Blood Dark

by Louis Guilloux

  “You’ve got a yellow-belly attitude,” she cried, finally letting her anger come out. “You’re shaking to the tips of your butt-cheeks, and you want to play the little soldier. I wish he could see you, your Nabucet, he’d have a good laugh. If you had a little bell on the end of your nose, he’d hear it a mile off. Godforsaken old fool!”

  Cripure got up, scowling. He was shaking, it was true, all over his big body.

  “Enough, do you hear! Silence!”

  “Sausage brain!”

  They didn’t move, staring face to face.

  “I don’t have to discuss it with you, Maïa. I’m merely informing you about something, and I would have done better to keep quiet.”

  She snickered. “You think I wouldn’t of guessed?”

  Busybody! he thought. She would have guessed, that was certain. She always guessed everything.

  “Yes, you would have guessed . . .”

  Maïa turned sarcastic, a mean light in her speckled eyes. “You want to be like those fancy gentlemen.”

  “Eh? Fancy gentlemen?”

  “A little bit of prancing . . .”

  “Enough!” he said, turning slowly around so he could flee. But he didn’t make a step, and Maïa watched and smiled with scorn. She sees that I’m afraid.

  This duel, which he’d fled before, sacrificing his dearest love to cowardice—Toinette!—here he was, after all these years, thrown back into it. But there was no longer the question of the officer. No. Fate had given him a worthy adversary, a miserable brown-noser. Oh!

  “I’ll . . .you’ll see.” He made a gesture with his right hand to his left, which clearly meant: I’ll knock him out, I’ll wipe the floor with him, I’ll make him disappear.

  “You?”

  She gave him a sideways glance. It was possible, after all, that he would kill Nabucet. And then what, would he go to prison in the end?

  “Why not me?”

  He pulled himself up, enormous, formidable, more like an ape than ever. She backed away.

  What frivolity! Where the devil had he read the quote that had meant so much to him in the past? “The frivolous takes advantage of man at random, and while he expresses his astonishment and wishes to return to himself, it seizes him and puts him in chains.” Hm. Another literary memory. For how many years had he let himself be randomly seized and enchained? Frivolity, scorn all down the line. And this moment too, however great its importance, grossly wasted, like the rest, like the duel would be, no doubt, tomorrow morning. “I’ve nothing left but her, and she doesn’t understand anything.”

  “What are you muttering?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing,” Maïa sneered, “nothing?”

  This whole story, she thought, was just as dumb as throwing yourself under a train, for example. And less than a year from retirement, when he had nothing left in sight but his little cottage, his books, hunting, since that was what he loved. And he was going to go fight a duel! But what about her? He hadn’t thought of her? She must mean something to him still? He was certainly fond of his little dogs . . .

  “For Christ’s sake!”

  Ah! Of course, you couldn’t say that life with him had been all roses, and she wasn’t just thinking of the insults, but of his phobias, his mood swings, the things she had to do for him endlessly. In spite of it all, they lived pretty companionably together, in comfort and ease, practically in fidelity, Basquin aside. But he could screw someone else if he felt like it. That had nothing to do with what brought them together. And now he wanted to . . .

  “Oh you idiot!”

  “Again?”

  He raised his hand, ready to slap her. He was on a roll with these slaps, today. She told him as much, adding that he could go ahead: at least he wouldn’t have a second duel on his hands. There was only one person inclined to that, and that was plenty for him. One look at Cripure was enough to see that plainly.

  “Trembling coward! No, you don’t scare me one bit, not enough to shake a stick at.”

  He lowered his eyes and fled—Nabucet wouldn’t be frightened either, he wasn’t frightening, despite looking like a scarecrow.

  HE WENT into his study and closed the door behind him. So she’d leave him alone. Alone. He didn’t need anyone. He wanted to yell at her, “No one, do you understand me, Maïa!” But he satisfied himself with thinking it.

  It was dark in the study. Dark and cold. But there was no question he’d open the glass door. He’d give up the heat of the stove tonight. All he had to do was light the lamp, and already that was no small matter.

  Usually, it was Maïa who took on that task. Would he know how to do it? And the matches? Maybe on the corner of the mantel.

  He found a box, but through clumsiness and his trembling, he didn’t succeed right away in lighting a match. The strip was worn out. He finally managed it, and with the flame burning his fingers, he grabbed the lamp, lowered it, lifted the glass—a miracle! he didn’t break it—and brought the match close. Saved! The light of his evenings, the dear light of innumerable past evenings and reveries, shone over his kingdom like a crown in the silence. He wiped his hands, greasy with oil, and examined the floor to make sure there were no sparks, that he didn’t need to worry about fire, and reassured on that front, he looked around him and murmured, “Well then! Well then!”

  Well then! It made sense anyway, even if it was unexpected! And so, in this moment when everything would be settled and the plot started to reach the climax, what did she find to say to him but idiot . . . trembling coward. She called him an idiot! She was probably right about that. Yes, I was an idiot to think she could understand.

  What had he imagined, in the carriage? He’d go home, his heart burning with anger and bitterness. He’d admit everything to Maïa. She wouldn’t say anything. She’d let him tell her everything—he’d finally tell her about Toinette!—and she’d keep listening without interrupting him, understanding every last word through a miracle of compassion and love. It would be an angelic scene, a divine moment, where they’d pardon each other and love one another with their fates finally realized. After that moment, nothing else would make him tremble. He’d no longer be a coward, death would no longer be terrible, he’d feel not only renewed, but cleansed, purified by this . . . he couldn’t say either confession or admission, since he refused to think of himself as guilty whatever the cause . . . by this gift, that was the right word for it. All the time he was coming home, he hadn’t stopped thinking about that, that he would tell Maïa everything, and that afterwards, come what may, he wouldn’t care one way or the other. What man wouldn’t want to tell all before tempting death? And that was what he should have done—instead he’d fallen into a household spat. Frivolity, once again, got the better of him. Idiot! He could say it a hundred times.

  In the height of his sadness, while he was still young, some deaf part of him had held on to the hope that everything would begin again. He’d be dealt a new hand: he’d see the game better. “You live like you have a lifetime to learn,” he murmured, letting himself slump into his chair. He looked at his books, his papers scattered on the table—another aspect of the disaster, the Chrestomathy.

  It was, however, the moment to put the final period on that erudite work. Nabucet would take care of it tomorrow in a different way. But while he was waiting, wouldn’t it be necessary—for the interest of science, perhaps!—to tell what had just happened between him and Maïa, and then to keep noting, hour by hour, even minute by minute, what was still happening, up until the last minute when, at twenty paces, someone would say, “Are you ready?”

  No, he would not be ready. Yet he would say “yes” in a voice that forced itself not to tremble. That would be another lie, but the last. After that, it wouldn’t matter if he lied or not. A bullet in his snout. Finished. Settled. No one would speak of it again, not about him, not about his Chrestomathy.

  So far, this work consisted of scraps where he’d written—in his small, delicate handwriting, elegant, s
piritual, how different from his person—notes on bits of paper, calling cards, the backs of envelopes. There were a great many of these notes, gathered day by day and year by year. They made up a fat folder. He took these cherished bits out of a drawer, making the effort to put the books and papers cluttering his table on the mantelpiece, and in the shiny space of ink-stained wood, almost unrecognizable to him in its new nakedness, he dumped his sheaves and notes as if from now on he’d only think of this work, as if everything going on in the world, including the duel, would be suspended until the moment when he had succeeded not just in telling but in saying.

  But the attempt went no further than dumping the papers on the table. That done, he surveyed them with a sort of hatred, as if the Chrestomathy too had betrayed him, and arms limp, eyes glazed, he didn’t move.

  It would have been more reasonable not only to renounce the project—and was this the time to do so, and did one make plans in front of a pistol?—but also to destroy the papers down to the slightest scrap, to burn every last one and drown the ashes. You are dust and to dust you shall return. Burn everything—that’s what people did in these situations, through an ultimate discretion, a last, violent concern to drag everything with them into the purity of death, perhaps also a last revenge. A curious concern all the same with total self-effacement, like an animal who wants to confuse its trail, to make all traces down to its shadow disappear, haunted by this madness until the last breath, so it was no longer a matter of trails or traces since the path had been chosen, and in any case, everything would go forward with the ring of a blade that would flash in his eyes and which, in less than a second, would strike him down. A handsome system of contradictions: he should put it in the Chrestomathy.

  And along those lines, if he didn’t burn his papers, what would happen? In Maïa’s furious hands, what would become of these little scraps of secrets? Sold at the auction like all the rest, he was sure of it, since she would sell everything in bulk, to the highest bidder, the most curious, the most repellent, even to his enemies. You could count on her to despoil the corpse, o dear companion in misfortune! Everything. She’d auction everything. He didn’t have to be a prophet to imagine how things would go. Of course, all his books, all his papers, she’d trot them out in a pushcart or in Basquin’s car, off to the fair! Two or three boards on trestles, an awning in case of rain, and that would be it! Step right up! Come on over! Reading materials at a low price! Take your pick for twenty sous! And since salesmanship made her hungry and thirsty, he could picture her quite well, standing behind her trestle table in the midst of breaking bread, her knife in one hand, her bread and lard in the other, and, in a corner, the bottle of cheap wine she’d drain in a few slugs without using a glass. That would be all for his books. It would always be the bread and butter for a few poor “intellectuals” and in particular the priests who were well off, but miserly. In his capacity of town librarian, Monsieur Babinot would ask for the privilege of getting the first look at the pile. The rest—the furniture, the bookcases no doubt, and surely his clothes—would go another direction, that of the auction house. He didn’t have any illusions about that either. She’d send everything there, even his slippers, the goatskin, and his little straw hat. Nabucet would collect the enemy spoils to make a diorama!

  But what else would he want? That Maïa herself would make a diorama or a museum? Dark madness. She would be right to sell everything. Or did he want to keep hoping that unknown admirers, forgotten friends . . .

  These horrible scenarios fascinated him. Elbows propped on the table, he stayed unmoving as a block of stone until Maïa barged into the room. But then, he jumped. In a second, he was on his feet.

  She appeared, hatted, costumed in her “lady” clothes, her good church dress, for Easter and Palm Sunday, a parasol in her hand, such as he had only seen her two or three times, on very special occasions—a first communion she had to go to, or a baptism—looking just as she had always dreamed she would look on that long-awaited day when he’d take her down to the courthouse.

  A huge feathered hat, antique and wilted, hid her ruddy mug, like an unbalanced yoke on the most readable of foreheads. A white dress. A white blouse, ridiculously low-cut and sleeveless, squeezed that ample bosom like a straitjacket, giving a view of her skin, rough as a rasp and jiggling like an egg. In her haste and in her rage, Maïa had dressed herself clumsily, but she undoubtedly thought she looked beautiful and seductive. It was good enough for a long laugh.

  “What’s all this? Where are you going?”

  He knew only too well, and he panicked in every crevice of himself.

  Maïa fancily put on her gloves.

  “Tell me!”

  “You’ll see about where I go. You’ll see! If you think that cow pie of a Nabucet . . .”

  It was too much. This time it was too much. For God’s sake, the awfulness couldn’t go that far. What right had this old hag . . .

  “I’m my own person!” Cripure howled.

  He meant that his death was his own, and that she had no business with it. But she replied, all the while putting on her gloves and trying to look at herself in the mirror, “We’ll see about that soon enough. Your Nabucet? I’m going to give him a taste of his own medicine . . .”

  A raft of horrors followed. She knew all about that bastard pighead of a Nabucet, with his honey manners and his habit of groping the girls. With two of her good smacks, for starters, everything would be sorted out. He could take a big whiff of that stew and see how he liked it. Had there ever been such a . . .

  “And what’s more,” she said, “I’m putting on gloves, you know, cause I don’t want to dirty my hands. I’m better than him, even if I am a whore.”

  “Maïa!”

  “There’s no Maïa-ing me.”

  “You’re not going, Maïa.”

  “Who’s going to stop me?”

  “I am.”

  He came forward. The blouse, badly hooked, bunched over the camisole and the skin of her neck made a big red roll under the gray hairs she’d haphazardly combed up.

  “You will not go,” he said, letting his hand fall heavily on Maïa’s neck. She bent her head. Her hat fell over her eyes, but not for long. Cripure ripped off the good hat and threw it into the middle of the kitchen.

  “There!”

  Crazed with anger, she turned, trying to scratch his face, going for the eyes. He bent his head, pressing his forehead under Maïa’s chin, bracing his legs against the table while his arms fell slowly on the wench’s back, tearing her blouse and joining in a powerful grip behind her waist. As big and fat as she was, he had her well pinned. She couldn’t escape.

  “You’re not going.”

  In its flight, the handsome feathered hat had bumped the green glass of the hanging lamp, pushing the lamp into a dangerous pendulum swing. They stopped struggling, without letting go of their prey, eyes fixed on the lamp, waiting to see it crash to the ground. But except for dust, nothing fell. For an instant, Cripure had the feeling that it wasn’t the lamp swaying, but the floor, and that he wasn’t in his familiar study, but in the cabin of a ship in a big swell. But soon everything was calm. The sea became flat again, the rocking of the lamp lessened and then stopped. He held on tighter to Maïa.

  “You will not go,” he murmured, almost in a whisper. “You’re staying here.”

  “I will too.”

  She tried to hit him, to knee him in the stomach. Furious that she couldn’t scratch him, she tried to stamp on his painful toes with her the heel of her clog. “Dirty cow foot! Lemme go!”

  “No.”

  “Cuckold!”

  For less than a second, he relaxed his grip, but he grabbed her again and squeezed even tighter. “What does that matter?” her murmured, his teeth clenched. “What does that matter? You’re not going in any case. This’s my affair. Mine alone.”

  “You’re choking me.”

  “Say you won’t go.”

  “I will . . .”

  “I—I
made my will,” he said, astonished to hear himself say those words. “Everything will go to you.”

  In the same instant the words tumbled out of his mouth, he realized with horror that it was useless to fight any longer since Maïa had stopped struggling. He could let go of her, sure that from now on she’d no longer try to leave. He did, in fact, let go of her and saw her turn around the room as if blind, her back bent, her arms dangling in front of her like someone groping for sight. He wondered anxiously if perhaps in his fury he had hurt her, and he looked at his hands. Maïa finally found a chair and slumped into it. Her face hidden in her arms, she started to groan.

  “What’d you say! What’d you say!”

  “What did I say?”

  He was—already—prepared to rescind whatever idea, and ready to play the innocent. Pleading not guilty, that’s my strength! But he well knew what made her groan. She made me deliver that blow.

  Hadn’t she called him a cuckold? What was that about? Basquin? But it wasn’t Basquin she’d been thinking of.

  “Maïa!”

  “What’d you say!”

  It was horrible, shocking, to see this fat whore with her hair hanging down, her blouse in shreds, shrinking into her armchair as if she’d been burned, as if the blow Cripure had dealt touched something more than herself, something fundamental, inviolate, perhaps even sacred. “Oh, oh, oh!” he moaned in turn.

  Of course, when it came to baseness he considered himself well educated. For a moment, he’d thought, with a kind of awful delight, that he’d struck home, that he’d proved once more the horror of man’s hideous moral decay. He’d been dizzy at the thought that it didn’t matter to Maïa if he died, and in this way that so resembled a killing, as long as the sous went to her, that money he’d watched with such jealous care, making a thousand plans to use it for his escape and his freedom, and which would in fact go to giving Maïa a dowry which she’d squander away with Basquin the moment they got engaged. All those thoughts passed through his soul and pierced his heart in the moment Maïa had torn herself away from him and run to the chair like someone wounded. Yes! He’d hit her squarely, but through an accident he hadn’t foreseen, and he hadn’t struck the spot he’d aimed for. Seeing and hearing Maïa, he felt something like the horror of a man who fires at a wall and suddenly hears the cries of someone he didn’t know was sitting behind it who has been caught by the bullet.