Leave Your Sleep

by R. B. Russell

  From my side of the counter I had heard about Bernard and Mathilde from some of the other regulars, but I knew none of the details. I carefully asked Bernard, ‘She must be a rather wonderful woman, for you to feel as you do?’

  ‘She’s a witch,’ said Jules decisively.

  ‘And it’s not even as though she’s anything to look at.’

  ‘Not to you, maybe,’ conceded Bernard. ‘But to me she’s beautiful. Her smile, and her voice…’

  ‘She’s got to be in her forties, and she’s got a good figure for her age,’ admitted Hortense, ‘but she’s ugly.’

  ‘Have you really sacrificed everything for her?’ I asked.

  He held up his hands and shrugged: ‘I’ve given everything willingly.’

  ‘And how does she feel about you?’

  ‘Less than nothing,’ said Hortense.

  ‘Is she married?’

  ‘Oh yes, happily married, apparently,’ Hortense explained. ‘When she and Bernard had their great affair they holed-up in that apartment on rue Véron, but everybody got to know about it, whether they wanted to or not. Bernard’s wife, not unreasonably, kicked him out. But when Mathilde had taken everything from Bernard she simply went back home and apologised to her husband. And he forgave her! I expect she does it all the time. There are probably Bernards all over the city…all over France.’

  ‘Bernard lavished such gifts on her,’ Jules added. ‘He rented that apartment he still has and they stayed inside for a couple of weeks; he didn’t even bother to go into work. He lost his wife, but what did he care? He had the wonderful Mathilde! He lost his job, but so what? He still had Mathilde! But then she got tired of him and left him on his own. He had lost everything. He had a breakdown and only survived because his friends supported him.’

  ‘Mathilde’s husband is a politician,’ Hortense pointed out. ‘He shut up his town house and took his wife back to the countryside where there’d be no scandal. She forgot all about poor Bernard back here in Paris. He was only just kept out of hospital because of friends like us. We kept the roof above his head. We helped him with his debts. And we did all that because we felt sorry for him. He’d been an utter fool, but after all, everyone is allowed to make a mistake once in a while.’

  ‘Which is why we can’t believe he’s even thinking about seeing her again,’ explained Jules. He shook his head, finished his drink and put his glass down loudly on the marble counter.

  ‘Bernard. As your friend I am telling you to keep away from her. If you don’t then I’m not sure that any of us will be willing to pick up the pieces again.’

  He got up and his wife did the same.

  ‘Please do as he says,’ said Hortense, and the couple left the bar.

  I picked up their empty glasses and wiped down the counter.

  ‘She does seem to be trouble, this Mathilde?’

  ‘Oh yes, she is,’ Bernard conceded. ‘But, to me, she’s worth it.’

  ‘Now she’s back, are you going to see her again?’

  He looked over to the door to make sure that his friends had gone, looked back at me, and nodded.

  I have to admit that I was intrigued. When Bernard left a short while later I was convinced that he was not going home but was off to find this woman. I really can’t claim any special powers of intuition; there was a fatalism in the way in which he had been staring unseeing into the middle distance, contemplating what he was about to do. He ordered one more drink and swallowed it with determination, readying himself for the inevitable.

  When he got up from the counter I wished him good night and watched him leave. He turned right, once through the door, rather than cross the street to go home. There were only a couple of other customers left so I asked Gerard to look after the bar. I snatched up my hat, gloves and scarf and followed Bernard out into the night.

  Although I couldn’t see him, I had heard that the infamous Mathilde lived on the rue St Vincent. He had to have turned right up rue Ravignan, and when I did the same I was pleased to see him only fifty yards ahead of me.

  I kept back, worried that he might notice he was being followed, but I needn’t have bothered. He was oblivious to his surroundings; so much so that when he crossed the rue des Trois Frères he stepped out in front of a car and was nearly run over. The driver swore at him, quite reasonably, but Bernard walked on, apparently not registering the incident.

  I followed him with my hands deep in my pockets, wondering why I was at all interested in walking through the cold wet streets after a man I really did not know at all well. It wasn’t as though he was a particularly good customer. Apart from his attachment to this woman, Mathilde, he did not seem to be that interesting. He had apparently worked in a bank for many years and was now employed part-time in an art gallery at the far end of the rue des Abbesses, where it met the rue Tholozé.

  We continued up towards the Place Jean-Baptiste Clément where a few late-night revellers and tourists still hung around. He passed Le Consulat on his right and continued on down the rue Des Saules. There could be no doubting his destination.

  I followed him down the narrow lane, Bernard striding along the roadway while I kept to the high stone wall to the left, the buttresses offering me the opportunity to hide if he had turned around. But he was thinking only of her. When he reached the junction he turned right along rue St Vincent, his pace still purposeful. When he stopped I did so too.

  He was standing opposite the gates of a large townhouse of brick and stone. All of the first and second floor windows blazed with light. He looked to be in a kind of rapture as he stood there, and I looked too but I could not see what held his attention so. There were no figures at the windows, nobody came and went through the main door into the little gated yard at the side. He looked foolish, his mouth slightly open, his whole air one of expectancy.

  But if Bernard looked foolish I knew that I must do so too. I certainly felt an idiot, and turned away and went back to the bar. I finally admitted to myself why I had followed him: I wanted to catch a glimpse of Mathilde; a woman who was able to bewitch and ruin a man.

  Bernard spent a great deal of the following week in the bar, staring out of the plate glass windows into the street. He had tidied himself up; he wore well-pressed clothes and was always clean-shaven. A couple of times I noticed that he left the bar suddenly, leaving behind him a smell of aftershave and his drink half-finished. I could guess what might be happening. Eventually I found the courage to ask him:

  ‘Have you seen Mathilde yet?’

  ‘Yes, twice, but don’t tell Jules. I know I shouldn’t have, but…’

  ‘How did the meetings go?’

  ‘The first time we walked over to Montmatre Cemetery. We kept at least a foot apart as we wandered around, pretending to examine the graves. We talked about how we shouldn’t be seeing each other; how we should never see each other again. We didn’t even touch.’

  ‘But you did meet again?’

  ‘Yes, in the hotel on rue Houdon.’

  ‘Aha! I guessed as much.’

  I suddenly realised how intrusive my interest sounded, but he didn’t appear to mind. He smiled and said: ‘Whatever you think happened, you’re wrong.’

  He took his time before continuing:

  ‘I cannot describe the room that we hired for an hour. I do not recall the colour of the carpet, the walls, not even the bedspread on which we lay. We simply talked, turned to each other. We laughed at the folly of the situation and of how it would appear to an outsider looking in, expecting the action that usually attends such an assignation.’

  ‘You mean…?’

  ‘Yes, we were being chaste, behaving ourselves, discussing the dark blue dress that she had worn for our meeting…a dress that she wore as a test…a dress that I had bought her five years before and which she had put on to find out if I remembered.’

  I raised my eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘Of course I did! And I recognised the earrings that I had given her along with other li
ttle things like the bracelet that she played with nervously. And I recalled the smell of her perfume; a scent I’ve occasionally discovered on other women and which always reminded me of her…she whom I feared I would never see again. But it had happened, and there we were, together, lying side by side in a hotel bedroom, both of us talking quietly, almost whispering, knowing that our meeting should not be happening.’

  ‘Will you be seeing her again?’

  ‘I hope so,’ he said, looking around him as if emerging unexpectedly from a dream. ‘Her husband is very wary of her being back in Paris. He is very suspicious and has engineered engagements for her; people to constantly visit and be visited by. She will come to me when she’s able to. And I’m ready…I’ve been ready every day for the last five years…And I’ve tidied and cleaned my apartment. I bring in new flowers every day. I’ve had all my clothes at the laundry, I’ve changed the sheets on the bed.’

  ‘You are hoping to do more than just talk next time?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said nervously. ‘You see, our affair before was too intense for it to possibly continue. I know why she left me then. There’s an inevitability about it all this time, which is why I can afford to take my time. If she can get away she’ll come past the bar, here, and I’ll follow her. If we go to the cemetery then that is fine, or perhaps a café, even a hotel again…But if we go to my apartment then that is it. Our love will take its preordained course and can only end in…’

  ‘End in what?’

  ‘Triumph? Disaster? Exaltation? Complete and utter degradation?’

  ‘I don’t really know what your problem is.’

  ‘The danger is that if Mathilde comes to my place then she might not leave. I don’t know how she managed to last time.’

  ‘As I say, what’s the problem? If you love her and she loves you?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘She won’t leave her husband?’

  ‘I’ve never asked her to.’

  ‘Are there children?’

  ‘No, there aren’t any complications…’

  ‘So, if she loves you?’

  ‘It’s not a question of her love. It’s mine that’s in doubt. Do I really love her enough?’

  ‘Surely you’ve demonstrated your devotion?’

  ‘Have I?’

  Bernard continued to sit by the window. I was busy with other customers but kept an eye out for him the whole time and he did not move from his seat. Over the next few days he spent more and more time at his table, making coffees last until they were stone cold, lingering over Pernod that must have evaporated before he drank any of it. He was embarrassed that I knew why he was there. I knew who he was waiting for, but I did my best to be discreet and said nothing more.

  And then, one morning a week later I looked up from whatever I was doing behind the counter and saw a well-dressed woman outside. Although it was an overcast day she was wearing sunglasses and had to take them off to peer in at the window. She was quite small and dark, and at this point I feel that I must claim a degree of intuition. I imagined that perhaps she was Bernard’s Mathilde, and so she turned out to be.

  I went up to the door and opened it

  ‘Pardon, Mathilde?’ I asked, and she started.

  ‘Yes. Do we know each other?’

  ‘No. I’m Charles,’ I said. ‘A friend of Bernard’s.’

  She looked even more suspicious.

  ‘I’m a friend who’s not critical of him as some others are,’ I explained.

  Mathilde still backed away a little, worried.

  ‘This is my bar. If you would like to come inside and wait for Bernard you are welcome to a coffee.’

  ‘No, thank you. I can’t stay.’

  ‘If Bernard comes along in the next five minutes and I say you were here, but I didn’t detain you, well, he’ll be very annoyed with me.’

  ‘You’re expecting him here soon?’

  ‘He’s here most days, waiting for you. He could arrive at any moment.’

  She agreed, reluctantly, to come in, and walked up to the counter with me.

  ‘Have you known Bernard long?’ she asked quietly. ‘You say you’re a friend, but I don’t remember him mentioning your name before.’

  ‘Customers, friends…the distinctions are blurred, but we certainly have good friends in common. I’ve seen quite a lot of him recently and he told me something of your, ah, relationship.’

  The woman appeared uneasy once more. She looked down at the marble counter and ran a small finger over a part of the pattern in it. Looking at her closely I decided that Hortense was wrong to call her ugly; Mathilde had an odd, but not unattractive face. Her mouth was small, her chin wide, and her nose was hooked. But the overall effect was not displeasing; far from it. Her eyes were large and dark and quite heavily made-up to hide the unfortunate bags under them.

  ‘You say you are not critical?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps you should be, a little.’

  Bernard was right to say that she had a pretty voice. I was able to notice these things while I prepared her coffee. She had turned her attention to those passing outside in the street.

  ‘His friends think that you lead him on,’ I said as I worked. ‘But I don’t feel able to judge.’

  She frowned: ‘That I lead him on?’

  ‘Yes. That he’s given up too much for you, but you don’t appear to want to sacrifice anything for him.’

  ‘Is that how Bernard represents our relationship?’

  ‘No, that’s how his friends tell the story.’

  ‘I love him,’ she said simply, quietly, but added nothing else as another customer came in and asked for cigarettes. She stood there, sipping her coffee, looking out of the window. When the customer had been served she continued:

  ‘I’ve offered to leave my husband for Bernard, but he refuses to let me do it. I love him so passionately, but I’m not worthy of his love.’

  ‘He’s obviously devoted to you.’

  ‘I know.’

  And then she smiled, for the first time, and it was such an odd smile. It had something in it of pleasure, of embarrassment, regret even; certainly disbelief. The smile didn’t simply lift the corners of her mouth, but raised her cheeks and changed the shape of her eyes in such a way that I was astonished. It was an original and quite lovely smile, and for the first time I understood what it was that Bernard saw in this woman.

  ‘I love him so much, but it’s not enough.’

  ‘His friends say that you’ve already ruined him, twice; in his heart and in his bank account.’

  ‘I only ever asked for his heart, not all of those gifts. I didn’t realise he couldn’t afford them.’

  She put her hand out on to the counter, letting her wrist and lower arm emerge shyly from the sleeve of her coat as she stretched out her little fingers. A pretty diamond bracelet fell to her wrist. I wasn’t sure that she was reaching out towards me, her hand was not extended that far in my direction, but I think she was asking for help.

  ‘I am afraid of our love,’ she said. ‘There is a danger to it.’

  Bernard did not arrive during the quarter of an hour that Mathilde dutifully and nervously waited for him. When she went out of the door she put her unnecessary sunglasses back on and looked around her as if worried she was being followed. Perhaps it was only in a final hope of seeing Bernard appear in the distance.

  My curiosity was somewhat appeased, but it seemed strange that Bernard did not come by the bar after that time. All of the other regular customers appeared, but it wasn’t for several days that I saw Jules and Hortense either. They said how busy they had both been and passed on inconsequential news and gossip. Because Bernard wasn’t mentioned I had to ask if there were any reports of him.

  ‘None at all,’ Hortense replied. ‘And anyway, we’d rather not know. If he’s with that woman then he’s only himself to blame.’

  ‘ “That woman”?’ I quoted back at her with a laugh. ‘She really ha
s annoyed you, hasn’t she?’

  ‘If you’d seen the state that she left Bernard in then you’d understand.’ Her patronising tone annoyed me.

  ‘Have you ever met her?’ I asked. ‘I mean, have you ever talked to her?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen her. But I haven’t talked to her. I wouldn’t, not unless it was to tell her what I think of her.’

  ‘Maybe there’s another side to the story? Perhaps she’s not quite the monster you assume she is?’

  ‘You’ve not known Bernard for as long as we have. He’s an old friend and we care about him.’

  She was right, of course, but I was annoyed by the remark. Looking back on our exchange I know that I was quite unsure of myself at the time. I was uncertain of the new friendships I had formed in a city I had only moved to six months previously. To be reminded of the strength and importance of their relationships made me feel how recent and fragile my own were.

  ‘I think that there may be more to Bernard and Mathilde than you understand,’ I said without considering how I would reply to her obvious retort:

  ‘And what’s that? What have you understood that we haven’t?’

  ‘Go easy on poor Charles,’ Jules defended me, for which I was grateful. ‘He might be right. Who knows what really goes on in other people’s relationships?’

  Hortense gave me one of those horribly penetrating stares that she is capable of, puckering up her lips and concentrating hard. Then she released the expression, but her eyes stayed fixed upon me:

  ‘What do you think you know? You’ve met the bloody woman, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said as simply and as unemotionally as I could. There was competition in her whole demeanour, and if I was acting in the same way then I tried not to let her see it.

  ‘And?’ she demanded. ‘What is it; did you fall under her spell too?’

  ‘No, I just couldn’t quite believe her to be the fiend you’ve described to me in the past. She seemed to be a really quite ordinary woman, capable of love and confusion and doubt, the same as the rest of us.’