Three Bedrooms in Manhattan

by Georges Simenon

Because she had to understand. It was too important, more important than anything in the world. If she couldn’t understand, who would?

  Always this compulsion to blame everything on whatever was handy, to blame it all on a woman.

  He paced feverishly. He hated her so much he refused to look at her.

  “Can’t you see that doesn’t matter? What matters is me! Me! Me!” He almost screamed. “Me, all alone, if that’s what you want to hear. Me, naked and all alone, living here, yes, for six months! If you don’t see that, you … you …”

  And he nearly shouted, “You aren’t worthy of being here!”

  But he caught himself. He fell silent, furious, scowling, like a child after a temper tantrum.

  He wondered what Kay was thinking, what expression she was wearing, but he refused to look, staring at anything but her, at the stains on his wall. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  Why wasn’t she helping? Why couldn’t she say the right thing? Did she think it all came down to stupid sentimentality, did she really think that his drama was just the vulgar drama of someone whose wife had cheated on him?

  He hated her. He detested her. Yes, he detested her. He tilted his chin to the left. When he was small, his mother used to say she could tell when he was up to no good because he cocked his head to the left.

  He stole a glance. And he saw that she was smiling and crying at the same time. In her face, where he could make out the tracks of two tears, he read such joy and tenderness that he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to look.

  “Come here, François.”

  Calling him that—she was too smart not to realize how dangerous that was right now. Was she so sure of herself?

  “Come here.”

  She spoke to him like a stubborn child.

  “Come on.”

  Reluctantly, he obeyed.

  She should have been ridiculous, in her dressing gown that swept the floor and those big men’s slippers, without makeup, her hair in a mess.

  But she wasn’t, and he moved toward her, still looking surly.

  “Come.”

  She took his head in her hands. She pushed it against her shoulder, pressing his cheek to hers. She held it there, almost by force, as if to fill him, bit by bit, with her heat and her presence.

  He kept one eye open. Inside was a block of anger he meant to keep intact.

  “You weren’t as alone as I was,” she said. She said it softly. He wouldn’t have heard the words if her lips hadn’t been by his ear.

  He stiffened; she must have felt him stiffen. But she was sure of herself, sure at least that the admission of their loneliness would make them indispensable to each other from now on.

  “I have to tell you something, too.”

  It was only a whisper, and stranger still, a whisper in broad daylight, in a sunlit room with no soft music in the background, nothing to help you escape yourself. A whisper in front of a window framing a shabby old Jewish tailor.

  “I know I’m going to hurt you, because you’re jealous. I’m glad you’re jealous. But I have to tell you anyhow. When we met …”

  And she didn’t say “the day before yesterday,” for which he was grateful, because he didn’t want to think about how short a time they’d known each other.

  She said, “When we met”—and she said it even more softly, so that what she was confiding to him now seemed to vibrate within his chest—“I was so alone, so hopelessly alone, I was so low, and I knew that I’d never pull out of it again, so I decided to leave with the first man who showed up, no matter who he was.

  “I love you, François.”

  She said it just once. She couldn’t have said it again, since they were holding each other so tightly they couldn’t speak. Everything was tight, their throats, their chests—their hearts that seemed to have stopped beating.

  What could they say after that? What could they do? They couldn’t even make love. It would have spoiled everything.

  Combe didn’t dare extricate himself from the embrace—because of the emptiness that was sure to follow. It was Kay who let go, smiling.

  “Look across the street,” she said. “He saw us.”

  Sunlight slanted into the room. Trembling, it played on one of the walls of the apartment, a few inches from a child’s photograph.

  “François, you have to go out.”

  There was sun in the streets, sun over the city. She knew he had to find a foothold in reality again. He had to do it for himself, and for both of them.

  “You’re going to dress differently. Yes! I’ll pick the things you’ll wear.”

  There was so much he wanted to tell her after she’d said what she had. Why wouldn’t she let him? She was fussing around, as though this was her place, her home. She was humming. It was their song, and she started to sing it as never before, in a voice that was deep and light and serious all at once. It was no longer another silly song but instead, for an instant, the essence of all they had just been through.

  She was rummaging through the wardrobe. “No, sir. No gray today. Or beige, either. Beige doesn’t look good on you, whatever you think. You’re not dark enough or fair enough for it.”

  And, laughing, she asked, “But, what color is your hair? Can you believe I’ve never noticed? Your eyes, yes. Your eyes change with your moods. When you were playing the martyr just now—or trying to play the martyr—they were an ugly dark gray, like a heavy sea that makes you seasick. I was wondering if you’d be able to make it the last few yards, or if I’d have to come rescue you.

  “So, François, you will do as you’re told. Here! Navy blue. I think you’ll look wonderful in navy blue.”

  He wished she’d leave him alone, but he didn’t have the energy to resist.

  Once again the thought came, She’s not even pretty.

  He hated himself for not having said he loved her, too.

  Wasn’t he sure? He needed her. He was scared of losing her and being alone again. What she’d confessed to him a few moments before …

  He was deeply grateful for that, and yet he resented her. He said to himself: It could have been me or anybody else.

  Then, reluctant yet moved, he let her dress him as though he were a child.

  He knew that she didn’t want to have another serious discussion, or more revelations, that morning. He knew she was playing a role, the role of the wife, a difficult one to play if you aren’t in love.

  “I’ll bet, Mr. Frenchman, you always wear a bow tie with this suit. To make you look even more French, I’m going to choose a blue one with polka dots.”

  She was so right that he had to smile. He couldn’t help it. At first he resisted. He was afraid of looking ridiculous.

  “Plus a white handkerchief for your breast pocket. A little rumpled so you won’t look like a mannequin in a store window. Where are your handkerchiefs?”

  It was silly. Idiotic. They laughed, both playing their parts, trying to hide the tears in their eyes so they wouldn’t be overcome with emotion.

  “I’m sure there are people you have to see. Don’t deny it. Don’t lie. I insist you go see them.”

  “Well, there’s the studio,” he began.

  “Good. Then you’re going to the studio. Come back whenever you want. I’ll be here.”

  She knew he was frightened. She was so sure of it that words weren’t enough to persuade him of her promise. She held him in her arms.

  “Go on, François, hinaus!” It was a word from the first language she’d ever spoken. “Off you go. And don’t expect to find a big lunch when you come home.”

  They were both thinking of Fouquet’s, but they hid the thought.

  “Take an overcoat. This one … and a black hat. Yes!”

  She pushed him toward the door. She hadn’t had time to wash her face or comb her hair.

  He knew she wanted to be alone, and he wasn’t sure if he was angry or grateful.

  “I’ll give you two hours. All right, three.” And she closed the
door behind him.

  But she opened it again immediately, pale and embarrassed. “François!”

  He came back up a few steps.

  “I’m sorry I have to ask. But could you give me a few dollars—for lunch?”

  He hadn’t thought of it, and he blushed. He hadn’t expected this … in the hallway, by the banister, across from the door with the letters J.K.C. painted in green.

  He’d never felt more embarrassed in his life. He took his wallet out and hunted for the bills—he didn’t want to look like he was counting them, it didn’t matter to him—and blushed again, handing her some ones, twos, fives, he didn’t want to know.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He knew. Of course. And it made his throat tighten. He wanted to go back into the apartment and tell her everything he was feeling. But he didn’t dare, because of this question of the money.

  “Do you mind if I buy a pair of stockings?”

  Then he understood, or thought he did—she’d asked in order to restore his self-confidence, to make him feel like a man again.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before.”

  “You know, I may get my things back.”

  Now she was smiling. It had to be done with a smile, like their smile that morning.

  “Go on. I’m not going to blow it all at the track.”

  He looked at her. She still wasn’t wearing makeup, still had no idea how she looked in the too-long dressing gown and the slippers that kept falling off her feet.

  He stood a few steps below her.

  He came back up.

  That was their first real kiss of the day, their first real kiss ever perhaps, and it happened there, in the hallway, in a sort of no-man’s-land, in front of anonymous doors. They were both so conscious of all it implied that they went on, dragged it out, sweetly, tenderly, not wanting it to end. Only the sound of a door shutting made their lips part.

  “Go,” she said.

  And feeling like a new man, he went.

  5

  LAUGIER, a French playwright who’d been in New York for two years, had helped him get radio work. And he’d played a Frenchman in a comedy on Broadway, but the show, which they’d staged in Boston first, had only run for three weeks.

  He wasn’t bitter that morning. He walked to Washington Square and took the Fifth Avenue bus. He stood on the platform, enjoying the spectacle of the street, and for a while he felt good.

  The avenue was sunlit. The gray stones of the buildings had a golden hue, so that they seemed at times almost transparent, and the sky high above was all blue except for the occasional fluffy cloud like the ones around saints in religious paintings.

  The radio studio was on Sixty-sixth Street, and when he got off the bus he still thought he was happy. But he felt vaguely uneasy, felt a trace of anxiety, a lack of balance that was almost a sense of foreboding.

  What was he afraid of?

  The thought crossed his mind that Kay might not be there when he got back. He shrugged. He was early for his appointment, so he stood at the window of an art gallery and watched himself shrug.

  Why did his mood become darker the farther he got from Greenwich Village? He entered the building, took an elevator to the twelfth floor, and walked down the familiar hallway. At the end was a large, well-lit space with dozens of men and women sitting at work. In a cubicle he found the director of dramatic programming, a redheaded man with a face scarred by smallpox.

  This was Hourvitch. Combe was struck by the fact that Hourvitch was Hungarian. He was struck by anything that reminded him of Kay.

  “I was expecting a call from you yesterday, but it doesn’t matter. Have a seat. You’re on for Wednesday. By the way, your friend Laugier will be here in a few minutes. We’ll probably be putting his new play on the air soon.”

  Barely half an hour had passed since Kay had picked out his suit and practically dressed him, choosing his tie. At the time he had thought that it was one those unforgettable moments that bind people together forever, and now it seemed far away and unreal.

  The director answered his telephone, and Combe let his gaze wander around the vast white room until it fastened on a big clock rimmed in black. He was trying to summon up the image of Kay’s face, but couldn’t.

  It was her fault. He could almost see what she looked like when she was outside, in the street. He could almost see her again the way she’d been that first night, with her little black hat perched over her eyes, the lipstick staining her cigarette, her fur hanging down from her shoulders, but he was annoyed—no, worried—not to be able to picture her in any other way.

  His impatience and nervousness must have shown, because the Hungarian asked, ear to the receiver, “You in a hurry? You’re not going to wait for Laugier?”

  Yes, he was going to wait. But something had snapped inside, and his calm had left him—he didn’t know when—taking with it his self-confidence and the happiness that was so new he hesitated to show it in public.

  He looked guilty. When Hourvitch finally hung up the phone, Combe said with forced nonchalance, “You’re Hungarian—you must know Count Larski.”

  “The ambassador?”

  “I suppose. Yes, he must be an ambassador by now.”

  “If he’s the one I’m thinking of, he’s impressive. Right now he’s the Hungarian ambassador to Mexico. He’d been the first secretary at the embassy in Paris for a long time when I knew him. I guess you know I worked with Gaumont in Paris for eight years. Larski’s wife, if I remember correctly, ran off with a gigolo …”

  He had expected it. He felt ashamed. He had asked for it—those were the very words he had been waiting to hear—but now he wanted it to stop.

  “That’s all I need to know.”

  But Hourvitch went on. “I don’t know what happened to her later. I ran into her once in Cannes when I was down there working on a film. I think I saw her in New York once.” He smiled and added, “You know, in New York, you run into everybody these days, high, low. I think she must have been on the low side … Anyway, about your broadcast, what I wanted to tell you was …”

  Was Combe still listening? He was sorry he’d come, sorry he’d ever opened his mouth. He felt like he’d dirtied something, but it was Kay he blamed.

  He didn’t know for what. Maybe, deep down, it was because she hadn’t lied about everything.

  Had he really believed she’d been the wife of a first secretary at an embassy? He didn’t know now, but he was filled with anger. He thought bitterly, When I get home, she’ll be gone. Isn’t leaving what she always does?

  The idea of the emptiness waiting to greet him was so intolerable that it caused him physical pain, a sharp pain in his chest. He wanted to leap in a taxi and go straight to Greenwich Village.

  But, almost at the same time, he thought, No. Of course she’ll be there. Didn’t she say that, on the night we met, if I hadn’t come along, it could have been anybody?

  A cheery voice broke in: “Well, old man, how are you?”

  And he smiled. The fake grin must have made him look like an idiot because Laugier, who had just shown up, seemed troubled as he shook his hand.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, fine. Why?”

  Laugier didn’t let much bother him. Or if he did, he never showed it. He wouldn’t say how old he was, but he had to be at least fifty-five. He had never been married. He lived surrounded by pretty girls, none older than twenty-five, and they changed constantly. He was like a juggler who could keep half a dozen pins in the air at once, without any of them ever seeming to touch his hands. The girls always disappeared without leaving a trace or causing any complication in Laugier’s bachelor existence.

  He was full of himself. When he invited you to dinner, he’d say, “You’re on your own? I have a charming friend here, and I’ll ask her to bring along one of her little playmates.”

  Was Kay still at the apartment? If only he could picture her face—just for a second. Again he tried and failed.
He thought superstitiously: It’s because she isn’t there.

  Then, perhaps because of Laugier and his good-natured cynicism, he buried the thought. He said to himself, Of course she’s there. If it worked before, it’ll work again. Tonight she’ll have a whole new show to put on for me.

  She was lying, that was certain. She had lied to him again and again. She even said as much. But how could he ever be sure that she was telling the truth? And he was suspicious of everything, even the story of the Jewish tailor and the sink at the end of the hall in Vienna, which had melted his heart.

  “You look pale, old man. Come on, let’s get a hamburger. I insist. It’s on me. I’ll be through with Hourvitch in three minutes.”

  While the two men were talking business, why did he find himself thinking about his wife as well as about Kay?

  Probably because of what the Hungarian had said: “She ran off with a gigolo.”

  People must have said the same thing about his wife. He didn’t care. He had been honest that morning when he said he didn’t love her anymore. And it wasn’t even because of her that he had fallen to pieces. The truth was a lot more complicated.

  Kay would never understand. Why should she? What sort of ridiculous pedestal had he placed her on just because he had run into her one night when he could no longer bear to be alone, a night when she was just looking for a man, or at least a bed?

  Because it was a bed, all things considered, that she’d been looking for that night.

  “Ready, old man?”

  He sprang up, smiling agreeably.

  “You should keep him in mind, Hourvitch, when you cast the part of the senator.”

  A minor role, no doubt. Still it was good of Laugier. In Paris the situation would have been reversed. Seven years ago, at Fouquet’s, in fact, Laugier, dead drunk, had insisted at three in the morning, “Imagine, kiddo … the role of a lifetime … Three hundred performances, guaranteed, not to mention the road shows … But only if you’re the lead, because without you there’s no play … Do it! I’ve told you all about it … Now read the script, get cracking … If you go to the director of the Madeleine and tell him you want to do it, it’s in the bag … I’ll call you at six tomorrow … Don’t you agree, my dear, he should star in my play?”