But this living room—or the side of the shed through a window—can be seen only from Franck's place at the table: back to the sideboard.
At present, this place is empty. The chair is nevertheless put in the right spot, the plate and silver are in their places too; but there is nothing between the edge of the table and the back of the chair, which shows its trimming of thick straw bound in a cross, and the plate is clean and shiny, surrounded by the usual knives and forks, as at the beginning of the meal.
A .. who has finally decided to have the lunch served without waiting for the guest any longer, since he hasn't come, is sitting rigid and silent in her own place, in front of the windows. Though the discomfort of this location, with the light behind her, seems flagrant, it has been chosen by A . . . once and for all. She eats with an extreme economy of gestures, not turning her head right or left, her eyes squinting slightly, as if she were trying to discover a stain on the bare wall in front of her, where the immaculate paint offers not the slightest object to her gaze, however.
After clearing away the hors-d'oeuvres but not bothering to change the unused plate of the absent guest, the boy comes in again through the open pantry door, holding a wide, shallow platter in both hands. A ... doesn't even turn to give it her usual "mistress of the house" glance. Without a word, the boy sets the platter down on the white cloth to her right. It contains a yellowish puree, probably of yams, from which rises a thin trail of steam which suddenly curves, flattens out, and vanishes without leaving a trace, reappearing at once—long, delicate and vertical—high above the table.
In the middle of the table there is already another untouched platter on which, against a background of brown sauce, are arranged three small roasted birds, one next to the other.
The boy has withdrawn, silent as ever. A . . . suddenly decides to look away from the bare wall and now considers the two platters, one on her right and one in front of her. Having grasped the appropriate spoon, she helps herself with careful and precise gestures: the smallest of the three birds, then a little of the puree. Then she picks up the platter at her right and sets it down on her left, the large spoon has remained in it.
She begins meticulously cutting up the bird on her plate. Respite the smallness of the object, she takes apart the ribs, as if she were performing an anatomical demonstration, cuts up the body at the joints, detaches the flesh from the skeleton with the point of her knife while holding the pieces down with her fork, without forcing, without ever having to repeat the same gesture, without even seeming to be accomplishing a difficult or unaccustomed task. These birds, it is true, are served frequently.
When she has finished, she raises her head, looking straight ahead of her, and remains motionless again, while the boy takes out the plates covered with the tiny bones, then the two platters, one of which still contains a third roasted bird, the one meant for Franck.
The latter's place remains as it was until the end of the meal. He has probably been delayed, as is not infrequently the case, by some incident occurring on his plantation, since he would not have put off this lunch for any possible ailments of his wife or child.
Although it is unlikely that the guest should come now, perhaps A ... is still expecting to hear the sound of a car coming down the slope from the highway. But through the dining-room windows, of which at least one is half open, no motor hum or any other noise can be heard at this hour of the day when all work is interrupted and even the animals fall silent in the heat.
The corner window has both leaves open—at least partly. The one on the right is only ajar, so that it still covers at least half of the window opening. The left leaf, on the other hand, is pushed back toward the wall, but not all the way either—it is scarcely more than perpendicular, in fact, to the window sash. The window therefore shows three panels of equal height which are of adjoining widths: in the center the opening and, on each side, a glass area comprising three panes. In all three are framed fragments of the same landscape: the gravel courtyard and the green mass of the banana trees.
The windows are perfectly clean and, in the right-hand leaf, the landscape is only slightly affected by the flaws in the glass, which give a few shifting nuances to the too uniform surfaces. But in the left leaf, the reflected image, darker although more brilliant, is plainly distorted, circular or crescent-shaped spots of verdure the same color as the banana trees occurring in the middle of the courtyard in front of the sheds.
Franck's big blue sedan, which has just appeared here, is also nicked by one of these shifting rings of foliage, as is A . . .'s white dress when she gets out of the car.
She leans toward the door. If the window has been lowered—which is likely—A . . . may have put her face into the opening above the seat. In straightening up she runs the risk of disarranging her hair against the edge of the window, causing it to spread out and fall—all the more readily mussed since it has recently been washed—over the driver still behind the wheel.
But she draws away unscathed from the blue car whose motor, which has been idling, now fills the courtyard with a louder hum, and after a last look behind her, heads alone, with her decisive gait, toward the center door of the house which opens directly into the living room.
Opposite this door opens the hallway, with no door between it and the living room—dining room. Doors occur one after another on each side; the last to the left, that of the office, is not completely closed. The door moves without creaking on its well-oiled hinges; it then returns to its initial position with the same discretion.
At the other end of the house, the entrance door, opened with less care, has closed again; then the faint distinct sound of high heels on tiles crosses the living room-dining room and approaches down the length of the hallway.
The steps stop in front of the office door, but it is the door opposite, to the bedroom, which is opened, then shut again.
Symmetrical to those of the bedroom, the three windows of the office have their blinds more than half lowered at this hour. Thus the office is plunged into a dimness which makes it difficult to judge distances. Lines are just as distinct, but the succession of planes gives no impression of depth, so that hands instinctively reach out in front of the body to measure the space more precisely.
The room is fortunately not very full of furniture: files and shelves against the walls, a few chairs, and then the huge desk which fills the entire area between the two windows facing south, one of which—on the right, nearer the hallway—reveals through the chinks between its wood slats, the silhouette in luminous parallel stripes of the table and chairs on the veranda.
On the corner of the dressing-table stands a little mother- of-pearl inlaid frame with a photograph taken by a sidewalk photographer during the first vacation in Europe, after the African trip.
In front of the façade of a large "modern" cafe, A ... is sitting on a complicated wrought-iron chair whose arms and back, in bracketed spirals, seem less comfortable than spectacular. But A . . from her manner of sitting on the chair, looks as natural as ever, though without the slightest slackness.
She has turned slightly to smile at the photographer, as if to authorize him to take this candid shot. Her bare arm, at the same moment, has not changed the gesture it was making to set the glass down on the table beside her.
But it was not to put ice in it, for she does not reach for the ice bucket of shiny metal which is immediately frosted over.
Motionless, she stares at the valley in front of them. She says nothing. Franck, invisible to her left, also says nothing. Perhaps she had heard some abnormal sound behind her and is about to make some movement without discernible preparation, which would permit her to look toward the blind quite by chance.
The window facing east, on the other side of the office, is not merely a window opening, like the corresponding one in the bedroom, but a French door which permits direct access to the veranda without passing through the hallway.
This part of the veranda receives the morning sun, the only
kind that need not be avoided by some protection or other. In the almost cool air after daybreak, the song of birds replaces that of the nocturnal crickets, and resembles it, although less regular and sometimes embellished with slightly more musical sounds. As for the birds themselves, they were no more in evidence than the crickets were, remaining in hiding under the clusters of wide green leaves on all sides of the house.
In the zone of naked earth which separates the house from the trees, where at regular intervals the young orange trees are planted—thin stems with occasional dark-colored foliage—the ground sparkles with innumerable dew-covered webs spun by tiny spiders between the clods of spaded earth.
To the right, this part of the veranda adjoins the end of the living room. But it is always out-of-doors, in front of the southern facade—with a view over the entire valley—that the morning meal is served. On the low table, near the single chair brought here by the boy, the coffee pot and the cup are already arranged. A ... is not up yet, at this hour. The windows of her bedroom are still closed.
In the hollow of the valley, on the log bridge that crosses the little stream, there is a man crouching, facing the opposite hillside. He is a native, wearing Hue trousers and a colorless undershirt that leaves his shoulders bare. He is leaning toward the liquid surface as if he were trying to see something in the muddy water.
In front of him, on the opposite bank, stretches a trapezoid-shaped patch, the side along the bank curved, all of whose banana trees have been harvested more or less recently. It is easy to count their stumps, the cut trunks leaving a short stub with a disc-shaped scar, white or yellowish depending upon its freshness. Counting by rows, there are: from left to right twenty-three, twenty-two, twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty-one, twenty, twenty-one, twenty, twenty, etc....
Beside each white disc, but in various directions, has grown the replacing sprout. Depending on the precocity of the first stem, this new plant is now between a foot and a half and a yard in height.
A . . . has just brought out the glasses, the two bottles, and the ice bucket. She begins serving: the cognac in the three glasses, then the soda, and finally three transparent ice cubes, each of which imprisons a bundle of silver needles in its heart.
"We'll be leaving early," Franck says.
"What do you mean—early?"
"Six o'clock, if you can make it."
"Six! My goodness. ..."
"Too early for you?"
"Oh no." She laughs. Then, after a pause, "In fact, it'll be fun."
They sip their drinks.
"If all goes well," Franck says, "we'll be in town by ten and have an hour or two before lunch."
"Yes, of course. I'd prefer that too," A .. . says.
They sip their drinks.
Then they change the subject. Now both of them have finished the book they have been reading for some time; their remarks can therefore refer to the book as a whole: that is, both to the outcome and to the earlier episodes (subjects of past conversations) to which this outcome gives a new significance, or to which it adds a complementary meaning.
They have never made the slightest judgment as to the novel's value, speaking instead of the scenes, events, and characters as if they were real: a place they might remember (located in Africa, moreover), people they might have known, or whose adventures someone might have told them. Their discussions have never touched on the verisimilitude, the coherence, or the quality of the narrative. On the other hand, they frequently blame the heroes for certain acts or characteristics, as they would in the case of mutual friends.
They also sometimes deplore the coincidences of the plot, saying that "things don't happen that way," and then they construct a different probable outcome starting from a new supposition, "if it weren't for that." Other possibilities are offered, during the course of the book, which lead to different endings. The variations are extremely numerous; the variations of these, still more so. They seem to enjoy multiplying these choices, exchanging smiles, carried away by their enthusiasm, probably a little intoxicated by this proliferation . . .
"But that's it, he was just unlucky enough to have come home earlier that day, and no one could have guessed he would."
Thus Franck sweeps away in a single gesture all the suppositions they had just constructed together. It's no use making up contrary possibilities, since things are the way they are: reality stays the same.
They sip their drinks. In the three glasses, the ice cubes have now altogether disappeared. Franck inspects the gold liquid remaining in the bottom of his glass. He turns it to one side, then the other, amusing himself by detaching the little bubbles clinging to the sides.
"Still," he says, "it started out well." He turns toward A . . . for her support: "We left on schedule and were driving along without any trouble. It wasn't even ten o'clock when we reached town."
Franck has stopped talking. A . . . continues, as if to encourage him to resume:
"And you didn't notice anything funny that whole day, did you?"
"No, nothing at all. In a way, it would have been better if we had had trouble with the engine right away, before lunch. Not on the trip but in town, before lunch. It would have made it harder for me to do some of my errands—the ones that weren't in the middle of town—but at least I would have had time to find a garage that could have made the repairs during the afternoon."
"Because it really wasn't a very big job," A . . . put in, questioningly.
"No, it was nothing."
Franck looks at his glass. After a rather long pause, and although this time no one has asked him anything, he continues explaining:
"The moment we started back, after dinner, the engine wouldn't start. It was too late to do anything, of course: every garage was closed. All we could do was wait until morning."
The sentences followed one another, each in its place, connecting logically. The measured, uniform pace was like that of a witness offering testimony, or a recitation.
"Even so," A . . . says, "you thought you could fix it yourself, at first. At least you tried. But you're not much of a mechanic are, you?"
She smiles as she says these last words. They look at each other. He smiles too. Then, slowly, his smile becomes a kind of grimace. She, on the other hand, keeps her look of amused serenity.
Yet Franck can't be unused to makeshift repairs, since his truck is always having engine trouble . . .
"Yes," he says, "I'm beginning to know that motor pretty well. But the car hasn't given me trouble very often."
As a matter of fact, there has never been another incident with the big blue sedan, which is almost new, moreover.
"There has to be a first time for everything," Franck answers. Then, after a pause: "It was just my unlucky day . .."
A little gesture of his right hand—rising, then falling more slowly—has just come to an end on the strip of leather that constitutes the arm of the chair. Franck's face is drawn; his smile has not reappeared since the grimace of a few minutes ago. His body seems to be stuck to the chair.
"Unlucky, maybe, but it wasn't a tragedy," A... replies, in a casual tone that contrasts with that of her companion. "If we had been able to telephone, the delay wouldn't have mattered at all; but with these plantations isolated in the jungle, what could we do? In any case, it's better than being stuck on the road in the middle of the night!"
It's better than having an accident too. It was only a piece of bad luck, without consequences, an incident of no seriousness, one of the minor inconveniences of colonial life. "I think I'll be getting along," Franck says. He has just stopped here to drop A ... off on his way home. He doesn't want to waste any more time. Christiane must be wondering what's become of him, and Franck is eager to reassure her. He stands up with sudden energy and sets down on the low table the glass he has emptied at one gulp.
"Till next time," A . . . says, without leaving her own chair, "and thank you."
Franck makes a vague gesture with his arm, a conventional protest. A ... insists:<
br />
"No, really! I've been on your neck for two days."
"Not at all. I'm terribly sorry to have given you a night like that in that miserable hotel."
He has taken two steps, he stops before turning down the hallway that crosses the house, he half turns around: "And please forgive me for being such a bad mechanic." The same grimace, faster now, slides across his face. He disappears into the house.
His steps echo over the tiles of the hallway. He had leather-soled shoes on today, and a white suit that has been wrinkled by the trip.
When the door at the other end of the house has opened and closed again, A ... gets up too and leaves the veranda by the same door. But she goes to her bedroom at once, closing and locking the door behind her, making the latch click loudly. In the courtyard, in front of the northern façade of the house, the sound of a motor starting up is immediately followed by the shrill protest of gears forced to make too fast a getaway. Franck has not said what kind of repairs his car had needed.
A . . . closes the windows of her bedroom which have stayed wide open all morning, lowering the blinds one after the other. She is going to change; and take a shower, probably, after the long dusty road.
The bathroom opens off the bedroom. A second door opens onto the hallway; the bolt is closed from inside, with a swift gesture that makes a loud click.
The next room, still on the same side of the hallway, is a bedroom, much smaller than A . . .'s, which contains a single bed. Six feet further, the hallway ends at the dining room.
The table is set for one person. A . . .'s place will have to be added.
On the bare wall, the traces of the squashed centipede are still perfectly visible. Nothing has been done to clean off the stain, for fear of spoiling the handsome, dull finish, probably not washable.
The table is set for three, according to the usual arrangement. . . . Franck and A . . ., sitting in their usual places, are talking about the trip to town they intend to make together during the following week, she for various shopping errands, he to find out about a new truck he wants to buy.
Jealousy and in the Labyrinth Page 7