Good Morning, Midnight (16 page)

All washing around in the same hold. No water-tight compartments....

Well, I am trying to tell Rene about all this and giggling a good deal, when he stops me.

'But I know that woman. I know her very well....

Again you don't believe me. This time you shall believe me. Listen, she was like this-' He describes her exactly. 'And the house was like this-' He draws a little plan on the back of an envelope. 'Here are the palm trees. Here are the entrance steps. That terrible English butler they had - do you remember? The two cabinets here with jade, the other two cabinets with a collection of china. The double circular staircase - do you remember how they used to come down it at night ?'

'Yes,' I say. ' "I know how to walk down a staircase, me."

'Which bedroom did you have ? Did you have the one on the second floor with the green satin divan in the ante-chamber to the bathroom?'

'No. I had a quite ordinary one on the third floor. But what an array of scent-bottles! I dream of them sometimes.'

'It was a ridiculous house, wasn't it?'

'I was very much impressed,' I say. 'It's the only millionaire's house I've ever stayed in in my life.'

'I've stayed in much richer ones than that. I've stayed in one so rich that when you pulled the lavatory-plug it played a tune....Rich people - you have to be sorry for them. They haven't the slightest idea how to spend their money; they haven't the slightest idea how to enjoy themselves. Either they have no taste at all, or, if they have any taste, it's like a mausoleum and they're shut up in it.'

'Well you're going to alter all that, aren't you?'

Of course, there's no doubt that this man has stayed in this house and does know these people. One would think that that would give us more confidence in each other. Not at all, it makes us suspicious. There's no doubt that a strict anonymity is a help on these occasions.

When did all this happen, and what is his story? Did he stay in France for a time, get into trouble over here and then join the Legion? Is that the story? Well, any way, what's it matter to me what his story is? I expect he has a different one every day.

I say: 'Excuse me a minute,' primly, and go down to the lavatory.

This is another lavatory that I know very well, another of the well-known mirrors.

'Well, well,' it says, 'last time you looked in here you were a bit different, weren't you ? Would you believe me that, of all the faces I see, I remember each one, that I keep a ghost to throw back at each one - lightly, like an echo - when it looks into me again?' All glasses in all lavabos do this.

But it's not as bad as it might be. This is just the interval when drink makes you look nice, before it makes you look awful.

He says: 'You're always disappearing into the lavabo, you. C'est agafant.'

'What do you expect?' I say, staring at him. 'I'm getting old.'

He frowns. 'No, don't say that. Don't talk like that. You're not old. But you've got to where you're afraid to be young. I know. They've frightened you, haven't they? Why do you let them frighten you? They always try to do that, if it isn't in one way it's in another.'

'Thanks for the good advice. I'll try to remember it. Now I'm all ready for another one.'

'But you said that if you drink too much you cry'.

And I have a horror of people who cry when they're drunk.'

'I don't feel a bit like that. Never happier in my life.'

He looks at me and says: 'No, I don't think you are going to cry. All right.'

And here's another brandy. I squirt the soda in and watch the bubbles rising up from the bottom of the glass. I'll drink it slowly, this one.

'Well, don't be too long. Finish that, and then we'll go - '

'Where to?'

'Well, to your hotel or to the Boulevard Raspail. Just as you like.... You're such a stupid woman,' he says, 'such a stupid woman. Why do you go on pretending? Now, look me straight in the eyes and say you don't want to.'

'Of course I do.'

'Then why won't you? At least tell me why you won't. Something that you would like and that I would like - '

'Something so unimportant.'

'Oh, important!' he says. 'But it would be nice. At least tell me why you won't, or is that too much to ask?'

'Oh no, it's not too much to ask. I'll tell you. It's because I'm afraid.'

'Afraid,' he says, 'afraid! But what are you afraid of?

You think I'll strangle you, or cut your throat for the sake of that beautiful ring of yours. Is that it?'

'No, I'm sure you wouldn't kill me to get my ring.'

'Then perhaps you are afraid I'll kill you, not because I want money, but because I like to do bad things. But that's where you're so stupid. With you, I don't want to do bad things.'

"There's always the one that you don't want to do bad things with, isn't there?'

'Yes, there's always the one,' he says. 'I want to lie close to you and feel your arms round me.'

And tell me everything, everything....He has said that bit before.

'Oh, stop talking about it.'

'Of course,' he says. 'But first, just as a matter of curiosity, I'd like to know what you are so afraid of. Finish your drink and tell me. Just as a matter of curiosity.'

I dink. Something in his voice has hurt me. I can't say anything. My throat hurts and I can't say anything.

'You are afraid of me. You think I'm mechant. You do think I might kill you.'

If I thought you'd kill me, I'd come away with you right now and no questions asked. And what's more, you could have any money I've got with my blessing....

'I don't think you're any more mechant than anybody else. Less, probably.'

'Then what are you afraid of? Tell me. I'm interested. Of men, of love?....What, still?....Impossible.'

You are walking along a road peacefully. You trip. You fall into blackness. That's the past - or perhaps the future. And you know that there is no past, no future, there is only this blackness, changing faintly, slowly, but always the same.

'You want to know what I'm afraid of? All right, I'll tell you....I'm afraid of men - yes, I'm very much afraid of men. And I'm even more afraid of women.

And I'm very much afraid of the whole bloody human race....Afraid of them?' I say. 'Of course I'm afraid of them. Who wouldn't be afraid of a pack of damned hyenas?'

Thinking: 'Oh, shut up. Stop it. What's the use?' But I can't stop. I go on raving.

'And when I say afraid - that's just a word I use. What I really mean is that I hate them. I hate their voices, I hate their eyes, I hate the way they laugh....I hate the whole bloody business. It's cruel, it's idiotic, it's unspeakably horrible. I never had the guts to kill myself or I'd have got out of it long ago. So much the worse for me. Let's leave it at that.'

I know all about myself now, I know. You've told me so often. You haven't left me one rag of illusion to clothe myself in. But by God, I know what you are too, and I wouldn't change places....

Everything spoiled, all spoiled. Well, don't cry about it. No, I won't cry about it....But may you tear each other to bits, you damned hyenas, and the quicker the better....Let it be destroyed. Let it happen. Let it end, this cold insanity. Let it happen.

Only five minutes ago I was in the Deux Magots, dressed in that damned cheap black dress of mine, giggling and talking about Antibes, and now I am lying in a misery of utter darkness. Quite alone. No voice, no touch, no hand....How long must I lie here? For ever? No, only for a couple of hundred years this time, miss....

I heave myself out of the darkness slowly, painfully. And there I am, and there he is, the poor gigolo.

He looks sad. He says, speaking in a low voice and for the first time with a very strong accent: 'I have wounds,' pronouncing 'wounds' so oddly that I don't understand what he means.

'You have what?'

I look round. Have I screamed, shouted, cursed, cried, made a scene? Is anyone looking at us, is anyone noticing us? No, nobody....The woman at the desk is sitting with her eyes cast down. I notice the exact shade of the blue eye-shadow on her lids. They must see the start of some funny things, these women perched up in cafes, perched up like idols. Especially the ones at the Dome.

'You have what?'

'Look,' he says, still speaking in a whisper. He throws his head up. There is a long scar, going across his throat. Now I understand what it means - from ear to ear. A long, thick, white scar. It's strange that I haven't noticed it before.

He says: 'That is one. There are other ones. I have been wounded.'

It isn't boastful, the way he says this, nor complaining. It's puzzled, puzzled in an impersonal way, as if he is asking me - me, of all people - why, why, why?

Pity you? Why should I pity you? Nobody has ever pitied me. They are without mercy.

'I have too,' I say in a surly voice. 'Moi aussi.'

'I know. I can see that. I believe you.'

'Well,' I say, 'if we're going to start believing each other, it's getting serious, isn't it?'

I want to get out of this dream.

'But why shouldn't we believe each other? Why shouldn't we believe each other just for tonight? Will you believe something I'm going to say to you now? I want absolutely to make love to you.'

'I told you from the start you were wasting your time.'

'What happened to you, what happened?' he says. 'Something bad must have happened to make you like this.'

'One thing? It wasn't one thing. It took years. It was a slow process.'

He says: 'It doesn't matter. What I know is that I could do this with you' - he makes a movement with his hands like a baker kneading a loaf of bread - 'and afterwards you'd be different. I know. Believe me.'

I watch the little grimacing devil in my head. He wears a top hat and a cache-sexe and he sings a sentimental song - 'The roses all are faded and the lilies in the dust.'

I say: 'Now who's trying to make an unimportant thing sound important?'

'Oh, important, unimportant - that's just words. If we can be happy for a little, forget everything for a little, isn't that important enough?....Now we'll go. We'll go back to your hotel.'

'No.'

Leave me alone. I'm tired....

'Still rien a faire?' He starts to laugh.

'Still rien a faire. Absolutely rien a faire.'

But everything is so changed, I can't look at him. 'I must go. Please. I'm so tired.'

In the taxi I say: 'Whistle that tune, will you? The one you said is the march of the Legion.'

He whistles it very softly. And I watch the streets through the window. A l'Hotel de l'Esperance....

I am in a little whitewashed room. The sun is hot outside. A man is standing with his back to me, whistling that tune and cleaning his shoes. I am wearing a black dress, very short, and heel-less slippers. My legs are bare. I am watching for the expression on the man's face when he turns round. Now he ill-treats me, now he betrays me. He often brings home other women and I have to wait on them, and I don't like that. But as long as he is alive and near me I am not unhappy. If he were to die I should kill myself. My film-mind....('For God's sake watch out for your film-mind....')

'What are you laughing at now?' he says.

'Nothing, nothing....I do like that tune. Do you think I could get a gramophone record of it?

'I don't know.'

We are at the door of the hotel.

'Good night,' he says. 'Sleep well. Take a big dose of luminal.'

'I will. And the same to you.'

I am not sad as I go upstairs, not sad, not happy, not regretful, not thinking of anything much. Except that I see very clearly in my head the tube of luminal and the bottle of whisky. In case....

Just as I have got to my door there is a click and everything is in darkness. Impossible to get the key in. I must cross the pitch-black landing to the head of the stairs and put the time-switch on again.

I am feeling for the knob when I see the light of a cigarette a yard or two from my face. I stand for what seems a long while watching it. Then I call out: 'Who is it ? Who's there ? Qui est la?'

But before he answers I know. I take a step forward and put my arms round him.

I have my arms round him and I begin to laugh, because I am so happy. I stand there hugging him, so terribly happy. Now everything is in my arms on this dark landing - love, youth, spring, happiness, everything I thought I had lost. I was a fool, wasn't I? to think all that was finished for me. How could it be finished?

I put up my hand and touch his hair. I've wanted to do that ever since I first saw him.

'Did I frighten you at first?'

He has put the light on. He looks pleased, but surprised.

'No, no,' I say. 'Yes, a bit....No.'

But I whisper and look round fearfully. What do I expect to see ? There is nobody on the landing - nothing. Nothing but the commis' shoes by his door, the toes carefully pointed outwards as usual.

He takes the key from my hand, opens the door and shuts it after us. We kiss each other fervently, but already something has gone wrong. I am uneasy, half of myself somewhere else. Did anybody hear me, was anybody listening just now?

'It's dark in here....Just a minute, I'll fix it.'

The switch in my room works either the light near the bed or the one over the curtained wash-basin - it depends on how far the knob is pushed. But it is always going wrong and doing one thing when you expect it to do another. I fumble with it for some time before I can get the lamp near the bed going.

Now the room springs out at me, laughing, triumphant. The big bed, the little bed, the table with the tube of luminal, the glass and the bottle of Evian, the two books, the clock ticking on the ledge, the menu - 'T'as compis? Si, j'ai compris....'Four walls, a roof and a bed. Les Hommes en Cage....Exactly.

Here we are. Nothing to stop us. Four walls, a roof, a bed, a bidet, a spotlight that goes on first over the bidet and then over the bed - nothing to stop us. Anything you like; anything I like....No past to make us sentimental, no future to embarrass us....A difficult moment when you are out of practice - a moment that makes you go cold, cold and wary.