Four Novels

by Marguerite Duras

  “Oh, that’s all right,” she said. “One unpleasant hour in the morning, and then it’s over.”

  “I looked for you last night. The car wasn’t there. The watchman told me that you had gone for a ride. I understood.”

  He straightened up a little, and this time he stroked her hair.

  “Maria, Maria.”

  She didn’t smile at him. For a moment he left his hand on her hair, and then took it away. He knew why Maria hadn’t smiled.

  “I’ll take a shower,” she said, “and then, if you want, we can leave.”

  There was Claire, holding Judith by the hand. They walked in. Claire was dressed in blue. She looked at Pierre first as she came in. From the moment she came in, her desire for Pierre was noticeable; it accompanied her like a shadow. It seemed as if she were shouting. But she was talking to Maria.

  “You went off last night?”

  Maria looked for an answer, in vain. She found herself exposed to Claire’s gaze.

  “They woke us up last night,” Claire went on. “They thought they had found Rodrigo Paestra. Everybody was at the windows. What confusion! And we kept looking for you.”

  What did they do last night when they noticed she was no longer there? Once they noticed that she wasn’t coming back, that the Rover wasn’t coming, after the children had fallen asleep again, after the hotel had calmed down, first the corridor, and then little by little the whole hotel? Did they . . .?

  “I was with the police,” Maria said. “I drank manzanillas with the police. In the same café as yesterday.”

  Claire laughed. Pierre also laughed, but not as much as Claire.

  Claire kept sighing, “Maria, Oh, Maria, Maria.”

  They loved her. Claire’s laughter was not quite the same as usual. It was not impossible that it should have happened. That they should have been on the lookout for the Rover, leaning against each other, in each other’s arms while waiting for her in the darkness of the corridor. Who could tell?

  “Judith,” Maria said.

  She held her at arm’s length and looked at her. A little girl who had slept well during the night. Blue eyes. The rings of fear had vanished from under her eyes. Maria pushed her away, away from her. He probably was in the wheat fields. He was sleeping. The shade from the stalks was frail and he had begun to feel too warm. Whom would you save, in the end, if you saved Rodrigo Paestra?

  “She gobbled up a big breakfast this morning,” Claire said. “A cool night and she starts gobbling.”

  Judith had come back to Maria. Maria took her, looked at her again, then let her go, nearly knocking her over. Judith was used to it. She let her mother look at her, then push her about to her heart’s content, then she went off and walked around the dining room, singing.

  “We shouldn’t get to Madrid too late,” Claire said. “Before night if possible. To get rooms.”

  Maria remembered, and left for the office. The bathrooms were available. The shower felt good. Some time went by like that. Maria looked at her naked body, all by itself. What would you save, in the end, if you took Rodrigo Paestro to France? He was asleep in an ocean of wheat. Water ran benevolently down her breasts and her stomach. Maria waited for time to go by, like the water, inexhaustibly. Of course, the findings would show extenuating circumstances. They would take into account Rodrigo Paestra’s being jealous of Perez. What more could be done for Rodrigo Paestra than to take into consideration this jealousy which made him kill?

  In the dining room only Claire was left waiting for Maria.

  “Pierre went to pay the bill,” she said. “And then we’ll go.”

  “How beautiful you are,” Maria said. “Claire, you are so, so beautiful.”

  Claire lowered her eyes. She tried not to, and then she said it.

  “After they had looked for this poor man, just a short time after, cars started to leave. Impossible to go back to sleep. I mean it was difficult. But then—”

  “What time was it?”

  “It was still night, I don’t know exactly. There was whistling all over town. There was a noise of falling tiles, over there, the wind I suppose. They really got into a state. We didn’t fall asleep again until late.”

  “That late?”

  “I think the sun was rising. Yes. Lying down, we could see the sky. We talked, Pierre and I, yes I think we talked until dawn.”

  Claire waited. Maria didn’t insist. Judith came back. Claire loved Judith, Pierre’s child.

  “There will never be another storm,” Claire told Judith. “You mustn’t be afraid.”

  “Never?”

  They promised. She went back to her exploration of the hotel corridors. Pierre came back. He was ready, he said. He had filled in the hotel forms. He apologized for making them wait. And then he was silent. Claire wasn’t looking at him this morning. She lowered her eyes while smoking. They must not have been together, even before dawn, in the darkness of the corridors. Maria was mistaken. If they no longer looked at each other as they had the day before, if they avoided doing so, it was because they had confessed their love to each other, whispering, when the sky seemed red over the wheat fields and when the memory of Maria, poignant, loathsome because of the very strength of their new love, came back to them with the dawn. What were they to do with Maria?

  “We still want to see San Andrea,” Pierre said. “Three Goyas. If only not to be sorry later.”

  Some guests came in. Women. Pierre didn’t look any more.

  “I’m tired,” Maria said. “I’ll wait for you.”

  “What did you drink?” Claire asked.

  “The brandy. I’ll wait for you in the car. I’ll feel better by noon.”

  They exchanged looks. They must have talked about that, that also last night, and once more hoped she would change her ways. And at the same time wished, and were satisfied, that she would stay busy away from them, but not with her new unhappiness.

  They went down. The pleasant coolness from her shower disappeared and when Maria recognized the courtyard, her weariness came back, like a spell. It would take enormous strength to pull Rodrigo Paestra from his bed of wheat. She would have to tell them, thwarting their dawning desire, giving up Madrid where, at night, their love was to be fulfilled. Maria watched them load the car—she didn’t help—and they laughed at having to do this small job which would have made Maria groan.

  She sat in front, next to Pierre. In the back, without asking any questions, Claire folded the blanket that was lying on the seat. Maria saw her doing this but gave her no explanation. They made the trip through the city that Maria had made at night. It was eleven. Four policemen were still on guard in the square, exhausted, like Maria, from their night of searching. The church of San Andrea was on the square. As well as the town hall. The murdered bodies must still be there. Guarded.

  “They didn’t get him,” Pierre said. He parked the car in the shade, opposite the café that had stayed open during the night. Again a church. Again three Goyas. Again a vacation. Why save Rodrigo Paestra, and from what? How would Rodrigo Paestra wake up this time, from what bad sleep? Pull him out of the wheat, get him into the car, while Claire’s fierce desire was being thwarted. It was ten past eleven.

  “Really,” Maria said, “I’m so tired, I’m going to stay here.”

  Claire got out, followed by Judith. Pierre left the door open and waited for Maria.

  “Ten minutes,” he said, “come on, Maria, come along.”

  She didn’t want to. He closed the door. The three of them walked over to San Andrea. They went in. Maria could no longer see them.

  Noon would come and Rodrigo Paestra would understand that he had been abandoned. Maria closed her eyes for a moment. Did she remember? Yes. She remembered his eyes looking at the wheat fields without recognizing them, and also his eyes when he woke up, in the sun. When she opened her eyes two children were there, fascinated by the Rover. They weren’t coming back. They must have seen something else, not only the Goyas. some primitive perhaps.
Holding hands they were looking, together, at other landscapes. In the distance valleys could be seen through open windows, and woods, a village, a herd. Woods in the twilight with charming angels, herds, a smoking village on a hilltop, the breeze blowing between the hills was like their love. A lake, in the distance, as blue as your eyes, Holding hands, they were looking at each other. In the dark, he told her, I never noticed this until now, your eyes are even bluer. Like this lake.

  Maria felt like moving, like having a manzanilla in the bar right there, there, opposite the car. Her hands had started to shake and she could imagine liquor in her throat and in her body, as strong as a bath. If they didn’t come back she would go in that bar.

  They came back. Between them, Judith was skipping.

  “There weren’t just the Goyas,” Pierre said. “You should have come.”

  Claire opened the car door. Maria stopped her. Pierre brushed against her.

  “Last night,” Maria said, “while you were sleeping, I found the man the police were looking for, Rodrigo Paestra.”

  Claire’s face grew very serious. She waited a second.

  “You were drinking again, Maria,” she said.

  Pierre didn’t move.

  “No,” Maria said. “Just chance. He was on the roof opposite the hotel balcony. I drove him about eight miles from here, on the road to Madrid. I said I’d be back at noon. He lay down in the wheat. I don’t know what to do, Pierre. Pierre, I really don’t know what to do.”

  Pierre took Maria’s hand. From the silence that followed her words, Maria realized she had been shouting.

  “Please, Maria,” he said.

  “It’s true.”

  “No,” Claire said, “no. It is not true, I could swear it isn’t true.”

  Claire pulled away from the car; she was standing straight, looking so majestic that Maria had to lower her eyes.

  “I think he doesn’t care whether we come or not,” Maria said. “He just doesn’t care. We don’t have to go. I think I’d rather we didn’t go.”

  Pierre tried to smile.

  “But it isn’t true?”

  “It is. The town is very small. He was there, on the roof opposite the hotel balcony. One chance in a thousand, but it’s true.”

  “You didn’t tell us this morning,” Claire said.

  “Why didn’t you tell us, Maria? Why didn’t you?”

  Why? Claire walked away from the car with Judith. She didn’t feel like waiting for Maria’s answer.

  “By chance too,” Maria said to Pierre, “the first time I saw him, you were with Claire on a hotel balcony.”

  Maria saw Claire coming back toward them.

  “It wasn’t until much later, when both of you were asleep, that I was sure it was him, Rodrigo Paestra. It was very late.”

  “I knew it,” Pierre said.

  People had stopped on the square. They were looking at Claire, who was walking slowly toward the Rover.

  “I told you,” Maria went on, “after we had finished talking. But you had fallen asleep.”

  “I knew it,” Pierre repeated.

  Claire was with them again.

  “So, that’s how it is, he’s waiting for you?” she asked softly.

  All of a sudden she had become very sweet again. She was close to Pierre, closer than ever. Threatening but discreet. Pierre was now paying attention to Maria’s story.

  “Oh! I don’t know,” Maria said. “I think he doesn’t really care.”

  “Eleven-twenty,” Pierre said.

  “I really don’t feel like going there at all,” Maria said. “You do what you want.”

  “Where to?” Judith asked.

  “Madrid. We could go in another direction.”

  Again the policemen were walking around the square, dragging their feet. It was already as hot as at noon, and they were exhausted. The streets were already dried out by the sun. Just two hours and there wasn’t a drop of water left in the gutters.

  “The car blanket,” Claire said, “did he use it?”

  “Yes. Oh! Before we do anything else I would like a manzanilla. Before anything else.”

  She leaned back against the seat and saw them look at each other. Then look around the square for a café that was open. They would always let her drink, they would always protect her in her desire to drink, always.

  “Come,” Pierre said.

  They went into the café where she had been the day before. The manzanilla was ice-cold.

  “Why did you drink the brandy?” Claire asked. “It’s the worst thing for you, brandy, at night.”

  “A mad craving,” Maria said.

  She ordered another manzanilla. They didn’t interfere. Pierre too was thinking of nothing but Rodrigo Paestra. He asked the waiter for a paper. On the front page there was a bad photograph of Rodrigo Paestra. The two other photographs also. Perez. And a very young woman with a round face and dark eyes.

  “They had only been married eight months,” Pierre said.

  Claire took the paper from him, read it, and threw it on a chair. The waiter came up to them. He pointed at the police.

  “Rodrigo Paestra was a friend of mine,” he said—laughing—and he motioned as if to say that they would never find him.

  “They didn’t catch the man,” Judith said.

  Maria ordered another manzanilla.

  Pierre did not prevent her from ordering. Ordinarily he would have. He let her drink a third manzanilla. He looked at his watch. Judith was sitting on Claire’s lap and watching. The waiter left.

  “You said noon?”

  “Yes. He even repeated it. He said noon. But without believing it.”

  Pierre also had ordered a manzanilla. Maria was having her third. She smiled.

  “It’s strange and new,” she said.

  “Will you tell us, Maria?” Claire asked.

  Maria smiled even more. Then Pierre intervened.

  “No more drinking,” he said.

  He trembled slightly as he took the glass of manzanilla. Maria promised to stop. Claire had forgotten Rodrigo Paestra and again couldn’t keep her eyes off Pierre. The sun had reached the arcade. The whole square was now moving into the midday calm.

  “They were living the first days of their love.”

  Pierre took her hand and held it tightly. But Maria pointed at the town hall.

  “His wife is there,” she said. “And Perez with her. Decency demanded that they be separated in death.”

  “Maria,” Pierre cried.

  “Yes. I said: the border, perhaps. He didn’t answer. What a mess!”

  Around her, already, the loneliness brought on by the liquor. She still knew when she would have to stop talking. She would stop.

  “It’s a change though,” she said.

  The waiter came back. They stopped talking. Pierre paid for the drinks. Were they going to Madrid? the waiter asked. They weren’t sure. They spoke about the storm. Had they been on the road yesterday? They hardly answered and the waiter didn’t insist.

  “Would you recognize the spot?” Pierre asked.

  “I’ll recognize it. But what about our vacation?”

  “There’s no choice,” Pierre said, “if that is a question. You’ve placed us in a situation where we no longer have a choice.”

  He had said this without bitterness. He smiled. Claire was silent.

  “Our vacation,” Maria said, “when I mentioned our vacation, I was mainly thinking about you. Not about myself.”

  “We knew that,” Claire finally said.

  Maria got up. She stood in front of Claire, who didn’t move. “It’s not my fault,” she whispered, “it’s nobody’s fault. Nobody’s. Nobody’s. That’s what I meant. I didn’t choose to see this man on the roof last night. You would have done the same thing, Claire.”

  “No.”

  Maria sat down again.

  “Let’s not go,” she stated. “First of all, we won’t be able to hide him, he’s enormous, a giant, and even if we could,
he cares so little about it, that we’d be doing something completely useless, even ridiculous I would say. There’s nothing we can save of Rodrigo Paestra except his skin. Claire, you will get to Madrid. I won’t move. Except to go to Madrid.”

  Claire was tapping on the table. Pierre had stood up.

  “I won’t move,” Maria repeated. “I’ll have a manzanilla.”

  “Twenty-five to twelve,” Pierre said.

  He left the café by himself and walked over to the car. Judith ran after him. Claire watched him go.

  “Come, Maria.”

  “Yes.”

  She took her by the arm. And Maria got up. No, she hadn’t had much to drink. She had been drinking a bit too soon after the brandy, but she’d be all right.

  “I’ll be all right,” she told Claire. “Don’t worry.”

  Pierre walked up to her. He pointed at Judith, who was already sitting in the back of the car.

  “And Judith?” he asked.

  “Oh! She’s still so young,” Maria said. “We’ll just have to be a little careful.”

  They slowly drove away from the square. The town was quiet. Some policemen had given in to sleep and were lying flat on the balustrades.

  “It’s easy,” Maria said. “You take the road to Madrid. There, straight ahead.”

  The road to Madrid. The biggest in Spain. Straight ahead, monumental.

  This was still the town. A patrol was coming back, emptyhanded, in single file. They didn’t look at the black Rover. They had seen many others since morning. The foreign registration plates didn’t even make them turn their heads.

  Not one of them looked at the Rover.

  There was a garage. One garage. Maria had counted two.

  “On my way out,” Maria said, “I was worried. When I drove back, I was drunk. But even so I’m going to remember. There was another garage.”

  “The road to Madrid,” Pierre said. “You can’t go wrong.”

  The other garage. Pierre was driving nearly as slowly as she had during the night.

  “Then some kind of a shop, quite large and isolated.”

  “There it is. Don’t worry,” Pierre said.

  He spoke gently. He felt hot. Probably he was afraid. No one turned to look at Claire who kept silent.

  The shop. It was open. An electric saw filled the hot air with its noise.