•
A man with a little white beard and a hat over his eyes was looking at the woman too. He had stopped. He was shifting his weight from one leg to the other, like a wading bird.
Being afraid I might get in before him, he went up to the unknown woman, took off his hat like something which must not be upset and mumbled some words I could not hear.
I looked at him from behind. He must be laughing or talking, because the ends of his moustache were moving. Oh, if I had been in that woman’s place, how I should have slapped his face.
She did not slap him, but she turned away. Taken aback, the man put his hat on his head and did not let go of it until it was back in its former position, then, moving some distance away, he pretended to do up his shoelace.
In my turn I went up to the unknown woman. Men are so vain that even if they see a woman turn away ten suitors they will still pay court to her themselves.
‘Excuse me.’
I took care not to wink.
‘I expect that man was being offensive. I’m speaking to you so that he doesn’t bother you.’
‘Thank you.’
She raised her head. Her eyes and ears were half hidden by her hat. She had a regular nose, pale lips which, when she half opened her mouth, stayed stuck together at the corners and on her chin a round beauty-spot.
‘These old men are really very rude.’
‘Yes, they are . . . what did he say to you?’
It was less out of curiosity than to prolong the pleasure of having been preferred that I asked my neighbour this question.
‘He said something obscene.’
I wanted to ask what it was but I did not dare.
‘Something obscene?’
‘Yes, he said something obscene.’
I thought as much. I often notice these fresh-faced old men, smelling of lavender, gadding about the streets. They devote twenty francs a day to women. They are free until ten o’clock. They do whatever they like, because their private life is no one else’s business.
‘Let’s get away from here, if you don’t mind.’
‘Yes . . . yes.’
I glanced furtively at my companion’s feet, to see if she was wearing good shoes.
It is very odd that, beside her, I experienced the strange feeling I had had beside a civilian, when I had been in the army. Her skirt, her fur wrap, her hat, had a smell of freedom about them. Her clothes were only clothes. She did not have to be familiar with all their stains and creases.
I would have been completely happy if I had not been afraid something odd might suddenly happen. Women are so strange. My neighbour was quite capable of suddenly saying good-bye at the corner of a street.
As we did not know each other, we talked about the old man for half an hour.
At last, as I could not think of anything else to say on that subject, I asked:
‘Perhaps you are on the stage.’
‘I am a singer.’
‘A singer?’
‘Yes.’
Thinking that I was dealing with a famous actress, I wanted to know what she was called.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Blanche de Myrtha.’
‘Myrtha?’
‘Yes, with a y.’
‘It’s a stage name, I suppose?’
‘I am called Blanche, but I invented de Myrtha.’
I racked my memory, hoping to remember having seen this cumbersome stage name somewhere.
‘Don’t let’s go far. I’m due on at the Trois Mousquetaires at five past ten. You can just have a beer while you wait for me.’
In my imagination I saw myself living with this woman in a luxurious flat. I had some pyjamas and some slippers, with clean soles that glided over the carpets.
‘Do you live by yourself?’ I asked straightaway, in order not to foster any illusions, if she did not.
‘Yes.’
‘So do I.’
She looked at a mirror stuck on to the inside of her compact, and powdered her cheeks with a tiny powder-puff.
‘Just a minute, let’s go down this street; we’ll be able to talk in peace there.’
The street was lit by blue glass lamps and the illuminated signs of hotels. From time to time a man and woman, not arm in arm, disappeared down a passageway.
Blanche’s arm, long and soft like an animal’s back, warmed my fingers. Her hat brushed against my ear. Our hips touched.
I was happy. Nevertheless my happiness was marred by absurd thoughts.
What would Blanche have done if we had met her best friend? Would she have left me? Or what if a sudden pain prevented her from walking? Or if she had even broken a window, or torn her skirt or jostled a passer-by?
I sometimes wonder if I am not mad. I had every reason to be happy and yet these senseless thoughts had to come and disturb me.
Whenever a man crossed the street and drew near us, my heart thumped. I know what it was: I wanted to be alone in the world with my companion.
I let go of her arm and laid my hand on her waist, very lightly, so I could take it away before she got annoyed if she did not like it.
She did not get angry.
Then my only thought was to kiss her, but I dared not do it while we were walking, for fear of missing her mouth.
‘Let’s stop. I want to say something to you.’
My voice trembled. I took her hands and smoothed my lips with my teeth.
‘What do you want to say?’
I clasped her to me. Our knees knocked together like wooden balls. I took care not to lose my balance and not to step on her toes.
Then, suddenly, I kissed her.
As I straightened up, I felt that my hat was pushing hers out of place.
Although she quickly put it back over her eyes, I realized that it had annoyed her.
Abashed, with my arms dangling, I did not know whether I ought to kiss her again or apologize.
A woman, young and beautiful, passed close to us, in a fur coat. I blushed, because I realized Blanche was jealous. I could not say why envy is such an ugly thing in a woman.
‘Look, it must be ten o’clock. I must go and sing.’
‘Yes . . . but . . .’
‘But?’
‘I should like to kiss you again, without hats this time.’
‘Yes, if you like.’
We kissed slowly, with our heads bare. I did not recognize Blanche’s eyes, so close to mine.
She pushed me gently away.
‘Let’s be quick. I shall be late.’
Close together like a couple under an umbrella we retraced our steps.
The Trois Mousquetaires cafe was full. A comedian was singing on a platform of white wood. There were posters showing the singer de Myrtha.
While Blanche was making for a door on which ‘Private: Artistes only’ was written in chalk, I sat down.
The customers looked at me with admiration, thinking I was the singer’s lover.
A Breton tenor followed the comedian. The pianist, who, because of his long hair, had a handsome head, played the Paimpolaise.
Near me a rough-looking type was singing all by himself, with his head bent. Inside his sleeve, on his wrist, I could see half a tattoo. Further off, a woman was licking her fingers which were sticky with liqueur.
Then Blanche appeared on the platform. I thought she would look in my direction, but she did not.
She sang three songs, with one hand clasped in the other, and when she had finished she came down from the platform holding her skirt.
A few minutes later she joined me.
‘Time to go home. ’
‘Do you live far away?’
‘Yes, in the rue Lafayette, at the Modern Hotel.’
II
An hour later we were going into the hotel.
A man-servant was asleep in an armchair with his legs together as if they were tied up.
In the distance I could see myself in a mirror as I walked and, so that I could go on seeing myself, I got off th
e carpet.
The stairs were evidently lighted all night. A carpet, held in place by brass stair rods, made them look reasonably smart.
Blanche’s room was untidy. A handkerchief was drying on the heater. A blouse was hanging from the key of a cupboard.
In the middle of the ceiling there was a ring with no lamp hanging from it.
Not daring to sit down, not knowing what to do within those four walls, I wandered round the room and every time I passed the mirror-fronted wardrobe the overhanging boxes on top of it wobbled.
Blanche had difficulty in drawing the curtains: the rings were too high up and would not slide along the rails. At last she managed it.
Then, without bothering about me, she undressed: she was not nearly so striking in her chemise.
She cleaned her nails with the curved end of a hairpin. She washed, but in a very curious way.
Ever since she had been barefoot, she had been walking with shorter steps.
Suddenly she slipped between the sheets, having first wiped the soles of her feet on the bed-side rug.
I woke up at dawn. A dim, ground-floor light was coming in through the window. It was raining. I could hear the drops falling on the paving-stones.
Blanche was asleep. She was taking up almost all the space in the bed.
Her nose and forehead were shiny. Her mouth was half-open, and her lips, because they were separated, did not seem to belong to the same mouth.
I missed my own bed. I would have liked to get up quietly, get dressed and go away, out into the rain, and leave that room which smelled of our breath and unaired sheets.
It was beginning to get light. I could make out some clothes on a chair and some useless vases on the mantelpiece.
Suddenly, Blanche’s eyelids lifted, revealing two dead eyes. She muttered a few words, moved her legs and instinctively pulled all the bed-clothes around her.
I got out of bed with my hair dishevelled and my shirt hanging down to my large knees.
I washed in cold water, without soap, and, still sleepy, went and stood at the window.
I saw a street I did not know, trams, umbrellas and big golden letters fixed up on a balcony.
The sky was grey and when I raised my head my forehead grew damp with drops of rain.
‘Are you going, darling?’
‘Yes.’
I dressed quickly.
‘When can I see you again, Blanche?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘If you like.’
I kissed my mistress on the forehead and went out.
The staircase smelled of chocolate. I saw a tray on the floor.
A minute later I was in the street.
•
I have never tried to see Blanche again.
I
The landlord has given me notice.
It seems that the tenants complained that I did not have a job. Nevertheless I lived very soberly. I went downstairs quietly. I was very obliging. When the old lady on the third floor had a heavy shopping-bag to carry, I helped her to take it up. I wiped my feet on the three mats which lay one after another before the stairs. I kept all the rules of the house which were posted up near the entrance. I did not spit on the stairs as Monsieur Lecoin did. In the evening, when I came home, I did not throw down the matches with which I had been lighting my way. And I paid my rent, yes, I paid it. It is true I had never given the concierge a tip, but all the same I did not give her much trouble. The only thing was that once or twice a week I used to come home after ten o’clock. Opening the door is nothing to a concierge. It can be done automatically, while asleep.
I lived on the sixth floor, a long way from the flats. I did not sing or laugh, out of tactfulness, because I did not work.
•
A man like me, who does not work, who does not want to work, will always be disliked.
In that house full of working people, I was the madman that, deep down, everyone wanted to be. I was the one who went without food, the cinema, warm clothes, to be free. I was the one who, without meaning to, daily reminded people of their wretched state.
People have not forgiven me for being free and for not being afraid of poverty.
The landlord has given me notice legally, on stamped paper.
My neighbours told him I was dirty, stuck-up, and perhaps even that women used to come to my room.
•
God knows how kind I am. God knows all the good deeds I have done.
Just as I remember a man who, when I was small, gave me a few sous, so lots of children will remember me when they have grown up because I often give them little presents.
It makes me extremely happy to know I shall always live in their hearts.
•
I am going to have to leave my room. Then is my life so abnormal as to give people offence? I cannot believe it.
In a fortnight I shall be somewhere else, I shall no longer have the key of this room where I have lived for three years, where I took off my army uniform, where, when I had been demobilised, I thought I was going to be happy.
Yes, in a fortnight I shall be leaving. Then perhaps the neighbours will be sorry, for changes always have some effect, even on the most unfeeling people. They will perhaps feel, even if only for a second, that they have done wrong. That will be enough for me.
They will come into my empty room and, as there will not be any furniture any more, they will look into the cupboards, but they will not see anything.
It is over. The sun will no longer show me the time on the wall. The invalid who lives on my landing will die a fortnight after my departure, for something new must happen. A bit of repainting will be done. Workmen will repair the roof.
It is strange how everything changes when you are not there.
II
I have been unable to find a room: so I have sold my furniture.
•
It is ten o’clock in the evening. I am alone in my hotel room.
It is wonderful to have got rid of my neighbours, to have gone, to have left Montrouge.
I look around for, after all, this is the room where I am going to live. I open the cupboard. There is nothing there except some newspaper on the shelves.
I open the window. The motionless air from a courtyard does not come in. Opposite, a shadow is passing and repassing behind a curtain. I can hear the iron wheels of a tram.
I come back to the middle of my room. Now wax is dripping from the strongly-burning candle and the motionless flame is no longer smoking.
A water-jug is stoppered with a folded towel. There is a carafe topped with a glass. The linoleum in front of the wash-stand has been discoloured by damp feet. The springs of the railed bed are gleaming. Voices which I do not know sound loudly on the staircase.
The plaster on the walls is white like the end of the sheet folded back over the bed-covers. Some unknown person is moving about in the adjoining room.
•
I sit on a chair — a folding garden chair — and think of the future.
I believe that one day I shall be happy, that one day someone will love me.
But I have been counting on the future for so long!
•
Then I go to bed — lying on my right for the sake of my heart.
The stiff sheets are so cold that I stretch out very cautiously. I am aware that the skin of my feet is rough.
I have of course locked the door. Nevertheless it seems to me that it is open, that somebody or other is about to come in. Luckily I have left the key in the keyhole: in this way nobody can get in with a second key.
•
I try to sleep but I think about my clothes, folded in the case, which must be getting creased.
My bed is warming up. I am not moving my feet in order not to catch the sheets because that makes me shiver.
I make sure that the ear I am lying on is nice and flat, that it is not folded.
Ears that stick out are so ugly.
Moving from my house has made me fidgety. I feel like moving about as I do when I imagine that I am tied up. But I fight against it: I must sleep.
My eyes, which are wide open, can see nothing, not even the window.
I think about death and the sky, for whenever I think about death, I think about the stars too.
I feel very small beside the infinite and quickly abandon these thoughts. My warm body, which is alive, reassures me. I touch my skin lovingly. I listen to my heart, but I take good care not to lay my hand on the left side of my chest for there is nothing which frightens me so much as that regular beat which I do not control and which could so easily stop. I move my joints and breathe more freely when I feel that they do not hurt.
Solitude, what a sad and beautiful thing it is! How beautiful when we choose it! How sad when it is forced upon us year after year!
Some strong men are not lonely when they are alone, but I, who am weak, am lonely when I have no friends.
My Friends Page 10