The Man in a Hurry

by Paul Morand

  “You gave me a fright,” said Hedwige.

  “A fright?”

  “The Boisrosé family are carefree and wonderfully indolent and are not used to being aroused with a start,” said Fromentine. “Where we come from, the Negresses wake you up by pressing their hands on the soles of your feet. It’s the place that’s farthest from the heart. You don’t feel any shock.”

  They rose from the table. Pierre threw his overcoat over his shoulders, while the Boisrosé girls disappeared behind that mysterious cloakroom door where all women go never to be seen again, a ceremony that normally made him despair, but which he endured this evening without hopping from one foot to another too much.

  They crossed over the Champs-Elysées. The cinema was showing an absurd film, full of well-known stars, all prominently displayed, with faces exposing teeth as large as flagstones and black lips in which every crevice could be seen, with twenty-year-old skins revealing to the audience wrinkles deeper and closer than the Colorado Grand Canyon seen through a telescope. Not a single eyelash or hair was spared. Pierre was right: what passivity of feeling, what lacklustre incidents! One would never have thought that this story had been commissioned by an intelligent human being.

  “It’s unbearable,” Pierre said. “Suppose we went somewhere else?”

  “But where can we go at this time?”

  “To the Excelsior. They show very good documentaries.”

  Scarcely had he uttered these words than he dashed off. They tore after him, but he had gone ahead to find his car and drive it out of its parking space. He was back a moment later. Hedwige and Fromentine had scarcely closed their doors before Pierre sped off and pulled up on the Rond-Point, outside the Excelsior. There, he drummed his fingers fruitlessly at the kiosk window, for it was late and the woman at the cash desk had already closed her till, and leapt back into the driver’s seat brandishing a box ticket.

  When they got to their seats the interval was coming to an end and the bell was already ringing. Pierre settled himself in between these two perfect bodies. He felt totally happy now. He had had his outburst. The evening was going in the right direction. The moment of difficulty had passed. He shared his smile between his two companions. They arranged a future meeting.

  “We do need to see each other again to talk business,” said Pierre.

  “You must come to dinner in Saint-Germain. Mother would be glad to meet you,” said Hedwige.

  “There’ll just be one course, and we promise that you won’t have to wait,” added Fromentine.

  The lights were dimmed. Pierre was hoping that a healthy dose of current affairs would fill them with a surge of impulsive vitality, what with the shouts of the crowd, the sporting activities and the cavalry charges—in short, the whole ebb and flow of contemporary beauty in action.

  “Now we’ll have fun!” he said playfully, rubbing his hands together.

  The glare of the advertisements disappeared. After the orchestra had dragged its way through a Johann Strauss waltz, the screen, alas, announced a slow-motion documentary:

  THE DIGESTION OF THE BOA

  “There are days when nothing succeeds,” sighed Pierre.

  “Have you had enough?” asked Hedwige sympathetically.

  “Well, I mean… Saint-Germain’s a long way. I suggest we go back.”

  After Pierre had dropped them home, Fromentine undressed in her bedroom and then came and sat on her sister’s bed.

  “He’s a weird fellow, your friend.”

  “Anyway, he’s not boring,” Hedwige replied. “Do you think he had fun?”

  “To begin with, yes, but he seemed to be in a great hurry, in a hurry to leave us. He must have had another rendezvous,” she insinuated.

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Of course he did,” Fromentine went on, teasing her.

  “I think he probably wanted to be on his own,” said Hedwige. “He’s an eccentric.”

  “Is he really an eccentric? I’ve never heard of a man wanting to be alone. I don’t believe in men’s solitude.”

  “What experience you have!”

  “He may just be a man who’s only allowed to stay out until midnight and who’s frightened of missing the call?” added Fromentine casually, as she brushed her red hair.

  CHAPTER IX

  “HERE I AM, I’ve rushed over, what is it? What’s happened?”

  Placide, his scarf knotted beneath a beard that had bristles harder than the back of an irritable porcupine, his hair awry, his trousers around his ankles, has arrived at Pierre Niox’s home and finds him extremely calm for once, sprawled in an armchair, a book in his hands.

  “Nothing at all,” says Pierre calmly.

  “What? You’re not even ill! It’s too bad. So why did you drag me out of bed? So that you can read to me?… And yet more Michelet!”

  “He does make some good points,” said Pierre.

  “A historian shouldn’t make points,” replied the Chartist. “In any case, Michelet’s Histoire de France is so confused that you close it having forgotten all your history. But that doesn’t explain why you called me urgently. What a pain…”

  Placide’s dishevelled head and his confusion are so funny that Pierre, keen to prolong the teasing, continues his remarks in the tone of someone giving a lecture.

  “Bit by bit, I have drawn up a small gallery of well-known geniuses, a portable pantheon of brilliant men. I give preference to impulsive heroes, to those who are geniuses at the first attempt, to leaders of military forays, to famous raiders. The contemplation of these supermen is as stimulating as listening to a military march. They are my patron saints.”

  Placide could feel his temper rising.

  “I know of only one patron saint for you, and it’s St Guy.”

  “Caesar deserves the first place,” Pierre went on imperturbably. “One cannot but praise his crossing of the Rubicon, and also his armies that are dispatched suddenly right into the heart of Germany, and his lightning descents on Rome, from where he immediately set off again to the furthest boundaries of the Empire. Let’s read this page again where he relates how he comes to take a stand in deepest Illyria; there, he learns that little Brittany has risen up; ready to lend a helping hand, he shakes off his provincial encampment, hops over the Alps, delivers a right hook to the Armoricans while simultaneously stunning the Germans, who had also risen up, with a left cut…”

  “Brutus murdered Caesar because his frenetic behaviour was getting on his nerves and the Senate supported him… and so do I!” yelled Placide.

  “Compared to Caesar, the most celebrated conquerors seem to be asleep on their feet,” continued Pierre, not listening to him. “Charlemagne, for example, and his forty-year wars that dragged on like his beard! And those dull Crusader knights who got bogged down in arguments about etiquette, in lawsuits about common ownership, and romantic novels; and those dreary tournaments with sermons one after the other from the heralds-at-arms…”

  “You’re not equipped to understand the sturdy and steadfast beauty of armour,” Placide cut in tersely.

  “Let us prefer to them, ladies and gentlemen, Henri IV conquering his kingdom unawares, Gustavus Adolphus devouring Europe in a gulp, Condé and his strategic inspiration…”

  “Thank you for this brief lesson about famous restless men,” Placide interrupted. “Now, tell me why—”

  “—Why the greatest par excellence is Napoleon? Ah, Placide, what frantic pursuits amid the bell-towers and the cannon those Empire wars were! Those volte-faces, those perilous leaps, those pugilist’s counter-attacks that took advantage of the enemy’s slightest loss of equilibrium! The Italian campaign, I tell you, I know it by heart: the dazzling reversal at Montenotte, the scramble at Roveredo, the lightning raid at Bassano, the stunning victory of Marengo, the crossing of the Alps at a canter! Caesar or Napoleon, it’s the same triumph of resourcefulness. They always break out from impossible positions where the old strategy was not expected.”

  “Enough
!” Placide cries. “For once, I’m the one asking you to be brief…”

  “And the French campaign in which the old lion, exhausted, out of breath, his muscles failing, suddenly rediscovers his form, his old determination, that way he had of spinning round that still used to terrify visitors to St Helena who came to ogle at him through the bars of the cage!”

  Placide came and stood in front of Pierre and, with a malevolent smile, said:

  “These leaders were better at winning battles than hearts: you’re rather like them in that respect.”

  “Don’t you like me any more, Placide?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sulking?”

  “The word is poorly chosen, as is everything you choose to do, what’s more,” cried Placide in exasperation.

  “I’ve got some good news to give you, however. Aren’t you interested? Listen all the same: the two fourth-century urns and the casket from Oslo with gold coils that you didn’t approve of me buying, well, Baltimore Museum is buying them back from us at a hundred per cent profit.”

  “And that’s why you asked me to come here,” moaned Placide, who was beside himself with rage.

  “Yes, that’s why I sent for you. And also to tell you that I’m doubling your percentage on it. And also all your percentages on all our business deals, so satisfied am I with the smooth running of our partnership.”

  Placide remained speechless, blushing and turning pale alternately.

  “What, you’re not pleased?” asked Pierre with a smile.

  “No, I am certainly not!” said Placide irritably. “The way you behave is killing me. Do you realize that I almost fainted from surprise! I’m terrified of shocks. Whenever you do something kind for me, you do it so suddenly that it makes me feel angrier than I am when I get a fine! You wake me up with a jolt! You don’t allow me time to get dressed. Not even the time to sleep, or so little that you prevent me from sleeping properly. You don’t actually give me time for anything! I’m your scapegoat. I feel I’m always trying to catch up with you. I need to live normally and not feel cooped up at the back of the train in the role of brakeman. And since I’m here this morning against my wishes, I’m taking the opportunity to tell you that I’m breaking off our partnership and that I’m setting up on my own.”

  “Are you serious?” asked Pierre.

  He gazed in astonishment at this friend of fifteen years’ standing, in whom he had noticed nothing more than an incomprehensible hostility. He felt like saying: “But what have I done to you?” since he was unable to understand that a mere difference in their respective tempos could fill Placide’s soul with such resentment.

  He tried to see things from Placide’s standpoint, to view his own self impartially; what could he be blamed for? A little too much hastiness, verging occasionally—very rarely—on feverish activity. It was a fault, a shortcoming rather, a delightful shortcoming; so many people are lethargic, dead weights who are impossible to shift. In his case, everything was dynamism and lightness. People should, on the contrary, be grateful to him for speeding things up and bringing them to a satisfactory conclusion so quickly.

  Placide had calmed down somewhat; he continued dispassionately:

  “I need a more temperate climate than yours; you roast, while I need to simmer. Ever since I left the École des Chartes, you’ve been my evil genius…”

  “Come now, I’ve been your salvation! I’ve broken you in, I’ve given you a flick of the whip when you needed it. Without me, would you have ever left your Mama for a single meal?”

  “You’re right there, you’ve disrupted my dearest habits; you’ve jostled me, you’ve hypnotized me! You were never in the least grateful for the lessons you attended at my school, because the good antique dealer, the artistic antique dealer, is me and not you; you’ve got a nose, that’s all.”

  “My dear Placide, I’ve never disputed any of your great virtues, but you do have a few small faults: you’re meticulous, fussy, cautious, circumspect; admit that without me you would have daydreamed your life away… don’t you think?”

  “I don’t intend to continue this discussion,” said Placide very curtly, “let’s just say that we’re divorcing due to incompatibility of temperaments. At Saint-Vallier, when we had that accident and after you had almost killed me, you left me on my own all night in your abandoned car by the banks of the Rhône; I was already so furious that I’d decided never to see you again. I felt sorry for you and I changed my mind, but since then your frantic express-train frenzy has only got worse. As in the meantime an international association of antique dealers has been set up in Rome and I have been asked to join as an expert on Gothic art, I’ve accepted. Does that vex you?”

  Pierre considered the matter:

  “No,” he said. “Better that than you blaming me later on for not allowing you to try your luck.”

  “As you can see, I am delighted by this ready agreement,” said Placide, who was feeling both offended and consoled, for he had feared rather more resistance. “No hard feelings, dear fellow, no hard feelings, my slippery old eel!”

  And he went out giving an affected little wave.

  Pierre was left alone gazing at the ceiling for a while. He was thinking of the way in which he would reorganize his business, without a partner. A great deal of boring work in prospect, assets to be shared out, further funds to be found. He would have to get down to it straight away. For once, his “straight away” did not signify “immediately”, since Pierre did not stir; he even sat down again in his armchair and reflected.

  “That idiot has ruined my day!”

  His bad mood filled him with unpleasant images. In his mind’s eye he thought about the evening before last with the two girls that had begun so happily and ended so gloomily. What could have cast such a spell on him?

  He kicked his chair away and rang for Chantepie, who did not come. He rang again. The sound of the bell, which failed to activate the late, limping arrival of the elderly servant, grew mournful. It was like a stone falling into a well. Pierre opened the doors and shouted:

  “Chantepie!”

  He looked around to see whether one of those notes was not lying around that Chantepie left whenever he went out shopping to inform or ask questions of his master: “Has monsieur thought about tomorrow’s dinner?” or “The shirts have not come back, there was no word from the laundryman: monsieur must not scold me”.

  Lying on top of the kitchen scales, Pierre found an envelope addressed to him:

  Monsieur,

  I want to respectfully say to monsieur that I no longer wish to serve him and that I’m off and that’s that. I’ve been to see Doctor Abraham the same one who cancels monsieur’s fines for me becoz he is the town councillor and who also gives me free consultations without making me pay even though he’s Jewish. “Chantepie you must calm down, you’re the delicate sort and cannot endure for long the heavy work that is put upon you, you’re killing yourself Chantepie.” “Monsieur Abraham,” I replied to him, “I would be happy to die on the job for I have no children and nothing but disappointments and no money.”

  It’s not the muscles shrinking it’s the nerves that are killing me and I can’t stand monsieur any longer I’m fed up with rushing around for him all the time without a break and always at the double I can’t wait to slow down I swallow my tears but I’m going after so many years without whingeing I’m not angry with monsieur who was always honest with me and good and who often picked me up when I was feeling gloomy and when I couldn’t stand up on account of my rheumatism, monsieur is not stupid monsieur will understand.

  Sincerely yours.

  Chantepie (Gasparin)

  “So Chantepie’s leaving too!” said Pierre mockingly. “Here I am twice cuckolded, and in the rarest manner, cuckold without a wife. Chantepie and Placide both agreeing to blame me for excessive speed. It’s comical!

  “Meanwhile, here I am alone. Alone, alone,” he repeated as he paced up and down the hall. “If this continues I sha
ll soon have no one to speak to. I shall think aloud like the polar explorers.

  “Alone! In fact, it’s only right. What is speed if not a race that is won, the prize for which is loneliness. We sow what we reap… we sow in the hope that the seed will not grow again,” Pierre concluded angrily. “I’m the champion of adversity. I’ve endured that invisible pressure that infiltrates us and is known as slowness better than others. I am a sporting spectacle,” he concluded proudly.

  “Yes, but what about when I’m old? When I’ll have lost my spurt (it’s the spurt that loses its edge first), and then my starting speed, when my pace has slowed down, when I start to look like everyone else, what will become of me?

  “No, I’ll never be old. The day that slowness gets the better of me I shall die of asphyxiation. Death is probably nothing more than a difference of pressure between our outer and our inner beings. When the outer one becomes the stronger, we die.

  “Nevertheless, I won’t always be able to pass through people like a ray, without clinging on to any of them. Human beings have a reality, a volume, movement: what a shock there’ll be when we meet one another! Or what they call meeting! That is to say exchange faithfulness, warmth, vitality, and all part of an intimacy that I have never known until now. In short, the day I fall in love with a woman, when there will be someone else close to me apart from colleagues or servants, from people I lunch, dine, sleep with, paddle or pedal with—the day when I shall have to split a part of myself in two, hoping that that part also splits into new sections which will be my children…

  “It’s strange that with other people, all this should happen smoothly, without their even seeming to notice it; they must have an instinct that’s lacking in me and that operates differently. They bond together somehow… haphazardly… but it’s happiness all the same. What’s more,” he added to comfort himself, “it’s not without its difficulties: the pieces function and get stuck and even break up… at the law courts. But since the universal mechanism encompasses specific cogs, the world continues to roll along. Therefore I don’t have to worry about it.