by C. F. Ramuz
—I’m a good drinker! said Christine.
She did what she said; the others did like her. Pierre Carre appeared, with his mule. He was a big man, always drunk, who spent his life on the trails; and, if in the morning there was a chance he still led his beast, at night it was always his beast that led him. They called him, he came, but didn’t enter; he couldn’t have, he remained at the doorstep, leaning his back on the mule’s packsaddle; they said to him: “Where are you coming from?”, he lifted his arm in the air: “From over there!” for he didn’t know anymore, in the haze of it all.
Then Jean-Luc, pouring him a drink:
—You need this one to make all the others go down.
He answered:
—Definitely! I feel empty up top.
He repeated:
—The bottom is fine, it’s the top that isn’t.
Following which everyone burst into laughter, and the voices carried far into the night that was coming, while Carre had gone again, once more hanging on to the tail of his beast, barely staying within the edges of the trail.
Someone cried to him again: “Just be patient, we’ll find a way to widen it some more.” Then everyone returned to the cellar; other neighbors had come; from the board where it’s kept, they’d been to fetch a quarter of cheese; they ate, they drank again, the stories flowed; Sergeant Braillard was there, who was the town’s biggest boaster, and the funniest thing was that he believed his own fibs when he’d been drinking. They said to him: “Tell us the one about the Bear.”
In the mountain there was a pass called Le Pas de l’Ours. The Sergeant began: “I was walking over that way, I see the bear coming; I take my knife out of my pocket, I halt, it comes forward, I was thinking: it’s going to attack me, but I’ll know how to defend myself; not at all, it stands upright on its paws then, it puts its hand on my shoulder and says to me: “‘Sergeant Braillard …!’”
He couldn’t go on, they were laughing too much, and Christine’s apron, from the way she had bitten it to stop herself from laughing, was all chewed up at the bottom: only the Sergeant remained serious, watching the others with a wounded air.
It was late when they parted ways. Night had fully arrived. It was hot and mild, with, at the top of the mountains, beneath the light of the stars, the great snow that glittered, but everywhere at the bottom the flowers and the smell, and the hay already ripening; as they went up the stairs, Jean-Luc had placed his arm around Christine’s waist; there was a crescent moon in the sky, it slid among the clouds like a little pointed boat.
And so, his leg stronger, Jean-Luc had been able to start working again. It was the start of the summer, he worked with joy, out of desire and love for her. And when, one day, someone (for there are always people who take pleasure in doing harm), when one day someone said to him: “You know, Augustin is back!” he answered:
—What do I care?
He left in the morning, he returned at noon; then, gone once again, they didn’t see him until nighttime; sometimes, Christine accompanied him to the fields, but ordinarily she stayed home to milk and prepare the meal, with, in addition, the little one to care for. When he returned late, his great pleasure was, from the bend in the path, to glimpse the little light in the kitchen window—and this open door too, this red square in the night where a black shape would appear; and so he thought: “It’s her, she’s waiting for me.”
And so time passed with such haste that it seemed the days had diminished by a good half; in such a way that you look back with regret, but ahead of you there seem to be promises, and the two combined still make for happiness. And Jean-Luc told himself: “It will last forever.”
He was mistaken, you place your trust in something this way, but much like a rotten board, it snaps beneath your foot. One night, he didn’t see the little light, Christine had gone out; two days later likewise; once, having come back in the middle of the afternoon, he found the door shut; he asked Christine: “Where have you been?” She told him: “To the store, then to the baker’s”; but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking: “In the past, she went out less, she was always here.”
Yet she was gay like before, thoughtful; it was underneath that he felt she was changed, she was undoing herself from him. With her same eyes, her same voice, dressed in identical fashion, and the same words in her mouth, she was different, as he thought—and the more time went on, the more she changed. Perhaps a little less patient, more nervous, more distracted. He asked her: “What’s wrong with you?” She answered: “Nothing, what do you want there to be wrong with me?” And as he continued: “There’s something!” she laughed, she said: “You’re imagining things!”
And so inside him: “Perhaps I’m mistaken.” But the weeks advancing, he was made to believe he was not. He would go to bed very early, rising at daybreak—meanwhile Christine would undress the child, then return to the kitchen; closing his eyes, he would hear her coming and going, he fell asleep to this sound of footsteps.
It’s the hour where the village too goes to sleep. The angelus has rung; at the fountain one or two more cows, driven along the path, come to drink; a boy returning from the bottom walks behind his wagon, humming an air on his harmonica; the lanterns come and go, glimmering upon the house walls; then the doors are shut and fall back on silence, with nothing left but the little lamps like eyes inside the night, closing one after the other.
One night, when the little one had woken him with his cries, he found himself alone in the bed; he listened: no one. Yet it was ten thirty; he waited; a moment later, she came home; he asked her: “Where are you coming from?” She said: “Félicie came to get me, Father wasn’t well.”
He didn’t say any more, she lay near him and at once fell asleep. But he thought, this time with self-assurance: “Something’s wrong with her.” For several days, he sought what it was, without finding it. Was she still sore at him? for grudges come and go—but what about the day in Sassette? Or else had he made her sad without meaning to?—but when and how? he didn’t know. He kept searching.
On one of those days, from afar, he saw Augustin coming up the village street. And, as soon as he saw Jean-Luc, he turned his back to him, went back the way he came. Then Jean-Luc had an idea: “I know what it is … She probably still cares for him, and she’s angry to see us quarreling.”
He just had to wait for the right occasion, which soon arose. He’d been to the shop; Augustin was just leaving. He went straight up to Augustin, he said to him: “Hey, Augustin!” and held out his hand, which the latter took, despite his surprise.
—Listen, I’ve been thinking, we have to be good friends again, that’s why I’ve come, and if you’d like that, well, it’s been decided.
—Haven’t we always been good friends? said Augustin.
He was a handsome tall man with a red face, always well-dressed, with a black hat pushed back, a silver pocket watch and a collar; he worked in hotels, as they say; and so he was absent seven months out of the year (having left the previous winter nearly the same time as Jean-Luc), then he returned for two or three months, went back to running his property.
Jean-Luc continued:
—But, for us to be quite sure, you have to come over and have a drink.
And just as Augustin answered: “Another time,” “Listen,” Jean-Luc went on, “I think to myself: If you don’t come, it’s because there’s still something between us; and if there’s nothing there then you’ll come, and we’ll have that drink.”
So convincingly that Augustin gave in and said:
“Fine then,” without understanding, and the two of them left together. While they walked, Jean-Luc thought: “She’ll be trapped, alright!” In front of the house, he cried: “Hey! Christine!” She appeared on the stoop. He, from below: “Christine, there’s two of us, go and fetch something to drink.”
It was already dark, she couldn’t see anything at first. Then, as he went up the stairs, she recognized Augustin; she moved back without saying anything, she grew pale,
next a blush appeared; she looked at her husband. He was saying to her: “Will you invite us in?” She made an effort and responded: “It’s just that we don’t have anything good to drink here.” He said to her: “Fetch it anyway, it’s to toast our friendship.” She went on: “You’re not coming down?” “No, said Jean-Luc, we’ll be more comfortable in the kitchen.”
She went to fetch the wine from the cellar, and, having come back up, found Jean-Luc and Augustin already sitting down, Jean-Luc packing his pipe, his tobacco in front of him, which he handed to him, saying: “Have a taste, it’s a new kind they gave me to try.”
And Augustin took the pack, while Jean-Luc filled the glasses. There were only two.
He called: “Christine!” She was already gone, she replied from the bedroom: “What do you want?” “What about your glass?” From behind the half-shut door: “I don’t want any, I’m not thirsty.” “What are you doing?” “I’m putting the little one’s clothes in order.” “Hurry up,” he said, “we’re bored without you.”
She had gone to sit in a dark corner, and no longer moved. She listened to the two men talk, first with sparse phrases, which then came to life little by little, the carafe (it was a tin pitcher) being full, Augustin speaking of his positions, the hotels he’d been to, Jean-Luc saying: “How much do you earn?” and he responding: “Sometimes a hundred francs.” “Per month!” “Per month.” “That much!”, then came a silence, Augustin added: “But it’s a short season.”
They went on speaking, she thought: “He’s brought him over? Is it even possible?” But once again Jean-Luc’s voice rose: “Christine!” “Argh!” she said. “Are you not finished?” “Not yet.” At that moment, he entered: “What are you doing? It looks like you’re sulking.” And, before she could even turn around, he’d grabbed her by the arm and, holding her firmly, brought her over, grabbed a glass as he went by, put it down in front of her, made her sit near Augustin:
—This is how it’s done! he said.
All at once her countenance changed:
—I was worried I’d bore you, but if you’ll have me …
And as Jean-Luc was laughing again, she began to laugh too. “We’re good friends,” he said. “Of course!” she said, “cheers to both.” She drank, the other two drank.
She was gay, they were gay, and at first Augustin had seemed a little embarrassed, but the embarrassment quickly passed. She had opened the drawer with the old deck of cards, she had said: “Shall we play?”, and the other two wanting to play, she shuffled the deck.
They raised an arm, they laid down their cards; the lantern gave light, there at the end of the table, with the carafe and its open lid, its gray tin belly and the gleaming yellow glasses. Christine grabbed hers again. “Ah! you’re drinking,” said Jean-Luc. “You didn’t want to, a moment ago. That’s women for you!” “And men, what are men like?” Christine started up again.
And Augustin became bolder: “Don’t you know?” She looked at him at length.
They had started to play again, in the little windowpanes she had seen the gray color change, darken, turning sapphire; Jean-Luc was happy.
—Maybe so, he continued, but what I know best, is that we were foolish not to see each other, right Augustin?
—We were foolish, the both of us.
Jean-Luc was winning, he held the most declarations. “Diamond trump!” he said. “And now pinochle, two at a time!” They trumped. “My turn, and my turn again!” And, writing down the points, he added them up on a piece of paper.
—Me again! he said.
Christine responded:
—Lucky in cards, unlucky in love.
He just laughed. And their voices sounded one after another, their requests, their answers, the names of the cards they threw, a number: “Trump!” “I’ll trump.” “I’ll deal the cards,” and meanwhile Christine looked at Augustin, who was leaning into her. They were very close to each other, facing Jean-Luc who sat across from them. Then throwing her cards down: “I’ve had enough,” she said, “let’s play something else.”
She stood up, went to fetch her scarf from the nail, a white cotton scarf with embroidered red flowers, walked back over to Jean-Luc: “Turn around!” “What for?” “Turn some more!” To please her, Jean-Luc had turned around.
Then she said to him:
—I’ll put it on you, who sees so clearly.
And she blindfolded him. It’s a game played by children; the one with the blindfold has to seek; if he catches someone, he has to guess who it is.
The scarf was big, folded over; Jean-Luc’s face was covered, and, a little surprised, he stood there blindfolded. “But we’re only three!” “What does it matter,” she said, “we’re having fun, we’re passing the time … You promise you can’t see anything?” “Nothing at all.” “Sure, very sure?” She stuck out her tongue at him.
Augustin muffled his laugh; as for Christine, she laughed out loud; and meanwhile Jean-Luc having started to seek, they both escaped him, running around the kitchen. He walked, his arms outstretched; he banged into the hayrack, he banged into the table, the others laughed every time, he continued anyway, he turned, and depending on whether he got closer or farther away, Christine cried to him: “Hot! … Cold!” or else: “You’re burning hot!” and he, sensing her near, would throw himself in her direction, but she moved aside, and he would crash into the wall.
He halted and said:
—It’s too hard, there aren’t enough people.
—Dummy, she said, speed up!
And just at that moment, finding herself near Augustin at the other end of the kitchen, she embraced him, so that he kissed her, and she allowed it. And meanwhile Jean-Luc, like she’d asked for, had started to spin faster; the whip hanging on the door fell, a stool fell, he tripped on the table, which he then dragged behind him, the others still escaping; it was no use, he was excited by the game, this sound of footsteps fleeing him, the brush of Christine’s skirts, and suddenly, having touched her arm, he cried: “I caught you!” But she said: “That’s not true, you have to knock on my back three times.”
He started again; and then he halted once more, out of breath. This time, everything was quiet, he said: “Where are you?” No response. He said again: “You’re not allowed to hide!” Still no response. Then something like a scurry of footsteps sounded by the door, the lock clicked, he went on: “What are you doing?” Then the door opened (as he understood through the sound of water outside), he thought: “They’re leaving!”, he lifted his scarf. But at that same moment Christine cried to him: “You’re cheating, you’re cheating!”, his hands fell back down; so he heard footsteps on the stoop, then down the stairs; and he continued to follow them. By groping around, he arrived at the door, then, holding on to the rail, it was his turn to go down the steps.
He found himself on the path; Christine was already gone. She had said to Augustin: “Come with me,” and had dragged him away. A little to the side there’s a barn, they had gone to hide behind the barn; they waited a moment, then suddenly Christine went to look. Jean-Luc hadn’t moved from where he stood. Above the boulders the moon began to rise, a great red moon, with a round forehead and a round skull—and, as if a great weight was holding it back, it rose dramatically into the sky. Its empty eyes came first, then its flat nose, then its hollow mouth; a fine silver light, like a powder shaken out, began to fall through the air, and trembled.
And Jean-Luc was still on the path, her scarf in his hands. He saw Christine pop her head around the corner of the barn then abruptly duck it back in; he called: “Christine!” She didn’t move, he called once again. She answered: “Come find us!” But, now in a changed voice, he cried louder: “Come back or I’m locking the door!” So she showed herself, and, behind her, Augustin. Jean-Luc hadn’t waited for her; he was already going back up the stairs.
—What’s wrong with him? said Augustin.
—How do I know? she said.
And then:
—I have to go.
Kiss me one more time.
Which he did, and she, having left him, headed home. She found Jean-Luc leaning on his elbows at the table. Hearing her enter, he didn’t lift his head, he kept it down, his eyes facing down too, with a crease between his eyes. She asked him:
—What’s going on?
—What’s going on, he answered, is that you’re making a fool of me.
—Me, making a fool of you!
She went on:
—Don’t you understand we’re having fun? We’re gay, you see! We’re having fun! We’re gay, we go and hide, you come and find us … And then, when there isn’t enough room to hide … And who was it that brought Augustin here, you big jealous man?
He said:
—Things seem rather clear.
She was now leaning into him, resting on his shoulder, and at first he moved away from her; but, coming even closer and holding him with the arm she’d placed around his neck, suddenly she said to him: “You know, I have a secret.”
He asked her: “What secret?” “Ah,” she said, “you have to be good, otherwise I won’t tell you a thing!” And because she felt that he was already giving in: “Give me your big ear.” And then, from up close: “I think I’m pregnant again.”
He couldn’t believe it.
—Since when?
—Since just now.
And, that night, he was happy once more, he even regretted having been angry.
Then came other nights, filled with worry. And he kept an eye on her, but she was clever. He tortured himself, he wasn’t sure of a thing anymore. Finally came this last evening.
CHAPTER V
HE STRETCHED HIS ARM ACROSS the bed, seeking the warm spot and the shape of her body lying down; he found emptiness. He opened his eyes little by little, he looked around, all was dark. He looked around and thought: “Am I dreaming or am I awake?”