‘Not me.’
She was silent.
‘I must see you,’ I repeated. ‘I’ll come to Paris. Meet me there. I’ll come next Monday and stay for a few days. Meet me there next Monday. At least give me that.’
She turned slowly, her hand on the doorknob. ‘Where will you be?’
‘At the George V,’ I said, again to my surprise. I had never stayed there in my life. I was opposed to it on principle, a luxury pad for the seriously rich. A moment’s consideration would have told me that my behaviour was unreal, and worse, ill-informed. And yet I had to have her. She had brought me nothing but sadness, was accountable for all my mistakes, would be accountable for the worst mistake of all, the one I was about to make, and yet there was no going back. I never even managed to tell her that I loved her, since that would have been an anticlimax, given the storm of dread and desperation that possessed me.
‘I’m not promising anything,’ she said.
‘Please don’t say any more. Please be at the George V next Monday. Please go now. I can’t endure seeing you like this …’
My sentence was destined to remain unfinished for tears, the kind of onrush of tears to which an infant is subject threatened to overwhelm me for a woman I now saw to be nothing out of the ordinary, a lazy, careless, rather difficult woman, neither clever nor generous, a woman whose very presence was unsatisfactory, but whose absence was worse. I felt as if the whole conduct of my life was in disarray, as if I had turned my back on those sensible and pleasant advantages with which I had grown up, and turned to criminal activities. And yet I think that I was never meant to be a criminal. I loved the law, I loved my country and its now perhaps blurred traditions, I loved my mother and the memory of my father. Even my wife, whom I did not love, aroused pity and indulgence in my heart. I was prepared to forswear all this, to put myself beyond the pale of acceptable behaviour, perhaps never to be allowed back, simply because there was no mistaking the strength of my wholly irrational longing. Perhaps it was so strong because it was irrational, so very far removed from my own home life, with its timid surges of feeling. For some reason—odd, but then everything was odd—I saw Jenny’s face, the face that had changed from confidence to arid disappointment. A good woman, a woman who lived to serve others, and doomed to be unfulfilled. I did not want to be like that.
I heard Sarah’s steps clicking on the black and white tiles of the entrance, heard Brian’s delighted, ‘Well, hello!’ heard her uninflected ‘Hi,’ and buried my face in my hands. Seconds later he put his head round my door. Seeing me he looked alarmed. ‘I’m all right,’ I said. ‘By the way I shall be in Paris next week. At the George V.’ He understood at once, but our long friendship kept him silent. ‘When will you be back?’ he asked. ‘Very soon,’ I told him. ‘If I can get back.’ This too he understood.
Angela was not so understanding when I told her that I had to meet a client in Paris. This was almost true: Sarah had once been a client. On the other hand, one more falsehood was neither here nor there.
‘You can’t leave me alone,’ she protested.
‘You’re only five months pregnant.’
‘Six, actually. Well, six and a half.’
‘You mean …?’
‘I didn’t know at first.’
‘And you said nothing?’
‘I thought it best.’
‘You could ring Jenny,’ I said weakly. ‘Ask her to keep you company.’
‘She said something about going to Dorset. Humphrey wants to see those two old women.’
‘Come on, darling. You’ll be fine. I’ll only be gone a night.’ I was willing to halve my pleasure in the interests of morality. ‘I’ll be back before you notice I’ve gone.’
This might even have been true. But if she had begged me to stay I should have stayed. This did not happen. She shrugged her annoyance and went to bed. Throughout that sleepless night I silently begged her to prevail on me. Then I too gave up, as I also wanted to, and got out of bed to drink glass after glass of water, as if I were consumed by thirst.
10
As I rehearsed this epochal scene my thinking became magical, taking no account of actual circumstances. In my projection of it everything would serve my purpose, which was undefined but not on that account to be ignored. I would arrive in Paris a free man, having left in abeyance a wife to whom I would return by the simple expedient of reinhabiting the body of which I had taken temporary leave. My wife, or rather my erstwhile wife, would, like the dolls in Coppélia, be brought out of her temporary suspension, which would obtain during the period of my absence, by the very fact of my renewed presence. I would arrive in Paris at about six o’clock, having caught a plane at about five. I did not take into account the time difference, since time was also there to serve my purpose. Some faint uneasiness clouded this part of the proceedings but I dismissed it as nugatory; if obliged to I would adjust. I would take a taxi to the hotel, inspect my room, find it more than satisfactory, shower, change my shirt, and order a drink. Sarah, I imagined, would not be with me before nine; as she was staying with the Rigauds I imagined that she would be obliged to eat dinner with them. Whether or not this were true, I had the hour of nine fixed in my mind. This would give me time to take a nostalgic stroll and no doubt eat something myself, very little, since at nine o’clock I would order chicken sandwiches and champagne from room service. Thus everything would be civilised, in sharp contrast to the image I still had of myself peering through the letter-box in Paddington Street. The rest of the evening and the night remained a blank in my mind, but they would be memorable. When I returned to London it would be with a feeling of completion, of triumph, and thus renewed I should be able to shoulder my burdens once again.
My first brush with reality occurred on the plane. I was seated next to a man whose terrible agitation disturbed even the whisky in my glass. I stole a glance at him, unwilling to involve myself in his dilemma, but there was no ignoring the fact that he was either ill or in the grip of a nightmare. He was a man of about my own age, dressed in a cheap raincoat and childish-looking brown shoes: those two items, however, were the only signs of normality about him. His eyes were tightly closed and his fair-skinned face was a dusky red and beaded with sweat. From time to time a low moan escaped him and he clutched his briefcase convulsively, leaving damp handprints on the leather.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked reluctantly.
He opened his eyes and turned his head minimally in my direction, as if fearful of movement.
‘Phobia,’ he gasped.
‘Claustrophobia?’ I enquired sympathetically.
‘Travel. Motion.’
‘You mean you’re frightened of travelling?’
‘Petrified.’
‘But there’s no need. We’ll be landing in ten minutes, and then you’ll be all right.’
‘No. I have to get on the bus.’
‘The bus is as bad as the plane?’
‘Worse. No, not worse. As bad.’
‘Where do you have to get to?’
By way of reply he handed me a card bearing the name of a hotel in the rue d’Assas.
‘What happens there?’
‘They come and collect me.’
Who ‘they’ were I did not seek to ascertain; it was their job to look after him. We were both silent for a short interval, but when the plane gave a preliminary judder he clutched my arm. Unthinkingly, naturally, I gave his hand a pat.
‘You could take a taxi,’ I suggested.
‘I’ll never manage,’ he said, and indeed he looked to be in extremis.
‘Would it help if I took you to the rue d’Assas in a taxi?’
‘Please. Thank you.’
He quietened down slightly after this, introduced himself as Derek Masterton, representative for a soft drinks firm, and moaned again as the plane landed. I had to guide him from his seat, as he seemed barely capable of negotiating the gangway on his own. Standing behind him on the endless escalators I could see his
legs trembling, though once in the open air he seemed to recover slightly.
‘Have you always been like this?’ I asked, as we stood in the queue for taxis. I glanced hastily at my watch; it was seven-fifteen.
He told me that he had had a breakdown after the death of his wife the previous year and that it had left him with this monstrous fear which descended on him whenever he had to travel by public transport. He said that when he was back in London—and here a fresh burst of sweat indicated his terror of the return journey—he was going to resign from the soft drinks firm and apply for a grant to study for a degree at the Open University. His dependence on me was growing, along with a shakily renewed confidence. I pushed him rather roughly into a taxi and told the driver to be as quick as he could. The car filled with the smell of Derek Masterton’s sweat as we glided through the dusk. A steady rain was falling, making our progress slower than normal, although it would not have been very fast in any case; the rush-hour looked to be in full swing. My head was filling with urgent calculations: hotel, bath, telephone call to the rue de Rennes. Derek Masterton’s heartfelt thanks reached me in an abstract murmur as I deposited him rather summarily in the rue d’Assas and told the driver to go to the George V. It only then occurred to me that I should have booked a room. This had somehow not seemed necessary in the trance of my imaginings. Only now did I begin to wonder whether the whole adventure would have been better had I not decided to act it out. But I had never before been given to fantasising; life, real life, had been easy for me, and I was known to have a good practical intelligence. I resolved firmly to insist, if necessary, on my right to a room, although there should be no need, surely, to insist. I summoned up my normal state of resolution and was thus almost confident again as I stepped out onto the forecourt of the hotel.
The rain, which had been falling as a steady drizzle, put on a sudden spurt as I dashed for the hotel entrance. I was surprised to see, instead of uniformed flunkeys, a number of stocky men in ill-fitting suits both outside and inside the hotel. They considered me for a moment or two, and then, at an invisible sign from someone deep in the foyer, let me pass. I went up to the desk and demanded a room with bath for two nights, two in case the so far unimaginable happened and I was to be allowed to spend the following day wandering through Paris with Sarah, showing her where I had been so happy in my youth, telling her—at last!—something of my own story, actually having a conversation with her, as I had never managed to do. Somehow it had been necessary to get her out of London in order to do this. This part of the fantasy was again rather hazy and required a good deal of concentration, so that I hardly registered the fact that the receptionist was telling me that no rooms were available. I protested. Two of the stocky men began to approach. ‘Je regrette, Monsieur, l’hôtel est complet.’ Repetition did not dull the impact of these words. I was escorted to the door by two of these men, whom I dimly identified as bodyguards. I stood outside, in the rain, still accompanied, until some kind of signal was given. A long black limousine, with a blue and white flag flying on the bonnet, seethed out into the night. Very slowly I picked up my bag and began to walk. On my watch the time stood at eight o’clock.
In my head a childish voice of encouragement took over. Perhaps the George V had been a mistake. All I had to do was find another hotel, something a little more modest, convey the address to Sarah, and wait for her there. I was less familiar with this part of town, so I walked absent-mindedly, without my usual sense of direction. It was now raining heavily, and I had left my umbrella at home. Besides, umbrellas played no part in this odyssey; the weather was to have been warm, enticing, in this second week of September. It was to have been my favourite season, in my favourite city, to which, of course, I had been bound to return. I should have been young, or younger than I actually was, as young as I remained in my memory. My steps led me into a dark street, in which I could see the blue lamp of a police station. At the very end of what seemed more like a cul-de-sac I saw a trembling neon sign: Hôtel du Balcon. No balcony was visible. The street was momentarily identified by the lights of a passing car as the rue Clément Marot. The neon sign outside the hotel was fitful because it seemed about to expire. This did not strike me at the time as particularly significant. I went in, asked for a room, and was given one with alacrity. It was eight-fifteen.
I threw my bag onto the bed of a medium-sized room, badly lit by numerous bulbs of singularly low wattage. I searched in my pocket for Berthe Rigaud’s address and telephone number, which I immediately dialled. There was no answer. The childish voice in my head told me that the entire family had gone out to dinner; my task now was to take a taxi to the rue de Rennes and to slip a note under Berthe Rigaud’s door. This would in any case be more discreet than telephoning. I was not sure how much Sarah had confided in her friend; there was the matter of Berthe Rigaud’s father’s friend, this man de Leuze, who wanted Sarah to marry him. If he were there Sarah would not want him to know of my presence. I went down and asked the man at the desk for a sheet of paper and an envelope. Wheezing, he bent down, searched for a few precious seconds, and came up again with a crimson face. He appeared to be in the last stages of emphysema. Clearly everyone with whom I was doomed to come into contact was morbidly afflicted. I snatched the paper from his hand, scribbled my message, and ran out to look for a taxi.
After five or six minutes it became clear that there were to be no taxis. I began to walk, or rather to run. I ran down the Avenue Montaigne to the Place de l’Alma, where luckily a couple got out of a taxi to go to dinner at Chez Francis. I flung myself in the back and gave the driver the address. He told me he was on his way home. I refused to move. We sat there, deadlocked, for what seemed a very long time, until I handed over a hundred franc note, at which he silently drove away. Lights glimmered through blurred windows; dimly the shouts of the pleasure-bound reached me. I revised my plans: we should dine Chez Francis, like that couple to whom I was indebted for the taxi. We should have our walk, that very night, romantically, in the rain. For a while this fantasy was even more attractive than the earlier one. The rain on Sarah’s hair would bring out that marvellous feral smell that I craved, had never ceased to crave. In the rue de Rennes I gave the driver another hundred franc note and watched him drive off. The rain had momentarily stopped; the sky was clear enough for me to make out scudding clouds. To my left shone the lights of St-Germain-des-Prés; I had a sudden desire to drink a cup of coffee at the Flore. I took my letter out of my pocket and scribbled on the envelope, ‘I shall expect you at ten.’ Then I pressed the button for the concierge. I had recovered my resolution. ‘Rigaud,’ I said firmly. ‘Deuxième gauche,’ was the reply. As I bounded up the stairs I heard some words floating up behind me. It was not until I was outside the door, on which a brass plate announced ‘Jean-Jacques Rigaud. Notaire,’ that I decoded them as, ‘Mais il n’y a personne.’
There was no answer to my ring, but then I had expected none. I pushed my letter under the door, and then, filled with renewed energy, bounded down again. Outside the heavy street door the air was sweet. I toyed with the idea of a drink at the Rhumerie, for old times’ sake, then, almost regretfully, settled for a coffee at the Flore. I told myself that if so far everything had not gone exactly to plan then at least I had made some quick decisions. My clothes were drying on me, although the shoulders of my raincoat were still damp. I reminded myself that I had still to take a bath and apply unguents. I was lucky with a taxi, and was back in the Hôtel du Balcon at nine-thirty.
Then I settled down to wait. I had managed to buy a paper, though my eyes skimmed over the words without taking them in; I saw something about a visit to Paris from the President of Israel. After taking off my clothes the effort of putting them on again seemed almost too much for me. I had not brought pyjamas; they had no place in my scenario. I sat down on the bed to wait, perfuming the slightly musty air of the room. I fought an impulse to lie down on the bed and sleep—I had not slept the previous night—and although I remained res
olutely upright I must have dozed. When I came to it was exceedingly quiet and I was exceedingly hungry. I wondered how Derek Masterton was getting on, perhaps dimly regretted that I was confined in this manner, when I could be out in the beautiful streets, innocently eating and drinking, as if this were an entirely normal interlude, as if I could return to London with a clear conscience. I had bought cigarettes for Sarah, and although I did not smoke I smoked three. When I looked at my watch I saw that it was just after eleven. Then I must have dozed off again, for when I woke up I was lying on the bed, still fully clothed. I got up and brushed my hair. I read the paper again, including the television programmes, although there was no television, and even if there had been I should not have had the patience to watch it. The door to the room next to mine opened and closed, and muffled conversation could be heard, together with the clink of the key dropping onto a hard surface. I cleared my throat ostentatiously, as if to warn this couple to make no further noise. Obediently the conversation stopped. Minutes later there was a groan, as if of exhaustion, and then the sound of bedsprings. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly one o’clock.
I took my key and went downstairs. There was another man behind the desk, no healthier than the first. This one had his collar undone and was reading L’Equipe. I summoned up an insouciant smile.
‘Il n’y a pas eu d’appel pour moi?’
‘Mais non, pensez-vous, à cette heure-ci.’
‘C’est une urgence.’
‘Vous êtes médecin?’
‘Non.’
‘Alors.’ He shrugged and went back to his paper.
I spent the night in that sepulchral hotel sitting on the bed. It seemed like a vigil, and for a time it held reality at bay. The reality, when it came, seemed no more or less hallucinatory than the rest of the episode. There had been a misunderstanding, or perhaps no understanding at all. I had either been taken for a fool, or, more likely had made a fool of myself. The same mischance that had attended all my meetings with Sarah attended me still. After a while it was almost with relief that I knew that Sarah was not coming, that she would never come. My conscience, through no will or intention of my own, was made clear. All I had to do was to expunge the memory of this visit and return to my real life. I could pass it off: there were one or two people in Paris whom I could see, to give myself an alibi. One rather important client, for whom I had successfully completed some business the previous year, had told me to contact him if I were ever in Paris. He lived in Neuilly, kept a flat in London; all I had to do was telephone him, make enquiries as to the outcome of his transaction. Solicitors do not normally chase their clients, but I hoped that he would take my attentions in the right spirit. It was tenuous, but it would have to do. I would not go back to the rue de Rennes; indeed I would never set foot there again. I did not want to see Berthe Rigaud, or Sarah. I told myself that I should never see her again, and that this suited me very well. I did not know how I could face her. She had reduced me once again to confusion. I could only hope that others would not see my confusion stamped permanently on my face.
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