Good Morning, Midnight (15 page)

He is very good at this - calm, indifferent, without a glint in his eye. But his voice gets louder. Happily there is only one lot of people left in the room, and I don't think they understand English.

But the proprietor certainly understands. When he comes up with the coffee he looks at me in a half-pitying, half-severe way, as if to say: 'Really, really, really....I should have thought you'd have more sense than this. Really, really....'He certainly does understand English.

I stare back at him. Well, and what about it, you damned old goop? Are you as blameless as all that? Are you? I shouldn't think so. I don't criticize you, so don't you criticize me. See ?

He walks away in a dignified manner. 'Tous piques,' he is thinking, 'tous dingo, tous, tous, tous....'

All the same, this conversation is becoming a bit of a strain. What is it leading up to?....Ah! here it comes.

'I've arranged everything. While I was waiting for you on the terrace I asked the waiter to tell me a place I could take you to as you said you didn't want to go back to your hotel with me. He told me of a very good place in the Boulevard Raspail.'

'My God!' I say. 'You asked the waiter?'

'Yes, of course. Waiters always know about that sort of thing.'

'Well, that's somewhere else I'll never be able to show my face in again.'

'And then you say you're not a bourgeoise!' 'I didn't say that. You said it.'

All the same, he's quite right. Tomorrow I must walk into that cafe and go to that same table on the terrace and have a drink. But when I think 'tomorrow' there is a gap in my head, a blank - as if I were falling through emptiness. Tomorrow never comes.

I say: 'Tomorrow never comes.'

'I don't understand.'

'Listen. I've told you this from the start - nothing doing. Why do you go on about it ? It's stupid.'

'A pity,' he says, indifferently, 'a pity. It would have been so nice. You wouldn't have been disappointed in me.'

(But supposing you were disappointed in me.)

He's clever, this man, he feels what I am thinking.

He says: 'You know, you needn't be afraid of me. I'd never say cruel things to you, nor about you either. I'm not cruel to women - not in that way. You see, I like them. I don't like boys; I tried in Morocco, but it was no use. I like women.'

'Then you ought to be worth your weight in gold. I only hope you get it.'

'Do you like girls ?' he says, looking inquisitive.

'No, I don't.'

'What, have you never in your life seen a girl you could have loved?'

'No, never....Yes, once I did. I saw a girl in a bordel I could have loved.'

'Oh, how convenient!'

He laughs. The proprietor starts, looks towards us, shrugs his shoulders and turns his back.

'Why did you love her?'

'Well,' I say, 'what a question, anyway!'

How on earth can you say why you love people? You might as well say you know where the lightning is going to strike. At least, that's how it has always seemed to me.

'Tell me about this girl.'

'There isn't anything to tell, except that I liked her. She looked awfully sad and very gentle. That doesn't happen often.'

He seems much amused.

'Did she make love to you?'

'No, of course not,' I say. 'Certainly not.'

'What happened? Do tell me.'

'Well, while I was thinking these sentimental thoughts a fresh client came in and she rushed of to join the crowd that was twittering round him. You know how they do.

I loathe bordels, anyway.'

(Now, why has this girl suddenly come up out of the past? She wasn't beautiful, not a star at all. I expect she didn't have a very good time. But I wanted to put my arms round her, kiss her eyes and comfort her - and if that's not love, what is?)

'Oh, all women hate bordels,' he says.

'Oh yeah? Well, you wouldn't think so to hear some of them talk. Besides, don't tell me that I'm like other women - I'm not.'

'Yes, but all women say that too,' he says.

Now it seems to me that there is antagonism in the air. It would be a pity if we ended with a quarrel.

'I'm no use to anybody,' I say. 'I'm a cerebrale, can't you see that?'

Thinking how funny a book would be, called 'Just a Cerebrale or You Can't Stop Me From Dreaming'. Only, of course, to be accepted as authentic, to carry any conviction, it would have to be written by a man. What a pity, what a pity!

'Is that your idea of yourself?' he says.

'It is, certainly.'

'It's not mine at all. I should have thought you were rather stupid.'

This pulls me up short. If he thinks me stupid now I wonder what he would say to my usual conversation, which goes like this: 'I believe it's going to be fine today - yes, I hope it is - yes - yes - yes -'

'You think me stupid?' I say.

'No, no. Don't be vexed. I don't mean stupid. I mean that you feel better than you think.'

Do I? I wonder....Oh well, stupid....An extremely funny monologue is going on in my head - or it seems to me extremely funny. I want to stop myself from laughing out loud, so I say: 'We're getting very high toned. What is a cerebrale, anyway? I don't know. Do you?'

'A cerebrale,' he says, seriously, 'is a woman who doesn't like men or need them.'

'Oh, is that it? I've often wondered. Well, there are quite a lot of those, and the ranks are daily increasing.'

'Ah, but a cerebrale doesn't like women either. Oh, no. The true cerebrale is a woman who likes nothing and nobody except herself and her own damned brain or what she thinks is her brain.'

So pleased with herself, like a little black boy in a top hat....

'In fact, a monster.'

'Yes, a monster.'

'Well, after all that it's very comforting to know that you think I'm stupid....Let's ask for the bill, shall we? Let's go.'

'I rang you up the other morning,' he says.

'Yes, I know. I was asleep. I got down to the tele phone too late.'

'You knew who it was?'

'Oh, I thought it might be you. I wasn't sure.' 'You have friends in Paris, then?'

'I don't know a soul here, except two Russians I met the other day. I like them very much.' 'Russians,' he says in a spiteful voice, 'Russians in Paris! Everybody knows what they are - Jews and poor whites. The most boring people in the world. Terrible people.'

For some reason I am very vexed at this. I start wondering why I am there at all, what I am doing in this box of a restaurant, swapping dirty stories with a damned gigolo. I want to get away. I want to be out of the place.

'I'm going to the Exhibition,' I say. 'I want to see it again at night before I go.'

'The Exhibition?'

'Haven't you been to it?'

'No, I haven't. What should I do at the Exhibition?'

'Well, I'm going. You needn't come if you don't want to. I'll go by myself.' I want to go by myself, to get into a taxi and drive along the streets, to stand by myself and look down at the fountains in the cold light.

'But of course,' he says. 'If you want to go to the Exhibition, we'll go. Naturally.'

We go in by the Trocadero entrance. There aren't many people about. Cold, empty, beautiful - this is what I imagined, this is what I wanted.

'What's that light up there?' he says.

'That's the Star of Peace. Don't you recognize it?'

He stares back at it.

'How mesquin! It's vulgar, that Star of Peace.'

'The building is very fine,' I say, in a schoolmistress's voice. We stand on the promenade above the fountains, looking down on them. This is what I wanted - the cold fountains, the cold, rainbow lights on the water.... He says again: 'It's mesquin, your Star of Peace.'

We stand for some time, leaning over the balustrade. He puts his arm through mine. I can feel him shivering. When I tell him so he answers: 'Well, it's cold here after Morocco.'

'Oh yes, of course. Morocco.'

'You don't believe I've just come from Morocco, do you?'

Whatever else is a lie about him, it's certainly true that he isn't dressed for this weather.

The lights shimmering on the water, the leaping fountains, cold and beautiful....

'Why don't you borrow some money from your American and buy yourself an overcoat?'

'No, I'm going to wait. I want to get my clothes in London.'

For God's sake - he's going to stat up again about the addresses of London tailors....

'Let's go and have a drink somewhere. That'll make us warm.'

'A drink?' he says. 'Oh yes, of course. But supposing I don't want to walk a long way in the cold just to get a cheap drink.'

He begins to whistle, like a little boy whistles when he is trying to keep his courage up - loud, clear and pure.

'What's that tune? I like it.' 'That's the march of the Legion, he says, the real one. Or that's what I think it is. But how should I know.'

'Tell me about Morocco.'

'No, I don't want to talk about it....I don't want to think about it,' he says loudly. 'Come on, let's go and have our drink.'

'The goodbye one,' I say.

'All right - the goodbye one. But not in here. Let's get out of here....

We sit side by side in the taxi, not touching each other. He is whistling softly all the time. I watch the streets through the window. Well, there you are, Paris, and this is the goodbye drink....

'Where are we going?' he says.

We are passing the Deux Magots. "This is all right. Let's go in here.'

The cafe is not very full. I choose a table as far away from everyone else as possible. We order two brandies.

He has told me that he is twenty six, but I think he is older than that - he's about thirty. And he doesn't look like a gigolo, not at all like a gigolo. Suddenly I feel shy and self-conscious. (How ridiculous! Don't let him see it, for God's sake.) I drink half my brandy and soda and start talking about the last time I was in the Deux Magots and how I had been staying at Antibes and how I came back very brown and on top of the world and with some money too, and all the rest.

'Money I had earned. Sans blague. It was too funny. I wrote up fairy stories for a very rich woman. She came to Montparnasse looking for somebody and of course there was a rush. She chose me because I was the cheapest. The night I got back to Montparnasse - very rich - we celebrated. We started up in this cafe because I was staying at a hotel near here.'

What with the brandy and soda and going back to the Deux Magots, the whole thing is whirling nicely round in my head. She would come into my room very early in the morning in her dressing-gown, her hair hanging down in two plaits, looking rather sweet, I must say. 'Are you awake, Mrs Jansen? I've just thought of a story. You can take it down in shorthand, can't you?' 'No, I'm afraid I can't.' (Cheated! For what I'm paying she ought to know shorthand.)

'But if you'll tell me what you want to say I think I can get it down.' Of she'd go. 'Once upon a time there was a cactus - 'Or a white rose or a yellow rose or a red rose, as the case might be. All this, mind you, at six thirty in the morning....'This story', she would say, looking anxious, 'is an allegory. You understand that, don't you?' 'Yes, I understand.' But she was never very explicit about the allegory. 'Could you make it a Persian garden?' 'I don't see why not.' 'Oh, and there's something I want to speak to you about, Mrs Jansen. I'm afraid Samuel didn't like the last story you wrote.' Oh God, this awful sinking of the heart - like going down in a lift. I knew this job was too good to be true. 'Didn't he? I'm sorry. What didn't he like about it?' 'Well, I'm afraid he doesn't like the way you write. What he actually said was that, considering the cost of these stories, he thinks it strange that you should write them in words of one syllable. He says it gets monotonous, and don't you know any long words, and if you do, would you please use them?....Madame Holmberg is most anxious to collaborate with me. And she's a real writer - she's just finished the third volume of her Life of Napoleon.' After this delicate hint she adds: 'Samuel wished to speak to you himself, but I told him that I preferred to do it, because I didn't want to hurt your feelings. I said I was sure, if I told you his opinion, you'd try to do better. I should hate to hurt your feelings because in a strange way I feel that we are very much alike. Don't you think so?' (No, I certainly don't think so, you pampered chow.) 'I'm awfully sorry you didn't like the story,' I say.

Sitting at a large desk, a white sheet of paper in front of me and outside the sun and the blue Mediterranean. Monte Carlo, Monte Carlo, by the Med-it-er-rany-an sea-ee, Monte Carlo, Monte Carlo, where the boy of my heart waits for me-ee....Persian garden. Long words. Chiaroscuro? Translucent?....I bet he'd like cataclysmal action and centrifugal lux, but the point is how can I get them into a Persian garden?....Well, I might. Stranger things have happened....A blank sheet of paper....Once upon a time, once upon a time there lived a lass who tended swine....Persian gardens. Satraps - surely they were called satraps....It's so lovely outside, and music has started up somewhere.... Grinding it out, oh God, with all the long words possible. And the music outside playing Valencia....'Are you still there, Mrs Jansen? You haven't gone out? I've just thought of a new story. Once upon a time there lived....'

Shrewd as they're born, this woman, hard as a nail, and with what a sense of property! She'd raise hell if a spot of wine fell on one of her Louis Quinze chairs. Authentic Louis Quinze, of course they were.

They explain people like that by saying that their minds are in water-tight compartments, but it never seemed so to me. It's all washing about, like the bilge in the hold of a ship, all washing around in the same hold - no water-tight compartments....Fairies, red roses, the sense of property - Of course they don't feel things like we do - Lilies in the moonlight - I believe in survival after death. I've had personal proof of it. And we'll find our dear, familiar bodies on the other side - Samuel has forgotten to buy his suppositories - Pity would be out of place in this instance - I never take people like that to expensive restaurants. Quite unnecessary and puts ideas into their heads. It's not kind, really - Nevertheless, all the little birdies sing - Psychoanalysis might help. Adler is more wholesome than Freud, don't you think? - English judges never make a mistake - The piano is quite Egyptian in feeling....