Jezebel

by Irene Nemirovsky

  He had a thin young face; his long, delicate neck tilted forward, as if it were being pulled by the weight of his heavy head.

  ‘Won’t you listen to what I have to say, Madame? Are you afraid? I’m not a thief. Look at me.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  He didn’t reply, just continued walking behind her, so close to her that she could hear the sound of his breathing. Then he began whistling The Merry Widow, endlessly repeating the first few bars. She listened with strange anxiety to his whistling and the rhythmic, halting sound of his footsteps in the empty street.

  She stopped and opened her handbag.

  The young man gestured her to stop. ‘No, Madame …’

  ‘Well, then, what is it that you want?’

  ‘To follow you,’ he said in a low, passionate voice. ‘It isn’t the first time. You won’t be angry with me, will you, Madame? It’s not the first time this has happened to you, is it? A man hiding in the shadows, following you? In despair? You’ve never noticed me? Yet I’ve been watching you in the street for a month now. I see you leave your house and come home late at night. I see your friends. I see you get into your car. You can’t imagine how all that makes me feel. But until now I’ve never managed to find you alone. You won’t be angry with me, will you, Madame?’ Gladys looked at him and shrugged her shoulders slightly. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘And you’re following a woman you don’t even know?

  Why waste your time like this?’ murmured Gladys. Her demon, the desire to be seductive took hold of her and, without meaning to, her voice grew softer.

  ‘You seem like a good person, Madame. Would you happily be charitable and grant a look, a smile, at a young man who thinks only of you? Oh, and for such a long time now,’ he said, his voice strange, trembling as if in a passionate dream.

  ‘You’re just a boy,’ said Gladys. ‘Look, be reasonable. I’ve listened to you patiently, but you do understand, don’t you, that you must leave me alone. I have a husband,’ she said, smiling. ‘He might not take this childishness very well.’

  ‘You don’t have a husband, Madame. You are perfectly free and alone. Oh, so alone …’

  ‘In any case,’ said Gladys nervously, ‘I am asking you to go away.’

  He hesitated, bowed and leaned back against a wall. She saw him fiddling with his long red scarf. She walked more quickly, looking for a car, but the street was deserted. After a few moments she heard the young man’s footsteps echoing behind her once again.

  This time she stopped and waited for him. When he caught up with her, she said angrily, ‘Look! That’s enough now. You are going to leave me alone or I will make a complaint to the first policeman I see.’

  ‘No!’ said the young man harshly.

  ‘You’re mad!’

  ‘Don’t you want to know my name?’

  ‘Your name? You are mad!’ she said again. ‘I don’t know you and I am not interested in knowing your name.’

  ‘That’s not exactly right. You don’t know me, it’s true, but you will be extremely interested in me once you know my name.’

  He paused for a moment, then said once more, very quietly, ‘Extremely interested.’

  Gladys said nothing, but he could see the corners of her mouth tremble and droop.

  ‘My name is Bernard Martin,’ he said finally.

  She let out a strange little sigh, like a stifled sob.

  ‘Were you expecting a different name?’ he asked. ‘I have no other names.’

  ‘I don’t know who you are.’

  ‘Yet I’m your grandson,’ said Bernard Martin.

  ‘No,’ she stammered. ‘I don’t know you. I don’t have any grandchildren.’

  She was almost sincere; she couldn’t manage to link the memory of a nameless child, that little red creature she’d seen twenty years before, with the sight of this young man standing in front of her in the rain. Twenty years … Time would never pass as slowly for her as it did for other people.

  ‘Come on, now, Grandmother, you’ll have to accept it; I really am your grandson and, believe me, it wouldn’t be difficult to prove it: I have a letter from Jeanne, your old chambermaid, who brought me up. She died, but her letter is very moving. I have my rights …’

  ‘Your rights? I owe you nothing!’

  ‘Ah? Well, then, I’ll lose my lawsuit. But what about the scandal? Can you imagine the scandal, Grandmother?’

  ‘Don’t call me that!’ cried Gladys, starting in blind fury.

  The young man didn’t reply. He put his hands in his pockets and started whistling The Merry Widow again.

  Gladys dug her nails into her hands to control the trembling that shook her whole body. ‘Is it money you want? Yes, I … I have been neglectful. How could I have forgotten you for such a long time, my God? I told Jeanne to contact me as soon as the money ran out. She never did, and I … I forgot,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I never wanted for anything. It’s not money that I’m after.’

  His disgusted tone of voice dispelled any remorse and pity she might have felt.

  ‘It’s the scandal, then? Of course. My poor boy. You must come from some godforsaken hole in the country. The scandal, as you call it, in Paris …’

  He said nothing and continued walking alongside her, whistling in a low, thoughtful way.

  ‘He’s Marie-Thérèse’s son,’ she thought.

  But that idea aroused no emotion within her heart: it was completely filled with the dull echo of fear.

  ‘Is it money you want?’ she asked again in despair.

  The young man spoke with difficulty. ‘Yes.’

  She quickly opened her handbag, pulled out a thousand-franc note and put it in his hand.

  The boy shook his head and said, ‘Your lover is called Aldo Monti, is he not?’

  ‘Do you think you’re frightening me? Exactly why do you think my lover would care if my daughter once had a child?’

  ‘That’s true, Grandmother, that’s true. But I’ve spoken to Carmen Gonzales, you see, and Jeanne who brought me up. Those two women know you as only servants can know their masters; not a single bit of your heart was unknown to them. You didn’t abandon me because I was an illegitimate child, but because you didn’t want anyone to know how old you really were. I detest you.’

  ‘Leave me alone!’

  ‘It’s true that you still look young. What do people say about you? “She’s forty? Fifty?” Have you resigned yourself to being forty-five? A grandson of twenty, after all, isn’t so terrible. Perhaps I’m mistaken? Am I? Well, am I? Oh! How I wanted to see you close up, hear you speak! You’re just as I imagined you … But no, no, even though I’d heard you were still a beautiful woman who looked young, I imagined you as a monster. And you are a monster.’

  He leaned in towards her intently. He looked at her blonde hair and her made-up face, and she tried to see in his features something of Marie-Thérèse and Olivier Beauchamp. But all that was in the past. They were dead. There was only one true thing in the world: Aldo, her lover! This thin, delicate boy looked no more like Marie-Thérèse and Olivier than a caricature looks like a charming photograph. He was pale; his heavy mop of hair fell forward over his forehead; he was badly shaven and still had some hair above his lip; his long cheeks were so thin they were almost transparent. Only his eyes resembled Marie-Thérèse’s eyes: passionate, clear, with long, dark eyelashes, even more beautiful because they shone in his thin, ugly face.

  He spoke first. ‘Listen carefully,’ he said, sounding cold and threatening. ‘If you don’t want to spend every night on the telephone, because I’ll call you continuously, and if you don’t answer, I’ll bang on the door of your house so hard that you’ll have to open it and let me in, if you don’t want any scandal, if you don’t want me to write to your lover, then come and see me. I live at 6 rue des Fossés-Saint-Jacques. It’s a student house. I’ll wait for you every day until six o’clock. Make sure you come.’

&nb
sp; ‘Do you really think I’ll come?’ she murmured, forcing herself to smile.

  ‘If you’re smart you will.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll see, I’ll … Just go now, I’m begging you, just leave me alone! I’m not as reprehensible as you think,’ she added, sounding insistent and fearful.

  He didn’t reply, just shook the rain from his hair, closed the top button of his raincoat and walked away.

  16

  That night she made Monti stay with her. They dined together in front of the open window. The trees of the Bois were hidden behind a heavy, reddish autumn mist. It was starting to turn cold. Monti stood up to close the window, but she seemed to enjoy the cool air.

  ‘A young woman would feel cold tonight, half naked as I am,’ she thought, ‘but I …’

  She would have braved fire, walked on water, to prove to herself that she was strong, lithe, young …

  Paris was damp and as mauve as a ploughed field under a murky sky. Beneath the trees the beams of car headlights appeared, grew larger as they passed, then turned into little golden sparks amid the branches.

  Monti shivered. ‘Really? You aren’t cold?’

  ‘No. You’re so sensitive to the cold, my darling. Shame on you …’

  Gladys liked having the window open: that way, the only light came from the Paris sky and a small, shaded lamp at the back of the bedroom. She was afraid of bright light. Monti was smoking. He was nervous; she could sense it; tears welled up in her eyes, adding to her terror.

  ‘Please don’t let him speak to me harshly the way he sometimes can,’ she thought. ‘I couldn’t bear it tonight …’

  She closed her eyes, trying to picture Bernard Martin’s face. Suddenly she shuddered.

  ‘What’s the matter, Gladys?’ Monti asked.

  ‘Nothing. Oh, nothing,’ she replied, her voice sounding tearful. ‘Come and sit beside me, Aldo. Do you still love me, even a little? Oh, tell me you do, please, please tell me. Men don’t like talking about love, I know,’ she said, forcing herself to smile. ‘My darling, my beloved … I love you so much, if only you knew how much. My lips quiver whenever I look at you. I’m in love with you the way a girl of fifteen would be, but you, my love, you feel only lukewarm towards me, as if we were an old married couple. I can tell …’

  ‘Gladys, you’re the one who feels weary and lukewarm towards me because you refuse to do what I’ve been asking you to do for so long. Be my wife. I want to live with you; to be with you all the time; I want to take you back to Italy and give you my name. Why do you refuse?’

  She shook her head and looked at him in anguish. ‘No, no, I asked you never to speak to me of that again. It isn’t possible!’

  He said nothing. But in spite of what she said, she was thinking that on the contrary, she had never been as tempted to agree, to go away with him, to tell him everything, finally to be relieved of carrying within her the weight of her fear. She had no one else in the world.

  For an instant she thought, ‘Why not? What difference is there between forty and fifty and sixty, if you’re no longer young, no longer truly young? Nothing can replace that.’

  She remembered women who were past sixty and were still loved, or so it was said. ‘Yes, and they’re the ones who say it,’ she mused with sad lucidity, ‘but in truth, they’re only loved by gigolos, or former lovers who still love them only because they remind them of their past. If only Dick were still alive. I would never have been old to him. But Monti … To admit to him: “I’m sixty. I have a twenty-year-old grandson …” I’d feel so ashamed. I want him to admire me, to be proud of me. I want to be young. I was young until now. No one suspected how old I was. And now … But what can I do for that boy now? The damage has been done. Giving him money is easy enough. But will he be content with money? He must hate me.’

  She hid her face in her hands.

  ‘Darling, what’s wrong with you tonight?’ asked Monti, surprised.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured in despair. ‘I’m sad. I want to die. Let me sit on your lap. Rock me.’

  He held her close; she snuggled up against him, enjoying the wonderful sensation of feeling so small and lithe in his arms. He stroked her hair, calling her ‘my little one, my dear little girl …’ Time no longer existed. Gladys’s heart melted with sweet sadness.

  ‘If he knew how old I really am, how could he ever say such words? What would happen if a young man of twenty called me “grandmother” in front of him? But I’m young, I’m young, this is all a horrible dream.’

  She wrapped her arms round his neck, breathing in the delicate scent of his cheeks; his eyes were closed, his fine nostrils dilated.

  ‘I’m too heavy, Aldo. Let me go.’

  ‘You’re as light as a bird.’

  ‘Aldo, will you always love me?’

  ‘You don’t usually want to talk about the future, do you, darling?’

  ‘That’s right, because it’s frightening. Listen to me; close your eyes and answer me truthfully. This is extremely important. Will you love me when I’m old?’

  ‘But aren’t you forgetting that we shall grow old together? Aren’t we about the same age?’

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘If you only knew how frightened I am of getting old …’

  ‘Darling Gladys, you’re young and beautiful.’

  ‘No, no, that’s a lie. I’m an old woman,’ she said in a subdued voice.

  ‘Right now, my darling, you’re nothing more than an illogical child.’

  ‘How long can a woman be desirable?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Until what age?’

  ‘What a question, my darling. As long as she is beautiful and feminine. Fifty, fifty-five … That’s so far away yet, Gladys. A lifetime …’

  ‘Yes, a lifetime,’ she whispered.

  ‘By then, we’d be an old married couple, believe me. We’d both have white hair. Is that so terrible if we’re together?’

  ‘And love will have disappeared?’

  ‘Of course not. It will be a different kind of love, that’s all. You’re talking like a child, Gladys.’

  ‘When I was very young,’ said Gladys, ‘I promised myself that I’d kill myself if I ever felt I was old. I should have.’

  She didn’t even hear the consoling words he was saying to her. She had closed her eyes and kept her face hidden in Monti’s arms.

  ‘Oh, Aldo, I’m so unhappy!’ she said, bursting into tears.

  ‘But why, my darling, tell me why so I can help you. Ah! You don’t trust me. You don’t even consider me your friend.’

  She put her arms round him and hugged him with extraordinary strength for a woman who appeared so frail. ‘No, no, not a friend! You are my lover, you are everything I love most in the world! Don’t listen to me! I’ve been frustrated by ridiculous things all day, a dress that didn’t fit, a bracelet I lost, who knows?’

  ‘You’re a spoiled little girl, my darling, too spoiled to be on this earth.’

  ‘You’re making fun of me, but … I’ve had my share of unhappiness,’ she whispered.

  ‘You never talk to me about that.’

  ‘Good Lord, what’s the point? Aldo, I’m not letting you leave tonight.’

  He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Whatever you want.’

  When he was finally asleep, she got into bed next to him, but she remained awake, unable to close her eyes. Eventually she got out of bed and went quietly into the room next door. She was shivering with the cold now. She paced back and forth in the room, silently. ‘No one in the world, no one …’ She wrung her hands as tears flowed down her cheeks.

  ‘Dick, oh Dick,’ she whispered in despair, ‘why did you have to die?’

  But he’d been dead for so long, buried beneath the ground. She thought of Mark, also dead. And George Canning, killed. There was only one man left: Claude … and that young boy, that stranger who was a grandson to both of them.

  She found a sheet of paper and began to write, listening out for Monti’s b
reathing in the next room. ‘Please come and help me … Don’t be surprised that I am appealing to you for help … I imagine you’ve forgotten all about me? But I have no one else in the world. Everyone else is dead. I am all alone. Sometimes I feel as if I have been buried alive, in a pit of loneliness. You alone can remember the woman I used to be. I am ashamed, desperately ashamed, but I want to have the courage to ask your help, you and only you, because you once loved me …’

  ‘He’s forgotten all about me,’ she thought in despair. ‘He’s old now, free, free and living in isolation. I’m still burning in hell, but he’s calm, he’s detached from everything, of course, and he’s old, old. How could he understand? Ah, I chose to burn in hell until my very last day; I rejected the peacefulness of old age. But I’ll make up for everything; I’ll ask that young boy to forgive me. I’ll do everything for him, everything that a mother can do for a child she has brought into the world, everything that Marie-Thérèse would have done, just as long as he keeps quiet, just as long as Aldo doesn’t find out!’

  In the morning she locked the letter in the desk drawer, but she would never send it.

  17

  The next day the telephone rang every fifteen minutes. Bernard asked for nothing. All he did was hang up when he heard the chambermaid’s voice. Finally, Gladys had the telephone brought into her room and, trembling, she answered it. ‘It’s me, Bernard.’

  ‘Hello!’ said the familiar voice. ‘Is that you, Grandmother?’

  ‘I gave you a thousand francs yesterday. Can’t you leave me in peace for a few days?’

  ‘Did you really think that would settle the score?’ said the voice.

  ‘Will you just tell me exactly what you want?’

  ‘Over the phone?’

  ‘No, no,’ murmured Gladys; she could hear noises in the next room. ‘I’ll call you back.’