A Nail, a Rose

by Madeleine Bourdouxhe

  This impassive woman with her far-away eyes, asking for pure lavender and telling him, in her slow and unsullied voice, how to dry her hair… Why couldn’t she say the things that everyone else said: that the weather was fine or lousy, that the sea was calm or choppy, that she wanted her hair to be crimped, and to look nice and glossy?

  She was a peculiar, dangerous woman. René began to feel a preposterous rage, like a drunk’s, rising within him. From inside his cloud he performed a spontaneous gesture that was as preposterous as his rage: suddenly, in a spirit of tenderness and a desire for vengeance, he bent over the impassive face and kissed it. He straightened up, blushing in shame and fear. Was he crazy or something? She was going to be furious, she’d cry out, and the cloud would burst; everything would become grotesque.

  She didn’t move. He could see her face in the mirror and it revealed neither anger nor pleasure; he could see her inward-looking, blue-mauve eyes. Again he saw vast expanses of blue quivering beneath a gentle breeze. He leaned close to her hair, held it against his cheek, and kissed her face again. Then he looked right into her lavender blue eyes and said, ‘Kiss me back…’

  It was as if she hadn’t heard him. He kissed her again and she put her hands on his shoulders as if it was a perfectly natural, simple thing to do. Tenderly and intimately René smoothed her hair, played with it, pushed it back behind her ears. She let him do whatever he wanted – and yet, my God, she still didn’t smile. He said:

  ‘Could you come to the stone path that leads to the sea, this evening, about six?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  He stood up, gently combed her hair, and gave it a neat parting down the middle.

  ‘Is it all right like that?’ he said.

  ‘That’s very good,’ she said.

  As he helped her unknot the cape he could see the whole of her blue linen dress. She picked up her bag and prepared to leave.

  ‘Are you really going to come? Because you mustn’t say you’re going to come if you don’t mean it.’

  Pushing the torn old curtain along the rail, he called the manager. She went up to the counter and left the shop.

  ‘Whew, what a stink,’ said the manager. ‘What on earth did you use on her?’

  ‘Lavender,’ Rene said.

  The manager saw the opened bottle on the wash-basin and said, ‘For crying out loud, that’s pure extract… some chap sold me that once… you’re only supposed to use a drop or two and dilute it with something else.’

  ‘Oh,’ René said.

  ‘You ought to have charged extra for it,’ the manager said.

  ‘I’ll make up the difference,’ René said.

  ‘Off you go, time for you to get on with the next customer,’ the manager said.

  The next customer was a little boy with long, straight hair.

  He walked slowly: the air was heavy, and it was better not to hurry because it wasn’t six o’clock yet. He was feeling good now, because he’d got rid of his white overall and was wearing his pullover and white duck trousers. He saw his friend Luco sitting on the ground mending his nets.

  ‘How’re you doing, Luco?’ he said.

  ‘I’m getting ready, it’s going to be a fine night. Where are you off to?’

  ‘Dunno… I’ll be around.’

  He went on his way and arrived at the stone path. Would it be better to wait like this, standing up, or should he sit down? He decided to go right to the end of the path and back, and then do it again, as if he was just out for a walk. He had only walked a few steps when he saw her sitting on the sand by the side of the path.

  ‘I really thought you wouldn’t come,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ she said.

  He didn’t know what to reply. She was sitting down and he was standing next to her.

  ‘Shall we walk for a bit?’ he said.

  When they had walked a few steps he pointed to the end of the path, where piles of overturned, shattered rocks stretched ahead.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘There used to be a flat jetty there, stretching all the way to the sea. But then it was mined, and it exploded. Shall we climb up the rocks? It’s fun.’

  He leapt effortlessly from one stone to another, sticking to one side and holding out a hand to help her. He was hoping that a false step might throw her against him, but she managed perfectly well on her own. At the very end of the demolished jetty they sat down on a wide, low stone wall. That is where they were and that is what they were doing at that precise moment. Still she neither spoke nor smiled. René asked himself what he was doing here, how he had dared to ask her to come. He also reflected that today might have passed like any other day – but because she was there at his side, even though he felt ill at ease, he was surrounded by something that was both confusing and extraordinary.

  She spoke. ‘Have you been a hairdresser long? Do you like the job?’

  ‘It’s not my job,’ he said. ‘I’m really a turner.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘No, at the munitions factory. I take the bus every day. My dad put me into hairdressing when I was a kid, so I come and help Claude out when there is no work at the factory. But it’s not my real job. Oh no – I’m a turner.’

  ‘That’s a lot better,’ she said, ‘because…’ – she finished the sentence in a peal of uncontrollable, childish laughter – ‘because hairdressing’s a stupid job for a man.’

  ‘Sure. You’re making fun of me – but, after all, you go to the hairdresser, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s because I’ve only a little wash-basin in my room here, and there’s no hot water. Normally I wash my hair myself.’

  ‘So when you and I go to the hairdresser, it’s by accident, for both of us…’

  He laughed, pleased with his little analogy, and she’d spoken at last, just like everyone else. He went on laughing – then abruptly stopped. She wasn’t laughing, nor was she talking any longer. He began to feel uncomfortable again. But it gradually eased, without him even noticing it. She had leaned back and was half-lying on the broken rocks. He leaned back himself, so that he was right up close to her; he could smell her hair. He stayed like that, his eyes looking up at the sky, doing nothing, and he didn’t feel bored. It was the first time, he thought, that I’ve stayed like this, doing nothing, the first time that I’ve looked at the air for that length of time. And the colour of the sky began to quiver in front of his eyes; the whole sky was covered with sea-swells and with lavender, as far as he could see, and beyond.

  Then, because it was the only way that he knew of to appease his soul, he turned towards the silent woman. She didn’t try to free herself; but she didn’t help him, either. And being the man he was, there was no brutality or impatience in his actions; he was slow, gentle. She let him do what he wanted but she was immobile, frozen.

  He felt all his strength and virility drain from him; he felt shame and anger at the same time. He shook her by the shoulders, crying out, ‘Why don’t you move, why won’t you say something, do something…’ Her body against his felt like a tepid corpse.

  He felt quite alone with his shame and his anguish. He couldn’t even insult her to get his own back, he couldn’t say that she was one of those women who lead men on and then refuse to give themselves, since after all it was he who had invited her to come here, and since she had let him have his way… Was it his fault, then? But why hadn’t she helped him? Oh, the bitch, the dirty bitch…

  He started to pummel her. Under his harsh, violent blows, it was again as if she was letting him do just what he wanted. She didn’t try to free herself by hitting back, she didn’t cry out, she didn’t complain. He hit her on the legs, on the arms, on the shoulders, but her limbs stayed firm, her flesh supple and taut. She parried the blows only with a kind of tension, an elasticity that scorned the brutality. Her only defence was her perfection.

  ‘Why don’t you speak, why don’t you cry out?…’ He stayed immobile for a moment, looking at her big wide-open eyes that made him think of a blue lak
e without banks, a sky without limits. He covered them up by turning her face to the ground, scratching it against the stones and the jagged concrete. He was consumed with anger in every inch of his being, in his hands as they crushed, clawed, tormented. Let her be crushed, let her be smothered – blue virgin, black virgin, unsullied virgin, let her stay there and die, let the tide carry her away.

  He fled, jumping across the demolished jetty from one rock to another, running as far away as he could. He felt hot and he was still in the grip of a desperate rage. That such a shameful thing could happen to him, he who was always so successful with the girls!

  After a bit he calmed down and walked more slowly. After all, he thought, what did she say to you, what did she do to you? Are you going to leave that silent, gentle girl, with her miraculous hair, lying there wounded on those rocks? He turned on his heel. Of course, he would help her to get up, he’d soak her handkerchief in the water, he’d gently wash her face.

  Walking back along the stone path, well before he came to the jetty, he could see her a few steps away from him, sitting on the remains of a little demolished jetty. A bit of railing was still attached to the low wall and she was leaning against it, her arms wide apart, her hands holding on to two uprights. He could see her profile as she looked out at the water: her beautiful hair was in perfect order and there were no scratches on her face.

  ‘I didn’t hurt you, then?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said.

  ‘Even so, I acted like a brute. But what did you think you were up to, coming here to meet me like that… how did you expect me to behave?’

  ‘I expect nothing, nothing…’ she said, in her slow, gentle voice.

  She was standing now, her arms still wide apart. Her image showed up clearly against the background of sea and sky, between the two uprights of the railing. She was only a few steps away from him, and yet she was so far. There was nothing for it but to leave her.

  ‘You OK, Luco?’

  ‘Fine. How about you, where’ve you been?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  He walked slowly along the quay, towards the bottom of the village, where he lived. Mariette had prepared a tomato salad and a big plate of grilled sardines. She went up to him.

  ‘Whew, how your hands smell!’

  ‘Don’t speak to me about smells. Leave me alone…’

  ‘But it’s not like the usual smell, it’s sharper, let me think, what is it… Whew, what a stink!’

  ‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘You’re not to say that word. Just shut up, you hear me?’

  ‘You’re touchy today…’

  Laughing, Mariette went into the kitchen and came back with the bread. They sat down to eat.

  ‘It’s Saturday,’ she said, ‘and the cinema’s open. Shall we go there later?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said.

  She pushed the plates away and thumbed through a magazine that was lying on the table. René sat still, doing nothing, though every now and again he shut his eyes.

  ‘This pattern for a summer skirt, I could easily make it up myself, with that printed fabric I’ve got. It’s not difficult: fold it so, cut it so, and you’re there. But it’s not worth starting now, because we’re going to the pictures. He doesn’t look as if he’s getting ready to go, though. Is he asleep? Still, he’s less tired than when he’s been at the factory all day. The programme begins at half-past eight, but we could go in after the news. I’ll leave the washing up, I can do it tomorrow morning with the breakfast things.’

  René closed his eyes. It’s Saturday: she wants to go to the cinema. Saturday. His mind stopped, he couldn’t think any more. All he could see were images. He saw her slim and tanned, her fair hair spread out. He saw unknown regions where endless, quivering fields were transformed into lakes without banks, and then into a sky of the same dazzling cruel shade. Was it real, or was it an illusion? He still felt intoxicated by the all-consuming blue glow of her presence and by the gentleness – smooth as glass, fringed with hoarfrost – of the perfection that was her magic defence against the world. He’d had to go, he’d had to leave her, but the memory of her standing against that beautiful bit of old wall, on the silent strand of a plaintive world, would always be with him.

  ‘So, are we going to the cinema, or aren’t we? Is he sleeping or not? If I shake him he’ll be livid, but if we hang about any longer we won’t be able to get in. And I’m bored… I would have done better to start cutting out that skirt. Are we going or not? It’ll be too late to go soon. And I’m so bored, doing nothing like this. You shouldn’t have to do nothing on a Saturday.’

  And from now on, René thought, it would ever be thus. Because of her, because of the memory of her – or rather because of the borderless fields – he would never again be bored doing nothing. He didn’t know whether or not the images sprang from her; it wasn’t really important. The important thing was that from now on they would always be there. Every time he stood up in front of his machine, his lathe, they would be there, either within him or outside him. He would shave the casting with his lathe and the steel turnings would spin off, smooth and bluish, and he, René, would have no importance at all. Even his movements would be slightly more important than him.

  Less unreal than he was, the images would become his whole life. He didn’t know where they were but he felt strongly, now, that they were outside him, beyond him. They had either come to him of their own accord, or from her, the source of images. They would be there whenever he was doing nothing or when he was standing in front of his lathe. They would always be there, stretching palely out before him, eloquent as only silence can be. They would attach themselves to his life like an obscurely related story. From now on, all festivities would be sad occasions, false diversions in his life. At the fringes of the night, his images would be the sole harbingers of dawn, as if bringing hope in their train. René felt that he was carrying a burden heavier than despair.

  ‘We won’t get in to the cinema now,’ she said. ‘Are we going to play cards or are we going to stay like this?’

  ‘Let’s stay like this,’ he said.

  SOUS LE PONT MIRABEAU

  Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine

  Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure

  Les jours s’en vont je demeure.

  GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE

  Illustrations by Mig Quinet

  1

  LYING ON HER BACK in the bed, she stretched gently. Now that the pain had gone, a feeling of great happiness suffused her whole body – a childish kind of happiness, the sense of well-being that follows pain. From head to toe – in her flesh, her heart and her mind – she’d reverted to a state of total childishness, and if any words came to her at all, they’d be those of some silly song. ‘One-eyed snail, lend me your feelers, one, two three…’ Was that how it went, or had she got the words wrong? What peace I feel, she thought, inside me and round about me…

  She turned her head to look at the tiny face beneath the netting. And smiled. Well, she’s certainly not beautiful at the moment, still hot from her mother’s waters and blood – a vague, shadowy little creature. So far there was something missing in her: it was as if she hadn’t yet been liberated, touched with grace; tomorrow she would be beautiful. Tomorrow the dawn would have touched her face, her nostrils would have inhaled scents and smells, her body would have been bathed in air and the intervening hours would have dried her hair, smoothed her hands. By tomorrow she would have taken her place in the universe, she would have settled firmly among the beautiful phenomena of the world. She would have become a phenomenon herself.

  Tomorrow, as soon as dawn comes, as soon as she feels the sun, she will be beautiful, this little newborn child of May. Oh the beautiful month of May… blind snail, lend me your feelers, I’ve stopped feeling pain, and I’m going to sleep now, really sleep… Peace inside me, and all around me.

  A loud noise broke her sleep. In her half-conscious state, she thought it must already be dawn; a man must be standing on top of
a lorry chucking an empty dustbin on to the pavement. Two dustbins, ten dustbins, a hundred dustbins. Leaning on her elbow she turned towards the shaded window, but could see nothing. Sleepiness and childishness rolled off her; the pain she had recently felt and the well-being that came after it became states of the past. Restored to normality, she could distinguish every sound clearly. Now she knew exactly what she was hearing: rosaries of bombs and gun-fire that mingled with each other and got louder and louder until they turned into a cacophony, sustained by the rhythmic breathing of the sirens.

  She sat bolt upright in the bed, without thinking about whether her body would say yes or no, leaned across to the child, picked her up and drew her close. She no longer heard the sounds from outside; they shrank into the background, infernal but unchanging. The sound of windows rattling and walls shaking seemed to be so close, and to come at such regular intervals, that it no longer surprised her. It was the inside noises that she was listening out for now: footsteps, running steps in the corridor, bells ringing again and again, the sound of voices. She was waiting for heaven knows what to happen.

  A nurse came in, panic-stricken:

  ‘You’re not supposed to move! You mustn’t be frightened, it can’t be an attack because we’re not at war, are we, not in our country. It’s just the anti-aircraft guns, there are a lot of planes passing over, and they’re firing at them…

  ‘And you’re not supposed to touch the baby, you know! A rule’s just been made that they must be left in their cots…’