by Lynn Bushell
‘Do you like it?’
‘It feels odd.’ She takes another sip and splutters.
Pierre hands her a serviette. ‘Small sips are better.’
She’s about to take another sip, but then she puts the glass down.
The first course arrives – whole scallops in a seashell with a white sauce over them. She scoops the sauce onto her tongue and lets it rest there for a moment. ‘It’s delicious. Can I keep the shell?’
‘I think they might regard it rather as they would if you asked whether you could take a plate away with you.’
‘But aren’t these like the shells you find on beaches?’
‘Yes. I’ll get one for you if you like, but possibly not this one.’
Is she being ticked off? With Pierre it’s sometimes hard to know.
‘You often come here, do you?’
‘Hardly ever.’
She looks round the tables. There are several women with men decades older than themselves. She wonders whether Maxim’s is another of the maisons closes that have sprung up in Paris since the war began. They often have a restaurant up front to make it look respectable. She feels as if she’s walking on a tightrope. Underneath her if she slips – and now she knows she will – there is a bubbling cauldron waiting to consume her. It’s not just a question of her going back to Marguerite; it’s what she might or might not do instead that matters and what that will mean from then on.
‘Now you’re looking sad again.’
‘I’m not. It’s only that when something nice is happening I keep thinking that tomorrow it’ll all be over.’
‘Isn’t that a reason to enjoy it while you can? What is it you’re afraid of?’
‘I don’t know – the usual things, old age, death, being poor, not having anybody except Marguerite.’ And maybe now not even having her, thinks Renée.
‘That’s an awful lot to be afraid of. But you wouldn’t want to stay with Marguerite for ever. You’ll move on at some point. You’ll get married and have children.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well then,’ he smiles. ‘Marguerite is just a staging post.’
‘Why didn’t you have children, you and Marthe?’
‘I’m afraid that painters make neglectful parents.’
‘Marthe didn’t want them, either?’
‘I think Marthe might once have discovered she was pregnant, but she never mentioned it. I thought that if she didn’t want to talk about it, that was up to her.’ He clears his throat.
‘What happened to the child?’
‘It went away.’
‘You mean it died?’
He looks round for the waiter. ‘It was over twenty years ago.’
‘You never talked about it?’
‘As I said . . .’ He raps his fingers on the tabletop and casts about him. ‘What will Marguerite have done today?’
‘She had to stay on at the Mairie. They had documents to work through for the Armistice.’
‘She won’t be working now, though?’
‘No. She’ll be at home.’
‘Will she be worried that you’re not back?’
She’ll know who I’m with, thinks Renée. From the way he says it she knows that it isn’t something he’s concerned about. Already she can sense a certain rivalry between them, although Pierre is not aware that Marguerite now knows about him.
‘What did you do with that letter you received?’
‘I did what you said.’
‘Good. If you can show you’re unaffected by these things, they usually stop.’
She nods. She hasn’t told Pierre about the cat. He fills her glass again. With each sip, Marguerite seems to recede a little further. There’s a pattern of acanthus leaves with berries on the wall behind Pierre’s head and suddenly his face looks like a gargoyle in among the foliage. She throws back her head and laughs. There’s so much noise inside the restaurant that no one notices.
‘It seems the champagne’s having the desired effect at last.’
‘Is it the champagne? So it isn’t real, this feeling?’
‘If you’re feeling it, it’s real.’
‘I mean, it won’t last.’
‘I think we’ve agreed that nothing lasts.’
There is an altercation at the door as three Marines are turned away. The diners look round, momentarily diverted by the prospect of an incident. The Maître d’ is called and remonstrates with them. They don’t speak French and although Renée knows Pierre speaks English he makes no attempt to intercede. The boys are clumsy; they’re already half drunk and now that they’ve been released onto the streets, they don’t know what to do – the city is replete with opportunities beyond their reach. They offer up a token protest and then meekly take their leave. One of them catches Renée’s eye. He’s barely older than her brother, but the look he gives her is both covert and respectful. He takes in the room as they withdraw and gapes.
The Maître d’ turns to the diners and holds up his hands. A titter goes around the tables. Pierre sees her face.
‘Why weren’t they let in?’
‘They’re not wearing suits.’
‘But they’ve just won the war for us.’
Pierre’s eyes flicker to the other tables. ‘It’s a rule they have sometimes in restaurants.’
‘It’s not right. I feel sorry for them.’
‘They’ll find somewhere else to eat. Don’t worry.’
She toys with her serviette. ‘Why can’t they be allowed to celebrate?’
‘Nobody wants to stop them celebrating, but I’m not sure Maxim’s is the kind of place where they would want to celebrate. They’re soldiers; they’ll be looking to get drunk and they can’t do that here. They’d only end up being thrown out later on.’
‘The French are such snobs.’
‘Yes, they are.’ He mouths the words. ‘Especially the Parisians.’
The second course arrives in front of them. ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s escalope de porc.’ He cuts a piece and puts it in his mouth. ‘It’s excellent. Do try a bit.’
She carves a slice of meat and spears it with her fork. Outside, the city is erupting into life again after the temporary hiatus of the afternoon. The Maître d’ looks anxiously towards the window.
‘Just as well we chose a table near the back.’ Pierre smiles. ‘Any plate-glass windows not already shattered by the blasts are likely to be targeted this evening.’
‘I hope they come back and burn the place down.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
Renée looks at him. His face looks raw and viscous in the red light. She takes in the other diners in the room. There’s not a single face here that she can relate to.
‘What’s the matter, Renée?’
‘I must go.’
He looks over his glasses at her. ‘Very well, but surely we can stay until the meal is over. You don’t want to miss out the dessert.’
‘I promised Marguerite I would be back at six o’clock.’
‘That’s totally unreasonable. What is this hold that Marguerite has over you?’
‘It’s not that.’ Renée screws the serviette up in her hand. ‘I don’t belong here.’
‘Dear girl, it’s a restaurant, that’s all. There isn’t any need to feel intimidated.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘I think I do. You don’t like how they treated the Marines. Well, nor do I. I hate society. It’s why I don’t go out in it unless I have to. I just thought you might enjoy the spectacle. I wanted to do something special for you, something that you would remember.’
‘Yes, I know. It’s lovely, but . . .’
‘I think you ought to wait for the dessert. I promise you it’s worth it.’ He leans over and unclasps her fingers from the serviette. ‘I’d like it if you stayed. Please do.’
He knows, and so does she, that it will be too late once they have finished eating for her to go back to Marguerite. The longer th
at she sits here, the less choice she has.
They have to walk back from the restaurant. The Metro has stopped running and there are no cabs. To walk the streets without the wail of sirens and the constant crack of shells exploding is a new experience. The street lamps, turned off in the last months of the war to make it harder for the enemy to see what they were bombing, flood the boulevards with light. The party that will go on for the next ten years has started.
It’s past midnight when they cross the Boulevard du Montparnasse. They climb the staircase arm in arm. Pierre takes off his overcoat and lights a candle. She is out of her clothes in a fraction of the time it takes him to undo the buttons on his shirt and take his tie off. He is fumbling with his shirt cuff. As he tries to disengage the button on it, it pings off onto the floor. He curses. Renée has the feeling he is no more used to this than she is.
‘Do you always take this long to get undressed?’
‘I’d get there quicker if you didn’t watch me.’
‘You watch me.’
‘You have the option of undressing in the cubicle if you don’t want me to.’
‘Why would I bother when you’ve seen me naked every Wednesday afternoon for eighteen months or more?’
‘You know that watching someone get undressed is reckoned to be more erotic than the sight of them with nothing on?’
‘Is that right? Not when someone’s making such a mess of it. Would you like me to help you?’
‘Not at all. I hope I can still manage to undress myself.’ But it is soon apparent that he can’t. He stands there with his shirt half off, his hands hung limply at his sides. She gets up and uncurls the shirt across his shoulders, down his arms. She takes the buckle of his trousers and unloops it. He sinks down onto the chaise longue. Renée kneels in front of him to take his socks off. He rests one hand on her head and waits for her to look up.
She has often wondered what his body looks like underneath his clothes. Whereas she can’t go past a mirror or a window without studying her own reflection, Pierre seems unaware that he has even got a body, other than the parts of it he needs – hands, eyes, brain.
There’s a thatch of dark hair in the middle of his chest that tapers down towards his navel and continues in a thinner line towards his groin where suddenly it sprouts into a forest. She’s seen few men naked but once some girl in the factory where she worked before the perfume counter had brought in a cache of photographs of men, their penises erect, their arms crossed, staring baldly at the camera, daring anybody looking back to be impressed. His penis looks like an exotic breed of caterpillar nestling in the undergrowth.
She wants to take it in her hand and whisper to it that it needn’t be afraid, but as she reaches out to touch the outer skin, it comes alive. There is a pulsing down the length of it, the tip protrudes out of its cloak of skin and thrusts itself towards her. She is fascinated and appalled. It seems to have a personality distinct from Pierre’s and when she glances up at him, she sees the horror on his face. ‘It’s all right,’ she says, ‘I don’t mind.’ She wants to go back to observing it, discovering its habits, how best to approach it. But a second later Pierre’s hands close around her shoulders and he thrusts her sideways onto the chaise longue. She feels his penis jabbing at her, blindly, still acclimatising to the monstrous transformation it has undergone.
Eventually, he puts his hand down, grasping it along its length and easing it inside her. She’d expected to feel pain. The girls at work had said the first time would be painful. She had thought there would be blood, but there was no blood either and she wondered if the games that she and Marguerite had played had somehow taken her virginity without her noticing.
His body clenches and convulses and then Renée feels the weight of him on top of her. He groans. His face is buried in the cushion next to hers. She wonders what will happen next. She feels him shrink inside her and loops both arms round his back. She wants to keep him there. She is afraid that once he has withdrawn she will feel lonely.
For a while, his breathing slows down and she wonders whether he’s asleep. She lies there without moving, listening to the distant sound of revellers still on the streets in a remote part of the city. Moonlight filtering through the skylight throws a ghostly white veil over the familiar objects in the studio – the vase of dead chrysanthemums left on the windowsill till Pierre has finished painting them, the easel and the worktop with its brushes and its jars of oil and turpentine. When she recalls that night, the bitter odour of chrysanthemums, the smell of linseed and the sweat from both their bodies is what she’ll remember.
When she wakes up, she’s not certain where she is. Pierre is lying next to her. He has his eyes closed, but she knows he’s not asleep. He turns his head. ‘You slept a long time.’
‘I was tired.’
‘We had a full day yesterday.’
‘I shan’t forget it ever.’
‘Nor shall I.’
She wonders whether he’ll invite her to stay in the studio. She’ll have to go back to the flat at some point; all her things are there. But she can’t bear the thought of going back yet. They lie quietly listening to the city waking up below them. ‘Will you work this morning?’
‘No.’ He bumps the cushion up behind his head. ‘I need to go home. Marthe will be anxious.’ Marthe. She’d forgotten her. She turns so that her chin is buried in his neck. ‘I know we have to talk about this, Renée, and we will, but Marthe will be wondering what’s become of me.’ He puts an arm around her. ‘What will you do?’
‘I don’t know?’ She hardly dares to think of the reception she will get from Marguerite when she returns.
‘Would you like me to come with you to Belleville?’
Renée sighs. ‘I don’t think that would help.’
He draws her in towards him. ‘You can’t let a woman like that run your life. You would have had to distance yourself from her in the end.’ He strokes her hair back from her forehead. ‘You don’t have to go back there at all, you know. You could stay in the studio.’
Although it’s what she hoped he’d say, there is a hesitation in the way he says it. She could tell him that she may not have the choice of going back to the apartment any more, but she does not want him to feel obliged to take her in.
His thumb continues moving back and forth under her hairline. ‘Do you wish it hadn’t happened?’
Renée gives a slight start, as if she’d forgotten he was there. She blinks. ‘Of course not. No.’
‘It’s only that you seem preoccupied.’
‘I feel a bit odd.’
‘Odd in what way?’ His hand moves down to her forehead. ‘Aren’t you well? Your forehead’s damp.’
She throws the cover back, distractedly. ‘Hot,’ she says. ‘I feel hot.’ She stares about her and then clutches at him.
‘Darling, what’s the matter?’
‘Promise me you won’t forget me, Pierre.’ She’s scrabbling at his chest. She has a sense that everything around her is about to fall away.
‘Forget you. What a thing to say.’ He strokes her cheek. ‘How could I possibly forget you?’
‘Will you keep the paintings that you’ve done of me?’
‘Of course I will.’
‘You won’t let anyone destroy them?’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘You promise?’
Pierre takes both her hands in his. He bunches them against his lips and kisses them. ‘I promise.’
Margo flings a case at her. ‘So you’ve come back at last! You’ve got a nerve. You little whore.’ The buckle on the suitcase catches Renée’s ankle and she flinches. She begins to speak, but Margo puts a hand up. ‘I don’t want to know. Just pack your things and go!’
She watches her as Renée goes into the bedroom and begins to pull out drawers and throw clothes in the suitcase. There is still a pile of items on the carpet. ‘Can I come back for these later?’
‘No, I want you out of this apartment.’ Renée starts to
cry. ‘You’ll have to hope he doesn’t throw you over straight away. You could be wandering the streets with half a dozen bags under your arms. I wouldn’t put them down if I were you. Thieves had a field day yesterday.’
‘Please could I have a glass of water?’
‘Get it. Don’t think you’ll be getting any help from me.’
She limps into the kitchen. Marguerite comes after her. She leans against the doorpost. ‘Don’t imagine that he’ll leave his wife now. At least we know what you are. There isn’t any need to be polite about it. You can always go home to your mother, I suppose, though she won’t be so keen to have you once she knows what’s happened.’
Renée leans her forehead on the wall above the sink. The sound of Marguerite’s voice is like linen tearing right next to her ear.
‘Cat got your tongue? And you can take that ring off. I don’t want you wearing it on any finger, let alone the third one.’
Renée glances at her wearily. ‘You gave it to me.’
‘You were someone else, then. Do you think I would have given it to you if I’d known how promiscuous you were?’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘It’s what you call a woman who’s prepared to sleep with anybody.’
‘That’s not me.’
‘It clearly is. You’ll find it’s easy now you’ve started. Soon it’ll be anyone who offers you a meal. That’s how it is. You’ve lost the only thing you had to offer.’
Renée bends to clip the fasteners on the case. It’s heavy. She has no idea how she will get it down the stairs and out onto the pavement.
‘You can leave the rest out on the landing.’
If she does, the tenants on the floor above will think it’s rubbish. Nothing will be there when she returns. ‘Perhaps you’d like to keep a few things to remember me.’
‘I don’t want to remember you. I’ll have forgotten you before you’ve turned the corner.’
‘That’s not true,’ says Renée. ‘If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be like this.’
‘I’m angry that I’ve wasted so much time on you. I’m angry that you’ve turned out to be such a . . . such a . . .’