Beauty & Sadness

by André Alexis

  For two years he did nothing much besides sleep, read, eat, and stare at the furnace as if the answer to a mysterious question were inscribed on it. With the passage of time, he became less and less able to write. His parents’ home was simply not conducive to poetry, and though his eyesight had improved, that, too, seemed to work against him: his world was not worth seeing clearly and the sight of it defeated words. Marin’s mother encouraged him to write, to go out, to run or paint or anything that might cheer him up. However, in her heart, she found his morosity encouraging. From all she had read — lives of Byron and Pushkin, Baudelaire and Rimbaud — Marin was exactly what great poets were: miserable, unhappy, inconveniently alive. She did her best to comfort him, but she reckoned his discomfort to be part of his process and, in this, she was seconded by the town’s other writer, who, these days, spoke darkly of his own misery and, from time to time, tried to finagle an invitation to the Herberts’ home to share his pain with Marin. However, as Marin had assured his mother the day would come when he would return to the world, if only he were left alone for a while, Mrs. Herbert never invited “Redfern’s other poet,” as he was now known, though she did buy his books (Good Going and Twilit Gardens) and encouraged Marin to read them.

  Without knowing it, Marin had in fact told his mother the truth. The day did come when he felt the pull of the world, the need to see the fields, to speak with Samuel Tench — whom Marin did not know was twice dead. Two years after his exile, after two years of solitude, grief, and silence, and some six months after he’d last written a word, Marin got up from his cot beside the furnace, washed, shaved, dressed, and resolved to go out into the world.

  It was late spring, the perfect time to see the world after a bout of grief and loss, but by the time Marin walked out his front door it was eleven o’clock and dark. The moon was bright, the streetlamps were haloed by a cold mist, and there were two people waiting outside his home, a young woman and a man in his sixties, both of them dressed warmly, talking quietly. At the sight of Marin, the woman stopped talking, stared as he approached, and just managed to ask

  — Marin?

  before he passed them by.

  — Yes? answered Marin.

  — It’s wonderful to meet you.

  — Nice to meet you too, said Marin.

  On hearing Marin’s voice, realizing that this was the moment he had been waiting for, the man began to cry. He took Marin’s hand, kissed it, and, wracked with gratitude, said

  — Your work has meant so much to me.

  — Thank you, said Marin. Thank you for telling me.

  Overwhelmed by emotion, the man and woman stood aside to let Marin pass. They watched as he walked down the tree-lined street, the lights of the houses making the cool spring night seem warmer than it was. Now, how was it that their language had chosen this man and this land on which or through which to flower? Really, language and ground were such inscrutable conspirators. And yet, the man and woman stood quietly still, their eyes on Marin’s back, until he and his black coat disappeared into the darkness.

  Marin walked about town, passing the school for the blind, McGregor’s greasy spoon, the Catholic church, the Anglican church, the tavern, and Ted’s Gas Station before heading to Tench Tower. There were still people about, townspeople and strangers, but no one troubled Marin as he walked, no one stopped him. He was relieved to discover there was no one at the tower: no streetlights, only darkness and moonlight. The tower was strangely blank, less like a building than an impressive heap of stones, but for Marin it was as if he were seeing home for the first time in decades, night making the tower as indistinct as it was in memory.

  More: as he stood on the opposite side of the road allowing his emotions to settle, he saw, moving towards him, his Death, her face pale, her eyes open, smiling sadly at him, as if no time had passed since he had unwittingly driven her away. How often, over the years, had Marin regretted his descent to the underworld and cursed Tench for showing him the door he should not have opened. But at the sight of his beloved, his spirits immediately lifted. The years of exile vanished from his mind and soul. In the instant he saw her, he conceived the first words of an elegy, which came to him whole, as if pulled from deep water by its first line.

  Ecstatic, filled with love, taking a step towards his Death which came to meet him, Marin Herbert was shattered and killed by the car that struck him.

  Two girls and three boys, Redfernians all, stood at the side of the road looking down at Marin’s broken and lifeless body.

  — What the fuck? You ran over Marin Herbert.

  They had been “on patrol,” keeping the town safe from wanton tourists. This accident, though, was real trouble. What could you say after killing Marin Herbert? Difficult to answer, even if they hadn’t been too drunk to think straight, which they were.

  — I didn’t know it was him. He stepped right in front of us. You saw it. Besides . . . besides, he hasn’t written anything for years . . .

  There was much back and forth on the matter. A good half hour was lost, but, after a drunken while, having agreed that they had killed, at worst, the country’s second-best poet, they cut Marin’s body to pieces with a machete and buried it in the Baillargeons’ cornfield, which, as luck would have it, had recently been ploughed, so the ground was soft and yielding.

  The loss to Redfern was considerable, though not catastrophic. Days after confirmation that Marin had disappeared, when fears for his life were most vivid, Marin’s readers came to see if they could find or buy anything of Marin’s in Redfern. Then, after six months or so, when it was clear Marin had gone and was, perhaps, dead, and police from all parts of Middlesex County were looking for him, the number of tourists dropped and dropped and dropped again until, a year after his disappearance, a quarter as many people came as had come the year before. Two years after his disappearance, all of his work was published by his mother in the hope that, if he was still alive, he would be peeved enough to call, if only to give her grief — grief which, of course, would have been the sweetest thing imaginable. After that, even fewer tourists came, but those who did were respectful, interested only in the monument to Marin erected in the town centre and in Tench Tower. They did not stay in Redfern for long, but they stayed long enough to keep the tavern, the café, and the bakery going for many years.

  In the end, Marin’s bones were never found. Every spring there was, when Mr. Baillargeon tilled his cornfield, at least a possibility that the black ground would give up something of the man it had swallowed. That it did not, that it never did, was perhaps proof of a jealousy or selfishness. The world above having Marin’s words, the great ocean that was Baillargeon’s cornfield kept his remains for itself.

  MYLÈNE SAINT-BRIEUC

  [HENRY JAMES/CARLOS FUENTES]

  When you were younger and better looking, you travelled in Europe. You were, let’s say, desirable, and when the money your father gave you ran out, you made your way by trading on your assets. You did well. Your looks, accent, and manners made you attractive. At least, so you were told by the men and women who paid for your travel, lodgings, and meals.

  In 1980, on your third trip, you stayed in Paris long after it had quieted down for summer and most of those left on the streets were tourists. You might have done better in Positano or Mykonos, but Paris fascinated you. One afternoon, you walked along the Quai des Grands Augustins, bought a novel by Jouhandeau at a bookstall and, when it began to rain, jogged across the street to one of the brightly lit bistros where you had rillettes de porc with a bâtard, a café américain, and a Pastis. Nothing was good, save the Pastis, but you sat out for hours reading, looking over at the buildings on the opposite bank, admiring the trees and the sunlight behind the grey clouds. In the thirty years since then, you have not been happier, nor more at ease.

  That summer was hot, quiet, and expensive. Paris seemed, at times, only a step from
stifling, but there was always something amusing to do. There were private clubs open until six in the morning, small theatres, restaurants . . . all things that took money. In fact, you might have run out of money altogether, but it was your good fortune to meet an older woman, Mireille de Saint Something-or-Other, who was wealthy and generous. She had a husband and children, but they happened to be away. And after an amusing night together, she invited you to spend a few days with her in Montmartre, in a many-floored house from whose rooftop garden you could see the jumble of roofs, windows, and chimney pots at the foot of the Basilica of Sacré-Coeur.

  You still remember her as she was then. You thought she was “older,” but she must have been all of forty. Her hair was light brown, cut so that it looked, perpetually, as if she’d just risen from bed. Her clothes were discreet, until you were close enough to notice how exquisitely they’d been tailored. Her mouth was small, but her teeth were big so that there was always a trace of lipstick on them. Also, though her body was more slack than that of the younger women you preferred, she was compact: small breasts, narrow waist, and a long, narrow back you found fascinating.

  Of course, if you remember her body so well it’s because she was proud of it herself. For the three days you spent with her, she contrived to be undressed, or nearly so, most of the time. This was pride, in part, but it was also because she’d taken it into her head that you needed an education in the senses. At the time, you found this assumption annoying. You pointed out that your “sensual education” had been at the charge of a number of people, most of whom had paid to teach you. You added that she had shown you nothing you hadn’t seen many times before. (You would behave differently now. You now understand how vulnerable she must have felt: a woman alone in an opulent and cold house with a young man she did not know. The fiction that she had something to teach you would have allowed her the illusion of control. But you were twenty-one, and your pride was easily wounded.)

  Still, even your good qualities failed you with Mireille. You were, for instance, capable of listening to reams of insignificant talk without seeming uninterested. Her complaints about her husband, whose mistress was “a whore,” gripes about her children, who seemed to love their father more than they loved her, endless speculation about her house and its endless renovations . . . You placidly listened to all of it, but you’d had enough of her after your first night, and you had to work to maintain the illusion of interest. To keep yourself alert, you stole what money you found, along with a sapphire ring that was in a bedroom drawer. This thieving was mostly for diversion. You would have given everything back immediately if she’d found you out, because you were not a dedicated thief.

  It is difficult to say if Mireille discovered your theft or not. She was the kind of woman who, even if she had, might not have made noise. It would have been inconvenient, for her, to explain your presence to whatever authority she chose. So, it’s difficult to be certain. These days, you tend to think she did know of your thieving. Though your time was spent engaged in the most intimate ways, a kind of formality grew between you after your second day together, the day you’d stolen the necklace. She still wanted you to do the things she enjoyed, but she was a little colder. That she carried on at all while suspecting you of betrayal may have had something to do with her experience. You were certainly not the first young man she’d entertained in her home. The money and jewellery she left around was, likely, matter she would not miss. In which case, her coldness was, perhaps, a sign of disappointment.

  Most telling was your last evening together:

  You had spent the day on her large, white bed, playing at a game she liked, one that called for real exertion on your part. And you had played your part particularly well, because her moments of transport were so intense they pulled you right along with her and you experienced memorable pleasure. When you had finished, you both washed in the large, well-lit bathroom. She dried you off in a provocative way and, rather than dressing, you went back to the bed, where, rather than beginning your game again, she wanted to talk.

  — My husband is coming home sooner than I thought, she said. I’m afraid we won’t be able to see each other anymore.

  — Que lástima, you said. It’s been a pleasure.

  — You won’t make any trouble for me, will you? I mean, you’re not indiscreet.

  — No, I’m not. That would be bad for my reputation. Besides, I’m leaving for Formentera in a day or two.

  — Are you? That’s too bad. I know that you aren’t . . . wealthy. I was going to suggest a way you could make a little money, if you wanted.

  — One can always use money.

  — I have a cousin, she said. Mylène. She has . . . strange needs.

  — What kind of strange?

  — I don’t want to be indiscreet myself, she said. I’ll give you her telephone number when you leave. You can tell her that I sent you. Please call me when you’ve seen her. I’d love to know how she is. I’m so rarely in Neuilly myself.

  You kept the name and address of Mylène Saint-Brieuc in the billfold of your wallet for months. Though you sold Mireille’s sapphire for relatively little, you had enough money to last until November. You actually had meant to visit Formentera, but once again Paris held you. You spent your money in restaurants, or in late-night “boxes” listening to African jazz. You went out with young men your own age, enjoying the sheer, unprofessional amusements of seduction. Though you don’t recall many faces from that time, you remember quite a few bodies: pale and young, compact and supple. (These days, the smell of Gauloises can set you thinking about frayed undershirts, long fingers, or late-night bars off rue de la Roquette.)

  When your money had again dwindled to nothing, you took the card with Mylène’s number from your wallet. You were wary of calling. Enough time had passed for Mireille to have warned her cousin about you. Perhaps Ms. Saint-Brieuc had been told to alert someone — the authorities or men without rules — should you call. Still, you needed money and, besides, the thrill of delinquency was irresistible. So, you called despite your trepidation.

  Her voice was small, a young voice, wary. She became slightly warmer at the mention of her cousin’s name, but not much. Then, when you told her what it was you wanted, there was complete silence. You thought she had hung up or put down the phone.

  — Mademoiselle Saint-Brieuc?

  — Yes, she said finally. Just a minute. What is your name, please?

  You arranged to meet in Neuilly, not far from her home. You would recognize her, she said, by her beret, if it was raining, or by her hair, if it was not. Her hair had recently been cut and made her look a little severe. If that did not work, you would know each other by your very presence at Place Winston Churchill. No one else would be there so early in the morning: seven o’clock. You couldn’t see the point of meeting so early, but Mylène insisted. There were, apparently, conditions or aspects to your transaction, aspects she wouldn’t speak about over the phone. There were things you needed to know, “for your own protection.” You understood her words, certainly. You were speaking French, your mother tongue. But on the night before you met, you tried to imagine what it was she wished to do to you or what she wished you to do. Your protection? The mechanics of lovemaking are usually straightforward. It’s the settings, rituals, and bound-aries that are the unknown. You decided you would not let yourself be tied up, at least not until you knew she could be trusted.

  The woman waiting for you at Place Winston Churchill, by the memorial to the dead, was thin, blue eyed, pale, her fingers long and elegant. She was dressed for November and rain: a white, belted raincoat, black leather boots with small heels, a white umbrella, and a red beret under which she kept pushing a lock of light brown hair that kept falling. She was not at all frightening, not intimidating, and did not seem deranged. After you’d shaken hands, she gave you an envelope in which there were a thousand francs.

  �
�� I don’t want us to worry about money, she said.

  — But we haven’t done anything.

  — I don’t know if we’ll do anything at all, but I’m very grateful you came. We can go to La Havane, if you like. I think it’s open.

  And it was open. People came in for their morning coffee and Danish. Some stayed, reading newspapers as they sipped. A few sat outdoors, beneath the awning, despite the cold and damp. The two of you stayed indoors, drinking coffee. There was no real subject for conversation, so you kept quiet, though you were not comfortable with all the mystery and silence.

  Then, without preamble, save for a clearing of the throat and a quiet

  — So, you know . . .

  she launched into a monologue, and followed it with a bizarre proposition. You were young, your surroundings were unfamiliar, and you had expected a flustered confession on the order of “I like to be bound and bitten.” Instead, she told you the following:

  Years before you met, Mylène Saint-Brieuc had worked in an office in Vannes. The position was beneath her: secretary to an accountant. But her father had insisted she do something that would help her appreciate the lives of those with little money. So, she had allowed herself to become menial. If this was an indignity, there was worse to come. She fell in love with the accountant and they had been having an affair for some time when the accountant’s wife got wind of it. This was the proper start of her misfortune. The accountant’s wife, it was said, was a witch, a real witch: quiet woods, apparitions, toads nailed to trees in a clearing. Mylène believed in none of this, so when the woman came to the office and warned her to leave Vannes, she did not leave. Worse, she carried on her affair with the witch’s husband. Two weeks later, though, Mylène fell ill. She could not sleep at night. She was constantly awakened by voices talking about her, her clothes, her behaviour. In the morning, she would feel impure. She couldn’t eat and she began to lose weight. Naturally, she went to a doctor. He found nothing wrong. Her family took her to neurologists, to psychologists, all to no avail. Everyone was afraid she would lose her sanity before dying. And then, at last, almost timidly, the accountant visited her home to tell Mylène that his wife, of whom he seemed proud, had in fact cursed her. The witch had put a powder of some sort on Mylène’s chair and Mylène had absorbed it over two weeks — a very long time. There was nothing he or anyone could do. She should certainly leave Vannes, however, if she wished to live. And as she wished to live, Mylène quit Vannes the following day, leaving everything behind, moving into an apartment in Neuilly. Did her troubles stop in Neuilly? No, not at all. The voices that had disturbed her sleep grew more distinct. There were now seven of them: men, women, and even a child. Each of them wanted something, each tormented her. None would leave her alone. She was possessed by spirits. In desperation, she went to the church and was seen by priests. It was here, finally, that she found some relief. An exorcist took on her case and chased most of the spirits away . . .