The Age of Reason (28 page)

‘I think I can guess,’ said Lola.

Boris said something more, but the din of applause drowned his voice; the jazz-band had stopped, and the Negroes were hurriedly packing up to make way for the Argentine band.

Ivich and Mathieu were back at their table.

‘I’m really enjoying myself,’ said Ivich.

Lola was already seated. ‘You dance awfully well,’ said she to Ivich.

Ivich did not answer, she fixed a heavy look on Lola.

‘You were pulling our legs,’ said Boris to Mathieu. ‘I thought you never danced.’

‘It was your sister who wanted to.’

‘A stout fellow like you,’ said Boris, ‘ought to take up acrobatic dancing.’

A burdensome silence followed, Ivich sat without a word, aloof and insistent, and no one wanted to talk. A miniature local sky had gathered above their heads, a dry and stifling arc. The lights were switched on. At the first chords of the tango, Ivich leaned towards Lola.

‘Come along,’ she said hoarsely.

‘I don’t know how to steer,’ said Lola.

‘I’ll do the steering,’ said Ivich. And she added, with a malicious look, as she bared her teeth: ‘Don’t be afraid, I can steer like a man.’

They got up. Ivich gripped Lola savagely, and thrust her on to the dancing floor.

‘How absurd they are,’ said Boris, filling his pipe.

‘Yes.’

Lola was particularly absurd: she looked positively girlish.

‘See here,’ said Boris.

He produced out of his pocket an enormous horn-hafted dagger and laid it on the table.

‘It’s a Basque knife,’ he explained. ‘With a stop-catch.’

Mathieu politely took the knife and tried to open it ‘Not like that, you ass!’ said Boris. ‘You’ll slash your hand to bits!’

He took the knife back, opened it and laid it beside his glass. ‘It’s a Caid’s knife,’ he said, ‘do you see those brown stains? The chap who sold it me swore they were blood.’

They fell silent. Mathieu saw, some distance off, Lola’s tragic head gliding over a dark sea. ‘I didn’t know she was so tall.’ He turned his eyes away and read on Boris’s face a naive pleasure that struck at his heart. ‘He is pleased because he’s with me,’ he reflected remorsefully. ‘And I never can find anything to say to him.’

‘Look at the good lady who has just arrived. On the right, at the third table,’ said Boris.

‘The blonde with the pearls?’

‘Yes, they’re false. Take care, she’s looking at us.’

Mathieu stole a glance at a tall, handsome girl with a frigid face.

‘What do you think of her?’

‘Not so bad.’

‘I got off with her last Tuesday, she was pretty full up, she kept on asking me to dance. And she actually presented me with her cigarette case; Lola was wild, she told the waiter to take it back.’ And he added meditatively: ‘It was silver, set with jewels.’

‘She can’t take her eyes off you,’ said Mathieu.

‘So I supposed.’

‘What are you going to do with her?’

‘Nothing,’ he said contemptuously. ‘She’s somebody’s mistress.’

‘And what of that?’ asked Mathieu with surprise. ‘You’ve become very puritanical all of a sudden.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Boris laughing. ‘It’s not that — but dancers, singers, and tarts, they’re all the same ultimately. When you’ve had one, you’ve had them all.’ He laid down his pipe and said gravely: ‘Besides, I lead a chaste life, I’m not like you.’

‘Indeed?’ said Mathieu.

‘You shall see,’ said Boris. ‘You shall see, I’ll astonish you. I shall live like a monk when this affair with Lola is over.’

He rubbed his hands with an air of satisfaction.

‘It won’t be over so very soon,’ said Mathieu.

‘On July 1st. What will you bet?’

‘Nothing. Every month you bet you’ll break it off the following month, and you lose each time. You already owe me a hundred francs, five Corona-Coronas, and the boat in the bottle that we saw in the Rue de Seine. You’ve never had any intention of breaking it off, you’re much too fond of Lola.’

‘You needn’t be so unpleasant about it,’ said Boris.

‘But you can’t do it,’ continued Mathieu, ignoring the interruption. ‘It’s the feeling you’re committed to do something that knocks you out.’

‘Shut up,’ said Boris, angry but amused. ‘You’ll have some time to wait for the cigars and the boat.’

‘I know, you never pay your debts of honour. You’re a young scamp.’

‘And you are a second-rater.’ His face lit up. ‘Don’t you think it’s a grand insult to say to a fellow: Sir, you’re a second-rater.’

‘Not bad,’ said Mathieu.

‘Or, better still: Sir, you’re a man of no account.’

‘No,’ said Mathieu, ‘that’s far less effective.’

Boris admitted as much with a good grace. ‘You are right,’ said he. ‘You are detestable, because you are always right.’

He relit his pipe with care.

‘To be frank with you, I’ve got my own idea,’ he said, with a confused, distraught expression. ‘I should like to have a society woman.’

‘Really?’ said Mathieu. ‘Why?’

‘Well — I think it must be fun, they have such interesting little ways. Besides, it’s gratifying to the pride, some of them get their names into Vogue. You know what I mean. You buy
Vogue
, you turn over the photographs, and you see: Madame la Comtesse de Rocamadour with her six greyhounds, and you think to yourself: “I slept with that lady last night.” That must give you a kick.’

‘I say — she’s smiling at you now.’

‘Yes, she’s tight. She’s a nasty bit of work, really; she wants to pinch me from Lola because she loathes her. I’m going to turn my back on her,’ he said decisively.

‘Who is the chap with her?’

‘Just a pick-up. He dances at the Alcazar. Handsome, isn’t he? Look at his face. He’s a good thirty-five years old, and he gives himself the airs of a Cherubino.’

‘Ah well,’ said Mathieu. ‘You’ll be like that when you’re thirty-five.’

‘At thirty-five,’ said Boris soberly, ‘I shall have been dead a long while.’

‘You like to say so.’

‘I’m tuberculous,’ he said.

‘I know’ — one day Boris had skinned his gums while cleaning his teeth, and had spat blood — ‘I know. And what then?’

‘I don’t mind being tuberculous,’ said Boris. ‘The point is it would revolt me to take care of myself. In my opinion a man ought not to live beyond thirty, after that he’s a back-number.’ He looked at Mathieu and added: ‘I’m not referring to you.’

‘No,’ said Mathieu. ‘But you’re right. After thirty, a man is certainly a back number.’

‘I should like to live two years longer and then remain at that age all my life: that would be delightful.’

Mathieu looked at him with a kind of shocked benignity. Youth was for Boris not merely a perishable and gratuitous quality, of which he must take cynical advantage, but also a moral virtue of which a man must show himself worthy. More than that, it was a justification. ‘Never mind,’ thought Mathieu: ‘he knows how to be young.’ He alone, perhaps in all that crowd, was definitely and entirely
there
, sitting on his chair. ‘After all, it’s not a bad notion: to live one’s youth right out, and go off at thirty. Anyway, after thirty a man’s dead.’

‘You look horribly worried,’ said Boris.

Mathieu gave a start. Boris was crimson with confusion, but he looked at Mathieu with uneasy solicitude.

‘Is it obvious?’

‘Indeed it is.’

‘I’m worried about money.’

‘You don’t manage your affairs properly,’ said Boris severely. ‘If I had your salary, I shouldn’t need to borrow. Would you like the barman’s hundred francs?’

‘Thank you, no — I need four thousand.’

Boris whistled, and looked knowing: ‘I beg your pardon,’ said he. ‘Won’t your friend Daniel produce the stuff?’

‘He can’t.’

‘And your brother?’

‘He won’t.’

‘Hell!’ said Boris disconsolately. ‘If you liked...’ he added with embarrassment.

‘What do you mean — if I liked?’

‘Nothing. I was just thinking. It seems so silly, Lola has a trunk full of cash which she never uses.’

‘I don’t want to borrow from Lola.’

‘But I tell you she never uses the money. If it were a question of her banking account, I should agree with you. She buys securities, she gambles on the Bourse, for which she obviously has to have the wherewithal. But she has been keeping seven thousand francs at her flat for the last four months which she hasn’t touched, she hasn’t even troubled to take it to the bank. I tell you the money is just packed away at the bottom of a trunk.’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Mathieu irritably. ‘I don’t want to borrow from Lola because she dislikes me.’

Boris burst out laughing. ‘That’s true enough,’ said he, ‘she can’t stand you.’

‘Very well then.’

‘It’s silly, all the same,’ said Boris. ‘You’re hellishly worried about how to get four thousand francs, there’s the money ready to your hand, and you won’t take it. Suppose I ask for it as for myself?’

‘No, no. Don’t you do anything,’ said Mathieu quickly. ‘She would find out the truth in the end. Seriously, now!’ he added insistently. ‘I should be very much annoyed if you asked for the money.’

Boris did not answer. He had picked up the knife with two fingers, and lifted it slowly to the level of his forehead, point downwards. Mathieu felt uncomfortable. ‘I’m a poor sort of fellow,’ he thought. ‘I haven’t the right to play the man of honour at Marcelle’s expense.’ He turned to Boris, intending to say: ‘All right, ask Lola for the money.’ But he could not get a word out of himself, and his cheeks flushed. Boris spread out his fingers, and the knife fell. The blade stuck in the floor, and the haft quivered.

Ivich and Lola came back to their places, Boris picked up the knife and put it on the table.

‘What’s that beastly thing?’ asked Lola.

‘It’s a Caid’s knife,’ said Boris. ‘It’s to keep you in order.’

‘You little monster!’

The band had launched into another tango. Boris looked darkly at Lola.

‘Come and dance,’ he said between his teeth.

‘You people will be the death of me,’ said Lola. But her face lit up, and she added with a beaming smile: ‘That’s very nice of you.’

Boris got up, and Mathieu thought: ‘He’s going to ask her for the money all the same.’ He felt overwhelmingly ashamed, and a rather mean sense of relief. Ivich sat down beside him.

‘She’s marvellous,’ she said in a husky voice.

‘Yes, she’s a fine woman.’

‘And such a body! There’s something strangely exciting about that tragic head on so superb a body. I felt time run on, I had the feeling she was going to wither in my arms.’

Mathieu followed Boris and Lola with his eyes. Boris had not yet put the question. He looked as though he were joking, and Lola was smiling at him.

‘She is a good sort.’

‘Indeed she isn’t,’ said Ivich drily. ‘She is the usual nasty female.’ And she added in a tone of pride: ‘She was quite frightened of me.’

‘So I observed,’ said Mathieu. He nervously crossed and uncrossed his legs.

‘Do you want to dance?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Ivich. ‘I want to drink.’ She half filled her glass and continued: ‘It’s a good thing to drink when dancing, because dancing stops you from getting drunk, and alcohol keeps you going.’ And she added with a drawn look: ‘I’m having a fine time — it’s a grand finale.’

‘The moment has come,’ thought Mathieu, ‘he’s talking to her.’ Boris had assumed a serious air, he was talking, but not looking at Lola. Lola was saying nothing. Mathieu felt his face grow crimson, he was vexed with Boris. The shoulders of a gigantic Negro obscured Lola’s head for a moment, she reappeared with a set expression on her face, then the music stopped, the crowd parted and Boris emerged, looking haughty and ill-tempered. Lola followed him at a slight distance, with a rather disconcerted air. Boris leaned over Ivich. ‘Do me a service: ask her to dance,’ he said hurriedly. Ivich rose without a sign of astonishment, and ran to meet Lola.

‘No,’ said Lola, ‘no, my little Ivich, I’m tired.’ They parleyed for a moment, then Ivich swept her away.

‘She won’t?’ asked Mathieu.

‘No,’ said Boris. ‘And I’ll pay her out for it.’

He was pale, and his vaguely malevolent scowl made him look very like his sister. It was a confused and rather displeasing resemblance.

‘Don’t do anything foolish,’ said Mathieu uneasily.

‘So you’re angry with me, eh?’ asked Boris. ‘You did forbid me to mention it to her...’

‘I should be a swine if I were angry with you. You know very well that I let you do what you suggested... why did she refuse?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Boris, shrugging his shoulders. ‘She looked pretty glum and said she needed her money. And that’ — he went on with baffled rage — ‘is the only time I’ve ever asked a favour of her... she doesn’t know what’s what. A woman of her age ought to pay up if she wants a fellow of my age.’

‘How did you put it?’

‘I said it was for a pal of mine who wanted to buy a garage. I mentioned his name: Picard. She knows him. It’s true that he wants to buy a garage.’

‘I expect she didn’t believe you.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Boris, ‘but what I do know is that I’ll pay her out for it right away.’

‘Don’t get excited,’ exclaimed Mathieu.

‘Never you mind,’ said Boris with a hostile air. ‘That’s my business.’

He went over and bowed to the tall blonde, who blushed faintly and got up. As they began to dance, Lola and Ivich passed close to Mathieu. The blonde was smiling complacently, but beneath her smile there was a wary look. Lola retained her composure, she moved majestically on her course, and the crowd fell back as she passed in token of respect. Mathieu picked up Boris’s knife by the blade, and began to tap the haft against the table. ‘There’ll be bloodshed,’ he thought. However, he didn’t care a curse, he was thinking of Marcelle. He said to himself: ‘Marcelle — my wife,’ and something inside him shut with a clash. ‘My wife, she will live in my flat. And that’s that.’ It was natural, perfectly natural, like breathing, or swallowing one’s saliva. It touched him at every point — let yourself go, don’t get hustled, relax and be natural. ‘In my flat. I shall see her every day of my life.’ And he thought: ‘All is clear — I have a life.’