My Friends

by Emmanuel Bove

  Their skin was pale and gleaming like dolls made of glazed cardboard. Rings sparkled in rows on their fingers.

  When one of the prostitutes was alone, her legs seemed well-shaped, but as soon as she joined her companions their faults leapt into prominence, though I could not tell why that was.

  A woman came and sat down near us and bounced up and down on the seat as she laughed. She had yellow teeth which, because of the whiteness of her face, seemed even more yellow. The whites of her eyes were lined like an old clock-face. The scent she gave out smelled stronger when she moved.

  Neveu looked at her admiringly. He had changed completely. He was talking and laughing and no longer paying any attention to me.

  Suddenly the woman got up and, taking the bargeman by the arm, drew him away.

  I was left alone. On the table were three glasses and two bottles.

  I paid for the lot and went out, with my soul full of bitterness.

  •

  I was ready to do anything for Neveu. I liked him, weaker than I as he was.

  I gave him ten francs: instead of keeping them to buy food, he preferred to amuse himself. Today, he is perhaps dead, drowned. Nevertheless, if he had listened to me, if he had liked me, if he had not made fun of me, we should have been happy.

  On that day I too should have been glad to go with a woman. I did not do so because I wanted to rent a room for him.

  He did not guess what depths of tenderness lay within me. He preferred to satisfy a desire.

  If you do good, that’s all the thanks you will get.

  Is it really so difficult to come to an understanding in this life?

  MONSIEUR LACAZE

  I

  Stations give me a glimpse of a world with which I am not familiar. The atmosphere which surrounds them is exceptionally pervasive.

  I like stations, particularly the Gare de Lyon. The square tower which dominates it reminds me, no doubt because it is new, of the public buildings in German cities at which I gazed from the doorways of cattle-trucks when I was a soldier.

  I like stations because they are alive day and night. If I cannot sleep I feel less alone.

  Stations disclose the private life of rich people. In the street they look like everyone else. When they are leaving Paris, I hear them talking, laughing and giving orders. I see how they part. All this fascinates me, because I am poor, without friends, without luggage.

  It is most unlikely that these travellers would wish to change places with anyone who, like me, was watching them leave.

  Tall young women wait while their trunks are registered. They are beautiful. I scrutinize them wondering whether, if they were dressed in working clothes, they would look as lovely.

  I like the Gare de Lyon because, behind it, is the Seine with its steep banks, its cranes turning in the air, its motionless barges like small islands and its columns of smoke hanging in the sky, where they have ceased to climb.

  One day, not knowing how to occupy my time, I decided to spend a few hours in the Gare de Lyon.

  The swing-doors beat against the air. My feet slipped on the glazed tile floors, as they would in a pine forest. Magazines were sticking to the damp window-panes of a kiosk. It was so draughty that people could not open their newspapers. Although it was daylight the lights were on in the ticket office. The railway officials seemed to be rather like policemen.

  Nobody paid any attention to me. I was miserable. I made myself stay there. I wanted the travellers to feel a twinge of remorse as they left, to spare a thought for me as they travelled to other lands.

  I walked with my head lowered and when I met a pretty woman I looked sadly at her in order to arouse her pity. I hoped she would guess how much I needed love.

  •

  Whenever I leave my house, I expect something to happen which will change my whole life. I wait for it until I go home again. That is why I never stay in my room.

  Unfortunately nothing has ever happened.

  •

  ‘Hey . . . you over there!’

  Turning round I saw, twenty metres away, a man who must have been standing in a draught: his overcoat billowed out as if he had been on the bridge of a ship. A case dangled from his right arm.

  Not knowing whether he was addressing me, I waited. Then he beckoned with his forefinger, as if he were pulling a trigger.

  I looked round to make sure he was not summoning anyone else and, seeing nobody, I approached.

  The stranger was fat. His stomach protruded from his jacket. The bristles of his ginger moustache were cut evenly.

  I was annoyed, not because he took me for a porter, but because he was disturbing my bitter sorrow. Someone was actually talking to me now! I was like everyone else. Because of this man I no longer had the right to complain.

  ‘Take this case, my man.’

  He was lazy as people are who have travelled and who find it quite natural that others should rush towards them and clear a way for them.

  I hesitated to take the case: a girl was watching us.

  At last, having decided to submit, I seized the handle with my good hand and followed the traveller.

  His overcoat was up at the back, no doubt because he had been sitting on it.

  I kept on stopping to rest and look at my crushed fingers.

  As for the traveller, he did not stop when I did. He went on his way and waited farther on, so that he did not have to speak to me.

  I kept my eyes lowered all the way because I was ashamed. The case was rubbing against my leg and making my trousers slip.

  I wanted to tell this man the story of my life: perhaps he would take an interest in me. I attached all the more importance to it in that, if I had not done it, I should have been angry with myself.

  At certain times it was easy to tell people about my unhappiness, at others it was impossible, especially when I was getting ready to speak.

  For every time I braced myself to speak, the traveller was looking for something in his pocket or gazing attentively into the distance. It did not need anything more to put me off. I was afraid of bothering such an important man. I felt that, if he were to listen to me, it was essential that he should have nothing else to do.

  As soon as were were out on the pavement a taxi drew up in front of us.

  I found the door as difficult to open as if it had been the door of a railway carriage: I did not know which way the handle turned.

  The driver lowered his flag and looked us up and down, like a horseman.

  He was so composed that I knew my efforts to pick up the case must seem absurd to him.

  The gentleman gave his address fairly loudly, because of the engine, then sorting through some change in his hand he picked out a coin and held it out to me.

  I felt that in a second or two I should blush. Not so much out of pride but rather to make myself interesting, I refused. I even made a gesture of refusal with my hand.

  ‘Don’t you want it?’ enquired the traveller in a changed tone, addressing me less familiarly.

  This refusal, although it was ordinary enough, had made an impression on him.

  The driver, purple as a varicose vein, was watching us, with his hands on the steering wheel.

  ‘Why refuse? You’re poor.’

  At that moment I ought to have stammered something and got away. But I stayed, hoping for I know not what.

  ‘You interest me, my man.’

  The stranger took out a visiting card and, resting it on the taxi, he wrote: ‘Ten o’clock.’

  ‘Here you are . . . come and see me tomorrow morning.’

  He climbed into the car, which rocked like a boat.

  Motionless, with the card in my hand, not knowing what to say and wanting to say something, I stayed there on the edge of the pavement.

  The taxi turned round in the courtyard and passed in front of me again. The driver looked at me as much as to say: ‘Push off, you scoundrel!’ For a second I glimpsed the gentleman who was lighting a cigarette.

&n
bsp; The taxi went away. Without knowing why, I took its number.

  I did not want anyone to see me reading the card. As people were watching me, I moved away.

  It was only after I had been walking for five minutes that I read:

  JEAN-PIERRE LACAZE

  Manufacturer

  6, rue Lord-Byron

  This card made a great impression on me, because of the double-barrelled Christian name, the word ‘manufacturer’ and because of the rue Lord-Byron, which was certainly not in my part of the city.

  Yes, the next day I should go to see the gentleman, at ten o’clock.

  So I was saved, because someone was taking an interest in me.

  II

  When I got home in the evening, I washed my socks and handkerchief in my basin, in cold water.

  That night I woke up every quarter of an hour, before the end of a dream on each occasion. Then I thought about the manufacturer. In my imagination he had a daughter whom I married; he died bequeathing his fortune to me.

  •

  In the morning, when I opened my eyes, I realized that my imagination had led me too far. Monsieur Lacaze was probably no different from other men.

  While I was getting ready, I went over the events in my life which might possibly interest him, so that I could tell him about them.

  Then I made my choice. One may well be unhappy, poor and alone, but there are always things about which it is better to say nothing.

  I have two suits: the one I wear every day and another which has the advantage of being black. I hesitated to put on the latter; I did not know whether Monsieur Lacaze would prefer me to look poor or whether he would be glad I had dressed my best for him.

  I decided to put on the black suit. I brushed the stains, having spat on the brush. I have been brushing these stains for a long while. They always reappear in the evening.

  I washed my arms right up to the elbows so no one would notice my body was dirty. I dampened my hair so that my parting would stay in place. I put on a clean shirt, the only stiff collar I have (it had only been worn twice) and the least crumpled of my ties.

  •

  I went out.

  I did not put on my hat immediately so that my hair had time to dry. I have noticed that there is nothing uglier than hair which has dried beneath a hat.

  I had my pocket-book with all my papers with me. Monsieur Lacaze’s card was in an empty pocket, so that I should not have to hunt for it if I needed it.

  It was eight o’clock. It was unusual for me to go down so early. The stairs had not yet been swept. There was a newspaper straddling the doctor’s door knob.

  The doctor is an excellent man, like all educated people.

  •

  At nine o’clock I was already walking in the area of the Champs Ely sees.

  To see the houses and trees emerging from a yellow fog reminded one of a photograph which had not been fixed. Nevertheless one felt that the sun would get through at midday.

  I asked a policeman where the rue Lord-Byron was.

  With his arm stretched out under his cape, he showed me.

  I listened, wondering what he would think if I went straight off in a different direction.

  •

  The house in the rue Lord-Byron which displays the number 6 is wealthy. That is immediately obvious. The ground floor windows are of stained glass. The metal shutters fold like a screen. Above the main entrance two masks are carved in the stone: tragedy and comedy, no doubt. The drive is edged with two small footpaths, so that people can be safe when a car is coming out.

  A well-dressed concierge was sweeping the pavement which was already clean. He noticed me. This annoyed me because he would recognize me a few minutes later when I came back.

  I was crossing the street in order to get a view of the whole house when, being suddenly afraid that Monsieur Lacaze might see me, I quickened my pace with the absent-minded air of people who know they are being watched.

  Soon I found myself in an avenue which was empty and freshly watered, like a garden in the morning.

  Nobody was shaking a duster out of the windows. Cars turned the street corners with care. The servants put on a jacket and hat when they went out. Everywhere there were the same entrances of gleaming black wood. From time to time an empty tram jumped over the dented rails. The street-lamps were taller than those in my neighbourhood.

  It would soon be ten o’clock. I retraced my steps crossing on to the other pavement to get a different view.

  I arrived at 6 rue Lord-Byron a few minutes before time. I always arrange to arrive early. In this way I have time to prepare myself.

  Having passed in front of the door three or four times, I went in. Monsieur Lacaze’s visiting card was in my pocket. I touched it only very occasionally in order not to dirty it. Finger-marks on anything white are so ugly. Cold drops of sweat rolled from my armpits all down my sides.

  Through a glass door I saw a carpeted staircase.

  The concierge, motionless in the middle of the courtyard, was looking at one of the windows.

  I called him and he turned round.

  ‘Monsieur Lacaze?’ I enquired.

  And to prove that I knew Monsieur Lacaze I held out his visiting card. I was proud because I was sure the rich manufacturer would not give his card to just anybody.

  The concierge took the card. He was wearing a stiff cap. A feather-duster hung from his apron string.

  ‘Are you the person with an appointment at ten o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, lam.’

  ‘Use the service stairs at the end of the courtyard. It’s the second floor.’

  As he did not give me back the card, I asked for it, because I thought it important.

  ‘Here you are . . . take it.’

  As I was crossing the courtyard I could feel him watching. That embarrassed me. I do not like people looking at my back when I walk. It makes me walk badly. I am conscious of my hands, of my heels and of my elevated shoulder.

  When I was on the service stairs I breathed more freely.

  A light bulb illuminated each landing and because it was daylight I could see the elements inside these bulbs. Even on this staircase there was an electric bell.

  While I climbed the stairs I thought about the concierge. I could not believe Monsieur Lacaze had spoken to him about me. This concierge, certainly out of jealousy, had made me go up the service stairs. He had seen, with his practised servant’s eye, that I was poor. If servants use their eyes in this way, it comes from their hating their jobs. They have renounced their independence, but only as far as the rich are concerned. The instinct for freedom which in spite of everything exists at the bottom of their hearts enables them to distinguish at once between a rich man and a poor one, between one of the bosses and a man like themselves.

  On the second floor I rang the bell. A maid opened the door. She must have been warned to expect me for, before I had time to speak, she solicitously asked me to go in.

  I followed her. We went through the kitchen, which already smelled of hot fat, then along a long corridor.

  Suddenly I found myself in an anteroom.

  ‘Wait . . . I’ll go and tell Monsieur Lacaze.’

  Then I heard the manufacturer’s voice through the dividing wall. He was saying,

  ‘Show him in, the poor chap.’

  I was offended. One does not like the servants to know what their master thinks of one. Besides, Monsieur Lacaze could surely not be unaware that I could hear him.

  But as I am not familiar with the behaviour of rich people I was unwilling to take umbrage.

  It could be that Monsieur Lacaze had more important things to occupy him than questions of self-esteem.

  The maid reappeared. As she led me towards the office, she murmured,

  ‘Don’t worry . . . Monsieur Lacaze is very kind.’

  I was blushing. The palms of my hands sweated. Stupefied by agitation, I moved towards the door, which was open and full of daylight, as a piece of wood is dr
awn into the centre of a whirlpool. I did not even think of trying to pull myself together. I said to myself,

  ‘Let them do what they like with me.’

  •

  I went in.

  The door closed behind me, silently. Two windows went right down to the floor: I could see the street from the middle of the room. I was dazzled. The only power that remained to me was to play up my awkwardness.

  •

  The edge of my ears burned, as they do when one has been very cold. My mouth was dry, because I had been breathing without salivating.

  With my eyes wide open, the lashes raised, I looked at Monsieur Lacaze.

  He was a different man. He had neither hat not overcoat. He was wearing black. A white parting divided his hair into two equal parts. From time to time his flat ears moved rapidly up and down.

  At the station he had not made such an impression on me. I am used to seeing rich people outside. But here, standing up, touching his desk with the tips of his fingers, with his frock-coat with cloth-covered buttons, with his starched shirt which caused him no discomfort, he crushed me by his superiority.

  ‘Sit down, my man.’

  He had said that to me straight away, but I was so overcome that it seemed to me I had been standing up for a long time.

  He looked at a gold watch whose slim hands gave as much importance to the minutes as the hours.

  ‘Come on . . . sit down.’

  I had understood, but my shyness prevented me from obeying. The armchairs were too low. Seated, I should have seemed his equal, which would have embarrassed me. And at the bottom of my heart, I felt that my remaining standing flattered him.

  ‘Sit down, then . . . don’t be afraid.’

  I had to take several steps to reach the chair he had pointed out with a gesture of his hand.

  I sat down and my body sank down even further than I had expected. My knees were too high. My elbows slipped on the rounded arms.

  I tried very hard not to rest my neck on the back of the chair, that would have been showing too much familiarity. But my neck got tired, as it does when you raise your head in bed.

  My hat on my knees smelled of damp hair. My eyes skimmed the level of the table, like those of a surveyor. Monsieur Lacaze was fiddling with a paper-knife, turning it over and over. I could see his forearm up to the elbow inside his cuff. Under the desk his legs were crossed. The one that did not touch the floor was trembling. The sole of his shoe was new, scarcely whitened in the centre.