He was still holding the ash-tray. He let it fall. It rolled over the floor, intact. He would have liked it to smash, to emerge from its inertia; he would have liked breakage and débris. But it did not smash; ash-trays broke only in novels and films; for that, he would have needed one of those small, costly glass ash-trays which cluttered Paule's flat and not this solid Prisunic variety. He must have smashed at least a hundred assorted objects at Paule's—she always laughed. The last time, it had been an enchanting crystal glass which had given whisky an unusual bronze colour. Everything, for that matter, was pleasing to look at in that flat, where he had been lord and master. Everything was coherent, subdued and calm. Yet he had imagined he was regaining his freedom each time he came out into the night. And now he was alone in his flat, filled with useless rage for an unbreakable ashtray. He went back to bed, switched off the light and momentarily admitted his unhappiness before falling asleep with his hand over his heart.
18
THEY met in the doorway of a restaurant one evening, and all three of them executed a classical and absurd little ballet, of a type so frequent in Paris: she gave a distant nod to the man on whose shoulder she had groaned, sighed and slept; he returned it gracelessly and Simon stared at him without obeying an impulse to hit him. They sat at tables some way apart and she chose from the menu without looking up. For the proprietor and the handful of customers who knew Paule, the scene was entirely commonplace. Simon ordered drinks in a decisive voice, and Roger, at another table, asked his companion which cocktail she preferred. Finally Paule did look up, smiled at Simon and threw a glance at Roger. She loved him. The fact had struck her the moment she had seen him in the doorway, with the usual set look on his face: she still loved him, she was emerging from a long, useless sleep. He in turn looked at her, then he essayed a smile which instantly froze.
"What will you have?" said Simon. "White?"
"Why not?"
She stared at her hands on the table, the neatly arranged cutlery, Simon's sleeve beside her bare arm. She drank very fast. Simon was talking without his usual animation. He seemed to expect something from her—or from Roger. Could she get up and say to him: "Excuse me," could she walk across the room and say to Roger: "That's enough, let's go home"? It wasn't done. Come to that, nothing intelligent or sensitive was done nowadays.
After dinner, they danced. She saw Roger with a brunette in his arms—not too bad, for once—Roger swaying in front of her with his usual awkwardness. Simon stood up; he danced well, almost with his eyes shut; he was slim and lithe; she let herself go. At one point her bare arm brushed against Roger's hand, flattened against the brunette's back; she opened her eyes. They looked at each other, Roger, Paule, each behind the "other's" back. It was a static, rhythmless slow foxtrot. They gazed at one another from a range of four inches, without expression, without smiling, without recognition, it seemed; then suddenly Roger's hand left the brunette's back, reached towards Paule's arm and lightly stroked it with his fingertips, and there was such an imploring expression on his face that she shut her eyes. Simon turned and they lost sight of each other.
That night she refused to sleep with Simon, pleading a tiredness she did not feel. She lay in her bed, for a long time, open-eyed. She knew what was going to happen; she knew that there was not, there never had been any other possible solution, and she resigned herself to it, in the dark, with a faint tightening of the throat. In the middle of the night she got up and went into the drawing-room, where Simon lay asleep on the divan. By the slanting light from her room she saw the young man's outstretched body and the rise and fall of his breath. She stared at his head buried in the pillow and the small furrow between the bones at the back of his neck; she stared at her own youth sleeping. But when he turned groaning towards the light, she fled. Already she dared not speak to him again.
Next morning, Roger's pneumatique was waiting for her at the office. "I must see you, this can't go on. Ring me." She rang him. They arranged to meet at six. But ten minutes later, he was there. Huge, in this woman's shop, completely in a maze. She came towards him and showed him into a tiny salon congested with gilt cane-seat chairs: a nightmare setting. Only then did she see him. It was really he. He took a step towards her and put his two hands on her shoulders. He stammered a little, for him a sign of extreme emotion.
"I was so unhappy," he said.
"Me too," she heard herself saying, and resting lightly against him she finally began to cry, inwardly begging Simon to forgive her for those two words.
He had laid his head on her hair, he was saying: "There, there, don't cry," in a stupid voice.
"I tried," she said at last, with a note of apology, "I really did try . . ."
Then she reflected that it was not to him that she ought to be saying this, but to Simon. She was getting muddled. One had always to be on one's guard, could never say everything to the same person. She went on crying, stony-faced. He was silent.
"Say something," she murmured.
"I was so lonely," he said. "I've been thinking things over. Sit down here and take my handkerchief. I'll explain."
He explained. He explained that one had to keep an eye on women, that he had been rash and that he realised the whole thing was his fault. He did not hold her irresponsibility against her. They would say no more about it. She said: "Yes, yes, yes, Roger," and she felt like crying still more and roaring with laughter. At the same time, she inhaled the familiar smell of his body, of his tobacco, and she felt saved. And lost.
* * *
Ten days later, she was alone in the flat with Simon for the last time.
"You're forgetting these," she said.
She held out two ties; she did not look at him; she felt worn out. She had been helping him pack his luggage for nearly two hours now. The light luggage of a young man hopelessly in love but hopelessly untidy. And everywhere they found Simon's lighter, Simon's books, Simon's shoes. He had said nothing, he had conducted himself well and he was aware of it—and that was choking him.
"That's enough," he said. "You can leave the rest with your concierge."
She did not answer. He looked about him, trying to think: "The last time, the last time", but he could not manage it. He was shaking nervously.
"I shan't forget," said Paule, and she raised her eyes to meet his.
"Neither shall I. But that's a different thing," he said, "a different thing altogether ..."
And he wavered, midway to the door, before turning his distraught face on her. Once again she was sustaining him in her arms, she was sustaining his grief as she had sustained his happiness. And she could not help envying him the violence of his grief: a noble grief, a noble pain such as she would never feel again. He broke away abruptly and rushed out, abandoning his luggage. She followed him, leaned over the banister and called his name: "Simon! Simon!" and she added without knowing why: "Simon, I'm old now, old ..."
But he did not hear her. He was running down the stairs with his eyes full of tears; he was running as though he were cock-a-hoop; he was twenty- five. She shut the door quietly and leaned her back against it.
At eight o'clock, the telephone rang. Even before she answered it, she knew what she was going to hear.
"Forgive me," said Roger. "I have a business dinner. I'll be round later. Has ... ?"
Aimez-vous Brahms Page 9
