She was one of the few people not to call him Monsieur Jonas. True, she addressed most of the customers in the most familiar manner.
'Don't touch those pears, love!' she would shout at Doctor Martroux's wife, one of the most prim and proper women in the town. 'When I go to see your husband I don't play with his instruments.' That day she strode into the kitchen and sat down on a chair, 'I've come to tell you I've had an offer for my daughter.'
Her gaze made an inventory of the room, where nothing can have escaped her attention.
'Some people from Paris who have just settled in the town. The husband, an engineer, has been appointed assistant manager of the factory and they are looking for someone. It's a good post, and Gina would get board and lodging. I promised them a reply the day after tomorrow. You can think it over.'
He had had twenty-four hours of panic and had turned the question over in his mind in all its aspects again and again.... As a bachelor he couldn't have a living-in maid. Besides there was only one bedroom in the house. That Angèle knew. So why had she come to offer him a sort of first refusal?
It was difficult enough to keep Gina in the house all day for she would have nothing to do for hours on end.
Had Angèle thought of all this?
During all this time Gina seemed to be unaware of what was going on and behaved in her normal way.
They always had lunch together, in the kitchen, opposite one another, she with her back to the oven, from where she reached for the pots as she needed them, without having to get up.
'Gina!'
'Yes.'
'There s something I want to ask you.'
'What?'
'You promise to answer me frankly?'
He could still see her clearly as he pronounced these words, but the next moment she was nothing more than a wraith before his eyes, for his spectacles had suddenly misted over.
'Aren't I always frank?'
'Yes.'
'Usually I get criticized for being too frank.'
'Not by me.'
'What do you want to ask?'
'Do you like the house?'
She looked round her with what seemed to him like indifference.
'I mean,' he persisted, 'would you like to live here altogether?'
'Why do you ask me that?'
'Because I should be happy if you would accept.'
'Accept what?'
'Becoming my wife.'
If there had been a plot, Gina was not in it, for she exclaimed with a nervous laugh:
'Don't be silly!'
'I'm serious.'
'You'd marry me?
'That's what I am suggesting.'
'Me?'
'You.'
'You realize what sort of a girl I am?'
'I think I know you as well as anybody else.'
'In that case you're a brave man.'
'What's your answer?'
'My answer's that you're very kind, but that it's impossible.' There was a splash of sunlight on the table and it was on this that Jonas fastened his gaze, rather than on the young girl's face.
'Why?'
'Because.'
'You don't want me?'
'I didn't say that, Monsieur Jonas. You are certainly very decent. In fact you're the only man who never tried to take advantage of the situation. Even Ancel himself, though he's the father of one of my friends, took me into the shed in his backyard when I was only fifteen. I could name nearly all of them, one by one, and you would be amazed. To start with I wondered when you were going to pluck up courage.'
'Do you think you couldn't be happy here?'
Then she made her frankest reply:
'It would be peaceful, at any rate.'
'Well, that's something, isn't it?'
'Yes, of course. Only supposing we didn't get on together? Better not say any more about it. I'm not the kind of girl to make a man like you happy.'
'It's not me that counts.'
'Who does then?'
'You.'
He was sincere. He was so overcome with tenderness while he was talking about this subject, that he didn't dare move from fear of allowing his emotion to break out.
'Me and happiness . . .' she said bitterly, between her clenched teeth.
'Let's say peace, as you just called it yourself.'
She had glanced at him sharply.
'Was it my mother who suggested it to you? I knew she'd been to see you, but. . .'
'No. She only told me you were being offered a better job.'
'My mother has always wanted to get me out of the way.'
'Won't you think it over?'
'What's the point?'
'Wait at any rate until tomorrow before giving me a definite answer, will you?'
'If you insist!'
That day she had broken a plate while she was doing the washing up, and as had happened now, two years later, she had gone off forgetting to clean the stove.
At about four o'clock in the afternoon, as usual, Jonas had gone for his cup of coffee at Le Bouc's and Fernand had watched him closely.
'Is it true, what they're saying?'
'What are they saying?'
'That you are going to marry Gina.'
'Who told you that?'
'Louis, just now. He had a quarrel with Angèle over it.'
'Why?'
Le Bouc had looked uncomfortable. 'They don't have the same ideas.'
'He's against it?'
'I'll say!'
'Why?'
Louis had certainly given a reason, but Le Bouc did not pass it on.
'You never can tell just what's going on in his head,' he replied evasively.
'Is he angry?'
'He talked about going and knocking your block off. That won't stop him doing what Angèle decides. It makes no difference him protesting, he's got no say in his house.'
'And Gina?'
'You must know what she said to you better than I do. The most difficult of all will be her brother.'
'Why?'
'I don't know. It's just a hunch. He's a strange lad, with ideas all his own.'
'He doesn't like me?'
'Apart from his sister he probably likes nobody. She's the only one who can stop him making a fool of himself. A month ago he wanted to join up in Indo-China.'
'She didn't want him to?'
'He's only a boy. He's never been anywhere. As soon as he got there he would be even more unhappy than he is here.'
A customer was going into the shop, nearby, and Jonas made for the door.
'See you soon.'
'Good luck!'
He had slept badly that night. At eight o'clock Gina had come in to start work without speaking, without looking at him, and he had waited a long quarter of an hour before questioning her.
'Have you got the answer?'
'Do you really mean it?'
'Yes.'
'You won't hold it against me later?'
'I promise.'
She had shrugged her shoulders.
'In that case it's as you wish.'
It was so unexpected that it made him empty of all emotion. He looked at her dumbfounded, without daring to approach, without taking her hand, and even less did it occur to him to kiss her.
Afraid of having misunderstood her, he insisted:
'You are consenting to marry me?'
She was sixteen years younger than he and yet it was she who had looked at him as if he were a child, a protective smile at her lips.
'Yes.'
So as not to betray himself in front of her, he had gone up to his room and, before leaning out of the window, had stood for a long while in a trance in front of one of the wardrobe mirrors. It was in May. A shower had just fallen but the sun was shining again and making great bright patches on the wet tiles of the immense roof. There was a market, like today, and he had gone out to buy strawberries, the first of the season.
* * *
A big, strong woman, dressed in black, a blue apron round
her middle, was entering his shop in an authoritative manner and casting a great shadow. It was Angèle, whose hands always smelt of leeks.
'Is it true what Louis tells me? What's she gone to Bourges for?'
He was smaller than she was and a great deal less powerful. He stammered:
'I don't know.'
'Did she take the bus this morning?'
'Yes.'
'Without coming to see me?'
She, too, was looking at him suspiciously.
'Was there a quarrel between the two of you?'
'No.'
'Answer me like a man, for God's sake! What's gone wrong?'
'Nothing . . .'
She had begun to address him familiarly the day of the engagement, but Louis had never been willing to follow her example.
'Nothing! Nothing! . . .' she mimicked. 'You ought at least be capable of preventing your wife from running away. When did she promise to come back?'
'She didn't say.'
'That's better than ever!'
She seemed to flatten him with a look, with all her vigorous bulk, and then, turning sharply on her heel to leave, she ground out: 'Little rat!'
III
His first impulse had been to go and buy a slice of ham, or some cold meat from Pascal, the butcher on the other side of the market, just at the beginning of the Rue du Canal, or even not to eat at all, or perhaps to make do with the two extra croissants he had been given that morning. He ought not to have taken them. That did not fit in with the supposed departure of Gina for Bourges. Strictly he would only have needed to buy three croissants.
It was not on his own account that he was so distraught, out of self-respect or fear of what people would say.
It was on her account. Her theft of his stamps, which were all he cared about in the world apart from her, made no difference: he considered it his duty to defend her.
He did not know yet what against. He had been a prey, particularly since that morning, to a vague uneasiness which almost prevented him from thinking about his own distress. In time, every one of his feelings would doubtless detach themselves more clearly and he would be able to single them out. For the moment, stunned, he was dealing with the immediate problems first, in the belief that by acting in this way it was Gina that he was protecting.
On the rare occasions when she had to visit La Loute and had spent the whole day at Bourges, he had returned to his bachelor habits and eaten at Pepito's. This, then, was what he had to do today and when, at noon, the bell, announcing the end of the market peeled out into the sunlight, vibrating like a convent bell, he began to bring the boxes of books indoors.
Already the refuse lorry was advancing yard by yard round the square, while five men loaded on to it everything they could shovel up out of the gutter. Many of the market women, especially the ones from the country, had already left, and some, before taking their bus, were eating the snacks they had brought with them, at Le Bouc's or the Trianon Bar.
It went against the grain to leave the house, rather as if he were betraying something, and, against all evidence, he told himself that Gina would perhaps return while he was away.
The Rue Haute was a narrow, gently sloping street, despite its name, and formed the main artery of the most densely populated neighbourhood. The shops in it were more varied than elsewhere. American surplus stores and cheap jewellery were sold in it, and there were at least three junk shops and old clothes stores.
Since the chemical products factory had been installed a kilometre away, it had become a sort of Italian quarter at the far end, which some people actually called Little Italy. As the factory grew in importance, workers had come from elsewhere, first of all Poles, who had installed themselves a little farther up, then at the end, almost outside the factory gates, a few families of Algerians.
Pepito's restaurant with the olive-coloured walls and the crinkled paper cloths, had nevertheless preserved its peaceful character and, at midday, the same habitués were to be found there, who, as Jonas had done for such a long time, took their meals there year in year out.
Marie, the patron's wife, did the cooking while her husband ran the bar and their niece waited at table.
'Why, Monsieur Jonas!' the little Italian cried out on catching sight of him. 'What a pleasant surprise to see you!'
Then, afraid suddenly that he had committed a gaffe to appear so pleased:
'Gina's not ill, I trust?'
And he had to repeat his old refrain:
'She's gone to Bourges.'
'Well, we all have to change our routine now and again. There, your old table's free. Julia! Lay a place for Monsieur Jonas.'
It was probably here that Jonas became most aware of the vacuum which had just been created in his life. For years Pepito's restaurant, where nothing had changed, had been a second home for him. Yet, here he was, feeling out of place, seized with panic at the idea that he might have to return every day.
The Widower was in his place, and seemed almost to be on the point of welcoming Jonas with the batting of his eyelids which in the old days had served as a greeting.
They had never spoken to one another. For years, they had occupied two tables opposite one another by the window, and they used to arrive at more or less the same time.
Jonas knew his name, through Pepito. He was Monsieur Métras, chief clerk at the Town Hall, but in his mind he always labelled him The Widower.
He had never seen Madame Métras, who had died fifteen years before. As there were no children in the family, the husband, left to his own devices, had taken to having his meals at Pepito's.
He must have been fifty-five years old, perhaps more. He was a tall man, very broadly built, thick and hard, with iron grey hair, bushy eyebrows and darker hair sprouting from his nostrils and ears. His complexion was greyish as well, and Jonas had never seen him smile.
He didn't read the paper, as he ate like most single diners, never joined in a conversation with anybody, and chewed his food carefully, gazing straight to his front.
Many months had passed before they batted eyelids at one another in greeting, and Jonas was the only person to whom The Widower had ever made this concession.
A diminutive, asthmatic dog, fat and almost impotent, used to sit under the table; it could not have been far off twenty years old, for it had once been Madame Métra's dog.
The Widower used to go and fetch it from his flat on coming out of his office, and take it to the restaurant where they gave it its food. Then he led it off again, slowly, waiting while it relieved itself before returning to the Town Hall, and in the evening the performance was repeated.
Why, while Jonas was eating, did The Widower watch him today more closely than before? It wasn't possible that he already knew. Yet anyone would have sworn that he was thinking to himself, restraining a snigger:
'Ah! So, you're back again!'
Rather as if the two of them had been members of the same club, as if Jonas had left it for a time and finally come back, repentant, to the fold.
All this existed only in his imagination, but what was not imagination was his terror at the idea of once again sitting opposite the chief clerk every day.
'What will you have for dessert, Monsieur Jonas? There's Eclairs and apple tart.'
He had always liked pudding, particularly apple tart, which he chose, and he felt guilty at yielding to his greed at such a moment.
'What's your news, Monsieur Jonas?'
Pepito was tall like Palestri, dry and lean, but unlike his compatriot, he was always smiling and affable. Anyone would have thought running a restaurant was all a game for him, he did it with such good humour. Maria, his wife, had become enormous as a result of living in a kitchen six yards square, but that did not prevent her remaining young and alluring. She, too, was jolly and would burst into laughter over nothing.
As they had no children, they had adopted a nephew whom they had sent over from their country and who could be seen doing his homework in the evening at one of t
he restaurant tables.
'How's Gina?'
'She's all right.'
'The other day my wife met her in the market and, I don't know why, she got the impression that she was expecting a baby. Is that true?'
He said no, almost ashamed, for he was sure it was his fault if Gina was not pregnant.
What had misled Maria was that recently Gina had taken to eating more than usual, with a sort of frenzy, and from being plump as she was before, had become fat to the extent of needing to alter her clothes.
At first he had rejoiced at her appetite, for in the early days of their marriage, she hardly ate at all. He used to encourage her, seeing it as a sign of contentment, thinking that she was acclimatizing herself to their life, and that she might end by actually feeling happy.
He had said so to her and she had replied with a vague, rather protective smile, which she turned on him increasingly often now. She had not her mother's authoritative personality, quite the opposite. She did not concern herself with business, or money, or the decisions that had to be taken in household matters.
Yet, despite the difference in age, it was she who adopted an indulgent manner now and then towards Jonas.
He was her husband and she treated him as such. But in her eyes, perhaps, he was not quite a man, a real male, and she seemed to look on him as a backward child.
Had he been wrong not to have been more severe with her? Ought he to have taken her in hand? Would that have changed matters?
He had no desire to think about it. The Widower, opposite, was hypnotizing him and he finished up his apple tart faster than he would have wished, in order to escape his gaze.
'So soon?' exclaimed Pepito when he asked for the bill. 'Aren't you going to have your coffee?'
He would take it at Le Bouc's, with the possibility in the back of his mind of hearing some news there. In the old days he used to eat as slowly as Monsieur Métras, and the majority of single men who lunched in the restaurant and who, for the most part, chatted with the patron afterwards.
'Julia! Monsieur Jonas' bill.'
And, addressing him:
'Shall we be seeing you this evening?'
'Perhaps.'
'She hasn't gone for long?'
The Little Man From Archangel Page 4
