Monsieur Monde Vanishes (6 page)

Somebody was walking about. Loud footsteps that seemed to go right through him, a floor reverberating cruelly, a door opening and shutting, an agonizing silence; he was aware of two people face to face, two people looking one another up and down, who were both on the very verge of tragedy.

“No!”

He passed his hand over his face, and his face was dry; he passed it over the pillow, without encountering the damp patch under his chin. His eyelids were smarting, but it was from fatigue, and perhaps, too, from the soot of the train; and the train was responsible, too, for the ache in his limbs.

Who had said “No”? He sat up, his eyes wide open, and saw a slender ray of light under a door, the door next to his in a Marseilles hotel whose name he had forgotten.

The man who had said “No” was striding back and forth on the other side of the wall. The catch of a suitcase clicked open.

“Jean!”

“I said no!”

“Please, Jean! Listen to me! Let me explain, at least.…”

“No!”

The words came from outside, from out of the night. The man's movements were quick and unhesitating. Probably he was taking his scattered belongings out of the wardrobe and cramming them into the suitcase.… Probably the woman was clinging to him, for there was a soft thud followed by a moan. He must have pushed her away, and she had collapsed somewhere or other.

“Jean, listen to me.…”

She must have been frantic. For her, too, the petty considerations of everyday life and conventional behavior no longer existed.

“I'll explain.… I swear to you.…”

“Slut!”

“Yes, I'm a slut.… You're right.… But …”

“D'you want to wake up the whole hotel?”

“I don't care.… If there were a hundred people here it wouldn't stop me from going on my knees to you and begging you to forgive me, imploring you.…”

“Shut up.…”

“Jean!”

“Shut up, d'you hear?”

“I didn't do it on purpose, I promise you.…”

“Oh no! It was all my fault.…”

“I needed a breath of air.…”

“You needed a man, that's all.…”

“It's not true, Jean.… For three days I hadn't stirred from this room, I'd been looking after you like.…”

“Like a mother, I suppose you're going to say, you trollop.”

“You were asleep, and I went out for a moment.…”

“To hell with you!”

“You won't go away, will you? … You're not going to leave me alone? … I'd rather you killed me.…”

“That's what I feel like doing.…”

“Well then, kill me.…”

“You're not worth it.… Let me go.… D'you hear?”

He must have pushed her away once again, she must have fallen onto the floor, there was a silence, then the voice, whose pathetic tone had already become monotonous, the plea that was almost a parody:

“Jeaaan!”

“Stop bleating my name.…”

“I can't go on living without you.…”

“Go to hell!”

“How can you talk like that! … How can you have forgotten already.…”

“Forgotten what? What you did for me or what I did for you? … Tell me that.… Or rather, hold your tongue.… Where are my shirts? Where the devil have you put my shirts?”

And just as, between the acts of a tragedy, the players resume their normal voices, she simply muttered: “I sent three to the laundry. The others are on the top shelf in the bathroom cupboard.…”Then, reverting to her former tone: “Jean …”

He did not try to vary his response: “To hell with you!”

“What are you going to do?”

“That's my own business.”

“I swear, since I've known you I haven't let a man touch me.…”

“Except the one you were coming out of the dance hall with when I turned up …”

“I'd asked him to take me back here.… I was frightened.…”

He burst out laughing. “That's the best yet!”

“Don't laugh, Jean.… If you go away, you'll be sorry for it tomorrow.…”

“Is that a threat?”

He sounded threatening himself. More than threatening, for there was a loud thud—perhaps he had struck her—then another silence, and a moan:

“You haven't understood.… I'm the one who … Oh no, after all … I'd rather make an end to it right now.…”

“Please yourself.”

Footsteps; a door closing. It was not the door into the hallway but probably the bathroom door. The sound of water pouring into a glass.

“What're you doing?”

She did not answer. He was panting, presumably as he tried to shut a suitcase that was too full. Then he walked around the room to make sure he had forgotten nothing.

“Good-by!” he shouted at last.

Immediately the door opened again and a terrified voice exclaimed:

“Jean … Jean … !”

“To hell with you!”

“One second, Jean … You can't refuse me that now.… Listen.…”

He was walking toward the door.

“Listen.… I'm going to die.…”

He went on walking. She was crawling on the floor. One could guess that she was crawling on the floor, on the grubby red carpet of the hotel bedroom; one could imagine her clinging to the man's trouser leg, and being kicked away.

“I swear … I swear … I swear …”

She was gasping, and only blurred syllables rose to her lips.

“… that I've taken poison.…”

The door opened and slammed shut. Footsteps sounded along the corridor and then moved away down the stairs. From below there could be heard the faint sound of a conversation between the departing guest and the black-clad clerk at the reception desk.

Monsieur Monde was standing in the middle of his room, in the dark. He groped along the unfamiliar walls to find the switch, and was surprised to see himself in his shirt, barefooted. He moved close to the communicating door to listen, and heard nothing, not a sob, not a breath.

Then, resignedly, he picked up his trousers from the foot of the bed, trousers that did not seem to be his own. Having no bedroom slippers, he put on his shoes, leaving them unlaced.

He went out of his room noiselessly, hesitated in front of the neighboring door, and then knocked timidly. No voice answered. His hand turned the doorknob, but he still dared not push it open.

At last he heard a barely perceptible sound, as though someone were choking and trying to inhale a little air.

He went in. The room was just like his own, just a little larger. The wardrobe was wide open, as was the bathroom door, and a woman was sitting on the floor, curiously hunched up, somewhat like a Chinese mandarin. Her bleached hair hung over her face. Her eyes were red, but dry. She was clasping both hands over her breast and staring blankly in front of her.

She did not seem surprised to see him. Yet she watched him come close without making a single movement or saying a word.

“What have you done?” he asked.

He didn't know what he must look like, with his trousers unfastened, his sparse hair ruffled on his head, as it was when he got up in the mornings, and his gaping shoes.

She gasped: “Close the door.”

Then: “He's gone, hasn't he?”

And after a silence: “I know him; he won't come back.… How stupid it all is!”

She screamed out these last words with the frenzy she had shown earlier, raising her arms to heaven as though reproaching it for the idiocy of men.

“How stupid it all is!”

And she got up, leaning on her hands so that at one point he saw her on all fours on the carpet. She was wearing a very short, tight-fitting dress of black silk from which emerged long legs clad in flesh-colored stockings. Her lipstick and mascara had run a little, making her look like a washed-out doll.

“What are you doing here?”

She could scarcely stand upright. She was weary. She was about to lie down on the bed, the coverlet of which had been turned down, but before doing so she looked suspiciously at the man who had come into her room.

“I heard …”he stammered. “I was afraid … Have you …”

She made a grimace, as a spasm of nausea seized her. And she whispered to herself: “I must try to be sick.”

“You've taken something, haven't you?”

“Barbiturates …” She was walking to and fro, concerned with what was happening inside her, an anxious frown on her forehead. “I always kept some in my bag, because he slept badly.… Oh God!”

She clasped her hands, as though to wring them in renewed frenzy.

“I never can be sick! … Perhaps it's better so.… I thought when he knew I'd …”

She was frightened. Panic was visibly overwhelming her. And her terrified eyes eventually settled on the stranger, while she implored him:

“What am I to do? Tell me what I must do!”

“I'll send for a doctor.…”

“No, not that! … You don't know … That would be the worst thing.… It would be enough to get him arrested, and he'd blame me again.…”

She could not keep still, she was walking ceaselessly to and fro in the confined space of the bedroom.

“What do you feel?”

“I don't know.… I'm frightened.… If only I could be sick.…”

He didn't know, either. The idea of leaving her and rushing off to a pharmacy to get an emetic did not occur to him, or rather it seemed too complicated.

“How many tablets have you taken?”

She flared up, infuriated by his uselessness and perhaps by the absurdity of his appearance.

“How should I know? What was left in the bottle … six or seven.… I'm cold.…”

She flung her coat over her shoulders and glanced at the door, as though tempted to go and seek help elsewhere.

“To think he left me …”

“Listen. I'm willing to try.… I did it once before, when my daughter had swallowed a …”

They were both equally incoherent, and to top it all, the people on the third floor, assuming that the original scene was still going on, banged on the floor to demand silence.

“Come here.… Open your mouth.… Let me …”

“You're hurting me.”

“That's nothing.… Wait a minute.…”

He was looking for something with which to tickle the back of her throat, and his inexperience was such that he almost used his own handkerchief. She had one in her hand, a tiny one screwed up into a tight ball, which he unfolded and rolled into a tapered twist.

“Oh, you're choking me.… Oh!”

He was obliged to hold her head in a firm grip, and was surprised at the slightness of her skull.

“Relax.… My daughter was just the same.… There! Just another minute … D'you feel it coming?”

Spasms shook her chest, and suddenly she vomited, without noticing that part of her vomit hit the stranger. Tears filled her eyes and prevented her from seeing. She was vomiting reddish stuff, and he held her by the shoulders, encouraging her like a child:

“There! … There! … You see you'll feel better.… Go on.… Don't hold it back. On the contrary, let yourself go.…”

She was looking at him through blurred eyes, like an animal that has had a bone removed from its throat.

“Does your stomach feel empty yet? … Let me try once more.… It'd be wiser …”

She shook her head. She went limp. He had to help her to the edge of the bed, where she lay down, her legs dangling, and now she was uttering little regular moans.

“If you promise not to move, to be very good, I'll go down to the office. They must have a gas ring or something or other to heat water.… You've got to drink something hot to wash out your stomach.…”

She nodded her willingness, but before leaving the room he went into the bathroom to make sure there were no pills left. She followed him with her gaze, anxiously wondering what he was doing. She was even more surprised when he rummaged in her handbag, which contained crumpled notes, powder and rouge.

He wasn't a thief, though. He put the bag down on the bedside table.

“Don't move.… I'll be back immediately.”

And on the staircase, where he endeavored to make as little noise as possible, he smiled rather bitterly. Nobody had ever done as much as this for him! All his life, as far back as he could remember, it was he who'd had to help other people. He had often dreamed, in vain, of being ill so that somebody might bend over him with a gentle smile and relieve him, for a brief while, of the burden of his existence.

“Forgive me for bothering you”—he had always been exaggeratedly polite, through fear of giving offense— “my neighbor isn't feeling very well. Would you be kind enough to boil a little water for her? If you have any sort of tisane …”

“Come this way.”

It was night. The whole hotel was asleep. Somewhere in the darkened city could be heard the heavy rumble of a passing cart, and from time to time the carter cracked his whip to waken the drowsy horse.

“Did you know them?” asked the clerk, who had promptly realized that the people in Room 28 were involved.

“No.”

“Wait a sec.… I'm looking for matches.…”

There was a percolator in a dingy, crowded closet that served as pantry, but the clerk lit a tiny gas ring, with that calm, rather mournful air common to those who live by night, always alone, while others are asleep.

“I was surprised to see him go.… He's been ill for the last few days.… She used to spend all day up in the bedroom with him.… She took his meals up herself.…”

Monsieur Monde found himself asking, to his own surprise: “Is he young?”

“Twenty-two, maybe … I'd have to look at his form.… This evening they went out one after the other, and she went first.… When they came in again an hour later, I could see there was going to be some nasty …” He ended with a coarse word.

“He's ditched her, hasn't he?”