The Selected Stories of Mercè Rodoreda

by Mercè Rodoreda

  “If I give you a hand, will you take us to Orléans?”

  The man who had been under the truck glanced at them. His companion replied:

  “I wouldn’t mind. But we don’t know if we will make it. Right now, this hippo has broken down on us. We only have gas for about two kilometers, and the Germans have probably reached Artenay by now. You’d better keep moving. Don’t hang around here.”

  People began to shout. The horses pulling the wagon stopped, their ears straight up. A dull sound traveled along the road, a mixture of voices and shouts of fear.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. A bunch of silly people must have seen a plane. It never fails. They scream; the plane appears. There it is, I can see it now, but it’s a reconnaissance flight. They’ve been pestering us all morning. Watch out: they use those machine guns.”

  As they approached Orléans, the road grew more and more crowded as people streamed into it from the neighboring towns. Every road, every path was overflowing with people who were fleeing. The road dipped gently, and in the distance you could see houses on both sides.

  “You can’t get through, you can’t,” shouted a boy on a bicycle headed in the direction of Artenay.

  “Why not?”

  “The bridges’ve been bombed. All Orléans is on fire.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s a spy. A spy.”

  “Everything’s burning.”

  “It’s true, everything’s ablaze. They kept bombing, all through the night.”

  But people and wagons continued toward the city. The houses on either side of the road were empty, their doors and windows open. Some roofs had been ripped apart by the bombs, displaying the inner beams and canes. An old woman dressed in black, a scarf around her head, was seated on a low chair in the doorway of a house.

  “We have to help her.”

  “She’s enjoying the fresh air, like in the old days.”

  “She’s dead. Shut up, she’s dead.”

  As they passed, everyone stared at her, leaning down to see her face. They kept repeating, “She’s dead.”

  Orléans appeared on the horizon. Tiny and gray, enveloped in smoke.

  “If we don’t sit down for a moment, I won’t be able to walk any more.”

  They sat on the ground, in the ditch alongside the road, watching the mass of people streaming past. Tied to the top of a wagon were a sewing machine and four sad children with plump cheeks sitting on a mattress. The muzzles of the horses pulling this tiny world were covered with a thick, greenish foam.

  “It’s going to be night soon, and we won’t know where to go.”

  A quiet, sickly light began to fall across the scene. The asphalt was still warm from the sun. They stood up and began walking. Some soldiers were standing in the middle of the road, their bayonets pointed downward. They were directing the avalanche of wagons and people toward a path to the right.

  “At the end of the path you’ll find the road to Tours. This morning they bombed the bridges of Orléans. It’s impossible to get through. To the right, all of you, to the right. The bridges are down.”

  The path winded past well-tended gardens filled with vegetables; the earth was rich and dark. Everybody walked slowly, mechanically. Everyone walked without knowing why. Suddenly the crowd flattened against one side of the path, and a group from a colonial cavalry unit rode by. A horse reared up with a desperate neigh.

  “Stand right up against the fence and hang on tight. You don’t want to fall under the horses’ hoofs.”

  From the gardens came the scent of green, of fruit. Some wilted sunflowers gave the appearance of being asleep. A man was stretched out on the ground, his hands swollen, his face covered with a blue and white checkered handkerchief. His chest and the handkerchief were stained with blood.

  “Close your eyes. Don’t look.”

  “I’m going to fall. I can’t go any farther.”

  “We’ll enter the first house we come across and spend the night.”

  “The Germans have been in Paris for days now. I saw the flag with the cross at the Arc de Triomphe.”

  “The Germans in Paris?”

  “Yes, yes, Paris.”

  “You must mean Artenay.”

  “Those are just tall tales from people who aren’t getting any sleep. The Germans will never get to Paris.”

  “Watch out they don’t catch up with you in Tours.”

  “Our army would never allow it.”

  “Take a look at our army,” a man said, pointing at three soldiers who stumbled along, holding each other up. They were barefoot, weaponless, their epaulets ripped off.

  •

  A house appeared between the dense foliage of the trees. It lay isolated, outside the town, surrounded by a large tract of land, flat as the palm of your hand. In front of it stood some linden trees and a garden full of tulips and rosebushes, the last roses of June. At the gate by the road was a wall of oleander with pink and red flowers. As if trapped by the enclosed garden, a thick scent of honeysuckle and privet reached them. To the right of the house stretched a huge field, so large you couldn’t see the end of it. Long rows of very short pear trees had been planted, trees no taller than a man’s arm, cultivated like a vineyard, their branches tied to a wire espalier. It was a two-story house, the front facing Orléans. Behind it stood a garage, a shed for washing clothes, tools, wood already cut and stacked. Beneath the roof was a sundial. The windows on the second floor were beginning to turn pink with the burning of Orléans.

  It was dark when they reached the house. They pushed the gate; it creaked as it swung open. They crossed the garden slowly so as not to run into the trees. A cat slipped between their legs, frightening the woman, making her heart pound. A wave of heat rose from her throat to her forehead.

  “Let’s go,” she said, tugging at her husband’s jacket.

  “Leave me alone.”

  They reached the massive wooden door with two lion heads for knockers. They pushed. The door didn’t give. Again, using their shoulders, they pushed as hard as they could. The door shook but didn’t open.

  “The wood’s swollen, but we’ll get in. You’ll see.”

  “I help.”

  They gave a start. Behind them a shadow was leaning over, wanting to be helpful. The man commenced shoving the door with his shoulder. Hard. All at once the door opened, and they almost fell inside.

  “Me too enter. Legs no good. Tired, tired.”

  Roca lit a match and the man’s teeth and black eyes shone in the flame.

  “Look for the switch.”

  “There’s no electricity.”

  A dank sickening odor of garbage, smoke, humidity, and putrid food hit them. The match went out and Roca lit another. On the table stood a plate of rotten meat and a few empty bottles of what had been good wine. The large room must have been the dining room. On the ledge above the fireplace a row of copper pots cast a dark gleam. Beside a glass tube with a pansy was a photograph of a young couple. He was wearing the uniform of a French officer, she a white dress. She was holding a bouquet of little flowers.

  “Hungry, go look for something good.”

  When they were alone, the woman grabbed her husband’s arm anxiously.

  “It’s the Negro from Artenay.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “He looks like a good man. Want to go upstairs and see what we find?”

  “And if we run into him on the stairs?”

  “Stop worrying. Come on.”

  They went upstairs. You could see all of Orléans ablaze, as if the furious fire had waited for night before igniting. The light from the flames flooded the room. They could move from one room to another without needing matches. In a small room, beside a bed covered with a crocheted spread, was a shiny, sticky area.

  “Someone spent the
night here and vomited.”

  There were two more very large rooms, connected to the smaller one through a barely visible door that had been wallpapered over to look the same as the wall.

  “Can you hear that? It’s a duel: artillery. They’ll never stop. It’s getting louder and louder.”

  “And the Negro?”

  “He probably got lost.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Wonder what he’s carrying in that suitcase. When he went to get us a bottle of wine in Artenay, did you notice he didn’t want to leave it?”

  “He was right. What if he had to hide during the bombing?”

  Neither the main door nor the bedroom doors had locks. They stretched out on the bed. The legs of the bed were broken and the mattress dipped.

  “Do you really think we’ll get some rest here?”

  “I’d be able to sleep on a bed of brambles. You’ll see.”

  “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “Planes. Listen. They’re really close. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t sound like canons.”

  The red glow enveloped Orléans like a throbbing halo licking the sky. At short intervals a tongue of fire circled into the air, straightened up like a sword above the roofs, then disappeared mysteriously into the heart of the immense forge. Soon after, another appeared, higher and brighter.

  “The planes are dropping bombs.”

  The house shook and the open window banged shut. You could hear the sound of breaking glass.

  “Cover your face, cover it!”

  He stretched his hand out, feeling for the floor. Bits of glass lay all around the bed. The artillery battle continued, without stop.

  “I’m dying of hunger. Not found anything.”

  They hadn’t heard him enter. The Negro was standing at the foot of the bed, looking like an abandoned ghost. The metal locks on his suitcase gleamed in the bright flames, casting fleeting green and red reflections.

  “Don’t think any more about food. Just go to sleep.”

  “I don’t want to think, but—” he dropped the suitcase on the ground with a loud metallic sound and leaned down to pick it up. “But hand scraped, not let me sleep.” He sat down at the foot of the bed, causing the wood to creak. “My name is Wilson. When little, picked cotton in America, poor parents, servant rich folks. Was alone in Paris when war lost, bosses on summer holiday.”

  “You’ll find a bed in the next room.”

  “Feel lonely, very scared. Can I sleep near you, on the floor near you?”

  The night seemed drunk with stars, sound, and fire. A never-ending stream of people and wagons passed the house.

  “I drag cabinet from dining room, place behind front door. Nobody comes in to bother.”

  It was hot, not a leaf moved in the garden. The Negro stood before them, between the bed and the window. They looked at him, and the Negro returned their look. Suddenly a breath of air made a branch from a linden tree dance across the wall.

  “You might die there, if you keep standing.”

  “Wilson want to sleep near you.”

  “Do whatever you please, but shut up.”

  He lay down on the floor, right by the bed, hugging his suitcase. Roca ran his hand through the space between the mattress and the bedpost and discovered a bottle. He smelled it: wine that was slightly off. He waited a long while, until the Negro was asleep. When he thought the man was no longer in this world, he drank slowly and silently, then handed the bottle to his wife. The blasts sounded as if they had calmed somewhat. He was falling asleep when his wife leaned over and whispered in his ear:

  “See if he has the suitcase.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe he’s carrying jewels.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “I’m wide awake. I can’t stop thinking about this man. We don’t know who he is or where he’s from. Do you hear me?”

  “If you were as tired as me, you wouldn’t be talking nonsense. Go to sleep.”

  •

  He suddenly jumped straight up, screaming and running from one side of the room to the other.

  “What is it, what’s the matter?”

  “Maybe we should have just thrown him out the window.”

  “Shut up. What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, oh, there’s rats. House full of rats, bring bad luck. Run over face, slowly, over face, like Wilson was dead and worms begin to eat. Eat cheek, eat nose, eat strength, rats.” He was standing in the center of the room, moaning, his body swaying from side to side as he made a low squeal, like the lament of a night animal. “I like quiet, very quiet. Noise terrible. Want to return to America.”

  The

  Thousand

  Franc Bill

  ”I’m fed up with being poor.”

  She put on her old, worn-out coat and opened the door with a jerk. At the other end of the landing her neighbor was in the midst of waxing the parquet floor at the entrance to her apartment. It was too late when she realized: the woman had already seen her.

  “You look really lovely. You’re even wearing eye makeup.” Still on her knees, the woman straightened up and looked at her in amazement, “And you’ve curled your hair. If I had your hair . . . Will you be long?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to see my friend, Isabel, she’s very sick,” she said as she double-locked the door. On the street, the bright light surprised her—the afternoon was winding to an end. All of a sudden she felt weak in the knees, as if her will were about to abandon her, but her mind was made up. Nothing was going to stop her.

  The first man to pass her whistled and came to an abrupt halt as he looked at her. “I’ve put on too much eye makeup. I must look like . . . exactly what I want to look like!”

  At that time of day only a few people were walking along Boulevard Rochechouart. As always, Zuzanne was at the corner of rue Dunkerque with the flower cart, wrapping carnations in transparent paper. “Don’t let her see me with so much makeup on.” Just as that thought came to mind, Zuzanne raised her head.

  “Good afternoon. Any flowers today?”

  She would have taken the whole cartful. The carnations must have just been picked, and the round bouquets of Parma violets seemed to be waiting for ladies dressed in gray with veils on their hats, who would take them away to die in crystal vases inside polished rooms with soft lights and velvet armchairs.

  “Later, when I come back.

  She held the empty wallet against her chest. Someone was following her. In a shop window she saw the man who had whistled and turned to look at her. She waited in front of another window to get a better view of him. She stopped, her heart pounding. How could she manage to look at him? Her eyes were bothering her. She had put on too much makeup.

  “Can I offer you a drink?”

  Despite the anguish, she noticed he was young and slender. He was wearing a trench coat and a bottle-green felt hat. Without replying she began walking again. When she reached Place Pigalle, she crossed to the center, glanced at the magazines at a kiosk, then headed toward the entrance to the métro. She stopped and leaned against the rail. Suddenly, when she thought she had lost the man who had whistled, she saw him cross the street. All the men were looking at her. She shook her hair energetically and heard a warm voice by her ear.

  “You want to come with me?”

  She looked at him steadily, calculated, and said in a low, determined voice: “Five hundred.”

  A cold shiver ran up and down her body. She couldn’t see anything. A muscle in her leg was throbbing and her head hurt. He took her by the arm and murmured in a dark voice:

  “You’re worth twice that. A thousand!”

  •

  She held the wallet against her chest. Her lips were pale, unpainted. With a sharp gesture she brushed the hair away from her forehead and said, looking at t
he violets, “One bunch. The one at the very back. It’s the prettiest.” Zuzanne smiled, “Take whichever one you want.”

  Timidly she stretched out her hand and took it. It was beside two bunches of carnations. Zuzanne wrapped it in the transparent paper, making the flowers seem even more mysterious. She took the thousand franc bill out of her wallet. Zuzanne looked at it. “I don’t know if I have enough change.” The woman gave her the violets, took the bill, and left it lying on top of the flowers. She began to fumble through her wallet.

  “No, I don’t have enough. I’ll go to the bakery, I’ll be right back.”

  While she was waiting, a lady stopped at the flower cart.

  “How much are the carnations?”

  “I don’t know. If you’ll wait a moment, the florist went to look for change. She’ll be right back.”

  She was middle-aged. Her cheeks were round, her makeup a tender, rose color.

  “The flowers are fresh today. If the Parma violets had a nice smell, maybe I’d buy some, but you see my daughter is wild about carnations. Your bouquet is beautiful . . . Was it very expensive?”

  She was about to answer when Zuzanne arrived. Scratching her cheek with one finger while looking at the bill, she said, “Your bill is fake. Look at this. You can tell by the lines: they should be purple but they’re bluish. If you know who gave it to you, you can still give it back.”

  She left the violets in the same place where she had picked them up, beside the large bunch of white carnations. “Don’t worry; you can pay me another day, take them,” Zuzanne told her.

  “No, no. Thank you.”

  She walked along quickly, the bill folded in her hand. A surge of liquid rose from her stomach to her throat, so sour it made her close her eyes. She breathed deeply, her mouth closed. She entered the apartment. There was a smell of tomatoes and onions frying: it was from the air shaft, no doubt. She put the bill inside an envelope, and with four thumbtacks nailed it underneath the last drawer of the wardrobe with the mirror. She raised her hand and touched her cheek: it was burning. She looked steadily at the wall: she had never realized that the branches on the wallpaper looked like a swan. The muscle in her leg began to throb again. “Now what?” Suddenly she leaned over, jerked out the thumbtacks and removed the envelope. When she had lit the gas, she moved an edge of the bill toward the flame and waited for it to burn. Her fingers hurt from grasping it so tightly. Then she went to the foyer, took off her coat, hung it up, and began preparing supper. Her husband would be home soon.