If he could indeed find me a woman, young and beautiful, who would love me and not bother about my clothes, why should I not accept?
‘But it’s difficult to find a pretty woman.’
‘Not these days. Mine left all her boyfriends for me. I’m quite happy with that girl.’
I wanted an unhappy friend, a vagabond like myself, to whom I would be bound by no obligations. I had thought Billard was such a friend, poor and kind. I was mistaken. He kept on talking about his mistress — which plunged me into the deepest gloom.
‘Bâton, come to my place tomorrow, after dinner, and you shall see the girl. I live in the rue Gît-le-Coeur, the Cantal Hotel.’
I accepted because I dared not refuse. I was quite sure I should never be brave enough to visit happy people.
Will my friendships always have to end in this ridiculous way?
We got up. In a mirror I had a view of myself up to the shoulders: I looked as if I were in court. Even though I was pretty drunk I recognized myself. However, the outline of my chest was fuzzy like someone’s over-elongated shadow.
I crossed the room, followed by Billard.
Outside a rough wind like that at a railway-carriage window whipped me in the face. For a moment I thought of going with my companion, but I stopped myself: what use would it have been? For we were not really friends. Somebody loved him, he was well off and happy.
Besides, it was striking nine o’clock.
I should never have dared to say good-bye first; Billard was less considerate.
‘See you tomorrow, Bâton.’
‘Yes, see you tomorrow.’
I walked straight ahead until I should come to a familiar street.
The bars were warm, brightly lit and full of people. Although I was not thirsty, I was tormented by a longing to have something. I resisted at first, until it occurred to me that I had not thrown away any money that evening.
I went into the café.
Round the counter it was as steamy as a bathroom. A waiter was holding a glass up to the light.
I ordered what was cheapest: a black coffee.
‘A large one?’ asked the waiter.
‘No, small.’
III
I spent the next day telling myself over and over again that I should not go to Billard’s. He was quite capable of caressing his mistress in front of me. She would sit on his knee, she would tickle his ear.
These marks of affection would have riled me unbearably.
•
Lovers are rude and selfish.
Last year a young married couple lived in the dairy-woman’s room. Every evening they used to settle themselves at the window, leaning on their elbows. From the sound of their kisses I could tell whether they were kissing on the mouth or not.
In order to avoid hearing them I used to linger in the streets until midnight. When I returned, I undressed in silence.
Once I had the misfortune to drop a shoe.
They woke up and the noise of their kisses began again. I knocked furiously on the wall. As I am not ill-disposed, I was sorry, a few moments later, that I had disturbed them. They must have been startled. I decided to apologize.
But, at nine o’clock in the morning, bursts of laughter could be heard through the wall. The two lovers were making fun of me.
•
In the evening after dinner I hung about in the boulevard Saint-Germain. The shops were no longer lit up. Arc-lamps illuminated the foliage of the trees. Long yellow trams glided along without wheels, like boxes. The restaurants were emptying.
The sound of eight o’clock striking rang through the air.
Although Billard was not the friend I dreamed of, I could not stop thinking about him.
My imagination invents perfect friends for the future, but, while I wait, I can make do with anyone at all.
It was possible that his mistress was not beautiful. I have noticed that one always imagines that women one does not know are beautiful. In the army, whenever a soldier talked to me about his sister, wife or cousin, I immediately used to picture a very handsome girl.
Not knowing how to pass the time, I turned in the direction of the Cantal Hotel. On the way, I was very much inclined to turn back, but the thought of an empty evening stretching ahead of me quickly got rid of this half-formed idea.
The rue Gît-le-Coeur smells of wine and foul water. The Seine runs close to its damp buildings. The children one meets are carrying bottles of wine. The passers-by walk in the road: there are no cars to worry about.
Here and there one of those lonely shops which close late sells cooked vegetables, green purees and potatoes steaming in zinc containers.
It was too early to go to Billard’s. I do not like to take people by surprise, because they imagine that one is trying to find out what they are eating.
My overcoat was making my shoulders grow numb. A stitch in my side made me bend over as I walked. People feel sorry for you if you sit down on a bench in the evening.
I went into a bar on the place Saint-Michel and, as usual, ordered a black coffee. I hung up my hat in a corner, opposite a mirror.
Some beautiful Egyptian women were filling their water-jugs on the ceramic walls. Two men in fashionable suits were playing chess. As I am not familiar with the rules of this game, the geometric movements of the pieces conveyed nothing to me.
The waiter, with his alpaca jacket cut away at the front, brought me my coffee. He was polite. He even brought me the Illustration in a folder.
I had scarcely opened this publication when the smell of the shiny paper reminded me that I was in a setting to which I was not accustomed. Nevertheless, I turned over the pages. In order to look at the photographs I had to lean forward because they reflected the light.
From time to time I glanced at my hat, to reassure myself that it was still there.
When I came to the advertisements, I closed the folder.
My saucer, which was full of cold coffee, had thirty centimes marked on it. I hoped this figure would be the price of the drink; but, as the saucers dated from before the war, I was afraid it might no longer be so.
‘Waiter!’
It took him no more than a second to pick up my cup and wipe the table, even though I had not made it dirty.
‘Thirty centimes, sir.’
I paid with a one franc piece. I was intending to give a tip of only two sous. At the last moment, afraid that it might not be enough, I left four sous.
I went out. My back did not hurt any more. The coffee still warmed my stomach.
I walked round the streets with the ease and satisfaction of an employee leaving his office. The impression that I was playing a part in the crowd put me in a good humour.
I put my last cigarette in my mouth, even though I wanted to keep it for the following morning. Although I had some matches, I preferred to ask a passer-by for a light.
A man was standing on the strip of ground in the middle of the street, smoking a cigar. I took care not to approach him, because I know that cigar-smokers do not like giving anyone a light: they attach great importance to the ash of their cigar.
Further on along my route — for I did have a route — another man was smoking.
Raising my hat, I put my request to him. He held his cigarette out to me and, so that it should not wobble, rested his finger against my hand. His nails were well cared for. He wore a signet-ring on his finger. His cuff came down to his thumb.
Having thanked him three or four times, I went away.
For a long time I thought about this unknown man. I tried to guess what he thought of me and whether he too was occupied with similar reflections.
One always hopes to make a good impression on people one does not know.
IV
Above the door of the Cantal Hotel there was a white sphere with capital letters on it, like one of the globes at the Louvre.
I went in. Through a curtain I could make out a dining-room which must have been used as the office, a sidebo
ard with rows of tiny balusters and a set of pigeon-holes in which letters were standing.
I knocked on the window-pane, very gently, in order not to break it. A curtain parted and a man tilted back his chair so he could see me.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Monsieur Billard, please.’
Without having to look it up, he replied:
‘Thirty-nine, sixth floor.’
On the first floor the carpet stopped. Each door was numbered. Bundles of sheets cluttered up the staircase.
As I climbed the stairs I thought about Billard’s mistress. To dispel the agitation which was getting hold of me, I kept on saying: she’s ugly . . . she’s ugly . . . she’s ugly . . .
I reached the last floor quite out of breath. It seemed to me that my heart had moved from its place, it was beating so hard.
At last I knocked. The door was thin; it reverberated.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Me.’
It would have been simpler to say my name, but because of my shyness I tried to avoid it. When I say my own name it always sounds very strange to me, especially behind a door.
‘Who?’
I could no longer be silent.
‘Bâton.’
Billard opened the door. I saw a woman sitting there and the whole room reflected in the mirror on the wardrobe door.
This girl was beautiful. Her curly hair twisted and coiled as if the lamp-light had burnt it.
Dumbfounded, I stayed on the threshold, on the point of running away.
She got up and came towards me.
Then an insane joy stopped me from speaking. The feeling that a warm breath was caressing my face made a shiver run over me. Although not normally given to high-spirited behaviour, I slapped Billard on the shoulder. In spite of my cheerfulness, I felt foolish as I withdrew my hand. I wanted to laugh, dance and sing: Billard’s mistress had a limp.
The room was very ordinary. It could have been occupied by a Romanian, a prostitute or a clerk. The mantelpiece was cluttered up with newspapers on which saucepans had been put down, a toothbrush in a glass and some bottles.
‘Nina, make some coffee!’
The girl lit a paraffin stove stained with egg-yolk.
This offer, because it meant I should have to stay, overwhelmed me with pleasure.
No doubt because he did not want to look as if he had noticed the silence which was becoming more embarrassing as time passed, Billard was looking for a nut in a box of tools and his mistress was cleaning the inside of some cups with her thumb. As for me, I wanted to speak, but everything I could think of would have made it too obvious that I was trying to put an end to a ludicrous situation.
When nobody was watching me, I looked round the room. The steam from the spout of the coffee-pot was spiralling upwards. The pillow-cases on the bed were grubby in the middle.
‘Do you take milk?’
I replied that I did not mind.
We sat down round the table. Because I was afraid of brushing against my hosts’ feet, I tucked my feet under my chair.
The speed with which the coffee had been made disconcerted me. I was well aware that I should have to go as soon as it had been drunk.
Nina poured out, holding on to the lid of the coffeepot as she did so.
‘I am sure your coffee is good,’ I said, before I had tasted it.
‘It comes from Damoy’s.’
I stirred it for a long time, so that no sugar should be left at the bottom of the cup when I had drunk it. Then I swallowed with small mouthfuls, taking care not to upset anything as I raised the saucer to my mouth.
‘More?’ asked Nina.
Although my cup was small, I refused, out of politeness.
Suddenly, for no reason, Billard put his hand on mine.
My first thought was to pull mine away — I do not like being touched by men — but I did not do anything.
‘Listen, Bâton.’
I looked at him. His nose was riddled with open pores.
‘I have something to ask you.’
The prospect of being pleasant to a friend delighted me.
‘Will you do something for me?’
‘Yes . . . yes . . .’
I was afraid he would ask me something either too insignificant or too important. I like doing kindnesses, small kindnesses, of course, to demonstrate my goodwill.
‘Lend me fifty francs.’
Our eyes met. A thousand thoughts rushed into my mind. Without a doubt it was the same with Billard. There was no longer any barrier between us. He could read me like a book, just as I could him.
The momentary hesitation which would afflict anyone in such a situation vanished and I said in a voice which I managed to make suitably solemn:
‘I’ll lend you them.’
I was happy, not so much because I was able to lend to him but because he was grateful to me. Conversation was picking up again. Now I was no longer embarrassed. I could stay until midnight and come back the next day and the day after and always. If he had borrowed fifty francs it was because he trusted me.
My pension money was in my pocket. Nevertheless I did not give Billard what he had asked. I gave the impression that I had forgotten about it. I felt that the longer I waited the longer he would go on being pleasant.
For the moment, I was acting a part. They kept their eyes on every movement, hoping that I would get out my wallet. I had not been so important for years. Every word of mine was greeted with a smile. They were watching me: they were afraid I might forget.
It would take a saint to resist the temptation of prolonging this pleasure.
Oh, I can easily forgive the rich!
•
It was beginning to get late. I stood up. Billard was pale: he did not dare repeat his request. I still pretended to have forgotten about it although I was thinking of nothing else.
Nina, with the lamp in her hand, and her head in the shadows, did not move.
Suddenly I had the impression that they had seen through my little game.
So, to deflect their suspicions, I pulled out my wallet with awkward hasty movements.
‘How absent-minded I am . . . I was forgetting . . .’
I held out fifty francs.
‘Thank you, Baton, I’ll pay you back next week.’
‘Oh . . . there’s no hurry!’
•
The gas-lights on the staircase had been put out. The mantles were still glowing like embers.
At that moment the two lovers must be looking at the bank-note against the light like a photographic plate, to satisfy themselves that it was good.
The feeling that I had had a trick played on me set me on edge. Billard had scarcely thanked me. He was not actually poor. He had a mistress, a cupboard full of linen, sugar, coffee and fat. He knew several people. Since this was so, why borrow money from a poor wretch like me? I had noticed several objects in his room. If he had taken them to the municipal pawn-office he could easily have got fifty francs.
I felt the carpet of the first-floor landing under my feet, then I saw, sitting in the dining-room, the proprietor reading a newspaper spread out at some distance from him.
Out in the street I shivered. The wind was blowing between the houses. A street-lamp stood in the middle of a circle of pale light.
I went a few steps with the brightness of the hotel office in my eyes.
Raindrops were falling on the ground, never one on top of another.
V
That night I slept badly.
My covers kept falling off on one side of the bed. When the cold creeping up my legs aroused me, I stretched out a hand to find out where the wall was.
At dawn my window at last grew light. The table emerged slowly from the shadow, feet first. Squares appeared on the ceiling.
Suddenly it was day. The room was filled with clear light, as if the window-panes had been washed. I saw the motionless furniture, the ashes of some paper in the fire-place and the slats of the blind abov
e the window.
The house stayed quiet for some minutes.
Then a door banged; the Lecoins’ alarm-clock rang; a milk cart passed with the lids of the churns rattling.
I got up, for my bed was cold as it is when I sleep late.
People who have been sleeping between clean sheets can look at themselves in a mirror as soon as they jump out of bed. Before I look at myself in the morning, I have a wash.
•
Outside the sun was casting a golden light on the top storeys of the houses. It was not yet bright enough to dazzle the eyes.
The air which I drew in brought a mint-like freshness to my lungs.
A light wind, smelling of lilac, lifted the flaps of my overcoat, making it look like a military greatcoat.
There were no birds and no new buds; nevertheless it was spring.
•
I felt like walking. Usually when I leave home I go in the direction of the rue de la Seine. That day I decided to set out for the fortifications.
At the open windows underwear was hung out to dry and, stiffened by the wind, was swinging to and fro like metal sign-boards. Through the half-open doors of the shops newly washed floors could be seen, already dry.
The moment a seven-storey building hid the sun, I quickened my step.
The streets became dirtier and dirtier. Some buildings were shored up by beams among which children played when they came out of school. The earth showed through the broken surface of the pavements. The blackened plaster with which the buildings were faced looked like the studio background in photographs.
A cloud hid the sun. Warmth and colour left the street. Flies no longer glittered.
I felt sad.
A little while before I had set out for the unknown feeling like a vagabond, free and happy. Now, because of a cloud, everything was finished.
I retraced my steps.
•
In the afternoon, not knowing where to go, I hung about in the area round the Cantal Hotel.
It was in vain that I reasoned with myself. I told myself that if I met Billard we should not know what to say to each other, for it was impossible for me to go away from that district.
My Friends Page 4
