‘Greetings,’ he said.
He was wearing his big beige overcoat, a shirt with small brown-and-yellow checks, and a yellow tie that set off his mat complexion. He always dressed gracefully. Françoise was happy to see him, but she knew immediately that she would not be able to count on him to help her to recover her place in the world; he would be just a pleasant companion in exile.
‘Shall we still go to the flea-market in spite of the horrible weather?’ said Françoise.
‘It’s only a thin drizzle,’ said Gerbert, ‘it’s not really raining.’
They crossed the square and went down the steps to the métro.
‘What can I talk to him about all day?’ thought Françoise.
This was the first occasion for some little while that she had gone out alone with him and she wanted to be as friendly as she could in order to wipe out the last traces that Pierre’s explanation might have left in him. But how? She worked, Pierre worked as well. Civil servants’ lives – as Xavière had put it.
‘I thought I’d never be able to get away,’ said Gerbert. ‘There was a crowd at lunch: Michel, and Lermière and the Abelsons, all top-notch, as you can see. And what talk! Real fireworks – it was agonizing. Péclard has written a new anti-war song for Dominique Oryol. It wasn’t a bad effort, I must admit. Only their songs don’t get them very far.’
‘Songs – speeches –’ said Françoise, ‘never has there been such a flood of words.’
‘Oh! the newspapers nowadays are terrific,’ said Gerbert, and his face lighted up with a broad smile; indignation was always expressed by him in the form of jocularity. ‘What a song and dance they’re making about how France is standing firm! And all because Italy doesn’t scare them out of their wits as much as Germany.’
‘Well, they certainly won’t go to war for Djibouti,’ said Françoise.
‘Suits me,’ said Gerbert, ‘but whether it’s in two years or six months, it’s not much encouragement to know that we’re certain to get it in the neck in the end.’
‘That’s putting it mildly,’ said Françoise.
With Pierre she was far more casual – ‘We’ll see what we’ll see.’ But Gerbert made her ill at ease: it wasn’t amusing to be young these days. She looked at him somewhat uncomfortably. What was he really thinking? About himself, about his life, about the world? He never revealed anything personal. She would try to talk seriously with him in a little while; for the time being the noise of the métro made conversation difficult. She looked at a shred of yellow poster on the black wall of the tunnel. Even her curiosity lacked conviction today. It was a blank day, a worthless day.
‘Did you know that there’s a slight chance of my acting in the film Déluges?’ said Gerbert. ‘Nothing but a stand-in, but it would be good pay.’ He frowned. ‘As soon as I’ve put by a little cash, I’ll buy an old car; I’d be able to get one secondhand for next to nothing.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ said Françoise. ‘You’re sure to kill me, but I’ll be driven by you.’
They emerged from the métro.
‘Or else,’ said Gerbert, ‘I might set up a marionette theatre with Mollier. Begramian is still supposed to come in with us on Images, but you can’t count on him.’
‘Marionettes are great fun,’ said Françoise.
‘Only you have to pay through the nose to get a hall and the doings to yourself,’ said Gerbert.
‘You’ll get it one day, perhaps,’ said Françoise.
Today, Gerbert’s plans did not amuse her; she even wondered why she found a quiet charm in the fact of his existence. He was there, he had come from a boring meal at Péclard’s, tonight he would play the part of young Cato for the twentieth time, there was nothing specially exciting in that. Françoise looked about her; she wished she could find something that would make some slight appeal to her, but this long straight avenue had nothing to say to her. Only boring things were being sold in the little carts lined up along the edge of the pavement: cotton frocks, socks, or soap.
‘Let’s go down one of these little streets,’ she said.
Here were old shoes, gramophone records, silks that were falling to pieces, enamel bowls, chipped crockery, all on the bare muddy ground. Dark-skinned women clothed in brightly-coloured tatters were sitting on newspapers or old rugs, leaning up against the hoardings. All that meant nothing to her either.
‘Look,’ said Gerbert. ‘We’re sure to find some props among all that junk.’
Françoise looked unenthusiastically at the bric-à-brac displayed at her feet; without a doubt, all these filthy old objects could tell a strange story, but to the casual onlooker they were only bracelets, broken dolls, faded materials, devoid of any personal history. Gerbert picked up and ran his hand over a glass ball with multicoloured confetti like snowflakes inside it.
‘It looks like a fortune-teller’s crystal,’ he said.
‘It’s a paper-weight,’ said Françoise.
The vendor was watching them out of the corner of her eye; she was a fat, heavily-painted woman, with wavy hair, her body enveloped in woollen shawls and her legs wrapped in old newspapers; she, too, had no history, no future, she was nothing but a mass of chilled flesh. And the hoardings, the corrugated-iron huts, the wretched gardens with their dumps of rusting old iron, did not, as was usual, create a sordid and fascinating world for Françoise; it was there all round her, huddled and heaped together, inert and shapeless.
‘What’s this story about our going on tour?’ said Gerbert. ‘Bernheim talks as if it were settled for next year.’
‘Bernheim has a bee in his bonnet about it,’ said Françoise, ‘that’s obvious! He’s only interested in money; but Pierre won’t hear of it. Next year there’ll be other things to do.’
She stepped over a puddle. It was just like the day when, years ago, she closed the door of her grandmother’s house on the softness of the evening and the scents of the wild garden: she would always feel she had been cheated out of one of the solemn moments of the world. Elsewhere something was in the process of existing without her being there, and it was that thing only which really mattered. This time, she couldn’t say: ‘It doesn’t know it exists, it doesn’t exist.’ For it did know. Pierre did not miss one of Xavière’s smiles and Xavière gathered up, with entranced attentiveness, every word that Pierre was saying to her. Together at this moment, their eyes were reflecting Pierre’s dressing-room with Shakespeare’s portrait hanging on the wall. Were they working? Or were they resting and talking about Xavière’s father, about the aviary full of birds, about the smell of the stables?
‘Did Xavière do anything yesterday in the elocution lessons?’ said Françoise.
Gerbert laughed.
‘Rambert asked her to repeat: “Round the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran!” She blushed furiously and looked down at her feet without uttering a sound.’
‘Do you think she’s got anything in her?’
‘She’s got a good figure,’ said Gerbert. He seized Françoise by the elbow. ‘Come and look,’ he said suddenly, and pushed through the crowd. People were gathering around a large opened umbrella lying on the muddy ground; a man was spreading out cards on the black surface.
‘Two hundred francs,’ said an old grey-haired woman, casting distracted looks on all sides, ‘two hundred francs!’ Her lips were trembling; someone pushed her back roughly.
‘They’re thieves,’ said Françoise.
‘Everyone knows that,’ said Gerbert.
Françoise looked with curiosity at the card-sharper with the deceptive hands, who was nimbly sliding three bits of grimy cardboard on the black cover of the umbrella.
‘Two hundred on this one,’ said a man, putting two notes on one of the cards; he winked insinuatingly: one of the corners was slightly bent and the king of hearts could be seen.
‘And he wins,’ said the card-sharper turning up the king. The cards slipped through his fingers again.
‘Here it is – watch the cards – keep yo
ur eyes skinned – here it is, here it is: two hundred francs on the king of hearts.’
‘That’s the one, who’ll go a hundred with me?’ said the man.
‘A hundred francs! Here’s a hundred francs,’ someone shouted.
‘And he wins,’ said the sharper, throwing four crumpled notes down in front of him. He was, of course, purposely letting them win in order to lead the crowd on. This would have been the time to bet, it was easy. Françoise guessed the whereabouts of the king at each deal. It was dazzling to watch the quick shuffling of the cards; they slipped and flipped to right, to left, to centre, to left.
‘It’s foolish,’ said Françoise. ‘You can see it every time.’
‘Here it is,’ said a man.
‘Four hundred francs.’ said the sharper.
The man turned to Françoise.
‘I’ve only two hundred francs, here it is – put down two hundred francs with me,’ he said suddenly.
Left, centre, left, that was certainly the one. Françoise put down her two notes on the card.
‘Seven of clubs,’ said the sharper. He snatched up the notes.
‘How idiotic!’ said Françoise.
She stood there dumbfounded, like the old woman a few moments beforehand; a quick little gesture – it wasn’t possible that the money was really lost – surely she could win it back. If she really paid attention to the next deal …
‘Come on,’ said Gerbert, ‘they’re all stooges. Come on, or you’ll lose your last sou.’
Françoise followed him.
‘And yet I knew all the time that you can never win,’ she said angrily.
This was just the sort of day for doing such stupid things. Everything was absurd – places, people, the things people said. How cold it was! Madame Miquel had been right, this coat was much too light.
‘Suppose we go and have a drink,’ she suggested.
‘I’d like to,’ said Gerbert. ‘Let’s go to the big café where there’s singing.’
Night was already falling … The lesson was over now, but no doubt they had not yet said goodbye to each other. Where were they? Perhaps they had gone back to the Pôle Nord; when Xavière liked a place she immediately made it a home from home. Françoise called to mind the leather-covered banquettes with their big copper nail-heads, and the windows, and the red-and-white check lamp-shades, but it was useless; the faces and the voices and the honey-flavoured cocktails – everything had acquired a mysterious meaning which would have disappeared had Françoise come in through the door. Both would have smiled affectionately, Pierre would have continued their conversation and she would have drunk from a glass through a straw; but the secret of their tête-à-tête could never be revealed, not even by themselves.
‘This is the café,’ said Gerbert.
It was a kind of shed heated by enormous braziers, and very crowded; an orchestra was blaringly accompanying a man dressed as a soldier.
‘I’ll have a marc,’ said Françoise, ‘that will warm me up.’
The sticky persistent drizzle had permeated her very being, she shivered; she did not know what to do with her body or her thoughts. She looked at the women wearing clogs and wrapped in big shawls who were drinking coffee and brandy at the bar. ‘Why are the shawls always mauve?’ she wondered. The soldier had his face daubed with rouge; he was clapping his hands with a knowing look, though he had not yet come to the smutty couplet.
‘Would you mind paying now?’ said the waiter. Françoise took a sip from her glass; a violent flavour of petrol and mildew filled her mouth. Suddenly, Gerbert burst out laughing.
‘What is it?’ said Françoise; at that moment he didn’t look a day over twelve.
‘Smut always makes me laugh,’ he said, embarrassed.
‘What was the word that made you laugh all of a sudden?’ asked Françoise.
‘Squirt,’ said Gerbert.
‘Squirt!’
‘Oh, but I really have to see it written out!’ said Gerbert.
The orchestra broke into a paso doble. On the dais, next to the accordion player, stood a big doll in a sombrero, and it looked almost alive.
Not a word passed between the pair of them. ‘He still thinks that he bores us,’ thought Françoise regretfully. Pierre had not exerted himself very much to regain Gerbert’s confidence; even into the most sincere friendship he put so little of himself! Françoise tried to shake herself out of this torpor; she must explain a little to Gerbert why Xavière had taken on so much importance in their life.
‘Pierre thinks that Xavière might become an actress,’ said Françoise.
‘Yes, I know, he seems to think a lot of her,’ said Gerbert, a little stiffly.
‘She’s a funny person,’ said Françoise, ‘to be friends with her is not easy.’
‘She’s a bit of an iceberg,’ said Gerbert. ‘I never know what to say to her.’
‘She will not descend to plain civilities,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s high-minded, but somewhat inconvenient.’
‘At the School she never says a word to anyone: she stays in a corner with her hair half over her face.’
‘What exasperates her more than anything else,’ said Françoise, ‘is that Pierre and I are always on such good terms.’
Gerbert looked astonished.
‘Still, she knows how things are between you, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes, but she thinks people should be untrammelled where their affections are concerned. She seems to think constancy can be achieved only by continual compromise and lies.’
‘What a scream! She ought to be able to see that you get along all right without that,’ said Gerbert.
‘Of course,’ said Françoise.
She looked at Gerbert with some annoyance: love was surely less simple than he thought. It was stronger than time, nevertheless it existed in time, and, from instant to instant, it was the cause of misgivings, self-denial, and minor despondencies; naturally that counted for very little, but only because she refused to let it count: a little effort was called for occasionally.
‘Give me a cigarette,’ she said, ‘that will give me the illusion of being warm.’
Gerbert held out his packet with a smile; this smile was charming and nothing more, yet it would have been possible to discover a devastating charm in it; Françoise could guess how gentle she might have found these green eyes had she loved them; she had renounced all these precious qualities without even having known them; she would never know them. She granted them no regrets, however much they might merit them.
‘It’s a scream to watch Labrousse with Pagès,’ said Gerbert. ‘He looks as if he’s treading on eggs.’
‘Yes, a change has certainly come over him – Pierre who is usually so interested in what he can find in the way of ambition, desire and pluck in people,’ said Françoise. ‘No one cares less about her life than she does.’
‘Is he really so fond of her?’ said Gerbert.
‘It’s not so easy to say just what being fond of someone means to Pierre,’ said Françoise. She stared in uncertainty at the tip of her cigarette. In the past, when she had spoken about Pierre, she had looked into herself: now, when she tried to discern his features, she had to stand back from him. It was almost impossible to answer Gerbert. Pierre always refused to compound with himself. He demanded progress from every minute of the day and with the fury of a renegade he offered up his past in sacrifice to his present. She might feel that he was anchored with her to a lasting passion of affection, sincerity, and suffering, yet he was already floating away like a sprite to the confines of time. He left behind him a phantom which he condemned out of hand from the height of his new virtues. The worst was that he was angry with his dupes for being content with a shell, and with an out-of-date shell at that. She crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray. In the past, she used to find it amusing that Pierre could never be bound to any moment. But to just what extent was she herself protected against these vanished renegades? Of course, Pierre would never conspire aga
inst her with anyone in the world, but what went on in his own mind? It was understood that he had no secret life; all the same, a certain amount of credulity was required to give this theory full credence. Françoise was aware that Gerbert was observing her furtively, and she pulled herself together.
‘What really matters is that she likes him,’ she said.
‘How’s that?’ said Gerbert.
He was very surprised; to him, too, Pierre seemed so complete, so outwardly protected, so perfectly shut up in himself: it was impossible to imagine any fissure through which misgivings could infiltrate. And yet, Xavière had breached this serenity. Or had she only revealed an imperceptible crack?
‘I’ve often told you, that if Pierre stakes so much on the theatre, on art in general, it’s because of some sort of decision he’s made,’ said Françoise. ‘And when you begin to question a decision, it’s always disturbing.’ She smiled. ‘Xavière is a living question mark.’
‘Still, he’s strangely stubborn on the subject,’ said Gerbert.
‘All the more reason. It stimulates him when someone argues to his face that it’s just as significant to drink a cup of coffee as to write Julius Caesar.’
Françoise’s heart contracted. Could she really assert that during all these years Pierre had never had any doubt? Or was it simply that she had not wanted to worry about it?
‘What do you think?’ said Gerbert.
‘About what?’
‘About the significance of a cup of coffee?’
‘Oh, I!’ said Françoise. She recalled a certain smile of Xavière’s. ‘I so want to be happy,’ she said disdainfully.
‘I don’t see the connexion,’ said Gerbert.
‘Introspection is tiring,’ she said. ‘It’s dangerous.’
She Came to Stay Page 15
