Good Morning, Midnight

by Jean Rhys

  I loathe bordels, anyway.'

  (Now, why has this girl suddenly come up out of the past? She wasn't beautiful, not a star at all. I expect she didn't have a very good time. But I wanted to put my arms round her, kiss her eyes and comfort her - and if that's not love, what is?)

  'Oh, all women hate bordels,' he says.

  'Oh yeah? Well, you wouldn't think so to hear some of them talk. Besides, don't tell me that I'm like other women - I'm not.'

  'Yes, but all women say that too,' he says.

  Now it seems to me that there is antagonism in the air. It would be a pity if we ended with a quarrel.

  'I'm no use to anybody,' I say. 'I'm a cerebrale, can't you see that?'

  Thinking how funny a book would be, called 'Just a Cerebrale or You Can't Stop Me From Dreaming'. Only, of course, to be accepted as authentic, to carry any conviction, it would have to be written by a man. What a pity, what a pity!

  'Is that your idea of yourself?' he says.

  'It is, certainly.'

  'It's not mine at all. I should have thought you were rather stupid.'

  This pulls me up short. If he thinks me stupid now I wonder what he would say to my usual conversation, which goes like this: 'I believe it's going to be fine today - yes, I hope it is - yes - yes - yes -'

  'You think me stupid?' I say.

  'No, no. Don't be vexed. I don't mean stupid. I mean that you feel better than you think.'

  Do I? I wonder....Oh well, stupid....An extremely funny monologue is going on in my head - or it seems to me extremely funny. I want to stop myself from laughing out loud, so I say: 'We're getting very high toned. What is a cerebrale, anyway? I don't know. Do you?'

  'A cerebrale,' he says, seriously, 'is a woman who doesn't like men or need them.'

  'Oh, is that it? I've often wondered. Well, there are quite a lot of those, and the ranks are daily increasing.'

  'Ah, but a cerebrale doesn't like women either. Oh, no. The true cerebrale is a woman who likes nothing and nobody except herself and her own damned brain or what she thinks is her brain.'

  So pleased with herself, like a little black boy in a top hat....

  'In fact, a monster.'

  'Yes, a monster.'

  'Well, after all that it's very comforting to know that you think I'm stupid....Let's ask for the bill, shall we? Let's go.'

  'I rang you up the other morning,' he says.

  'Yes, I know. I was asleep. I got down to the tele phone too late.'

  'You knew who it was?'

  'Oh, I thought it might be you. I wasn't sure.' 'You have friends in Paris, then?'

  'I don't know a soul here, except two Russians I met the other day. I like them very much.' 'Russians,' he says in a spiteful voice, 'Russians in Paris! Everybody knows what they are - Jews and poor whites. The most boring people in the world. Terrible people.'

  For some reason I am very vexed at this. I start wondering why I am there at all, what I am doing in this box of a restaurant, swapping dirty stories with a damned gigolo. I want to get away. I want to be out of the place.

  'I'm going to the Exhibition,' I say. 'I want to see it again at night before I go.'

  'The Exhibition?'

  'Haven't you been to it?'

  'No, I haven't. What should I do at the Exhibition?'

  'Well, I'm going. You needn't come if you don't want to. I'll go by myself.' I want to go by myself, to get into a taxi and drive along the streets, to stand by myself and look down at the fountains in the cold light.

  'But of course,' he says. 'If you want to go to the Exhibition, we'll go. Naturally.'

  We go in by the Trocadero entrance. There aren't many people about. Cold, empty, beautiful - this is what I imagined, this is what I wanted.

  'What's that light up there?' he says.

  'That's the Star of Peace. Don't you recognize it?'

  He stares back at it.

  'How mesquin! It's vulgar, that Star of Peace.'

  'The building is very fine,' I say, in a schoolmistress's voice. We stand on the promenade above the fountains, looking down on them. This is what I wanted - the cold fountains, the cold, rainbow lights on the water.... He says again: 'It's mesquin, your Star of Peace.'

  We stand for some time, leaning over the balustrade. He puts his arm through mine. I can feel him shivering. When I tell him so he answers: 'Well, it's cold here after Morocco.'

  'Oh yes, of course. Morocco.'

  'You don't believe I've just come from Morocco, do you?'

  Whatever else is a lie about him, it's certainly true that he isn't dressed for this weather.

  The lights shimmering on the water, the leaping fountains, cold and beautiful....

  'Why don't you borrow some money from your American and buy yourself an overcoat?'

  'No, I'm going to wait. I want to get my clothes in London.'

  For God's sake - he's going to stat up again about the addresses of London tailors....

  'Let's go and have a drink somewhere. That'll make us warm.'

  'A drink?' he says. 'Oh yes, of course. But supposing I don't want to walk a long way in the cold just to get a cheap drink.'

  He begins to whistle, like a little boy whistles when he is trying to keep his courage up - loud, clear and pure.

  'What's that tune? I like it.' 'That's the march of the Legion, he says, the real one. Or that's what I think it is. But how should I know.'

  'Tell me about Morocco.'

  'No, I don't want to talk about it....I don't want to think about it,' he says loudly. 'Come on, let's go and have our drink.'

  'The goodbye one,' I say.

  'All right - the goodbye one. But not in here. Let's get out of here....

  We sit side by side in the taxi, not touching each other. He is whistling softly all the time. I watch the streets through the window. Well, there you are, Paris, and this is the goodbye drink....

  'Where are we going?' he says.

  We are passing the Deux Magots. "This is all right. Let's go in here.'

  The cafe is not very full. I choose a table as far away from everyone else as possible. We order two brandies.

  He has told me that he is twenty six, but I think he is older than that - he's about thirty. And he doesn't look like a gigolo, not at all like a gigolo. Suddenly I feel shy and self-conscious. (How ridiculous! Don't let him see it, for God's sake.) I drink half my brandy and soda and start talking about the last time I was in the Deux Magots and how I had been staying at Antibes and how I came back very brown and on top of the world and with some money too, and all the rest.

  'Money I had earned. Sans blague. It was too funny. I wrote up fairy stories for a very rich woman. She came to Montparnasse looking for somebody and of course there was a rush. She chose me because I was the cheapest. The night I got back to Montparnasse - very rich - we celebrated. We started up in this cafe because I was staying at a hotel near here.'

  What with the brandy and soda and going back to the Deux Magots, the whole thing is whirling nicely round in my head. She would come into my room very early in the morning in her dressing-gown, her hair hanging down in two plaits, looking rather sweet, I must say. 'Are you awake, Mrs Jansen? I've just thought of a story. You can take it down in shorthand, can't you?' 'No, I'm afraid I can't.' (Cheated! For what I'm paying she ought to know shorthand.)

  'But if you'll tell me what you want to say I think I can get it down.' Of she'd go. 'Once upon a time there was a cactus - 'Or a white rose or a yellow rose or a red rose, as the case might be. All this, mind you, at six thirty in the morning....'This story', she would say, looking anxious, 'is an allegory. You understand that, don't you?' 'Yes, I understand.' But she was never very explicit about the allegory. 'Could you make it a Persian garden?' 'I don't see why not.' 'Oh, and there's something I want to speak to you about, Mrs Jansen. I'm afraid Samuel didn't like the last story you wrote.' Oh God, this awful sinking of the heart - like going down in a lift. I knew this job was too good to be true. 'Didn't
he? I'm sorry. What didn't he like about it?' 'Well, I'm afraid he doesn't like the way you write. What he actually said was that, considering the cost of these stories, he thinks it strange that you should write them in words of one syllable. He says it gets monotonous, and don't you know any long words, and if you do, would you please use them?....Madame Holmberg is most anxious to collaborate with me. And she's a real writer - she's just finished the third volume of her Life of Napoleon.' After this delicate hint she adds: 'Samuel wished to speak to you himself, but I told him that I preferred to do it, because I didn't want to hurt your feelings. I said I was sure, if I told you his opinion, you'd try to do better. I should hate to hurt your feelings because in a strange way I feel that we are very much alike. Don't you think so?' (No, I certainly don't think so, you pampered chow.) 'I'm awfully sorry you didn't like the story,' I say.

  Sitting at a large desk, a white sheet of paper in front of me and outside the sun and the blue Mediterranean. Monte Carlo, Monte Carlo, by the Med-it-er-rany-an sea-ee, Monte Carlo, Monte Carlo, where the boy of my heart waits for me-ee....Persian garden. Long words. Chiaroscuro? Translucent?....I bet he'd like cataclysmal action and centrifugal lux, but the point is how can I get them into a Persian garden?....Well, I might. Stranger things have happened....A blank sheet of paper....Once upon a time, once upon a time there lived a lass who tended swine....Persian gardens. Satraps - surely they were called satraps....It's so lovely outside, and music has started up somewhere.... Grinding it out, oh God, with all the long words possible. And the music outside playing Valencia....'Are you still there, Mrs Jansen? You haven't gone out? I've just thought of a new story. Once upon a time there lived....'

  Shrewd as they're born, this woman, hard as a nail, and with what a sense of property! She'd raise hell if a spot of wine fell on one of her Louis Quinze chairs. Authentic Louis Quinze, of course they were.

  They explain people like that by saying that their minds are in water-tight compartments, but it never seemed so to me. It's all washing about, like the bilge in the hold of a ship, all washing around in the same hold - no water-tight compartments....Fairies, red roses, the sense of property - Of course they don't feel things like we do - Lilies in the moonlight - I believe in survival after death. I've had personal proof of it. And we'll find our dear, familiar bodies on the other side - Samuel has forgotten to buy his suppositories - Pity would be out of place in this instance - I never take people like that to expensive restaurants. Quite unnecessary and puts ideas into their heads. It's not kind, really - Nevertheless, all the little birdies sing - Psychoanalysis might help. Adler is more wholesome than Freud, don't you think? - English judges never make a mistake - The piano is quite Egyptian in feeling....

  All washing around in the same hold. No water-tight compartments....

  Well, I am trying to tell Rene about all this and giggling a good deal, when he stops me.

  'But I know that woman. I know her very well....

  Again you don't believe me. This time you shall believe me. Listen, she was like this-' He describes her exactly. 'And the house was like this-' He draws a little plan on the back of an envelope. 'Here are the palm trees. Here are the entrance steps. That terrible English butler they had - do you remember? The two cabinets here with jade, the other two cabinets with a collection of china. The double circular staircase - do you remember how they used to come down it at night ?'

  'Yes,' I say. ' "I know how to walk down a staircase, me."

  'Which bedroom did you have ? Did you have the one on the second floor with the green satin divan in the ante-chamber to the bathroom?'

  'No. I had a quite ordinary one on the third floor. But what an array of scent-bottles! I dream of them sometimes.'

  'It was a ridiculous house, wasn't it?'

  'I was very much impressed,' I say. 'It's the only millionaire's house I've ever stayed in in my life.'

  'I've stayed in much richer ones than that. I've stayed in one so rich that when you pulled the lavatory-plug it played a tune....Rich people - you have to be sorry for them. They haven't the slightest idea how to spend their money; they haven't the slightest idea how to enjoy themselves. Either they have no taste at all, or, if they have any taste, it's like a mausoleum and they're shut up in it.'

  'Well you're going to alter all that, aren't you?'

  Of course, there's no doubt that this man has stayed in this house and does know these people. One would think that that would give us more confidence in each other. Not at all, it makes us suspicious. There's no doubt that a strict anonymity is a help on these occasions.

  When did all this happen, and what is his story? Did he stay in France for a time, get into trouble over here and then join the Legion? Is that the story? Well, any way, what's it matter to me what his story is? I expect he has a different one every day.

  I say: 'Excuse me a minute,' primly, and go down to the lavatory.

  This is another lavatory that I know very well, another of the well-known mirrors.

  'Well, well,' it says, 'last time you looked in here you were a bit different, weren't you ? Would you believe me that, of all the faces I see, I remember each one, that I keep a ghost to throw back at each one - lightly, like an echo - when it looks into me again?' All glasses in all lavabos do this.

  But it's not as bad as it might be. This is just the interval when drink makes you look nice, before it makes you look awful.

  He says: 'You're always disappearing into the lavabo, you. C'est agafant.'

  'What do you expect?' I say, staring at him. 'I'm getting old.'

  He frowns. 'No, don't say that. Don't talk like that. You're not old. But you've got to where you're afraid to be young. I know. They've frightened you, haven't they? Why do you let them frighten you? They always try to do that, if it isn't in one way it's in another.'

  'Thanks for the good advice. I'll try to remember it. Now I'm all ready for another one.'

  'But you said that if you drink too much you cry'.

  And I have a horror of people who cry when they're drunk.'

  'I don't feel a bit like that. Never happier in my life.'

  He looks at me and says: 'No, I don't think you are going to cry. All right.'

  And here's another brandy. I squirt the soda in and watch the bubbles rising up from the bottom of the glass. I'll drink it slowly, this one.

  'Well, don't be too long. Finish that, and then we'll go - '

  'Where to?'

  'Well, to your hotel or to the Boulevard Raspail. Just as you like....You're such a stupid woman,' he says, 'such a stupid woman. Why do you go on pretending? Now, look me straight in the eyes and say you don't want to.'

  'Of course I do.'

  'Then why won't you? At least tell me why you won't. Something that you would like and that I would like - '

  'Something so unimportant.'

  'Oh, important!' he says. 'But it would be nice. At least tell me why you won't, or is that too much to ask?'

  'Oh no, it's not too much to ask. I'll tell you. It's because I'm afraid.'

  'Afraid,' he says, 'afraid! But what are you afraid of?

  You think I'll strangle you, or cut your throat for the sake of that beautiful ring of yours. Is that it?'

  'No, I'm sure you wouldn't kill me to get my ring.'

  'Then perhaps you are afraid I'll kill you, not because I want money, but because I like to do bad things. But that's where you're so stupid. With you, I don't want to do bad things.'

  "There's always the one that you don't want to do bad things with, isn't there?'

  'Yes, there's always the one,' he says. 'I want to lie close to you and feel your arms round me.'

  And tell me everything, everything....He has said that bit before.

  'Oh, stop talking about it.'

  'Of course,' he says. 'But first, just as a matter of curiosity, I'd like to know what you are so afraid of. Finish your drink and tell me. Just as a matter of curiosity.'

  I dink. Something in his voice has
hurt me. I can't say anything. My throat hurts and I can't say anything.

  'You are afraid of me. You think I'm mechant. You do think I might kill you.'

  If I thought you'd kill me, I'd come away with you right now and no questions asked. And what's more, you could have any money I've got with my blessing....

  'I don't think you're any more mechant than anybody else. Less, probably.'

  'Then what are you afraid of? Tell me. I'm interested. Of men, of love?....What, still?....Impossible.'

  You are walking along a road peacefully. You trip. You fall into blackness. That's the past - or perhaps the future. And you know that there is no past, no future, there is only this blackness, changing faintly, slowly, but always the same.

  'You want to know what I'm afraid of? All right, I'll tell you....I'm afraid of men - yes, I'm very much afraid of men. And I'm even more afraid of women.

  And I'm very much afraid of the whole bloody human race....Afraid of them?' I say. 'Of course I'm afraid of them. Who wouldn't be afraid of a pack of damned hyenas?'

  Thinking: 'Oh, shut up. Stop it. What's the use?' But I can't stop. I go on raving.

  'And when I say afraid - that's just a word I use. What I really mean is that I hate them. I hate their voices, I hate their eyes, I hate the way they laugh....I hate the whole bloody business. It's cruel, it's idiotic, it's unspeakably horrible. I never had the guts to kill myself or I'd have got out of it long ago. So much the worse for me. Let's leave it at that.'

  I know all about myself now, I know. You've told me so often. You haven't left me one rag of illusion to clothe myself in. But by God, I know what you are too, and I wouldn't change places....

  Everything spoiled, all spoiled. Well, don't cry about it. No, I won't cry about it....But may you tear each other to bits, you damned hyenas, and the quicker the better....Let it be destroyed. Let it happen. Let it end, this cold insanity. Let it happen.

  Only five minutes ago I was in the Deux Magots, dressed in that damned cheap black dress of mine, giggling and talking about Antibes, and now I am lying in a misery of utter darkness. Quite alone. No voice, no touch, no hand....How long must I lie here? For ever? No, only for a couple of hundred years this time, miss....