My Friends

by Emmanuel Bove

  ‘That’s life,’ I murmured.

  ‘Yes, that’s how the world goes.’

  ‘But what did he die of?’ I asked, suddenly afraid that it might have been a contagious illness.

  ‘A stroke.’

  Taking advantage of what she was reflecting on, I asked the price of the suit.

  ‘It isn’t dear; seventy-five francs. Just look at the cut.’

  She drew her hand round in a semi-circle which no doubt indicated an imaginary figure.

  ‘Feel the cloth. It’s a pre-war English fabric. You can check for yourself. Even in the biggest shops you won’t find cloth like that.’

  •

  I walked quickly past the lodge, embarrassed because the concierge knew there was a suit in the parcel under my arm.

  A voice called out to me.

  I turned. The concierge, who had been lying in wait for me, was there near the staircase.

  ‘The gentleman on the first floor complained. I did tell you Madame Junod lived on the second floor. You must be careful. It’s me the tenants hold responsible.’

  Not wanting to provoke a scene, I left without allowing myself to get angry.

  •

  Because of my suit, I did not go and eat at Lucie’s; she would have made fun of me.

  I had lunch in one of those little restaurants where the menu is chalked up on a slate and then, to pass the time, I walked around the streets.

  The jacket was a bit tight under the arms. The sleeves were too long and tickled my hands. The trousers fitted too tightly round my thighs. But the black suited me.

  With my overcoat open, I looked at myself in all the shop-windows, without seeming to. I have noticed that I look much better in windows than in real mirrors.

  •

  When I felt that I had digested my meal, I went to the public baths. I knew there was one side for men and another for women. But for that I should not have gone in.

  The cashier gave me a number. Nevertheless I was on my own.

  The attendant did not take long to call me.

  I went into a cubicle. The door did not lock. This worried me all through my bath, especially when I heard footsteps.

  Since my feet were cold, the warmth of the water was very pleasant to me.

  I soaped myself with a little piece of soap which could not sink, being careful to avoid my eyes. I entertained myself by floating.

  As the water was getting cold, I jumped out and dried myself — starting with my face — on a towel which got wet as quickly as a handkerchief.

  When I left the baths I felt so good that I made myself a promise to go back every time I had any money.

  V

  It was exactly ten o’clock when I arrived at Monsieur Lacaze’s house.

  I had put on my fine suit again and for the first time that year, I went without an overcoat.

  I went into the office with more confidence than the day before.

  The industrialist was chatting to his daughter. He seemed surprised to see me.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  He had forgotten that the day before yesterday he had addressed me formally. Then, speaking to the maid:

  ‘I’ve told you twenty times not to show anyone in without warning me.’

  ‘So you can’t come today?’ asked the girl, as soon as I was seated.

  ‘No, dear.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’

  ‘But you aren’t free!’

  ‘Yes I am, after four o’clock. I come out of the Conservatoire at four o’clock.’

  ‘I can’t. Saturday, if you like.’

  ‘All right.’

  Having kissed her father, the girl went out. As she had done before, she glanced at me as she closed the door. Although it came from a long way off, the look disturbed me.

  ‘So, my man, did you buy the suit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Stand up.’

  I obeyed, a bit embarrassed at not having an overcoat.

  ‘Turn round.’

  I did so, raising the shoulder which was too low.

  ‘It fits you very well. You would think it had been made to measure. How much did you pay for it?’

  ‘A hundred francs.’

  ‘That’s not dear. Now I can send you to my factory. You look presentable. I can recommend you to the personnel officer. ’

  Monsieur Lacaze unscrewed a fountain-pen, shook it and wrote a few lines on a visiting-card.

  So that he should not suspect me of reading over his shoulder, I moved conspicuously away.

  ‘Here you are,’ cried the manufacturer, looking at the card sideways to see if the ink was dry.

  I put the card in my wallet without reading it and sat down, hoping Monsieur Lacaze would busy himself with me and ask me questions.

  Today when I was less overwhelmed I felt capable of replying intelligently and so of making myself interesting.

  ‘So good-bye, my dear Bâ . . . Bâ . . . Bâton. That’s all for today. Tomorrow morning, at seven o’clock go to my factory, 97 to 125, rue de la Victoire, at Billancourt. Ask for Monsieur Carpeaux. He will give you work. When you have a day off, just come and see me. Well, good-bye, my man.’

  Disappointed at the brevity of this interview I stood up.

  ‘Good-bye. Thank you very much.’

  ‘Yes, good-bye, I’ll see you sometime.’

  I backed out, bowing, with my hat held flat against my chest.

  VI

  At dawn I went off to the nearest tram stop.

  The wind was blowing so strongly that the front door of my house banged shut by itself before I had time to close it. Raindrops bigger than the rest dropped from the cornices on to my hands. The rain streamed over the pavements towards the road. Every time I crossed a street the water in the gutter, which was too wide to step across, swamped one of my feet. The water which was rushing down the drainpipes attached to the houses flowed over the ground as if a bucket had been knocked over. It did not take long for the sleeves of my jacket to make my shirt cuffs wet. My hands felt as if they had not been dried after a wash.

  An empty tram arrived. It had been washed during the night. The lamps which lit it seemed sad like the light one has forgotten to put out before going to sleep.

  I sat down in a corner. The heaters were still cold. A draught making its way under a seat chilled my hands. The conductress, motionless in the centre of the tram, was yawning.

  ‘La Motte-Piquet!’ she called.

  She would have called out just the same even if the train had been empty.

  We set off again. The doors opened all by themselves on bends. Sometimes the lights went out for a second. Behind the wet windows the streets trembled as they would in heat-haze.

  ‘Grenelle.’

  Some workmen got in. The dull sound of a bell rang in the driver’s ear. I thought about my unmade bed, still warm at the foot, about my closed window and this dawn which on other days I saw breaking between my eyelashes as I slept.

  At that moment, in the light from his open door, Monsieur Lecoin must be washing.

  ‘Pont Mirabeau!’

  Two men came and sat opposite me.

  I was furious because there was room elsewhere. They were talking as if it were midday.

  ‘Avenue de Versailles!’

  A workman got in with an unfolded newspaper, whose news seemed much too fresh.

  Day was breaking. Suddenly the tram lights went out. Everything changed colour. Through the grey framed windows the rain could be seen.

  ‘Chardon-Lagache!’

  I felt sad and alone. All these people knew where they were going. As for me, I was setting out on an adventure.

  ‘Point-du-Jour! ’

  I got out. A stream of water falling from the roof of the tram went down my back. My legs, shaken by the shuddering of the tram, were giving way. My face, which had been motionless for a long time, was stiff. My left foot was cold.

  The tram went away,
carrying off the heads I had got to know, and my empty place.

  In a hut, two customs officers who had not had any sleep were getting ready to leave.

  To get to Billancourt, you have to go out of Paris.

  I went along an avenue without a pavement, which had low houses on either side.

  It was still raining. The mud, which was sticking to my shoes, squelched at every footstep. Behind a wall a tree was stirring like a thicket with someone in it. The wind was blowing the leaves upside-down. The rain was making bubbles on the puddles.

  •

  Monsieur Lacaze’s factory was surrounded by a wall. If you looked up you could see smoking chimneys of varying height.

  ‘Monsieur Carpeaux?’ I asked the porter.

  ‘Monsieur Henri, you mean.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The watchman closed the door of his cabin carefully — I can never see the point of it — and, before he left, imagining himself a stranger, tried to open it.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said, without looking at me.

  He wanted to understand that he was not taking me to Monsieur Carpeaux out of kindness, but because it was his job.

  He stopped in front of a building vibrating with machinery.

  Without bothering about me, he chatted to a workman. Then, suddenly, as if it were not on my account that he was there, he said:

  ‘It’s for Monsieur Henri.’

  I was shown into a white wooden room. Its walls were covered with advertisements for tyres.

  Soon Monsieur Carpeaux appeared.

  Contrary to what I had imagined, he was a young man with a sparse moustache like that of women, when they have one. He wore glasses the colour of tincture of iodine.

  I handed him Monsieur Lacaze’s card, on which these words had been written:

  Dear Carpeaux,

  I am sending you a good chap; give him work.

  ‘Oh, Monsieur Lacaze has sent you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. Wait a moment.’

  He disappeared and came back a few minutes later.

  ‘That’s settled,’ he said; ‘you will start work on Monday.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Monday, at seven o’clock.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you, but you know I can’t use my left hand. I was wounded.’

  ‘Well, you don’t need your left hand to write.’

  ‘I know, but I wanted to tell you.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. Till Monday, then.’

  VII

  The days are long when there is nothing to do, especially if one has only a few francs.

  As I had got used to my suit (its lapels had been put out of shape by the rain and the trousers were stained with mud at the back of the legs), I was able to go and eat at Lucie’s.

  In the army, when you are not there for a meal, they put your share to one side. The same thing happens at Lucie’s.

  So I had a very good lunch.

  When I left the restaurant it was no longer raining.

  I was going in the direction of the Palais de Justice when an idea which came to me, I do not know quite how, overwhelmed me. I stopped breathing. My heart pounded in my chest. I no longer noticed that my feet were wet at the edge of the sole.

  I had just had the idea of going to wait for Monsieur Lacaze’s daughter when she came out of the Conservatoire.

  I struggled feebly against this whim for a few minutes. It was no good. The prospect of speaking to a rich girl was too attractive. That rainy afternoon it was like a meeting one had been waiting for for several days. It was the unknown, perhaps love. I was not drawn to the girl by any physical desire. Indeed, when I fall in love with anyone, I never think about possessing her. I find that the longer that is delayed, the more delightful it is.

  I wandered about the streets, with my soul absorbed in its own blind happiness. People’s closed umbrellas were still glistening wet. The pavements were growing paler beside the walls.

  •

  Above the door of the Conservatoire there was a flag.

  It was only a quarter to four.

  In order to contain my impatience, I went for a bit of a walk and thought of all the wonderful things that would happen if Mademoiselle Lacaze loved me. You must not think that I had her wealth in mind. If she were to offer me money, I knew very well that I should refuse indignantly. When she came to my wretched room, I should be worthy of her.

  Nevertheless I must admit that if she had been poor my love would have vanished. I do not understand that.

  Suddenly a porter opened the second side of the double door of the Conservatoire.

  A minute later the girl came running out like a traveller who wants to be the first to give up her ticket.

  My blood pounded in my temples and wrists. There I felt it was knotting my veins.

  As Mademoiselle Lacaze passed close by me, her eyes met mine. Her lips moved. She had recognized me. However, she did not speak to me.

  I followed her. She was indeed beautiful with her hair hanging down her back and her short skirt.

  I walked quickly, ready to slow down if she should turn round.

  Soon I overtook her and, raising my hat, I greeted her.

  She did not reply.

  Now I was in front of her and, in order that she should catch me up, I stopped to light a cigarette.

  A man from a good family whom I had known in the army had told me that the way to pick up women was to ask for permission to accompany them. I was getting ready to put this advice into practice but, as she did not catch me up, I turned round.

  She was no longer there.

  VIII

  The next morning I awoke with a start.

  Someone had knocked on my door so violently that it made a sound like thunder, as if a full packing-case had been dropped.

  At first, I thought I was dreaming. But the knocking was renewed.

  I leapt out of bed. My fright stopped me from feeling the cold which crept up under my shirt.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I asked quietly, as if I were still asleep.

  ‘It’s me, Lacaze.’

  Saying his name out loud, behind a door, caused him no embarrassment.

  I looked through the keyhole, expecting to see an eye without lashes, without an eye-lid.

  But why should Monsieur Lacaze come to see me? Perhaps he wanted to check up on what I had told him; perhaps he was about to give me some good news.

  The knocking came again.

  I could have opened the door, but when I am not dressed I feel weak.

  ‘Wait . . . just a second.’

  I opened the window to let in some fresh air. I opened it without making any noise so that the manufacturer should not be aware of it.

  I put on my trousers and jacket and wiped my face with the corner of a damp towel.

  Then I closed the window quietly.

  With my shirt not tucked down properly into my trousers, I opened the door.

  Monsieur Lacaze came in without taking off his hat. His rattan walking-stick, which he held behind him, knocked into the furniture as he turned.

  ‘You are a nasty piece of work,’ he said, stopping close to me.

  He knew everything: I was lost. Not knowing what attitude to adopt, I feigned ignorance.

  ‘You deserve a thrashing. You have no shame: following a young girl . . . with her hair down her back.’

  I mumbled, unable to find any excuse.

  ‘Look what reward you get when you do good . . . I gave you money . . . I found you a job in my factory . . . thanks . . .’

  He was so angry I was afraid he would hit me. I could scarcely believe that I was the cause of such anger.

  ‘Yes . . . look at the thanks I get. Look out for yourself, the police will have something to say to you. You are a miserable specimen . . .’

  He went out at last, banging the door so hard that it did not close properly.

  I could hear his footsteps on the stairs and when the sound changed on the l
andings I was afraid he was coming back.

  Sitting on the bed I looked at my new suit, for which there was no longer any purpose, and at my untidy room in the chilly morning air.

  I had a raging headache. I pondered my dreary life, with no friends and no money. I only asked to be allowed to love, to be like everybody else. It was not much to ask.

  Then suddenly I broke into sobs.

  Soon I realized that I was making myself cry.

  I stood up. The tears dried on my cheeks.

  I had the unpleasant feeling you get when you have washed your face and have not wiped it dry.

  BLANCHE

  I

  When I have a bit of money I go for an evening walk in the rue de la Gaîté.

  This street smells of cooking and scent at the same time.

  Cakes cost less there than elsewhere. There are stoves with pancakes cooking three at a time. People have to keep stepping off the pavement because of the crowds. Halfway down the street is a police station where the officers do not wear caps and there are bicycles at the door. In the photographers’ shops there are heads repeated a dozen times on a strip which looks as if it has been cut from a film. A stationer sells songs with music and postcards showing the monuments of Paris in summer.

  One evening I was looking at a cinema advertisement gleaming under its layer of paste. Some vandal or other had drawn a cigarette in the heroine’s mouth. I was lamenting people’s stupidity, when my eyes fell upon a woman who was looking me up and down without my noticing.

  Guessing that she had been watching me, I made a mental summary of what I had just been doing, in order to reassure myself that I had not been doing anything unbecoming.

  I was pleased. It is pleasant to be watched without knowing it, especially when one looks as if one is not paying attention. Once I recognized myself in a photograph in a newspaper, among a crowd. That gave me more pleasure than the finest studio enlargement.

  The woman was not smartly dressed, because of her feet; but a woman only has to look at me for me to find her attractive.

  As I am shy, I had to struggle not to lower my eyes. A man ought not to be the first to lower his eyes.