My young companions seem to wait, too. Marie takes up her knife and her fork, and she plays for a moment at balancing them, one against the other, by placing the ends together; then she arranges them in a cross in the center of the table. She puts such seriousness into these innocuous exercises, such calculated precision, that they acquire in my eyes the value of cabalistic signs.
I, unfortunately, do not know how to interpret these figures. And perhaps they have no real significance. Marie, like all children and poets, enjoys playing with sense and nonsense. Having completed her construction, she smiles to herself. Jean drinks up the rest of his glass. They are both silent. What are they waiting for like this? It is the boy who breaks the silence:
“No, he says, “have no fear. The pizza, that was just to get a rise out of you. Anyway, it’s been several months that in this café they sell only croque-monsieur and sandwiches. You were wondering what we were waiting for here, right? The time to get going had not come, that’s all. Now, we are going to leave.”
Just like his sister, this boy expresses himself almost like an adult. He, furthermore, seems more respectful. He hasn’t spoken that many words since I saw him for the first time more than an hour ago. But now, I have understood why he remained so obstinately silent.
His voice is, indeed, in the midst of changing; and he fears seeming ridiculous because of the cracks which happen, unexpectedly, in the middle of his sentences. That might also explain, perhaps, why his sister and he were laughing: the word pizza must contain sounds that are especially fearsome to his vocal chords.
Marie then supplies me, at last, with the next phase of our program: she herself has to go back home (what home?) to do her homework (homework in lying?), while her brother takes me to a secret meeting, where I am to receive precise instructions. But I must, for my part, remain ignorant of the locale of that appointment. I am therefore going to be disguised as a blind man, with totally opaque, black glasses.
The precautions and mysteries, maintained around its activities by this clandestine organization, are becoming more and more extravagant. But I am convinced that it is largely a game and, in any case, I have decided to pursue the experiment to its end. It is easy to guess why.
I pretend therefore to see nothing strange in the quasimiraculous appearance of the objects necessary to my disguise: the aforementioned goggles, as well as a white cane. Jean has quite naturally gone to pick them up in a corner of the café room, where they were waiting, very close to the spot where we were eating.
The two children had evidently chosen that table, inconvenient and poorly lit, because of its immediate proximity to their hiding place. But who put those props there? Jean, or Marie, or else the student in the red jacket?
That girl must have followed me since I left the workshop with the mannequins, where Djinn engaged me in her service. She could have brought the cane and the glasses already. She followed me to that café, which she entered a few seconds after me. She may have immediately placed these objects in this corner, before sitting at a table close to mine.
Yet, I am surprised to have noticed nothing of these comings and goings. When I discovered her presence, the student was already sitting and quietly reading her big anatomy textbook. But I was indulging, at that moment, in amorous reveries, vague and euphoric, which probably numbed my sense of the realities.
Another question perplexes me even further. It was I who decided to have a cup of coffee in this particular café, the phony student did nothing but follow me in. As it happens, I could, as well, have chosen another establishment on the avenue (or even drink no coffee). How, under these conditions, were the children forewarned, by their accomplice, of the spot where they were going to find the cane and the glasses?
On the other hand, Marie was talking to the waiter, upon our arrival, as though she knew him very well. And Jean knew which dishes were available, among those which are listed, more or less misleadingly, on the sign hanging above the bar. Finally, they claimed their mother was going to come soon, to pay the bill for our meal; whereas all they had to do was let me pay that modest sum myself. The waiter voiced no objection. He visibly trusts these children, who behave like regular customers.
Everything happens, therefore, as if I had walked, by chance, precisely into the café they use as their canteen and headquarters. That’s rather unlikely. However, the other possible explanation seems stranger still: it wasn’t “by chance” I have, on the contrary, been led, unaware, to this bistro by the organization itself, in order to meet the student who awaited me there.
But, in that case, how have I been “led"? In what manner? By means of what mysterious method? The more I think about it all, the less clear things become, and the more I conclude the presence here of an enigma. . . .
If I could first solve the problem of the connection between the children and the medical student . . . Unfortunately, I solve nothing at all.
While I turned these thoughts over in my head, Jean and his sister adjusted the black goggles over my eyes. The rubber rims of the frames fitted perfectly to my forehead, my temples, my cheekbones. I immediately realized that I could see neither to the sides, nor down below, and neither could I distinguish anything through the lenses, which are really opaque.
And now, we are walking on the sidewalk along the avenue, side by side, the kid and I. We are holding each other by the hand. With my free hand, my right one, I point the white cane forward, its sharp point sweeping the space in front of me, searching for possible obstacles. After a few minutes, I am using this accessory with complete ease.
I reflect, while allowing myself to be guided like a blind man, upon this curious progressive deterioration of my freedom, since walking, at half past six in the evening, into the hangar with the mannequins, crowded with cast-off merchandise and junked machinery, where “Monsieur Jean” had asked me to report.
There, not only did I agree to obey the orders of a girl my age (or even younger than I), but furthermore, I did so under the insulting threat of a revolver (a hypothetical one at least), which destroyed any impression of voluntary choice. Moreover, I accepted without a word of protest, this total ignorance of my exact mission and of the goals sought by the organization. I wasn’t bothered in the least by any of that: I did, on the contrary, feel happy and lighthearted.
Next, a rather ungracious student, in a café, forced me, with her air of a school inspector, or of a teacher, to take a path that did not seem the best to me. This led me to having to care for a supposedly injured boy, who was lying unconscious on the ground, but who in fact was making a fool of me.
When I found out, I did not complain of this unfairness. And I soon saw myself obeying, this time, a girl barely ten years old, a liar and a compulsive one at that. In the last place, I ended up by agreeing to relinquish as well the use of my eyes, after having in succession given up that of my free choice and that of my intelligence.
Things have reached the point where I now behave without understanding anything of what I am doing, or of what is happening to me, without even knowing where I am going, entrusted to the lead of this taciturn child who is perhaps an epileptic. And I seek in no way to infringe upon the orders received, by cheating a little with the black glasses. It is probably enough to push the frames slightly, as though I were scratching my eyebrow, so as to create a space between the rubber rim and my nose. . . .
But I undertake no such thing. I have willingly become an irresponsible agent. I did not fear to let myself be blindfolded. Soon, if it pleases Djinn, I shall myself become some sort of rudimentary robot. I can already picture myself, in a wheelchair, blind, mute, deaf . . . and what else yet?
I smiled to myself at that image.
“Why do you laugh?” asks Jean.
I answer that my present situation seems to me rather comical. The boy takes up, then, as a quote, a phrase I have already heard from the lips of his sister, while we were in the café:
“Love,” he says, “it makes one do great things.�
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At first, I thought he was making fun of me, and I answered, with a certain annoyance, that I couldn’t see the relationship. But, upon reflection, this remark of his seems to me above all inexplicable. How would he know of this hoped-for love (quasi-absurd and, in any case, secret) that I have barely acknowledged to myself?
“Oh, but yes,” he goes on in that voice of his that wavers constantly between low and sharp, “there is an obvious relationship: love is blind, that’s well known. And, in any case, you mustn’t laugh: being blind, that’s sad.”
I am going to ask him if he concludes therefore that love is sad (which seems the evident conclusion, in a perfect syllogism, of his two propositions concerning the status of the blind), when there occurs an event that puts an end to our conversation.
We had stopped, for a few moments, at the edge of a sidewalk (I had felt the stone edge with the iron tip of my cane) and I had thought that we were waiting for the traffic light that gives pedestrians the right to cross. (We do not have a musical signal for the blind, as is the case in many cities in Japan.) But I was mistaken. This place must have been a taxi stand, where Jean waited for the arrival of a free cab.
He helped me, as a matter of fact, to climb into a car, a fairly large one, it seems, judging by the width of the doors that I negotiate gropingly (I have relinquished my cane to my guide). I settle down on what seems to be the rear seat, spacious and comfortable.
While I was sitting down, Jean slammed the door, and he must have walked around the car, in order to climb in himself through the left door: I can hear it open, and someone getting in and sitting next to me. And that someone is the kid, all right, for his voice, with its inimitable cracks, says, in the direction of the driver:
“We are going here, please.”
I can make out at the same time the slight rustling of paper. Instead of saying aloud where we wish to go, Jean has most likely handed the driver a piece of paper on which the address has been written (by whom?). Such subterfuge allows them to leave me ignorant of our destination. Since it is a child using it, this method can’t surprise the driver.
And suppose it wasn’t a taxi?
CHAPTER FIVE
While the car rolled on, I thought again about the absurdity of my situation. But I did not succeed in making the decision to put an end to it. This obstinacy of mine surprised me. I blamed myself for it, all the while complacently enjoying it. The interest that I harbor for Djinn could not be its only cause. There also had to be, quite certainly, curiosity. And what else yet?
I felt pulled along in a chain of episodes and encounters, in which chance probably played no part at all. I was the only one who did not grasp its profound causality. These successive mysteries made me think of a sort of treasure hunt: one progresses from clue to clue, and discovers the solution only at the very end. And the treasure, it was Djinn!
I wondered, as well, about the kind of work the organization expected of me. Were they afraid to tell me openly about it? Was it so disreputable a job? What was the meaning of these endless preliminaries? And why did they leave me so little initiative in the matter?
This total absence of information, I hoped just the same that it was only temporary: perhaps I was first supposed to pass through this initial phase, where I would be put to the test. The treasure hunt thus became, in my romantic mind, like a journey of initiation.
As for my recent transformation into this classic character of a blind man led by a child, it was meant no doubt to arouse people’s sympathy, and thereby put their suspicions to rest. But, as for passing unnoticed in the crowd, as I had been sternly instructed to, it seemed to me a very dubious way.
Beyond that, a precise subject of concern kept coming back to preoccupy me: where were we going now? Which streets, which boulevards were we following? Towards which suburbs were we thus driving? Towards what revelation? Or else, toward what new secret? Was the trip to get there going to be long?
This last point above all—the length of the car ride—nagged at me, without a specific reason. Perhaps Jean was authorized to tell me? Taking a chance, I asked him about it. But he answered that he had no idea himself, which seemed even stranger to me (inasmuch, at least, as I believed it).
The driver, who could hear all we were saying, then intervened to reassure me:
“Don’t worry. We’ll get there soon.”
But instead, I perceived, in these two sentences, a vague threat I couldn’t explain. In any case, it didn’t mean much. I listened to the sounds of the street, around us, but they provided no indication of the sections of town we were driving through. Perhaps, however, the traffic here was less intense.
Next, Jean offered me a mint lozenge. I answered that I would take one. But it was rather out of courtesy. So, he touched my left arm, saying:
“Here, give me your hand.”
I offered it to him, my palm extended. He placed in it a piece of half melted candy, sort of sticky, like all children carry in their pockets. I really didn’t feel at all like it anymore, but I dared not confess it to the donor: once I had accepted the candy, it became impossible to return it.
So I put it into my mouth, quite against my will. I immediately thought it had a weird taste, flat and bitter at the same time. I felt very much like spitting it out again. I abstained, once more to spare the kid’s feelings. For, unable to see him, I could never know whether he was not precisely watching me at that very moment.
I was discovering here a paradoxical consequence of blindness: a blind person can no longer do anything secretly! Those poor people who can’t see constantly fear being seen. In order to escape this unpleasant feeling, in a rather illogical reflex, I closed my eyes behind my black glasses.
I slept, I am sure of it; or, at least, I dozed off. But I don’t know for how long.
“Wake up,” said the kid’s voice, “we’re getting off here.”
And he was shaking me lightly, at the same time. I now suspect that mint lozenge, with its suspicious flavor, was drugged with sleeping medicine; for I am hardly in the habit of falling asleep this way in cars. My friend Jean has drugged me, that is most likely, just as he must have been ordered to. This way, I won’t even know the length of the trip we have just taken.
The car has stopped. And my youthful guide has already paid the fare (if, however, it is really a cab, which seems to me to be less and less certain). I no longer sense any presence in the driver’s seat. And I have the confused feeling that I am no longer in the same car.
I find it hard to regain my wits. The darkness in which I am still steeped makes waking even more difficult, and also leaves it more uncertain. I have a feeling that my sleep continues, while I dream that I am coming out of it. Furthermore, I no longer have the slightest idea of the time.
“Hurry. We are not early.”
My guardian angel is growing anxious and lets me know straightaway, in his funny voice that goes off-key. I extract myself with difficulty from the car, and I stand as well as I can. I feel quite woozy, as though I had been drinking too much.
“Now,” I say, “give me back my cane.”
The kid places it in my right hand, and then he grabs the left one to pull me vigorously along.
“Don’t go so fast. You’re going to make me lose my balance.”
“We’re going to be late, if you drag your feet.”
“Where are we going now?”
“Don’t ask me. I’m not allowed to tell you. And besides, it doesn’t have a name.”
The place is, at any rate, quite silent. It seems to me that there is no longer anyone around us. I can hear neither voices nor footsteps. We are walking on gravel. Then the feeling of the ground changes. We step over a threshold and we enter a building.
There, we follow a rather complex course the kid seems to know by heart, for he never hesitates when changing direction. A wooden floor has replaced the stone of the entryway.
Possibly, there is someone else, now, who is walking beside us, or rather ahea
d of us, to show us the way. Indeed, if I stop for a second, my young guide, who holds me by the hand, stops also, and I seem then to detect, just ahead, a third footstep that continues for a few seconds more. But it is difficult to say for sure.
“Don’t stop,” says the kid.
And a few feet farther:
“Pay attention, we’re coming to some stairs. Take the banister in your right hand. If your cane is in the way, give it to me.”
No, instinctively, I prefer not to relinquish it. I can sense a danger of sorts closing in on us. So I grasp, with the same hand, the iron banister and the curved handle of the cane. I stand ready for any eventuality. If something too disquieting happens, I am getting ready to suddenly pull my black goggles off with my left hand (which the kid holds rather loosely in his own), and to brandish, with the right, my iron tipped cane to serve as a defensive weapon.
But no alarming event occurs. After having climbed one floor, up a very steep staircase, we soon arrive at a room where a meeting, it seems, is in progress. Jean has warned me before walking in, adding in a whisper:
“Don’t make any noise. We are the last ones. Let’s not get ourselves noticed.”
He has softly opened the door, and I follow him, still led by the hand, like a small child. There is a crowd in the room: I can tell right away because of the very faint—but numerous—assorted sounds, breathing, suppressed coughing, the rumpling of fabric, slight impacts or furtive sliding sounds, soles imperceptibly scraping the floor, etc.
Yet, all these people remain motionless, I am convinced of it. But they have probably remained standing, and they move a little in place, that can’t be helped. Since I haven’t been shown a seat, I remain standing, too. Around us, no one says anything.
And suddenly, in this silence quickened by many attentive presences, the long-awaited surprise comes at last. Djinn is here, in the room, her lovely voice rises a few feet from me. And I feel, suddenly, rewarded for all my patience.
“I have gathered you here,” she says, “in order to give you some explanations, henceforth necessary. . . .”
La Maison de Rendez-Vous and Djinn Page 4