The Age of Reason (38 page)

‘Denfert-Rochereau,’ cried the conductor.

Mathieu rose and got out; he turned down the Rue Froidevaux. He was tired and nervous, he kept on seeing a suitcase at the far end of a dark room, and in the suitcase some soft and odorous bank-notes; with a sense of something like remorse. ‘Ah, I ought to have taken them,’ he thought.

‘There’s an express for you,’ said the concierge. ‘It has just come.’

Mathieu took it and tore open the envelope: in an instant the walls that hemmed him in collapsed, and he was translated into another world. There were four words, in the middle of the page, in a large sloping script. ‘Ploughed. So what? Ivich.’

‘It isn’t bad news. I hope,’ said the concierge.

‘No.’

‘I’m glad of that. You looked quite upset.’

Ploughed? So what? Ivich.

‘It’s one of my old pupils who has failed in the examinations.’

‘Ah, yes, they’re becoming more and more difficult, from what I hear.’

‘Much more.’

‘And just think! All these young folks that do pass,’ said the concierge. ‘There they are with a degree; and then what’s to be done with them?’

‘Exactly what I say.’

He re-read Ivich’s message for the fourth time. He was disquieted by its phrasing. Ploughed. So what?... ‘She’s getting herself into some mess or other,’ he thought. ‘That’s as clear as daylight; she’s getting herself into a mess.’

‘What’s the time?’

‘Six o’clock.’

Six. She got the results at two o’clock. For four hours she had been adrift in the streets of Paris. He slipped the telegram into his pocket.

‘Madame Garinet, lend me fifty francs,’ he said to the concierge.

‘But I don’t know if I’ve got fifty,’ said the concierge, with some surprise. She rummaged in the drawer of her work-table.

‘I’ve only got a hundred francs, you must bring me the change this evening.’

‘Right,’ said Mathieu. ‘Thanks.’

He went out, thinking: ‘Where can she be?’ His head was empty and his hands were trembling. A cruising taxi was passing down the Rue Froidevaux. Mathieu stopped it.

‘Students’ Hostel, 173 Rue Saint-Jacques. Quick.’

‘Right,’ said the chauffeur.

‘Where could she be? At the best she had already left for Laon; at the worst... And I’m four hours behind,’ he thought. He leaned forward and pressed his right foot hard on the mat, as though he were accelerating.

The taxi stopped. Mathieu got out and rang the bell at the Hostel door.

‘Is Mlle Ivich Serguine in?’

The lady eyed him dubiously. ‘I’ll go and see,’ she said.

She returned almost at once. ‘Mlle Serguine hasn’t been in since this morning. Is there any message?’

‘No.’

Mathieu got into the cab again. ‘Hotel de Pologne, Rue du Sommerard.’

After a moment or two, he rapped on the window. ‘There it is,’ he said; ‘on the left.’

He jumped out and pushed open the glass door. ‘Is M. Serguine in?’

The tall albino porter was in the office. He recognized Mathieu and smiled. ‘He hasn’t been back since last night.’

‘And his sister... a fair-haired young lady. Has she been in today?’

‘Oh, I know Mlle Ivich quite well,’ said the man. ‘No, she hasn’t been in, there was only Mme Montero who telephoned twice to ask M. Boris to come and see her the moment he got back: if you see him, you might tell him.’

‘I will,’ said Mathieu.

He went out. Where could she be? At the cinema? It was scarcely probable. Wandering about the streets? In any case she had not yet left Paris, otherwise she would have been to the Hostel to get her luggage. Mathieu took the express out of his pocket and examined the envelope: it had been sent from the post-office in the Rue Cujas, but that proved nothing.

‘Where to?’ asked the chauffeur.

Mathieu looked at him hesitantly, and had a flash of enlightenment. ‘She must have had one or two before she wrote that. She has certainly got drunk.’

‘Look here,’ he said. ‘I want you to drive slowly from the quays up the Boulevard Saint-Michel. I’m looking for someone, and I want to see into all the cafés.’

Ivich was not at the Biarritz, nor the Source, nor the Harcourt, nor the Biard, nor the Palais du Café. At Capoulade’s, Mathieu caught sight of a Chinese student who knew her. He approached the Chinaman who was drinking a glass of port, perched on a high stool at the bar.

‘Excuse me,’ said Mathieu, looking up at him. ‘I believe you know Mlle Serguine. Have you seen her today?’

‘No,’ said the Chinaman, speaking with difficulty. ‘Some accident has happened to her?’

‘Some accident has happened to her!’ shouted Mathieu.

‘No,’ said the Chinaman. ‘I was asking if any accident had happened to her.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mathieu, turning his back on the man.

He no longer even thought of protecting Ivich against herself: he was solely possessed by an anguished and violent desire to see her again. ‘She may have tried to kill herself. She is quite silly enough for that,’ he thought savagely. ‘After all, perhaps she was merely somewhere in Montmartre.’

‘To the Vavin Square,’ he said.

He re-entered the cab. His hands were trembling: he thrust them into his pockets. The taxi took the turn round the Medicis fountain, and Mathieu caught sight of Renata, Ivich’s Italian friend. She was coming out of the Luxemburg, with a portfolio under her arm.

‘Stop! Stop!’ shouted Mathieu to the chauffeur. He jumped out of the taxi and ran up to her.

‘Have you see Ivich?’

Renata assumed an air of dignity. ‘Good morning, Monsieur,’ she said.

‘Good morning,’ said Mathieu. ‘Have you seen Ivich?’

‘Ivich?’ said Renata. ‘Yes, I have.’

‘When?’

‘About an hour ago.’

‘Where?’

‘At the Luxemburg. She was in queer company,’ said Renata, rather superciliously. ‘You know she has failed, poor girl.’

‘Yes; where has she gone?’

‘They were going to dance somewhere. At the Tarantula, I think.’

‘Where is that?’

‘Rue Monsieur-le-Prince; under a gramophone-record shop, the dance-hall is in the basement.’

‘Thanks.’

Mathieu was hurrying away, when he turned back: ‘Excuse me, I had
also
forgotten to say good-bye.’

‘Good-bye, Monsieur,’ said Renata.

Mathieu returned to his chauffeur. ‘Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, it’s quite near. Drive slowly, I’ll stop you.’

‘If only she’s still there. I’ll comb all the
thés dansants
in the Quartier Latin.’

‘Stop — there it is. Wait a minute or two.’

Mathieu went into a record shop.

‘The Tarantula?’ he asked.

‘In the basement — down the stairs.’

Mathieu walked down a staircase, inhaling a cool mildewy odour, and pushed at one wing of a leather-covered door which swung back on to his stomach. Mathieu stood, leaning against the door-post, and thought: ‘She’s there.’

It was a gaunt and antiseptic cellar, completely devoid of shadow. A filtered light descended from oiled paper fittings in the ceiling. Mathieu saw about fifteen tables covered with cloths, marooned at the far end of this dead sea of light. The beige walls were plastered with bits of multi-coloured cardboard depicting exotic plants, which had already begun to crackle from the effects of the moisture, and the cacti were bulging with blisters. An invisible radio was broadcasting a
paso doble
, and the potted music made the hall seem even more denuded.

Ivich had laid her head on her partner’s shoulder, and was pressing close against him. He was a good dancer. Mathieu recognized him as the tall, dark-haired young man who had been with Ivich on the previous evening in the Boulevard Saint-Michel. He was breathing into Ivich’s hair, and kissing it from time to time. Then she would throw her head back and laugh, her face drained of colour, her eyes closed, while he whispered in her ear; they were alone in the middle of the dance-floor. At the far end of the room, four young men, and a girl violently made-up, clapped their hands and shouted: ‘Bravo!’ The tall dark fellow brought Ivich back to their table, with his arm round her waist, while the students buzzed around her; but there was an oddly awkward touch in their familiarity. They greeted her with warm, embracing gestures; but they kept their distance. The made-up lady held herself aloof. She stood, a heavy, listless figure, with, a fixed look in her eyes, lit a cigarette, and said pensively: ‘Bravo.’

Ivich dropped into a chair between the girl, and a short, fair-haired man with a frill of beard. She was laughing hysterically.

‘No, no,’ she said, waving a hand in front of her face. ‘No alibi! No need of an alibi!’

The bearded gentleman promptly rose to surrender his chair to the handsome dark-haired dancer. ‘That settles it,’ thought Mathieu. ‘They recognize his right to sit beside her.’ The dark handsome gentleman seemed to find this quite natural: he was indeed the only member of the party who seemed at ease.

Ivich pointed a finger at her bearded escort ‘He’s trying to escape, because I’ve promised to kiss him,’ she said, laughing.

‘Excuse me,’ said the bearded one with dignity. ‘You did not promise, you threatened.’

‘Well — I shan’t kiss you,’ said Ivich. ‘I shall kiss Irma.’

‘Do you really want to kiss me, Ivich darling?’ said the girl, surprised and flattered.

‘Yes — come here.’ She grasped her imperiously by the arm.

The others drew back, looking rather shocked, and someone said: ‘Look here, Ivich!’ in a gently remonstrative tone. The handsome, dark-haired gentleman eyed her with a thin-lipped, chilly smile: he was watching her. Mathieu felt humiliated: to this elegant young man, Ivich was merely a victim: he undressed her with a knowing sensual air, she was already naked to his vision, he had guessed the contours of her breasts and thighs, and the odour of her flesh... Mathieu shook himself abruptly, and walked towards Ivich, feeling rather weak at the knees: he had realized that he for the first time desired her, though little to his credit, through another man’s desire.

Ivich, after a good deal of attitudinizing, took the girl’s head in both hands, kissed her on the lips, and then repulsed her violently.

‘You smell of cachous,’ she said indignantly.

Mathieu planted himself beside their table.

‘Ivich,’ he said.

She looked at him open-mouthed, and he wondered if she recognized him. Slowly she raised her left hand and held it out: ‘So it’s you,’ she said, ‘Just look at that.’ She had torn off her bandages. Mathieu saw a reddish, sticky scar, edged with little dabs of yellow pus.

‘You’ve kept yours on,’ said Ivich in a voice of disappointment. ‘I forgot — you are a careful man.’

‘She tore it off in spite of us,’ said the girl, in a pleading tone. ‘She’s a little devil.’

Ivich rose abruptly, and looked darkly at Mathieu.

‘Take me away from here. I feel degraded.’

The young people looked at each other.

‘We haven’t been making her drink, you know,’ said the bearded youth to Mathieu. ‘Actually, we have tried to stop her.’

‘True enough,’ said Ivich, with disgust. ‘Children’s nurses — that’s what they are.’

‘Except me, Ivich,’ said the handsome dancer. ‘Except me.’

He eyed her with an air of secret understanding. Ivich turned to him, and said: ‘Except this fellow, and he’s a toad.’

‘Come along,’ said Mathieu quietly.

He put an arm round her shoulders, and drew her away; behind him rose a hum of consternation.

Half-way upstairs, Ivich began to droop.

‘Ivich!’ he pleaded.

She shook her curls mirthfully. ‘I want to sit down right here,’ she said.

‘Please —!’

Ivich began to gurgle and pulled her skirt up above her knees.

‘I want to sit down right here.’

Mathieu gripped her by the waist and dragged her out. When they were in the street, he let her go: she had not resisted. She blinked and looked sullenly about her.

‘Do you want to go back to your place?’ suggested Mathieu.

‘No!’ said Ivich emphatically.

‘Would you like me to take you to Boris’s?’

‘He isn’t there.’

‘Where is he?’

‘God knows.’

‘Then where do you want to go?’

‘How should I know? It’s for you to say, you took me away.’

Mathieu pondered for a moment.

‘All right,’ he said.

He gave her an arm as far as the taxi, and said: ‘12 Rue Huyghens.’

‘I’m taking you home with me,’ he said. ‘You can lie down on my sofa, and I’ll make you some tea.’

Ivich did not protest. She climbed stiffly into the cab, and collapsed on to the cushions.

‘Anything wrong?’ She was livid.

‘I’m ill,’ she said.

‘I’ll tell him to stop at a chemist’s,’ said Mathieu.

‘No!’ she said, violently.

‘Then lie back and shut your eyes,’ said Mathieu; ‘we shall soon be there.’

Ivich groaned a little. Suddenly her face turned green, and she leaned out of the window. Mathieu saw her small thin back shaken by gusts of vomiting. He reached out a hand, and quietly grasped the latch of the door: he was afraid that it might swing open. In a few moments, the coughing stopped. Mathieu drew back quickly, took out his pipe and filled it with an abstracted air. Ivich collapsed once more on to the cushions, and Mathieu put his pipe back in his pocket.

‘Here we are,’ he said.

Ivich sat up with an effort. ‘I feel so ashamed,’ she said.

Mathieu got out first, and held out his arms to her. But she pushed him aside, and jumped briskly out on to the pavement. He hurriedly paid the chauffeur, and turned towards her. She was eyeing him with a non-committal air: a faint, sour reek of vomit came from her delicate mouth. Mathieu inhaled it ecstatically.

‘Are you feeling better?’

‘I’m sober now,’ said Ivich gloomily. ‘But my head’s throbbing.’

Mathieu made her walk slowly upstairs.

‘Every step I take seems to go through my head,’ she said with a hostile air. On the third landing she stopped for a moment to recover her breath.

‘Now I remember everything.’

‘Ivich!’

‘Everything. I’ve been trailing about with those brutes and making an exhibition of myself. And I... I was ploughed in the P. C. B.’