She Who Was No More

by Pierre Boileau

  ‘That’s the soup boiling over. May I go and see?’

  ‘Of course. Run quick.’

  She darted off, and now that the way was no longer barred he went indoors. He didn’t want the neighbors to see him there. He had a glimpse of the kitchen. Some clothes were hanging up to dry. He ought to have gone. It didn’t seem right to try and pump this child.

  ‘It was the soup,’ she said when she returned. ‘It boiled over.’

  ‘Is much gone?’

  ‘Not a lot. I dare say my father won’t notice.’

  Her nose was a bit pinched. And she had a few freckles, like Mireille.

  ‘Does he scold you?’ asked Ravinel.

  He regretted the question at once, realizing that this girl was experienced far beyond her years. He went on hurriedly:

  ‘At what time do you get up?’

  She frowned, tugged at one of her plaits. Perhaps she was looking for her words.

  ‘Was it dark when you got up this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you took the goat out right away.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Perhaps you walked it about the field a bit before tying it up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Turning her head away, she muttered: ‘I’m afraid.’

  At twelve he’d been afraid of the dark himself. Often he’d had to walk to school before daylight, and he’d been unable to shake off the feeling someone was following him. Even in the street. If he’d been asked to take a goat out into the fields it would have been worse… He looked at Henriette’s face. Yes, it was already old, worn by fears and responsibilities. And in his mind’s eye he saw the budding Fernand Ravinel, that boy nobody had ever talked to him about, and about whom he didn’t care to think, that boy who had nevertheless followed him through life, who was a witness…

  He could find nothing more to say. He hadn’t the heart to probe further. Supposing that boy of twelve had found a corpse floating on the water…

  No. That was something he couldn’t ask, and it was left as a sort of secret between these two.

  He nevertheless forced himself to ask a few more questions:

  ‘You didn’t see anybody in the field?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Nor in the lavoir?’

  ‘No.’

  He put his hand in his pocket, but all he found was a ten-franc piece. All the same he put it in her hand.

  ‘That’s for you.’

  ‘He’ll take it from me.’

  ‘Nonsense. You can find somewhere to hide it.’

  She shook her head pensively. She took the coin nevertheless.

  ‘I’ll come and see you again,’ promised Ravinel.

  He felt he must leave on a buoyant, optimistic note. As though there had never been any question of goats or lavoirs. As Ravinel left, he ran into the postman, who carried his bag of letters in front of him with something of the carriage of a pregnant woman.

  ‘Good evening, Monsieur Ravinel. Came to see me, did you? About your special delivery, I expect.’

  ‘No. At least… As a matter of fact I’m expecting a registered letter. A special delivery, you said?’

  The other was scrutinizing him from under the cracked peak of his kepi.

  ‘Yes. I rang. And then, as there was no answer, I shoved it into the mailbox. Is your wife away?’

  ‘She’s gone to Paris.’

  There was no reason why he should answer, but he did so humbly, feeling he had to placate everybody.

  ‘Salut!’ said the postman taking his leave.

  And he went in and shut the door.

  A special delivery! It couldn’t have come from the firm, as he’d called there that morning. From Germain? That wasn’t likely either. Unless it was addressed to Mireille.

  He hurried home through the lighted streets. It was almost cold all of a sudden and that seemed to clear his brain. The postman’s daughter hadn’t seen anything. If she had, she hadn’t understood. Or, if she had understood, she would keep quiet about it.

  But, to come back to that special delivery, it might be from the thief, dictating his terms.

  It was there all right in the box, tilted up on one corner. He took it indoors and looked at the envelope under the kitchen light.

  Monsieur Fernand Ravinel

  That handwriting! If it wasn’t…

  He shut his eyes and counted ten. He must be ill, seriously ill. Then he opened them and looked at the envelope again. No! It was no use saying it was Mireille’s writing. It wasn’t. Because it couldn’t be. It was absolutely impossible.

  The envelope was carefully stuck up, right to the corners. He needed a pointed instrument to open it, and took the carving knife out of a drawer. With it in his hand he walked menacingly back to the table, on which the mauve envelope was lying. It was difficult, however, to insert even the point of the knife and finally, losing patience, Ravinel tore the thing open roughly. He read the note right through without understanding a word.

  Darling

  I’ve got to go away for two or three days. It’s nothing serious, so don’t be alarmed. I’ll explain it all later. Meanwhile you’ll find plenty to eat in the refrigerator in the cellar. Finish up the old pot of jam before opening a fresh one, and remember to turn off the gas when you’ve finished with the oven. You so easily forget.

  Love and kisses to my big bad wolf

  Mireille

  Ravinel read it a second time, then a third. Suddenly he had it—it had been delayed in the post. The letter itself was undated, but the post mark on the envelope was quite legible. Paris. 7 Nov. 1600 hrs.

  The 7th of November. That would be… Good heavens—today!

  He had read somewhere of split personalities and their capacity for banishing things from their minds. Very well! So could he! Mireille was in Paris—what could be more natural? And she’d handed the letter in at four o’clock…

  Something gripped him by the throat. He laughed savagely—a laugh that was more like a retching. Tears clouded his eyes. And suddenly he hurled the carving knife across the room with all his strength. It came to rest, quivering like an arrow, the point deep in the door. With open mouth and distorted features he stared at it for a moment. Then everything swam round him, the floor gave way beneath his feet and he fell heavily, his head striking the tiles.

  As he lay there motionless a trickle of thick saliva oozed from the corner of his mouth.

  When he came to, after what must have been a long time, his first thought was that he was dying, his second that he was already dead. He felt lighter than air, floating. Then little by little two parts of him seemed to separate like oil and water, forming different layers. On one level he felt delivered, a sensation of infinite relief; on the other he felt bogged down and hopelessly entangled. It seemed to him that with a little effort he could break through some thin partition and open his eyes on to another world. But he couldn’t; his eyes were no longer under his control.

  Then suddenly he was conscious of a vast, colorless expanse. It wasn’t paradise, nor purgatory either. Call it the shades. At all events he was free at last. And he was intact. No, that was putting it badly, for he was like some infinitely malleable substance that can be molded into any shape. A soul. Yes, that’s what he was—a soul. And as such he could make a fresh start. Start what? Never mind about that: the question was quite unimportant. What mattered was to take stock of this great white expanse, to surrender himself to it, let himself be impregnated by it, till he became white and luminous too. To become pure, pure as water.

  And now the white space became tinged with gold. Indeed it was no longer space—at least not empty space. It was divided into different zones and some were darker than others, and from one of them came a regular mechanical sound, probably coming from the world, the old world, the one he had left. And something was moving—a small black dot in the middle of a stretch of white. What
was it? There must be a word for it, for, after all, everything had a name. If only he could find it! With that word, the frontier would be crossed once and for all. The peace he felt would no longer be precarious. It would become an eternal tranquil joy, mixed with a touch of melancholy. There it was. It was coming now—the word. It was forming, deep down, and slowly rising to the surface. Soon it would be there. Why should that suddenly seem menacing?

  Fly.

  A fly. Yes it was a fly, a fly crawling across the ceiling. And this dark splodge on his right was the cupboard. Bit by bit everything was starting again. In cold and silence… I feel round me. A tiled floor. I’m cold. I’m lying down. I’m Fernand Ravinel… And there’s a letter on the table…

  Better not go into that. Don’t ask questions, don’t try to find out. Hold on to oblivion. So long as you do, you won’t care. That’s the important thing: not to care. But it’s hard, it’s exhausting… Don’t think about it. Just try your limbs to see if they work.

  They did. The muscles obeyed him. His arm moved, his hand was capable of grasping. His eyes fell on things and knew them. His brain found words to call them by. He could stand… But on the table—That bit of paper and that envelope—he mustn’t see them, he mustn’t find words for them. They were too dangerous, much too dangerous.

  He must turn his back on them. He lurched to the front door, went out, and slammed it behind him. There! That was better. He locked the door. Better still. No one could say now what was behind it. He mustn’t know. He mustn’t ever see that letter again, or anything might happen. The words might leave the page and form themselves into fantastic threatening shapes.

  Ravinel was almost at the end of the street before he looked back. The house seemed inhabited, as he’d left the lights on. Often, when he came home of an evening, he would see Mireille’s shadow as she crossed behind one of the slatted shutters. But he was too far off now. Even if she passed, he wouldn’t be able to see her. He walked to the station. He was bareheaded. In the refreshment room he drank two glasses of beer. Victor, the waiter, was busy at the bar; otherwise he’d have been only too ready for a chat. As it was, he merely gave Ravinel an occasional wink or a smile.

  How could cold beer burn your throat like spirits? Ought he to take to flight? What would be the use? Another mauve envelope might come, this one addressed to the police inspector, reporting the crime. Yes, Mireille might lodge a complaint for having been killed! Come on! None of that! Those thoughts were forbidden.

  Quite a crowd of people on the station platform. The colored lights were painful. The red signal light was too red, the green one sickeningly sweet. The bookstall smelt of fresh ink. In the train, the people exuded an odor of game and the carriages smelt like those of the underground.

  It had to finish like this. Sooner or later he had been bound to discover what was concealed from other beings—that there was no real distinction between the living and the dead. It’s only because of the coarseness of our perception that we imagine the dead elsewhere, in some other world. There isn’t any other world. Not a bit of it. The dead are with us here, mixed up in our lives and meddling with them. Remember to turn the gas off when you’ve finished with the oven… They speak to us with shadowy mouths; they write with hands of smoke. Ordinary people, of course, don’t notice. They’re too preoccupied with their own affairs. To perceive these things you’ve got to have been incompletely born and thus only half involved in this noisy, colorful, flamboyant world…

  Yes, he was beginning to understand. That letter was the first step in a process of initiation. Why should he be so frightened about it?

  ‘Tickets, please!’

  The ticket collector was a stout, florid man with two rolls of fat at the back of his neck. Many of the passengers were standing, and he brushed past them impatiently. Little did he know that he was at the same time pushing his way through a host of shadows. It wouldn’t be long, no doubt, before Mireille was among them. Her letter had been written to prepare him. Thoughtful of her. It’s nothing serious, so don’t he alarmed. Of course not. Nothing serious about death. A change of weight and consistency, that was all. She wasn’t unhappy, Mireille. She would explain it all. She said so. Not that there was a great deal to explain. For the most part, he already understood…

  Yes, he understood a lot of things all of a sudden. His childhood, for instance. The others, his father, his mother, his friends, had all tried to get him entangled, rooted. School, university, exams, jobs—so many snares to get him caught. Even Lucienne was no different. Money. That was all she thought about: money. As though money wasn’t just another load to carry on your shoulders! And the heaviest of all!

  For a practice at Antibes, she might answer. But that didn’t make any difference: she was out for money all the time. What was the practice for if not to bring in money? They weren’t going to Antibes merely to enjoy the sunshine.

  Talking of sunshine, that would of course change everything. It would prevent Mireille from appearing. Didn’t the sun obliterate the stars? Yet they were there just the same. Antibes! Yes, that really would kill Mireille. It was the only way of killing her. At least, it would wipe her from the scene. Had Lucienne thought of that? Was that why she had picked on Antibes? She generally knew what she was about, that girl…

  But now that he had understood, he had no longer the slightest desire to escape to the bright, scintillating south. Of course, if he stayed here, he’d have to overcome his fears. For they were still there, lying doggo for the moment, but only waiting for the right moment to spring at him. It wouldn’t be easy. He’d have to face certain memories without flinching—that bathroom at Nantes. Mireille stiff and cold, with her hair plastered down on her forehead.

  The train swayed from side to side. The journey seemed endless, but at last he found himself on the platform, jostled by passengers and porters. Outside, it was raining. He went to the nearest post office.

  ‘Give me Nantes, will you?’

  The partitions were covered with scribblings—telephone numbers, obscenities.

  ‘Hello! Is that the hospital at Nantes?… I want to speak to Dr. Lucienne Mogard…’

  In the telephone booth he could hear no more than a vague murmur of the busy world all round him.

  ‘Hello? Lucienne?… She’s written to me. She’ll be back in a few days… Who? Mireille of course! Yes, Mireille. She sent me a special delivery… But I tell you she did… No. I’m not out of my mind. And I’m not trying to play on your nerves. I just thought you ought to know… Yes. I realize that. But I’ve been thinking. And a lot of things—but it would take too long to explain… What am I going to do? How should I know?… All right. See you tomorrow.’

  Poor Lucienne! Always wanting to reason things out. All right! Let her try! She’d see for herself. She’d read the letter.

  Or could she? Would it be visible to her?… Of course it would. The postman had seen it, hadn’t he? He’d spoken about it himself. Obviously it must be a real one. It was only its meaning that was not obvious to every Tom, Dick, and Harry. For you had to be able to think in two worlds at the same time.

  Boulevard de Denain. Slanting arrows of luminous rain. The stream of glistening motor cars. Appearances: he knew that now. It was all rather like a café with mirrors all round the walls, till you hardly knew whether you were looking at the real thing or its reflection.

  Night flowed down the boulevard like an eddying flood sweeping everything with it, lights, smells, and human beings. Be frank with yourself, Fernand Ravinel: how many times have you not dreamed that you were drowned in this very flood? And if you accepted what was done at Nantes, was it not precisely because it was done with water? Have you not always been fascinated by water, beneath whose smooth and brilliant surface is another world that it makes you giddy to think of? Much the same as the fog game, wasn’t it? And you wanted Mireille to play it too. Now you are tempted in turn. You envy her, don’t you?

  Ravinel wandered for a long, long time, not caring wher
e his legs carried him. Coming to the Seine, he trudged along by the side of the stone parapet, which came nearly up to his shoulder. In front of him was a bridge, a far-flung arch beneath which the lights were reflected in oily swirls. The town seemed abandoned. The thin wind smelt of locks and waterways. And Mireille was somewhere, mixed up with the night. They couldn’t meet, for they lived on different planes, in different elements. He hadn’t yet done the crossing. But they could signal to each other like ships that pass on the trade routes.

  ‘Mireille!’

  He spoke the word softly. He couldn’t wait any longer. He was in a hurry to cross the frontier too, to smash the mirror.

  SEVEN

  When he woke up, Ravinel recognized the hotel bedroom. He remembered walking for hours on end. Then he recalled the image of Mireille and heaved a sigh. It took him several minutes, however, to decide that it was probably Sunday. It was indeed certain, because Lucienne was arriving by the twelve-something train. She must already be in the train. What was he to do to fill in the time? What could one do on a Sunday? A dead day, a day on which you could only mark time. And he was in a hurry to forge ahead.

  Nine o’clock.

  He got up and dressed, then drew back the threadbare curtain that concealed the window. A gray sky. Roofs. A few skylights, some of them still painted blue, a relic of the blackout. Certainly not an inspiring view. Downstairs he paid his bill to an old woman in curlers. It wasn’t till he was on the pavement that he realized he was in the neighborhood of the central market, within a stone’s throw of where Germain lived.

  Why shouldn’t he fill in the time there?

  Mireille’s brother lived in a flat on the fourth floor. A dark staircase. The lights didn’t work, and Ravinel had to grope his way up as best he could. Sunday smells. Sunday noises. Behind their doors, people hummed a tune or switched on the wireless, thinking of the afternoon’s football game or the movie they’d go to in the evening. On one landing he could hear the hiss of milk boiling over, on another some howling brats. A man with an overcoat slipped on over his pajamas came downstairs leading a dog. It was all very intimate and Ravinel had the feeling of being out of it.