The Hand

by Georges Simenon

  It’s his job. He practises law with a quiet effrontery, without any qualms of conscience.

  Lieutenant Olsen passed me at the wheel of his police car when I was on my way to the post office, and he gave me a desultory wave. Does what happened to Ray still bother him? His kind, when they get an idea in their heads . . .

  Fine! So what! I telephoned Mona, from the office. Openly. My secretary and even Higgins could hear what I was saying, because except when someone is with a client we usually leave our doors open.

  At first, since the phone rang a long time, I was afraid that she hadn’t come back from Long Island, where she had gone to spend a few days with friends who have a place out there, with horses and a yacht. I don’t know them. She didn’t tell me their name, and I didn’t ask.

  They had many friends, she and Ray. She’d already had lots of them before meeting him. Often, when we were walking in the streets, people would greet her more or less familiarly, some of them calling out:

  ‘Mona, hello!’

  Since I am with her, I also wave, clumsily, without asking any questions. Occasionally she’ll tell me, as if it explained everything, ‘That’s Harris . . .’ or else, ‘That’s Helen . . .’

  Harris who? Helen who? People known, probably, in the worlds of theatre, film or television. Ray spent much of his time, with the Millers, on budgets for television shows. It had become his specialty and was probably the reason why he asked his wife not to do such work any more, which would have put him in an awkward position.

  But now? Won’t Mona feel like working again? She hasn’t spoken to me about it. Our intimacy belongs to a different domain. There is a whole part of her life that is unknown to me.

  ‘Hello, Mona? . . . It’s Donald, yes.’

  ‘How was your vacation?’

  ‘Not good . . . And you? . . . On Long Island?’

  ‘A little crazy . . . I didn’t have a moment to myself . . . Every day, more friends would arrive, even ten or twenty at a time . . .’

  ‘Did you go out riding?’

  ‘I even took a tumble, luckily without hurting myself.’

  ‘Any sailing?’

  ‘Twice, I’m all tanned . . .’

  ‘Are you free tomorrow?’

  ‘Wait, what day is it? . . .’

  ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘Eleven o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll be at your place at eleven.’

  That was our hour, when she was at her toilette, the time I enjoyed the most, with a feeling of abandon, of complete intimacy.

  The next day the sky was clear, a lavender-blue, with those golden clouds, over the mountains, that seem to have been put there once and for all, as if in a painting. Only on certain evenings do those clouds disappear or stretch out in long, almost red bands.

  I drove along happily.

  ‘You’ll be back this evening?’

  ‘Probably . . .’

  Does Isabel wonder why I stay overnight in New York less and less frequently? Does she suppose that something has changed between Mona and me?

  Or else that I’m beginning to get a grip on myself, to avoid compromising myself any further?

  I hate her.

  I looked for a parking place for a long time before entering the building on 56th Street. I hurried to the elevator. I rang the doorbell. The door opened immediately, and there was Mona in a lightweight tailored suit of emerald green, as well as a little white hat tilted over her left ear.

  I was speechless. She was surprised, as if she hadn’t expected to produce such an effect.

  ‘My poor Donald . . .’

  I don’t like being poor Donald, even for her. I could only take her in my arms when she welcomed me in her peignoir.

  ‘Disappointed?’

  Still, we kissed. It’s true that her face was tanned, which helps to change her.

  ‘This morning I felt like taking a walk with you in Central Park . . . Do you mind?’

  My face cleared. It was a nice idea. The weather was just right. We had not yet celebrated spring together.

  ‘Would you like to drink something before we go?’

  ‘No . . .’

  She turned towards the kitchen.

  ‘I won’t be back for lunch, Janet . . .’

  ‘Fine, madam . . .’

  ‘If anyone phones for me, I’ll be back at around two or three o’clock.’

  It wasn’t the first time we had strolled along the sidewalks, but the air was lighter than usual, the sunshine quite cheerful, the sky of an astonishing purity behind the skyscrapers.

  In front of the Plaza, we saw the scattering of carriages that await tourists and lovers. For one second, I thought about climbing into one of them. Mona was paying no attention. Her hand was resting on my arm, lightly, without insistence.

  ‘How are Mildred and Cecilia?’

  ‘Quite well. They spent their vacation with us. We took several hikes and even went to Cape Cod . . .’

  We were heading slowly towards the lake where Ray and I used to skate in the winter when we were students, treating ourselves to a night in New York.

  I felt a stronger pressure on my arm from the white-gloved hand.

  ‘I must speak to you, Donald . . .’

  It’s funny. It wasn’t in my back, but in my head that I felt a cold rush and I said, in a voice I hardly recognized:

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’re old pals, aren’t we? You’re the best pal I’ve ever had . . .’

  Mothers were watching over children toddling about. A ragged man, who had nothing more to hope for, was sleeping on a bench, so wretched that you had to look away.

  We were walking slowly. Head down, I was looking at the gravel passing by under my shoes.

  ‘Do you know John Falk?’

  I’d read his name somewhere. He was familiar enough, but at that moment I couldn’t place him. I did not try. I awaited the verdict. Because all this was going to end in a verdict, sure as fate.

  ‘He’s the producer of the three best series on CBS.’

  I had nothing to say. I could hear the noises in the park, the birds, the children’s voices, the traffic along Fifth Avenue. I saw ducks smoothing their feathers on the lawn and others swimming, tracing triangular wakes.

  ‘We’ve known each other for a long time, he and I . . . He’s forty . . . He’s been divorced for three years and has a little girl . . .’

  She added quickly, to get it over with: ‘We intend to get married, Donald . . .’

  I said nothing. I couldn’t have said a thing.

  ‘Are you sad?’

  I almost laughed, because of that word. Sad? I was utterly crushed. I was . . . It was beyond explanation. There was nothing left any more, that’s all.

  Up until then, I had had something left, I had Mona left, even though our liaison wasn’t a real one, even though there was no question of love between us.

  I saw the boudoir again, the movement of her lips towards the red lipstick, the peignoir she’d let drop down behind her . . .

  ‘Please forgive me . . .’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For hurting you . . . I can tell I’m hurting you . . .’

  ‘A little,’ I said finally, using a ridiculously feeble word myself.

  ‘I should have talked to you about it earlier . . . I’ve been hesitating for a month now . . . I didn’t know what to decide. It even occurred to me to have you meet John and to ask your advice . . .’

  We did not look at each other. She had thought of that. That’s why she had led me into the park. Walking among others out for a stroll, you’re obliged to control yourself.

  ‘When do you plan on . . .’

  ‘Oh! Not right away . . . There are the legal delays to observe . . . We’ll also have to find another apartment, because Monique will live with us.’

  So, the little girl was named Monique.

  ‘Her father obtained custody of her. He absolutely adores her . . .’

  Of course! Of course
! And in the meantime, was this John Falk, since that was his name, already sleeping in the big bed at 56th Street?

  Probably. Like friends, as Mona says. No: those two, not like friends, since they were going to be married.

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, Donald . . . We’ll stay good friends, won’t we?’

  And then what?

  ‘I spoke to John about you.’

  ‘Did you tell him the truth?’

  ‘Why not? He doesn’t take me for a virgin . . .’

  The word shocked me, spoken aloud, suddenly, in the middle of the sunny park. I am not in love with Mona, I swear it. No one will believe me, and yet it is the truth.

  It isn’t only ‘woman’ that she represents to me, it’s . . .

  It’s just everything! And it’s nothing! It must be nothing, since she could cut the thread so easily.

  She was going to go back to television work. I would see her on my screen, back there in Brentwood, sitting next to Isabel in the library.

  ‘I thought that we might lunch together somewhere, wherever you like . . .’

  ‘Is he the one who’ll be calling between two and three?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He knows I’m in town?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He knows you’ve taken me to Central Park?’

  ‘No . . . I thought of that while getting dressed.’

  Not while getting dressed in front of me, with her quiet immodesty. While getting dressed alone. In Janet’s company, rather.

  ‘It’s going to be difficult, Janet . . .’

  ‘He’ll understand, madam.’

  ‘Of course he’ll understand, but I’m still going to make him suffer . . .’

  ‘If we had to give up everything that makes others suffer . . .’

  Mona lit a cigarette, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye, and I smiled at her. Well, it was meant to be a smile.

  ‘You’ll come to see me?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  That was no. I had nothing in common with Mr and Mrs Falk. Nor with the little girl named Monique.

  Girls, I had two of them.

  The sun seemed to me to be shining harder than in previous days. We went inside the bar at the Plaza.

  ‘Two double martinis . . .’

  I hadn’t asked her what she was having. Perhaps, with Falk, she drank something else? For the last time, I observed our tradition.

  ‘Cheers, Donald . . .’

  ‘Cheers, Mona . . .’

  That was the hardest part. Saying her name, I almost, stupidly, burst into tears. Those two syllables . . .

  What’s the point of trying to explain? I saw myself in the mirror, between the bottles.

  ‘Where would you like to have lunch?’

  She left the choice to me. It was my day. My last day. So it was important that everything go as well as possible.

  ‘We can go to our little French restaurant . . .’

  I shook my head. I preferred a crowd, a place without memories.

  We had lunch at the Plaza, and the main room was full. I suggested foie gras, almost derisively, and she agreed. Then lobster. A gala luncheon!

  ‘Would you like crêpes Suzette?’

  ‘Why not?’

  She thought to please me by accepting. I knew that she was checking the clock from time to time.

  I didn’t hold it against her. She had given me what she could give me, kindly, with a warm, animal tenderness, and I was the one left in her debt.

  At one point, I saw her hand flat on the tablecloth just as I had seen it on the parquet, that January night, and I felt the same desire to reach for that hand . . .

  ‘Be brave, Donald . . .’

  She had guessed.

  ‘If you knew how this hurts me . . .’ she sighed.

  Then we walked to her place. I wanted to stammer, ‘One last time, yes?’

  It seemed to me it would be easier, afterwards . . .

  I looked up at the windows of the fourth-floor apartment; I entered the lobby.

  ‘Goodbye, Donald . . .’

  ‘Farewell, Mona . . .’

  She threw herself into my arms and with no thought of her make-up gave me a very long, very deep kiss.

  ‘I’ll never forget,’ she panted.

  Then, very quickly, feverishly, she opened the elevator door.

  3.

  That was one month ago, and my hatred of Isabel has only grown. As was to be expected, she understood right away, seeing me come home. I wasn’t even drunk. I hadn’t felt the need to drink.

  Driving home along the Taconic Parkway, I was drawing a kind of mental picture of the life awaiting me, from waking to bedtime, with the movements, the comings and goings from one room to another, the post office, my office, my secretary, who would soon be leaving us, lunch, my office, my clients, the mail, the glass of Scotch before dinner, the meal together, the television, a newspaper or a book . . .

  I did not omit a single detail. On the contrary, I itemized them carefully, as if in Indian ink.

  It was an engraving, an album of engravings, the day of a man named Donald Dodd.

  Isabel said nothing, I’d known that in advance. I had also foreseen that she would feel no pity and I would not have wanted any. She did manage, however, to hide her triumph, to keep her eyes impassive.

  Then, over the following days, she went back to observing me, the way one observes a patient, wondering if he will die or recover.

  I was not dying. My mechanism functioned without a hitch. I had been well trained. My movements remained the same, as did the words I spoke, my behaviour at the table, the office, in my armchair in the evening.

  Why was she continuing to spy on me? What was she hoping for?

  She wasn’t satisfied, I could feel that. She needed something else. My complete annihilation?

  I was not annihilated. The following week, Higgins was surprised not to see me go off to New York. My secretary as well.

  The week after that, he was relieved, understanding that what he must have called my affair was over.

  And so, I was going to re-enter the world of upright, normal people. I had had a kind of moral flu from which I was quite slowly recovering.

  Higgins behaved kindly towards me, encouragingly, coming several times a day to my office to speak to me about matters he would once have reported to me with a few words in passing.

  Did not my interest in life require rekindling? I met Warren, too, at the post office, where lots of people come to pick up their morning mail. Remembering the reception I’d given him the last time, he hesitated to come over but finally made up his mind.

  ‘You’re looking well, Donald . . .’

  Of course!

  I avoided going to New York, even when it was useful. I tried to arrange everything on the phone and through correspondence. One day, when my presence there was indispensable, I asked Higgins to go instead, and he hastened to accept.

  That meant that I was cured, or almost.

  If they could have known, every last one of them, how I hated her! But she was the only one who knew.

  For I had understood. I had sought the meaning of her look for a long time. I had made various suppositions without thinking of the quite simple truth.

  I had detached myself from her. I had broken the circle. I was out of her reach.

  For that, she would never forgive me. I was her possession, like the house, the girls, Brentwood and our daily routine.

  I had escaped and I was looking at her from outside, I was looking at her with hatred, because she had possessed me for too long, because she had suffocated me, because she had kept me from living.

  All right! I had chosen her. I have admitted that and I repeat it. That was not reason enough. But she was still the living image, there, right next to me, in the bed next to mine, of all that I had begun to hate.

  I could not take it out on the whole world and its institutions. I could not spit their truths and mine into the faces of
millions of human beings.

  She was there.

  As Mona had been there, for a moment, to do her best representing life.

  Isabel knew all that. The qualities attributed to her by others either did exist or they didn’t, but there is one that she had to the supreme degree: the ability to rummage through the souls of others, and mine in particular.

  She was now doing so to her heart’s content, searching all day long, sensing that there was nothing left but a façade and that if this cracked, there would be nothing left.

  To see me reduced to nothing! What a marvellous feeling! What matchless revenge.

  ‘It was so good of Isabel . . .’

  To live with a man like me, obviously. To put up with what she’s had to put up with these past months.

  ‘He didn’t bother to hide . . .’

  In the evening, I was having more and more trouble getting to sleep and, after an hour lying motionless, I sometimes went into the bathroom to take a sleeping pill.

  She knew this. I’m convinced that she avoided falling asleep before I did to enjoy my insomnia, to hear the mysterious rustling of my thoughts.

  It wasn’t so much Mona’s face that haunted me, and I’m not sure if Isabel had guessed that. It was the bench. The red-painted bench. The din of the storm and the door banging in a steady rhythm, the snow that, each time, blew a little farther into the barn.

  Ray, with Patricia, in the bathroom. I would have liked to be in his place. I wanted Patricia. One day, when the Ashbridges came back from Florida . . .

  Ray was dead. His apartment in Sutton Place that had cost him so much, with its aggressive luxury he had flaunted so ironically, had been dismantled and was now inhabited by a film star.

  His wife, Mona, was going to become Mrs Falk. A friend of his. A producer with whom he’d done business.

  He had thought about suicide, and death had arrived without him having to lift a finger.

  The lucky stiff!

  My father kept publishing his Citizen and writing articles for two or three dozen elderly readers.

  Had Isabel told him that it was over with Mona? Had he been glad like the others, telling himself that I was returning at last to the fold?