The Misunderstanding

by Irene Nemirovsky

  Jean-Paul noticed her expression. ‘You enjoy looking at all these faces, do you?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I do … Jean-Paul, don’t go so fast … I like looking at them, I don’t know why …’

  Jean-Paul slowed down. They were getting closer to the Bois de Boulogne; there were more and more people: stout women with jet-black hats, elderly women in silk dresses, men with gaunt faces worn out from thankless jobs, pale children, small girls in white smocks, young boys in sailor outfits … ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit!’ Denise thought; and that saying she had always known suddenly took on a subtle, deeper meaning when applied to these humble people who bravely accomplished their daily tasks.

  ‘Since they amuse you, shall I take you to the Butte de Montmartre? I bet you’ve never been there. Only tourists know about those kinds of places these days …’

  ‘I went to the Lapin Agile one night, with the Clarkes.’

  ‘But you must see it in the daytime.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Definitely. Do you want to go? If we go to the Pré-Catelan, all you’ll see are masses of lovely ladies in their expensive Hispano-Suizas, and Francette doesn’t need you … she already has a suitor … she told me so. She has a boyfriend who gave her a lollipop. She took it and then went and gave it to another little boy. She’s already a woman. We’d cramp her style …’

  ‘I’m beginning to think you’re right,’ said Denise with a sigh. ‘What can you do? That’s life … She loves her scooter more than me now … Later on – and soon – it will be a man …’

  ‘Anyone would think you’re feeling blue, Denise.’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  Jean-Paul had already turned the car round. They were speeding towards Montmartre; for several minutes Jaja allowed himself the pleasure of racing madly through the city; they were soon within sight of the Lamarck metro station.

  Jean-Paul stopped in front of a small café. He honked the horn repeatedly until the owner came out in his shirtsleeves.

  ‘Well, hello there, Monsieur. Do you want to leave the car with me?’

  ‘As usual.’

  ‘Would Madame like a glass of wine?’ the owner asked with a smile.

  Denise, amused, agreed. The owner winked at Jean-Paul and whispered: ‘Pretty little thing.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried about all these steps?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  She climbed easily up the stairs; her light, full coat floated behind her, its graceful folds like antique drapery.

  She stopped at the top of the steps to catch her breath. ‘It’s chilly, Jean-Paul …’

  It was true. The breeze blowing at the top of Montmartre was virtually pure. Denise walked over to a railing that enclosed the small raised area where they were standing; she leaned over; a foggy mist hid the city stretched out beneath her feet, but the dome of Les Invalides shone through the golden haze, along with the delicate outline of the Eiffel Tower; Denise could hear a faint bustle and murmur from below.

  Jaja walked over to her and they continued climbing the hill. Dark old houses and narrow alleyways basked in the sun; on each side of the steep pavement, spiked with pebble-stones, they could hear the crisp sound of little streams of cool water flowing past. Dogs with yellowish fur encrusted with mud slept in the middle of the road, without a care in the world.

  ‘Have you ever seen dogs like that?’ asked Jean-Paul, pointing to one of them; it looked like a cross between a basset hound, a spaniel and a mastiff.

  ‘Only in drawings by that artist, Poulbot.’

  ‘You’re right … and the young girls over there, too,’ said Jean-Paul, nodding towards a group of children running past, smocks billowing in the wind and hats fixed tightly on their pointy little heads.

  In the Place du Tertre several families sat round wooden tables drinking grenadine. Jean-Paul and Denise sat down among them. The sky gradually grew paler; the faint scent of lilacs hovered in the air, as if they were in the countryside. A little girl in her communion dress walked by; in the fading sunlight, her white veil shimmered pink and gold. Two more, very serious-looking little girls followed behind in sky-blue dresses, paper flowers in their hair, each holding a single bright pink rose in full bloom. As soon as they had passed, the bells of Sacré Coeur began to ring out.

  Jean-Paul ordered some sparkling wine; he said nothing now, just drank it slowly, raising his glass and watching the golden bubbles lit by the sun for a long time before bringing the glass to his lips.

  ‘Do you come here often? You seem to know the place.’

  ‘Every now and again …’

  She was smiling, so he added, in a serious tone of voice: ‘But I come alone …’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘It’s true; it’s a chance to have some peace … I get in my car, climb the hill, sit down here … and don’t think about anything; I’m just happy …’

  Denise looked at him, somewhat taken aback.

  ‘What’s so surprising?’ he asked.

  ‘You are. I thought you were always flying about, never staying put …’

  ‘You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, my dear.’

  He slowly emptied his glass, lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair without saying a word. Denise was almost disappointed by his silence: she vaguely expected him to behave differently; but Jaja just sat there smoking, looking detached and slightly mocking. She poured herself some wine and quickly emptied her glass; it was light and refreshing. All around them the square was emptying out. The wonderful calm of the evening embraced them.

  ‘It’s so nice here,’ Denise said out loud, half closing her eyes. The gentle breeze caressed her cheeks; the wine she had drunk made her feel rather dizzy and her arms and legs slightly heavy.

  ‘So nice …’ she said once more with a smile.

  Then, suddenly, she thought: ‘It’s almost as if I’m not in so much pain …’ Her surprise was accompanied by the instinctive anxiety you can’t help but feel when you’ve been injured, for example, and then suddenly realise that it doesn’t hurt any more.

  ‘It’s really strange, but I’m not in so much pain …’

  She breathed in cautiously, as if she actually had a wounded heart; the hard knot that weighed so heavily in her breast seemed to have melted away; she breathed in again, this time more deeply. Then she raised one hand to her forehead and murmured: ‘It’s ridiculous … I think I’m a bit tipsy …’

  ‘This light wine from Alsace is what you’d call deceptive,’ said Jean-Paul.

  With difficulty, Denise got to her feet.

  ‘Let’s go home, shall we, Jaja, it’s late …’

  He didn’t protest, simply called for the waitress and paid the bill. But as they were driving back down the hill he suggested to Denise: ‘Let’s call in and say hello to Frédé …’

  On the steep road, the small building that was the Lapin Agile looked decrepit, falling apart, like an eighty-year-old beggar. Age-old grime covered its walls.

  At the end of the garden, which was planted with the spindly bushes you find at village inns, old Frédé was asleep on a bench; a tame magpie was pecking at some cherries left at the bottom of a glass of eau de vie.

  ‘Let your friend sleep,’ Denise begged. ‘He looks so peaceful.’

  They stood there, motionless. Dusk was falling slowly, almost reluctantly; an exceptional feeling of calm seemed to float over everything.

  ‘This is just like the house of the good witch in German fairy tales,’ said Denise.

  An old clock chimed somewhere close by, slowly and solemnly marking the hour.

  They left.

  They picked up the car in front of the bistro. But they had hardly gone ten metres when it stopped. Jaja looked under the bonnet, then straightened up, swearing in despair.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It will take at least three-quarters of an hour to fix this,’ he explained.

  ‘But it’s quite late,’ said Denise, worried. />
  Jean-Paul thought for a moment.

  ‘Never mind,’ he finally decided. ‘I’ll leave the car with the owner of the café. He has a small garage. I’ll come back tomorrow. We’ll get a taxi home.’

  But that was easier said than done. In the empty street, as quiet as a country lane, no matter how loudly they shouted, no taxi came. After ten minutes or so an old hackney cab happened to pass by, an ancient carriage teetering atop wide wheels, pulled along at a walking pace by a thin horse and driven by a coachman in a large greatcoat; both driver and horse had their heads lowered. In the evening light, amid the sleepy houses, the ancient carriage looked rather ghostly.

  ‘Let’s take it!’ Jaja and Denise both shouted at the same time.

  ‘It’s like being back in the 1880s with Yvette Guilbert, the singer,’ Jaja remarked, amused.

  The coachman whipped the horse; the animal lurched a bit, which could have passed for an attempt to gallop, but soon slowed down again. The driver seemed to go back to sleep as well. Denise and Jaja, huddled together in the narrow carriage, didn’t say a word. It was if they were being lulled to sleep; streets and squares seemed to approach very slowly, pass by, then disappear from sight; the street lamps shone brightly, then they were plunged into great swathes of darkness; the horse’s hooves pounded the cobblestones.

  Jean-Paul took Denise’s hand. ‘Are you asleep?’

  ‘No.’

  He kept her bare hand in his own. She didn’t pull away. What was the point? A little later on he said: ‘We’re nearly there.’ Then he leaned forward and kissed her wrist. She said nothing. He had often kissed her hand. But this time the kiss lingered, felt more insistent. She acquiesced as if she were in the midst of some disturbing dream that was nonetheless rather pleasant …

  The carriage stopped. He helped her get out, then said goodbye to her, calmly, just as normal.

  ‘Goodnight, Denise, sweet dreams …’

  ‘Thank you … you, too,’ she said, making an effort to smile.

  As soon as she got inside she called for her maid.

  ‘Marie, did anyone call?’

  ‘No, Madame, but there’s a telegram for you.’

  Denise grabbed it, her heart suddenly racing furiously: she recognised Yves’s handwriting. There were only a few words.

  Please forgive me for not having telephoned as promised but I was in such a dark mood that it was just impossible. If you’re free tonight, though, please come round.

  YOUR Y

  Then, as a postscript, he had added: Please don’t be angry, my sweet little Denise.

  ‘That’s right. When he deigns to call I have to go to him, and with a smile,’ thought Denise.

  She asked how Francette was, ate quickly and went out again.

  ‘If Monsieur gets home before me, tell him I’ve gone to the cinema.’

  Yves was smoking a cigarette, waiting for her. He had hardly done anything but smoke all week. Still no news from Vendômois. But by its very intensity his anxiety had almost burned itself out. Yves had recovered the laissez-faire attitude that was at the core of his personality. He vaguely hoped that some miracle would fall from the heavens to save him.

  He expected Denise to question him, reproach him, to cry. He was surprised to find her very calm, indifferent and sweet, with an odd expression in her anxious eyes that he had never seen before when she looked at him. They made love. He clearly wanted to lose himself in her arms, wanted to forget everything; but she was cold, detached, as if she was fearful of something within herself, or within him. When she was about to leave he pulled her back, kissed her.

  ‘Denise …’

  ‘So you love me tonight, do you?’ she asked with an odd little smile.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So I’ve been … a good girl?’ she asked again.

  ‘Very good,’ he said glibly.

  Then, in a more serious tone of voice, he added: ‘I love you when you’re like this, my darling; this is how I always want you to be …’

  ‘Ah, so you’re happy? You’ll sleep peacefully tonight?’

  He smiled. ‘I think so … And you, my love?’

  ‘Oh! I will too …’

  ‘I’m glad … Goodbye, my darling.’

  21

  THE NEXT TWO days passed strangely quickly for Denise; Jessaint had telephoned to say he was staying in Étampes for a week. Every day around lunchtime, Jaja came and fetched Denise and they would set off in his sports car towards Versailles or Saint-Germain. They would fly like madmen down the sun-raked roads. Once they stopped for something to eat at Ville d’Avray, at the edge of a little round lake that shimmered pink in the dusk; another time it was on the expanse of green grass in Saint-Germain. Denise could see the growing tenderness in her companion’s eyes; she could imagine his finely shaped, sardonic lips holding back the impassioned words he dared not speak, and that pleased her even more; it brought spice to those moments of her life, a taste that was strong and sharp. Yet she never stopped thinking about Yves for a moment; he seemed to lie deep within her, dormant, hazy and indistinct, like a veiled portrait, and that feeling gave her a sense of peace after such great weariness. Beneath the darkening sky, she and Jaja would head slowly back, their hearts full of the inexplicable happiness that accompanies beautiful summer evenings like a smooth, sweet ache. Then they would go home. And after eating dinner alone – when she would obstinately refuse to think about her husband – Denise would hurry over to see Yves. They said little. Denise was becoming the woman he had always wanted, docile and silent; he would bury his head in the warm hollow of her bare shoulder and lose himself in the exquisite night; she now knew how to stroke his hair without saying a single word.

  On the third day, as Yves had not telephoned at the time he normally did, Denise asked Jean-Paul to come round. He rushed over at once. Denise realised that he had undoubtedly been waiting for a sign from her every day and a strange sense of pleasure, with a touch of cruelty, like the pleasure of a secret revenge, filled her heart. It was beautifully warm outside. Through the open window she could hear the peaceful voices of the concierges sitting on their doorsteps, chatting to each other from house to house, as people did in the countryside. Every now and then the honeyed scent from a bush in full flower in the garden below wafted up with the wind.

  ‘Let’s go to the Bois,’ Denise urged. ‘Wouldn’t you like some fresh air?’

  It had been unbearably hot all day. Denise had closed the shutters, and dozed almost the whole day on her bed; she had only changed out of her pyjamas for dinner. Her cheeks were still rosy and hot, like a small child who is waking up. Jean-Paul walked over to her; from the open neck of her light dress he could smell her own very sweet perfume: the fresh scent of young plants.

  ‘With pleasure,’ he said, agreeing, his voice rather husky.

  A few minutes later they joined the stream of cars heading towards the Bois de Boulogne. The wide road was packed with them bumper to bumper; there was a smell of petrol, gas and dust. But as soon as they passed the Porte Dauphine, the cool air that swept over their faces seemed exquisitely pure by comparison. The night was dark and mild. Every now and then, when they passed one of the restaurants nestled in the woods, light poured out, along with the sounds of music, and then the large black patches of the great clumps of trees stood out once more against the paler sky. And now there was a smell of dewy grass and trees and the sweet scent of flowers coming from somewhere unknown. As darkness fell, however, a veil of mist formed above the lawns and even from the road. It was as white and opaque as milk. Denise and Jean-Paul stopped near the racecourse. They were fascinated: all around them, everywhere, flecks that looked as if they were made of smoke or delicate snowflakes rose slowly from the ground; the tops of the trees seemed to emerge from a sea of milk.

  ‘Oh! It’s almost like chiffon …’ said Denise, holding out her hands to touch it, as if she were a little girl.

  ‘A fairy’s veil,’ said Jaja, ‘what do you think?’
r />   He leaned in towards her and, very quietly, repeated: ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Don’t,’ she said softly.

  She knew what was about to happen. Yet she didn’t want to stop him … Tonight, did a kiss mean any more than a cigarette, a piece of fruit, a sip of cool water that seems to quench the thirst without really doing so? Like an echo from deep within her memory, she recalled certain words her mother had said, words that had stayed with her, dangerously insinuating themselves: ‘He wasn’t her lover … He was a friend … then, little by little, she began to enjoy it …’

  ‘Don’t,’ she said again, even before he had tried.

  He kissed her.

  ‘Ah!’ she said, then turned her head away several times. But his young, eager lips found hers.

  ‘I love you, I love you so much,’ Jean-Paul whispered instinctively, his voice heavy with emotion. ‘If only you knew how much … do you love me?’

  ‘No.’

  After a moment’s silence he said: ‘I don’t care.’

  She heard him but without understanding. He pressed his lips to hers in a long, soft kiss, tasting her hesitantly, the way you try a piece of fruit you have never eaten before.

  They hadn’t noticed that a few cars had stopped around them; in more than one, no doubt, young couples like themselves, pretending to be watching the mist, were kissing each other, hidden by the darkness. But someone had the idea of playing a mean joke and aimed his headlights at all the cars where two people were so close together that they merged into one. Cutting through the fog, the harsh light fell straight on to Denise and Jean-Paul; in a flash, their faces, pressed against each other, appeared completely white in the glare of the spotlight. Denise, surprised, pulled away so quickly that her hat fell off on to her lap; at the same time she started shaking: she thought she had heard a stifled cry quite close to her. But the beam of light had already moved away, maliciously probing the shadows in other cars where you could hear women crying out in anger. Denise tried to see through the darkness that surrounded her, but in vain; she couldn’t make out a thing; a taxi, alongside them, suddenly sped off and disappeared; the other cars followed suit, driving away in all directions.