by Claude Izner
‘You see? That woman is frightened of me. She looks like a goat watching an approaching lion. Going back to that evening, they served us pork and told us that they were sorry that we had not worn our ceremonial costumes. By which they meant our panther skins and lances!’
‘And what do you think of the Exposition?’
Samba grimaced in disdain. ‘A huge market where everything is very expensive and half the objects are no better than the knick-knacks brought back by explorers. As for the food galleries that they have built all along the river! I nearly died of boredom, you know, at the sight of all those endless displays of cheese!’
Victor turned sharply. There in the middle of a group of people chatting and looking around, he thought he recognised Tasha! ‘Excuse me, I must go,’ he said, extending his hand towards Samba.
But Samba kept hold of his hand and looked at Victor playfully. ‘The next time you want to photograph me, let me know and I will pose for you.’
‘I don’t know what to say … I didn’t mean to …’
‘I must say this new fad seems very strange to me, putting people in a box to capture their image.’
Victor was in despair. The group had dispersed so he could no longer see that head of long red hair, and still Samba was not letting go.
‘I like to recreate the reality that surrounds us. In the same way that … a painter does.’
He would have to remember that phrase and make use of it next time he saw Tasha. He withdrew his hand briskly and took a visiting card out of his pocket.
‘Here is my address, if you are ever passing … Goodbye. See you soon perhaps!’ He hurried off.
Samba stood stock-still, the visiting card in his hand. ‘These white people are assuredly mad! Always chasing after their destiny! Something tells me though that maybe this one is running so fast for a reason.’
A tall, sturdily built man with weather-beaten features and a mane of silver hair beneath his pith helmet was wandering along the lake where pirogues, Chinese junks and sampans sailed to and fro. He turned down a path packed with noisy crowds. That day he felt, as he often did, utterly out of his element. His mind was alert, but his body was succumbing to the ravages of time. For several years now his conference tours and articles had given him a good standard of living without fulfilling him. He was only in Paris because of his medals — it was easy to attract grants if one was decorated. He was tired and took no pleasure in his success. Officials smiled at him, shook his hand and congratulated him on his achievements. Important people he had never seen before and would never see again hovered around him. What a circus! he thought. A few more weeks of speeches, openings and dinners at which he would be honoured, then he would escape this charade and taste once again the joys of exploration and adventure, which was where he really felt in his element.
He politely rejected the plate of pineapple that a woman from Martinique was offering him, and looked up at the Colonial Palace. He felt a desire to return to his hotel and pack his bags. Once again he smoothed out the wire from Louis Henrique, special commissioner of the Colonial Exhibition, who was impatient to talk to him about an important project. He straightened up and joined the crowds milling around the clumps of bougainvillaea.
Visitors knocked into and jostled him. He felt a sharp pain in the nape of his neck and threw his head back. A cold sensation began to pierce his limbs and he had difficulty breathing, even with his mouth wide open. He began to panic; he could not take in what was happening. No, surely he was not going to expire here, in this cheap bazaar! He slid slowly to the ground. Above him he could hear a loud hubbub, then his thoughts began to unravel, and the clumps of bougainvillaea were swallowed up by the shadow of night.
Victor elbowed his way through the mêlée. Blinded by the bright light, he scoured the approaches to the Colonial Palace. Suddenly Tasha emerged from the direction of the lakes, walking in a determined fashion, her little hat bobbing on her red chignon. Automatically he opened the shutter on his Acme before she disappeared behind a cluster of bougainvillaea from where, almost immediately, shouts could be heard.
‘Air! Give him some air!’
‘Move away! Move away, please!’
‘Fetch a doctor, quick!’
Victor hurried to the bottom of the steps and ran into a crowd of people. ‘What’s happening?’ he cried, grabbing hold of a bystander.
‘Someone has passed out.’
‘Who?’
‘Let go. How should I know?’
As he walked round the group of onlookers, Victor tried to spot Tasha. He suddenly saw her hurrying towards the Decauville railway, which took passengers back to the Champ-de-Mars. All his tension vanished and he sank down onto a bench. His feelings had got the better of him. Should he follow her? He did not have the strength to shadow two people in one day. What about tomorrow? He could come back, or visit the newspaper offices, or, better still, turn up at her house on Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, with a bunch of flowers in his hand.
As he reached the post office his path crossed that of two stretcher-bearers and three policemen. This is becoming a habit. That word, habit, evoked an image that he could have done without: Odette in a state of undress. As her husband was away, he was supposed to be spending the evening and night with her. He did not derive any pleasure from the thought.
He looked at his watch: there was still time to develop his negatives before meeting Odette.
Victor had set up his photographic laboratory in the basement of the bookshop. To get to it, he had to negotiate mountains of books. In the tiny room there was a table, a chair, a sink, a paraffin lamp with a red light, and earthenware and zinc trays. Up on the shelf were scales with a series of weights, and a draining rack. His most recent works were hung on the wall: Kenji, standing ramrod straight in front of the shop; Madame Pignot on her son’s arm, smiling so broadly that she almost had three chins; Kenji speaking to a second-hand bookseller; an unknown woman in a ratteen overcoat photographed as she went past on Rue de Rennes. This was his ivory tower where he created as he pleased. No one was allowed in here without an invitation. He removed his frock coat, put on a worn-out old jacket, and began to prepare the solutions, enjoying the acrid odour of the chemicals. After two hours the photographs he had taken that afternoon were almost dry. He examined the two that he thought had most contrast in them and that showed the sharpest detail. In the first, Samba the Senegalese was watching a woman with rodent features go by. In the second, Tasha seemed about to dive into a clump of flowers. The expression on her face was utterly charming, at once mysterious and provocative.
CHAPTER FOUR
Saturday 25 June
PROPPED up on a pillow in a big four-poster bed, Victor was looking at the woman with dishevelled blonde hair asleep next to him, her arm over his body, keeping him prisoner. He changed position abruptly and reached for the alarm clock on the shelf.
‘Go back to sleep, my duck,’ said Odette with a yawn. ‘Can’t you see it’s still dark?’
‘Yes, but only because the curtains are closed. It’s twenty past ten in the morning.’
‘Mmm, that’s very early, my duck …’ she muttered, pushing back the sheet and curling up around him. ‘Kiss me.’
He dropped a quick kiss on the nape of her neck and got up to open the heavy velvet curtains. The sunlight fell on Odette’s opulent breasts. With a little cry she covered her face. ‘You’re going to ruin my complexion! Pass me my négligé.’
She slipped on a ruched chiffon dressing-gown, which made her look like a lampshade, and stumbled into the bathroom. ‘I must look awful. Don’t move, I’ll be back in a moment. We can have breakfast in bed.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he muttered, ‘and I’ll spill half my coffee on the sheets!’
Despite his irritation, he lay back down across the mattress. He hated to start the day off in a bad mood. The previous night had been better than he had dared hope: Odette knew how to arouse his desire, and occasionally in the darkness he imagin
ed he was holding Tasha in his arms. But now he would have to exchange lovers’ caresses and fond words with a woman who, in the cold light of day, he could no longer take to be another, and all he wanted to do was escape.
He was counting up the bunches of violets scattered over the mauve fabric on the walls when Odette returned, her hair done up in a chignon. She was carrying a tray.
‘I really must get rid of that Denise – she doesn’t know how to make hot chocolate. She puts the cocoa in the milk instead of carefully pouring the liquid on as I taught her. Would you like a croissant, my duck?’
‘Coffee will be enough.’
Dressed only in long johns, he got up and went to the window.
‘Are you going to come with me, my duck?’
‘I have work to do.’
‘Oh, can’t you get out of it for once? Don’t forget I’ll soon be far away from you. Your Chinaman will do your work. I so wanted you to be there for the fittings! I’ve ordered the same outfit as Mademoiselle Réjane, soft silk, in an utterly lovely antique blue with wisps of pink lame. The hat is quite flat, in Eiffel cream straw. You’ll love it.’
‘Of course,’ growled Victor as he looked for his socks.
‘So, you are coming then? Afterwards I must go to Violet’s to buy Tsarina face powder and also …’
With a weary sigh, Victor went into the bathroom. He poured water from a pitcher into a washbasin, covered his face in cream and began to shave while looking in the oval mirror. In the background, he could see Odette, slumped on an ottoman, which was overhung by a palm tree growing out of a large porcelain pot. She had opened a newspaper and was turning the pages without reading them.
‘I’m pleased I’ve rented this big seaside villa at Houlgate for the summer. It’s the right time to leave Paris – all the fashionable ladies are. Madame Azam has just invented some corsets in which you can go horseriding and play lawn tennis. I’ve ordered three, as well as a lace-trimmed parasol with an ivory handle. Will you come and join me soon?’
‘What about your husband?’
‘You know very well, my duck, Armand is in Panama, and will not be back before September. The canal, always the canal. I don’t understand anything about his business. He writes that he has some little problems to sort out, but that everything is going really well for us. If you don’t come, I’ll die of boredom. Come now, say something, my duck.’
‘Quack, quack,’ he said quietly as he traced a large furrow through the lather with his razor.
Odette closed the newspaper and was about to leave it on the pedestal table when she changed her mind and took a closer look at the front page.
‘My word, it’s an epidemic … Listen to this: “Yesterday afternoon, on the Esplanade des Invalides an American naturalist died from …” Naturalist? Is that like Monsieur Zola, my duck?’
‘Émile Zola is dead?’ cried Victor as he rubbed his ears vigorously with a towel.
‘You’re not listening. How can you wear those awful shirts? You look like some … penniless artist!’
Delighted by this jibe, which seemed to bring him closer to Tasha, Victor tried to look offended. Rummaging in his frock coat, he took out a cigarette holder and a lighter, then went out onto the balcony, which went all the way round the apartment and overlooked Boulevard Haussmann. From the sea of green treetops the chalky outline of the buildings rose up, the grey roofs topped by red chimneys resembling an enormous steamship ready to sail. The hubbub from the street merged with Odette’s interminable stream of chatter. Cabs rattled over wooden paving blocks, the outdoor cafés were taking over the pavements, street vendors were reciting their monotonous chants: ‘Pots and pans mended’ … ‘Lovely pastries, ladies’ … Who’ll buy my onions?’ … ‘Glass cut here’ … ‘Ruthless, the dog shearer!’ Meanwhile, in the background, Odette was droning on about green surah, draped foulards, lait antéphélique, lamps decorated with gauze globe covers fringed with pearls, and the Francillon bag for the theatre, which could hold a fan and a lorgnette.
Quite deafened, Victor stubbed out his cigarette butt and made a beeline for his frock coat.
‘I have to go,’ he said.
In consternation, Odette cast a distraught glance at the carpet strewn with clothes and catalogues. ‘But … what about my fitting? You don’t love me any more, my duck!’ she whined, hanging on to Victor’s arm.
He kissed her forehead. ‘You know I do, my love.’
‘At least promise me you’ll take me to the station on the day I leave. I’ll come and fetch you from the bookshop.’
‘I swear,’ he said, gently extricating himself and hurrying down the corridor.
He gave a friendly wave to Denise, the sad-eyed young Breton girl, newly arrived from her native Quimper and now a prisoner in a narrow kitchen with an irascible mistress.
Odette consoled herself with the thought that she would go to La Reine des Abeilles after lunch to get supplies of Fountain of Youth water and crème Farnese.
The light breeze was more reminiscent of April than June. Victor strolled as far as Rue de Rivoli. The previous day, before going to meet Odette, he had warned Kenji that he would not be returning to the bookshop until mid-afternoon. He felt as though he was on holiday and was enjoying his freedom all the more because of the frantic activity around him. The workrooms of the fashion houses on Rue de la Paix and Rue Saint-Honoré were having their lunch hour and there was a crush of apprentice seamstresses in the arcades as they stormed the soup stalls and the dairies. The less fortunate ones, clutching their lunch in their hands, scattered like a flock of sparrows all over the Tuileries, descending on the benches and chairs. A barrel organ was slowly grinding out the quadrille from Orpheus in the Underworld. Some children in tartan outfits were chasing a ball, which Victor stopped with his foot. Vendors were milling around with bundles of newspapers under their arms, shouting at the top of their voices.
‘Get your Événement here! Drama at the Colonial Exhibition!’
‘Le Passe-partout, late edition. Another death at the Expo! New eyewitness reports!’
Victor stopped a skinny adolescent, with a tangled shock of hair sticking out of his cap, to buy Le Passe-partout.
‘AND NOW THIS!’ he read on the front page, above a drawing by Tasha of a sinister bee armed with a sword charging towards the massive crowd by the entrance of the Colonial Palace. An Annamese soldier with blackened teeth, smiling beneath a plaited straw hat, pointed a menacing sabre at the monster, whilst an alarmed policeman was hurriedly climbing to the top of a coconut tree. Victor could not help laughing. With his newspaper under his arm he crossed the road, bought a pound of cherries from a fruit-seller and entered the Tuileries Gardens.
All the stone benches were taken, mostly by the apprentices, who had pieces of newspaper spread out on their laps, and were eating chips, radishes or demi-baguettes stuffed with charcuterie, when they weren’t shrieking with laughter. Victor managed to find a spot on the Jeu de Paume terrace, shaded by a chestnut tree, next to two apprentices, who leant over, giggling, to get a better look at him and then spoke in hushed voices to each other.
‘S’afternoon I’m going to the restocking at the wholesaler’s, worse luck.’
‘That’s nothing. I’ve got to brush all the feather bagnolets. The boss says they’re covered in dust. I should think so — right now we’re not selling any. Everybody wants flowery hats.’
‘Did you see that? He’s having a good look at us!’
‘He’s good-looking. And well decked out. A real peach. I’d have some of that!’
Victor doffed his hat, and they giggled even more. When he started reading his newspaper, they were distracted by two noncommissioned officers on a spree, who kept walking past the bench, giving them meaningful looks. Eventually they got up and waddled off in pursuit of them. Victor took the opportunity to put the cherries down beside him. Eating them slowly, he spat out the stones at the disappointed sparrows.
The man who met his death yesterday aft
ernoon outside the Colonial Palace had also been stung by a bee. He was an American naturalist and explorer whose identity has not yet been revealed. Recently arrived in Paris, he was staying at the Grand Hotel. On arrival at the scene, the Public Prosecutor’s Office undertook a basic investigation. Eyewitnesses told our reporter that the victim was seen raising a hand to his neck and collapsed shortly after. A pineapple vendor from Martinique confirmed sightings of wasps around the displays of sweet food. It’s time for the Health and Hygiene Council to take drastic measures to ensure the public’s safety. But how …
Victor stopped suddenly to chase away a horsefly that was buzzing around his head. A resigned little donkey trotted by, ridden by a tense little girl and preceded by a cloud of flies. Further away the female workers had finished their picnics. They were still really just young girls, and they were playing hide and seek or skipping with ropes in a flurry of dresses and underskirts. Abandoning his cherries, Victor decided to finish reading the article in a restaurant in the arcades, where he recalled eating an excellent chicken with watercress followed by a coffee ice cream. Before rolling it up, he gave Le Passe-partout a final look. How odd: he and Tasha had both been at the scene of that incident at les Invalides the previous day …
Tasha folded Le Passe-partout, stuffed it into her shopping bag between a bunch of carrots and a kilo of turnips, and pushed open a carriage entrance. Once she was in the passage the hustle and bustle of Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette faded to a vague hum, which was overtaken by an irregular grating noise. Tasha stopped on the threshold of the courtyard to watch the landlady cycling around. Dressed in culottes and ankle boots, her plump calves straining to move the pedals, the sporty lady was going round in circles on the cobbles. Occasionally the bicycle wheels would get stuck between them and she would almost keel over.
