The Voyeur

by Alain Robbe-Grillet

  But the salesman did not take advantage of the short cut which would have brought him directly to the harbor. His watch indicated barely three o'clock, and according to his schedule he still had to explore the whole northwest section of the island—that is, the wild and sparsely settled west coast to the left of the lighthouse, then the steep peninsula called “Horses Point,” symmetrical to the one he was now heading for, and finally the villages—or rather the groups of farmhouses—scattered between the point and the fort, located inland for the most part, so that he would not even try the least accessible ones if his time was running short.

  For the moment he had more than an hour ahead of him, and if he hurried he could make up for his delay without difficulty. He therefore returned to the main road and kept to his prescribed course.

  Almost at once he was at the point where the road to Black Rocks, which he had taken this morning after leaving town, crossed the main road. To his right the town began some five hundred yards away at the bottom of the hill, with the house where the widow Leduc lived with her three daughters. To the left would be the fork leading to the mill. Actually the salesman did not remember the landscape precisely enough to situate these elements with much assurance. He had barely noticed the crossroads in passing. But he had no doubt that it was indeed this crossroads, and that was the important thing. Besides, Mathias did not have time, on this second occasion, to worry any more about it.

  As he rode along he mechanically looked at his watch again, to reassure himself that he was not too late to begin this last section of his itinerary—the big loop from the cliff to Horses Point and back. He continued straight on his way; the hands had virtually not moved at all. Since there was no traffic at the crossroads, he did not even have to slow down.

  He touched his suitcase with his fingertips to be sure it was still there on the luggage rack—where he had finally fastened it in an ingenious way that permitted him to remove and replace it promptly. Then he looked down at the movement of the pedals, the chain, the gearing, the wheels that turned without any grinding noise. A film of dust was beginning to cover the chromium tubing.

  Pedaling still faster, he was now traveling at a speed that astonished the few people he passed coming toward him; those he passed from behind sometimes gave an exclamation of surprise—or of fear.

  He came to a sudden halt in front of the traditional clumps of mahonia and dismounted. He knocked at the window-panes, leaned his bicycle against the wall, picked up the suitcase, entered at once. . . . Hallway, first door to the right, kitchen, the big oval table covered with an oilcloth patterned with little flowers, opening the clasp, etc. . . . When the customer looked dubious, Mathias waited no more than a few moments; often he left without even having unpacked his collection. With practice, thirty seconds are enough to tell the ones that will never buy anything.

  Along this coast, many farmhouses were in ruins, or in such disrepair that there was no reason to visit them.

  There was a fork to the right which certainly led to town. Mathias continued straight ahead.

  The road, unfortunately, became rather bad. Since he did not want to slow down, the salesman was severely jolted by the irregularities of the terrain. He tried as much as he could to avoid the most evident holes, but their number and depth constantly increased, making his progress increasingly hazardous.

  The entire surface of the road was soon nothing more than holes and humps. The bicycle was shaken by a continual jarring, and at every rotation of the wheels bucked against huge stones; his precious burden was threatened with one bad fall after another. In spite of his efforts, Mathias was losing speed.

  The wind off the point was not as strong as was to be feared. The edge of the cliff, higher than the adjoining moor, protected the latter somewhat. Nevertheless, the salesman, who here received it full in the face, found the wind an additional impediment.

  From now on he stopped with relief here and there to show his merchandise. But luck was less with him in this part of the country. In the few homes into which he made his way, he found only undecided and quibbling people with whom it was impossible to come to an agreement.

  He failed to make two sales after having wasted much move time than usual, believing at every moment that a decision would finally be reached and that only one more complimentary moment would keep him from regretting all that had already passed. When he left the second of these houses, having failed completely, he consulted his watch with a certain uneasiness. It was a little after three-thirty.

  Leaping onto the seat without bothering to fasten the suitcase to the luggage rack, he began pedaling as hard as he could, holding the handlebars with one hand and the imitation-leather handle of his suitcase in the other.

  Luckily the road from here on was in slightly better condition. After the first village on the north coast, it became quite good in fact. The road now led to the fort and then the town. The wind was once again behind him—or almost.

  He rode on at a steady speed, although conscious of a slight nervousness.

  The houses were becoming a little more numerous—and less poverty-stricken—but whether it was because the salesman presented his wares too hurriedly, or simply did not permit his customers the minimum amount of time indispensable to country people's decisions, Mathias did not make as many sales as he had anticipated.

  He made the first scheduled side-trip—a very short one—at the old Roman tower near the village of Saint-Sauveur. He was cordially received but managed to sell only one watch—and from the cheapest series.

  When he looked at his watch again, it was already ten minutes to four.

  He calculated rapidly that at most a mile and a quarter separated him from the little triangular square where he would leave the bicycle at the café-tobacco shop-garage. Without side-trips, it would take him about ten minutes to get there, including the short walk from the tobacco shop to the boat and the thirty seconds he needed to pay the garageman.

  He had just under a quarter of an hour until then. The salesman would have time enough to try his luck at a few last doors.

  Rushing on as if he were being pursued, running, bounding, throwing himself about—but without wasting his strength in gesticulations—he persisted until the last possible moment. Leaving matters somewhat up to chance, as soon as a house along the road seemed to look rather prosperous, or less ramshackle, or newer, he jumped off the bicycle and raced to the door, suitcase in hand.

  Once. . . . Twice. . . . Three times . . .

  When he found a window open on the ground floor, he spoke from outside, ready to show his merchandise from where he stood. Otherwise he walked into the kitchen without even knocking. Sometimes he economized on words and gestures—excessively, even.

  As a matter of fact, all of these attempts were useless. He was going too fast: he was taken for a madman.

  At five after four he caught sight of the fort. Now he would have to get back to town without stopping again. There were only three hundred yards or so to travel uphill, then the slope down to the harbor. He wanted to go faster still.

  The bicycle chain began to make an unpleasant sound—as if it were rubbing sidways against the sprocket-wheel. Mathias pedaled vigorously.

  But the grinding noise grew more pronounced so rapidly that he decided to get off and examine the transmission. He set his suitcase down on the ground and crouched over the machine.

  There was no time to study the phenomenon in detail. He confined himself to pushing the sprocket-wheel back toward the frame—dirtying his fingers as little as possible—and started off again. The abnormal friction seemed to grow worse.

  He got off again at once and twisted the axle of the sprocket-wheel in the opposite direction.

  As soon as he was back on the seat again he realized that matters were going from bad to worse. He was making no progress at all: the machinery was almost completely jammed. Trying another remedy, he manipulated the gear-shift—once, twice, three times—pedaling at the same time. As soon
as it reached its maximum gear expansion, the chain sprang away from the sprocket-wheel.

  He got off the bicycle, set down the suitcase, and lay the machine on its side in the road. It was eight minutes after four. This time, while adjusting the chain in place on the little toothed wheel, he covered himself with grease. He was sweating.

  Without wiping his hands he seized his suitcase, mounted the bicycle again, and tried to pedal. The chain sprang away from the sprocket-wheel.

  He put it back a second time, then a third. He tried it on all three gear-wheels, without managing to make it hold on any: it came off at the first revolution. Giving up, he continued on foot, half-running, half-walking, holding the suitcase in his left hand and with his right pushing the bicycle. An essential piece of the machinery must have been broken during the jolting on the bad road from Horses Point.

  Mathias had just begun walking down the slope to town when he suddenly realized he might be able to coast down without using the pedals. He got back on the bicycle and impelled himself forward with a vigorous kick. For balance he pressed the hand carrying the suitcase against the left grip of the handlebars.

  Now he had to be careful not to disturb the chain which he had put back around the sprocket-wheel—therefore he must not move his feet, or he would make it spring off again and tangle with the rear-wheel spokes. In order to fasten the chain more firmly to the sprocket-wheel, since it no longer had to revolve, the salesman thought of attaching it with a piece of cord he had picked up that morning; he began looking for the cord in the pockets of his duffle coat. But not finding it in either one, he remembered. . . . He remembered that he no longer had it.

  Furthermore, he had arrived without mishap at the level section of the road just before the fork; he was forced to stop in order to avoid a little girl who was heedlessly crossing just in front of him. In order to gain momentum he unthinkingly gave the pedals a turn . . . then several more. The bicycle was working perfectly. The peculiar noise had entirely disappeared.

  At the other end of the town he heard the little steamer's whistle: once, twice, three times.

  He entered the square, the town hall on his left. The whistle blew again, shrill and prolonged.

  On the movie bulletin-board, the advertisement had been changed. He leaned the bicycle against it and dashed into the café-tobacco shop. No one was there: no customer in the room, no proprietor behind the counter. He called. No one answered.

  Outside there was no one either, no one in sight. Mathias remembered that the man had returned his security. The sum amounted to . . .

  The ship's whistle blew a long blast—in a slightly lower tone.

  The salesman jumped onto the bicycle. He would leave it at the end of the quay—would hand it to someone—with the amount he owed for its rental. But even pedaling as hard as he could along the uneven cobbles, he managed to remember that the garageman had still not told him the terms. At first it had only been a question of the two-hundred-crowns security, which obviously bore no relation to the value of the bicycle nor to the cost of a half-day's rental.

  Mathias decided not to try riding along the pier, for it was encumbered with a great many baskets and hampers. There was not a single stroller on this part of the quay to take the money, so he abandoned the bicycle against the parapet and immediately ran toward the steamer. In a few seconds he had reached the landing slip, where a little crowd of about ten people was standing. The gangplank had been pulled up. The steamer was slowly pulling away from the embankment.

  The tide was high now. The water covered a good part of the inclined plane—half of it, perhaps—or two-thirds. The seaweed on the bottom could no longer be seen, nor the tufts of greenish moss which made the lower stones so slippery.

  Mathias looked at the narrow strip of water almost imperceptibly widening between the ship's side and the oblique edge of the landing slip. He could not jump across it, not so much because of the distance—which was still very slight—but because of the dangers of landing on the gunwale or in the midst of the passengers and their baggage on the stern deck. The downward slope along which he would have to run to gain momentum increased the difficulty still further, as did the heavy shoes and the duffle coat he was wearing, not to mention the suitcase he was carrying.

  He looked at the half-turned backs of the people staying behind, their faces in profile, their stares motionless and parallel—meeting identical stares from the ship. Standing against an iron pillar that supported the deck above, a child of seven or eight was gravely staring at him with large, calm eyes. He wondered why she was looking at him that way, but then something—a silhouette—came between him and the image—a sailor on board whom the salesman thought he recognized. He ran forward three steps toward the end of the pier and shouted: “Hey there!”

  The sailor did not hear him over the noise of the engines. On the pier Mathias’ immediate neighbors turned toward him—then others farther away, by degrees.

  The passengers, noticing the general movement of heads on the pier, also looked in his direction—as if in astonishment. The sailor raised his eyes and caught sight of Mathias, who waved his arms in his direction and cried again: “Hey there!”

  “Hey!” answered the sailor waving his arms in farewell. The little girl next to him had not moved, but the maneuver executed by the ship changed the direction of her gaze: now she would be looking at the top of the pier, above the landing slip, where another group of people was standing on the narrow passageway that led to the beacon light. These too were now facing Mathias. All of them had the same strained, frozen expression as before.

  Without addressing anyone in particular, Mathias said: “I didn't miss it by much.”

  The little steamer executed its usual maneuver, which consisted of turning so that it presented its stem to the open sea. The islanders left the end of the pier one after the other to return to their houses. The salesman wondered where he would sleep that night, and the next, and the one after that too—for the boat would not return until Friday. He also wondered if there were any policemen on the island. Then he decided it wouldn't change matters, whether there were or not.

  In any case, it would have been better if he had left, since that had been his plan.

  “You should have shouted! They would have come back.”

  Mathias tinned toward the person who had spoken these words. It was an old man in city clothes whose smile might have been kindly as well as ironic.

  “Bah!” answered Mathias. “It doesn't matter.”

  Besides, he had shouted—not right away, it was true—and not very insistently. The sailor had not seemed to understand that he had just missed the boat. He did not know why he had shouted himself.

  “They would have come back,” the old man repeated. “At high tide they can turn easily.”

  Perhaps he wasn't joking. “I didn't have to go,” said the salesman.

  Besides, he had to take back the bicycle and pay for its rental. He looked at the water lapping against the foot of the embankment—slack tide probably. In the sheltered angle of the landing slip, the backwash produced scarcely any swell at all.

  Then came a series of little waves from the steamer's propeller. But the harbor was empty. Only a fishing-smack was dancing out in the middle somewhere, its mast waving to and fro. Since he risked getting spattered on the landing slip, Mathias walked up the slope and found himself again on top of the pier, walking alone among the baskets, nets, and traps.

  He put his right hand—the free one—in the pocket of his duffle coat. It came into contact with the slender cord rolled into a figure eight—a fine piece for his collection. He had often heard the story before: once he had had a whole boxful—perhaps twenty-five or thirty years ago.

  He did not remember what had become of them. The slender cord picked up that morning had also disappeared from his duffle coat pocket. His right hand encountered only a pack of cigarettes and a little bag of gumdrops.

  Thinking this was a good time to have a smok
e, he took out the pack and discovered that several cigarettes were already missing—three, to be exact. He put the pack back in his pocket. The bag of gumdrops had also been opened.

  He was walking slowly along the pier, on the side with no railing. The water level was several yards higher. At the end of the pier, against the quay, the sea had entirely covered the strip of mud. Beyond stretched the row of houses and shops: the hardware store at the corner of the square, the butcher shop, the café “A l'Espérance,” the shop that sold everything—women's lingerie, wrist watches, fish, preserves, etc. . . .

  Groping at the bottom of his pocket, Mathias opened the cellophane bag and took out a gumdrop. This one was wrapped in blue paper. Still using only one hand, he unwrapped the paper, put the gumdrop in his mouth, rolled the little rectangle of paper into a ball, and threw it into the water where it floated on the surface.

  Leaning over a little farther, he saw at his feet the vertical embankment that plunged into the black water. The strip of shadow cast by the pier would have grown very thin at this time of day. But there was no longer any sunshine; the sky was uniformly overcast.

  Mathias advanced to the middle of the cluster of gray parallel lines between the water level and the outer edge of the parapet: the inner rim of the parapet, the angle formed by the jetty and the base of the parapet, the side of the pier that had no railing—rigid horizontal lines, interrupted by several openings, extending straight toward the quay.