“That’s what I’d like,” he said. “To live a life other than ours.” From her expression he saw that his meaning was not clear and corrected himself. “I mean a happy life rather than ours, like the one we imagine they lead in this village.” He grasped her hands and made her meet his eyes, looking at her very hard.
She gently freed herself, giving him a rapid kiss. “Eddie,” she said tenderly, “dear Eddie.” Slipping her arm into his she pulled him toward the gangplank. “You’re a great actor,” she said, “a truly great actor.” She was happy and brimming over with life.
“But it’s what I feel,” he protested feebly, letting her pull him along.
“Of course,” she said, “like a true actor.”
5
The train came to a sudden stop, with the wheels screeching and puffs of smoke. A window opened and five girls stuck out their heads. Some of them were peroxide blondes, with curls falling over their shoulders and on their foreheads. They started to laugh and chat, calling out: “Elsa! Elsa!” A showy redhead, wearing a green ribbon in her hair, shouted to the others: “There she is!” and leaned even farther out to wave in greeting. Elsa quickened her step and came close to the window, touching the gaily outstretched hands. “Corinna!” she exclaimed, looking at the redhead, “What’s this get up?”
“Saverio says it’s attractive,” Corinna called back, winking and pointing her head toward the inside of the compartment.
“Come on aboard,” she added in a falsetto voice; “you don’t want to be stuck in a place like this, do you?” Then, suddenly, she screamed: “Look girls, there’s a Rudolph Valentino!”
The girls waved madly to catch the man’s attention. Eddie had come out from behind the arrivals and departures board; he advanced slowly along the platform, with his hat pulled over his eyes. At that same moment, two German soldiers came through the gate and went toward the stationmaster’s office. After a few moments the stationmaster came out with his red flag under his arm and walked toward the engine, with rapid steps, which accentuated the awkwardness of his chubby body. The soldiers stood in front of the office door, as if they were on guard. The girls fell silent and watched the scene looking worried. Elsa set down her suitcase and looked confusedly at Eddie, who motioned with his head that she should go on. Then he sat down on a bench under a tourist poster, took the newspaper out of his pocket, and buried his face in it.
Corinna seemed to understand what was up. “Come on, honey!” she shouted. “Come aboard!” With one hand she waved at the two staring soldiers and gave them a dazzling smile. Meanwhile the stationmaster was coming back with the flag now rolled up under his arm.
Corinna asked him what was going on.
“Don’t ask me,” he answered, shrugging. “It seems we have to wait for a quarter of an hour. It’s orders, that’s all I know.”
“Then we can get out and stretch our legs, girls,” Corinna chirped, and she quickly got off followed by the others. “Climb aboard,” she whispered as she passed Elsa. “We’ll take care of them.”
The little group moved in the direction opposite to where Eddie was seated, passing in front of the soldiers. “Isn’t there anywhere to eat in this station?” Corinna asked in a loud voice, looking around. She was superb at drawing attention to herself, swinging her hips and also the bag she had taken off her shoulder. She had on a clinging flowered dress and sandals with cork soles. “The sea, girls!” she shouted. “Look at that sea and tell me if it isn’t divine!” She leaned theatrically against the first lamppost and raised her hand to her mouth, putting on a childish manner. “If I had my bathing suit with me, I’d dive in, never mind the autumn weather,” she said, tossing her head and causing her red curls to ripple over her shoulders. The two soldiers were stunned and couldn’t take their eyes off her. Then she had a stroke of genius, due to the lamppost, perhaps, or to the necessity of resolving an impossible situation. She let her blouse slip down off her shoulders, leaned against the lamppost, stretched out her arms, purse swinging, and addressed an imaginary public, winking as if the whole scene were in cahoots with her. “It’s a song they sing the world over,” she shouted, “even our enemies!” And, turning to the other girls, she clapped her hands. It must have been part of the show, because they fell into line, raising their legs in marching time but without moving an inch, hand to their forehead in a military salute. Corinna clung to the lamppost with one hand and, using it as a pivot, wheeled gracefully around it. Her skirt fluttered, showing her legs.
“Vor der Kaserne vor dem grossen Tor,
Stand eine Laterne, und steht sie noch davor…
So wollen wir uns da wiedersehen,
Bei der Laterne wollen wir stehen,
Wie einst Lili Marlene, wie einst Lili Marlene.”
The girls applauded, a soldier whistled. Corinna thanked them with a mock bow and went to the fountain near the hedge. She passed a wet finger over her temples while looking down at the street below; then, trailed by the other girls, she started to reboard the train. “Auf wiedersehen, darlings!” she called to the soldiers as she climbed on, “now we must retreat – la tournée awaits.”
Elsa was waiting in the corridor and threw her arms around her. “It’s okay, Corinna,” she said, giving her a kiss.
“Think nothing of it,” said Corinna, starting to cry like a baby.
The two soldiers had come close to the waiting train; they looked up at the girls and tried to exchange a few words; one of them knew some Italian. Just then there was the sound of a motor, and a black car came through the gate and traveled the length of the platform until it stopped at the front of the train, just behind the engine. The girls tried to fathom what was happening, but there was a curve in the tracks and they couldn’t see very well around it. Eddie hadn’t moved from the bench. Apparently he was immersed in the newspaper that shielded his face. “What’s up, girls?” asked Elsa, trying to seem indifferent as she stowed her things in the luggage net.
“Nothing,” one of the girls answered. “It must be a big shot who arrived in the car. But he’s in civilian clothes and traveling first-class.”
“Is he alone?” Elsa asked.
“Looks like it. The soldiers are standing at attention and not boarding the train.”
Elsa peered out the window. The soldiers by the train did an about-face and were walking toward the road leading into the town. The stationmaster came back, dragging the red flag behind him and looking down at his shoes. “The train’s leaving,” he said in a philosophical, knowing manner, and waved the flag. The train whistled. The girls returned to their seats, only Elsa stayed at the window. She had combed her hair off her forehead and her eyes were still gleaming. At this moment Eddie came up and stood directly under the window.
“Goodbye, Eddie,” Elsa murmured, stretching out her hand.
“Shall we meet in another film?” he asked.
“What the hell is he saying?” shouted the director from behind him. “What the hell?”
“Shall I hold?” asked the cameraman.
“No,” said the director. “It’s going to be dubbed anyhow.” And he shouted into the megaphone, “Walk, man, the train’s moving, move faster, follow it along the platform, hold her hand.”
The train had, indeed, started to move, and Eddie obeyed, quickening his pace and keeping up as long as he could. The train picked up speed and went around the curve and through a switch on the other side. Eddie wheeled about and took a few steps before stopping to light a cigarette, then walked slowly on into camera. The director made gestures to regulate his pace, as if he were manipulating him with strings.
“Insert a heart attack,” said Eddie imploringly.
“What?” the director shouted
“A heart attack,” Eddie repeated. “Here, on the bench. I’ll look exhausted, sink onto the bench and lay my hand on my heart like Dr. Zhivago. Make me die.”
The clapperboy looked at the director, waiting for instructions. The director moved his fingers like scissors to signify that he’d cut later, but meanwhile the shooting must go on.
“What do you mean by a heart attack?” he said to Eddie. “Do you think you look like a man about to have a heart attack? Pull your hat over your eyes, like a good Eddie, don’t make me start all over.” And he signaled to the crew to put the pumps into action. “Come on, move! It’s starting to rain. You’re Eddie, remember, not a poor lovesick creature…Put your hands in your pockets, shrug now, that’s it, good boy, come toward us…your cigarette hanging from your lips…perfect!…eyes on the ground.”
He turned to the cameraman and shouted: “Pull back – tracking shot; pull back!”
Translated by Frances Frenaye
Small Blue Whales Strolling about the Azores
Fragment of a Story
She owes me everything, said the man heatedly, everything: her money, her success. I did it for her, I shaped her with my own hands, that’s what. And as he spoke he looked at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fingers in a strange gesture, as if trying to grasp a shadow.
The small ferry began to change direction and a gust of wind ruffled the woman’s hair. Don’t talk like that, Marcel, please, she muttered, looking at her shoes. Keep your voice down, people are watching us. She was blond and wore big sunglasses with delicately tinted lenses. The man’s head jerked a little to one side, a sign of annoyance. Who cares, they don’t understand, he answered. He tossed the stub of his cigarette into the sea and touched the tip of his nose as if to squash an insect. Lady Macbeth, he said with irony, the great tragic actress. You know the name of the place I found her in? It was called ‘La Baguette’, and as it happens she wasn’t playing Lady Macbeth, you know what she was doing? The woman took off her glasses and wiped them nervously on her T-shirt. Please, Marcel, she said. She was showing off her arse to a bunch of dirty old men, that’s what our great tragic actress was doing. Once again he squashed the invisible insect on the tip of his nose. And I still have photographs, he said.
The sailor going round checking tickets stopped in front of them and the woman rummaged in her bag. Ask him how much longer it’ll be, said the man. I feel ill, this old bathtub is turning my stomach. The woman did her best to formulate the question in that strange language, and the sailor answered with a smile. About an hour and a half, she translated. The boat stops for two hours and then goes back. She put her glasses on again and adjusted her headscarf. Things aren’t always what they seem, she said. What things? he asked. She smiled vaguely. Things, she said. And then went on: I was thinking of Albertine. The man grimaced, apparently impatient. You know what our great tragedian was called when she was at the Baguette? She was called Carole, Carole Don-Don. Nice, eh? He turned toward the sea, a wounded expression on his face, then came out with a small shout: look! He pointed southward. The woman turned and looked with him. On the horizon you could see the green cone of the island rising in sharp outline from the water. We’re getting near, the man said, pleased now, I don’t think it’ll take an hour and a half. Then he narrowed his eyes and leaned on the railings. There are rocks too, he added. He moved his arm to the left and pointed to two deep-blue outcrops, like two hats laid on the water. What nasty rocks, he said, they look like cushions. I can’t see them, said the woman. There, said Marcel, a little bit more to the left, right in line with my finger, see? He slipped his right arm around the woman’s shoulder, keeping his hand pointing in front. Right in the direction of my finger, he repeated.
The ticket collector had sat down on a bench near the railing. He had finished making his rounds and was watching their movements. Maybe he guessed what they were saying, because he went over to them, smiling, and spoke to the woman with an amused expression. She listened attentively, then exclaimed: noooo! and she brought a hand to her mouth with a mischievous, childish look, as though suppressing a laugh. What’s he say? the man asked, with the slightly stolid expression of someone who can’t follow a conversation. The woman gave the ticket collector a look of complicity. Her eyes were laughing and she was very attractive. He says they’re not rocks, she said, deliberately holding back what she had learned. The man looked at her, questioning and perhaps a little annoyed. They’re small blue whales strolling about the Azores, she exclaimed, those are the exact words he used. And she at last let out the laugh she’d been holding back, a small, quick, ringing laugh. Suddenly her expression changed and she pushed back the hair the wind had blown across her face. You know at the airport I mistook someone else for you? she said, candidly revealing her association of ideas. He didn’t even have the same build as you and he was wearing an extraordinary shirt you’d never put on, not even for Carnival, isn’t it odd? The man made a gesture with his hand, butting in: I stayed behind in the hotel, you know, the deadline’s getting closer and the script still needs going over. But the woman wouldn’t let him interrupt. It must be because I’ve been thinking about you so much, she went on, and about these islands, the sun. She was speaking in what was almost a whisper now, as if to herself. I’ve done nothing all this time but think of you. It never stopped raining. I imagined you sitting on a beach. It’s been too long, I think. The man took her hand. For me too, he said, but I haven’t been to the beach much, the main thing I’ve been looking at is my typewriter. And then it rains here too, oh yes, you wouldn’t believe the rain, how heavy it is. The woman smiled. I haven’t even asked you if you managed to do it, and to think, if ideas were worth anything, I’d have written ten plays with trying to imagine yours: tell me what it’s like, I’m dying to know. Oh, let’s say it’s a reworking of Ibsen in a light vein, he said, without disguising a certain enthusiasm – light, but a little bitter too, the way my stuff is, and seen from her point of view. How do you mean? asked the woman. Oh, the man said with conviction, you know the way things are going these days, I thought it would be wise to present it from her point of view, if I want people to take notice, even if that’s not why I wrote it, of course. The story’s banal in the end, a relationship breaking up, but all stories are banal, what matters is the point of view, and I rescue the woman, she is the real protagonist, he is selfish and mediocre, he doesn’t even realize what he’s losing, do you get me?
The woman nodded. I think so, she said, I’m not sure. In any case I’ve been writing some other stuff as well, he went on, these islands are a crushing bore, there’s nothing to do to pass the time but write. And then I wanted to try my hand at a different genre. I’ve been writing fiction all my life. It seems nobler to me, the woman said, or at least more gratuitous, and hence, how can I put it, lighter…Oh right, laughed the man, delicacy: par délicatesse j’ai perdu ma vie. But there comes a time when you have to have the courage to try your hand at reality, at least the reality of our own lives. And then, listen, people can’t get enough of real-life experience, they’re tired of the imaginings of novelists of no imagination. Very softly the woman asked: Are they memoirs? Her subdued voice quivered slightly with anxiety. Kind of, he said, but there’s no elaboration of interpretation or memory; the bare facts and nothing more: that’s what counts. It’ll stir things up, said the woman. Let’s say people will take notice, he corrected. The woman was silent for a moment, thoughtful. Do you already have a title? she asked. Maybe Le regard sans école, he said, what do you think? Sounds witty, she said.
Steering around in a wide curve, the boat began to sail along the coast of the island. Puffs of black smoke with a strong smell of diesel flew out of the funnel and the engine settled into a calm chug, as if enjoying itself. That’s why it takes so long, the man said, the landing stage must be on the other side of the island.
You know, Marcel, the woman resumed, as if pursuing an idea of her own, I saw a lot of Albertine this winter. The boat proceeded in small lurches, as if the engine were jamming. They sailed by a little church right on the waterfront and they were so near they could almost make out the faces
of the people going in. The bells summoning the faithful to Mass had a jarring sound, as though dragging their feet.
What?! The man chased the invisible insect from the tip of his nose. What on earth do you mean? he said. His face took on an expression of amazement and great disappointment. We kept each other company, she explained. A lot. It’s important to keep each other company in life, don’t you think? The man stood up and leaned on the railing, then sat on his seat again. But what do you mean, he repeated, have you gone mad? He seemed extremely restless, his legs couldn’t keep still. She’s an unhappy woman, and a generous one, the woman said, still following her own reasoning, I think she loved you a great deal. The man stretched out his arms in a disconsolate gesture and muttered something incomprehensible. Listen, forget it, he finally said with an effort, anyway, look, we’ve arrived.
The boat was preparing to dock. At the stern two men in T-shirts were unrolling the mooring cable and shouting to a third man standing on the landing stage watching them with his hands on his hips. A small crowd of relatives had gathered to greet the passengers and were waving. In the front row were two old women with black headscarves and a girl dressed up as though for her first communion hopping on one foot.
And what about the play, the woman suddenly inquired, as if all at once remembering something she had meant to ask, do you have a title for the play? You didn’t tell me. Her companion was sorting out some newspapers and a small camera in a bag that bore the logo of an airline company. I’ve thought of hundreds and rubbished them all, he said, still bending down over his bag, not one that’s really right, you need a witty title for a thing like this but something that sounds really good too. He stood up and a vague expression of hope lit up in his eyes. Why? he asked. Oh nothing, she said, just asking; I was thinking of a possible title, but maybe it’s too frivolous, it wouldn’t sound right on a serious poster, and then it’s got nothing to do with your subject matter, it would sound completely incongruous. Oh come on, he begged, at least you can satisfy my curiosity, maybe it’s brilliant. Silly, she said, completely off target.
Message from the Shadows Page 21