However, the Eurasian servant girl (it is she, if I am not mistaken, who must be called Kim) has remained in place, without moving, as has the animal, when the last sounds of applause died down in the dark theater. She looks like a fashion mannequin in a shopwindow, holding on a leash a huge stuffed dog, mouth open, legs still, ears perked. Without one feature betraying the slightest emotion, she stares at the undressed girl who has returned to the stone wall, back to the audience this time, body slightly inclined, arms raised and hands lifting her black hair above the nape of her neck. From here, the servant girl’s gaze gradually slides down to a fresh scratch which marks the amber-colored skin on the inner side of the left thigh, where a drop of blood is already coagulating. And now she is walking through the night along the great new apartment buildings of Kowloon, supple and rigid at the same time, free and enslaved, advancing behind the black dog that tugs a little harder on the leather leash, without turning her head to either side, without even glancing at the windows of the elegant shops, or, on the street side, at the single rickshaw passing as fast as its barefoot runner can manage, parallel to the sidewalk, behind the trunks of the giant fig trees.
The trunks of the fig trees conceal, at regular intervals, the slender fugitive silhouette, whose silk sheath dress glows faintly in the darkness. My hand, resting on the oilcloth cushion sticky from the sultry heat, again encounters the triangular rip through which a tuft of damp hairs protrudes. A fragment of a sentence suddenly, without any reason, has come to mind, something like: “. . . in the splendor of the catacombs, a crime with useless, baroque ornaments . . .” The runner’s bare feet continued regularly thudding on the smooth asphalt, alternately showing the soles dirtied by the dust in a clear black pattern, like the sole of a shoe deeply notched on its inner side and ending in a fan of five toes. Clinging to the armrest, I have leaned out of the rickshaw to look back: the white silhouette had disappeared. I am almost positive that it was Kim, imperturbably walking one of Lady Ava’s silent dogs. That is the last person I saw, that night, returning from the Blue Villa.
As soon as my door was closed, I wanted to reconstruct, point by point, the events of the evening, from the moment when I enter the villa garden, amid the shrill, continuous, deafening grating of the millions of nocturnal insects which infest the proliferating vegetation overhanging the paths, the branches touching the solitary stroller hesitating in the overly dense shade of the leaves shaped like hands, lances, or hearts, of aerial roots seeking some support to cling to, of flowers with a violent, sweetish, slightly rotten smell, suddenly illuminated at the corner of a grove by the blue light reflected from the stucco walls of the house. Here, in the center of a clearing, a tall man in evening clothes is talking to a young woman in a long, white, décolleté dress whose bouffant skirt touches the ground. At somewhat closer range, I easily recognize our hostess’ new protegee, whose name is Lauren, in the company of a certain Johnson, Ralph Johnson, known as “Sir Ralph,” that American recently arrived in the colony.
They are not speaking to each other. They are some distance apart: about six feet. Johnson is looking at the young woman, who continues to stare at the ground. He examines her slowly, from head to foot, lingering over her cleavage, her bare shoulders, and the long graceful neck slightly inclined to one side, contemplating each line of her body, each surface, with that indifferent expression which has probably earned him his British nickname. Finally he says, still with the same smile: “All right. It will be just the way you want it.”
But, after a silence and while the man bows in a respectful salute, which can only be a mockery, by which he appears to be taking his leave, Lauren suddenly raises her head and holds out one hand in the uncertain gesture of a person asking for another moment of attention, or pleading for a last reprieve, or trying to interrupt an irrevocable action already being performed, saying slowly, in a very low voice: “No. Don’t go. . . . Please. . . . Don’t leave me right away.” Sir Ralph bows again, without changing expression, as if he always knew that things would happen this way: he is expecting this sentence, which he knows in advance down to the last syllable, every hesitation, the slightest inflections of the voice, and which merely takes a little too long to make itself heard. But now, already, the expected words are falling one by one from his companion’s lips, who has doubtless followed the prescribed tempo, as she finally raises her eyes again. “Please. . . . Don’t leave me right away.” And it is only at this moment that he can leave the stage.
Some polite applause, from the audience, greets his exit, the applause, too, anticipated in the normal course of the performance. The lights in the theater come on again, while the curtain closes on the actress left alone on stage, seen in profile facing the wings where the hero has just vanished, apparently petrified by his departure, still holding her arm half extended and her lips parted as if she were going to speak the decisive words which would change the play’s out-come, that is, on the point of yielding, of confessing herself vanquished, of losing her honor, or even of triumphing.
But the first act is over, and the heavy red velvet curtain, whose two halves have come together, now leaves the spectators to their individual conversations which have immediately resumed. After some brief comments on the new actress—who appears on the program as Loraine B—, everyone returns to the subject which preoccupies him. The man who has been to Hong Kong continues talking about the horrible sculptures decorating the Tiger Balm Garden: after the group entitled “The Bait,” he begins describing “The Rape of Azy,” a monolith ten or twelve feet high which represents a gigantic orangutan carrying on its shoulder, where it holds her almost negligently, a beautiful life-size girl, three-quarters undressed, who struggles hopelessly, for she is absurdly small in relation to the size of the monster; her arched back is resting on the blackish-brown pelt (the statue is painted in bright colors, like all the others in the park), and her long loose blond hair hangs down over the animal’s hunched back. Close by stands the final episode in the adventures of Azy, the unfortunate queen of Burmese mythology whose body . . . The man standing next to the fat man with the red face finally loses patience—especially since the spectators in front of them have just turned around toward the speaker again, in order to indicate their irritation—and asks him to be quiet. The connoisseur of Oriental sculpture then decides to watch the stage, where the performance is continuing. The end of the first act is approaching: the heroine, who had kept her mouth closed and her eyes lowered throughout her partner’s entire speech (and up to the final sentence: “It will be just the way you want it. . . . I’ll wait as long as I have to . . . and some day . . .”), finally looks up to say, slowly and vehemently, staring the man straight in the eyes: “Never! Never! Never!” The bare arm of the young woman in the white dress makes a gesture of disdain, or of farewell, the hand raised level with her forehead, the elbow half bent, the five fingers parted and extended, as if the palm were pressing against an invisible wall of glass.
By approaching a few yards closer, on the soft earth which muffles the sound of my footsteps, I discover that the man whose face was partly concealed by a low-hanging branch is not Johnson as I had thought at first, deceived by the vague bluish glow reflected from the walls of the house, but that insignificant young man to whom Lauren is supposed to be engaged (although she usually treats him, with no concern for appearances, harshly or indifferently); the boy, moreover, can be here tonight only for that reason, since he is not a habitue of Lady Ava’s parties. Under the effect of so categorical a dismissal, which has just been given him in a merciless voice, he now seems to crumble: his legs sag, his back hunches, his left hand tightens on his chest, his right hand, extended to one side behind him, seems to be groping for something to cling to, as if he feared losing his balance under the violence of the shock. Continuing on my way I meet, a little farther along the same path, a man sitting alone on a stone bench, motionless and leaning forward, staring at the ground under his feet. Since this bench is situated in a particularl
y dark area, under an overhanging clump of trees, it is difficult for me to identify the person with certainty; but if I am not mistaken, it must be the man familiarly known here as “the American.” Since he seems lost in his thoughts, I pass without speaking to him, without turning my head toward him, without seeing him.
I arrive almost immediately in the region of the monumental statues made by R. Jonestone in the nineteenth century, most of which recount the most famous episodes in the fabulous existence of Princess Azy: “The Dogs,” “The Slaves,” “The Promise,” “The Queen,” “The Rape,” “The Hunter,” “The Execution.” I have been familiar with these figures for a long time and do not linger to look at them. Moreover it is too dark, in this whole part of the grounds, to distinguish anything among the vague silhouettes appearing here and there under the trees, and some of whom are also Lady Ava’s first guests.
I walk up the steps to the door at the same time as a group of three people coming from the garden gate, a woman and two men, one of whom is none other than that same Johnson I thought I had glimpsed dreaming in solitude on a stone bench. So it was not he. Upon reflection, it could only be Lauren’s fiancé swallowing his defeat, patching up the various fragments of his existence, now reduced to dust, perhaps modifying some detail in order to reach another, less unfavorable outcome, and even re-examining the points previously regarded as most positive in the new light of his sudden disgrace which casts both doubt and discredit upon them as well. In the large salon, Lady Ava is quite surrounded, of course, by the guests who, as soon as they come in, head immediately toward her in order to greet her, as I do myself. Our hostess seems smiling and relaxed, addressing to each guest a word of welcome which touches or charms him. Yet as soon as she sees me, she abruptly leaves all the others, walks straight up to me, pushing aside those importunate bodies whose faces she no longer even notices, and draws me aside into a window recess. Her face has changed: hard, reserved, distant. I have not yet had time to venture a word. “I have something very serious to tell you,” she says: “Edouard Manneret is dead.”
I know this already, of course, but reveal nothing. I pattern my attitude and my expression on hers and ask her in a word how it happened. She speaks rapidly in a toneless voice I do not recognize, which reveals disturbance and perhaps even anxiety. No, she has not yet been able to learn anything about the circumstances of the drama; a friend has just telephoned her, and he too had no idea when and how it had happened. Lady Ava cannot, moreover, continue this conversation of ours any longer, sought after as she is by all her guests. She turns swiftly toward an approaching pair of new arrivals and, relaxed, smiling, completely in control of all of her features, greets them with a warm word of welcome: “Oh, I’m so glad you came! I wasn’t sure Georges would be back in time . . . , etc.” Probably there are other people in this happy and carefree crowd who also know the news, even some for whom no detail of the affair remains a secret. But these, like the others, are chatting in little groups about commonplace things: their cats or dogs, their servants, their discoveries in the antique shops, their travels, or even the latest gossip concerning the episodic love affairs of people not present, or the arrivals and departures noted in the colony.
The groups form and dissolve as people happen to meet. When I am once again in the presence of the mistress of the house, she smiles at me quite naturally and asks if I’ve had something to drink. “No, not yet, but I will in a minute,” I answer lightly, quite innocently, and head toward the buffet of the large salon. There are waiters in white jackets serving the drinks tonight and not the young Eurasian servant girls employed for the more intimate parties. The immaculate white cloth covering the trestles and hanging to the floor is covered with many silver platters filled with different kinds of tiny sandwiches and cakes. Three men, in animated conversation, are taking little sips from the champagne glasses the waiter has just served them. The moment I come within hearing (they are speaking rather low), I make out several words of their dialogue: “. . . to commit a crime with useless, baroque ornaments, and it’s a necessary crime, not a gratuitous one. No one else . . .” For a moment I wonder if these words could have any connection with Manneret’s death, but this seems, upon reflection, quite improbable.
Moreover, the man who had made the remark has immediately stopped speaking. I could not even tell with any certainty which of the three men it was, so closely do they resemble one another in dress, height, attitude, expression. None of them says anything more. Together, they calmly drink their champagne, in little sips. And when they resume their conversation, it is to make some perfectly ordinary remarks about the quality of the wines recently imported from France. As they move away I ask for a glass in my turn: as a matter of fact, the champagne is very dry and sparkling, but without bouquet. Two other guests approach the buffet, waiting to be served. It is here that the scene occurs of the white-coated waiter leaning over to pick up an empty ampoule from the floor, putting it down beside him on the edge of the table.
The orchestra has begun playing again. The dancing has resumed. There are a number of couples, revolving in time to the music. There are many good-looking women, among whom I count, tonight, at least five or six who figure among Lady Ava’s protégées. Lady Ava herself happens to be with a girl I have never seen before, a girl who has lovely golden hair, an attractive mouth and satiny flesh generously exposed by the decollete of a dress revealing her shoulders as well as her back and cleavage. Standing near the red couch where the older woman is sitting, she looks like a diligent pupil listening to the orders of her schoolmistress. A tall man in a dark tuxedo walks up to them and bows to Lady Ava, who exchanges some casual remarks with him; then she indicates the young woman with her right hand, making some extended comment on her person, as her gestures suggest, her arm pausing at different levels while the man silently contemplates the girl in question, who lowers her eyes in modesty. Obeying a sign which has just been made to her, the girl turns around with a supple dancer’s movement, but slowly enough so that there is time to see her from every side; once she has returned to her initial position, it seems to me (but it is difficult to be sure, at this distance) that her face has reddened slightly; and, as a matter of fact, she turns her head a little to one side in what might be an expression of embarrassment or shame. Then Lady Ava must have asked her not to flinch that way, for she immediately faces straight ahead and even raises her lashes, revealing then two large eyes made larger still by skillfully applied mascara. And now Sir Ralph offers her his hand; it must be to ask her to dance, since they are walking together, now, toward the floor. I cross this part of the salon to reach the yellow couch in my turn—or rather the red-and-yellow striped couch, as I discover at closer range. Lady Ava is still turned, in profile, in the direction the couple has just taken. After waiting a moment, and since she has not stopped staring after them, I ask: “Who is that?” But she does not answer me immediately and even delays another moment before looking at me, finally saying, with an imperceptible narrowing of her eyes: “That is the question.”
I begin cautiously: “Isn’t she . . .” But I stop, my companion seeming, now, to be thinking about something else and no longer to be paying me any more than the most formal attention. This piece of music which has gone on for some time, perhaps even since the beginning of the evening, is a kind of cyclically repeated refrain in which the same passages can always be recognized at regular intervals. “. . . for sale?” Lady Ava says, continuing my question and then answering it, although extremely evasively: “I already have something for her, I think.”
“All the better,” I say. “Something interesting?”
“One of our regulars,” Lady Ava says.
She then explains that she means an American named Johnson, and I pretend to learn this fact from her own lips (although I have known the story for a long time), and not even to know just who the person in question is. Our hostess therefore takes the trouble to describe him and to tell me briefly about the opium poppy fields und
er cultivation on the border of the New Territories. Afterward her head is again turned toward the dance floor, where neither the man nor his partner is to be seen. And she adds, as though to herself: “The girl was on the verge of marrying a nice boy, who wouldn’t have known what to do with her.”
“And then?” I say.
“And then it was over,” Lady Ava says.
A little later, the same day, she also says: “You’ll see her tonight in the play, if you come to the performance. Her name’s Lauren.”
But meanwhile there has been the episode of the broken glass whose fragments are scattered over the floor, and the dancers who have stopped, then parted slowly to form a ring, contemplating wordlessly, with dread, with horror, as if it were an object of scandal, the tiny sharp fragments in which the lamplight is reflected in a thousand sparkling icy-blue facets, and the Eurasian servant girl who passes through the circle without seeing anything, like a sleepwalker, making the debris crunch in the silence under the soles of her delicate sandals whose gilded leather thongs crisscross three times around her bare feet and ankles.
La Maison de Rendez-Vous and Djinn Page 12