Bonjour Tristesse & a Certain Smile

by Françoise Sagan

  Straight away I liked his mouth, I liked it a lot. He did not say a word, only kissed me, raising his head from time to time to draw breath. When he did that, I could see his face above mine, in the half-light, looking absent yet focused at the same time, like a mask. Then he would come back to me, very slowly. Soon I was no longer able to make out his face and I closed my eyes because a warmth was flooding my temples, my eyelids and my throat. Something was surfacing within me that I had not known before, that had not the haste and impatience of desire but was happy and slow-paced and indistinct.

  Luc broke away from me and I stumbled slightly. He took me by the arm and, without a word, we walked round the garden. I told myself that I would have liked to do nothing but kiss him until dawn. Bertrand had very quickly exhausted the pleasure of kisses. As he saw it, desire soon had no further use for them. They were only a stage on the road to pleasure, not something inexhaustible and sufficient in themselves, as in the glimpse that Luc had given me.

  ‘You have a wonderful garden,’ said Luc, smiling, to his sister. ‘Unfortunately it’s getting rather late.’

  ‘It’s never too late,’ said Bertrand drily.

  He was staring at me. I turned my eyes away. What I wanted was to be alone in the darkness of my room, in order to recall and comprehend those few moments in the grounds. I would put them aside while the conversation lasted, my mind would be a complete blank. Then I would go up to my room with that memory. I would lie flat on the bed with my eyes open, would turn it over and over in my head for a long time and would either destroy it or allow it to become an essential part of me. That night I locked my door, but Bertrand did not come to knock.

  Six

  The next morning got off to a slow start. Waking up had been very pleasant and very gentle, like waking up had been when I was a child. But what awaited me was not one of those long, bright, solitary days punctuated by reading, it was ‘other people’14 – other people in relation to whom I had a role to play, a role for which I was responsible. At first the thought of that responsibility and that activity gripped me by the throat and I plunged back into my pillow feeling physically sick. Then I remembered the previous evening and Luc’s kisses and I felt something gently rend itself within me.

  The bathroom was wonderful. Once in the bath I began to croon away merrily to a jazz tune: ‘And now, I must decide, I must decide.’ There was a loud knock on the wall.

  ‘Could decent folk be allowed to sleep?’

  It was a happy voice, Luc’s voice. If I had been born ten years earlier, before Françoise, we could have lived together and he would have laughingly stopped me from singing in the morning and we would have slept together and we could have been happy for a very long time, instead of finding ourselves in a blind alley. For it really was a blind alley and perhaps that was why we were not going down it, in spite of our splendid, blasé lack of concern. I had to flee from him, I had to get away. I got out of the bath, but only to come across a fluffy bathrobe that smelt of old country wardrobes and that I wriggled into, telling myself that the sensible approach was just to let things run their course and that it wasn’t always necessary to be dissecting events, you needed to be calm and courageous. I was purring with inauthenticity at the idea.

  I tried on the denim trousers that I had bought and looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t like what I saw: my hair was untidy, I had sharp features and I looked too nice. I would have preferred regular features and braided hair, with the dark eyes of girls whose destiny it was to make men suffer and whose faces were severe yet at the same time carnal. If I threw my head back I did perhaps look voluptuous, but what woman wouldn’t have, in that pose? And then those trousers were ridiculous, they were too tight-fitting. I would never dare go downstairs in them. It was a form of despair that I was well acquainted with. I disliked my appearance so much that if ever I decided to go out anywhere in the evening I would be unbearable beforehand for the whole day.

  But Françoise came in and made everything all right.

  ‘Dear little Dominique, you look really charming like that! You’re looking even younger and livelier than usual. You’re a living reproach to me.’

  She had sat down on my bed and was looking at herself in the mirror.

  ‘Why am I a reproach?’

  Without looking my way, she replied:

  ‘I eat too many cakes, purely because I like cakes. And then there are these wrinkles here.’

  She had quite deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. I touched them with my forefinger.

  ‘I think that’s wonderful,’ I said tenderly. ‘Just think of all those nights you’ve lived through and all the countries and faces you’ve known, to get those two tiny little lines … It’s a plus for you. And they make you look alive. And, how can I put it, I think a face like yours is beautiful and expressive and affecting. I have a horror of smooth faces.’

  She burst out laughing.

  ‘Just for the sake of cheering me up, you would make beauty salons go bankrupt. You’re sweet, Dominique, you’re very sweet.’

  I felt ashamed.

  ‘I’m not as sweet as all that,’ I said.

  ‘Am I irritating you? Young people have a horror of being thought sweet. But you never say anything unpleasant or unjust. And you really like people. So I think you’re perfect.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  It had been a very long time since I had talked about myself. Yet it was an occupation that I had indulged in a lot up to the age of seventeen. But I was wearying of it. The fact was that I could only take an interest in myself, and love myself, if Luc loved me and took an interest in me, which was stupid.

  ‘I’m exaggerating,’ I said aloud.

  ‘And you seem incredibly preoccupied,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Because I’m not in love,’ I said.

  She looked at me. I felt myself sorely tempted to say to her: ‘Françoise, I would be very capable of loving Luc. I love you very much too. Take him, take him away.’

  ‘And is it really all over with Bertrand?’

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘I don’t see him any more. What I mean is, I don’t look at him any more.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you perhaps tell him?’

  I did not reply. What could I tell Bertrand? ‘I don’t want to see you any more’? But I really did want to see him. I liked him a lot. Françoise smiled.

  ‘I understand. Nothing’s simple. Come and have breakfast. I’ve seen a jumper in Rue Caumartin that would be terrific with those trousers. We’ll go and look at it together …’

  We went downstairs talking animatedly about clothes. It wasn’t a subject that greatly interested me but I liked just talking like that, talking for the sake of it, suggesting an adjective, choosing the wrong one just to tease her and laughing over it. Downstairs Luc and Bertrand were having breakfast. They were talking about going for a swim.

  ‘Maybe we could go to the swimming pool?’

  It was Bertrand speaking. He must have thought that he would look more presentable in the early summer sunshine than Luc. But perhaps he didn’t have such unworthy thoughts.

  ‘That’s an excellent idea. And I’ll teach Dominique to drive at the same time.’

  ‘We don’t want any silliness,’ said Bertrand’s mother, coming into the room clad in a sumptuous dressing gown. ‘Did you sleep well? And what about you, my pet?’

  Bertrand looked embarrassed. He had been adopting a dignified demeanour and it didn’t suit him. I liked him to be cheerful. You prefer people whom you are treating badly to be cheerful. It’s less disturbing.

  Luc was getting up to go. It was obvious that he could not stand his sister’s presence, which amused me. I too had experienced visceral dislike where others were concerned but I had had to conceal it. There was something childlike about Luc.

  ‘I’ll go upstairs and get my swimsuit.’

  We all began to rush around looking for our things. Finally we were all ready. Bertrand set off
with his mother in their friends’ car and the three of us were left together.

  ‘You drive,’ said Luc.

  I did have some vague idea of what to do and it didn’t go too badly. Luc was beside me and Françoise was in the back, talking away, unaware of the danger. Once again I was filled with an intense yearning for what might have been: long journeys with Luc at my side, the road showing white beneath the headlights, the night, me with my head on Luc’s shoulder and Luc so steady at the wheel and driving so fast. I thought of dawn over the countryside, dusk over the sea …

  ‘You know, I’ve never seen the sea …’

  There was an outcry.

  ‘I’ll show it to you,’ said Luc softly.

  And he turned towards me with a smile that was like a promise. Françoise hadn’t heard him and went on talking:

  ‘The next time we go, Luc, we must take her along. She’ll keep saying, “Such a lot of water! Such a lot of water!” like the man whose name I can’t remember.’15

  ‘The first thing I’ll do, probably, will be to have a swim,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk afterwards.’

  ‘You know, it really is very beautiful,’ said Françoise. ‘The beaches are yellow, with red rocks and with all that blue sea washing over them …’

  ‘I love your descriptions,’ said Luc, laughing, ‘yellow, blue, red. Like a schoolgirl’s. A young schoolgirl, of course,’ he added apologetically, turning to me. ‘There are older schoolgirls who are very, very clever. Turn left, Dominique, if you can.’

  I could. We drew up in front of a lawn. In the middle of it was a large swimming pool full of clear blue water, the very sight of which made me freeze. Before long we were standing at the edge in our swimsuits. I had met Luc as he was coming out of his cubicle, looking displeased. When I asked him why, he gave an embarrassed little smile.

  ‘I don’t think I look good.’

  He didn’t, in fact. He was tall and thin, slightly stooped and not very brown. But he seemed so unhappy, he was taking such precautions to keep his towel held in front of him and he had so much of the ‘awkward age’ about him that I felt sorry for him.

  ‘Come on now,’ I said lightly, ‘you’re not as ugly as all that.’

  Looking almost shocked, he cast me a sidelong glance and then burst out laughing.

  ‘You’re beginning to show me a lack of respect.’

  Then he broke into a run and threw himself into the water. He surfaced immediately, uttering howls of distress, and Françoise came and sat on the pool’s surround. She looked better the way she was than fully clothed, she looked like a statue from the Louvre. ‘It’s atrociously cold,’ Luc was saying, his head sticking out of the water. ‘You have to be mad to swim in May.’

  ‘Ne’er cast a clout till May be out,’16 Bertrand’s mother pronounced sententiously.

  Having dipped a toe in the water, she went off to get dressed again. I watched the merry, chattering crowd of pallid, excited people round the pool and was filled with gentle mirth, while at the same time being niggled by the thought: ‘What on earth am I doing here?’

  ‘Are you going to get in?’ asked Bertrand.

  He was standing in front of me on one foot and I looked at him approvingly. I knew that he did weight lifting every morning. We had once spent a weekend together and, at first light, mistaking my dozing for a deep sleep, he had performed various exercises at the window which at the time had made me laugh noiselessly until the tears ran, but which seemed to have had the desired effect. He had a clean, healthy look about him.

  ‘We’re lucky to have olive skin,’ he said. ‘Look at the others.’

  ‘Let’s have a dip,’ I said. I was afraid he might launch into exasperated comments about his mother, whom he found infuriating.

  I got into the water with the greatest reluctance, swam once round the pool as a face-saving exercise and got out shivering. Françoise rubbed me down with a towel. I wondered why she had never had any children, since she was so obviously made for motherhood, with her broad hips, a body in full bloom and her gentleness. It was such a pity.

  Seven

  Two days after that weekend I had an arrangement to meet Luc at six o’clock. My view was that from now on, if he tried again to start something that was going to be pointless, things between us would become toxic and beyond repair. In short, I was as ready as any seventeenth-century maiden to demand that he make amends for a kiss.

  We had arranged to meet in a bar on the Quai Voltaire. When I arrived I was surprised to find Luc already there. He looked tired and not at all well. I sat down beside him and he straight away ordered two whiskies. Then he asked me for news of Bertrand.

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘Is he suffering much?’

  He asked the question not in a mocking way, but quite calmly.

  ‘Why would he be suffering?’ I asked foolishly.

  ‘He’s not stupid.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re talking about Bertrand. It’s … um …’

  ‘It’s a secondary matter?’

  This time he had asked the question with irony in his voice. I lost my patience and said: ‘It’s not a secondary matter but at the end of the day it’s not very serious. While we’re on the subject of serious matters, let’s talk about Françoise.’

  He burst out laughing.

  ‘It’s a funny thing, but, as you’ll see, in a situation like this, the … let’s just say, the partner of the other person seems more of an obstacle than your own partner. Dreadful as it may sound, when you know someone you also know their way of suffering and it seems quite acceptable. Well, maybe not acceptable, but familiar, so you’re less scared of it.’

  ‘I don’t know much about Bertrand’s way of suffering …’

  ‘You haven’t had time. I’ve been married for ten years, so I’ve seen Françoise suffer. It is very unpleasant.’

  We sat quite still for a moment. We were both probably imagining Françoise suffering. I visualized her with her face to the wall.

  ‘This is stupid,’ said Luc at length. ‘But, you understand, it’s not as simple as I had thought.’

  Lifting his whisky, he threw back his head and gulped it down. I felt as if I were watching something at the cinema. I tried telling myself that this was not the time to be detached from things but I had the impression of living in a state of total unreality. Luc was there, he would decide, everything was fine.

  He leant forward slightly with his empty glass in his hands, swirling the ice round in a regular movement. He talked without looking at me.

  ‘I’ve had affairs, of course I have. Mostly Françoise hasn’t known about them, except in a few unfortunate instances. But they were never really serious.’

  He straightened up in a kind of rage.

  ‘And it’s not very serious with you either. Nothing is very serious. Nothing is of any value when set against Françoise.’

  I don’t know why, but I was listening to what he said without experiencing any distress at all. It was as if I were sitting in a philosophy class that was of no relevance to me.

  ‘But this is different. To begin with I desired you, the way a man of my type can desire any young girl who is feline and stubborn and difficult. Besides, I’ve told you already, I wanted to tame you. I wanted to spend the night with you. I never thought …’

  All of a sudden he turned towards me, took my hands in his and spoke to me gently. I studied his face close up, I could make out all the lines in it, I listened, enthralled, to what he was saying, I was finally capable of perfect concentration, liberated from myself and my little inner voice.

  ‘I never thought that I could hold you in esteem. I esteem you greatly, Dominique, and I like you a lot. I shall never love you “really and truly”, as children say, but we are alike, you and I. I no longer want just to sleep with you, I want to live with you, to go away on holiday with you. We would be very happy and very loving. I would teach you things about the sea and about money and about a certain kind of
freedom. We would be less bored. So there you are.’

  ‘I would like that too,’ I said.

  ‘Afterwards I would go back to Françoise. What risk do you run? The risk of becoming attached to me and of suffering afterwards? So what? It’s better than being bored. You prefer to be happy and unhappy than for there to be just nothingness, don’t you?’

  ‘Obviously,’ I said.

  ‘What risk do you run?’ repeated Luc, as if to convince himself.

  ‘And then, when it comes to suffering,’ I went on, ‘one mustn’t exaggerate. I’m not as sensitive as all that.’

  ‘Good,’ said Luc. ‘We’ll see, we’ll think about it. Let’s talk about something else. Would you like another drink?’

  We drank our health. What was becoming clearer to me was that we were perhaps going to go off in the car together, just as I had pictured but had not believed possible. I would manage perfectly well not to become attached to him, knowing that I had burnt my boats in advance. I was not that crazy.

  We went for a walk along the quays. Luc laughed and talked. I laughed as well and said to myself that you always had to laugh when you were with him and I felt quite disposed to do so. ‘Laughter is a distinguishing feature of love’, as Alain said.17 But it wasn’t a question of love, merely of something we had agreed on. And then, in fact, I felt quite proud: Luc thought about me, he held me in esteem, he desired me. I was able to think of myself as being quite amusing and worthy of esteem and desirable. The petty little official that was my conscience and that, as soon as I thought about myself, cast back at me a pathetic picture of myself, was perhaps too hard on me and too pessimistic.

  When I left Luc I went into a bar and had another whisky with the four hundred francs18 that had been earmarked for my evening meal. After ten minutes I felt marvellous, I felt tender-hearted, kind and agreeable. What I needed was to meet someone who could benefit from this and to whom I could explain all the difficult, sweet, painful things I knew about life. I could have talked for hours. The barman was nice enough, but uninteresting. So I went to the café in Rue Saint-Jacques, where I met Bertrand. He was alone, surrounded by a few empty saucers. I sat down next to him and he seemed really glad to see me.