Alain arrived in his turn after the bank closed. Like his brothers he began by talking in an animated, warm tone before relapsing into silence. The old woman was complaining, “I don’t like this doctor. He spent two seconds listening to my heart, then went away. I had a thousand questions to ask. My leg is swollen. Who found him?”
“I don’t know. Augustin …”
“Ah! So it was his wife? Probably his wife.”
Alain replied absentmindedly. He looked at his mother and thought about the woman whom he was about to go and meet, the wife he was about to abandon, the child … That very morning he had given a formal promise that he would leave, that he would pay for his share in the purchase of the plantation. What he had not dared to tell his brothers was that the plantation was owned by his mistress’s husband. My God, how vile it all was! But what could he do? It had gone on for eight years. The husband liked him, suspected nothing, trusted him. He adored the child. He was perfectly happy. The remorse, the suffering, even the jealousy—all these were his, the lover’s.
“Aren’t you going home?”
“No, Mama.”
“Aren’t you eating?”
“No, Mama.”
“What’s wrong, my child?”
“Nothing. I’m not hungry, that’s all. And I’m waiting for Augustin and Albert. They should be here at eight.”
“But Josephine can make you something to eat!”
“No, really, Mama!”
“What did you say? I can’t hear anything; I don’t understand. You mustn’t neglect your health; you’ve always been delicate.”
He let her talk, barely listening; he was unable to focus on her. “How cruel we all are, deep down,” he thought despairingly. He bent down to kiss her cheek. Agitatedly she said again, “Please. Just to make me happy. Eat. Go and eat.”
What else could she say? A mother’s words, once a sign of love and wisdom, were now useless and ineffectual: “Eat, sleep, don’t cry,” was all she could say.
Alain did not say anything. He took out a cigarette, put it to his lips, then remembered that you shouldn’t smoke in a sickroom and let his hand fall. He waited. He watched the hands on the clock. He was waiting for his brothers. They had promised to help him. They had seemed to understand. “But that was last night,” he thought sadly. A strange night, out of time, made unusual and solemn by the specter of death. Tonight, however, was like any other, like a thousand other evenings that had brought them and their wives together in this house with an elderly mother they loved, a mother who was now reasonably well, who would get better. “I trust them,” he thought anxiously. “Yet maybe I’ve given my trust too quickly and easily?”
The purchase of the plantation had been concluded that very morning by his mistress’s husband, who, relying on his assurances, had committed him to his share of a hundred thousand francs, a fortune …
If his brothers refused to help him, he would be the man’s ruin. And what about her, the woman he loved? His brothers did not know that she, too, was leaving that very night. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” he repeated to himself, like an incantation. “Whether or not they keep their promise, I’m leaving with her and I’m never coming back. I’ll never see my wife again. I just can’t carry on any longer. I’ll follow Elizabeth as far as Marseille. I’ll see the child once more. I’ll spend another hour with her before the ship goes. Then I’ll wait till she’s gone; I’ll wait till the evening. I’ll stay until her warmth and her perfume have faded from the room. I’ll wait until the evening for a miracle to happen. Then …”
He closed his eyes. The rest was easy: a bullet or, even better, pills dissolved in a glass of water. Then he could enjoy a peaceful, dreamless sleep before dying. It had been such a long time since he had slept peacefully. Asleep or awake, he always had a picture in his mind of both of them, Alix and the other. If only he could sleep forever, sweetly and deeply …
He started, and the ashtray fell to the floor. He looked around him, shaking. His mother! How could he leave her …? But it was just one more knot to unravel. There were so many of them, each so tightly fastened around his heart.
He heard his brothers’ voices outside the door and stood up.
They came in, Albert first, Augustin and Claire behind him. They kissed their mother, then Claire said, “We mustn’t make Mama tired.”
As on the evening before, they left Claire alone in the parlor with a book, and the three men and Mariette settled down in the dining room, huddled together behind the carefully shut glass-paneled door.
“Hasn’t Sabine come?” Mariette asked.
“No. She’s tired. She’s sleeping.”
Augustin sighed. “Well, what are we going to do? We’ve got to make a decision. Mama doesn’t want to keep the nurse.”
“That’s madness!” said Mariette, looking anxiously at them as she realized that they expected her to step in.
“You know what Mama’s like. She’s given me three days to sort something out. Anyway, she’s useless, that nurse,” Augustin muttered irritably. “Who found her?”
“I did,” said Albert.
“There are other nurses in Paris,” said Alain.
He was standing by the window, hidden by the folds of the curtains. He was watching the rain falling.
“That’s not the point. I’ll say it once more—you know what Mama’s like. Once she’s better she’ll send the nurse away, whoever it is. She can’t live here alone with a housekeeper who sleeps on the top floor. Mama’s old. She’s fragile. She should have had one of us living with her a long time ago; suppose she has a sudden, more serious illness, some kind of attack, I don’t know what. Or a simple cold that turns worse during the summer while we’re away. She can’t live alone.”
“That’s what I think, too,” Alain said. He looked tenderly at his mother’s face, hardly visible in the shadows, only her white hair lit by the lamplight.
“That’s what you think, is it?” muttered Augustin. He thought, “You don’t care. You’re off …” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s obviously the best thing to do, but how do we organize it? I wonder if you, Mariette?”
“No,” Mariette said in a low voice. She looked at each of her brothers in turn. “I can’t. I love Mama with all my heart, but I can’t live with her. I mean it. I wouldn’t know how to look after her, nor … and anyway, I’ve got my life, just as you have yours. I don’t have much that’s mine, just two rooms where I can be on my own.”
“On your own?” Albert interrupted.
She did not reply. At last she said quietly, “Albert, it seems to me that you could easily look after Mama. You’re well-off. Your house has more space than you need.”
“Me?” Albert asked bitterly.
Of course he would happily have his mother, but why was it always him? After all, Augustin wasn’t exactly penniless; he earned a good salary. His wife was better dressed than Sabine. He could have suggested looking after their mother. But there was no danger of that! It was always him, thought Albert, and then nothing he did was any good. They didn’t even like the nurse, just because he’d chosen her. His brothers were so … discouraging.
Mariette was crying.
“Oh, come on,” Augustin said irritably, “don’t cry. There’s nothing worse than a woman’s tears. It’s so … feeble.”
Almost in a whisper, Mariette said, “Maybe when Alain’s gone, Alix and the little ones could come and live here?”
“No,” said Alain.
“Why not?”
“Mama and Alix don’t like each other.”
“How can one not like Mama?” asked Mariette.
“I’m telling you, they’d be unhappy. It would be impossible. I’m thinking of both of them.”
“How very honorable!” snorted Albert.
“Listen,” Alain went on quietly, “you’ve got to think about me now. I need to know if what you said yesterday, what you promised yesterday …”
Augustin sighed. “Just wait a moment,
my dear boy. We must finish deciding about Mama. It’s just as important, isn’t it?”
“It’s getting late, very late,” said Alain in a low, strange voice. “I want to go tonight.”
They looked at him in amazement.
“Are you mad, Alain?”
He did not answer but pressed his face against the windowpane.
“But that’s impossible!” Augustin said gently. “You’re … you can’t be serious. Leaving like this, forever, and … and your wife? Mama?”
“Yes. My wife. My mother. I know exactly what you’re going to say. But there’s someone else who’s waiting for me, who’s getting desperate. I have to go today, this very evening,” he repeated dully. “You promised you’d help me.”
“Listen,” said Augustin wearily, “let’s be quite clear about what each of us can do for you. I can give your wife a thousand francs a month. And let me tell you, that’s a huge amount for me. I don’t need to remind you that both Mama and Mariette are supported almost entirely by us. I can’t leave my wife with nothing. It will be up to Albert to sort out the rest.”
“I was waiting for that,” said Albert. “Why is it me, always and only me? Look here, it’s simply not fair! You keep telling me I’m rich and that you’re … But the money’s not mine! It belongs to my children. My savings are their security. I’ve got a daughter, you know! I need a dowry for her to safeguard her future. I love you all—I love Alain, I love Mama—but the children must come first. It’s my duty. It’s up to Alain if he doesn’t want to acknowledge his! The truth is, I’ve always been sacrificed for you two. You laugh at me; you think I’m clumsy, stupid, unintelligent, but you certainly know how to make use of me. When Father died, didn’t I give up my share of the inheritance to Mariette?”
“I did, too,” said Augustin. “It appears that the ties of flesh and blood cost rather a lot in the Demestre family.”
“It’s not just my wife,” said Alain. “I’ve bought my share of the plantation by borrowing money from … a friend, and now I owe him a hundred thousand francs. You simply have to advance the money against any guarantees you care to ask of me.”
Albert shouted, “A hundred thousand francs! Are you out of your mind? And you want it tonight, at once? You’re a … well, you’re a lunatic!”
“You promised!”
“I promised, and I’m ready to keep my promise, to give your wife and daughters a certain amount every month, on condition that it’s on absolutely equal terms with Augustin: it’s a matter of pride and of principle. As far as the rest goes, I can’t do anything about it now. You seem to forget that it’s not just me, there’s my wife. The money is my wife’s. I have to talk to her, get her agreement, work out how to give the money to you without depriving her. She has some shares we can’t sell without taking a hit, just for you, just to be kind to you. If you don’t believe me, go and find Sabine and …”
“I’m not going to go and beg Sabine for her money! It’s you I’m talking to, my brother, not an outsider!”
“Don’t shout. Are you crazy?” Albert said angrily.
Augustin held up his hands to silence them.
“Alain, don’t forget that we are responsible for Mariette and our mother. What we will be giving you, what we will guarantee your wife, will cut brutally into their share, which is already modest. Alain? Are you listening? Don’t you care about that either? Are you happy to wreck everything, abandon everything, for a whim?”
“It’s my life I’m fighting for,” said Alain obstinately.
“Don’t be so melodramatic. You’ve still got the mentality of a child of twenty. You’re not twenty any longer. There comes a time when you have to accept that your life has been a failure, a time when actions become irrevocable. So you’re unhappy with Alix? What about me? Do you think I’m happy? But I don’t say anything. I don’t complain. I put up with my life. I am responsible for it. You should do the same … Do as I do.”
“I swear to you,” said Albert, “as God is my witness, I would give everything I possess to save you from death or poverty or dishonor, but you’re asking us to deprive ourselves in order to make you unhappy, as well as your wife, your poor children, your mother …”
“We’re prepared to help you,” said Augustin quietly, “but within the limits of reason and decency. For there’s something else you appear to have forgotten: my wife and Alix are sisters. I can’t openly take your side. Only time and patience can unravel a situation as upsetting as this one.”
“Now I understand,” murmured Alain with a painful feeling of humiliation.
He had cried in front of his brothers. He had implored them for help. He had believed in them, implicitly, as in the old days. But it had all been in vain. How quickly they had rallied! How grimly they defended what was theirs! His loneliness was more bitter, more stifling than ever; and there was no remedy for his failings …
“It’s late,” he said again. “If you agree, say so. If you refuse, say so. But say it at once, at once. I can’t wait.”
“We’re not refusing. But we can’t do more.”
“Fine,” said Alain.
He got up and moved toward the door. Augustin stood in his way.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going home. Where do you expect me to go?”
“Oh, I see! Well, good night,” Augustin said in a tired, irritable tone. “You’re lucky, being able to go to bed. I’m the one who’s got to wait until the doctor comes. Aren’t you going to say good night to Mother?”
“She’s asleep,” said Alain in a hoarse voice. “Good night!”
He left. Their mother, meanwhile, was awake and had been listening to the muffled sound of their quarrel. She heard Alain’s footsteps fading away, then Augustin and Albert coming nearer. They entered her room on tiptoe.
“Good night, Mama. Do you have everything you need?”
“What’s wrong, children? What were you talking about? What did Alain want?”
“Nothing, Mama, nothing at all! There’s nothing to worry about; don’t upset yourself.”
“Are you angry, Albert? Are you, Augustin?”
“Angry? Of course not! Try to sleep, go back to sleep. We’re waiting for the doctor.”
The doctor arrived and reassured them. Their mother was better; she was going to recover. Plump Josephine came in when they had all gone.
“Madame is better tonight? Madame won’t be worried anymore?”
She did not reply. She shut her eyes and listened to the silence in the flat, to the slow footsteps of the nurse as she prepared her black coffee for the night ahead, the long, lonely night. She was no longer worried about being ill. She knew that now she had recovered.
Fraternité
[ BROTHERHOOD ]
HE WENT BRIEFLY INTO THE DESERTED FIRST-CLASS waiting room; the stoves were lit, but he could feel a cold draft coming up through the thin floorboards. He went back outside. The station was very small, surrounded by bare fields. It was an icy October day: a faint pink glow was fast disappearing from the sky, for summer time had ended the day before and the clocks had gone back. He walked up to a bench under the gabled roof, hesitated, then sat down. He wished now he had listened to Florent, his driver, and spent the night in town. The hotel hadn’t been that dirty … Now he had to wait on the empty platform, and then crawl along until evening in some horrible local train … He wouldn’t get to the Sestres’ until after eight o’clock. The car had smashed into a pylon and was unusable. He shouldn’t be driving anymore; he was worn out, and his reflexes were slow. It was a miracle he’d gotten away without being hurt. He hadn’t had time to see the danger, and he could have died. Afterward he had pulled himself together enough to conceal his fear from Florent and had managed not to display any emotion. At least, he hoped so! Now he was shivering … perhaps from the cold. He dreaded the open air and the wind.
He was a thin, frail, hunched man with silver hair; his narrow face had a yellowish tinge; his dry skin looked sta
rved of nourishment; his nose was excessively long and pointed; his lips, also dry, seemed parched by a thousand-year-old thirst, an affliction passed on from one generation to the next. “My nose, my mouth, the only specifically Jewish traits I’ve kept.” He gently cupped his hands over his thin, almost translucent ears, which were quivering like a cat’s; they were particularly sensitive to the cold. He tightly fastened the collar of his coat, made from the best English wool, dark, thick, and soft. Yet he didn’t move. This deserted station platform, its lights almost invisible against the bright evening dusk, this solitude and sadness held an inexpressible charm for him. He was a man who took a deep and perverse pleasure in melancholy, in regrets and bitterness, too clearheaded—self-conscious, he said—to believe in happiness.
He looked impatiently at the time. Not even five o’clock … He felt for the cigarette case in his chest pocket but immediately let his hand drop. He smoked too much; he had palpitations, insomnia. He sighed. He was rarely ill, but his heightened senses, acutely conscious of any pain, were alert to the slightest twinge, to every movement his body made, to his blood’s ebb and flow; rarely ill, but he had a weak throat and a delicate liver; his heart was tired and his circulation bad. Why? He had always been sober, prudent, and moderate in all things. Ah! So prudent, even when he was young, even at the time of his blind, unforgettable folly … He didn’t miss his youth. It had been uneventful. At the time he had felt only the natural sorrows inherent in the human condition: his parents’ death, disappointments in love or work, nothing comparable to the pain caused by the death of his wife ten years before. He knew his family was surprised that his grief had lasted for so long. In fact, he had married Blanche without love and their union had been placid and lukewarm, but he was the kind of man who was faithful. A home, with its warmth and lamplight, that feeling of stability and peace in and around him: that’s what he had sought, that’s what he had loved, that’s what he had lost when he lost Blanche. For him there would never be another woman. He was not a man who found love easily: he was too reserved, too touchy, too shy. “A coward,” he thought. He lived as if everything were conspiring to rob him of life and happiness. In the depths of his heart he felt contrite and humiliated; he was constantly anxious, timid as a rabbit … And then, an hour ago, on the road, another minute would have meant the end of all his worries. “I always said that car was no good. And it was a heavy lunch. I was sleepy, had no energy; my reactions were slow.” What, exactly, had he eaten? Some pheasant, a mushroom omelette … what else? A bit of brie … “It was too heavy for me. Eggs don’t agree with me. Ah! This sedentary existence, at my age! I’m fifty years old. From one end of the year to the next I get barely a month of fresh air—the rest of the time it’s the bank, home, or the club.”
Dimanche and Other Stories (Vintage International) Page 9