'He was only a friend, someone to go out with on Sundays . . .'
Mr. Hire was well aware of this, since he always followed them, to the football ground or the cycle-track on fine days, to the cinema in the Place d'Italie when it was wet. He used to see them meet at half-past one, always at the same bus-stop. Alice would cling to the young man's arm. Later, after dark, they would stop now and then in a doorway, and their faces formed a single pale patch.
'Now, I hate him!' she exclaimed.
Mr. Hire looked at his wash-stand, at the alarm-clock on the mantelpiece, at the little stove, all the things he handled by himself every day, as though appealing to them for help. He was melting. He could no longer hold back on the slope, and yet he still had a mental reservation, he could still look on at his own behaviour, and he was displeased with the Mr. Hire he was watching.
Alice, too, was peering slyly at him, her eyes suddenly cold and lucid, just for a second.
'You were there, weren't you? Own up!'
The window, with its sheets of brown paper, had a sullen air. The lamp was still burning in the room opposite, but only a faint glow could be seen through the paper.
'I often forget to bolt the door and put out the light before I go to sleep . . .'
Now he was no longer being asked to do so, Mr. Hire sat down on the very edge of the bed, while Alice still held his hand in hers. It was true: she had fallen asleep over her book that Saturday, and it had slipped to the floor. Mr. Hire had not been sleepy. The window-pane was cool against his forehead.
Then the man had come in, not well dressed as he was on Sundays, but wearing a dirty cap, a scarf round his neck instead of a collar. Alice had propped herself on her elbows. He had signed to her to keep quiet and begun to speak to her in a low voice, in short, dry phrases, while he first washed his hands in her basin and then looked himself slowly up and down, as though on the look-out for tell-tale marks.
He was feverish. His movements were jerky. When he came up to the bed he had pulled a woman's handbag from his pocket and pushed it under the mattress. The words he was saying could not be heard. Alice was frightened, but she had not called out or made a single gesture when, with a mocking grin, the man had suddenly twitched back the bedclothes, uncovering her warm, bare legs and thighs.
'It was frightful!' she said. 'And you were watching! You saw the whole thing!'
Yes, the whole thing! A savage attack by a man bent on relieving his nervous tension at all costs.
Mr. Hire stared at the flowers on the wallpaper. The little pink spots had reappeared on his cheeks. Alice felt his hand tremble in hers, and her own clutch had an unhealthy, equivocal languor.
'I thought of that at once,' she added. 'Yes, while it was going on! But I didn't dare move, I didn't dare say anything. I only looked round, and I could see you. He said he'd kill me if I told. He'd kill you, too. That's why I still go out with him.' Her voice was not so pathetic now.
I don't know why he did it. He works in a garage. He earns good money. Friends must have led him on. Now he daren't even touch the two thousand francs, because he's afraid the numbers of the notes may be known.'
Mr. Hire moved, as though to get up, but she held him back. 'Do you believe me when I swear it was the first time, and that I didn't even enjoy it?'
Her hip was pressed against him. She was shivering. Her whole body was shivering, every inch of her was warm and alive, and her face had more colour after the tears, her lips blood-red, her eyes moist. The baby overhead was crying. Someone was tapping a foot rhythmically on the floor-boards, to soothe it. For the first time, Mr. Hire had ceased to hear the hurried ticking of his alarm-clock. 'Do you hate me?'
She was becoming impatient. She was afraid of breaking the spell by some word or gesture.
'Come closer . . . closer . ..'
She drew him towards her. Mr. Hire's elbow weighed on her breast.
'I'm all alone!' she managed to sob.
And he stared at her, from close to, frowning. He could feel her breath on his face. He was almost lying on her, and she was moving all the time, as though trying to force him into physical awareness. 'I know Émile will do what he said!'
She was growing dispirited, finding it hard to conceal her impatience, which was turning to anger. 'Won't you help me?'
She grasped him by the shoulders. This was the only thing left to try. She slipped one arm round his neck and pressed her burning cheek against his.
'Say yes . . . say yes . . .'
She was really shuddering, but from strain. And all at once he whispered in her ear:
'I've been very unhappy!'
He took no advantage of their physical contact, he did not seem to notice her stomach was crushed under him, one of her legs twined round his. He closed his eyes. He was breathing her in.
'Don't move!' he implored.
This gave her a chance to relax, and for an instant her face showed boredom and fatigue. When he half opened his eyes, she murmured, smiling:
'This is a nice room.'
It was harsh, probably because the lamp was unshaded. The lines were sharp. The colours clashed with one another. The oilcloth made the rectangle of the table look as cold and hard as a tombstone. 'Are you always alone?'
He tried to get up, but she held him back, pressed close against him. 'No. Stay here. I'm so comfortable! I feel as though . . .' And suddenly she asked, saucily: 'Will you let me come and tidy up for you, sometimes?' She meant more than that. She tried hard to set up another bond between them, but he seemed not to understand, and she was afraid of frightening him by making things too clear. 'You will save me, won't you?'
She was changing her attitude according to the inspiration of the moment, and this last phrase, for example, was a pretext for holding up her moist lips to him. He only brushed them with his. He was stroking her hair, while he gazed into space. 'Are you a bachelor? Or a widower?'
'Yes.'
She didn't know whether the 'Yes' applied to bachelor or to widower. And she felt a need to talk. If silence were allowed to fall, their situation would become absurd, lying there in this uninviting room, near a window covered with brown paper. 'Do you work in an office?'
'Yes.'
She was so afraid he would get up and resume his distant manner, that she nestled still closer to him, with a movement whose precision might pass as accidental.
He said nothing. That encouraged her. Her whole body vibrated, as though trying to take possession of the man, while she pressed her mouth against his, under the wiry moustache.
Mr. Hire's eyelids fluttered. Gently, he freed himself. Gently, too, he laid his cheek against Alice's cheek, so that they both lay with faces turned towards the ceiling.
'Don't move.'
He begged her in a whisper, squeezing her hand and panting slightly. His lips parted, and suddenly he got up, just as his eyes were filming over.
'I won't say anything,' he stuttered.
His jacket was rumpled up on his fat thighs. He walked over to the stove, while Alice, regardless of her disordered dress, sat up on the edge of the bed.
'After all, they can't do anything to you! And it means gaining time.'
She spoke calmly, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands.
'I don't suppose you care if they suspect you.'
Mr. Hire was winding the alarm-clock.
'When it's all blown over he'll leave the district and we shall have nothing to worry about.'
Mr. Hire heard no more than the hum of her voice. He was tired, with a mixture of physical and moral weariness. She did not realize this at first and went on talking, standing up now, walking about the room. When she noticed that he looked like a wax image again, she held out her hand with a smile.
'Good night. I must go now.'
He put a limp hand in hers.
'You really do like me a little?' she urged.
Instead of replying, Mr. Hire opened the door, which he locked behind her.
Alice gallo
ped down the stairs, crossed the courtyard in a breath of cold air, and arrived in her own room before her excitement had abated. At once she noticed the three sheets of brown paper which now concealed Mr. Hire, gave a satisfied smile, and again took off her blouse and skirt, stretched herself and finally removed her vest. She was winking at herself in the glass. She could imagine a tiny hole in the brown paper and Mr. Hire's eye lurking behind it as it had lurked at the keyhole.
She loitered, and even decided to wash herself all over, so as to wander naked all the longer in her brightly-lit room. But every now and then her expression changed to one of cold resentment and she snarled, as though uttering a threat:
'The idiot!'
But the idiot was not looking through the brown paper. He had remained standing with his hand on the key, leaning against the door, and what he was looking at was his own room, the white-faced alarm- clock on the black mantelpiece, the three-legged stove, the cupboard, the oilcloth and the coffee-pot, last of all his bed, with the unusual hollow in it.
Eventually, he let go of the key. His hand fell to his side. He heaved a sigh, and that was all, for that evening.
VI
To the Public Prosecutor, to the Public Prosecutor,
To the Public Prosecutor,
'To the Pub . . .'
Mr. Hire tore his sheet of pink blotting-paper into tiny scraps, threw them into the stove, and stood for a moment watching the flames. He had been working hard. There were always a great many answers to his advertisements on Mondays, for humble people write their letters on Sunday mornings. And this time there had been Saturday's post left over to open.
All alone in his basement, he had tied up a hundred and twenty parcels, and this had meant three trips to the post office. The exercise did him good. During the third trip he had almost smiled when he caught sight of the discouraged face of the inspector who was trailing him, reflected in a window. It was not the same one as usual, but a little bearded fellow with bad teeth, who had been shivering outside No. 67 all day, with his coat collar turned up.
'To the Public Prosecutor,'
'To the . . .'
'To the . . .'
The past two hours since he finished his work Mr. Hire had spent doodling on his blotting-paper, scribbling words and crossing them out, and now he suddenly gave up the attempt to find an idea, to think of something clever and subtle, which would turn suspicion aside from the house at Villejuif.
At a few minutes to seven he made sure that the stove would gently burn itself out, switched off the light, and left the house, with his black briefcase under his arm. The little man was standing at the corner of the street and taking the trouble to pretend he was waiting to meet someone. All the way along the Boulevard Voltaire he kept close to the house-fronts, dodging behind some passer-by whenever Mr. Hire looked round. They must have forgotten to tell him it didn't matter.
He was undoubtedly married, a father, and unlucky: there was something indefinable about him that told one that. When Mr. Hire went into the restaurant where he lunched every day, with his own napkin in a pigeon-hole, the policeman stayed outside and walked three or four times, a faint, ghostly figure, past the steam-dimmed window.
There were paper tablecloths, the tables were very small, and the waitresses wore black dresses and white aprons; the menu was written in chalk on a big slate.
All the time he ate his black pudding and potatoes, Mr. Hire was thinking, racking his brains, and when he looked up it was to say, in an unnatural-sounding voice: 'Some red wine.'
This had never happened before. Never had he drunk anything except water or café au lait.
'A carafe?'
It made a ruby-red splash of colour, with a paler reflection on the white paper that covered the table. Mr. Hire poured a little wine into his glass and drowned it with water till it faded to pink. Just as he was drinking he saw the waitresses exchange glances, and he went on drinking, but the thrill was lost, the enjoyment spoilt. He smiled ironically.
When he came out the policeman was across the road, in an ill-lit bar, eating a croissant which he dipped in his coffee, and Mr. Hire saw him stuff half a croissant into his mouth, fumble in his pockets and fling down some coins on the counter.
A bus passed close beside the pavement. Mr. Hire could have jumped on the platform and left the inspector high and dry. He didn't do so. He went on walking, with his stomach thrust forward because he had eaten a good deal and, above all, because he was conscious of the importance of his every gesture.
He did not go far. Near the Place Voltaire was a big café, whose lights shone over nearly a hundred yards of the Boulevard. Mr. Hire went in, and the further he penetrated into the throng the more boldly he thrust out his chest, the more confidently he hugged the briefcase under his arm, while a smile began to hover on his lips.
To the left of the café was a cinema, which was under the same management, and which announced its programme by the uninterrupted ringing of a bell. It could be heard all over the place. The café was enormous. Down one side, people sat eating. Along the other side were tables covered with red cloths, where people were playing cards. At the far end were six billiard tables, lit by green arc-lights, and round these, shirt-sleeved men were moving with ceremonious gestures.
There were women and children about, waiting for Father to finish his game. Forty waiters ran to and fro between the rows of tables, calling:
'Look out, please!'
And on a platform a pianist, a violinist and a woman 'cellist were announcing the next item on their programme by hanging up number- cards on a brass rod.
Mr. Hire walked jauntily through all this. As he passed the cash-desk at the far end, the manager gave him a little bow all to himself.
From here the cinema bell could still be heard, and the orchestra tuning up, the click of the billiard balls, but other sounds now came through an open door, rolling noises followed by a kind of thunderclap.
Mr. Hire advanced towards the thunder. He went through the door, on the far side of which the glare of brilliant lights was replaced by austere, sparse lighting like that in a factory or laboratory. He took off his hat and overcoat, handed his briefcase to the waiter, and went into the cloakroom, where he combed his hair and washed his hands.
By the time he emerged, the policeman had plucked up courage enough to come in. He was sitting at a table in a corner, but had not dared to take off his overcoat. He must be feeling ill at ease and wondering whether this place was public or private.
It was a square room, roofed in with glass. There were only a few tables with glasses of beer on them, but nobody was sitting at them.
The people were further along, standing round four sets of skittles. On the wall hung a notice:
'Bowling Voltaire Club.'
And Mr. Hire advanced with the natural ease of a dancer, holding out a hand which everyone shook. Yes, everyone shook Mr. Hire by the hand, even the players who were holding a big, iron-encircled ball, and who interrupted their game for moment. They all knew Mr. Hire. They all greeted him.
'We've been waiting for you.'
'You're number four.'
The men had taken off their coats, and Mr. Hire took off his and laid it, neady folded, on a chair, not without casting a glance at the little policeman who was sitting all alone, over there, at one of the green tables.
'What shall I bring you, Mr. Hire?'
This from the waiter, who also knew him.
'Well, give me a kummel!'
So there! He had made up his mind to it. While waiting for his turn, he watched the game with a slightly disdainful eye, and at one moment the policeman heard him humming the waltz that the orchestra in the main café was playing.
'Your turn!'
Mr. Hire looked across at the inspector, heaved a sigh of satisfaction and said to his partner:
'You begin, please.'
He hunted among the big balls for his usual one, which he picked out, weighed in his hand, and rocked to and fro severa
l times, before taking up his stand at a considerable distance from the board along which it must roll on its way to the skittles. His opponent had knocked down five of these.
Mr. Hire, leaning forward, one arm hanging loosely, was waiting for the skittles to be put up again, with his eyes half shut and his right foot feeling the ground, like a runner ready to sprint. Twenty people were watching him. The pink spots showed on his cheeks, and his lips were parted.
Suddenly he started off, running with short, pattering steps. It looked as though the heavy ball were carrying him with it, but a moment later it left his hand and rolled along the board, not very fast, spinning on its own axis. It hit the first skittle, and after that it behaved like a top, or rather as though it were thinking for itself. One would have sworn that it changed its direction now and then, determined to knock down the lot.
Just one skittle remained standing, while Mr. Hire frowned and wiped his damp palms with his handkerchief.
The waiter brought him his kummel, which he drank absentmindedly, in little sips, before picking up the ball which had been returned to him. His eyes were measuring, calculating, planning. He ran forward again with puckered brow, released his ball and stamped his foot on the ground, for this time, too, one of the nine skittles was left upright.
'You get so excited,' remarked the club Secretary, who was chief clerk in a Government office.
Mr. Hire did not reply. He had no time to reply. He wiped his hands again, carefully, down between the fingers, and mopped his forehead and the back of his neck. '. . . ha!' he grunted, just as the ball left his hand. He had no need to watch it roll. The spectators were applauding. And he, without a word, picked up his ball from the end of the trough along which they rolled it back to him, bent forward, and did his little pattering run. 'Nine!'
The nine skittles fell with a glorious rattling sound, all the more glorious because, for one anxious moment, the last of them had stood rocking to and fro, as though determined not to topple over. 'And nine again!'
Five nines running! He was panting for breath, covered with sweat to the tip of his chin. His hair was clinging to his temples.
Mr Hire's Engagement Page 6
