If there had been a well in the garden, I’d have thrown myself down it to hide myself from the Roolands’ horrified stares, not to mention those of the neighbours who’d been brought out onto their doorsteps by Arthur’s ranting.
“Listen to me, Arthur,” I said through gritted teeth, and grabbed him by the wrist. The look in my eyes must have told him I meant business. He shut up.
“If you carry on like this, I’ll go and get Mum. We’ll be out of this town before you know it, both of us, and then you’ll be all alone in your poxy little house. Understand? Do you understand, Arthur?”
That certainly sobered him up a bit. He turned on his heels and made himself scarce. I ran back into the house like a madwoman, tore up the stairs to my bedroom on all fours, threw myself on my bed and burst into floods of tears. After a few moments, I recognized Monsieur Rooland’s footsteps on the staircase. “He’s come to give me the sack,” I thought. Who could blame him? He couldn’t have Arthur singing serenades like that outside his house. It was over.
He came into my room.
“Hello, Louise.”
Seen through my tears, he was more handsome than ever. He was smiling.
“It’s nothing. Please don’t cry.”
“Are you angry with me?”
“Why would I be angry? It’s not your fault!”
I fell back onto the bed, burying my face in the pillow.
“Thank you!” I sobbed.
I’m not sure if he heard me, but he stroked my hair, softly, before he left the room.
SEVEN
Life continued like that for a few months, and in the end I think I managed to find myself a sort of quiet happiness. It wasn’t the happiness I’d expected—it wasn’t so glamorous, or so much fun—but the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that it was a real happiness all the same. One thing surprised me to begin with—the way Madame Rooland got when she was drunk. Normally when people have had a few they get all talkative, excited; they wave their arms about, shout or laugh. Thelma was silent, though, like she was thinking deep, private thoughts. It was only come the evening, in the living room, that she livened up a bit to put on her show for Jess… or during the night when the booze stopped her from sleeping and she got up to play records. When winter came, there was a slight change in the after-dinner routine. Instead of putting on her dressing gown, Madame Rooland would put on a fur coat. She had a beautiful one, made of long, soft, light-brown fur. I don’t know what creature they had to skin for it. Maybe mink? Fur coats aren’t my strong suit.
Anyway, the first time I saw her naked underneath that beautiful coat I didn’t like it at all.
I mean, you’re meant to wear a dressing gown next to the skin, right? A coat, though, with nothing underneath—if you ask me, that looks strange… But when you’re a maid, you shouldn’t let anything surprise you. The boss is always right, or at least you’ve got to act like they are. All their odd habits and vices are perfectly respectable, because they pay you to respect them. Each to their own.
And so, winter came. They’re never white, round here, even when it snows a lot—they’re filthy and grey. Winters of mud and soot that make Léopoldville look like a sick old lady.
One evening, Monsieur Rooland came home with something on his mind. Since the cold had set in he’d started wearing an overcoat with epaulettes that made him look like some sort of army officer. He spent a long time talking to his wife, who by some miracle was less hammered than usual. Then they called me into the living room. I’d lit a log fire earlier—now the wood crackled in the fireplace, filling the room with a homely pine-resin smell.
“Louise, I wanted to let you know that we’re going to be hosting a party here on Sunday evening.”
“Very good, Monsieur.”
That gave me a twinge of anxiety in my gut somehow. It wasn’t the thought of all the extra work that scared me—more the idea of our quiet home life being disturbed.
“There will be fifteen guests…”
This time it really was the thought of the work that gave me a fright. How was I going to feed and serve so many people?
“Fifteen to dinner, Monsieur!”
He shook his head.
“Oh, no, Louise! Not a dinner à la française—a buffet. You prepare lots of cold things and lay them out on a big table, you see? Club sandwiches, little snacks and so on.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“OK!”
I’d started saying “OK”, but I didn’t have the right nasal pronunciation and it always got a little laugh out of Thelma and Jess.
“My bosses will be there, and my colleagues too: British, Belgians, Americans, some French… I really want everything to go well. Would you feel up to organizing it all?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“I’ve always used the Hôtel Benoît until now—they prepare everything and send me someone to help with serving. But my wife and I think you’re such a marvellous cook…”
“I’ll handle it all myself, Monsieur. Madame will only have to explain to me—”
“That’s just what I wanted to hear, Louise!” he cried. “I’ll be there too, and I’ll give you a hand.”
And with that, what had felt like a sentence of forced labour suddenly seemed like a picnic to me. And it was too, or at least the preparations were.
You know, when you’ve got fire in your belly you can work wonders. I’m not quite saying what I did that Sunday was a miracle, but I’d like to see another maid do better.
On the Saturday afternoon, we went to Paris together to get our supplies, all three of us. I was in the back of the car, imagining I was a rich heiress being driven to a party by her chauffeur. Jess left the car in the American car park on the Rue Marbeuf, and we took a taxi to the grands magasins. Before we could think about the feast, we needed something to serve it on—I bought a stack of gold-coloured cardboard plates, and piles of paper lace serviettes. It was a funny feeling—the Roolands obeying my every word and gesture, as if they were my skivvies rather than my bosses. Since it was only a couple of weeks till Christmas I suggested we get some sparkly decorations to hang about the house. I also told them a candlelit soirée would be more atmospheric, so they bought a load of candles of all different colours and sizes, and some plastic candelabras into the bargain.
After all that, we went to the market at Les Halles—I needed chickens, a cut of beef, cheeses, prawns and fruit. We chose the best they had, and let me tell you something for free: money is beautiful. At home, on the rare occasions we ate chicken, Mum would always choose the cheapest one. There was more bone than meat, the flesh was colourless and the lumpy skin was covered in stubble. The ones we took home that day, though, they were another story: plump and delicious, looking good enough to eat raw, each one with a “Poulet de Bresse” medal round its neck.
When we got home, I stayed in charge. It was a lot for me to take on. Four chickens and a great big fillet of beef to cook—it was a mountain to climb, but I managed it. Then, with pans gently bubbling away on all hobs of the cooker, I got on the telephone and ordered an industrial quantity of rolls from the local baker. It was such a thrill for me, running the whole operation like that. Next to me, on the kitchen table, Jess was trimming the candles to fit them in the candelabras. His wife helped him for a while, then she disappeared, and soon we heard “Loving You” playing upstairs. Casually, Jess went to take a look in the living room. The bottle of Scotch was gone.
We gave each other a silent look. He went back to trimming his candles.
*
By Sunday evening, everything was ready. It was like a fairyland! A few years earlier I’d seen a wonderful nativity scene in a big Paris church whose name I can’t remember—Saint something-or-other. Anyway, even that wasn’t as beautiful as the Roolands’ dining room that evening.
We’d pushed the dinner table up against the far wall, along with another table so that we could fit everything on. On the smaller of the two, I’d arranged all
the glasses: champagne flutes and big tumblers for the whisky. Resting in a gigantic washing basin that Mr Rooland had wrapped in holly branches were two bottles of Pommery champagne, covered in a pile of crushed ice, only their little golden caps poking out of the top. Such a pretty picture!
The bottles of whisky were lined up on the tabletop. All the big brands were there—Jess could get all the booze he needed at a good price from NATO headquarters.
The big table was for the buffet proper. If you could only see my chickens sitting on their golden plates, with their beds of cress and sliced tomatoes! I would have liked to have photographs taken of them, in colour. And my sandwiches! With beef, anchovies, prawns, cheese—mountains of them. Fifteen people would never eat all that! We’d have leftovers for a week.
When the decorations were up, the candles lit, the cakes all laid out and adorned with little festive figures, Monsieur Rooland put his hands on my shoulders.
“This is magnificent, Louise. Congratulations.”
He’d put on a midnight-blue suit with a white shirt and a beige tie. His hair smelt wonderful.
Madame Rooland was wearing a lamé sheath dress that clung to her like a second skin. You could see what good shape she was in. Her breasts were high and firm, her waist no bigger than a napkin ring, and her hips swelled out gently below, like the body of one of those opaline vases you see in antique-shop windows. She’d made herself up more heavily than usual too. Her lipstick was mauve rather than orange and her foundation made her cheekbones stand out.
“How beautiful Madame is!” I cried.
Jess seemed happy at that. He took Thelma by the waist and pulled her powerfully up against him, which she told him off for, saying he was going to crease her dress! Just then, the doorbell rang. The first guests had arrived.
There was an American general, in civilian dress. He was still young but had snow-white hair, which gave him quite a distinguished air. His wife and daughter were with him. Next, a French couple arrived. They spoke American just as well as Jess, but they seemed awkward and didn’t know what to do with their hands. And then the Léopoldville police commissioner turned up—just a big kid, really, gloomy and nervous. I think Jess had taken pity on him. Sometimes he’d hang about in front of the house like I used to do.
After him, the other guests arrived all at once, and I was overwhelmed. Suddenly it was like a busy railway station in there—all the chatter, the laughter… And boozing—you’d have to see it to believe it! At our dinner parties in France we chat a bit first, then we drink a bit and get a little more lively, but it’s only by dessert that people are merry enough to start singing or telling dirty jokes. With the Americans, it’s totally different. Everyone grabs a glass and a bottle of whisky and sets about getting drunk like it’s going out of style.
Within half an hour, apart from the young commissioner, they were all sloshed, including the French couple, who’d been at the champagne. The husband had overcome his shyness and was clowning about, with the metal cap from a cork screwed into his eye like a monocle.
Suddenly, Jess clapped his hands and they all stampeded towards the buffet. The general’s daughter was an ugly little thing in glasses, and hadn’t been to finishing school yet if the way she tore at her chicken leg was anything to go by. I hope for her sake there isn’t any cold chicken on the menu the first time a boy asks her out to dinner. Meanwhile I stood by attentively, offering round condiments for the food and ice for the whiskies.
A few of the men tried flirting with me a bit, but I couldn’t understand their lines, so it didn’t go anywhere and I was able to get away with a polite smile.
When they’d eaten their fill, they started drinking again, and now things started getting really ugly. I had to take the French lady to the toilet to be sick. Thelma started up the record player, playing jazz, slow dances and rock ’n’ roll. I couldn’t move any more for all the people dancing. (Those who were still standing, that is—some of them were already snoozing in the living-room armchairs.)
Thelma was more out of it than any of them, jumping up and down, clapping her hands in front of the commissioner, who didn’t know what to do with himself. At one point, she tripped and fell onto the carpet. The commissioner went to help her up, but as he bent over the general shoved him in the side and he ended up on top of her. They all howled with laughter. I tried to catch Jess’s eye. He seemed to find it funny too. Strange people: if you tried a stunt like that at one of our local dances it would cause a riot.
To make matters worse, Thelma didn’t even try to get up, just writhed around on the floor in front of everyone, striking all sorts of poses. I felt so embarrassed for Monsieur Rooland, and for the young commissioner, who was trying unsuccessfully to get away from her.
Jess must not have cared, or else he had a bloody strong character to put up with nonsense like that!
EIGHT
It was turning into an absolute nightmare; at least it was for me, tired and worn out as I was after two days of preparations. If I hadn’t found their antics so awful, I might even have had a couple of glasses of champagne myself, just so I could know what it’s like to be in that happy state where even the worst behaviour apparently seems completely normal.
Fifteen was actually the right number for that sort of party—it allowed for a kind of rotation system, with those waking up from their drunken snoozes replacing those who were just passing out. My parquet was like a pigsty floor. It was going to take a lot of scrubbing, sweat and steel wool to get it looking respectable again. Through all the confusion, I kept watching Monsieur Rooland. Seeing everyone cutting loose, he’d decided to do the same and was dancing a cha-cha-cha with the general’s wife, who was taller than him, a proper skyscraper. As I was carrying out a tray of dirty glasses, one of the guests grabbed me by the waist and pulled me towards him to dance—a stocky bloke with a crew cut, and fishy eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses.
I tried to put up a fight—it’s not the maid’s place to be dancing with the guests—but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. My tray fell to the floor and everyone burst out laughing. The American was holding me so tightly to his chest that I was short of breath. So I danced with him, not that I had any choice in the matter. He deliberately trampled on the broken glasses as we swayed. When the record finished, we were near the door to the corridor. He dragged me through it. As it was supposed to be a candlelit soirée, Monsieur Rooland had cut the electricity, just in case anyone was tempted to flick a light switch. That meant some areas of the house were in darkness, including the hallway, which was practically pitch black. My gallant shoved me roughly up against the wall and tried to kiss me. I struggled as much as I could, but the bloke was as strong as an ox. When he found he couldn’t kiss me on the mouth, he started hitching up my dress. That was more than I could stand, and I screamed for Monsieur Rooland at the top of my voice.
Jess arrived quicker than I could have hoped. He took his guest by the arm and told him off in a friendly tone, while my attacker bent down and pretended to tie his shoelace, hiding his embarrassment.
We’d both let our guards down, Monsieur Rooland and me, when his guest suddenly grabbed the bottom of my dress and pulled it right up in a flash, all the way up to my waist, like skinning a rabbit! It was quite a tight dress—the one from the funeral, if you remember?—and it took me a moment to pull it back down over my bare legs, as I’d filled out since I bought it, especially round the hips… When I eventually managed to get it readjusted, I looked up to see my chubby dance partner laid out on the corridor floor, Monsieur Rooland having just clocked him one on the jaw. Good old Jess was kneeling down next to him now, shaking his head and repeating in English, “Sorry, Dick! Sorry!”
I was sorrier than anyone. I’d put so much effort, so much thought into that party, and to see it turn out like it did… I felt rotten, as I’m sure you can imagine.
At my wits’ end, I went outside. The night air smelt of sadness. It was freezing cold, like all the winter evenings ro
und here. A white fog filled the road. The guests’ cars were all lined up bumper-to-bumper on the drive, glistening weirdly like animals gleaming with sweat. I went and looked at them to give myself something else to think about. Their roofs and windows were all covered in rime, but it was the insides of the cars that I was most interested in, so I scraped some of the frost off with my fingernails to see through. I was only wearing my old black dress, but I didn’t feel cold. I went from car to car, forcing myself to admire them, to distract myself from the fury burning inside me, making me tremble with rage.
And that’s when I saw two figures hunched in the third car. I felt a rush of fear—a couple of thieves must have been going through the vehicles and hidden themselves when they saw me approaching. I turned and fled back to the house as fast as I could. My dance companion was back on his feet, slapping Monsieur Rooland heartily on the back. Apparently he found being punched in the face the height of hilarity. Jess was laughing too—everything for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
“Monsieur, come quickly, I think they’re stealing things from the cars.”
He followed me. Once we were outside, I whispered:
“They’re hiding over there, in the third car along.”
He counted with his finger—one, two, three…
“That one?”
“Yes.”
He sprang towards the vehicle. It struck me how rashly he was acting. If the thieves were armed he could get shot!
“Don’t, Jess! I’ll get the commissioner.”
And I shouted:
“Commissioner, help, they’re robbing the cars!”
Jess didn’t seem to hear me, so I rushed after him, to hold him back, but his hand was already on the door handle. When you open the door on one of these cars, the light comes on automatically inside. A white glare lit up the interior. Jess froze, and so did I when I saw it: there were no thieves, just Madame Rooland and the white-haired general. I’ll never dare say what they were doing in there. For as long as I live I’ll remember those two bleary faces turning towards us, blinking like a couple of owls woken at midday. Their eyes were all bloodshot, and their skin was so red it looked as if their heads had been boiled. The commissioner had come running too, and took it all in with sad sigh.
The Wretches Page 4