The Age of Reason (34 page)

‘Do you want another number?’ she asked.

‘Yes... get me Ségur 25-64.’

It was Sarah’s number.

‘Hullo, Sarah, it’s Mathieu,’ he said.

‘Good morning,’ said Sarah’s harsh voice. ‘Well? Has it been arranged?’

‘Indeed it hasn’t,’ said Mathieu. ‘People are so stingy. Look, I wanted to ask you if you could go round to that fellow and get him to give me credit until the end of the month.’

‘But he will have gone at the end of the month.’

‘I’ll send him his money to America.’

A brief silence followed.

‘I can always try,’ said Sarah dubiously. ‘But it won’t be easy. He’s an old screw, and besides he’s going through a crisis of hyper-Zionism, he detests everything non-Jewish, since he was thrown out of Vienna.’

‘Have a try, anyway, if it isn’t too much of a bore.’

‘It isn’t a bore at all. I’ll go immediately after lunch.’

‘Thank you, Sarah, you’re a noble lady!’ said Mathieu.

‘H
E’S
very unfair,’ said Boris.

‘Yes,’ said Ivich. ‘If he imagines he has done a service to Lola!’

She laughed a short dry laugh, and Boris relapsed into complacent silence. No one understood him like Ivich. He turned his head towards the lavatory staircase, and thought grimly: ‘He went too far over that affair. One ought not to talk to anyone as he did to me. I’m not Hourtiguère.’ He looked at the staircase, he hoped that Mathieu would smile at them as he came up again. Mathieu reappeared, and went out without even glancing at them: Boris’s heart turned over.

‘He’s looking very haughty,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘Mathieu. He has just gone out.’

Ivich did not answer. She wore a non-committal look, and was contemplating her bandaged hand.

‘He’s angry with me,’ said Boris. ‘He thinks I’m not moral.’

‘Yes,’ said Ivich, ‘but it won’t last.’ She shrugged her shoulders.

‘I don’t like him when he’s moral.’

‘I do,’ said Boris. And he added, after reflection: ‘But I’m more moral than he is.’

‘Pff!’ said Ivich. She swayed a little on her seat, she was looking rather plump and ingenuous. And she said in a rasping voice: ‘I don’t care a curse for morality. Not one curse.’

Boris felt very solitary. He would have liked to get near to Ivich, but Mathieu was still between them. ‘He’s very unfair,’ he said. ‘He didn’t give me time to explain myself.’

Ivich replied judicially: ‘There are some things that you can’t explain to him.’

Boris, from habit, did not protest, but he thought that everything could be explained to Mathieu, if you got him in the right mood. He always felt as though they were not talking of the same Mathieu: Ivich’s Mathieu was a much more colourless personality.

Ivich laughed rather diffidently: ‘You do look an obstinate little mule,’ said she.

Boris did not answer, he was ruminating on what he ought to have said to Mathieu: that he was not a selfish little brute, and that he had had a terrible shock when he had believed that Lola was dead. He had even suspected for a moment that he was likely to suffer for this business, and this had upset him. He regarded suffering as immoral, and could not, in fact, endure it. So he had tried to prevail over himself. But something had got jammed, and produced a breakdown, he must wait until the situation reverted to normal.

‘It’s funny,’ he said, ‘when I now think of Lola I see her as a nice old thing.’

Ivich laughed shortly and Boris was shocked: he added, in an attempt to be fair: ‘She can’t be feeling very cheerful just now.’

‘That’s quite certain.’

‘I don’t want her to suffer,’ he said.

‘Then you’d better go and see her,’ said Ivich, in a sing-song voice.

He realized that she was setting a trap for him, and answered briskly: ‘I shan’t go. In the first place, she... I always picture her as dead. And then I don’t want Mathieu to imagine that he can just whistle and I’ll come.’

On this point he would not give way, he was not Hourtiguère. And Ivich said quietly: ‘He does rather treat you like that, in fact.’

It was nastily said, as Boris realized, but without anger: Ivich had excellent intentions, she wanted to make him break with Lola. It was for his good. Everybody always had Boris’s good in view. But it varied with each individual.

‘I let him think I’m that sort of fellow,’ he said placidly. ‘Those are my tactics in dealing with him.’

But he had been touched on the raw, and was furious with Mathieu accordingly. He fidgeted a little on his seat, and Ivich eyed him uneasily.

‘Dear old boy, you think too much,’ said she. ‘You have only got to imagine that she’s dead for good and all.’

‘Yes, that would be convenient, but I can’t,’ said Boris.

Ivich seemed amused.

‘That’s odd,’ she said, ‘because I can. When I no longer see people, they don’t exist.’

Boris felt full of admiration for his sister, and said nothing. After a pause, he said: ‘I wonder if he took the money. That would mean a spot of trouble!’

‘What money?’

‘At Lola’s. He needed four thousand francs.’

‘Did he, though!’

Ivich looked puzzled and annoyed. Boris wondered whether he wouldn’t have done better to hold his tongue. It was understood that they told each other everything, but from time to time there could be exceptions to that rule.

‘You look as if you didn’t much like Mathieu,’ he said.

‘He gets on my nerves,’ she said. ‘This morning he was being
manly
for my benefit.’

‘Yes...’ said Boris.

He wondered what Ivich meant, but concealed the fact: they must be assumed to understand each other’s allusions, or the charm would be broken. There was a silence, then Ivich added abruptly: ‘Let’s go. I can’t stand the Dôme.’

‘Nor can I,’ said Boris.

They got up and went out. Ivich took Boris’s arm. Boris had a faint but persistent feeling that he wanted to be sick.

‘Do you think he’ll go on loathing us for long?’ he asked.

‘Of course not,’ said Ivich impatiently.

And Boris said treacherously: ‘He loathes you too.’

Ivich burst out laughing: ‘That’s quite possible, but I shan’t let that depress me yet. I’ve got other troubles on my mind.’

‘True,’ said Boris, disconcerted. ‘You’re worried, of course.’ ‘Horribly.’

‘Over your examination?’

Ivich shrugged her shoulders and did not reply. They walked a few steps in silence. He wondered whether it was
really
about her examination. He wished, indeed, that it was: it would have been more moral.

He looked up; it happened that the Boulevard Montparnasse looked its best under that grey light. The season might have been October. Boris was very fond of the month of October. And he thought: ‘Last October I did not know Lola.’ At the same moment, he experienced a sense of deliverance: ‘She’s alive.’ For the first time, since he had abandoned her corpse in the darkened room, he felt that she was alive, it was like a resurrection. ‘Mathieu can’t be angry with me for long, as she isn’t dead.’ Up to that minute, he knew that she must be in distress, that she was awaiting him in anguish, but that distress and that anguish seemed to him irremediable and final, as in the case of those who had died despairing. But there had been a misdeal: Lola was alive, she was lying in her bed, with open eyes, possessed by a little, living anger, just as when he arrived late for their appointments. An anger that was no more nor less deserving of respect than others: a trifle more intense, perhaps. He did not owe her any of those vague, portentous obligations imposed upon us by the dead, but he had solid duties towards her — domestic duties, as they might be deemed. Now at last Boris could evoke Lola’s face without disgust. It was not the face of a dead woman who responded to the call, but the youthful, angry face which she had turned to him last evening, when she cried: ‘You told me a lie, you haven’t seen Picard!’ At the same time he felt definitely angry with this spuriously dead woman who had provoked all these disturbances.

‘I shan’t go back to my hotel; she is quite capable of coming there,’ he said.

‘Go and sleep at Claude’s place.’

‘I will.’

Ivich was seized with an idea. ‘You ought to write to her — it’s more correct.’

‘To Lola? Certainly not.’

‘But you should.’

‘I wouldn’t know what to say to her.’

‘Silly boy — I’ll write the letter for you.’

‘But what is there to say to her?’

Ivich looked at him in astonishment: ‘Don’t you want to break with her?’

‘I don’t know.’

Ivich seemed annoyed, but she did not insist. She never insisted; it was one of her qualities. But in any case, as between Mathieu and Ivich, Boris would have to be extremely cautious: for the moment, he no more wanted to lose Lola than to see her again.

‘We shall see,’ he said. ‘There’s no point in thinking about it.’

It was pleasant on the Boulevard, the people wore amiable faces, he knew them nearly all by sight, and a little ray of cheerful sunshine caressed the windows of the Closerie des Lilas.

‘I’m hungry,’ said Ivich. ‘I must get some lunch.’

She went into Demaria’s. Boris waited outside. He felt weak and sentimental, rather like a convalescent, and he found himself searching for a pleasant thought or two to occupy his mind. His choice fell abruptly on the
Historical and Etymological Dictionary of Slang
. Just what was needed! The Dictionary now reposed on his night-table, and was the chief object in his room: ‘It’s a
piece of furniture
,’ he thought, in a glow of satisfaction: ‘That was a master-stroke of mine.’ And then, as good fortunes never came singly, he thought of his knife, took it out of his pocket and opened it. ‘I must be tight!’ He had bought it the day before, and the knife already had a history, it had slit the skin of the two beings whom he loved most. ‘It cuts damned well,’ he thought.

A woman passed, and looked at him insistently. She was terribly smart. He turned to look at her from behind: she had turned too, and they exchanged a friendly look.

‘Here I am,’ said Ivich.

She was holding two large Canadian apples in her hands. She rubbed one of them on her behind, and when it was well polished she hit into it, offering the other to Boris.

‘No, thank you,’ said Boris. ‘I’m not hungry.’ And he added: ‘You really shock me.’

‘Why?’

‘By rubbing apples on your behind.’

‘It’s to polish them,’ said Ivich.

‘See that woman walking away?’ said Boris. ‘I clicked with her.’

Ivich went on amiably munching.

‘Again?’ she said, with her mouth full.

‘Not there,’ said Boris. ‘Behind you.’

Ivich turned and raised her eyebrows.

‘She’s pretty,’ she said simply.

‘Did you notice her dress? I don’t want to die before I’ve had a woman like that. A society woman. It must be a delightful experience.’

Ivich was still looking at the departing lady. She had an apple in each hand, and looked as though she were holding them out to him.

‘When I’m tired of her, I’ll pass her on to you,’ said Boris generously.

Ivich bit into her apple.

‘Indeed!’ said she.

She took his arm, and drew him abruptly away. On the other side of the Boulevard Montparnasse, there was a Japanese shop. They crossed over, and looked into the window.

‘Do you see those little cups,’ said Ivich.

‘They’re for saki,’ said Boris.

‘What’s that?’

‘Rice brandy.’

‘I’ll come and buy some. I’ll use them for tea-cups.’

‘They’re much too small.’

‘I can go on filling them.’

‘Or you might fill six at a time.’

‘Yes,’ said Ivich, overjoyed. ‘I shall have six little full cups in front of me, and I’ll drink out of one or another just as I choose.’

She drew back a little, clenched her teeth and said passionately: ‘I’d like to buy the whole shop.’

Boris disapproved of his sister’s taste for such trifles. But he was about to enter the shop when Ivich held him back.

‘Not today. Come along.’

They walked back up the Rue Denfert-Rochereau, and Ivich said: ‘I would sell myself to an old gentleman so as to be able to buy a lot of little things like that.’

‘You wouldn’t know how,’ said Boris severely. ‘It’s a profession. It has to be learnt.’

They walked quietly along, it was an instant of happiness: Ivich had certainly forgotten her examination, she looked positively gay. In those moments Boris had the impression that they had merged into one identity. In the sky there were large patches of blue behind a scurry of white clouds: the foliage was heavy with rain, and there was an odour of wood-fires, as in a village street.

‘I like this sort of weather,’ said Ivich, biting her second apple. ‘It’s rather damp, but it’s not muggy. I feel I could walk ten miles.’

Whereupon Boris discreetly made sure that there were cafés within reach. When Ivich talked of walking ten miles it invariably meant that she would want to sit down very soon.

She looked at the Belfort lion and said ecstatically: ‘I like that lion. He’s wizard.’

‘Hum!’ said Boris.

He respected his sister’s tastes, even though he didn’t share them. Moreover, Mathieu had vouched for them, when he said one day: ‘Your sister’s taste is bad, but it’s better than impeccable good taste: it’s profoundly bad taste.’ In those conditions, there could be no difference of opinion. But Boris personally was more inclined to classic beauty.

‘Shall we go down the Boulevard Arago?’ he asked.

‘Where is it?’

‘Over yonder.’

‘All right,’ said Ivich. ‘It looks nice and bright’

They walked in silence. Boris noticed that his sister was becoming depressed and nervous, and she deliberately twisted her feet as they walked. ‘The agony is going to begin,’ he thought despondently. Ivich fell into an agony every time she waited for the results of an examination. He raised his eyes and noticed four young workmen approaching, who laughed as they looked at the pair. Boris was used to this sort of derision, indeed he regarded it with sympathy. Ivich bent her head, and seemed not to have seen them. When the youths came up to them, they divided: two of them passed on Boris’s left, and the other two on Ivich’s right.