Nausea (29 page)

Evening falls, the first lamps are lit in the city. My God! How natural the city looks despite all its geometries, how crushed it looks in the evening. It's so ... so evident, from here; could I be the only one to see it? Is there nowhere another Cassandra on the summit of a hill, watching a city engulfed in the depths of nature? But what difference does it make? What could I tell her?

My body slowly turns eastward, oscillates a little and begins to walk.

Wednesday: My last day in Bouville:

I have looked all over town for the Self-Taught Man. He surely hasn't gone home. He must be walking at random, filled with shame and horrorùthis poor humanist whom men don't want. To tell the truth, I was hardly surprised when the thing happened: for a long time I had thought that his soft, timid face would bring scandal on itself. He was so little guilty: his humble, contemplative love for young boys is hardly sensualityù rather a form of humanity. But one day he had to find himself alone. Like M. Achille, like me: he is one of my race, he has good will. Now he has entered into solitudeùforever. Everything suddenly crumbled, his dreams of culture, his dreams of an understanding with mankind. First there will be fear, horror, sleepless nights, and then after that, the long succession of days of exile. In the evening he will come back to wander around the Cour des Hypotheques; from a distance he will watch the glowing windows of the library and his heart will fail him when he remembers the long rows of books, their leather bindings, the smell of their pages. I am sorry I didn't go along with him, but he didn't want me to; he begged me to let him alone: he was beginning his apprenticeship in solitude. I am writing this in the Cafe Mably. I went in with great ceremony, I wanted to study the manager, the cashier, and forcibly feel that I was seeing them for the last time. But I can't stop thinking about the Self-Taught Man, I still have his open face before my eyes, his face

full of reproach, his blood-stained collar. So I asked for some paper and I am going to tell what happened to him.

I went to the library about two o'clock this afternoon. I was thinking: "The library. I am going in here for the last time."

The room was almost deserted. It hurt me to see it because I knew I would never come back. It was light as mist, almost unreal, all reddish; the setting sun rusted the table reserved for women, the door, the back of the books. For a second I had the delightful feeling that I was going into underbrush full of golden leaves; I smiled. I thought: I haven't smiled for a long time. The Corsican was looking out of the window, his hands behind his back. What did he see? The skull of Impetraz? I shall never see that skull again, or his top hat or his morning coat. In six hours I will have left Bouville. I put the two books I borrowed last month on the assistant librarian's desk. He tore up a green slip and handed me the pieces:

"There you are, Monsieur Roquetin."

"Thank you."

I thought: now I owe them nothing more. I don't owe any thing more to anybody here. Soon I'm going to say good-bye to the woman in the "Railwaymen's Rendezvous," I am free. I hesitated a few instants: would I use these last moments to take a long walk through Bouville, to see the Boulevard Victor-Noir again, the Avenue Galvani, and the Rue Tournebride. But this forest was so calm, so pure: it seemed to me as though it hardly existed and that the Nausea had spared it. I went and sat down near the stove. The Journal de Bouville was lying on the table. I reached out and took it.

"Saved by His Dog."

"Yesterday evening, M. Dubosc of Remiredon, was bicycling home from the Naugis Fair . . ."

A fat woman sat down at my right. She put her felt hat beside her. Her nose was planted on her face like a knife in an apple. Under the nose, a small, obscene hole wrinkled disdainfully. She took a bound book from her bag, leaned her elbows on the table, resting her face against her fat hands. An old man was sleeping opposite me. I knew him: he was in the library the evening I was so frightened. I think he was afraid too. I thought: how far away all that is.

At four-fifteen the Self-Taught Man came in. I would haveliked to shake hands and say good-bye to him. But I thought our last meeting must have left him with unpleasant memories: he nodded distantly to me and, far enough away, he set down a small white package which probably contained, as usual, a slice of bread and a piece of chocolate. After a moment, he came back with an illustrated book which he placed near his package. I thought: I am seeing him for the last time. Tomorrow evening, the evening after tomorrow, and all the following evenings, he will return to read at this table, eating his bread and chocolate, he will patiently keep on with his rat's nibbling, he will read the works of Nabaud, Naudeau, Nodier, Nys, interrupting himself from time to time to jot down a maxim in his notebook. And I will be walking in Paris, in Paris streets, I will be seeing new faces. What could happen to me while he would still be here, with the lamp lighting up his heavy pondering face. I felt myself drifting back to the mirage of adventure just in time. I shrugged my shoulders and began reading again.

"Bouville and neighbouring areas:

Monistiers:

Activities of the gendarmerie for the year. The sergeant-major Gaspard, commanding the Monistiers brigade and its four gendarmes, Messrs. Lagoutte, Nizan, Pierpont, and Ghil, were hardly idle during the past year. In fact, our gendarmes have reported 7 crimes, 82 misdemeanours, 159 contraventions, 6 suicides and 15 automobile accidents, three of which resulted in death.

Jouxtebouville:

Friendly Society of Trumpet Players of Jouxtebouville. General rehearsal today; remittance of cards for the annual concert.

Compostel:

Presentation of the Legion of Honour to the Mayor.

Bouville Boy Scouts:

Monthly meeting this evening at 8.45 p.m., 10 Rue Ferdinand-Byron, Room A.

Programme: Reading of minutes. Correspondence. Annual banquet. 1932 assessment, March hiking schedule. Questions. New members.

Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals:

Next Thursday, from 3 to 5 p.m., Room C, 10 Rue Ferdinand-Byron, Bouville, Public meeting. Send inquiries and correspondence to the President, to the main office or to 154 Avenue Galvani.

Bouville Watchdog Club . . . Bouville Association of Disabled Veterans . . . Taxi-Owners' Union . . . Bouville Committee for the Friends of the Board-Schools. . . .

Two boys with satchels come in. Students from the High-school. The Gorsican likes students from the High-school because he can exercise a paternal supervision over them. Often, for his own pleasure, he lets them stir around on their chairs and talk, then suddenly tiptoes up behind them and scolds: "Is that the way big boys behave? If you don't behave yourselves, the librarian is going to complain to your headmaster."

And if they protest, he looks at them with terrible eyes: "Give me your names." He also directs their reading: in the library certain volumes are marked with a red cross; Hell: the works of Gide, Diderot, Baudelaire and medical texts. When a student wants to consult one of these books, the Corsican makes a sign to him, draws him over to a corner and questions him. After a moment he explodes and his voice fills the reading-room: "There are a lot of more interesting books for a boy of your age. Instructive books. Have you finished your homework? What grade are you in? And you don't have anything to do after four o'clock? Your teacher comes in here a lot and I'm going to tell him about you."

The two boys stay near the stove. The younger one has brown hair, a skin almost too fine and a tiny mouth, wicked and proud. His friend, a big heavy-set boy with the shadow of a moustache, touched his elbow and murmured a few words. The little brown-haired boy did not answer, but he gave an imperceptible smile, full of arrogance and self-sufficiency. Then both of them nonchalantly chose a dictionary from one of the shelves and went over to the Self-Taught Man who was staring wearily at them. They seemed to ignore his existence, but they sat down right next to him, the brown-haired boy on his left and the thickset one on the left of the brown-haired boy. They began looking through the dictionary. The Self-Taught Man's look wandered over the room, then returned to his reading. Never had a libraryoffered such a reassuring spectacle: I heard no sound, except the short breathing of the fat woman, I only saw heads bent over books. Yet, at that moment, I had the feeling that something unpleasant was going to happen. All these people who lowered their eyes with such a studious look seemed to be playing a comedy: a few instants before I felt something like a breath of cruelty pass over us.

I had finished reading but hadn't decided to leave: I was waiting, pretending to read my newspaper. What increased my curiosity and annoyance was that the others were waiting too. It seemed as though my neighbour was turning the pages of her book more rapidly. A few minutes passed, then I heard whispering. I cautiously raised my head. Both boys had closed their dictionaries. The brown-haired one was not talking, his face, stamped with deference and interest, was turned to the right. Half-hidden behind his shoulder, the blond was listening and laughing silently. Who's talking? I thought.

It was the Self-Taught Man. He was bent over his young neighbour, eye to eye, smiling at him; I saw his lips move and, from time to time, his long eyelashes palpitate. I didn't recognize this look of youthfulness; he was almost charming. But, from time to time, he interrupted himself and looked anxiously behind him. The boy seemed to drink his words. There was nothing extraordinary about this little scene and I was going to go back to my reading when I saw the boy slowly slide his hand behind his back on the edge of the table. Thus hidden from the Self-Taught Man's eyes it went on its way for a moment, and began to feel around, then, finding the arm of the bigger boy, pinched it violently. The other, too absorbed in silent enjoyment of the Self-Taught Man's words, had not seen it coming. He jumped up and his mouth opened widely in surprise and admiration. The brown-haired boy had kept his look of respectful interest. One might have doubted that this mischievous hand belonged to him. What are they going to do to him? I thought. I knew that something bad was going to happen, and I saw too that there was still time to keep it from happening. But I couldn't guess what there was to prevent. For a second, I had the idea of getting up, slapping the Self-Taught Man on the shoulder and starting a conversation with him. But just at that moment he caught my look. He stopped speaking and pinched his lips together with an air of irritation. Discouraged, I quickly lowered my eyes and made a show of reading my paper. However, the fat

woman had set down her book and raised her head. She seemed hypnotized. I felt sure the woman was going to burst: they all wanted something to burst. What could I do? I glanced at the Corsican: he wasn't looking out of the window any more, he had turned half-way towards us.

Fifteen minutes passed. The Self-Taught Man had begun his whispering again. I didn't dare look at him any more, but I could well imagine his young and tender air and those heavy looks which weighed on him without his knowing it. Once I heard his laugh, a fluted, childish little laugh. It gripped my heart: it seemed as though the two kids were going to drown a cat. Then the whispers stopped suddenly. This silence seemed tragic to me: it was the end, the deathblow. I bowed my head over my newspaper and pretended to read; but I wasn't reading: I raised my eyes as high as I could, trying to catch what was happening in this silence across from me. By turning my head slightly, I could see something out of the corner of my eye: it was a hand, the small white hand which slid along the table a little while ago. Now it was resting on its back, relaxed, soft and sensual, it had the indolent nudity of a woman sunning herself after bathing. A brown hairy object approached it, hesitant. It was a thick finger, yellowed by tobacco; inside this hand it had all the grossness of a male sex organ. It stopped for an instant, rigid, pointing at the fragile palm, then suddenly, it timidly began to stroke it. I was not surprised, I was only furious at the Self-Taught Man; couldn't he hold himself back, the fool, didn't he realize the risk he was running? He still had a chance, a small chance: if he were to put both hands on the table, on either side of the book, if he stayed absolutely still, perhaps he might be able to escape his destiny this time. But I knew he was going to miss his chance: the finger passed slowly, humbly, over the inert flesh, barely grazing it, without daring to put any weight on it: you might have thought it was conscious of its ugliness. I raised my head brusquely, I couldn't stand this obstinate little back-and-forth movement any more: I tried to catch the Self-Taught Man's eye and I coughed loudly to warn him. But he closed his eyes, he was smiling. His other hand had disappeared under the table. The boys were not laughing any more, they had both turned pale. The brown-haired one pinched his lips, he was afraid, he looked as though what was happening had gone beyond his control. But he did not draw his hand away,he left it on the table, motionless, a little curled. His friend's mouth was open in a stupid, horrified look.

Then the Corsican began to shout. He had come up without anyone hearing him and placed himself behind the Self-Taught Man's chair. He was crimson and looked as though he were going to laugh, but his eyes were flashing. I started up from my chair, but I felt almost relieved: the waiting was too unbearable. I wanted it to be over as soon as possible. I wanted them to throw him out if they wanted, but get it over with. The two boys, white as sheets, seized their satchels and disappeared.

"I saw you," the Corsican shouted, drunk with fury, "I saw you this time, don't try and tell me it isn't true. Don't think I'm not wise to your little game, I've got eyes in my head. And this is going to cost you plenty. I know your name, I know your address, I know everything about you, I know your boss, Chuil-lier. And won't he be surprised tomorrow morning when he gets a letter from the librarian. What? Shut up!" he said, his eyes rolling. "And don't think it's going to stop there. We have courts in France for people like you. So you were studying, so you were getting culture! So you were always after me to get books for you. Don't think you were kidding me."