by Неизвестный
—Aren’t you ready to come back, Gin?
She recoiled from the touch of his hand and looked at him strangely. She mumbled through an absent and excruciating half-smile, more to herself than to him: Yes. I suppose so.
1
He parked his car not far from the pension and came out in his bathing suit, ready to swim. The morning was still young, though already anointed with molten sunlight. The calm sea, and the dewy homes and gardens facing it, were covered with a dreamlike chiffon. The fishermen’s wives, under broad straw hats, were already busy mending their nets on the shore clear of bathers. Near them, dark and dirty, half-naked children romped in the gravel. Simplicity, naturalness, as it has been for generations, since the ascent of humanity, just so, unaffected by the passage of time. For a moment, Kraft felt very near the quintessence of existence. An unmuddied joy of life washed over him all at once. Polite and friendly, he greeted the fishermen’s wives and went to lie on the gravel. Diagonally opposite him, Madam Stephano was already outside her store. She was hidden beneath wispy hair, and her feet shone white in tattered cloth shoes. Shading her eyes with one hand, she looked along the shore as though searching.
—Mar-ti-no!—she called in a dry and broken voice which echoed all the way up.—Mar-ti-no! Come-to-wash!
Kraft turned his gaze toward Barth and Gina’s house. If only a man could express himself over a distance, without language, as though through some wireless soul-to-soul telegram! Here you are, for example, you want to see her at this moment, yearning with every bone in your body—and she, it seems, not even one nerve of her is moved because of it. She will come, for sure, but in another hour or two, as she will. She’ll be surprised to find you here. You rushed here like a released arrow in vain.
The scratch of approaching footsteps startled him. With faint hopes, he turned his head.—You’re up early!
Barth smiled broadly and extended his hand:—It’s been several days since you were last here.
—What about you? How is Gina?
—Gina?—Barth sat beside him on the gravel.—She’s been in a terrible mood. Two days already. Maybe you could cheer her up a little.
—Me? Why don’t you undress?
—I have to go and visit Marcelle first.
—She’s not up yet?
—Still weak. She has to stay in bed another few days…then he added: Charming girl, don’t you think?
—Hmm. Yes.
They smoked in silence. A light northerly wind sent a shiver across the surface of the sea. Barth rose.—I must go. Will you be here all day?
—I don’t know. We’ll see.
Kraft walked out to his car to get a book, then returned and stretched out close to the water. He hadn’t read more than a few pages before Gina appeared. He jumped up and greeted her with unconcealed delight. Gina spread her towel on the gravel and sat down. She reached for the book.—May I see?—She glanced at its lemonish cover, flipped briefly through the pages, and returned the book to its place. Kraft watched her carefully. Her face seemed to him slightly downcast.
Latzi emerged from the pension equipped with his paints and a stretched canvas. He greeted them from some distance away and walked toward Bouche-de-Loup. Yet after a few steps, he stopped by Stephano’s house and set up his easel.
—I’ll probably return to Munich soon.
—What’s the hurry ?
On her back, Gina played with the handle of her umbrella. Her expression was completely relaxed.
—Urgent business.
—I was sure you didn’t have any business. It seems you told me so once.
—I have a wife.
—And she can’t come here?
—No, she can’t.—He smiled bitterly to himself, and added:—We are about to divorce.—He reached for a leather cigarette case. After a slight pause:—Will we see each other again, madam?
—I don’t know. I think not.
—Pity.—After a moment he repeated as if to himself:—Great pity.
Gina suddenly felt sorry for him, for no apparent reason other than that to her he seemed so miserable. She gazed at him warmly, soothingly. Then she looked out to the smooth sea at her feet and to a tiny boat that receded to a point on the horizon. Kraft grabbed a handful of gravel and with absentminded application scattered it. A ship with black sails appeared as though sketched on the azure horizon.—Here, look!—pointed Gina.—It looks as if had risen from the depths of eternal night. The ship stood motionless and was disappearing in front of them, motionlessly. The smaller boat also could not be seen now. The sea still lolled silently, smooth and bare.
—This summer,—he whispered,—I’ll think of it for a long time.—He kept his eyes on her and added: -Will you let me write you sometime?
—What’s the point?
With resignation he said:—You’re right, actually.
Kraft was quiet. From the side, he watched her as if to engrave her image deep in his memory. His heart shriveled at the thought that he would no more see her charming face, her youthful lips exultant with an unsatiated thirst for living, her omniscient chin, sharply rounded, her eyes, dark as wine, whose gaze pierced without damaging, the clear feminine forehead crowned with thick hair, dark chestnut, and wavy.—Would you like to join me on another trip before I leave?
—When are you leaving?
—In about three days.
—I don’t think I’ll be able to.
She sat up. She was hot. They entered and swam shoulder to shoulder in the blue water, cool and rejuvenating. It momentarily washed away any bitterness and poured a simple animal exuberance into them. Nowhere was any soul to be seen. Just the two of them in the breadth of an infinite ocean. They shared an unspoken feeling of mingling with the innocence of nature and its lofty wisdom.
After returning to the shore, Gina smiled at Kraft, friendly. Through her tanned face, a fresh paleness filtered, her eyes shone, pure and lustrous. They were back lying on the coarse gravel, smoking silently as the sun dried their skin.
Suzi came and stretched out nearby. But Latzi continued to stand and paint by Stephano’s store while Stephano and his brood stood around him in a semicircular array. The summer morning was slowly and silently poured back into the ocean of time, as thousands of mornings before it, a morning embroidered with strands of orange sun, blue sea, green gardens, and transparent silence, and secret threads which united, yet didn’t unite, this couple.
—The Japanese fellow hasn’t been here today yet?—Suzi called.
Gina shook her head.
Kraft rose to say he was returning to Nice. With a slightly bashful smile, he added: —Sometimes, a man may take his own life, out of the fear of dying.—He bent and kissed her hand.—Say good-bye to Barth.
—Won’t you stop by another time before you leave?
—Probably not.
He went to the car. He honked, two, three times, and without turning his head, was off in the blast of his engine. The cloud of white dust that gathered along the road sank slowly back to the ground.
Toward evening the fishermen were still drifting on the surface of the darkening sea; the aromas of dinner were dissipating from the streets of the village. The broken sound of a trumpet could be heard along the main street. In front of Stephano’s, there stood a small, slender man dressed in a threadbare tuxedo, a black tie, and tattered shoes white with dust. He held a short trumpet to his lips. Shuffling on her toes, Madam Bremen walked to the garden gate:—The Italian, and his two daughters,—she exclaimed mockingly.
Gina finished eating a slice of watermelon, cleared the table, and went out to relax on the balcony armchair. Barth sat beside her on a chair. She lay back deep in reverie. Lately, she hadn’t said more to Barth than what day-to-day necessity required. To Barth, she seemed somehow changed. He tried to cast about in his mind for the reason. Time and again he received answers to his questions which revealed nothing to him, until he gave up asking. Yet, he consoled himself, in time her sullen mood would leave her and
all would be restored to normal.
Madam Bremon took a chair from the room and sat with them, her arms crossed:—Oh! I’m so tired. All day in the boiling sun!—Her hair, peppered with gray, was still thick and curly. It was gathered at the back of her neck in a bun the size of a fist. Bright eyes and a pleasant smile animated her wrinkled face.
She was free for a leisurely chat:—Next week my daughter will return from the mountains. She’ll look after Didi herself.
Her sons were already married, except for one, who had joined the army and remembered her with an occasional picture postcard from Indochina. The rest of her children had settled in Saint-Laurent-sur-Ar, six kilometers from here. And herself ? As long as she still had strength, she would never make herself a burden to anyone! Above all, she liked to stand on her own two feet. She had always earned a living with her own hands. Years ago, when she was still living with her husband, she had sold flowers. Early every morning she would deliver flowers to Nice, Monaco, Monte Carlo, because her husband, you should know, never lifted a finger. He was always lazy. He would wake up in the morning, pick up his rifle, and go hunting. Hunting was his passion. He would wander around all day, devil knows where, and return for his soup in the evening. Once in a while, he brought a jackrabbit or hare, though usually he brought nothing at all. When he finished his meal, he would light up his pipe and while away the evening in a bar. All the worries were hers alone. When the babies had grown, she said to him: That’s it, my friend! Either you go to work, or we separate! And then she moved here.
And her husband? He went hunting, as before, and became a burden on her eldest son, the one who visited her Sunday with his children. Maybe you think he was a weak man? If only you had seen him! Big and strong! You’d think he was thirty-five, no more! Unlike her, whose drudgery had prematurely aged her body. What do you expect, with five children! Feed them, raise them, marry them off, and all by a widow…for it really was as though she were a widow.
—And you daughter married Mr. Larouette after you moved here?
—Barth inquired.
No, she had married before. Ten years ago. She was nineteen at the time. Madam Bremon had objected at first, even though he was wealthy. The old hag owns everything, you should know. The house they live in and its huge garden. The house next door, rented to the Japanese man on the first floor. All hers, along with huge tracts of land and the vineyard. And apart from that, plenty of cash in the banks. And being an only child, it is all his to inherit. And he has a good position, too, in the wine and oil firm. So why did she object to the match? Because of that stingy and shifty old hag. It’s well known in this area, certainly within a hundred-kilometer radius. They, members of the Bremen family, are poor, but they know how to behave. They know what is decent and proper. After all, there’s a limit to miserliness! But her daughter insisted. She wanted only him. The children loved each other. Finally, she gave her permission. And she’s not sorry. Her daughter is happy with him. He adores her; she’s the apple of his eye. He even treats her, Madam Bremon, with great respect. And the relations between them are friendly. You can plainly see! He provides her with wine and oil the year around, though she doesn’t need any, thank God! For years she has done the washing for the pension, and she has all that she needs, but it is a sign of dedication on his part. As she always says: a man who loves his wife, loves his mother-in-law.
And his mother? She’s better off not seeing her! She’s very careful not to run across her, but she always sends to call for her, for one errand or another. Have you ever seen such a stinking creature?! She weighs over a hundred kilo and never budges!
—But do you have to go when she calls for you?
—Must! Of course not! No one can force me! Yet I don’t want to get on her bad side! It’s hell! She might make up the worst lies and make your name dirt, you have no idea what that woman is capable of, the old hag! I want peace. There was a time when we didn’t even exchange greetings, for two whole years. Then, once she sent for me and I went. What do you expect? My own daughter lives in her house, after all. I can’t lock myself out forever! But I’ll avoid her door if I can help it.
The balcony was already full of darkness. Gina rose.
—Are we going out for a bit?
As they passed Stephano’s, the storekeeper called from the door: —Aren’t you coming up? We have a show today.
There was no way out.
There were about two dozen townsmen at the tables, some of them with their wives. Stephano, his sleeves rolled up, was having a drink with one group, laughing and roaring in his coarse voice. Jejette was serving.
The Italian in the tuxedo was trying hard to tune his violin, letting out stray and solitary notes. Two undeveloped girls, ages eight and ten, sat motionlessly at a nearby table, wearing short, bell-shaped pink dresses. Pink ribbons, tied like huge butterflies, were knotted in their wispy hair. Their scrawny legs were clad in knee socks, white once, and sandals coated with yesterday’s mud and dust. Sunk in blatant poverty, they sat courteously, with forced seriousness, waiting their turn, looking blankly ahead. Overhead, musty stars were beginning to flicker.
Gina and Barth chose the furthest table, close to the door. Cici appeared immediately. He shook the Italian’s hand and approached them.—I saw you coming up.
Gina’s face darkened momentarily.
—You know him?—inquired Barth.
Cici sat down.—He has a tubercular wife and nine children each smaller than the other. They came from Italy eight months ago. He looked long, but couldn’t find a job. Now he goes from door to door with his daughters and brings home a few pennies. If you could only see the shack they live in! Not fit for a dog.
The Italian began to play the violin, his young girls standing close by, stiff as rods, singing an Italian children’s song in thin, timorous voices. The song and accompaniment were so pathetically ridiculous, so annoyingly incompetent, that Gina and Barth averted their eyes in embarrassment. It was a caricature that stirred their disgust and nausea. Never before had they heard anything like it. Afterward, they passed around a small bowl. After the collection, the father began a solo from Carmen, his face cast like a wax mask, motionless and lacking any life expression. No, Barth would never again go to the opera to hear Carmen! Afterward, the two girls sang a duet, their father conducting them with his outstretched finger.
The Japanese fellow arrived with his girlfriend. Stephano called to them, waving his hand. One of the young girls passed around the collection dish once again. She then stripped off her pink dress, remaining in flesh-colored underwear. She lifted a small box from under a table. It was open at both ends. She placed it on a faded red carpet that her father had unrolled on the floor. Bending and twisting her head through her legs, she wriggled back and forth through the open box. Stephano clapped his hands, roaring with laughter. She squeezed herself into the box again, this time with her sister rolling her to and fro across the carpet, their father supervising the job. At the end of this number, there was an intermission. The Italian ordered coffee for his daughters. They drank it reluctantly, tired, pale, and sleepy.
When Barth turned to the next table and got involved in a conversation with the Japanese fellow and his friend, Cici seized the opportunity to whisper:—It’s been a few days. I haven’t been able to speak with you. You’re avoiding me.
—You are mistaken. I have nothing to talk with you about.
—But, that night…—Cici whispered passionately.
—What?! Don’t you dare, do you hear!!!—Her face turned red. She trembled with restrained fury.
—But this is not a game, lady, and then he added, conciliatory:—If only you knew what’s in my heart!
—Enough! I don’t want to hear anything! Not even another word!
Cici turned pale. Through his teeth he hissed: -I’m not a toy, madam! I don’t let anyone use me as they need me and throw me away afterward! You look out!
—Ha, ha, ha! She laughed in his face. And then she said:—
You have spoken to me for the last time! She turned her face away from him.
Mechanically he began to fidget with his empty glass. Pale, thin-lipped, his broad mouth sealed as though with nails. He parted his lips slightly, and through the crack, his even teeth sparkled white.
At that moment, Stephano’s drunken roar could be heard above the clamor of the guests:—That’s enough! I won’t allow any more! You son of a bitch!
All heads were instantly turned toward him. He stood opposite the startled Italian, whose violin already rested on his shoulder, ready to play, and thundered:—The concert is over! I won’t permit it! Finito!
Cici rose and marched heavily, pale and square, and stood before Stephano. Suddenly there was silence. The starry night was cool on the roof tonight, and breathless. Cici said quietly, ominously:—Let the people finish! Let the people earn their living!