I'll Never Be Young Again (26 page)

‘I like the way you describe things,’ she said; ‘it’s funny, but it’s nice. I know what you mean about smiling and an old woman selling flowers. It’s being happy for no reason. Do you put all that in your book?’

‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘my book is very serious, there wouldn’t be any point. I guess it would look silly written on paper.’

‘I suppose it would,’ she said.

‘D’you know, I can’t remember when I last talked like this,’ I said, ‘but it seems a long while ago.’

‘I expect you get out of the way of it; always writing your book, you don’t have time for people.’

‘No, it’s not only that. The fact is, I don’t know anyone.’

‘That’s isn’t very nice for you,’ she said.

‘I haven’t exactly thought whether it was nice or not,’ I told her, ‘it just happened that way. Maybe it’s all wrong, maybe I ought to go about a bit, see places and do things.’

‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to,’ she said.

‘It’s all right for you,’ I said, ‘you aren’t lonely ever, you can always talk and go around with girls.’

‘Oh! girls . . .’ she said, and shrugged her shoulders, ‘I haven’t much use for them, I’d rather be by myself.’

‘I wish it was real spring, and not just the beginning,’ I said; ‘it’s still cool to be out of doors a long time. If it was real spring, and you hadn’t anything else to do, we could get a train out to Versailles; we could walk a bit in the gardens.’

‘I like Versailles,’ she told me, not committing herself.

‘There’s a whole crowd of places to see,’ I went on, ‘round and about Paris. Even if you’ve seen them once, you can always see them again. Gosh! I think Paris is wonderful. I wish I were rich though, I wish I had a car.’

‘Perhaps you’ll get a lot of money for your book,’ she suggested.

I did not want to talk about my book so much as I had before.

‘Oh! I don’t know about that,’ I said, ‘but if I had a car I could drive you right out in the country if you liked; you’d be able to stroll around. Why, Fontainebleau Forest will be looking splendid soon, the trees and everything.’

‘What about your work?’ she said.

‘It’s not so important I can’t leave it now and again,’ I told her. ‘Why, it’s bad to get stale, to get in a rut. That’s a fatal thing to do. Do you study your music every day?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘You should take a holiday now and again and go to it fresh,’ I said.

‘Well, I don’t stick at it solidly for hours on end, I have my lessons at stated times, and then I go back and practise. I come out to lunch, like I’m doing now; then sometimes I have shopping to do, one or two things to get, or I wander about or I go into a cinema.’

‘I’ve not been inside a cinema all the time I’ve been in Paris. I guess I never thought about it before. We might go this afternoon? ’

‘No - I’ve got my music.’

‘Listen, you can chuck it for once.’

‘No, I have a lesson.’

‘That’s too bad. You’re mighty conscientious, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t know.’

She called the
garçon
for her bill.

‘I wish you’d let me pay this,’ I said. She looked at me in surprise. ‘Don’t be absurd,’ she said.

‘No, honestly I mean it,’ I went on.

‘Certainly not; thank you very much all the same,’ she said.

‘Perhaps you’re annoyed with me for suggesting it,’ I said; ‘maybe you think we haven’t known each other very long.’

‘Oh! it’s not that. I don’t want to be churlish. But I like to be independent.’

She was gathering up her things, her bag and her music-case. She was more aloof now than ever. I did not seem to know her at all.

‘I’m sorry about the music lesson,’ I said, ‘but I do hope I shall see you here lunching again. Do you ever go up to the Dôme or the Rotonde for a drink?’

‘I go there sometimes,’ she said.

‘I’ve never seen you there.’

‘Well, it’s big.’

‘I’d have noticed, though.’

She was good when she stood up. She was small, and thin. She wore a sort of brown suit. She pulled her orange béret over one side, showing her left ear.

‘Would you be at the Dôme tomorrow?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’d give you some tea, or coffee or something.’

‘That’s nice of you.’

‘If you’re not there tomorrow perhaps you’d be there the day after, or some time during the week?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s fine. Why, if it goes on keeping warm like this, we could go out to Versailles one day.’

She smiled vaguely, looking over my head.

‘I shall be late for my lesson,’ she said, and then she held out her hand and shook mine gravely, politely, as though we were two people in a drawing-room.

‘Good-bye,’ she said, ‘and good luck with the book.’

Then she turned and walked away down the long
allée
between the tables and turned the corner, and so out through the swing doors of the Coupole, her back very straight and slim.

I sat there thinking I might have walked with her as far as her music place. Perhaps it was quite a long way. I called the
garçon
and paid my bill and hurried out into the street, but I did not see any sign of her, and I did not know which way she would have gone. The sky had clouded over a little since the morning, but it was not cold.There were a good many people sitting outside the Dôme. I saw a fellow in a straw hat. Well, anyway, I had got to go back to my room and work. This was the day when I had promised myself to start really seriously. The winter was gone; it was March; there was not any excuse, and I felt fine, too. I ought to sit down and work until about eight o’clock in the evening. This gentleness, this little breeze, this kick in the air, had given me the grandest feeling. I had awakened in the morning knowing I would be able to work at last, and I had not changed at all since then. The air was marvellous. I was not hungry. I was not cold. It was fun talking to that girl. I’d go to the Dôme tomorrow about four o’clock. It would be fun if she made a point of going there often, at a certain fixed time, so if I got away from work I should know where to find her. It would be great if she went there every day, if we always had a certain table by the brazier. The
garçon
would know, he would keep it for us. I’d tell her about my book. She could talk about her music too. Maybe she would be able to get away into the country after all, one Sunday, surely. She’d like the forest at Fontainebleau. Especially if she was fond of the country. She really ought to see it.

Still, here I was back in the Rue du Cherche-Midi. It was a good thing I was so close to the Boulevard Montparnasse. I should not care much to live anywhere else.

I went upstairs to my room, and I leant out of my window. There was still a clean sweet smell, the clouds had not made any difference. A chair-mender came along the street, halting every now and then, blowing his thin bugle, gazing up towards the windows. A chained dog in a yard somewhere started to bark. He hated the noise. I could hear the grinding of a tram away on the boulevard. Then I shut the window and sat down at the table, searching for my pen, fumbling amongst my papers. There was a whole lot of stuff that ought to be written. I lit a cigarette, and began to concentrate, stabbing at the blotting paper with my nib, drawing little figures. It was queer, though; somehow I did not feel so much like working after all.

4

I
went to the Dôme next day at four o’clock, but the girl was not there. I hung around for a good while, too. Perhaps she had been kept at her music lesson. Still, we had not made any definite plans. She did not have to be there, of course. I went the next day, too, and the next. I kept crossing over from the Dôme to the Rotonde in case she should be sitting at one end and I at the other, and I should miss her. She was not at either, though. I suppose she could not manage it. I walked one evening down the Boulevard Raspail to try and see if I could find her pension. I did not really go there because of that; it just occurred to me as I went along. I thought I might as well walk down the Boulevard Raspail as anywhere else. I could not see the place, though. One evening at the end of the week I went to the Dôme about six o’clock. It had been raining all the afternoon. I had stayed in my room and worked, in my fashion. I went out about six because the rain had stopped and I wanted a breath of air. I passed the Dôme more from habit than anything else; I did not have any real hope that she would be there. I stood on the pavement and bought a paper from the bawling fellow who sold them here every evening. I did not really want to read it. Then something made me look up, and I saw the top of an orange béret behind a crowd of tables in the Dôme. She was sitting right in the corner. I crumpled up my paper and pushed my way through to her. She was reading a book, and crumbling a
brioche
in her fingers. I had to touch her on the shoulder before she looked up.

‘Why,’ I said excitedly, ‘whatever did you stick yourself back here for? It was just a piece of luck I saw you. I happened to raise my head, and spotted your orange béret. Well, how are you?’

She stared at me, marking the place in her book with one finger.

‘What?’ she said.

I stood on one leg, grinning stupidly, feeling a fool. I had somehow thought meeting her again would be different from this.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I expect I startled you. Only I’ve been here every evening hoping to see you, and been disappointed, and now I have seen you it got me kind of excited for a moment - I didn’t think.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said; ‘sit down,’ and she smiled.

That was better. I drew a chair up next to her, and I smiled too.

‘What’s your book?’ I said, not caring, and looking at her.

‘It’s nice,’ she said; ‘it’s one of Kessel’s. I always like his things. Do you know it?’

‘No.’ I fluttered the pages vaguely. ‘No, I’m not much good at reading French.’

‘I suppose you read a lot in English?’ she said.

‘No, not really, I don’t get much time,’ I said.

I did not want to talk about reading. ‘What have you been doing since I saw you the other day?’ I said.

‘The same as usual, music lessons, practising - Oh! I went to a cinema, and I had dinner up in Montmartre the evening before last.’

‘Did you? Why didn’t you come here?’

‘I never thought.’

‘Didn’t you once think of coming here?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Why did you come today, then?’

‘I was up this way.’

It was rotten to think she could have come if she had wanted, and she just had not bothered, and I had been hanging round every evening.

‘Did you go in a party?’ I said.

‘Oh! No - just two girls from the pension.’

I was glad about that. It had probably been quite dull.

‘How’s the writing going?’ she asked.

‘The writing? About the same. I’ve worked most days, on and off. Listen, you’re going to have a drink with me, aren’t you? You’ll have another cup then - here, where’s that fellow gone to - or would you rather have something else?’

‘I’m not thirsty.’

‘Sure. What? Oh! yes, rather.
Un autre chocolat
. Listen, what were we talking about? I say, I’m terribly glad to see you. I might have missed you but for your orange béret. Always wear it when you come here. I love this place, don’t you? Look at that chap with the ginger hair - he’s crazy. Gosh, this is fun - that
chocolat
looks rotten, have something else. Are you sure you aren’t cold?’

She shook her head, biting her lip.

‘I’m all right,’ she said.

‘You’re laughing. Why are you laughing? I guess I’m a fool.’

‘No - it’s nothing. I wasn’t laughing. Go on talking.’

There did not seem anything to say, though. I felt I had been stupid. I sat in silence, watching her drink her
chocolat
. After a while I forgot about being stupid, and I went on talking.

‘Tell me what you did in Montmartre. Was it a good party?’

‘I told you it wasn’t a party,’ she said.

‘Oh no, nor it was. Did you like it, where did you dine, was it full of Americans? That’s the worst of Montmartre, you can’t avoid them. It’s bad enough here. Wasn’t yesterday a marvellous day? I thought you might have been here yesterday. I wondered what you were doing.’

‘I went after my lesson to have tea near the Trocadéro,’ she said.

‘Did you? Where did you go? I know the Rue de la Tour; the tram stops round there on the way to Boulogne. Did you take the tram 16? I wish I’d known.’

‘Were you there yesterday too?’

‘No, but I’d have imagined you going along in the tram. Do you ever walk in the Bois? I wish it was summer, March is a dud month. There’s a whole lot of things people can do in the summer.’

‘What things?’ she asked.

‘Oh! I don’t know. Sort of mucking about. I’d like to get one of those funny steamer boats and go up the Seine to St Cloud. Did you see it when it was all frozen in February? It was great. The Seine, I mean. Like an Arctic picture. Have a cigarette - you don’t have to go yet, do you?’

‘No,’ she glanced at her watch.

‘That’s fine.We’ll go inside if you get cold. I say - you couldn’t have dinner with me, could you?’

‘Not this evening; thank you, though.’

‘Will you another evening?’

‘I might perhaps - I’ll have to see.’

‘What sort of a place is this pension of yours? It sounds rotten. Do they let you out on time or what?’

‘No, it’s not so bad, really.’

‘I’m hanged if I’d live in a pension. Do they treat you like a kid? How old are you - or mustn’t I ask that?’

‘I’m nineteen,’ she said.

‘Are you? In some ways you look younger than that, in other ways older. I don’t know . . . Here, I’m being rude, aren’t I?’

‘No, I don’t mind.’