After that day Annie had never reproached her again. Eugénie thought that was one worry she’d got rid of for good. Even when Annie had told them she wanted to go away with Madame M. for a few months, Eugénie wasn’t particularly worried. No matter how often her husband told her he wanted nothing to do with a daughter who would abandon them for some bourgeoise, Eugénie knew that he would read her letters, and that he would write to her. He loved Annie too deeply to carry out any of his threats. But when the first card arrived, Eugénie was trapped; her husband had just been arrested, and she had no one to turn to. It had taken several cards before she got up the nerve to confess to me that she didn’t know how to read. Had she found her resolve by telling herself again and again that I was as worthy of her trust as the hundreds of metres of fabric that she had bought from my mother?
And it would seem she was right. I never betrayed her secret.
I have always thought that secrets must die with those who have harboured them. You must surely be thinking that I am betraying my own convictions since I am sharing them with you, but to you, I must tell everything.
‘I have always thought that secrets must die with those who have harboured them. You must surely be thinking that I am betraying my own convictions since I am sharing them with you, but to you, I must tell everything.’
I was overcome by an unpleasant feeling. The author of these letters really was writing to someone. In a burst of anger that surprised me I tossed the sheets of paper across the room.
I stood livid before the mirror. I saw myself closing my eyes and heard myself say, ‘Don’t worry, come on, it’s all just fiction.’ But once I had calmed down, I realised that I was afraid.
Why had I tried to change the course of events? I was pacing back and forth in Annie’s room. I felt terribly guilty. It was all my fault. Why hadn’t I read the letter to Eugénie? But in that room that was too small for my remorse I had not been able to confess as much to Annie. I had only just found her, I could not bear the idea of losing her again, or of making her angry with me. Three years without seeing her.
Even her absence for a few hours over the business with the keys made me feel sick.
And besides, I would have been forced to betray her mother’s secret; Annie would surely ask me why I was the one reading her letters.
I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was desperate for Annie to come back.
I remember I washed the tray and our cups, looked at the handful of books on the shelf, and straightened the crucifix over her bed. I leafed distractedly through the calendar to see what the coming days had in store. ‘Thunder in October, plentiful grape harvest’: so went the saying for that fourth of October 1943.
All that fiddling with an aim to avoid doing what, in the end, I did anyway: open her dresser. Men’s clothing, belonging to her husband. And her own. Three dresses, two cardigans that were too light for the season, stockings rolled up in a ball and ugly underwear. I needed so badly to imbibe her scent that I hunted for her dirty laundry. Obscene. But because in the beginning my love for Annie had been chaste, I had no difficulty in loving her lustfully, my back against the door so I would not be caught out. Her full breasts hanging down: I had been obsessed by that image ever since the day when she had asked me to help her move a bench to prepare the theatre performance. She had leaned forward first, and her bodice had opened. She hadn’t noticed a thing, not the movement of the cloth, or the movement of my eyes. For a long time I dreamt of her breasts at that angle, hanging down, round and hanging, her breasts where I would have liked to . . . I came.
‘“Let’s wait until tomorrow.” I didn’t want it to happen under these conditions. Not with a man I did not know. Not for the first time.’
I suddenly understood what Annie had been referring to in her story, and I choked on the memory of it.
I had indeed always been the first.
For several months already the fact that she was seeing Madame M. had distanced Annie from me. I was hardly expecting her to come by the house for me. She dragged me to the lake, bypassing the towpath; I had the impression she wanted to tell me something. After a while she stopped.
‘Come on, in you go.’
I stayed on the shore, motionless, speechless. ‘In you go . . .’ I had already heard those words somewhere. Another woman, in another place. That place had been as damp as could be; there was a smell of mildew, which was hardly surprising, all the windows were boarded up and the door to that ‘house’ was the one that was opened and closed again faster than any door in town. Violette came up to me, never taking her eyes from me.
‘Come on, in you go . . . ’
In spite of my fear I smiled. Once we were in, the rooms were actually downstairs. But you don’t chicken out after a password like that one . . . Violette went down and I followed her, feeling that, with this virile endeavour, I was going one step further in my story with Annie. There are not many women who enjoy being taken by a man for whom it’s the first time.
‘Come on, in you go . . . ’
This time, the expression was in keeping with the layout of the place. Once I had regained my self-control I grabbed hold of the rope to pull the boat closer to the bank.
Annie climbed into the boat and I followed.
The boat was wider than it was deep. We lay on our backs to avoid being seen. Annie seemed preoccupied. I had the impression she wanted to tell me something, but she didn’t say anything. The sky must often serve as an excuse for awkward lovers, but we were not so lucky; it was too early for stars. And with my eyes riveted on the empty sky I felt lost. This time I was all alone. There was no Violette to guide me. I searched my memories in vain, I could not recall how it had started with her. I did not know which gesture, which caress to choose. Violette had undressed herself, displaying no particular fervour, no particular boldness, simply the slow gestures of a migraine-sufferer, and the detachment that comes with habit. Clumsily I unbuttoned Annie’s shirt, one tiny fastener after the other. She was wearing sensible spring clothes, for that notorious month of ‘April showers’. Violette had the type of skin of women who do not look after their bodies, knowing it will be put to good use no matter what. Annie’s skin was smooth and soft. If she had kept her eyes open—like Violette—she would have seen that I was looking at her ample breasts against her slender chest. No, she wouldn’t have, because if her eyes had been open I would not have dared to look at her breasts. Her fists were clenched, too. Violette and I had been naked. Annie and I kept as many clothes on as possible. Violette had made me stroke her with my hand. Beneath my fingers I had discovered those rough patches, when in fact I had always thought it would be smooth. ‘It’s good when it’s wet like that,’ she said quietly, like a comment, a lesson. She had let go of my hand and I felt hers come gently to rest on my sex, where my entire body was concentrated, and then her body had replaced her hand. It’s good when it’s wet like that, I tried to reassure myself, my hand between Annie’s thighs.
Nothing in Violette’s body had distracted my attention. Everything in Annie’s troubled me. Violette’s face had suddenly relaxed, whereas Annie’s grew tense. I could not stand it, still less the sight of her body arching, lifting her chest in an upward movement that overwhelmed me.
Everything had gone well with Violette. But with Annie, badly.
She quickly pulled down her skirt. I quickly pulled up my trousers. Once we were dressed, we both felt better. Above all to be together. I was afraid that Annie might leave right away, but she didn’t, we went on lying there facing the stars that had still not come out. Again I had the impression that Annie had something to tell me, but she said nothing.
To this day, I am still angry with myself for not having found the necessary courage. I had found the courage to make love to her, badly, but not to get her to speak. I could have stopped her from going to her appointment with Monsieur M. and then none of this
would ever have happened.
I was overwhelmed with emotion. I had indeed always been the first. Annie had not lied. Or at least, not about that.
Because if she had fallen pregnant from Monsieur M. ‘with the efficiency of a virgin’, as she liked to say, she should have left three months later: April . . . May . . . June. So, in July.
But she had left the day after Christmas, and that was something I remembered clearly. I had gone to her house to give her a little present, which in rage I threw against a tree on my way back home. She had just left with Madame M.
July . . . August . . . September . . . October . . . November . . . December . . .
So there were five months missing from Annie’s story; that was a lot.
If the door to her bedroom had not suddenly banged against my back, I might have guessed what had happened during that lapse of time she had conjured away.
I quickly got to my feet, tossing the underwear beneath the dresser to get rid of it. If this was her husband coming home, I would have to restrain myself from smashing him in the face. Annie fell into my arms so eagerly that I got a lump in my throat: she had honestly been afraid I would no longer be there when she got back. She had been quick. She took a strange statue out of her bag, a long-legged woman seated on a sort of chair, her hands open wide around the empty space as if she were holding an invisible object in front of her belly, and that was the name of the statue, ‘the Invisible Object’. It was a gift from Alberto that she had brought back from the shop to show me. She put it on the table but, rather than sitting down, she suggested that we go out.
This was the day that she normally went to the municipal baths; did I mind going there with her?
I found it somewhat strange, how eager she was suddenly to have a wash, but I did not dwell upon it. I supposed she was in a hurry because of the curfew. I hoped the fresh air would help me recover my wits, but Annie did not give me any respite. No sooner were we in the street than she continued her story where she had left off. Without making any mention, naturally, of the mysterious months that had vanished. It would be years before I learned anything more about them.
Madame M. had planned everything. For the duration of my pregnancy we would move to their home in Paris, where they used to live before they came to L’Escalier. Above all we must say nothing to my parents; they would not understand why I didn’t go to see them from time to time. As far as anyone knew we had gone a long way away, in the south. To Collioure, where the climate was gentler. We had to find a pretext for our departure. And if war did break out, even though it did not seem to be heading that way, at least we would be in a safe place. Madame M. had an explanation for everything.
I felt uncomfortable lying to my parents. She offered to tell them for me. It wouldn’t cost her anything and she had planned to come to the house in any case, to meet them and reassure them. My father didn’t say a word. He sat there ramrod straight in his armchair. Maman didn’t even try to ease the tension. She was too sad to pretend otherwise. But Madame M. was not one to get flustered. She was a very good liar. That should have alerted me. My father asked me if I really wanted to go there with that woman for the duration of her pregnancy. I said I did. So, without even getting to his feet he ordered Madame M. to leave his house immediately.
After that things became unbearable. My father accused me of abandoning them for a bourgeoise who was pregnant from a capitalist. Filthy rich parasites. That was his new refrain. Whenever I made the mistake of looking at him he would order me to stop judging him. The moment I didn’t help myself to seconds it was ‘mademoiselle has become a picky eater ever since she started sharing her lunches with the duchess.’ One evening he went too far and I lost my temper. It was time he stopped exaggerating, I was not ‘abandoning’ them, they had managed to live forty years without me, they would survive five short months, and besides, we would write to each other, it wasn’t the end of the world . . .
I am sorry I spoke to them like that. I should never have left them, but how was I to know? I thought about everything I was about to discover in Paris. If it had been up to me alone, we would have left even earlier. But I felt so sorry for Maman. I didn’t manage to reassure her. Her maternal intuition, I suppose. The final weeks were tricky. I fled from her measuring tape like the plague. She kept telling me what it was like when her breasts had started to grow; she’d got it into her head that this was why I wouldn’t let her take my measurements. ‘I’m the one who made you, after all!’ she said, again and again. She was so kind, Maman. Yet I had to keep pushing her away. In fact, I couldn’t stop thinking of a story that you had told me, about Rodin. Do you remember? About a sitting where he discovered that one of his models was pregnant before the girl herself even knew. Well, I was sure the same thing would happen with Maman. Even with her eyes closed she could tell. She knew my body too well: as she said, she was the one who had made me. Nor could I buy new clothes to camouflage my belly—she would have really taken it as an insult.
Luckily my seams held up until Christmas. My last Christmas with my parents. I was three months pregnant. Papa gave me an easel he had made himself, bigger than the other one because I had grown. Well, no, he didn’t exactly give it to me. He was too proud for that. I found it under the Christmas tree. Covered in a lovely sea-green woollen cape. ‘I knitted it myself, thinking of what it feels like to hold you in my arms.’ I let Maman hold me tight, even though I usually wouldn’t let her near me anymore. Papa didn’t even want a thank-you kiss for the easel. I cried. But not in his presence, anything but that.
The next day was the big departure. I left with Madame M. at night. No one must see me arrive at their house. She had prepared everything. I would take Sophie’s room under the eaves. That way I could open the window without any risk, as there were no facing windows. On the way she explained that no one must know I was there. When she had visitors I would stay in my room. When she went out as well. Because, in spite of the curtains, passers-by or neighbours would be able to see whether someone was in a room. And if they had just run into her in the street or elsewhere, they would wonder who was in the house. I complied with these arrangements without protesting. I divided my time between Sophie’s room and the bathroom next door, where there was no window either. When Madame M. was there and I wanted to stretch my legs, she would come up to my room. The rest of the time we spent there together. In this respect it was not that different from L’Escalier. I painted. She read. Except that it was a bit cramped.
And to think I had believed I’d be discovering Paris!
In those days the news from the front was still good. The war no longer took up the headlines. Maybe just one or two columns. Just enough to show all the soldiers languishing on the Maginot line that they had not been forgotten. Ever since we read that they were planting roses there to boost the troops’ morale we lost any fear of a full-scale war. Mobilisation wasn’t war, that’s what you read everywhere. It was nothing but a ‘Phoney War’. We amused ourselves trying to guess the words that had been blacked out in the papers. We spent some time on it. There were so many blanks that certain articles were illegible.
‘Twelve people had to be hospitalised in Paris after they slipped on a patch of [. . .] covering the pavement.’
‘Ice!’
‘Well done!’
Even weather forecasts were forbidden: they might be useful to the enemy.
Madame M.’s unbridled cheerfulness was completely new to me. She went out a great deal, but did not neglect me for all that. She told me how she spent her time—the races at Longchamp, the charity sales for the soldiers . . . She told me about people. She gave me fashionable clothing with names and colours inspired by the events. A ‘tank’ coat. An ‘extended leave’ nightgown. They weren’t really useful to me, given ‘the present state of affairs’, meaning my huge belly, but I would give them to my mother when we went back to the village, and she’d be able to
use them as models to make clothing for the women there. They’d snatch them up like hotcakes. I thought Madame M. was being very considerate.
I tried to capture the new tones with my palette. ‘Maginot’ blue. ‘Aeroplane’ grey. A ‘French soil’ beige. I mixed my paints to drive away my darker thoughts. I no longer knew what to paint. I was thinking too much, so I copied things. That was better than nothing.
She knew it was hard for me to be shut away in that house. She had pinned a map of Paris to the wall in my room so that I would not feel so far away from everything. Before she left the house she would show me where she was going. I spent hours repeating the names of streets. I studied the different arrondissements, while my belly grew ever rounder. She also brought me photographs and postcards from all sorts of places. The Eiffel Tower, the Place de la Concorde, the Arc de Triomphe. The Louvre. She promised me we would visit all these places together after the birth. She made so many plans for the future, ‘for afterwards’, as she put it. I ought to have seen through her words, the way I could fill in the censored blanks. But not for one instant did I suspect what she had in store for me. She was really very kind to me.
She brought me a kitten so I wouldn’t feel so lonely when she wasn’t there. All grey, with a reddish patch on the top of its head. I called it Alto, in honour of Alberto. I missed his lessons. She had told him I was back in the village. And that we would start up our lessons again when she went back to L’Escalier, after the birth. Alberto lived in Paris, she couldn’t tell him I was here, he wouldn’t have understood why I didn’t just go to his studio. It all seemed very complicated to me. Not to her. She wiggled her way out of any potential trap with ease.
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