Aimez-vous Brahms (8 page)

She imagined the tone in which people—her friends—would say: "Have you heard about Paule?" And more than fear of gossip, more than fear at the difference in their ages (which, as she very well knew, would be carefully emphasised), it was shame that gripped her. Shame at the thought of the gaiety with which people would spread the story, of the pep with which they would credit her, the appetite for life and young men, whereas she merely felt old and tired and in need of a little comforting. And it sickened her to think they were now in a position to treat her at once savagely and fawningly, as she had seen them treat others a hundred times over. They had called her "Poor Paule", because Roger was deceiving her, or spoken of her "mad independence"; when she had left a young, good-looking, boring husband they had condemned or pitied her. But they had never shown her the mixture of contempt and envy she was going to arouse this time.

12

C
ONTRARY
to Paule's belief, Simon did not sleep during their first night together. He restricted himself to holding her to him, his hand resting on a slight fold at her waist; he lay quite still, listening to her regular breathing and adapting his own to it. You have to be very much in love or very disgusted to feign sleep, he thought hazily; and he, who was accustomed only to the second condition, watched over Paule's sleep as zealously as the vestals guarding their sacred fire. Thus they spent their night side by side, each protecting the other's counterfeit sleep, fondly and thoughtfully, not daring to move.

Simon was happy. He felt more responsible for Paule, though she was fourteen years his senior, than for a sixteen-year-old virgin. While still marvelling at Paule's acquiescence and, for the first time, feeling that what had happened had been in the nature of a gift, he thought it indispensable that he should watch over her intently, as though to protect her in advance from the harm he might one day do her. He kept watch, he mounted guard against his own dastardliness, his clowning, his terrors, his sudden fits of boredom, his weakness. He would make her happy, he would be happy himself, and he told himself with amazement that he had never sworn such oaths even in the course of his greatest conquests.

Thus when morning came there were several false awakenings, first one, then the other—but never the two together—going through the motions of a yawn, a contented stretching of limbs. When Simon turned over or propped himself up on one elbow, Paule would instinctively bury herself under the sheets, afraid of what his expression might be—that first expression after the act of love, more commonplace and decisive than any gesture. And when, her patience now exhausted, she in turn started moving about, Simon—equally on his guard, though his eyes were closed, and already afraid of losing the happiness he had found in the night—held his breath. Finally she caught him looking at her from under his lids by the pallid daylight filtering through the curtains, and she froze, facing him. She felt old and ugly; she stared fixedly at him so that he should see her clearly, so that at least there should be no early morning uncertainties between them. Simon, his eyes still not properly open, smiled, murmured her name and slid beside her. "Simon," she said, and she stiffened, still trying to pass the night off as a caprice. He laid his head on her heart and gently kissed her, at the bend of the arm, on the shoulder, on the cheek, hugging her to him. "I dreamed of you," he said. "I shall never dream of anyone but you." She closed her arms about him.

Simon wanted to drive her to work, stipulating that he would drop her at the corner if she preferred. She replied, rather sadly, that she was not answerable to anyone, and there was a momentary silence between them. It was Simon who broke it.

"Won't you be free before six? Can you have lunch with me?"

"I haven't time," she said. "I shall have a sandwich in the shop."

"What am I going to do until six?" he groaned.

She looked at him. She was perturbed: could she tell him that there was no law which said they had to meet at six? On the other hand, the thought of his being there, outside the shop, impatient in his little car every evening brought her real happiness . . . Someone who waited for you every evening, someone who did not ring you up vaguely, at eight or after, when he felt like it. . . She smiled.

"How do you know I haven't a dinner engagement this evening?"

Simon, who was having difficulty with his cufflinks, stopped wrestling with them. After a moment he said: "True, I don't," in a neutral voice. He was thinking of Roger, of course! He thought only of Roger; he visualized him ready to reclaim his property; he was afraid. But she knew Roger was not thinking of her. The whole thing struck her as hateful. Let her at least be generous!

"I've no engagement this evening," she said. "Come here and let me help you with those."

She was sitting on the bed and he knelt in front of her, holding out his arms as if his sleeves had been fetters. He had a boy's wrists, smooth and slender. As she fastened the links, Paule suddenly had the feeling of having played this scene before. That's very theatrical, she thought, but she laid her cheek on Simon's hair with a small, happy laugh.

"And what am I going to do until six?" he persisted.

"I don't know . . . you're going to work."

"I shan't be able to," he said. "I'm too happy."

"That doesn't stop people from working!"

"Me it does. Besides, I know what I'll do. I'll drive around and think of you, then I'll lunch alone, thinking of you, and then I'll wait for six o'clock. I'm not one of your energetic types."

"What will your lawyer friend say?"

"I don't know. Why should I waste my time preparing for my future when only my present interests me. And overwhelms me," he added with a sweeping bow.

Paule shrugged. But Simon did exactly as he had said, that day and the days that followed. He motored about Paris, smiling at everyone; ten times he drove past Paule's shop, at ten miles an hour; he read a book, parking anywhere, laying it down at times to throw back his head and shut his eyes. He had the look of a happy sleepwalker, and this did not fail to move Paule and endear him to her more. She had the impression of giving and was amazed that this should suddenly strike her as almost indispensable.

* * *

Roger had been travelling for ten days, in appalling weather, rushing from one business dinner to another, and the northern province was symbolised for him by an interminable slippery road and the characterless interiors of restaurants. From time to time he put through a call to Paris, asking for two numbers at the same time, and listened to the complaints of Maisy-Marcelle before complaining to Paule—or after. He felt despondent, helpless, his life resembled this province. Paule's voice was changing, becoming at once more anguished and more distant; he wanted to see her again. He had never been able to spend a fortnight away from her without missing her. In Paris, of course, where he knew she was always ready to see him, always at his disposal, he could space out their meetings; but Lille restored her to him as she had been right at the beginning, when his life had depended entirely on hers and he had been as afraid of conquering her as he was now afraid of losing her. On the last day of his travels, he announced his return. There was a silence, then at once she resumed: "I've got to see you." The words had a final ring. He asked no questions, but arranged to meet her next day.

He returned to Paris that night and at two in the morning was outside Paule's. For the first time, he hesitated to go up. He was not sure of finding that same happy face, forcing itself to be calm, which his surprises usually prompted; he was afraid. He waited ten minutes, self-impeded, providing himself with poor excuses—"She'll be asleep, she works too hard," and so forth—then drove off. Outside his own flat, he hesitated again, then suddenly swung the car round and drove to Maisy's. She was asleep; waking, she thrust a puffy face towards him. She had been out very late, she said, with her inevitable producers . . . she was so happy ... as a matter of fact, she had just been dreaming about him, etc. He undressed rapidly and went straight off to sleep, despite her provocations. For the first time, he did not want her. At dawn he complied mechanically, laughed a little at her gossip and decided that everything was all right. He spent the morning in her flat and left her ten minutes before his rendezvous with Paule.

13

"I MUST make a 'phone call," said Paule. "After lunch will be too late."

Roger stood up as she left the table, and Paule gave him that brief, apologetic smile which she could not deny herself whenever she obliged him, through the conventions of society or of the heart, to put himself out for her. She thought of this with irritation as she walked down the dank stairway which led to the telephone. With Simon, it was different. He was so keen, so glad, so prompt to look after her, to open doors for her, to light her cigarettes, to anticipate her slightest wishes, that he had come to think of these things before she did, making them seem a series of attentions rather than obligations. That morning she had left him half-asleep, his arms round his pillow, his dark locks tousled, and she had written him a note: "Will ring at twelve." But at twelve she had met Roger and now she was amazed to find herself leaving him alone at table so as to telephone a lazy young lover. Would he notice? His brow was furrowed and anxious, as it always was on his off-days; he seemed older.

Simon picked up the receiver at once. He laughed the moment she said hullo, and she laughed too.

"You're awake, then?"

"I've been awake since eleven. It's one now. I've already rung the operator to find out whether the telephone was out of order."

"Why?"

"You were supposed to call me at twelve. Where are you?"

"At Luigi's. I'm about to have lunch."

"I see," said Simon.

There was a silence. In the end she added baldly: "I'm lunching with Roger."

"I see."

"Is that all you can say?" she said. " 'I see . . .' I shall be back at the shop by two-thirty at latest. What are you doing?"

"I'm going round to my mother's for some clothes," said Simon very quickly. "I'm coming back here to hang them up and then I'm going to get that water-colour that caught your eye in Desnos's."

For a moment she wanted to laugh. It was typical of Simon to run two sentences together like that.

"Why? Are you thinking of using my place as a changing-room?' '

At the same time she cast around for serious arguments to dissuade him. But what were they? He hardly ever left her, and she had not reproached him up to now . . .

"Yes," said Simon. "There are too many people hanging round you. I mean to be your watchdog, and for that I need clean clothes."

"We'll talk about it later," she said.

She had the impression she had been on the 'phone for an hour. Roger was upstairs alone. He was sure to ask questions, and she could not rid herself of a feeling of guilt.

"I love you," said Simon, before he hung up.

On her way out, she automatically gave her hair a quick comb in the cloakroom mirror. She was staring at a face to which someone said: "I love you."

Roger was drinking a cocktail and Paule was surprised, knowing that he never touched alcohol during the day.

"Is something wrong?"

"Why? Oh, the gin! No, I'm just tired."

"It's a long time since I've seen you," she said, and, as he rather absent-mindedly agreed, she felt the tears prick at her eyes. The day would come when they would say: "Is it two months since we met, or three?" And they would quietly tot it up. Roger, with his quaint gestures and his tired face, that childish look in spite of his strength, his near- cruelty . . . She averted her head. He was wearing his old grey jacket which she had seen, almost new, draped on a chair in her bedroom, at the start of their affair. He was very proud of it. He seldom gave much thought to being elegant, and anyway he was rather on the heavy side ever really to be so.

"A fortnight," she said calmly. "Are you well?"

"Yes. Not bad, anyway."

He broke off. No doubt he was waiting for her to say: "And how's work?", but she didn't. First she was going to have to tell him about Simon; then he would be able to confide in her without later having the feeling that he had made a fool of himself.

"Have you been enjoying yourself?" he said.

She froze. A pulse raced in her temples; she felt her heart wither. She heard herself say: "Yes, I've been seeing Simon. A lot."

"Ah!" said Roger. "That charming boy? Still stuck on you?"

She nodded her head slowly and once too often, without looking up.

"You still find him fun?" said Roger.

She raised her eyes, but it was his turn not to look at her: he was concentrating hard on his grapefruit. She thought: he has realised.

"Yes," she said.

"You find him fun? Or more than that?"

They were looking at each other now, all right. Roger laid down his spoon. With demented fondness she registered the two long lines beside his mouth, the impassive face, the faintly ringed blue eyes.

"More than that," she said.

Roger's hand strayed back to the spoon and closed on it. He has never known the proper way to eat a grapefruit, she thought. Time seemed at once to be standing still and whistling in her ears.

"I suppose there's nothing I can say," said Roger.

And at this she knew he was unhappy. Had he been happy, he would have remonstrated with her. But he sat there as though her admission were the final straw.

She murmured: "There was everything you could have said."

"You yourself put it in the past."

"To spare you, Roger. If I told you that everything still depends on you, what could you say?"

He said nothing. He stared at the table-cloth.

She continued: "You would tell me you are too taken up with your freedom, too frightened of losing it to . . . well, to make the necessary effort to get me back."

"I tell you I just don't know," snapped Roger. "Obviously I loathe the idea of your ... Is he gifted, at least?"