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WHEN MIMI awakes, after a profound sleep, she is strangely calm, passionless, devoid of all the fears that usually beset her. For a short while she lies in the broad French bed, gazing at the milky rectangle of light that is only faintly obscured by the yellowish tulle curtains, for she was too tired, on the previous evening, to let the maid in to make all secure for the night. She reviews the events that have brought the two of them to Paris; she is well aware of Alfred’s distaste for this adventure, of his misery at having to deal with his father’s lawyer – a meeting for which he would have liked to be thoroughly briefed and prepared – and his discomfort in this vast, shabby and respectable hotel. Alfred has rarely been away from home before, does not remember being a baby in Paris and never thought that he would make his first excursion into that wide world, of which he has read so much, in so unseemly and so wretched a cause. Mimi is aware of his disappointment; she is also aware that his birthday was spent largely on a French train, and although she knows that Sofka will have prepared a festive meal for Alfred to celebrate his return, it will seem as if he is only being congratulated for having carried out her wishes, not for any merit of his own. Mimi is aware of all this. She knows, too, that her sister is lost to them, and for a moment she falters as she remembers how they used to brush each other’s hair, dreamily, in the old nursery. But after this moment of weakness, she recovers and rediscovers that strange blessed calm that descended on her when she awoke that morning.
She bathes and dresses quietly; then, writing a note for Alfred to tell him that she will be back in time for lunch and that he is not to worry, she slips out of the door and runs lightly down the red-carpeted staircase. It has somehow come to her, without much thought on her part, that Alfred will recover his equilibrium if he is left to walk about Paris on his own for a short while, and that she, in the meantime, will proceed to the Hôtel des Acacias, there to confront Betty. She knows quite well that this meeting will in effect change nothing and she is prepared to say goodbye to Betty, this very morning, if necessary. In fact, rather than bring about this purely formal exchange, which, she knows, Alfred would only spoil, Mimi would rather like to know how things stand between her sister and Frank Cariani. In fact, Mimi is quite adamant on this point; she requires this knowledge, not in any spirit of panic or despair, but in order to plan her future conduct. Mimi is not even surprised to find herself thinking in these terms, so becalmed is she by the strangeness, yet the dreamlike familiarity of the pearl-grey Parisian morning. So radical has been the shift in her consciousness during those hours of perfect sleep that she is not even surprised to have exchanged the past, by which she was previously bound, for the present, which now absorbs all her attention.
Quite without her habitual nervousness, Mimi sits down outside a café in the Place des Pyramides and orders a cup of coffee and a croissant. No one seems to think she should not be there and she is served quickly and efficiently. Then she puts a discreet hand to the embroidered collar of her blouse, another discreet hand to her heavy chignon of hair, gets up, and crosses the street into the Tuileries gardens. She does not know why she has done this, for the Hôtel des Acacias is in the opposite direction, somewhere near the Parc Monceau. But it is still early, very early, and Mimi desires to use her few free moments in order to bring home from this strange visit some memory of her own. It is so beautiful there in the gardens, the only other presence being that of the tiny whispering water jets turned on to sprinkle the flowers in the beds. These flowers – begonias? – glow redly but their fierce colour is muted by the surrounding greyness of the dusty paths, the heavy dew on the grass, and the thick autumn mist that will shortly rise to reveal a majestic late sun. Mimi drifts noiselessly under the chestnut trees, now heavy with the last of their green leaves; already the sap has left them and the brown and gold colours have begun their invasion. Like a child, Mimi stoops and picks up a chestnut, green, prickly, and hard, too young to split and reveal its glossy fruit. Down the paths, past gesturing statues, mute, stern, occasionally agonized, Mimi walks sedately, as if conscious of the statues’ august and adult passions. She skirts the round pond, where she strolled as a child with her nurse, and sets her course for the Place de la Concorde. Mimi knows Paris well; she used to accompany her parents when they came over for the Salon d’Automne, and this was one of her daily promenades. But in the solitude of this early morning she is able to notice the bones of a landscape that was previously hidden to her by a press of people: here, for example, are the curving stone balustrades that form, as it were, the prelude to that great enclosure, now alive with traffic, with the obelisk in the centre and the arch at the far end and the policemen’s whistles putting an end to her morning reverie.
Mimi sits on an iron chair and brushes the whitish dust from her shoes. Then two hands go up to the chignon and anchor the tortoiseshell pins more securely. Curiously enough, although the noise and bustle have now reached daytime proportions, Mimi is still undisturbed. Her mind touches lightly on the problem before her; in her imagination she sees the Hôtel des Acacias, a small dark corner building overhung by heavy trees. She knows that she will find Betty there, and that she will no longer be responsible for Betty’s actions. To Mimi, in one of her rare moments of wisdom, comes the knowledge that she is no longer responsible for a person whose actions are so hidden and so damaging. If anything, Mimi desires to see this new Betty simply in order to document herself on the circumstances in which Betty has chosen to live. She knows perfectly well that these will not be entirely respectable, and her one desire is to spare Alfred the sight of an unmade bed, perhaps a smear of make-up on a not entirely clean morning face, a suspicious concierge, an airless smell in the corridor … Brought up against this, Mimi knows, Alfred will lose his temper, lose his head. Far better that she, Mimi, should make a survey, uninfluenced, undisturbed; she will then know how much, or rather, how little, to tell her mother.
Mimi descends the steps and gets into a taxi. ‘Rue des Acacias,’ she says to the driver. ‘Déposez-moi au coin de la rue, s’il vous plaît.’ Throughout the brief drive she gazes unseeingly through the window at the streets now hectic with traffic and confusion. Her massive feeling of control has not yet left her, and she is mildly surprised but in a blessedly detached sort of way. It seems to her that she has somehow come into her own, that she has left behind not only Betty, but Alfred, Sofka, and Frederick, the one whom facially she most closely resembles. If she is to see them again, she feels, it will be as a different person. She has no clear idea what she means by this.
The Hôtel des Acacias is indeed exactly as she imagined it. It occupies the sharp angled corner of two streets and is bounded by a blind stone wall over which heavy trees lift very dark heads. The only thing that Mimi has not imagined is the extreme cleanliness and propriety of the place. There is no sullen concierge but an eager little woman ready to answer her questions; she stands behind a tiny counter with a tiny stand of postcards on it and is only too pleased to respond to Mimi’s queries. Yes, Mademoiselle Dorn is staying there and the little woman is very glad to know that someone has come to see her; the young lady is perhaps too young to be staying there alone. Will Madame be requiring a room? No, says Mimi, thoughtfully; that will not be necessary. If she could just see Mademoiselle Dorn now? But of course. If Madame would just walk around the corner she will undoubtedly find the young lady eating her breakfast at the café.
Mimi walks out of the Hôtel des Acacias, knowing that she will never return there. It is quite respectable, she will tell Sofka, and perfectly clean, and the owner seems to be quite a genuine sort of woman. She will not tell her that the place has the depressing air common to all small family-run enterprises, that there is a muted noise coming from behind a glass door which leads presumably to the family’s own quarters, that she has glimpsed a little girl playing hopscotch outside the entrance, and that there is a very faint smell of Eau de Javel in the foyer. And that one has to go out for all one’s meals. She has no doubt
that Betty has not noticed any of these things, being too intent on herself and the scandals she proposes to bring about. Nevertheless, as Mimi rounds the corner by the blind stone wall and comes alongside the Café-Bar des Acacias, she is quite relieved and even moved to see Betty sitting there, dipping her bread into her coffee like a native, and lapping it up with one of those sideways turns of the head that her sister knows so well.
Calmly, Mimi sits down at the table opposite her sister. Over the coffee-cup Betty’s eyes widen like a cat’s, but then they narrow, and the cup is replaced wordlessly in the saucer. For a moment, nothing is said. ‘I’m not going home,’ says Betty finally. ‘No,’ says Mimi, again quite calmly. ‘I don’t suppose you are. Have you got enough money?’ She goes on, again with this extraordinary calm and freedom, to tell Betty to write to her mother; to tell her too, although she knows that Alfred will be furious about this, to get in touch with Maître Blin if she needs any assistance. She then examines her sister and sees that she looks marvellous. In spite of the fact that Betty has already bought herself an inexpensive-looking fur jacket, which she is wearing over one of her violently printed silk dresses, Mimi sees that the instinct that brought Betty to Paris was entirely correct. Far from looking sordid or decrepit, as if age and sin had already taken their toll, Betty has a coral bloom in her cheeks that has nothing at all to do with make-up but owes something perhaps to the many strands of coral necklace that she has wound round her startlingly white throat. The coral braceleted hand that still holds the handle of the coffee-cup has coral-coloured nails, and the grey eyes that look at her so sharply are rimmed with a subtle grey shadow that has replaced the earlier applications of kohl. All at once Mimi is conscious of the fact that she must look as timeless as the Lady of Shalott in comparison, and is instantly aware that she should do something about it. ‘How will you live?’ she asks Betty, mildly pursuing a need to take home an answer. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ replies Betty proudly. ‘I’ve got an audition at the Moulin Rouge this afternoon.’ She has too. She has simply walked into the place and asked them to take her on, and the manager, not a bad sort of man, is so amused that she has been told to report back this very afternoon to go through her paces.
For a little while the two sisters sit, their faces turned not to each other but to the grey street, an empty regular unmemorable street, almost suburban in its small daytime preoccupations. Opposite them, on the other side, is a little grocery store, and two women with heavy shopping bags stand outside and talk. A postman lopes by and they both greet him. A woman with a dog on a leash emerges from a nearby building and waves to the two women chatting outside the store. Everybody seems very friendly and reliable. At the counter in the Café-Bar des Acacias stand a group of workmen, with curious hats, splashed with plaster or white paint, pushed to the back of their heads. There is very muted conversation. Betty snaps her fingers and orders more coffee, then looks enquiringly at Mimi: you too? Yes, nods Mimi. So the sisters sit peaceably and drink their coffee in the warm and still grey morning air.
Their brief communion is shattered by the sight and sound of Frank Cariani, who appears round the corner labouring under the weight of a heavy suitcase. He seems unsurprised to see the two of them, as he is so used to seeing them together, but merely grins cheerfully and puts his suitcase down with a sigh of relief. It is quite clear to Mimi that he has just arrived, and the enormous burden of what she has managed not to think about slips away from her, leaving her blissfully happy. Frank too is happy, thinking that he must have imagined the slightly disagreeable undertones of this adventure, which had always disturbed him. Here are the two girls, together as usual, just as they used to be, on holiday, apparently, and here he is, being agreeable to them, as he has always been. Whatever he thought his plans were, he is more than happy to abandon them, and he no doubt thinks that he can go home again with only a little explaining to do, and no bad conscience. He is aware, of course, that Betty has immediately started sparkling and pouting at him, but he is rather used to women doing this, so he takes little notice of her. He has booked a room at the Hôtel des Acacias, but then he never expected to stay anywhere else and thinks nothing of it. Why not enjoy a few days’ holiday himself? His father owes him that much, and he has surreptitiously cancelled his lessons for the coming week. In a moment he will send a telegram to his father, saying that he has accepted a last-minute invitation from a friend. This is, in a way, true. There will be mild trouble when he gets home, of course, but nothing that he can’t deal with, as long as he has a clear conscience.
When the three of them have exchanged polite and friendly greetings and have sat together over yet another cup of coffee, Mimi, still fully in command, gets up and makes as if to leave. The other two look up at her, waiting for her to do something. ‘Betty,’ says Mimi. ‘I will tell Mama to expect you home in a week’s time. Don’t forget to get in touch with Maître Blin. He will arrange about your ticket.’ Betty looks furious but says nothing. She has no intention of going home, as they both know, but she feels that she has lost face by being instructed in this manner. ‘Frank,’ says Mimi calmly, as if she has been talking privately to him all her life. ‘Will you walk me to a taxi? I think I saw a rank just round the corner.’ Frank assents with alacrity, and is only momentarily intercepted by Betty who embraces him, head back, leg bent back at the knee, as if he were going on a long journey. The workmen in the café cheer her with good-natured amusement. Both sisters blush deeply at this. It is their last moment of common feeling.
As Frank strides beside her on his beautifully elastic dancer’s legs Mimi wonders how she is to move ahead. For a moment, and quite unexpectedly, she is tired, sad, faintly ashamed of this whole adventure. She knows that she should have remained the correct elder sister, negotiating Betty’s return far more energetically than she has done. How will life be for her without Betty? They have never been apart before. She is aware that they have both lost their early innocence, and she is aware of the strangeness of this thought, for she has done nothing. Betty has chosen to rid herself publicly and scandalously of her girlhood, her upbringing, her education, even her ancestry, but she, Mimi, has done nothing. Disturbed, she turns to Frank. ‘She must be home by next week,’ she says to him. ‘She is foolish and headstrong and she worries our mother.’ ‘Never fear,’ says Frank. ‘I will bring her home.’ At this Mimi looks at him with large sad eyes. ‘Don’t hurt her,’ says Mimi with difficulty, not knowing how to phrase this. ‘Of course not,’ he replies, without difficulty, she thinks, in the painfully aware state that seems to have succeeded her earlier calm. She puts out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Frank.’ He retains her hand in his. ‘I always liked you best, you know.’ Her pain deepens, then lightens, leaving her calm once again, but very sad. ‘I am at the Hôtel Bedford et West End,’ she tells him. ‘And I shall be there all this evening.’ He presses her hand in acknowledgment before seeing her into the taxi.
Mimi finds Alfred looking brighter, after his visit to the bank, and mildly pleased with his morning’s work. Apparently they have quite a lot of money, which is always reassuring. ‘Would you like to stay here a few days?’ asks Mimi, after she has explained that Betty will return, under safe escort, in less than a week. ‘No fear,’ says Alfred, who has not yet recovered from the unfamiliarity of this experience and who eyes approaching waiters with deep suspicion. Decorously, they lunch in their suite, for Alfred is in fact quite seriously disturbed by the French in their informal mode. He finds them threatening, confident, and much cleverer than he is, and he knows that at the bank they were expecting him to be Frederick. He is conscious of being young, although it was his birthday yesterday, and he is acutely homesick. The truth is that in some ways he has had to grow up too quickly and in others he has not had time to grow up at all. Alfred is a clever boy, and he is conscious of the fact that he is going to have to sort this out for himself. His heart is quite heavy at the prospect, and he pushes the creamed spinach to the side of his plate. Mimi, who has been wat
ching him carefully, puts her hand on his. ‘You can catch the three o’clock train,’ she says. ‘There’s no point in our both being here. I’ll stay until tomorrow. I’d like to buy one or two things.’ Alfred’s face brightens. ‘Don’t worry,’ says Mimi. ‘And tell them not to worry at home.’ Yet even as she says this she knows that this Parisian escapade will not damage the people at home half so much as it will damage Alfred and herself.
After seeing Alfred off on the train and waving until both he and the train are out of sight, Mimi retraces her steps through the grimy arcades of the station and emerges once again into the full glory of the September afternoon. For a moment or two she is uncertain what to do, where to go, what to wait for, and how long to wait for it. But the powdery golden sun, made fragile and more beautiful by the knowledge, shared by all those people in the streets, that the year is dying, reassures her, and, without quite retrieving that passionless calm that was hers on waking, she is able to walk easily and devoid of forethought along the broad pavements and to admire the quick life around her, although she feels herself to be isolated in its midst.
Such physical solitude is quite unknown to her for she has always been happiest when protected by her family. She alone remembers her father with affection and with nostalgia for his benevolent if abstracted presence. She was always secretly conscious of being his favourite and from the memory of his hand stroking her long red hair or producing chocolates for her from a silver box she has learnt to yearn for that aura of masculinity which intrigues a woman, tempts her, and makes her long to satisfy her curiosity. With Mimi, this is all below the surface, far below. She only knows that at home with Sofka and Frederick and Alfred and recently Betty she has been questing unconsciously for that man, that alien, that stranger, that appointed one, who will deliver her, the sleepwalker, from her sleep. Thus, in the bosom of her family, Mimi, the good daughter, has been the one most ready, most willing, to defect.
Family and Friends Page 6