"Do you know a café?"
He looks at me in surprise.
"Sure, right across the street."
He points to an establishment before which extends an empty terrace. Tables are pushed together, chairs stacked upon them, all this very professionally. Through the thicket of upright chair-legs I can make out a dim light probably illuminating the end of the day tally. We sit down very close to the owners, but without actually joining them. The fact of being done a favor never escapes me. I am very alive to preferential treatment and special permissions for I still remember the days when they would say to me: "Kindly oblige us by getting out of here this instant."
At the cash register they are missing two or three francs. While the husband is trying to find where the error comes from the wife is looking us over. She wears a pince-nez, has a lady-like air. Then a fifteen-year-old boy comes in from the back room. I am told he is a nephew whose father, a non-commissioned officer, fought in the Riff campaign. The youngster is in a Catholic boarding school in Sarlat, an institution for boys prone to misbehavior. I go out for a glass of beer with a night-clerk and I find out that Sarlat has a boarding school for bad boys! Then the woman talks about the grandes écoles. She's very eager to have her nephew go to the Naval College.
The night-clerk has been called away. I am alone. All is silence now that the mistake has been found. I think about my life. Why did not one of the charitable souls who looked after me during my youth think of sending me to Sarlat or, better yet, of enrolling me at the Naval College?
I go up to my room. It is dismally lit by one bulb of twenty-five watts at best. I set down my suitcase on a table covered with a sheet of glass under which you can see the pattern of a lace doily. The curtains have been drawn shut. The temperature is mild. There is no trace of the previous occupant, at least nothing visible. Such as it is, the room suits me. I sit on the bed. It has been turned down. I notice right away, from their plaster-like nubbliness, that the sheets are of inferior quality.
There is a knock at the door. It's my café companion, back in his night-clerk's role, who has come to ask whether I need anything. Such attention is excessive for an hotel in this category. In any case I do not respond to it. I am not sad. My lassitude is merely physical. Nothing hereabouts has anything to do with me. The table is a table. I do not even feel out of my element. It seems to me I shall never have that feeling again.
I am awakened in the middle of the night by a crying child. A woman starts singing the most mournful lullabies imaginable. My mother must have sung me to sleep with songs like that. I would have thought, a few years ago, that I was in the near vicinity of I know not what abyss of woe.
I am unable to get back to sleep. I recall that I once came into this hotel with a woman. It was in the period when now and then Denise and I would come to Paris for the day. This woman had asked me why I had picked her. She was at least fifty years old, and she had pretensions to conversation. She wanted to get me to say that in her I expected a greater flexibility. She was wrong. I simply lacked confidence in myself. I wished to create the impression that I was a well-conducted man got hold of by a professional. I truly must turn my mind to something else if I want to fall asleep. And also that mother must stop singing.
The desire Madame Vallosier aroused in me has suddenly disappeared. She believes that I have understood that she is a respectable woman. And now she wishes to exert a wholesome influence upon me. I go back to see her however. I feel that my existence is about to change and in the meantime I find it nice to live my life one day at a time.
One evening we push a sofa in front of the window and sit down side by side, as at a show. It is the first day of spring. The windows are open. The moon shines on the leafless gardens of Villa des Ternes. The children are not yet in bed. Above us other windows are open. A man is talking. He is fulminating against the government. All of a sudden he quiets down and says: "My darling." I guess him to be an older man from whom we shall not hear any disturbing language. Even so I am quaking. Finally he ceases talking. I feel rescued. But Madame Vallosier gets up abruptly, turns on the lights. No gesture shows me more clearly how far apart we are. So long as the man kept talking she felt herself safe.
I have learned that my brother André has a mistress. Like the Germaine of old she has a certain small amount of money, but she is far less of a danger than Germaine for my mother is there to supervise. She is an attorney's secretary. As she has done for the past eleven years, she goes to the office every morning. She has some savings, she has parents. From time to time, she does my mother favors. She enjoys all the advantages that come from being a long-time employee. She can fall ill, ask for an extended leave. On account of all this her private life is adorned by a certain prestige. She lives in a trim little apartment. She is ready to sacrifice everything for André, but he has his mother and demands nothing of her. Physically, she has been able to take on the appearances of a woman who spends all her time at home. She owns a single piece of jewelry, but of great value. Her mouth, which is very unattractive, is always partway open and glistening. She is unduly preoccupied with her hands. And above all has an unpleasant way of saying the word monsieur. She says it too often, even after a relaxed, friendly conversation. I think of that Christmas Eve when we drank champagne, when we kissed under the mistletoe, and when suddenly, as we were saying goodbye, she said to me: "Goodbye, Monsieur."
We are at my mother's, sitting opposite each other.
André has not yet come home. Am I going to tell this touchy person the following story?
Inside a rue des Acacias café I notice a stunningly beautiful woman who is paying what she owes. I halt. Rather than go in I wait for her to get up so that we shall pass one another between the tables out on the terrace. She comes out at last. Our eyes meet. At that same moment she realizes she has forgotten her gloves. She smiles at her distractedness and turns back in the direction she has come from. I step to one side to let her pass. She had been sitting at a table near the door. Since I shall still be in her way when she comes out again she invites me to go first. Then I exhibit some quick thinking. I fetch the gloves and hand them to her. "I sensed, Madame, that you'd forgotten your gloves." She smiles at me. I go on: "But I am going to inconvenience you, Madame, for I wasn't intending to enter this café." Walking abreast, we make our way between the tables. She turns her head to thank me. And in order that she preserve a good opinion of me, I move off instead of continuing to talk with her.
Is it because I find André's mistress stupid that I tell her a stupid story? Is it because I am weary of these childish performances of mine that I relate them to someone who will not excuse me for them?
Solange Vibot, Denise's friend, has been married for several years. I accidentally run into her on rue de Richelieu. We stand there and talk, obstructing the narrow sidewalk. Only inches away from us, cars stream past without interruption.
"Are you going in my direction?" she asks me.
We set off together. Never before have I been so well in command of myself.
"I haven't been to Compiègne for ages," she tells me.
"Neither have I."
My most recent trip does not count. I walk alongside Solange without looking at her. I rejoice in walking close to her side as I would with an intimate friend, with a sister. We are equals. Denise and I never were, whereas now Solange and I are. Equality is the ideal of my life. A gentle drizzle is falling. For the moment everything is perfect. No flirtatious banter. We separate without hesitation, without regret. My guess is that we shall see each other again.
Right now there is something bothering me. It is an extraordinary fact that I who have never possessed anything, I who never wanted to hold on to anything, I feel the need to be rich. How I regret having been so heedless! How well I understand the way they would cling to their possessions, the people I knew, how I understand their prudence, their wariness! It was beyond me why others took so long coming to a decision while I settled everything in the s
nap of a finger. Such are my thoughts as I return home, that is to say as I head for rue du Laos. Truly, there is nothing so tiresome as this need for bigger and better which invades us the moment we want to please. And these regrets! We become angry with ourselves, as with a business representative of ours who had swindled us. Had we known that we would one day love and be loved!
It is night behind the Ecole Militaire. But here is a little bit of light. Can't I be loved the way I am? We are all just human beings, some of whom are happy. Can't I number among the latter for a few years? Solange has no reason to regret the possessions I might have been able to acquire.
Two days later I telephone her. "I shall telephone," I had said when I left her. This is a disagreeable moment, smacking of my proceedings in the past. I am in the booth, alone. It is more than ever upon what I say that everything will hinge. I clack my tongue to ensure its alertness. I must feel unconstrained, natural. In this telephone call there must be nothing but a man's attraction toward a woman. What great luck that I have at last found a being who awakens authentic feelings in me! For an instant I think of telling Solange how hard it has been for me to telephone to her. Why do that? Why always talk about what you feel? Can I not simply say to her that I would be very happy to see her?
"Dear friend, I would be very happy to see you."
"Do you want to have lunch together in Versailles some day when the weather turns nice?"
"It may be several days before we get any nice weather . . ."
"Come to my studio then. I must warn you it's a mess. I haven't been back for three years. We'll go to Versailles some other time."
Versailles! Versailles again! Why that city is forever recurring in my life I simply do not know.
She will be expecting me at five o'clock. I was the one who chose the time. I almost suggested four, or even three. I subdue my impatience. It's a victory to add to those I have been winning these past few weeks.
But here is a defeat. I am the only customer in a dimly lit room of a small café on rue du Cherche-Midi, a five-minute walk from rue Falguière, near the military prison, to be exact. I still cannot resist making a stop in a café prior to a rendezvous. Starting this morning I could tell that this meeting would occupy my thoughts well before the time set for it to begin. "I'll go have a coffee in the neighborhood." And so here I am, sitting upon this shallow wall-sofa, here and there swollen by a spring that has come loose. The owner is wearing a herringbone woolen vest. If Richard were wearing it, would not this vest look as if it came from a clothier of the first order? It is with such stuff I busy my mind. I am brought the mighty cup of coffee I have been planning to drink since this morning and for which I have no desire. All I had to do was just stay in my hotel. All I had to do was while the time away, whatever that might have taken, and then leave at the last moment, even if I arrived ten minutes late. But why choose a small, dark, out of the way café? Why not go to boulevard Montparnasse? Was I afraid of some incident preventing me from joining Solange? Was I afraid of running into her before the time we had arranged?
At last the hour is at hand. On rue de Sèvres I walk past a hospital. I avoid glancing at the signs announcing office hours. Here is rue Falguière. While walking I have tried to visualize the studio. It does not at all resemble the sort of one-room apartment I had imagined. It is a place outfitted for work. Upon the wall, no El Greco "Christ", no Botticelli "Spring" as at her place on rue du Château-d'Eau, but rarer reproductions. I look at them attentively, slightly embarrassed to be unacquainted with them. The studio is lit by one large frosted glass light-bulb. Solange, who is preparing tea, invites me to take a seat. A padded Louis XV armchair here? A piece of furniture serving as a pretext for jokes? But I keep still.
Two days later I do not leave my room until I set out for our new rendezvous. All day long I had the impression I was a man who wore glasses only when at home. No one sees him. He works a bit at this, a bit at that. And then he takes off his glasses, he is going to step out.
We are sitting at an outdoor table at the Dôme, side by side, in the broad sunshine, amid a crowd of customers. Certain passers-by gaze at us. It seems to me that they are standing still, that we are the ones who are moving. We do not look at each other, Solange and I. I would like to declare exactly what I am, be loved because I hide nothing.
For a woman, what I am hiding is far less serious than a disease. How I dreaded them, those diseases that might prevent me from loving!
I look for Solange. The weather is radiant: a spring morning. I pay no attention at all to the handsome qualities of the building, to the aspect of the avenue. I am almost indifferent to appearances and the feeling this gives me is a feeling of great well being. How far away are the observations I would have made if Denise were alive!
At last Solange appears. She stops in front of the concierges' lodge and says a few words. How pleasant it is to watch orders being given! Smiling, she walks toward me. No longer am I minded to stand back. I walk up to meet her. At this instant there is nothing I am reproaching myself for.
We continue on foot as far as the Gare des Invalides. As we cross the Esplanade, I am reminded of certain shameful acts. With Solange at my side I walk past the benches and hidden nooks which evoke them. The station is almost deserted. Solange frightens me a little. She strays off, she follows me. We climb up into an empty compartment. It is an old train, for it is eleven o'clock in the morning, one of those old trains they run between the rush hours. Twenty years ago all the trains were like this. It makes me think of the ideal life I used to dream about. Those departures, on a weekday, during slack hours, that relief at the absence of a crowd to follow, that joy in the enjoyment of organizations temporarily asleep, those lunches when everyone has left, for which the restaurant personnel come back to life! I know how to make myself liked by people for whom I am the cause of extra work.
"Solange, I find you charming!"
She smiles. She accepts that I find her charming. She even accepts being told so by a man like me. I think of those who know who I am. If they spoke, would Solange listen to them?
The train has started. We are alone. The Seine flows inside the mists. And now Paris is retreating into the distance. Oh! how different this Paris is from the one I so often discovered on coming back from Compiègne. The Eiffel Tower no longer hides its legs from us. The houses on the right bank contemplate the same panorama we do.
We have arrived. Wide avenues such as they have in Compiègne, movie posters where the typography is already that used in provincial newspapers. Planes fly in the blue sky, so much higher than in the old days. For an instant the breeze brings their drone to us. What a sad sound! I would so like to leave! I would so like to be still happier! I would so like not to be thinking about my mother's sister, that woman who worked as a servant, I believe, for a family in Versailles!
It is half-past two. We are in a restaurant. The day is already over, and yet the sun is still shining in the sky. How I would desire something else! How I would desire that the oncoming evening be as beautiful as the morning; that there be no liqueur glasses on the table, no cigarette smoke in this little dining room! How I would desire that we be more forthright, that we not be two people in love, that Solange's face not be flushed! Her hands, which I have looked at perhaps one hundred times without thinking about them, are motionless at present. I would like to kiss them. I talk. Solange talks. But why can I not prevent myself from thinking that this moment is but a minute in my life? Why does a voice whisper in my ear that we are only two, that even if we love each other we shall still be only two?
Resting my hands on the table, I work round it. I sit down beside Solange. I did not straighten up in order to change place. I wanted to give Solange the illusion I have wound up next to her without having moved. Our arms touch. We have been together since morning. We have lived near to one another for years without being acquainted. I take Solange's hand. She does not lower her eyes.
I go back to rue du Laos. I need to know whe
re I am headed. I kissed Solange at the end of our lunch. Indeed, these love affairs pursued in restaurants have the hallmark of gluttony. I perform gestures that are forever the same. This existence cannot last any longer. There is one thing I am sure of. If a new war were to break out, I would be a hero this time or I would be killed. But there will be no war. I will not be a hero, and I will not be killed. I am forty-one years old. What am I going to do? The impossibility of answering this question does not dishearten me. I feel that an event (I have been feeling it for several months) is going to occur in my life, some unforeseen and extraordinary event. Without the slightest doubt I shall then write the sequel to these memoirs. I can here and now declare that it will be so different from the beginning that my future readers simply will not be able to believe it was written by the same man.
June, 1939
A Singular Man Page 17