by Jean Rhys
Not the Dome. I'll avoid the damned Dome. And, of course, it's the Dome I go to.
The terrace is crowded, but there are not many people inside. What on earth have I come in here for? I have always disliked the place, except right at the start, when the plush wasn't so resplendent and everybody spat on the floor. It was rather nice then.
I pay for my drink and go out. I am waiting to cross the street. Someone says: 'Excuse me, but can I speak to you ? I think you speak English.'
I don't answer. We cross side by side.
He says: 'Please allow me to speak to you. I wish to so much.'
He speaks English with a very slight accent. I can't place it. I look at him and recognize him. He was sitting at a table in the corner opposite to mine at the Dome.
'Please. Couldn't we go to a cafe and talk?'
'Of course,' I say. 'Why not?'
'Well, where shall we go?' he says in a fussy voice. 'You see, I don't know Paris well. I only arrived last night.'
'Oh?' I say.
As we walk along, I look sideways at him and can't make him out. He isn't trying to size me up, as they usually do - he is exhibiting himself, his own person. He is very good-looking, I noticed that in the Dome. But the nervousness, the slightly affected laugh....
Of course. I've got it. Oh Lord, is that what I look like ? Do I really look like a wealthy dame trotting round Montparnasse in the hope of - After all the trouble I've gone to, is that what I look like ? I suppose I do.
Shall I tell him to go to hell ? But after all, I think, this is where I might be able to get some of my own back. You talk to them, you pretend to sympathize; then, just at the moment when they are not expecting it, you say: 'Go to hell.'
We are passing the Closerie des Lilas. He says: 'This looks a nice cafe. Couldn't we go in here?'
'All right. But it's very full. Let's sit on the terrace.'
The terrace is cold and dark and there is not another soul there.
'What about a drink?'
'You'll have to get hold of the waiter. He won't come out here.'
'I'll get him.'
He goes into the cafe and comes back with the waiter and two brandies.
He says: 'Have you ever felt like this - as if you can't bear any more, as if you must speak to someone, as if you must tell someone everything or otherwise you'll die '
'I can imagine it.'
He is not looking at me - he hasn't looked at me once. He is looking straight ahead, gathering himself up for some effort. He is going to say his piece. I have done this so often myself that it is amusing to watch somebody else doing it.
'But why do you want to talk to me?'
He is going to say: 'Because you look so kind,' or 'Because you look so beautiful and kind,' or, subtly, 'Because you look as if you'll understand....
He says: 'Because I think you won't betray me.'
I had meant to get this man to talk to me and tell me all about it, and then be so devastatingly English that perhaps I should manage to hurt him a little in return for all the many times I've been hurt....'Because I think you won't betray me, because I think you won't betray me....'
Now it won't be so easy.
'Of course I won't betray you. Why should I betray you?'
'No,' he says. 'Why?'
He throws back his head and laughs. That's the gesture for showing of the teeth. Also, I suppose he is laughing at the idea of my being able to betray him.
'Very nice, very nice indeed. Beautiful teeth,' I say in an insolent voice.
'Yes, I know,' he answers simply.
But I have jarred him a bit. He finishes his drink and starts again.
'I am what they call in French a mauvais garcon.'
'But I like them. I like les mauvais garcons.'
For the first time he looks straight at me. He doesn't look away again, but goes on in the same nervous voice: 'I got into bad trouble at home. I ran away.'
'I am a Canadian, a French-Canadian,' he says.
'French-Canadian? I see.'
'Shall we have another drink?'
Again he has to go inside the cafe to fetch the waiter and the drinks. Now it's creeping into me, the brandy, creep ing into my arms, my legs, making me feel hazy.
I listen to his story, which is that he joined the Foreign Legion, was in Morocco for three years, found it impossible to bear any longer, and escaped through Spain - Franco Spain. Just escaped from the Foreign Legion....La Legion, La Legion Etrangere....
'I had enormous luck, or I couldn't have done it. I got to Paris last night. I'm at a hotel near the Gare d'Orsay.'
'Is it as bad as they say, the Legion?'
'Oh, they tell a lot of lies about it. But I'd had enough....You don't believe me, do you? You don't believe anything I'm telling you. But it's always when a thing sounds not true that it is true,' he says.
Of course. I know that....You imagine the carefully - pruned, shaped thing that is presented to you is truth. That is just what it isn't. The truth is improbable, the truth is fantastic; it's in what you think is a distorting mirror that you see the truth.
'I'll tell you one thing I don't believe. I don't believe you're a French-Canadian.'
'Then what do you think I am?'
'Spanish Spanish-American?'
He blinks and says to himself: 'Elle n'est pas si bete que ca.' Well, that might mean anything.
'It's awfully cold here,' I say, 'too cold to stay any longer.'
'No, please. Please don't go, you mustn't go. Or, if you wish, let's go somewhere else. But I must talk to you.'
His voice is so urgent that I begin to feel exasperated.
'But, my dear friend, I don't know what you think I can do. People who are in trouble want someone with money to help them. Isn't it so? Well, I haven't got any money.'
The corners of his mouth go down. They all say that.
I want to shout at him 'I haven't got any money, I tell you. I know what you're judging by. You're judging by my coat. You oughtn't to judge by my coat. You ought to judge by what I have on under my coat, by my handbag, by my expression, by anything you like. Not by this damned coat, which was a present - and the only reason I haven't sold it long ago is because I don't want to offend the person who gave it to me, and because if you knew what you really get when you try to sell things it would give you a shock, and because - '
Well, there you are - no use arguing. I can see he has it firmly fixed in his head that I'm a rich bitch and that if he goes on long enough I can be persuaded to part.
'But it isn't money I want,' he says. 'Really it isn't money. What I hoped was that we could go somewhere where we could be quite alone. I want to put my head on your breast and put my arms round you and tell you everything. You know, it's strange, but that's how I feel tonight. I could die for that - a woman who would put her arms round me and to whom I could tell everything.
Couldn't we go somewhere like that?'
'No, we can't,' I say. 'Impossible.'
'Well,' he says, accepting this calmly, 'if you won't do that, I thought perhaps you could help me about my papers. You see, I have no papers, no passport. That's just why I'm in trouble. The slightest accident and I'm finished. I have no papers. But if I could get a passport, I would go to London. I'd be safe there. I could get in touch with fiends.'
I say: 'And you think I can help you to get a passport? I ? Me ? But who do you think I am ? This must be one of my good nights.'
At this moment I find everything so funny that I start laughing loudly. He laughs too.
'I can't stay on this damned terrace any longer. It's too cold.'
He raps on the window and, when the waiter comes, pays for the drinks. 'Now, where shall we go?' He puts his arm through mine and says, in French: 'Now, where?'
Well, what harm can he do to me? He is out for money and I haven't got any, I am invulnerable.
There we are, arm in arm, outside the Closerie des Lilas and when I think of my life it seems to me so comical that I h
ave to laugh. It has taken me a long time to see how comical it has been, but I see it now, I do.
'You must tell me where to go,' he says, 'because I don't know Paris.'
I take him to the cafe where I go most nights - the place that is always empty. This is the first time that I have seen him in a bright light, close by. It is also the first time that, on these occasions, I haven't cared in the least what the man thinks of me, and am only curious to see what he looks like.
He doesn't look like a gigolo - not my idea of a gigolo at all. For instance, his hair is rather untidy. But, nice hair.
Another brandy and soda. I suppose all this money that he is spending on me is the sprat to catch a whale.
The waiter, giving him change, brings out of his pocket the most extraordinary collection of small money. Pieces of twenty five centimes, of ten, of five - the table is covered with them. When he has slowly collected it all once more, he goes into the corner of the room, takes of his shoes and starts cleaning them.
I say: 'This is my sort of place - this chic, gay place. Do you like it?'
'No, I don't like it, but I understand why you come here. I'm not always so fond of human beings, either.'
Well, here's another who isn't as stupid as all that.
He says: 'You know, that waiter - he was quite sure we loved each other and were going to be very happy tonight. He was envying us.'
'Yes, I expect he'll stay awake all night thinking of it. Like hell he will.'
He looks disconsolate, tired; as if he were thinking: 'No good. Everything's got to be started all over again.' Poor gigolo!
I say: 'About your papers - there are people here who sell false passports. It can be done.'
'I know. I'm in touch with somebody already.'
'What, and you only got here last night! You haven't wasted much time.'
'No, and I'd better not, either.'
He is in some sort of trouble. I know that look. I want very much to comfort him - to say something to cheer him up.
'I like les mauvais garcons,' I say. He smiles. 'I know exactly what you want,' I say. 'You want somebody very rich and very chic.'
'Yes,' he says, 'yes, that's what would just suit me. And beautiful.'
'But, my dear, you're not going to find that at the Dome.'
'Where shall I go, then? Where shall I find all that?'
'Ritz Bar,' I say vaguely.
After this I start my piece. I tell him my name, my address, everything. He says his name is Rene, and leaves it at that. I say I am sick of my hotel and want to leave it and find a lat or a studio.
He is on the alert at once. 'A studio? I think I could get you exactly the place you want.'
I am not so drunk as all that.
'I thought you said you'd just escaped from the Foreign Legion and only got to Paris last night and were going away again as soon as you could.'
'Why should that prevent me from trying to get you a studio if you want one?'
(Let it pass, dearie, let it pass. What's it matter?)
'Can I take you back to your hotel?'
'Yes, but it's too far to walk. I want a taxi.'
We sit in the taxi in silence. At the corner of the street we get out. I let him pay. (So much the worse for you. That will teach you to size up your types a bit better.)
'Let's have one more drink,' he says.
We walk up the street, trying to find a place that is open. Everything seems to be shut; it is past twelve. We go along the Rue St Jacques hand in hand. I am no longer self-conscious. Hand in hand we walk along, swinging our arms. Suddenly he stops, pulls me under a lamppost and stares at me. The street is empty, the lights in the bars are out.
'Hey, isn't it a bit late in the day to do this?'
He says: 'Mais c'est completement fou. It's hallucinating. Walking along here with you, I have the feeling that I'm with a - '
'With a beautiful young girl?'
'No,' he says. 'With a child.'
Now I have had enough to dink, now the moment of tears is very near. I say: 'Well, nothing's open. Everything's shut. I'm going home.'
He looks up at the door of my hotel.
'Can I come up to your room?'
'No, you can't.'
'Well, can I come back in a little while and get a room here myself and then come to see you?'
(The patronne saying: 'L'Anglaise has picked up some one. Have you seen?')
'No, don't come here. I shall be awfully vexed if you come here. Please don't.'
'Of course I won't if you ask me not to,' he says. Tactful. 'What about the hotel next door? Perhaps I could get a room there.'
PART TWO
All the same, at three o'clock I am dressing to meet the Russian.
He is waiting. He says his fiend Serge is expecting us. 'Le peintre,' he calls him.
I suggest taking a taxi but he seems horrified at the idea.
'No, no. We'll go by bus. It's quite near. It's only a few minutes away.' 'Couldn't we walk, then?' 'Oh yes, we could walk. It's just of the Avenue d'Orleans, about five minutes' walk.' 'It's more than five minutes,' I argue. 'It's more like half an hour.'
Soon now it will be winter. There are hardly any leaves on the trees and the man outside the Luxembourg Gardens is selling roast chestnuts.
We stand at the end of a long queue. No bus.
'Do let's take a taxi.' 'Very well. If you like,' he says unwillingly. 'But the man will be very vexed at having to go such a short distance. - Place Denfet-Rochereau, the Metro,' he says to the driver. - 'It won't be far to walk from there.' 'But couldn't we go straight to the place where your friend lives?' 'No, I don't know the name of the street.' 'You don't know the name of the street?' 'No, I've never noticed it.'
When I see how anxiously he is watching the meter I am sorry I insisted on taking the taxi. All the same, I should have dropped dead if I had tried to walk this distance.
'Do let me pay, because it was I who insisted.'
But he has got the money in his hand already and is counting it out.
He takes my arm and we walk along. 'It's just a minute, it's just a minute,' he keeps saying.
Walking to the music of L'Arlesienne, remembering the coat I wore then - a black and white check with big pockets. We have just passed the hotel I lived in. That was the high spot - when I had nothing to eat for three weeks, except coffee and a croissant in the morning.
I slept most of the time. Probably that was why it was so easy. If I had had to go about a lot I might have felt worse. I got so that I could sleep fifteen hours out of the twenty four.
Twice I said I was ill, and they sent me up soup with meat in it from downstairs, and I could get an occasional bottle of wine on tick from the shop round the corner. It wasn't starvation at all when you come to think of it. Still, I'm not saying that there weren't some curious moments.
After the first week I made up my mind to kill myself - the usual whiff of chloroform. Next week, or next month, or next year I'll kill myself. But I might as well last out my month's rent, which has been paid up, and my credit for breakfasts in the morning.
'My child, don't hurry. You have eternity in front of you.' She used to say that sarcastically, Sister Marie - Augustine, because I was so slow. But the phrase stayed with me. I have eternity in front of me. Soon I'll be able to do it, but there's no hurry. Eternity is in front of me....
Usually, in the interval between my afternoon sleep and my night sleep I went for a walk, turned up the Boulevard Arago, walked to a certain spot and turned back. And one evening I was walking along with my hands in the pockets of my coat and my head down. This was the time when I got in the habit of walking with my head down....I was walking along in a dream, a haze, when a man came up and spoke to me.
This is unhoped-for. It's also quite unwanted. What I really want to do is to go for my usual walk, get a bottle of wine on tick and go back to the hotel to sleep. However, it has happened, and there you are. Life is curious when it is reduced to its essentials.
Well, we go into the Cafe Buffalo. Will I have a little aperitif? I certainly will. Two Pernods arrive.
I start thinking about food. Choucroute, for instance - you ought to be able to get choucroute garnie here. Lovely sausage, lovely potato, lovely, lovely cabbage....My mouth starts watering violently. I drink half the glass of Pernod in order to swallow convenablement. And then I feel like a goddess. It might have made me sick, but it has done the other thing
The orchestra was playing L'Arlesienne, I remember so well. I've just got to hear that music now, any time, and I'm back in the Cafe Bufalo, sitting by that man. And the music going heavily. And he's talking away about a friend who is so rich that he has his photograph on the bands of his cigars. A mad conversation.
'One day', he says, 'I too will be so rich that I shall have my photo on the bands of the cigars I offer to my friends. That is my ambition.'
Will I have another little Pernod? I certainly will have another little Pernod. (Food? I don't want any food now. I want more of this feeling - fire and wings.)
There we are, jabbering away as if we had known each other for years. He reads me a letter that he has just had from a girl.
What's the matter with it? It seems to me a letter any man ought to be proud to have. All about frissons and spasms and unquestionable reussites. (Cheri, cheri, rappelles-tu que....) A testimonial, that letter is.
But the snag is at the end, as usual. The girl wants a new pair of shoes and she is asking for three hundred francs to buy them. Cheri, you will remember the unforgettable hours we passed together and not refuse me when I tell you that my shoes are quite worn out. I am ashamed to go into the street. The valet de chambre knows that there are large holes in both my shoes. Really, I am ashamed to be so poor. I stay all the time in my room. And so, cheri, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera....
He is chewing and chewing over this letter. 'I don't believe it,' he says. 'It's all a lie, it's a snare, it's a trap. This girl, you understand, is a liar. What she wants is three hundred francs to give to her maquereau. Will I give her three hundred francs for her maquereau? No, I won't. I will not....All the same,' he says, 'I can't bear to think of that poor little one with holes in her shoes. That can't be amusing, walking about with your feet on the ground.