The Tenant (16 page)

One name flashed through his mind, bright and shining as the headlights of a car on a lonely road at night. Bright and shining as a star.

Stella.

She would not reject him, not Stella. She would simply ask him in, with no reticence, no foolish words. He was swept by a feeling of infinite tenderness for this girl, and his eyes filled with tears. Poor little Stella! So soft, so feminine, and as much alone in the world as he was himself. Stella, his guiding star.

He had a sudden mental picture of her, walking alone on a cold, deserted beach. The sea was lapping at her feet. She was walking very slowly, as if she were in pain; she must be extremely weary. Poor little Stella—how far had she had to walk like this? And now there were two men on the beach, wearing boots and helmets. Without saying a word, they went up to the solitary figure of the girl, their whole attitude betraying their arrogance and unconcern. She understood their intentions at once. She began to plead with them, she fell on her knees, imploring them for mercy, but they simply stared down at her, unmoved by her tears and cries. They took out their revolvers and fired several bullets into her head. The frail body collapsed on the sand, curled up into a tiny ball, and then was motionless. Stella was dead. The waves washed across her legs and the hem of her skirt. Poor Stella!

Trelkovsky was so overcome with pity that he was forced to hide his face in his handkerchief, attempting vainly to stem the flow of tears. Yes, he would take refuge with Stella.

He wandered through the neighborhood where she lived for a long time, because he could not remember the name of her street.

By the time he found it he was far less certain of his welcome than he had been at first. It was possible that she might not be at home. He had visions of standing in front of a closed door, after having climbed the stairs and knocked, consumed with hope and the thought of safety at last. And there would be no one there. He would knock again and again, unable to convince himself that there was no longer any hope. He would not dare go away, for fear she might open the door after he had left.

He told himself that he must try to imagine every possible eventuality, so that fate could not take him by surprise. It was an old and firmly rooted belief of Trelkovsky’s that fate only intervened in cases of utmost emergency. Thus, if you could foresee misfortune and plan ahead, it could be avoided. He set himself to considering all of the possibilities.

She might not be alone. She would open the door, just enough for him to see that she was lightly draped in a robe or dressing gown, and would not ask him to come in. He would be left standing on the threshold, fidgeting with embarrassment, not knowing what to do next. And finally he would turn and run away, scarlet with confusion, angry with her and with himself.

She might also be ill, and there would be members of her family or friends staying with her. She would not recognize him, because of the fever, and the others would regard him suspiciously, as if he were some kind of criminal intent on taking advantage of a helpless girl.

It was not at all impossible that the door would be opened by a man or a woman he had never seen before.

“Mademoiselle Stella, if you please,” he would ask timidly, and the stranger would reply, “Stella? I don’t know anyone by that name. Stella who? Oh—the other tenant! She left yesterday. No, she won’t be coming back. She’s moved—we’re the new tenants. No, I don’t know her new address.”

As it turned out, however, it was Stella herself who opened the door for him. There were little flecks of yellowish matter caught in the corners of her eyes, and her whole appearance somehow conveyed an odor of a bedroom and of dried sweat. She held the two ends of her dressing gown around her with one hand, while the other still rested on the doorknob.

“Am I disturbing you?” he said stupidly.

She shrugged slightly. “No. I was sleeping.”

“I wanted to ask if you could do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Could I stay here with you for two or three days? I wouldn’t be any trouble, but if you can’t do it, just say so. I wouldn’t blame you.”

Stella lifted a finger to clear the yellowish matter from her eyes, and stared at him in surprise. Then she shrugged again. “No,” she said, “it wouldn’t be any trouble. Are you having problems?”

Trelkovsky nodded. “Yes. Nothing serious, though. It’s just that I don’t have an apartment any more.”

“You haven’t slept tonight,” Stella said, and smiled. “You look tired. I’m going back to bed myself—if you want to sleep . . .”

“Yes, thank you . . .” he murmured, abruptly conscious of his exhaustion.

He undressed slowly, as slowly as possible. Dear, sweet little Stella! He wanted to savor the simplicity and kindness of her presence. She had acted exactly as he had hoped she would. When he took off his socks he noticed that his feet were dirty.

“I’m going to freshen up a little,” he said, but she was already back in bed.

When he joined her there, her eyes were closed. Was she really sleeping? Or had she wanted him to know that she was allowing him to sleep here, but only to sleep? His uncertainty was of short duration, because a moment later her soft hands were caressing his body. He wrapped his arms around her gratefully, holding her very close.

When she got up next morning, he opened one eye, more for courtesy than any other reason. She kissed him lightly on the ear.

“I have to go to work,” she whispered. “I’ll be back about eight o’clock tonight. It would be better if the neighbors don’t see you. If you go out, try to do it without being seen.”

“All right,” he said.

Then she was gone, and he was instantly wide awake, freed of any further need for sleep. He had done it! He was saved! He had an overpowering sense of well-being and security. He made a complete tour of the apartment, smiling blissfully at everything he saw. It was delightful here; it was neat, tidy, and reassuring. He spent the day reading and continuing his exploration of Stella’s private domain. He didn’t go out at all, not even to eat. He would have had to be a complete fool to leave this miraculous haven!

Stella came back at seven-thirty, carrying a string bag filled with provisions. Two bottles of wine clinked cheerfully together in its recesses, as if they were toasting each other.

“I don’t have the time to do any real cooking,” Stella explained as she took off her coat, “so I always buy canned things. I’m a great chef with cans!”

He watched her as she began preparations for their dinner, feeling so filled with tenderness for her that he was almost sad.

“I adore canned things,” he murmured, and after that he contented himself with just watching her as she came and went in the room. He was thinking of her thighs and her breasts. And to think that she had put all of this at his disposition, with no attempt at bargaining or haggling. He remembered the line of her back and her shoulders, finding it hard to believe that all of this body was actually there, occupied with preparing his dinner. Adorable Stella! He wondered why he could not remember her navel, and closed his eyes, trying to call up a picture of it. In vain. He had forgotten it.

She was setting the table, and her back was momentarily turned to him. He walked up to her, very quietly, and surprised her with a kiss on the shoulder. His hands imprisoned her breasts and then moved slowly down along her sides as he turned her around to face him. He found the opening that separated her sweater from the skirt, and the snaps that held the skirt yielded one by one to his insistent pressure. His eyes were on a level with her navel now. He kissed it passionately, and then studied it for a long time, wanting to engrave every detail of it in his memory. She leaned forward slightly to see what he was doing. She had certainly thought that his intentions were quite different, and he had no wish to deceive her.

The next day, while Stella was at work, someone knocked at the door. He did not go to open it, but the visitor refused to be discouraged. He simply went on knocking, at the same regular cadence, with no appearance of impatience. The sound became exasperating. Trelkovsky got down on his hands and knees and crawled over to the door, peering anxiously through the keyhole. He could see nothing but a small square of an overcoat, buttoned over a fairly portly figure. It was a man.

“There’s no one home?” he heard the visitor say.

The blood seemed to drain from Trelkovsky’s face, his neck, even his shoulders, leaving him white and shaken.

He had recognized the voice. It was Monsieur Zy!

So they had followed him!

Impossible! He had taken all kinds of precautions. What could have happened? Did Monsieur Zy know Stella personally? And he didn’t know that Trelkovsky had taken refuge with her? But in that case, he would certainly learn about it, even though Stella did not know his address and had no reason to suppose that he knew Monsieur Zy. Unless . . .

He shuddered.

Suppose it was Stella who was responsible—suppose Stella had cold-bloodedly betrayed him, to punish him for having lied to her about the apartment? But how could she have learned his address? He clapped a hand to his mouth, just in time to stifle a cry of rage. In his pockets! She had gone through his pockets, the little cheat!

There would surely have been one or two letters, and that would have been enough to tell her everything. She had been a friend of Simone Choule’s, she probably knew the neighbors, so she would have understood what Trelkovsky’s “problems” really were. She had betrayed him to get revenge.

That must be it, because if Monsieur Zy actually did know Stella, he would know that she worked during the day and there was no one in her apartment then. He had come here solely because of Trelkovsky . . .

The hypothesis he had fleetingly considered, and then rejected, was the correct one after all. Stella was one of the neighbors!

She had been charged with his capture from the very beginning, ordered to lead him back to the slaughter! The mere thought of it frightened him. It was too monstrous, too horrible to be believed. But the more he thought of it, the more it seemed the obvious solution. He had been trapped from the first. And what a fool he had been!

Standing here whispering, “Poor little Stella—dear little Stella!” He should have bitten off his tongue. He had felt sorry for someone who was trying to kill him! Why hadn’t he felt sorry for Monsieur Zy and all the rest of the neighbors, while he was at it?

When he thought of his tenderness toward the girl—she must have had a good laugh from that, the little whore! And for all he knew, she might even be the one who had murdered Simone Choule. And she said she was her best friend!

Monsieur Zy had finally stopped knocking. Trelkovsky listened to the sound of his footsteps, hesitant at first, as if he could not quite make up his mind to leave, seeming to turn back, and then vanishing.

He would have to flee, again. But what would he do about money?

Furiously, he set to work searching Stella’s apartment, pulling out the drawers of the chest, hurling the mattress on the floor, ripping the photographs and prints from the walls. He found some money hidden away in an old handbag. Not very much, but enough to go to a hotel. Without a shadow of remorse, he stuffed it all into his pocket. The little bitch deserved worse than this!

He opened the door as noiselessly as possible, and explored the landing and stairway before venturing out. Everything seemed to be perfectly normal, and a few seconds later he was out of the building and safely in the street.

To elude any possible pursuers, he took several different taxis, and when at last he was certain that no one could have followed him, he went into the first hotel he saw. It was the Hotel des Flandres, located just behind the Gare du Nord.

He signed a false name to the hotel register—Monsieur Trelkof, from Lille—but fortunately no one asked for his identification papers. He began to breathe a trifle more easily. Perhaps he could find some way of escaping them, even now.

16
The Accident

T
relkovsky paced up and down in the room, like a caged animal. Occasionally, he went over and peered through the window, which looked out on a kind of deep pit with walls pierced here and there by windows. The room was on the sixth floor, but received little direct light, since all of the surrounding buildings were taller than the hotel. For the rest of the day, he went out only to go to the toilet, which was down at the end of a gloomy corridor. He went to bed very early.

He woke up in the middle of the night, of course, his body cold and damp with fear. He had had a whole series of horrible nightmares. Lying in bed with his eyes open, he searched the shadows around him, trying to find some steadying, reassuring objects. But the reality was at least as threatening as the nightmares. Having swallowed up all of the familiar shapes of the furniture, the darkness took on the aspect of some unearthly challenge: within this nothingness something monstrous and unknown was surely being spawned. The room had become a kind of breeding ground for monsters. For the moment, nothing specific could be detected, but that would not last. Like a communicating vessel in a chemist’s laboratory, Trelkovsky’s overflowing brain would spill its terrors into the void of the room, and as they passed from one recipient to the other they would take form and substance. The monsters Trelkovsky had foreseen would be living organisms, preparing to feed on their creator. He must not go on thinking like this; it was too dangerous.

By the time morning came, he had made up his mind that he must somehow acquire a weapon.

This was easy enough to say, but how was he to obtain it? He had read enough mystery novels to know that he would have to have a permit to carry a gun. Any arms shop he might go to would ask for it before he had a chance to finish his question, and when they found he did not have it they would simply refuse to sell to him. It was even possible that they would tell him to follow them to the nearest police station, or detain him in the shop on some pretext until the police could get there. And as for going to the police station and requesting the issuance of a permit to him, how would he justify it? If he reported the details of the neighbors’ plot against him, they would think he was crazy. They might even try to send him to an asylum.