That Mad Ache & Translator

by Françoise Sagan

  “So,” he said at last, “how was that film?”

  “It was terrific!” she replied.

  “You’ll have to admit that I sent you off to see it with good reason.”

  “I admit it,” she said. As she made this confession, she was standing in the bathroom with a towel in her right hand, and all at once she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as a strange little smile flickered across her face. She stood there speechlessly for a moment, then wiped the mirror with the towel, almost as if to erase the vestiges of a secret confidante who shouldn’t have been there at all.

  CHAPTER 19

  She was waiting for Antoine in the little bar in the Rue de Lille where they had fallen into the habit of meeting up each evening at around 6:30. She was talking horses with the waiter, a quite good-looking and very chatty fellow named Étienne, whom Antoine suspected of harboring less than innocent feelings for Lucile. More than once she had taken a racing tip from him and it had always turned out disastrously, for which reason Antoine, every time he walked in, would cast a dubious glance in their direction, not out of jealousy but out of fear of being hit hard in the pocketbook.

  This particular day, Lucile was in an excellent mood. They’d gone to sleep very late, having spent much of the night making elaborate and soaring plans that now she couldn’t recall very clearly, but which saw them smoothly sailing to some beautiful beach in Africa, or else moving into a lovely country manor somewhere near Paris. Meanwhile, Étienne, with a gleam in his eye, was telling her all about his favorite, a horse named Ambroisie II, who was listed at ten to one but who was a sure bet to win the next day at Saint-Cloud. And the thousand-franc note that was pleasantly dreaming away in Lucile’s pocket would surely have swiftly changed hands had Antoine not arrived just then, looking quite excited. He gave Lucile a peck, sat down, and ordered two whiskeys, which, in view of the fact that this was the twenty-sixth of the month, was a sign of celebration.

  ‘What’s up?” asked Lucile.

  “I spoke with Sirer today,” said Antoine to an obviously perplexed Lucile. “You know, the director of the paper Le Réveil… He’s got a job for you in their archives department.”

  “In their archives?”

  “Yes. It’s pretty interesting work, there’s not a whole lot to do, and he’ll give you 100,000 francs a month as a starting salary.”

  Lucile looked at him with consternation. Now it all was coming back to her, what they had talked about the night before. Together, they had concluded that Lucile’s life was no life at all, and that she had to find something to do. With great gusto she had welcomed the idea of working, and she’d even painted a rosy picture of herself at some newspaper, scrambling slowly but steadily toward the top, becoming one of those brilliant female journalists who were the talk of the town in Paris; undoubtedly she would have a lot of work and a lot of worries, but deep down she felt sure she had enough tenacity, humor, and ambition to make it. They would have a very swanky apartment paid for by the newspaper, since they would have to throw so many parties, but every year they would escape for at least a month, sailing on the balmy Mediterranean.

  She had enthusiastically spun out this glowing image before Antoine last night, who at first had been skeptical but then had gradually warmed up to it, for after all, no one was more persuasive than Lucile when she got to talking about her plans, especially when they were as hare-brained and as unlike herself as this one was. What in the world had she drunk or read last night that had gotten her spinning such a crazy tale? The fact was, she had no more ambition than she had tenacity, and no greater interest in having a career than in killing herself.

  “You know, this is a very good salary for this type of paper,” said Antoine. He seemed very pleased with himself. She looked at him with tenderness: he was still under the influence of their nocturnal flight of fancy and must have been replaying it in his mind all day long, and then turned over every stone in Paris to find this job. Such positions were enormously coveted by droves of society women who, suddenly hit by a wave of depression resulting from their state of midlife torpor, would gladly pay for the chance to sweep floors, as long as they were the floors of a publishing house, a fashion house, or a newspaper. And here this nutcase Sirer was all set to pay her, Lucile — she who cared only for doing nothing. Life was so incredibly stupid. She smiled half-heartedly at Antoine.

  “You don’t seem too thrilled,” he observed.

  “Well, it’s almost too good to be true,” she replied morosely.

  He looked at her with amusement. He knew very well that she was now regretting her fantasies of the previous night, and he also knew that she didn’t dare admit it to him. But he truly thought that she couldn’t possibly not be bored living this kind of life, and that she would wind up growing tired not only of her life but also of him, unless things changed. And more softly, he said to himself that those 100,000 francs, when added to his own salary, would allow Lucile to indulge in a far more cushy lifestyle.

  With that boyish optimism that many men have, he could just picture Lucile happily buying herself a couple of cute new dresses each month. Of course they wouldn’t bear the signature of any famous designer, but they’d fit her to a tee because her figure was so ideal. She’d take taxis, she’d have friends to see, she’d think a bit about politics and about the world around her — in short, about other people.

  There was no doubt that when he came home in the evenings, he would miss seeing her ensconced like some wild animal in its little den, and no doubt that he would miss the woman who lived only for the sake of reading and lovemaking, but on the other hand, it would somehow vaguely reassure him. After all, in her sedentary life, there was a fixation on the present and a disdain for the future that frightened him, that even offended him in some obscure fashion, as if he were only a piece on some movie set that was destined to be burned, without any possible chance of reprieve, as soon as the last scene had been filmed.

  “So when would I start?” asked Lucile. And now she was genuinely smiling. At least she could give it a try. She’d actually held down jobs once or twice, when she’d been younger. Of course this line of work would bore her a little, but she’d hide that from Antoine.

  “December first — in five or six days. Are you happy?”

  She sent a wary glance his way. Could he really believe that she was happy at this prospect? She had already noticed a slight sadistic streak in him, but this time he looked innocent and quite convinced of what he was saying. She nodded gravely. “Yes, I’m happy — very happy. You were right in thinking that things couldn’t go on this way forever.”

  He leaned over and gave her a kiss across the table in such an impulsive and tender fashion that she felt sure that he understood her. She smiled against his cheek and together they chuckled indulgently at her trepidations. And she was greatly relieved at his having read her mind, for she was always uncomfortable when he construed her wrongly — but all the same, she felt slightly resentful at having been tricked.

  That evening in their little room, Antoine, with pencil in hand, set about making some financial calculations that he found most encouraging. Of course, he said, he would take care of the rent and the phone bill — all those mundane matters. And then Lucile, with her own 100,000 francs, would be able to cover her dresses, her transportation, her lunches — in fact, there was an excellent canteen, actually quite delightful, at Le Réveil, where he could come join her for lunch sometimes.

  Sitting on the bed, Lucile listened to these figures with great shock. Part of her wanted to tell him that any dress from Dior bore a price tag of at least 300,000 francs, that she hated the Métro (even when she didn’t have to change lines), and that merely hearing the word “canteen” made her want to flee. She felt like an elitist — a dreadful, dyed-in-the-wool elitist. And yet, when he had finally stopped his pacing back and forth and when he turned towards her with a sweet, uncertain smile, as if he didn’t quite believe his own figures, she couldn’t help smiling
herself. He was like a kid, figuring the grocery bill the way kids do, working out his budget the way cabinet ministers do, juggling his numbers the way grown men do. What did it matter, after all, that her lifestyle would have to flex a little in order to match these chimerical calculations, given that he was the one, in the end, who would carry them out?

  CHAPTER 20

  She felt as if she’d been there for years, although it was actually only two weeks since she’d taken up work at the office of Le Réveil. It was one big gray room, cluttered with desks, chests, and filing cabinets, and its sole window looked out onto a narrow alley in Les Halles, the ancient market district. She worked together with a young woman named Marianne, who was three months pregnant, very likable and efficient, and who spoke in equally tender and concerned tones about the future of the newspaper she worked for and that of the child she was carrying. Indeed, Lucile often had to wonder, when her colleague would come out with some corny cliché like “Paris is going to go crazy over this one!” or “This baby will knock ’em dead!”, whether Marianne was speaking of the next issue of Le Réveil or of her imminent offspring Jérôme.

  The two women sorted, side by side, various newspaper clippings, and tracked down, depending on the requests that came in, dossiers on India, penicillin, or Gary Cooper, and when such dossiers were handed to them in a scrambled state, they would neatly tidy them up and then re-file them where they belonged. This was all fine, but what drove Lucile batty was the incessant overarching tone of urgency and seriousness that reigned throughout the place, and the sinister theme of “efficiency”, which was drummed into them day and night.

  A week after her arrival, she had attended a general meeting of the editorial staff — truly a hive of honeybees, all busily buzzing about, exchanging pre-chewed platitudes — and to which the directors, aiming to ward off any accusations of elitism, had condescended to invite the ants from the ground floor, as well as those from Archives. And so for two full hours, a dumbfounded Lucile had witnessed a rapid-fire human comedy in which arrogance, bootlicking, pomposity, and mediocrity all vied with each other to do the best possible job in increasing the circulation of little Jérôme’s rival. There were only three men there who didn’t spout nonsense — the first because he was constantly sulking, the second because he was the paper’s (hopefully appalled) director, and the third simply because he seemed to be a little bit more on the ball.

  After it was over, she gave Antoine a blow-by-blow account of the proceedings, whereupon he, having gotten over his initial laughter, told her she was exaggerating and chided her for seeing everything in such bleak terms. To add insult to injury, he said she was getting too scrawny. And it was true, she was so bored that she wasn’t even able to finish the sandwiches that — avoiding the canteen, to which she’d given one and only one try — she would go get herself at a nearby brasserie, where she would sit and read a novel. At 6:30, or sometimes even eight in the evening (“Lucile, my sweet, a thousand apologies for keeping You here so late, but You know we’ve got to put this baby to bed the day after tomorrow”), she’d try in vain to catch a taxi, eventually giving up and taking the Métro, almost always standing as she rode because she was loath to battle for a seat. She would look at the tired, preoccupied, glazed-over faces of her fellow riders and feel an intense yearning to rebel, far more on their account than on her own, for it seemed obvious to her that in her case, this whole rat race was merely a bad dream from which she was bound to wake up at any moment. And then, once she was back home, she’d find Antoine waiting for her, and as soon as he enfolded her in his arms, a sense of life’s meaning would come rushing back to her.

  That day, she had had it, and when she arrived at her usual brasserie at one o’clock, she ordered a cocktail from the surprised waiter (she never ordered drinks), and then another. She had a dossier to study and she riffled through it for a couple of minutes before closing it with a yawn. She was quite aware that they had suggested that she should write a few lines on the topic and that if they liked what she wrote, it might well be published. All well and good, but today wasn’t the day for it. Nor was today the day for obediently trotting back to that gray office right after lunch and returning to the cute little rôle she’d been playing of Active Young Woman in front of other people who would be playing their grandiose little rôles of Thinkers, or else Men of Action. They were all lousy rôles, or at the very least it was a lousy play. Or then again, if Antoine was right and this play that she was acting in was a perfectly respectable and useful play, well then, her rôle in it was poorly written, or else it had been written for somebody else. Antoine was simply wrong — this was now crystal-clear to her in the glaring light of her two cocktails, for alcohol at times shines pitiless sharp spotlights on life, and right now it was revealing to her the thousands of little lies that she had been telling herself day after day in an effort to convince herself that she was happy. But in fact she was unhappy, and life was unfair.

  Suddenly a wave of intense self-pity flooded over her. She ordered yet another cocktail, which prompted the waiter to ask her what was the matter. She replied “Everything” with a mournful expression, with which he commiserated, saying that some days were like that, and that she really ought to order her usual sandwich and, for once, eat it all, because otherwise she might well wind up like his cousin who was soon going to be coming up on six months in a high-altitude tuberculosis clinic. So… this young man had actually noticed she never ate a bite, so he felt some pity for her, even though all she ever said to him was “hello” and “good-bye”, and so — bottom line — there was somebody who truly cared. And out of nowhere, tears started filling her eyes. Alcohol can just as easily make you maudlin as it can bring you insight, she now remembered. And so she ordered her sandwich and, putting on a serious look, opened the book she’d borrowed from Antoine’s collection that morning. It was The Wild Palms by Faulkner, and fate was such that she quickly hit upon this monologue by Harry:

  “… Respectability. That was what did it. I found out some time back that it’s idleness breeds all our virtues, our most bearable qualities — contemplation, equableness, laziness, letting other people alone; good digestion mental and physical: the wisdom to concentrate on fleshly pleasures — eating and evacuating and fornication and sitting in the sun — than which there is nothing better, nothing to match, nothing else in all this world but to live for the short time you are loaned breath, to be alive and know it…”

  Lucile stopped right there, shut her book, paid the waiter, and walked out. She headed straight back to the newspaper, told Sirer that she was quitting, and asked him not to say a thing to Antoine about it, all without offering a word of explanation. She stood there before him, straight, stubborn, and smiling, and he simply looked at her with bewilderment. She took off immediately, hailed a taxi, told the driver to take her to the Place Vendôme, and got out at a jeweler’s where she promptly sold, at half-price, the pearl necklace that Charles had bought her that year for Christmas. She ordered a replica to be made of it in fake pearls, snubbed the knowing smile that the saleslady flashed at her, and walked out feeling a free woman. She spent a half hour looking at the impressionist paintings in the Jeu de Paume, another two hours watching a movie, and then, when she got home, she breezily announced to Antoine that she was coming to feel quite at home at Le Réveil. This way, he wouldn’t be worried any more, and she’d feel at ease for a while. All in all, she felt far better lying to him than lying to herself.

  And thus she spent a marvelous two weeks. Paris had been given back to her, along with her status of loafer — and also the money she needed to enjoy that status. She quickly returned to the lifestyle she’d gotten so used to, but now as an impostor — and naturally, the feeling of playing hooky greatly enhanced her pleasure, even in simple things.

  One day, upstairs in a restaurant on the rive gauche, she discovered a kind of café-cum-library, and from then on she spent her afternoons there, reading books or chatting with various stran
ge characters at loose ends, mostly alcoholics, who haunted the place. One of them, an aristocratic-looking old fellow who went around proclaiming he was a prince, asked her if she would care to join him for lunch one day at the Ritz Hotel, and the morning of that grand event she spent an hour getting dressed, trying to figure out which of the many cute suits that Charles had bought her had the most fashionable colors. And thus she had an exquisitely unreal lunch at the Espadon, sitting across from this eccentric gentleman who most gravely lied through his teeth to her, recounting his life in a fashion inspired a little by Tolstoy and a little by Malraux — and she, to be sure, returned the favor and lied right back at this eccentric gentleman, inventing a story in her best Scott Fitzgerald style.

  He, in a word, was not only a Russian prince but also a historian, while she was an American heiress with a dollop more culture than usual. Both of them were dreadfully adored and dreadfully wealthy, and as the various maîtres d’hôtel fluttered solicitously about their table, they casually dropped Marcel Proust’s name, for it turned out that her lunch companion had been on intimate terms with the great writer. At the end, he sprang for the bill, which certainly had to put a sizable dent in his upcoming month’s budget, and they took leave of one another at four o’clock, each of them utterly enchanted by the other.

  When she got home, she told Antoine a thousand anecdotes about all the little goings-on at Le Réveil, and he was clearly amused. She took particular pleasure in lying to him because she loved him so much, and because she was so happy, and because she so truly wanted him to share in her happiness. One day, of course, he would find out; some day, even though she’d told Marianne not to do so, the office phone would ring and Marianne would answer it and blurt out that Lucile had been “away” for a month — but rather perversely, this sword of Damocles hanging over Lucile’s head simply added an unexpected little twinge of excitement to each day that went by. She bought a series of ties for Antoine, as well as numerous art books and records for him, and whenever they talked, she would go on and on about all her advances, her free-lance assignments, and whatever else came to mind. She was brimming with joy and Antoine was thrilled with her joyousness. Selling that necklace had guaranteed her two solid months of goldbricking, self-indulgence, and confabulation — in other words, two months of sheer happiness.