Petite Mort

by Beatrice Hitchman

  On the way back up the corridor I tried the key in the other rooms. It didn’t fit any. I tapped it against my teeth, thinking; opened the door to my own room again, and almost shouted out. There was someone in the bed, hunched over on their right-hand side, away from me; it was her.

  My agonised squeak died away. There was no one in the bed. It was the sheets, mussed where I had flung them off, that looked like someone’s body.

  Juliette and Adèle

  1967

  ‘My grandmother used to say a bird trapped in a room was an omen.’

  Adèle says: ‘No, the locked room itself was the omen.’

  She leans inwards. Then she says: ‘But you still haven’t told me about Phantom Boyfriend.’

  I feel my lips pursing.

  ‘Let me guess,’ she says, ‘he was from a rich family, and he wanted you to settle down, and when you said you wanted to carry on working, have your career, he cooled it off.’

  I say: ‘He wasn’t from a rich family. We met at university. We were involved in student politics together.’

  ‘Politics,’ she says, ‘and what was his name?’

  ‘Is this relevant?’

  ‘Oh, because you’re the one interviewing me?’ She leans back, arms folded.

  I tell her how he left my apartment in the middle of my deadline without saying goodbye, took his coat, and never came back. How I’d seen him at the cinema last week with another girl, who was wearing a cashmere sweater.

  Adèle listens intently.

  When I’ve finished, I find I’m looking down at my notepad, blinking. Tears of embarrassment, mostly.

  She watches me for a moment. Then she leans forward and says: ‘Why are you crying? It can’t be because you think he is worth crying over.’

  I shake my head, my lips pressed together.

  She says: ‘But there’s not a thing wrong with you. Nothing at all.’

  Juliette, iv.

  The weather clears into bright sunlight. To the north-east, the city is being replaced by another version of itself: gleaming geometric blocks in creams and pinks, instead of grey stone, row upon row of faceless windows; a nest of cranes, their angular necks drooping with the weight of the concrete they carry.

  I turn the car down the slip road, and into Vincennes.

  Dilapidated and sooty tenement blocks; a café missing several letters from its name. At the end of the street, the Square Jean-Jaurès has been colonised by a couple of cardboard shelters leant up against the wall. The cardboard drips the last of the rain and vibrates in the breeze, but its residents are nowhere to be seen.

  Anne Ruillaux’s house is a square grey block tacked on to the end of the row of apartment buildings. Once, it might have been genteel: the home of a factory overseer, proud of his second storey. Now, the façade is crumbling off in chunks, and net curtains hang limp in the windows; the house next door has been demolished and lies in a pile of half-cleared rubble.

  I lift the door knocker and let it drop.

  In the street behind me, a group of small boys has materialised out of nowhere, kicking a lamp-post and staring.

  A dog-walker appears at the corner of the street, cap pulled down against the drizzle. The dog whines and strains towards me; its owner pulls at the leash – Shush, Pitouf, heel – and walks past, ignoring its yelps.

  Something is nagging, something about the timbre of the dog-walker’s voice; I look back at the figure walking briskly down the street.

  ‘Anne?’ I say. ‘Madame Ruillaux? May we speak?’

  She turns. The dog watches too, its tongue lolling.

  ‘Can I ask about the film you found?’

  She reaches down and unclips the dog’s lead – Go on, Pitouf – and the dog dashes forward, to stand at the front door, dancing.

  A dog-lover’s room, not refurbished since the war: ratty wallpaper, an ancient wooden table with chewed legs, a series of black and white photographs on the mantel. In the corner, a wheelchair is folded in on itself, like a stick insect.

  Anne has fading red hair, badly cut into a bob, weathered skin, and can’t be more than fifty-five: despite the wheelchair, she seems to walk normally. She sits opposite me but says nothing, one hand on Pitouf’s neck, scratching his ears.

  ‘You said you found the film in your basement,’ I prompt. ‘How did you come to discover it?’

  When she speaks, it’s in a monotone. ‘I was having a clearout. I came across the reel in amongst some other junk. I decided to see if it was worth anything.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A month or so ago.’

  ‘And you didn’t recognise it? You don’t know how long it had been there?’

  She shakes her head to both questions. The same flat gaze.

  I ask: ‘How long have you owned the house?’

  ‘Twenty years. We bought it when we married.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My late husband and I.’

  ‘And was the film there when you bought it?’

  She thinks about it, shakes her head. ‘I’m not sure. I know there was a lot of junk in the basement.’

  ‘Could the previous owners have left it?’

  ‘My husband was in charge of moving all the furniture in. But he never mentioned the film.’

  I say: ‘The thing is, Mme Ruillaux, that film seems to have been kept very carefully, somewhere relatively cool. Otherwise it would have degraded much more, or possibly even been destroyed.’

  Pitouf whines as she tugs too hard. ‘My late husband used to have his workshop in the basement. He ran to hot, so he liked it cool down there. Maybe that’s why.’

  ‘Was your husband in films?’

  ‘No. He worked in the supermarket with me.’

  ‘So he never mentioned the Pathé factory, or knew anybody in that industry?’

  ‘No. We met at the supermarket. We always worked there.’

  ‘Did he like the cinema?’

  ‘We used to go once a year, at Christmas. What he really liked was model aeroplanes.’

  She shifts her weight in the chair. ‘We aren’t fancy people. Weren’t.’

  ‘When did he die?’

  She nods to the wheelchair in the corner. ‘A year ago.’

  I say: ‘Do you have any idea who owned the house before you?’

  ‘No. I don’t want any more questions.’

  A thin crease has appeared on her forehead, her glance flitting everywhere but my face. It’s time to leave.

  ‘Thank you very much for your help.’

  She shows me out. The door slams; the small boys across the street stop their game of hoopla to watch me walk to the car.

  15. août 1913

  THAT DAY, TWO PIECES of post arrive. We have moved back inside; the weather has cooled enough to be tolerable. Thomas brings the salver and deposits it on a footstool in front of the sofa.

  She slits the first envelope, pulls out a gold-edged invitation, and frowns. ‘Aurélie. She’s sent us two tickets to the Rite of Spring premiere at the Champs-Elysées. That new ballet.’

  I look up from my book.

  ‘Sweet of her,’ she says, frowning.

  She opens the second letter. Then her hand flattens to her throat, fingers drumming her collarbone.

  She clears her throat – ‘From my husband. He expects to return on the overnight train and be back with us by eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,’ – puts the letter back in the envelope and says brightly: ‘That is sooner than expected, isn’t it? He must have had some success with his inventions.’

  It feels like falling backwards. ‘That’s good, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she says.

  Somewhere in the house, Thomas’s voice is low and malevolent; matched by the high chime of a housemaid, being taken to task for bad cleaning; but in the study there is no noise. André coming home early when he could have stayed away. André whistling as he jogs into the house, flinging his hat at the hat stand.

  She says: �
�It’s curious. These past few days, I have had the impression of time standing still, and of the house—’ she stops, looking for the right word, ‘knowing there was someone missing. As if there was an absence, but not – that it wasn’t something to regret. That the house seemed more alive. There was more fun to be had here, within these walls, than anywhere.’

  She waits. ‘A strange thing, being married. I have woken up each morning, since he went, to the most joyful feeling, the most contentment, since we met. In fact, you could almost say I didn’t miss my husband at all.’

  Time is a chord trembling. Her skin, too pink anyway from the sun, is pinker still: tender as a newborn baby’s.

  She says gently: ‘Do you understand what I am telling you?’

  I sit frozen. Those women, in their tweeds.

  At long last she drops her gaze to her feet; she seems to gather herself, and says: ‘All this talking! Now, will you fetch me my novel? I left it by the doors in from the terrace.’

  When I reach the door and look back, she has stiffened, staring at a spot on the rug near my feet, and when she speaks her voice sounds like someone else’s: ‘We’ll still go to the ballet together? We must have a wonderful time, mustn’t we?’

  I nod, feeling the words recede back down my throat, and close the door softly behind me as I leave.

  In the corridor, when I’m safely away from the door, all the crying comes out in a succession of gulping sobs. I run down the corridor, terrified she’ll hear.

  ‘There.’ She levers my chair round to look at the mirror.

  My face: I put two fingers near my mouth, where she has drawn on lipstick, near my eyelashes where she bent, applying kohl, her breath hot on my face.

  I am a miserable stranger.

  Standing behind me, she says: ‘You look like a film star.’ Her voice is proud and sad; her eyes meet mine briefly in the mirror, then sheer away.

  In the dark of the car, I can watch without seeming to. She sits very straight, with her hands folded in her lap, gazing out at the passing houses: lit window after lit window. I enumerate her tiny imperfections: the furrow on her forehead, the patch of dry skin at her throat, scratched red over the weeks, now healing.

  ‘The ballet, Madame?’ Hubert says as he opens the cab door for us opposite the shiny concrete block of the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées. ‘I don’t have to come in, do I?’

  She rolls her eyes; he grins. As we cross the street I look back and see him settling into the driver’s seat with a cigarette and a newspaper, and wish I could join him. What if I say the wrong thing in front of her? What if she is embarrassed by me, turning away tight-lipped into the crowd?

  On the steps ahead is a gaggle of people, all talking loudly to one another; most of them middle-aged and beyond, the men in top hats and the women with their hair piled on top of their heads and ostrich feathers in the set wave. As we make our way up towards the entrance, I catch a glimpse of a familiar figure right in the heart of the throng, his little eyes glinting with amusement, nodding vigorously at someone else’s joke. He half turns, sees me, and his face glazes over.

  ‘Adèle?’ Luce says, frowning, trying to get my attention; then follows my look to where Peyssac stands. Her eyes narrow but she laughs, and raises one arm.

  ‘Robert!’ she calls, loud enough to stop all other conversation. ‘Wonderful to see you here!’

  Peyssac stares, and the crowd swivels to look at her; and he is caught, he has been seen. ‘Yes,’ he bleats, ‘marvellous!’ and like a minnow he turns and slips away.

  The crowd murmurs, beginning to piece the gossip together, and conversation starts up again; turning back, she laughs at my expression. ‘The old rogue,’ she says, to no one in particular, and we carry on into the foyer.

  Our seats are in the middle of the stalls. We shuffle past the patrons who have arrived early, two elderly women with haughty, lined faces, and a gentleman with a monocle. ‘After you,’ she says, all politeness, placing her hand in the small of my back. She levers herself into the seat next to me, her arm lying on the armrest between us.

  Her head comes next to mine, too, dizzyingly close. ‘There’s the Duc de Guise,’ she murmurs, ‘two rows in front, the one with the weak chin. That’s the Duchesse next to him.’

  A thoughtful pause. Then she says: ‘They say the Duchesse is actually a man, and is frightened to be seen in full light in case her stubble shows.’

  ‘Who says that?’ I ask.

  ‘The Duc de Guise’s mother, for one. She claims to have come upon her daughter-in-law during her music lesson, singing Berlioz in a pleasing baritone.’

  I lift myself in my seat and peer over the tops of the audience’s heads till I can see the person: she has half turned to look up into the boxes, and it’s true, she is glancing around anxiously, with her shawl pulled up around her ears.

  ‘She does have quite a strong jaw,’ I say doubtfully, reporting my findings, and Luce turns back to sit staring at the stage, and laughs.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Duchesse de Guise is one of my oldest friends. I’ll have to tell her she needs a better cosmetician.’

  This isn’t funny any more. I am blinking back tears, turning my face away so she won’t see.

  ‘The Berlioz was a good touch,’ she says, and puts her hand on my forearm. The fingers don’t retreat.

  The lights dim.

  A diminutive man struts across the front of the orchestra pit and, stepping up onto his podium, raises his arms in appreciation of our applause. He turns and raises his baton; I steal a glance at Luce. Her eyes gleam as she waits for it to fall.

  A watchful bassoon, swelling to sweep away houses, joined by a clarinet. Dry leaves, lifting and rustling: the audience, whispering behind their hands; two people getting to their feet, threading their way out, with the flushed faces of early leavers. A ripple of laughter courses round the auditorium; the orchestra plays on, frowning with the concentration of sliding up the scales. I glance at Luce: her lips are slightly parted, caught halfway between a smirk and amazement.

  When I had asked Luce, in a moment of boldness, What should I expect, I’ve never been to a ballet before, she hadn’t even looked up from her magazine. She had flipped the pages and said, Tulle, expect lots of tulle.

  The curtain rolls back, revealing a stage full of people in costumes of coarse yellow and brown, against a painted backdrop, the swell of a hillside. Immediately behind me, a young rake says loudly: ‘It looks like an arse,’ and the laughter gets louder. Onstage, the dancers begin to whirl and stomp, throwing themselves into angular shapes: I look at Luce for reassurance – where are the pinks and the ivories, the chiffons and tutus? Someone shouts from a box: ‘Nijinsky has found his ballerinas in the asylum!’ But it isn’t an asylum they make me think of: rather, the animals in the fields at home; rhythmic, undulating, arching their backs. The elderly gentleman at the end of the row has half-risen from his seat, frowning, his tongue running over his gums. He shouts: ‘For shame! Filth!’ The cry is taken up further forward in the stalls, men and women swaying on their feet; someone else stands up and yells at his neighbour: ‘Sit down, imbecile!’ and suddenly a fist flies, a white streak, and two men are tussling in the aisle.

  A woman next to me stands up, eyes alive with delight at the ruckus. Two more men pile into the fray, and now it seems the whole audience are on their feet, screaming their insults. The orchestra plays on and I clamp my hands to my ears, jostled by the swaying of the crowd on either side. A knot of spectators is leaping the barrier to the orchestra pit and advancing on the conductor: the timpani boom a warning.

  Luce’s hand touches mine. ‘Let’s go.’ A high sound may be a police whistle or a piccolo. Her glossy head has bobbed away and disappeared; she dips and surfaces, a flash of her frown, her face turned towards me, and she’s gone again. I am fighting my way towards the end of the row: there is no way out, just a mass of bodies, and real screams now, blocking my way.

  I whip round to escape
the other way and see Luce, standing firm against the people pushing against her – her hand extended to me – I reach for her fingertips, catch at them, and she brings her other arm around and hauls me by the waist towards her, until I am pressed up against her, the din whirling in our ears.

  I am conscious of my heart hammering, and of how she must feel it; of her right hand in my hair and her left on my waist, their gentle pressure. The noise is all around us; she shifts and her thigh is against mine, and although we are standing in the same way we are not standing in the same way. I look up at her; her eyes are drowsy and speculative; she’s saying something.

  ‘What?’ I can’t hear her over the din.

  She keeps looking down at me, lips pursed; then she turns, gripping my hand and pulling me after her as she fights her way towards the exit.

  In the foyer, the theatre manager hovers, trying helplessly to staunch the flow of patrons flying out into the street. On the steps, a portly man in a top hat is saying to all who pass: ‘An abomination, I will personally bring this to the attention of Monsieur the Minister tomorrow. Assuming tomorrow comes.’

  It has been raining; the cobbles are shining wet. Hubert is standing next to the car across the street, looking around in amazement; seeing us, he puts two fingers to his mouth and whistles.

  In the car, she leans her head back against the seat and closes her eyes – but she still hasn’t let go of my hand.

  When we reach the house, Hubert lets us out of the car and says goodnight, and we go inside. It is totally silent. The sky is curiously light: as if it is already anticipating the day ahead.

  We walk up the stairs, our fingers laced together, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. At the first landing – her floor – we pause for a moment, the door to her room a hovering outline; she turns to look at me and I look back. Whatever it is she needs to see, she sees it; she turns the door handle, and we walk inside.

  A double bed comes clear; thin silvery light through the window. I stand there drinking in all the things that up until now I’ve never seen: what is private and hers.

  Now, as if taken by a sudden shyness, she walks away from me. She crosses to the window and looks out, holding her arms across her body, as if she’s cold.