed Lucy going into her room, and followed. He opened the door and looked in. She had seated herself on the bed and was changing her stockings.
"It is only that last night when I was here, there was also in the next room a man by name of Labiche," Marius said, he looked down at the small bare feet.
"What the hell are you talking about?" she said, she did not look at him.
"D'you suppose he might have heard what I said?"
"What did you say?"
"I don't know. I'm afraid I was drunk," he replied.
"Now you want me to remember your dreams," she said. "You want a lot for three hundred francs—"
"Did I mention the name of a man called Madeau?"
She looked at him with a sudden disgust. "You're drunk now" she said.
She rose as he came into the room.
"You know," he said, advancing towards her, "Madame knows, you told her, you told everybody what I said in my sleep—"
"Am I expected to remember whatever rubbish you blurt out? Am I supposed to lie awake listening for you, your little watch dog." She suddenly put out her hands and pushed him towards the door. "You're a bit crazy, that's what's wrong with you."
"You could tell me but won't," he shouted.
In that moment he seemed to grow, she could see him rising, she felt his strength as a pressure, she could feel her body being pushed slowly back, he had gripped her by the arms and had forced her against the wall.
"You bitch, you are trying to torment me. That pig Labiche is following me, I know it, even Madame's a liar, he's following me, she's put him on my track and so have you."
"Leave go my hair."
"What did I say?"
"Are you mad? Let go of my hair."
"What did I say?"
She did not know, and she did not care. She was afraid, his enormous hands had reached her shoulder, and, filled with a sudden horror that they might reach to her neck she cried out, "what did you say, I'll tell you what you said."
She felt the grip loosening, she raised her head, pressed it back against the wall.
"You said you killed a man, that's all, and then the ship sank and then you jumped into the sea, and I heard it and Labiche heard it, and Madame heard it, we all heard it and now, you bastard, you can get out."
She closed her eyes, her whole weight lay against the wall, and the hands were gone, she felt them go, something scraped upon the wooden floor, his feet. He must have drawn away, she hugged close to the wall, she was afraid to open her eyes. She was afraid of this man whom she knew must be mad.
She did not know how long she remained against the wall, but gradually a calmness returned, she breathed more easily, then, aware of the strange silence about her, opened her eyes.
Marius had gone. Through the mirror on the opposite wall her own white face stared out at her. She had drawn her hands high, and now they lay against each side of her head, as though she were pressing intently upon her ears, and standing thus she continued to look at the reflection in the mirror.
He said, "you are very beautiful."
He said, "you are so young, how old—twenty, you are happy—as this."
I said, "I am happy, I am very happy."
He said, "this sort of life—you—"
"This life," I said, "that is what makes me happy, I am like that."
And I laughed and he looked a bit surprised, and I laughed again, and went on laughing, he seemed to be a little frightened then, and I said, "what are you frightened about?" but he said nothing and I went on laughing at him. Then he fell asleep, and after a while, I, too, and in the morning he gave me another three hundred francs.
She had moved away from the wall, yet hardly appeared to realize she had done so.
After a while she crossed to the door. "Madame Lustigne. Madame Lustigne," she called down the corridor.
"Compose yourself, my dear child," said Madame Lustigne.
Luc
y lay in her bed and she sat beside her.
"I heard no scream."
"I thought he was going to kill me."
"Indeed. The ruffian. Well he has gone now, and I have told Henri to show him the door. You will not see him again. That Captain drinks too much, I was noticing how his hand trembled this hour ago, my best coffee cup, but I saved it."
"He pushed me against the wall and kept shouting in my ear. 'What did I say, what did I say?'"
"And you told him, he seems somewhat jealous of what he yaps out in his cups, but he is no exception. Is he, Lucy?"
She was full of concern for Lucy, lying there so listlessly.
"Come child, it's all right now. One day you may have worse than him. Who knows. Let me see you laugh," she said, "somehow it is not you when you're like this, you have had a bad fright. Now all this has come about because Labiche called and he happened to be here at the same time. He thinks that poor man is following him. Poor Mr. Labiche, if the truth were known he only wishes to help that Marius, he is a great helper of sailors, I know, he works for the Missions I have seen him of an evening going aboard the ships."
"He says Labiche is following him all the time."
"Probably for the good of his soul," said Madame Lustigne. "Drink this. I cannot have my best girl treated in this way— indeed—"
"He said he loved me. He wanted to take me away from this, said he'd marry me."
Madame Lustigne gave a high pitched laugh.
"They all do."
VII
WHEN MARIUS left Madame Lustigne's by the rear door, he turned off in the direction of the great line of sheds belonging to Transport Oriental. The sun was climbing and ravenous. He was glad to slip into an alley between two of these sheds. Here it was cooler. He stood there for a few minutes. He was struck by the intense activity going on behind the high walls. The noise of hoists, of rattling trucks, the endless shouting that split the air, it made him all the more aware of his own position, his in-activity, a growing sense of uselessness. He put a match to a cigarette, then moved down the alley and came into the light again. He dropped down on his haunches, leaned against a truck, he surveyed the scene. Loading ships, un-loading ships, ant-like men moving across decks, busy, puffing, important little tugs, a tall ship turning seawards, slowly moving barges. The whole world was moving.
"I feel outside it all."
The whole scene cried triumph at him and he hated it. He turned away with a feeling of intense sadness and started to walk towards the city, his thoughts ahead of him. He was already at the Heros, pushing in the door, walking up the steps, looking at the smug, self-satisfied Philippe, wondering what Follet looked like. Moving out again, further into the city, getting slowly lost amongst the buildings, he was at the office of Transport Oriental, the whole pattern of yesterday, of the day before, was clear to him now, it was simply a question of wearing out another day. He increased his pace, walked sharply for nearly a quarter of a mile, he felt strange in his new suit. Twice he paused to look in the mirrors outside shops, somehow he felt naked without that reefer, that peaked cap, those black trousers, it was like losing one's skin. Then he slowed down, and once stopped and turned round to look behind him. He had a feeling that somebody was following him, but all he saw were the faces of advancing people, who passed him by without noticing him, they were in a hurry, they had destinations to get to, they were doing something. For a moment he stood on the pavement, watching the screaming traffic tear past. He had turned his back on one sea only to find himself on the brink of another.
There was something merciless in this ever advancing traffic, this stream of people hurrying about their various businesses. Wherever he looked he saw huge buildings, on either side, ahead and behind him. He remained at the pavement's edge, hesitant, a little nervous, there was a defiance, an indifference in the very air, and always he was aware of the hugeness of things, high walls, hundreds of windows looking down on the avenue, shining like eyes, the swinging doors, the brightly dressed doorkeepers, and then the highest, proudest building of them all, Renart's.
Marius stood outside one of the long windows, stiff as a ramrod, the doors were continuously opening and closing, people coming out singly, in twos and threes, whole families, chattering and bustling, and behind him he could feel people very close to him.
Marius fixed his eye on a hat and kept it there. The laughing girls who came up so suddenly reminded him of Lucy, he saw their reflections in the glass, and they went on laughing and commenting on the hats in the window, whilst Marius became more and more aware of Lucy, she seemed so close he might almost put out a hand and touch her, smell the perfume, her flesh. He was afraid to move, he had become a part of the window, he was on view from the back, and for a moment he thought he was inside the window, amongst the hats, on show.
"My God," he thought, "how can I get out of this," for there was a pressure against him now, a feminine pressure, thighs, knees, bosoms, perhaps they were all staring at him, into his back, that weakest part of him. He felt their eyes focused on him, and madly, stubbornly he went on staring at the hat, so pale a blue, so delicate, something almost ethereal about it, except the defiant little feather, jutting up, cocking itself at the crowd outside.
In the midst of it all Marius felt lonely, felt cold on this hot morning, and as he lost his eyes in the blue of the hat he saw only his room, the small, tight, safe room, the window and the buzzing flies, the patient spider.
"Excuse me."
It made Marius jump, but he did not move, and he could not take his eye off the hat.
"If you please," and he was pushed and only then did he move, keeping his eye fixed on the window as he moved slowly along, and the next long window was full of books, he stopped again. He was afraid to look round.
He stared fixedly at one particular book.
A young couple behind him were discussing the author, he slowly raised his eyes and saw a young man and woman with linked arms. They were happy, Marius knew they were happy, their very presence, their voices as they talked were proof of it.
"I'm getting this Labiche on the brain," he thought, "and what the hell am I doing here, in my peasant's suit, Christ, I'd better get out of it," and he turned quickly, clumsily.
"Excuse me," he said and hurried away, pressing through the crush of people who had gathered about the entrance to the store.
It was a long avenue and it was like a battlefield. The pavements were crowded, cars pulled up, unloaded their passengers, who rushed off, disappearing through doorways, into restaurants. Lorries and vans were drawn up outside shops, a burly carter, great arms widespread and bared, carrying a hefty load cursed Marius when he bumped into him, and his "sorry" vanished uselessly into the air, whilst the carter's healthy swears followed in his wake.
Ahead he saw iron railings, a kiosk, a group of brightly dressed girls, a blue bus pulling up, he hurried past all these and turned into the park.
People were sitting on benches, children were playing on the paths, and Marius as he walked quickly past turned away his head, which lifted a little, he might have been studying the uniform line of trees. And then he saw a vacant bench. He was glad to sit down.
"Thought I'd be locked there forever. God. In the end I was glad to be pushed out of it, that hat—the way they pushed, that matron "—pressed against him, the feel of the big woman, that shattering backside—" I must have been crazy to stand there staring at a piddling little hat."
He lay back on the bench, he felt exhausted, a little frightened.
"I must pull myself together."
The closed eyes felt the heat of the sun.
"I've had enough of it. I must get out. In the end I'll stow away, buy my job, though I'll hate that, I have some merits, even if I have no papers," and the very thoughts were like shutters, opening up, another climate, another country, the little dream.
"The Black Sea—Greece, the Islands—Italy, Genoa, Leghorn, they weren't so respectable there, a man is a man to the very end.
This place, I'm not the only bum here, at the end of my tether—and that man, Labiche, what's he after—I heard somebody say he's good, good people are a bloody menace—"
He opened his eyes to a silent, staring child, a boy, whose clear gaze at this tall thin man, made him at once embarrassed, and he looked away quickly.
"Hello."
"Hello," Marius said.
"Would you mend this wheel?"
"Give it me," Marius said, not wanting to mend it, wanting to move again, wanting to get back, up the stairs, into his room, he could lock the door, shut the world out.
"There!"
"Thank you, sir."
Marius smiled back at the satisfied child, and watched him go off and join another further down the path.
"If I'd married, perhaps—no, at forty-nine—now if I'd met Lucy—poor Lucy. Perhaps if I was younger I'd have married her, so young, I felt like a pig. I'll never forget her face when she told me she was happy—something stiffened inside me when she said it."
Here, inside the railings, one was free of the rushing sea. The noise, heaved up and down as waves. The cries and raucous shouts of children were tossed into the air as spray, themselves lost in the hoots of the passing cars, the dull roar of these drowned out by a loud clanging bell, and all commingling, to rise, clamorous, triumphant, the dominating, ruthless and ever thrusting voice of the city, beating against stone, and the high windows, and Marius seated comfortably on his bench could listen to it all.
He got up, turned towards the gate, stopped, went back to his seat and sat down again, but without knowing why. People passed and re-passed, lovers sprawled on benches, old couples chatted, read their newspapers, children played, it went on, it never stopped.
"I must get off," he thought, wondering why, to where, and quickly he was on his feet and hurrying down the path, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing, he was in the long wide avenue again, and this seemed endless, like that avenue to the Heros, roads leading nowhere.
Passing a huge hotel his eye caught sight for a moment of two huge brass bowls, one on either side of the entrance, filled with roses, and as he hurried past them he thought only of bunched fists.
