My Friends

by Emmanuel Bove

  The ceiling of the room was low, like that of a railway carriage. There were some cheap cinema tickets on the till.

  My companion ordered a beer.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘The same as you.’

  I wanted to ask for a liqueur, but my idiotic shyness prevented me.

  My neighbour swallowed a mouthful of beer, then, wiping the froth from his moustache, he asked:

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Bâton, Victor,’ I replied, as I used to do in the army.

  ‘Bâton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What a name!’ he said, imitating the action of somebody whipping up a horse.

  I was no stranger to this little joke, but I was very surprised to come across it in a man who seemed so reserved.

  ‘And you, what is your name?’

  ‘Henri Billard.’

  If I had not been afraid of offending him, I should have made a joke of his name too, by pretending to play billiards.

  My companion opened his purse and paid.

  I was not thirsty, so I found it difficult to finish my beer.

  Suddenly the idea of offering him a drink came to me. I struggled against it. After all, I did not know Billard. But at the thought of finding myself alone in the street I weakened.

  I emptied my head of every thought so that nothing could hold me back, and said in a voice which sounded to me as if I was talking to myself:

  ‘Please . . . do let me get you a drink.’

  There was a silence. I waited nervously for him to reply, fearful of either yes or no.

  At last he answered:

  ‘Why should you spend your money on me? You are poor, aren’t you?’

  I stammered out a repetition of my offer: it was no good.

  Billard went out slowly, swinging his arms and limping slightly, no doubt because he had been standing still for so long. I copied him, limping for no reason.

  ‘Good-bye, Bâton.’

  I do not like leaving somebody with whom I have been getting on well without finding out his address or when I shall see him again. When this does happen, in spite of all my efforts, I feel uneasy for several hours. I am haunted by thoughts of death, which I usually chase away as quickly as possible. This person, going away for ever, reminded me, I do not know why, that I should die alone.

  I looked sadly at Billard.

  ‘Well, good-bye, Bâton.’

  ‘You’re going?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Perhaps I shall see you round here again.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  I went home thoughtfully. Billard must indeed be a kind man to have refused my offer. He must certainly like and understand me.

  People who like me a little and understand me are so hard to find.

  II

  The next day, when I woke up, I thought of him at once. As I lay in bed, I went over the details of our meeting. I could not remember Billard’s face properly. It was in vain that I called to mind his moustache, hair and nose; his expression was always missing.

  How happy I should be if he were my friend! We should go out in the evening. We should eat together. If I were short of money, he would lend me some and the other way round, too, of course. I should introduce him to Lucie. Life is so miserable for someone who is alone and speaks only to people who take no interest in him.

  The day passed slowly. In spite of all the noises in the city, I heard every hour strike, as one does during a sleepless night. I could only wait. Frequent cold sweats made me feel there must be a draught between my shirt and my body.

  In the afternoon I went for a walk in a park.

  As I can read Roman numbers, I entertained myself by working out the age of the statues. Each time I was disappointed: they were never more than a hundred years old. It was not long before my polished shoes were covered with dust. Children’s hoops spun round on the spot before tumbling down. People were sitting back to back on the benches.

  Everything I saw provided distraction only for my eyes. Inside my head there was always Billard.

  At last the evening came. I went along the streets where Billard and I had walked. The pharmacy was deserted. This seemed very strange to me because in my mind it was associated with a crowd of people.

  Nothing prevented me from hanging about in the neighbourhood of the Café Jacob earlier on, but I knew that if I were to meet Billard at the same time as on the previous day, it would be less obvious that I had been looking for him. He would think I passed that way about six o’clock every day.

  The café was not far away. My pounding heart made me aware of the shape of the left side of my chest. I kept wiping my damp hands on my sleeves. A smell of sweat escaped through my open jacket.

  I imagined that the proprietor would be behind his counter and Billard drinking his beer, as they had been yesterday.

  I stood on my toes, my hand against the window to steady myself, and looked over a red curtain into the Café Jacob.

  Billard was not there.

  I felt a surge of resentment. I had supposed that, as he liked me, he would have come back in the hope of speaking to me.

  I looked at the clock on a baker’s shop. It stood at six o’clock. All was not lost: Billard could be at work.

  I went away, deciding to come back twenty minutes later. He would certainly be there then. We should talk; I had so many things to tell him.

  To kill time, I wandered along a nearby street. The trees, with iron railings round the trunk, seemed to be standing upright like lead soldiers. I could see the passengers in the lighted trams. Taxis, dark and stubby, jolted over the paving-stones. Two flashing signs no longer attracted attention because they went on and off so regularly.

  For half an hour I looked at the prices of shoes, ties and hats. I stopped in front of jewellers’ shops too. The tiny price-tags were upside-down. It is impossible to find out the price of watches and rings without going into the shops.

  By now Billard must be waiting for me, because he did really care about me, for if he did not he would not have offered me a beer.

  I was suddenly afraid he might have come and gone again, so I went quickly back to the Café Jacob.

  I was glad night had fallen. The proprietor and customers would not see me in the dark. I should study them from the street, and if Billard was not there, they would not be able to see the disappointment on my face.

  The hundred metres which I still had to cover seemed endless. I wanted to break into a run, but was afraid of making myself look ridiculous: I have never run in the street. Besides, I run as badly as a woman.

  At last I arrived in front of the bar. I lit a cigarette and then peered inside.

  Billard was not there.

  I was seized with a fit of dizziness which made me see three of everything, each passer-by and house and vehicle.

  I realize that some people might well have laughed at my emotion. Nothing of what had happened would have made such an impression on anyone but me. I am too sensitive and that is all there is to it.

  •

  A minute later I went away completely downcast. Instead of pulling myself together, I tried to prolong my misery. I withdrew into myself, making myself more insignificant and wretched than I really am. In that way I found some comfort in my sorrows.

  Billard had not come.

  There have always been people like that in my life. Nobody has ever responded to my love. All I ask is to be allowed to love, to have some friends — and I always live alone. People do me some kindness, then they run away. I have never had any real luck.

  I gulped down my saliva to stop myself crying.

  I was walking straight ahead, a fresh cigarette between my lips, when I saw a man standing by a lamp-post. I thought at first it was a beggar, because they often stand about.

  Suddenly a cry broke from me, as involuntarily as a hiccup.

  The man was Billard. He had on a shabby overcoat such as down-and-outs wear. Near the street-lamp, in the
dim light it provided, he was rolling a cigarette.

  ‘Hallo, Monsieur Billard.’

  He turned, looked at me and did not recognize me, which put me out. However, I immediately forgave his failing to remember me. It was a murky night. His eyes were dazzled by the light of the gas-lamp and he could not see me properly.

  ‘It’s me, Bâton.’

  He licked his cigarette paper carefully.

  I waited and, so that he should not see that I was smoking a ready-made cigarette, I stubbed it out on the wall and put it in my pocket.

  ‘Where are you eating?’ he asked.

  ‘Where am I eating?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, anywhere.’

  ‘Come with me; I know a cheap restaurant.’

  I followed him. When I walk next to anyone, without meaning to, I push him towards the wall: so I watched myself carefully. As soon as the pavement grew narrow, I stepped down on to the road. As he was muttering I kept turning towards him, because I thought he was speaking to me: I did not want him to feel that I did not care about him.

  The pleasure of having found Billard again took away my appetite. Although I was tormented by the desire to speak about myself, my neighbours, my life, I could not get a word out. I was completely paralysed with shyness, apart from my eyes. It is true that I did not know my companion very well.

  No doubt he had hundreds of things he wanted to tell me about too, but, like me, he did not dare. Under his rough exterior he was a sensitive man.

  ‘I have bought a Camembert. We’ll share it. I usually have dinner with my wife. She’s away today.’

  ‘So, you’re married?’

  ‘No, we just live together.’

  My good humour vanished immediately. A dozen thoughts at a time chased through my brain.

  I remembered my room, Lucie, my street. The future appeared as a procession of days all the same. Yes, I held it against Billard that he had a woman. We could no longer be united in real friendship because a third person would be in the way. I was jealous. So, why had I followed this stranger? He had disconcerted me. Loneliness would weigh on me more heavily because of him.

  All these thoughts did not stop me from hanging on to a last hope. Perhaps his mistress was not beautiful! She had only to be ugly for me to be able to pull myself together.

  ‘Is she pretty?’ I asked, trying hard to make myself sound casual.

  With all the confidence of a coarse-natured person he replied that she was magnificent and had well-developed breasts, even though she was only eighteen. He even rounded his hands and showed me what they were like.

  This time, I had only one idea: to go away. The injustice of fate was indeed too great. Billard had a wart and flat feet and yet someone loved him, while I lived alone, even though I was younger and better-looking.

  We should never be able to understand each other. He was happy. As a result, I was of no interest to him. It would be better for me to go away.

  We were still walking. I was looking for an excuse to get myself away. How I should have liked to be sitting, humble, alone and sad, in a corner of the restaurant in the rue de la Seine! There, at least, nobody would be bothering about me.

  Indeed, Billard had no tact. If I had been married, I should not have said that. He ought to have known that people do not boast of their happiness to somebody who is miserable.

  Nevertheless, I could not make up my mind to leave my companion. An encouraging thought was growing up in the depths of my mind. It could be that this woman did not love Billard. Perhaps he was unhappy! How deeply I should feel for him then! I should comfort him. Friendship would make our sufferings less harsh.

  But, as I was afraid he would tell me she did, I took good care not to ask him if his mistress loved him.

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you unhappy?’ he asked.

  My misery, which had gone on increasing until that moment, vanished. The interest which Billard took in me was real, whereas my thoughts were nothing but the wanderings of a wretchedly dejected man.

  I looked at him gratefully.

  ‘Yes, I’m unhappy.’

  I expected him to confide his troubles to me. I was disappointed: he advised me to pull myself together.

  We stopped before a restaurant. The paint was peeling off the front. On one of the windows the passers-by could read: ‘Customers may bring their own food.’

  ‘Go in,’ said Billard.

  I pushed down the door-handle and the chain rattled. Several people turned round.

  I stopped on the threshold.

  ‘Go in, then!’

  ‘No, you go first.’

  He went in in front of me. At that moment it occurred to me that I was the one who had opened and closed the door.

  The room was furnished with long tables and some of those refectory benches which go up at one end when one sits down. Tobacco-smoke spiralled upwards, like syrup in a glass of water. The trap-door to the cellar trembled under our feet. Before each customer stood a bottle and glass. It would have been possible to play tunes on them with a knife.

  We settled ourselves facing each other.

  Billard tried to get the Camembert out of his pocket which was narrow. He had to use both hands.

  Then, as a regular customer, he summoned the proprietress by her Christian name:

  ‘Maria.’

  She was a handsome countrywoman who kept on wiping her fore-arms with a cloth. Her breasts shook when she walked and the small change jingled in her apron pocket.

  ‘Two half-litres and some bread.’

  ‘Half a litre is too much for me,’ I said, rather late.

  ‘It’s all right . . . I’m paying.’

  ‘But you are not well off.’

  ‘Just this once. It doesn’t mean I’ll always do it.’

  I had no wish to take advantage of my neighbour’s kindness. That is why what he said shook me so profoundly. I shall never find such a good and generous man! Oh, if I were rich, I should know how to be generous too!

  A dog, whose tail was nothing but a stump, came to sniff my fingers. I pushed it away, but it returned with such persistence that I blushed. I was sure my fingers did not smell.

  Luckily the proprietress arrived, the necks of the bottles between her fingers and the bread under her arm. She kicked at the filthy animal and drove it away.

  Billard prodded the Camembert with his fore-finger and cut it in two. He gave me half, the smaller one.

  We ate slowly, on account of the cellophane paper which was sticking to the cheese.

  When Billard drank, I copied him. Out of politeness I made sure that the level of my wine did not sink more quickly than his.

  I am not accustomed to drink, so it was not long before I was tipsy. The broken-down old men who were chattering in a corner seemed like sages.

  I poured out the rest of the wine and, as I expected, there was not much in my glass, because of the bump in the bottom of the bottle.

  I leant back against a table. For the first time I looked my interlocutor in the eyes. He had finished eating too. He was picking his teeth with his tongue and making a hissing noise.

  He was looking in his pockets for his tobacco. Without hesitation I offered him a cigarette.

  I was in a mood to tell him the story of my life and, in a rush of candour, to tell him what I did not like about him.

  ‘You seem to be a kind man, Monsieur Billard,’ I said, and I noticed that the wine had altered my voice.

  ‘Yes, I am kind.’

  ‘There are so few people who understand life.’

  ‘I am kind,’ said Billard, who was pursuing his own train of thought. ‘But you have to be careful, otherwise people take advantage of your generosity. It was on account of a friend that I lost my job.’

  These words did not please me, and in order to find something we could agree about, I jumped from one subject to another.

  ‘I was in the army.’

  I took out my wallet and showed him my military p
assbook, with my name in big letters on the cover.

  ‘I was in the army too,’ he said, showing me his papers in return.

  He unfolded them. He put his identity disc in my hand, and also a lock of hair flattened by its long stay in his wallet, a photograph showing him in service dress at one side of a piece of furniture, another showing him on fatigue next to a bucket, and another of a group of infantrymen in the middle of whom was a notice with these words on it: ‘The lads of the 1st C.M. Why worry?’

  ‘You see that one there?’

  And he put his index finger on the head of one of the soldiers.

  ‘Yes, I see him.’

  ‘Well, he’s dead too.’

  I pretended to be interested in all this, but nothing bores me so much as other people’s pocket-books and photographs with dirty backs. Besides, I saw so many of them during the war, so many pocket-books and photographs!

  If I had not been drunk I should certainly not have displayed my papers. They must have bored Billard.

  As he was searching in another envelope, I was afraid he was going to show me some naked women. I hate postcards like that. They just make me more wretched.

  ‘I was at St. Mihiel,’ I said, in order to speak about myself.

  Instead of listening to me and asking questions:

  ‘I was there too.’

  ‘I was wounded and discharged.’

  I showed him the splinter of shell which had wounded me.

  ‘Do you live on your own?’ asked Billard, folding his papers again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You get fed up with it.’

  ‘Oh, yes! — Especially in my case because I am so tender-hearted . . . Family life would have suited me. Look here, Monsieur Billard, if you would be my friend, I should be happy, really happy. I can’t bear loneliness and poverty. I should like to have friends, to work, in short to be alive.’

  ‘Have you got a mistress?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But there’s no shortage of women.’

  ‘Yes . . . but I have no money. A mistress would bring me all sorts of worries. I should have to put on a clean shirt when I met her.’

  ‘Oh come! You think women bother about what you wear. Of course, if you want to go around with a middle-class woman, that’s different. Leave it to me; I’ll find you a mistress. She will keep you amused.’