Three Bedrooms in Manhattan (17 page)

That day, he experienced such deep happiness that he knew no one could see him and not notice it.

It was so simple. It was simply beautiful!

He still had some nagging worries, like the pangs of a convalescent, but he was entirely enveloped by an immense serenity.

She would come back. Life would begin again.

That was all.

And all he had to do was think:
She'll come back, she'll come back. Life will begin again.

He didn't want to laugh, to smile, to dance, but he was happy, calm, dignified. And he didn't want to start worrying.

The fears were obviously ridiculous, right?

The letter was written three days ago … In three days who knows what could happen?

He used to try to imagine the apartment Kay shared with Jessie, before he'd actually seen it, and of course he'd been entirely wrong. Now he imagined the vast embassy in Mexico City, with Larski, whom he'd never seen, sitting in his office in front of Kay.

What had he proposed to her that she'd accepted without accepting, that she wouldn't tell him about until later?

Would she call again tonight? At what time?

Because she didn't know. He'd been silent on the telephone. She knew nothing of what had been going on inside him. She still didn't know he was in love with her.

How could she know, since he himself hadn't known until a few hours ago!

So, what would happen next? Would they still be in tune with each other? He wanted to tell her the news, to explain everything right now.

Since her daughter was out of danger, why didn't she come home? Why was she wasting time down there anyhow, surrounded by all those dreary, hostile presences?

And her idea of disappearing without a trace, just because she'd hurt him and would hurt him again!

No, no! He had to explain…

Everything was different now. She had to know. Otherwise she might do something stupid.

He was happy, he was awash in happiness, tomorrow's happiness, the happiness of a few days later, but which he felt, for now, almost as anguish, since it wasn't in his grip yet, and he was terrified it would slip away.

A plane crash, for instance. He'd have to ask her not to fly home. But then he'd be waiting another forty-eight hours or more … Are there that many more plane crashes than train wrecks?

He'd talk to her about it, at least. He could go out, since she'd told him she wouldn't call until tonight.

Laugier had been an idiot. That wasn't the right word. He'd been perfidious. Because the way he had talked the other evening had been nothing short of perfidious. Because he, too, must have sensed what Kay had described, that aura of love that enrages people who aren't in love.

“In a pinch we might get her a job as an usherette …”

Not his exact words, but that was what he'd said about Kay!

Combe didn't have a drink all day. He didn't want to drink. He stayed calm, savoring his tranquility—because in spite of everything, it was tranquility.

Only at six in the evening did he decide to go see Laugier at the Ritz—though now he felt he'd known all along that he was going to do it—not so much to confront him as to show him just how tranquil he was.

Things might have turned out differently if Laugier had laughed at him, as he'd expected him to, or just been a trifle less aggressive.

There was a crowd at the bar, including the young American girl from the time before.

“How are things, old boy?”

Just a quick look. Self-satisfied, the handshake slightly warmer than usual, as if to say: “See? All over and done with. What did I tell you?”

Did the idiot think it was finished, that he'd left Kay?

And that was that—no use talking about it. The whole thing was over and done with. Combe was once more a man like any other.

Did they really believe that?

Well, Combe didn't want to be a man like any other. They were just pitiful—that was what he needed to feel. He missed Kay so much that a wave of dizziness swept over him.

It was impossible that they hadn't noticed. Or was he really normal, like these people that he despised?

He acted normally, accepted first one and then a second manhattan, and talked to the American girl, who was getting lipstick all over the tip of a cigarette and asking him about his work onstage in Paris.

He longed desperately, almost painfully, for Kay to be there, and yet he behaved like any other man, surprising himself by showing off, talking about his theatrical successes with more animation than he should have.

The rat-faced man wasn't there. There were other people he didn't know who claimed to have seen his films.

He wanted to talk about Kay. He had her letter in his pocket and, at times, he would have pulled it out and read it to whoever would listen—that American girl, for instance, though he had hardly noticed her the week before.

They don't know
, he said to himself.
They couldn't know
.

Obediently he drank the cocktails that were set down before him. He thought:
Three more days, four at most. She'll call me again tonight, and she'll sing our song.

He was in love with Kay, no doubt about it. He'd never loved her more than he did that night. And that very night he was going to discover a new dimension to their love, perhaps its very essence.

But everything was still confused and would stay confused, like a bad dream.

The self-satisfied smile on Laugier's lips, for instance, the ironic light in his eyes. Why was Laugier making fun of him now? Because he was talking to the American girl?

Fine, he'd talk to her about Kay. He no longer knew how it had happened, how their conversation had strayed onto this particular topic.

Ah, yes! She'd asked him, “You're married, aren't you? Is your wife here with you in New York?”

And he spoke about Kay. He told her that he had come to New York alone, and loneliness had made him understand the priceless value of human contact.

That was the phrase he'd used, and at this moment it seemed to him so charged with meaning that, in the heat of the Ritz, in the middle of the noisy crowd, with a glass before him that he kept draining, it was like a revelation.

He'd been alone and terribly unhappy. And he'd met Kay. And immediately they'd experienced the most intense intimacy imaginable.

Because they'd been so starved for human contact.

“You don't understand, do you? You couldn't understand.”

And then the smile from Laugier, who was at the next table, chatting with a producer.

Combe was sincere, passionate. He was full to overflowing with Kay. He remembered the first time they had fallen into each other's arms, knowing nothing about each other except that they were both starved for human contact.

He repeated the phrase, tried to find its equivalent in English. The American girl watched him with eyes that grew thoughtful.

“In three days, maybe sooner if she takes a plane, she'll be here.”

“How happy she must be.”

He wanted to talk about her. Time was passing too quickly. The bar was emptying, and Laugier stood, holding out his hand.

“I'm off, kids. By the way, François, will you be good enough to see June home?”

Combe had a vague feeling he was the object of a conspiracy, but he wouldn't believe it.

Hadn't Kay given him everything a woman possibly could?

Two wandering creatures, set apart on the surface of the globe, lost in the thousand identical streets of a city like New York.

And fate brings them together. And just a few hours later, they were so tightly bound to each other that the idea of ever being apart again is intolerable to them.

Wasn't it a miracle?

It was that miracle he was trying to explain to June, who looked at him with eyes in which he read a yearning for the worlds he was opening up for her.

“Which way are you going?”

“I don't know. I'm not in any hurry.”

So he took her to his little bar. He needed to go there, but he didn't have the strength, that night, to go alone.

June wore a fur, too, and she, too, took his arm just like that.

It was a little like having Kay there. Hadn't they talked about Kay and nothing else?

“Is she pretty?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“She's very exciting. She's beautiful. You'd have to see her. She's
the
woman, you see? No, you don't understand. A woman who's seen a lot of life but has stayed a child. Let's go in here. I want you to hear …”

He fumbled in his pocket for nickels and played the song, looking at June and hoping that she'd feel everything that it had meant to
them
.

“Two manhattans, please.”

He knew he shouldn't go on drinking, but it was too late to stop. He was so moved by the music that tears came to his eyes, and June stroked his hand as if to comfort him.

“You shouldn't cry. She's coming back.”

He clenched his fists.

“But don't you understand that I can't wait anymore, that two days, three days is an eternity?”

“Hush! People are looking at you.”

“I'm sorry.”

He was too wound up. He didn't want to relax. He played the record once, twice, three times, then again, and each time he ordered more cocktails.

“At night we'd walk up and down Fifth Avenue for hours.”

He was tempted to do the same with June, just to show her, so she could share all his anxieties and fears.

“I'd love to meet Kay,” she said, staring into space.

“You'll meet her. I'll introduce you.” He meant it. He said it without regret. “There are so many places in New York now where I can't bear to go to alone.”

“I understand.”

She took his hand again. And she looked moved, too.

“Let's go,” she said.

Go where? He didn't want to go to bed alone in his room. He had no idea what time it was.

“I know! I'll take you to a nightclub where Kay and I used to go.”

And in the taxi, she nestled against him, slipping her bare hand into his.

Then it seemed to him—no, it was too hard for him to find the right words. It seemed to him Kay wasn't just Kay, but everybody in the world, all the love in the world.

June didn't understand. Her head was on his shoulder, and he breathed in a perfume he didn't recognize.

“Promise me you'll let me introduce her to you.”

“Of course.”

They walked into the Number One bar, where the pianist was still trailing his fingers over the keyboard. She walked ahead like Kay, with the same instinctive pride of a woman carrying a man in tow. She sat down, and, like Kay, shrugged her fur off her shoulders, opened her purse, found a cigarette, searched for her lighter.

Was she, too, going to speak to the maître d'?

It was late, and there were traces of fatigue under her eyes—like Kay. Her cheeks had begun to sag under her makeup.

“Do you have a light? My lighter's out.”

She blew out the match and laughed smoke into his face. A moment later, she leaned over and brushed his neck with her lips.

“Tell me more about Kay.”

But suddenly she grew impatient. She stood up and said, “Let's go.”

Once again, where? Except that now they both sensed the answer. They were in Greenwich Village, not far from Washington Square. She was clinging to his arm, leaning against him as they walked, and he could feel her thigh pressing against his at every step.

And she was Kay. In spite of everything, it was Kay he was seeking, it was Kay he was touching, it was even Kay he heard when she spoke to him in a low voice, a little thick.

They stopped at his door. For an instant he stood motionless. He closed his eyes for a second. Then, with a gentle gesture, as if resigned to the inevitable, but also with a kind of pity for him, for her, and even more for Kay, he pushed her to go through the door.

She climbed the stairs a few steps ahead of him. There was a run in her stocking, too.

“Farther up?”

Of course she didn't know! She stopped on the next-to-last stair, averting her eyes.

He opened the door and reached for the switch.

“No. Please don't turn on the light.”

The room was faintly illuminated by the pale, too-focused light of street lamps that is the essence of night in the city.

He felt the fur, the silk dress, the warm body, and at last, the two moist lips seeking to mold themselves to his.

Kay
…he thought.

Then they went under.

They lay without speaking or moving, body against body. Neither slept, and they both knew the other was awake. Combe's eyes were open, and beside him he saw the vague shape of a cheek and a nose that were a little shiny with sweat.

They knew they had to go on waiting in silence. Then there was a sudden explosion of noise—the telephone ringing so loudly that they both jumped, not even realizing what had happened.

Combe panicked, fumbling idiotically in the dark for the instrument he'd answered only once before. June switched on the bedside lamp.

“Hello…yes.”

He didn't recognize his own voice. He stood naked and stupid in the middle of the room, holding the receiver in his hand.

“François Combe, yes …”

June got out of bed and whispered, “Where do you want me to go?”