My Friends

by Emmanuel Bove

  ‘I want to die.’

  ‘You must hope in the future.’

  I like the words ‘hope’ and ‘future’ in the silence of my head, but as soon as I speak them it seems to me that they lose their meaning.

  I thought the bargeman would burst out laughing. He did not stir.

  ‘You must hope.’

  ‘No . . . No . . .’

  I began to talk without stopping in order to dissuade him from dying.

  He did not listen to me. With his body upright, his head lowered and his arms hanging at his sides, he looked like a ruined banker.

  Fortunately he seemed to have forgotten that I too had been thinking of killing myself. I took care not to remind him of it.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said, hoping to get away from the riverside.

  ‘Yes, let’s go down to the edge.’

  A little while before the stone of the parapet had chilled my elbows. Now the cold was getting a hold on my body.

  ‘Down to the edge?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes . . . we must die.’

  ‘It’s too dark at the moment. We’ll come back tomorrow.’

  ‘No, today.’

  It would have been cowardly to run away. I should have had it on my conscience for the rest of my life. It is not right to let anyone die. My duty was to save this man. But, while he stayed there, he imagined that I wanted to drown myself and if I refused at the last minute he was quite capable of compelling me to it. Bargemen are used to pulling boats along at the end of a rope. It must be easy for them to drag a man by the arm.

  ‘It would be better to go home, my friend.’

  The man raised his head. He was wearing an English military tunic with no buttons. No doubt he had given them away. Under this tunic, he had a sweater, slack at the neck, which was bunched up over his stomach. His teeth were badly overcrowded. A few coarse hairs protruded from his ears. A bottle of wine with a new cork was sticking half-way out of his pocket.

  He took me by the arm and dragged me towards a small staircase. When I looked down I could see the bank between the iron steps.

  I went down slowly, putting both feet on each step before going on, like somebody with a wooden leg.

  I held on to the narrow, flat hand-rail and, to delay the suicide, I pretended to be afraid of falling.

  The bargeman dug his fingers in between the muscles and the bone. From time to time I raised my arm to try to free myself: it was no good.

  On the bank were a pointed heap of sand, some tools belonging to the city of Paris, a hut and a chained-up wheelbarrow. I could see the dark underside of a bridge and the tops of the buses passing along the embankment. Gusts of wind struck me in the back.

  ‘It’s easier to die when there are two of you,’ commented my companion.

  There was no doubt that this bargeman had decided to drown himself. He thought I would follow him. I wanted him to go on thinking that. It is not pleasant when people suspect you of being afraid of death.

  We were on the edge of the Seine as if we were on the edge of a pond. There was no parapet here. I was astonished to find myself so close to the river. To see the Seine flowing between the houses under the stone bridges, who would have thought it possible to get so near it?

  In spite of myself I remembered, as I always do when I see an expanse of water, that I could not swim.

  ‘Let’s go a bit further,’ said the stranger. ‘The current will carry us against the arches of this bridge.’

  I agreed at once.

  A tram made the crown of the bridge tremble. Every time I pass beneath a bridge I am gripped by the same fear. The gravel crunched beneath our feet like powdered sugar.

  ‘But why are you so determined to die?’ I asked.

  ‘I haven’t eaten for three days. I don’t know where to sleep.’

  ‘There are refuges.’

  ‘I’m too well known there. They don’t want me any more.’

  Reflections ran straight down into the Seine. The surface of the river stirred as if there were seals beneath the water. On the other side, because of the shadow, the houses looked as if they went right down to the river, as they do in Venice.

  ‘Come on; be brave,’ said the bargeman. ‘There’s just one bad minute to get through. After that, everlasting rest.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes . . . come on . . . be brave.’

  His hand, which was still gripping me in the same place, provoked the same fear as an unseen crab pinching the foot.

  ‘Let go of me first.’

  I did not want to kill myself, but even if I had decided to I should not have wanted anyone to hold on to me. One needs all one’s independence to kill oneself.

  •

  Suicide is not the same as death.

  Contrary to what I was expecting, the stranger let go immediately.

  Air poured into my lungs as if, instead of releasing my arm, he had let go of my throat.

  The bargeman stooped, and with two fingers tested the temperature of the water.

  ‘A bit cold,’ he said, wiping his hand.

  ‘So we had better come back another time.’

  ‘No, we must get it over with.’

  All through my life I have found myself in situations like that. It is because of my loneliness. I want people to be interested in me and like me. As I do not know anyone, I try to attract attention in the street, because that is the only place where anyone could notice me.

  My case is like that of a beggar singing on a bridge in the middle of winter at midnight. The passers-by do not give him anything because they find that way of asking for charity is a bit too theatrical. In the same way when they see me leaning on a parapet, miserable and with nothing to do, passers-by guess I am acting a part. They are right. All the same, do you not think it very sad to be reduced to begging on a bridge at midnight or to leaning on a parapet to arouse people’s interest?

  The bargeman was filling his pockets with stones in order to sink more quickly.

  ‘Do what I’m doing,’ he said.

  The situation was getting worse. I did not really want to mention my money, but now I could be silent no longer. Right up to the last moment I had been hoping that some unforeseen event would spare me the necessity of saying that I had a little money.

  ‘Well, well . . .’

  The man, who was crouching by a heap of sand and picking out the stones, turned round.

  ‘We’re saved!’

  He looked at me uncomprehendingly.

  ‘I’ve just noticed that I have a little money.’

  The stranger stood up and took a step forward. Some pebbles slipped from his fingers. His eyes glittered, just in the middle.

  ‘You have got some money?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes.’

  ‘Show me, show me.’

  I opened my wallet. So that he should not see all my notes, I pulled out just one which unfolded as it emerged.

  ‘Here you are. Take this ten-franc note.’

  The wretched man looked at the note lovingly and, for a whole minute, he endeavoured to get the creases out of it.

  We went into a restaurant and I led the way.

  ‘What will you have?’

  I now addressed him familiarly, because he owed me his life and also because he was poorer than I.

  ‘The same as you.’

  ‘Some red, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We were brought some wine in a newly-washed bottle, a split loaf and four sausages which sizzled on our plates.

  I paid.

  I always pay in advance. In this way my mind is at rest. I know that the money left in my purse is entirely my own.

  The bargeman threw himself on to the sausages.

  ‘Be careful, eat slowly.’

  He did not answer. I felt then that I was becoming less important in his eyes.

  When he had finished, I asked:

  ‘Have you had a good meal?’

  He wiped his moustache with the palm
of his hand before replying, ‘Yes.’

  I was annoyed that he did not show more sign of gratitude.

  To remind him of the present I had made him, I asked:

  ‘Have you still got the ten francs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He certainly had no tact. In his place I should have been much more polite to a benefactor. Luckily for him he was dealing with me. I am broad-minded and charitable. Ingratitude does not prevent me from doing good.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Neveu . . . and yours?’

  Now he was addressing me familiarly. I have noticed that it is better not to be familiar with badly brought up people. They confuse familiarity with friendship. They immediately assume that they are your equal. The gap which separates you disappears. Besides, I myself have never been familiar with anyone who, being my superior, would treat me familiarly. I know only too well how that annoys people.

  I bore Neveu no grudge, but he ought to have been more tactful. I certainly had been with Billard.

  Since I am very kind, I answered my neighbour:

  ‘Victor Bâton.’

  Now his cheeks over the bone were red like ripe fruit. His beard was curlier. There were crumbs of bread sticking to his sweater.

  Neveu, in spite of his lack of good manners, seemed to me a likeable person. At last I had found a friend I could count on. He would know no one but me. I should have no occasion for jealousy. Besides, I was proud of being more resourceful than he was. When we went out together, he would go along the streets that I liked; he would stop in front of my favourite shops.

  ‘Where are you sleeping tonight?’ I asked, knowing very well he had nowhere to live.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.’

  My first thought was to make up a bed for him in my room. But I quickly abandoned that idea. First, the concierge would have been furious with me. Then, my bed is a sacred thing. Like everybody else I am a creature of habit, especially in my bedroom. If I had to sleep with one blanket less than usual, I should not have slept a wink all night. In the morning I should have been embarrassed to wash myself. It would be better for me to rent him a small room at an hotel. For ten francs a week it would be possible to find a reasonably good attic.

  Having come to this conclusion, I gave the matter no further thought. However, I took good care not to tell the bargeman. I preferred to leave him wondering.

  At that moment I felt that I was once again his good angel. He was pale. When rich people are upset they know how to conceal it. He was poor and he did not know how to do that. His hands twitched like those of people who are asleep when a fly walks over them. His eyes moved as sharply as a negro’s.

  It is not very good to take pleasure in having someone at one’s mercy. However, I had an excuse, because, if I was keeping him on tenter-hooks, it was only so that I could give him some good news a little while later. I should not have behaved in this way if I had not been willing to take care of him.

  ‘Do you want a drink, my friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I ordered another bottle of wine.

  As we clinked glasses I noticed that my nails were cleaner than those of my companion. I did not know if I ought to be pleased or embarrassed.

  As soon as the glasses were empty I poured out some more for fear that Neveu would get in before me. If he had taken the liberty of serving me I should have been shocked. It would have seemed to me that he was taking no account of my superiority. He already addressed me familiarly: it was quite enough.

  We were in good spirits. My head was spinning, as if I were on a swing. I felt myself becoming kind, without reservation, really kind.

  ‘You don’t need to worry about anything, you know, Neveu, I’ll rent a room for you. If you want, we can be real friends. We’ll never leave each other.’

  The bargeman’s expression changed suddenly, perhaps because of a lock of hair which fell over his temple. The wrinkles which ran from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth became less deep.

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . . if you want.’

  The familiar way in which he addressed me shocked me, but less than the first time, all the same. I realized that I had been wrong. Drunkenness made me want to share everything I had.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ I said, giving the skirts of my overcoat, which were sprinkled with sawdust, a shake.

  In spite of my state I was well aware that the last bottle of wine had not been paid for. I pretended to have forgotten.

  Neveu, in order not to remind me, took out the note I had given him.

  ‘How much?’ he asked the woman.

  I had unconsciously been waiting for this question to break in.

  ‘No . . . no . . . leave it . . . I’ll pay.’

  The cool outdoor air did not get rid of my drunkenness. The street, which was full of people, was blurry,as it is when one tries on someone else’s spectacles. People’s heads looked like masks. The car headlights went by at the level of my stomach. I had cottonwool in my ears. The motors of the taxis seemed like so much hot scrap iron, quite without value. The pavement wobbled beneath my feet, like a weighing-machine. It seemed like a street in a dream, with lights scattered haphazardly.

  I was so happy I wanted to shout it out aloud.

  Now I no longer wished to share with Neveu: I wanted to give him everything. I felt that my poverty was not great enough. Great Heavens, what joy is more lofty than that of giving away everything one has and then, with empty hands, watching the person who has been made happy.

  I was going to offer Neveu everything when a sudden thought stopped me. Perhaps he was not worthy.

  •

  We had been walking for five minutes when an idea such as might well come from a well-fed man occurred to me:

  ‘I say . . . let’s go to Flora’s!’

  ‘Flora’s?’

  ‘It’s a place where people can have a good time.’

  The bargeman, who was drunk, was walking askew, with one shoulder lower than the other. He was following the edge of the pavement like a tightrope-walker. With his elbow on his stomach and his hand trembling at the level of his chin, he looked as if he had completely gone to pieces. His head wobbled like a balloon held by a short string. One end of the cord round his waist hung down to his knees.

  ‘You see, Neveu, it’s better here than under the water.’

  I had never been so happy. My friend was following me. So I was leading him. I thought that it would not have mattered whether I turned left or right, because the bargeman would have followed me.

  In spite of the throng the path before us was always clear. When we had to cross the road, as if by chance a policeman held up the traffic. When a crowd blocked the pavement, a way through appeared just as we got there.

  We went along the empty street. The light of the street-lamps wavered over the houses, up to the first floor. Our shadows, cut short at the knee, sometimes went before us and sometimes followed us on the walls. A brightly-lit window high up in a house threw its square of light, enlarged and dim, on to the front of the building opposite.

  For a time I leaned against a wall: the plaster got under my nails.

  Or else I fingered my inside pocket, for in spite of my drunkenness I had my mind on my wallet. I was afraid my neighbour might take advantage of my condition and steal it.

  A gramophone blared out. A door was lit up by a number.

  We had arrived.

  I ought to say that I should never have dared go there alone. It is not the same when there are two of you. People’s attention is not focused on you alone.

  Nevertheless, nervousness made my stomach ache.

  So I was about to enter one of these establishments which I had heard about from childhood. And I was about to enter as a leader and not just one of a troop, as if I were in the army.

  I rang the bell.

  No doubt in order to protect us from the unpleasantness of being seen standing the
re, the door opened straightaway.

  We went in.

  The door was fitted with a special gadget and closed all by itself.

  Immediately I remembered my hat. I took it off and, in order to seem like a regular customer, I walked straight ahead.

  ‘Not that way!’ shouted a big woman, the one who had opened the door.

  She had white stockings, a leather bag on a steel chain and a lace apron, too small to be any use as an apron.

  I stopped. This reprimand had spoiled my entrance. I so much wanted to seem to be familiar with these places.

  She showed us into a room which surprised us by its size, like all rooms which lie in the depths of a house.

  A few customers, who did not mind being bored, were watching the gramophone record going round. At the end of the room there was an empty stage with some motley scenery.

  ‘The young ladies are eating. They will be down in a few minutes. What will you have while you wait, gentlemen?’

  I know that drinks are very expensive in these places. Nevertheless I ordered a bottle of wine.

  We sat down.

  I had kept my overcoat on because it is very difficult to get into it because of the sleeve lining.

  Neveu’s behaviour annoyed me. He had not taken off his cap. Besides, he had no collar. And instead of showing the humility suitable to his poverty he was behaving in a very tiresome way.

  I nudged him with my elbow.

  ‘Take your cap off.’

  He obeyed. A red line from temple to temple divided his forehead.

  While my companion rubbed his eyes with a wet forefinger, I cleaned my nails with a match, under the table.

  Some of the lamps had not yet been lit. It felt like being in a cinema when one has arrived too early. The customers looked as if they had been compelled to be there. Their hands were in their pockets. Their red ears shone like their noses. The imitation leather of the seats gleamed like worn-out silk serge.

  The gramophone stopped.

  A customer mimicked the sound. It cannot be difficult because I have known lots of people who could do that.

  At last the women appeared. I counted them. There were seven of them.

  Their short skirts emitted the same odour of vice and wretchedness as the spangled dresses in which the wax monsters exhibited in travelling shows are decked out.