‘Yes, I need Stephen. I need a man. I need men. I cannot live this way. What shall I do? What good are the men I meet? They’re all tied up. Meet a man at my age and he has a rope round his neck, and ankles and wrists tied: he’s the victim of a female hold-up. His pockets are empty and his spirit is broken. He’s petty and mean. If I kiss and hug him he gives me a gleaming eye and a wet grin and a red lip and a red tongue, but he’s off hotfoot to his woman’s bedroom. It’s safe. They’re afraid of me. I always frightened them. They like tame women, Suzanne. The women are tame. What stops us, Suzanne, from living? All my life I had no joy. How I longed for it! Where is it? Why do we have this great need for joy and love of joy if there is none? I must have it—and do you know where it is to be found? No, eh? Well, I know. Look! Look, here—’
She went to the closet, opened the door and showed shelves full of papers, typescripts, loosely packed together. She took a child’s paintbox from a shelf, opened it and showed Suzanne some pills in the pans.
‘I long for these, Suzanne, more than I ever longed for food and drink or even a man. Well, I don’t know—but yes I think so. And when I have one, I feel for a moment, just a moment’s length, such exquisite, unbearable, absolute joy! Do you think Stephen or success or money gave me this inexpressible, exquisite, sharp joy! Oh, Suzanne, if you knew—but only Violet knows; and then she, I don’t know that she feels as I do. It isn’t for long, ah me, and then the dreary ebbing away, the dullness begins to return. But where in life did I find the joy I wanted? And when I have what I want then I dream, just for a moment, of all the raptures, as if all were possible. And all was possible to me. I opened my arms to life always and received what—wooden dolls! The big empty parcels a practical joker gives you for your birthday, and inside, shavings, bits of dirty paper with the halves of words written on them.
‘But down here, Suzanne, I have found myself. I am writing better. See here, this is going to be my big book—about poor Marie-Antoinette!’
Suzanne caught her glance; she had a glittering mocking smile, her eyes swam with gaiety.
A pile of yellow second-sheets stood beside the typewriter, a new ream on one hand and, on the right, a pile of typed yellow sheets. Emily stood by them, fingered them and said with a proud smile at Suzanne, ‘This is it, Suzanne. While he’s been away, I’ve done all that, down here, in my cell; this is my magnum dopus, Trial and Execution, the last days of Marie-Antoinette. He’s away and this time I’m writing a real book, a prose epic, like Tolstoy; and in it, man is the pawn of immense forces; who knows how many and what kind? Man is carried along on the flood of time, whether he’s in a boat or drowning; he is not even in his element like a fish is. It’s not only about Marie-Antoinette, that’s for the Midwestern mammas; it’s about the flood of time and how they were carried along on it. I stay down here, they say I’m sleeping or eating hemp, I don’t know what they say; I don’t know what they tell you—’
She broke off and grinned: ‘Perhaps they come in, I don’t lock my doors, and you know how it is, I sleep just where I feel like it, on the floor, on a chair, on the covers, even on my typewriter—I don’t get dressed any more, I’m too fat, and I’m so busy, I don’t even go upstairs to wash. I think I’ll have a bathroom installed here. Yes, that’s better for me. I drop with fatigue, Suzanne, and I dream, strange dreams. I’m not a dreamer. Last night or the night before—when was it?—I don’t know the time these days. When Stephen’s away, days and nights shutter past, time is just a Venetian blind, light and dark—ha-ha!—I dreamed, yes, I was telling you, that I was sitting in a sort of box, like a bay window at the theatre, and hung round me were clowns, heads of clowns, all different and all me.’
She laughed, ‘Isn’t that just me? Well, I don’t have many visual dreams. I have physical dreams because I am physical. Such strange dreams, Suzanne, dreams of fire, of pangs and agony, I dream I’m screaming. Do you think I do scream? I’m obsessed by screams, inside me, as if I’d always carried the idea with me. Do you think a baby when it’s being born hears its mother screaming and remembers that? For I do remember screams. I’ve always heard them, but inside, as if inside all the muscles and bones and fat that make me up.’
She laughed, ‘I laugh you see! And inside I hear the screaming. What is it? Do you hear screams? You must have heard plenty during the Resistance. There are places in Paris I can’t go past. It frightens me, places where they tortured Resistants and anyone in fact, if they wanted some fun. I know there was a school next to one, a fine young ladies’ school, think of that, and a hotel next to another. People must have heard those screams, those terrible, strangling screams. And now today they say nothing, they go about their business. It’s like the time I was walking down the street with Stephen, someone called out “Murr-derr!” but no one heard it but me. When I go past those houses, I hear those terrible cries. Oh, Suzanne, my heart fails me. I want to die. And in this book Trial and Execution, I am putting not only the history of those days, but of ours. Many innocents went to the scaffold, denounced and misunderstood, and pure victims of misfortune, and those the police hated or even the butcher or neighbour hated. It is like that today. Terrible times! So my book is not only about then but about now. It is not War and Peace: it is Trial and Execution and we are all being tried and all go to our execution, by their hand or ours, or by time, killed, exiled, living in terror, starving, dirty, frightened of neighbours and old friends; that is the terrible time we live in. Suzanne, Suzanne! It is like brain-fever. The torture is over but we are all tortured. I dream of being burned, of pains in my body, of barbed wire round my arms and legs, I dream awful things, Suzanne! I can’t live alone, that’s it. How can one? How do you? Suzanne, I wish you and Christy both would come back to live with me. The staff hates me, they quarrel in the kitchen, I don’t know what they are saying. People despise me, and it gets so cold.’
‘Don’t they have the heating on all the time?’
‘It isn’t that. Yes, they do. It’s a terrible cold, the coldness of the bitter world. I don’t belong to it now. I’m outside the warmth of the world, up there where it’s cold and dark, you know the sky is black? And you are crucified by fierce rays from outer space that sparkle against you and burn you. Those are my dreams. I don’t dream like others, I dream of awful realities, just as torture is an awful reality. People talk about Nazi tortures; but do you know, Suzanne, they copied those, they learned them out of books? Man has always been torturing man. I don’t believe we came from monkeys. Monkey’s don’t torture each other. We came from devils … It’s getting so cold! Oh, how terrible it is, I’m trembling—’
She went to the wardrobe in which her pills were kept.
‘Don’t take another.’
‘I need them. I’m in desperate need. If you knew the longing, the urgent need, the deepest, fiercest need anyone ever had—and—’ She took her pill and turned round with a grin, ‘Ah, Suzanne and when I have it, the wild joy!’
‘Emily, come out with me. We haven’t looked after you. Come out. We’ll take a walk. Get dressed.’
‘Oh, it’s cold. I’ll throw a fur coat over this dressing-gown. We’ll drop in somewhere, there’s a bar near here where I go, a little place and I eat something there, bad food, heavens, how bad! But I eat and I don’t have to ask Marie-Jo and Fernande to feed me and come to me with the tray and look at me with the eyes of policemen.’
‘Well, get dressed and we’ll also go to the bar.’
She went to another closet where she had her silk suit behind a curtain, sent Suzanne out of the room while she quickly dressed. She had shoes, handbag, cosmetics at hand and very soon came out, flushed and smiling impishly, her hair untidy, but with expensive bracelets and a string of handsome beads and smelling of a fine perfume.
She said naughtily, ‘It didn’t take me long, did it? I do this often. They don’t know. I say I am going to put the letters in the mail-box; I’m going shopping. I just go round the corner, down to the quays.’
They trotted along, talking about Christy and family matters; but Emily seemed mischievously excited; and she presently said, ‘It’s here. I’m out of breath. Let’s stop in for a drink. Ern petty vair.’
It was a modest-looking bar, with a restaurant at the side, which served good food.
‘They know me here. I have friends.’
She saluted everyone, laughing and with a wave of the hand and sat down, sitting upright and looking brightly around. The waitress, a serious woman of about forty, came up with a knowing smile. There were greetings and introductions, they ordered and Emily detained the waitress saying, ‘Did my friend come in today?’
‘The big one or the little one?’
‘Eh! I don’t know. The little one.’
‘Perhaps he’s working.’
‘He told me he would be here today.’
‘Oh, well, then—’
The waitress went away and Emily put her hand on Suzanne’s arm.
‘You’ll see my friend. One’s a medical student, you’ll see him come in with a satchel; the other’s a jockey. Very amusing. Trays amusing. He reminds me of a stockbroker Stephen knows. But I prefer a jockey to a stockbroker.’
Suzanne was amused, ‘How long have you known them?’
‘Oh, a week or two. It’s discipline. I said to myself, I must get dressed, go out, meet people. I want to get the book done, you see. No matter what happens to me, in the end, I’ll have the book done. Oh, what joy to think I’ll do it. I never would have done it with Stephen here. It’s a good thing he’s over there suffering, they’re looking after him and I’m free here to work. What do I ask out of life, Suzanne? To work. And because of my dear beloved husband, I never did the right work. But now, you’ll see. And I am writing about the people of Paris, so I must know the people of Paris. Oh, don’t be afraid for me! I was a journalist for years. Nothing ever happens to a journalist. My medico tells me about the people in hospitals—I knew an ambulance-chaser before, he loved me—he loved me. And the jockey tells me hundreds of things. I love them, I love them both. They are my friends! Oh, I am so sick of the dreary circles we know. Only you, beloved Suzanne, worth talking to; only you with a heart and understanding. If Stephen had been here, I never would have met anybody but dreary, dreary literary people—I always hated literary people. But these are people. And I’m going to keep them on the side, have a life of my own, because I’ve been suffocated in marriage. People are always I suppose. Marriage is good and it’s wrong too. Well, heigh-ho, I am letting you into my secret life, Suzanne, because I trust you.’
They sat there some time, Emily drank several whiskies, and Suzanne some port wine, but she drank sparingly.
Presently, the jockey, a small lion-coloured man with thick hair on end, dressed in tans and yellows, came in. When hailed, he came, with discretion to their table, standing a little way off, and when Emily urged him eagerly to join them, he sat down modestly and spoke with polite deference to Emily.
He talked about some races he had ridden in, some owners he knew, discussed different racecourses, and the merits of French and English racehorses. Emily was excited, making him show his paces to Suzanne, leaning forward and saying ‘Et mon ami, Monsieur Damiens, promised to take me to his stables next week. I must see them. I must know about these things. God, what do I know? Nothing. I assure you, Frédéric, you must come to me, to my house in the rue de Varenne and talk to me, tell me all you know. I am a writer you know and I must learn everything I can. I am writing about Paris: you must help me.’
They had a snack, Emily paying for the three, and then she urged Monsieur Damiens to come home with them.
‘You must come upstairs with me, I will write down everything you say. We’ll have drinks. I’m all alone. I need friends. I need company. Do come! Suzanne is here. She can protect us both.’
Evidently Monsieur Damiens knew Emily quite well, for he accepted this invitation coolly, though with some curiosity.
‘I am very anxious to see where you live,’ he said to Emily.
‘And once you know, you can come often, any day. Come and eat with me. We’ll have talks. I’m so lonely. It will be fun.’
They set off for the rue de Varenne. On the way, Suzanne had a few words in rapid French with Monsieur Damiens and at the gate to the courtyard, he demurred; he did not think he should visit Madame now. Perhaps tomorrow, or another day. Emily argued with him, sparkling, pouting, blushing, and even pulled his sleeve.
‘You are disappointing me. You are not keeping your promise. You’re my real friend; but when you get here you’re afraid. Well, anyway—’
The jockey said, ‘Not today, Madame.’
‘I see what it is. It is you, Suzanne. You have talked him out of it. No matter, listen, Frédéric, come by any time. I will go up to my room, see there, the window; you whistle, come tonight, just whistle and I will throw down to you the keys of the gate and the front door and you will just come in by yourself and no one will stop you. Suzanne will not be here because she has work to do. Suzanne has to watch over our dear son and she will be home and in bed. But we will enjoy ourselves, won’t we? Will you come by then? Do just as I say.’
The little thin-faced man laughed, looked twinklingly at Suzanne, said, ‘Yes, very well, Madame,’ and saluting them both, went off.
‘What are you doing, you silly girl? You are behaving like a fourteen-year-old, a naughty one. Really you will get into trouble. I am very fond of you, Emily. I worry about you.’
She pouted, ‘I’m lonely and no one bothers about me at all. No one takes any trouble except Violet and she is a bore: she is so boring now, with her adopted son. She is worse than any grandmother. I have got to know about life. I’m a democrat. A writer is a democrat. Life is democratic. And anyway, Suzanne, Stephen left me alone. I owe him nothing.’
Suzanne came in with her, had a serious talk with her about her position. She had nothing against Monsieur Damiens, but she also knew nothing about him. He might be a good man and others bad. Emily said she was an old journalist and used to knocking about with all types; no harm would come to her. Besides, she said with bright impertinence, she was going to live her own life; she paid for it, not only with money but with the servile shame of being a stupid man’s wife.
‘I’m bound hand and foot because of his scionage. Bah! I’m going to be myself, like any man would be.’
In the end, she promised Suzanne to be careful and not to invite strangers into the house. Suzanne promised to help her get up an evening with new friends. Suzanne then left, while Emily gaily ran upstairs to change her clothes, make other arrangements and to sit by her window. The jockey in fact was strolling up the other side of the street, at the corner of the rue de Bellechasse. He turned round to look at the building: she waved and he waved, lifting his cap. Emily was surprised to see Suzanne crossing the courtyard some moments later.
‘Oh, I suppose she has been gabbling with Fernande, finding out when Monsieur is coming back. I should worry! I’m going to run my own life. I want to find out what it’s like to have an affair. I want to have a real affair!’
Emily had a tray sent to her room, put on a lacy gown and sat by her window, writing and also looking with smiles towards the street, whenever she heard someone passing. About ten o’clock that evening Monsieur Damiens returned, stood opposite and whistled. Emily was delighted. She had a keyring ready and into it she had fastened a note, telling him what to do. She threw the keyring into the street, he picked it up, unlocked the gate and crossed the courtyard. Emily, looking merrily over the staircase, heard voices speaking in French, first subdued then raised. She recognized the voice of the porter and Frédéric; and hurried downstairs, calling ‘Come in, Frédéric, come in chéri. What are you doing, François? This is my guest: I have invited him in for drinks.’
The porter hesitated. She became angry, tugged at their sleeves, separated them, and drew Frederic towards the sitting-room.
‘Take your cap and gloves off, make yourself at
home. I’ll get drinks,’ she said. ‘What are you hanging about for François? I shall look after the guest. This is an old friend of my husband. This is my good friend Monsieur Damiens.’
‘Yes, Madam,’ said the porter and went off shrugging, looking back dubiously, hesitating in the lobby. A little while later she heard voices in the kitchen and closed the doors. Early in the morning someone crossed the courtyard and closed the gate.
The children came down to breakfast, went to school in taxis and Emily was not to be seen. When Suzanne called, she was still asleep. Suzanne went up to her room; she was not there; then down to the basement, where she found her, lying across the bed, uncovered. She covered her and went upstairs to the porter.
In the evening she came again and brought Emily a telegram she had received from Stephen’s mother, reading, Please keep Olivia with you during Emily’s illness. Stephen returning immediately.
There was a quarrel, but Olivia said she wanted to go with Suzanne and Suzanne left with the child and some clothes in a bag, saying that she would engage a nurse for Emily. But words flew so furiously at this, that Suzanne went off” with the child, after saying in a cold, reticent tone, ‘You are very ill and you do not know it. I shall take measures.’
Emily, mad with anger, rushed to the kitchen to scold them and then again to the cellar room where she shut herself in and could be heard typing hour after hour with only a few moments to rest. In the middle of the afternoon, Marie-Jo knocked to ask if Emily did not want to eat, and was told merely to bring black coffee. All day she worked and went on working part of the evening. Suddenly, she came out, said in a tired cheerful manner, ‘I did thirty thousand words! A big chunk. It was worth it! I am too tired to eat. Bring me a sandwich though and I’ll see if I can take it with a drink.’
Still in her dressing-gown of the morning, she crouched in a corner of the sofa with her drink, and when the maid came in with her chicken sandwich, she said pleasantly, ‘Put it there, ma chére. I feel wonderful now, Marie-Jo. Yesterday, I was ill: today I am better. I worked all day. Isn’t that wonderful! Have a drink with me, Marie-Jo, come be my friend!’
I'm Dying Laughing: The Humourist Page 58