The Bark Tree (11 page)

“I’ll tell them I was walking for a long time, all night; and that after that, I came home.”

“You won’t tell them anything about me?”

“Oh! no, I won’t say anything about you.”

“That’s right”—and Mme. Pigeonnier kissed Théo on the forehead.

“What about your father—what’ll he say?”

“Nothing. Ztoo stupid.”

“Oh! aren’t you ashamed, talking about your father like that?”

“In the first place, znot my father. I’ve never had a papa.”

“Poor boy,” sighs Mme. Pigeonnier, kissing Théo on the cheek.

Théo is sitting stiffly on a chair; but he is not unaware of how this conversation will end. He looks straight ahead of him; only his sense of smell reveals Mme. Pigeonniers presence to him, or her chaste kisses.

“And your mother?”

“She’ll cry.”

“Doesn’t that make you sad?”

“Oh, yes!” says Théo, grinning on the other side of his face, the one Mme. Pigeonnier can’t see. “She’ll be so happy when she sees me again.”

“Doesn’t take much to console you.”

A short silence. Théo sniffs. It smells damn good. But the preliminary moralizing bores him.

“Your parents work hard enough to bring you up. Just think, they aren’t rich, but next year you’ll have taken your baccalaureate, thanks to the sacrifices they make for you.”

“That’s all a lot of boloney: primo, did I ever ask them if I could take my bac.? segondo, the sacrifices, I have to put up with them just as much as they do, the daily grind, I do it just like Dad and Mom; and tertio, if I get my bac., it’s because I’m intelligent and work hard.”

Mme. Pigeonnier finds these remarks pleasantly titillating, and laughs.

“Naughty thing,” she chuckles, and kisses him.

Théo preserves his immobility. He looks at the time. Midnight. What, actually, could have happened? If Narcense started beating up his stepfather, what a joke that would be! This idea makes him join in Mme. Pigeonniers laughter.

“You know, there’s a meussieu that’s in love with my mother.”

“How d’you know that?”

“He’s written to her. Mom, she tore up the letters, but I stuck them together again.”

“Aren’t you ashamed of being such a snoop?”

“Oh sure.” A short silence. “This meussieu, I know him.”

“How d’you know him?”

“Wurl, I saw him one day, one evening, by our gate.”

“Really?”

“He wz looking at Mom through the gate.”

“You got a good look at him?”

“Yep. And then, he wz doing something funny.”

“But what?” questions Mme. Pigeonnier, who doesn’t understand.

“Well, he wz behaving zif he was all by himself.” Mme. Pigeonnier, who has finally understood, looks at Théo, highly shocked. Théo remains imperturbable. “Wossmore, he mucked up the gate.”

“My stepfather’s gate,” he adds.

He turns his head to see what Mme. Pigeonnier thinks about it. Well, she’s highly shocked, is Mme. Pigeonnier. He reassumes his hieratic position and changes the subject. “I’m hungry,” he observes, authoritatively.

“What would you like to eat?”

“Summing nice,” he retorts.

“D’you want me to get the maid up?”

“You do that. I want summing hot, and then some dessert.” Mme. Pigeonnier waves a bell. Catherine comes running, draped in a Chinese dressing gown. She pushes her hair back over her forehead: “Yes, Madam?”

She ogles Théo and yawns; this time, he blushes. “Catherine, get us some supper,” says Mme. Pigeonnier.

Catherine whistles in admiration. “Coming up,” she says, and goes out.

“You know, she’s impertinent, your maid,” says Théo hypocritically.

Mme. Pigeonnier is lighting a cigarette, and doesn’t answer.

“She isn’t like that in the daytime,” he persists.

He takes the lighted cigarette he is offered.

“Thanks. They won’t let me smoke at home. It’s idiotic.”

“Come on, don’t criticize your parents all the time.”

“You know, my stepfather, he isn’t funny. There’s nothing in his head.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Never says a word. Talks about his office; that’s all. Looks at the papers with half an eye, but he never reads them.”

“How d’you know?”

“I watch him. He’s asleep on his feet.”

“But he’s nice to you?”

“Yes, course he is; he’s too much of a dope to bother me much. Never knows how to pass the time. And Mom, who’s at it all day long. All my pals, they live in Paris. And I’m stuck in that half-demolished house. My God, it isn’t funny. I get so pissed off.”

“What?”

“Yes, I’m labefying my crumpet with all these nigmenogs,” replies Théo volubly.

Catherine comes in, bringing the cold supper. She hasn’t forgotten herself; she lays the three places and sits down with Théo and Mme. Pigeonnier. As she cuts up a piece of cold chicken, she tells them:

“Something must have been going on next door, earlier on. I heard footsteps in the garden, and some men’s voices. There must have been several of them. I recognized Meussieu Marcel’s voice.”

As she speaks, she pretends to be unaware of Théo’s presence.

“I looked out of the window; I saw two men in the garden, they were carrying a third one, who looked as if he was dead, or ’d fainted. Someone opened the door. It was Meussieu Marcel. Him and the fellow with him, they got the one who was dead or who’d fainted into the house. The door shut again. That’s all I saw. In any case, I’m not particularly interested in what goes on in that house. Would you care for some white wine, Madam?”

“Thank you, Catherine, just a drop.”

“Me too, I want some,” says Théo, “and a whole glass.”

“As I was saying,” continues Catherine, “I’m not particularly interested in what goes on in that house; all the more so as nothing ever does go on there. It’s absolutely typical of the sort of house where quiet, mediocre people live, and get old, without anything ever happening. Aren’t I right, Madam?”

“As you see very well, Catherine, something
was
going on there tonight.”

“It’s probably because it was never finished.”

Catherine pours herself out a large glass of wine.

“What do you think of this wine, Madam?”

“It’s very good.”

“It isn’t bad, but you ought to buy some champagne, Madam, a small crate of a dozen bottles for special occasions. You could allow yourself that, Madam.”

“All right, Catherine, order a small crate, then.”

“Certainly, Madam. When Meussieu Théo passes his baccalaureate we’ll open one.”

“I hope we won’t have to wait as long as that,” says Théo.

Mme. Pigeonnier laughs. Then Catherine starts talking to her about dresses and all that. Théo, while this is going on, devours everything within reach of his fork. When they finish their supper, Catherine clears the table; it’s getting late.

“Ah, I’ll leave you,” says she.

“Good night, Catherine,” sighs Mme. Pigeonnier.

Théo says nothing. They hear Catherine going downstairs, and then coming up again to her room.

“I’m going to bed,” says Theo, yawning.

—oooooo—oooooo—

His mother had put on a false beard to serve the boiled eggs; this unpleasant vision was followed by an access of very profound, but very short-lived, anxiety; the next moment Etienne opened his eyes. The night was barely over. He felt that Alberte, at his side, was awake; he himself hadn’t slept more than two hours.

How could he find Le Grand? There was no reason why he should meet him again, no chance. Was it entirely his fault? He had been asking for some actual revelation, some light to be thrown on the environment in which he had lived an hour a day for the last three years, and Le Grand had given him a prophecy. Yes a prophecy. Wasn’t there something phony about his pointing out Narcense like that? You’ll know him, soon. That brown scar. And after all, Narcense, what a curious name! Is it a last name or a first name? He’s a musician. He loves his wife. He’s written to her. He loves his wife. He loves Alberte. He loves her. So Alberte exists for other men. The folly of wanting to hang Théo; a joke, that threat, a joke in bad taste; a joke, that absurd story about the dog Théo had told them; yes, Narcense’s uncle hanged Théo, no, the dog. He hanged his dog because he fell onto the coffin, onto Narcense’s coffin, his grandmother’s, and Théo has disappeared, has run away. Alberte is in despair. Narcense loves her, other men see her, follow her, yes, in the metro, touch her, often. That happens to me, I don’t do it on purpose, my hand just happens to be touching a woman’s body; when I was carrying the gadgets, for instance, uh-oh, I must have left the hard-boiled-egg-cutter on the table; why did I buy it? I didn’t tell Le Grand about it perhaps he could tell me why I’ve changed a lot in the last few weeks I’m aware of it now yes the world isn’t what it appears to be, at least when you live the same thing every day when you don’t see anything any more and yet there are people who live in the same way every day but I—I really didn’t exist, it all began with the little ducks before I didn’t think I didn’t exist you might say at least I don’t remember any more other people were living near me things were there there or somewhere else and I didn’t see anything and yet I must still look the same and other people if they’re like I was before perhaps other people don’t think they don’t exist they go from one place to another like I used to go from one place to another but it doesn’t mean a thing you might say even so it would be odd perhaps it’s the other way around and I was the one who was the exception I was the only one who didn’t exist and when I looked at the world I started to exist perhaps all this is in the philosophy books perhaps they explain it what sort of book would tell me Le Grand’s the one who’d know
he
is alive he’s always existed he sees everything he knows what you have to do to think I didn’t read when I was little I must have existed for instance when I was five I cried when the cat died so I did exist then and my cat that they killed it was the day of the little ducks everything happened on the same day it’s all confused yes what activity all of a sudden all these things happening there’s something else today as well Narcense hangs himself and gets cut down fundamentally that’s all part of everyday life whereas the hard-boiled-egg-cutter no that’s the difference one can be explained the other can’t be explained for Narcense perhaps it can’t be explained for him he is going beyond his own everyday life but he doesn’t make me go beyond mine now Le Grand he could make me go beyond it just like that you can go beyond it without appearing to that’s the odd part I live just like I used to before all I have to do is just give a sideways look as you might say and there I am out of it now Narcense he gives himself a lot of trouble a rope at night it’s very tragic with me it’s much odder I’m getting very good at it it’s very amusing to be in charge of your thoughts like this to talk to yourself in the old days when I woke up during the night I used to look at the fifth acanthus leaf on the wallpaper now I know how to tell myself extraordinary things I wonder if all this has been written down in books you can’t know that beforehand Le Grand will be able to tell me but how am I going to find him again how could he guess I’d meet Narcense perhaps he’s a friend of his he doesn’t seem to be or else he arranged things so that it’s very odd it’s funny he must be very clever if it wasn’t a prophecy then it was a conjuring trick in either case he’s very good at it perhaps one day I’ll be able to do conjuring tricks too the little ducks conjured themselves up for me by themselves that’s the odd thing but for Théo it was the opposite they were there they’d been there right away from the word go Théo was the one who’d seen who is he that kid he was here he’s disappeared I don’t know who he was I know the color of his eyes now I don’t know what his nose is like or his mouth I can’t manage to see his face isn’t it funny I’ve seen him every day and I find it impossible to remember his face what about Alberte can I remember her face her eyes her mouth.

Etienne, much distressed, leans over and looks at those eyes, that mouth; had he forgotten them? He heard, in the next room, a metallic sound; an object had just fallen off something. The hard-boiled-egg-cutter. A cock wailed; others, stupidly, answered it. In the distance, a train whistled. A door opened; two voices whispered for a few moments.

—oooooo—oooooo—

Ffteen hundred feet high, the cliff damned the sea and the cliff looked as smooth as a mirror and perfectly vertical and the sea came and pulverized itself against it. Along the whole length of the cliff, the sea was turning white. It was the cliff that marks the limit of the Ocean, against which every wave is shattered. It rose up like a phallus, and stretched out like an arm.

Parallel to it, a man was swimming: himself. He wanted to go ashore, but no hand was held out to him. He also had to avoid being crushed against the rock. While swimming parallel to the cliff, he wondered how long he would be able to go on holding out against fatigue and cold; then he realized that night would not fall, because the sun was motionless. As he was swimming, his head in the water, he saw, very far beneath him, a stretch of fine, luminescent sand, unsullied by seaweed or sponges; he saw neither fish nor shell nor octopus nor crustacean. No living being reached that depth and, when he took a breath, he felt that even the smallest bacteria would not survive in that crystal air.

He swam, then, for a very long time; more precisely, the visual perception of the cliff was immediately followed by that of the flight of steps that made it possible, so it seemed, to climb up to its summit. These steps were composed of metal rods, driven into the rock horizontally; a distance of about six feet separated each rod from the next.

He went ashore without trouble and, grasping the lowest rod, he started the climb, that is, he had to balance himself, upright, on each rung, grasp the rung above and then pull himself up onto that rung on which he would again have to balance, and so on about two hundred and fifty times. Even though he had never done any gymnastics, he managed the climb without difficulty.

When he had reached the hundredth rung, he looked down and saw that the seething foam of the sea had been reduced to a fine, whitish border. The sea was perfectly clear and lay on a bed of sand that was everywhere the same; no shadow was projected onto it. He looked up, and saw nothing but the rungs. He looked into the distance, over the Ocean; it seemed to him that he could make out the Eiffel Tower, but this was a mistake. The horizon, that universal castrator, allowed nothing to emerge.