The Voyeur (9 page)

The exchange of preliminary formulas followed at once— the brother working for the steamship company, the wrist watches at prices defying all competition, the hallway cutting the house down the middle, the first door to the right, the big kitchen, the oval table in the middle of the room (actually a dining room table), the oilcloth with the many-colored little flowers, the pressure of his fingers on the copper-plated clasp, the cover folding back, the black memorandum book, the prospectuses . . .

On the other side of the table, on the sideboard (a dining room sideboard, too), between various objects ranging from a coffee mill to a spiny tropical fish mounted on a board, was a rectangular, chromium-plated metal frame eight inches high, leaning on an invisible support; inside the frame was a photograph of Violet as a young girl.

It was not Violet, of course, but someone who looked very much like her—especially her face, for the clothes in the picture were those of a child, in spite of the nascent outlines of the body wearing them, which might already be a young woman's—in miniature. The subject was wearing her everyday clothes—those of a little peasant girl—which was surprising, since country people do not customarily have this kind of snapshot enlarged: photographs usually commemorate some event and are posed for in Sunday clothes (generally Communion dress, at such an age), between a chair and a potted palm in the photographer's studio. Violet, on the contrary, was standing against the rectilinear trunk of a pine tree, her head leaning against the bark, her legs braced and slightly spread, her hands clasped behind the small of her back. Her posture, an ambiguous mixture of surrender and constraint, made it look as if she might have been bound to the tree.

"That's a pretty girl you have there!" the salesman said good-naturedly.

"Don't mention her, she's a real curse. And don't be fooled by those obedient airs: she's got a devil inside lier! A wild animal!"

The familiar conversation began; but Mathias realized that in spite of his interest in the girls' education—particularly in young Jacqueline's, whose disobedience caused so much trouble—even in spite of the pleasure he took in Maria's and Jeanne's splendid engagements, their mother had no intention of buying anything at all. The question of wedding presents for the two elder sisters had been settled long ago and all further expenses were now to be limited to what was strictly necessary.

Unfortunately the woman was garrulous, and he had to listen to interminable stories which were of no interest to him but which he dared not interrupt, now that he had imprudently introduced himself as a friend of the family. Thus he became acquainted with the exact circumstances of the two prospective sons-in-law, and with their plans as future husbands. After the honeymoon on the continent, one household would return to live on the island, while the other was to be established. . . . Violet's legs are spread, though still in contact with the trunk—both heels touching the bark at the roots, separated by half the circumference of the tree (about sixteen inches ). The cord holding them in that position cannot be distinguished because a clump of grass is growing in front of the tree. Her forearms are bound together behind the small of her back, each hand in the crook of the opposite elbow. Her shoulders must be attached to the tree, too, probably under her armpits by means of thongs, though it is difficult to see these. The child looks exhausted and tense at the same time; her head is bent to the right, in fact the whole body is slightly twisted in this direction, the right hip higher and projecting beyond the other, only the front part of the right foot resting on the ground, and the right elbow out of sight, although the other protrudes beyond the trunk. The snapshot, taken the previous summer by a tourist visiting the island, is full of life in spite of the slightly frozen pose. The stranger had stayed only one day, fortunately, for God knows what would have happened with a man like that. The woman was of the opinion that her daughter required severe discipline, for now that she had had the misfortune to lose her husband (as the salesman doubtless knew), the girl took advantage of it to plague her poor mother out of her wits. She already was dreading the moment when she would be without the two older girls, who were so well-behaved, and left alone in the house with this heartless child who at thirteen was a disgrace to the whole family.

Mathias wondered what the girl could ever have done to make her own mother speak of her with such hatred. Certainly she seemed precocious, but "heartless," "perverse," "wicked" . . . that was quite a different matter. The story of the young fisherman whose engagement—it was claimed —she had just ruined was rather vague. To say the least, any young man actually "in love" with such a child was playing rather an odd role in the first place. And why had the tourist sent his little companion of a single afternoon a photograph so expensively framed? The mother spoke unsmilingly of the girl's "magic power" and assured him that "not so long ago she would have been burned as a witch for less."

At the foot of the pine tree the dry grass began to blaze, as well as the hem of the cotton dress. Violet twisted at the waist and flung back her head, opening her mouth. Finally, however, Mathias succeeded in taking his leave. Yes, he would tell the overindulgent uncle about his Jacqueline's latest escapade. No, he wouldn't have a chance to meet her this morning because she was tending sheep at the edge of the cliff, far from the road, and even if he should leave the road it would be in the opposite direction—toward the Marek farm—unless he continued straight ahead to the lighthouse.

He avoided looking at his watch, anticipating his vain regrets at again having lost so much time. He tried instead to pedal faster, but the suitcase got in his way; he coasted in order to shift gears, holding the handlebars and the handle of the suitcase in his left hand—which was uncomfortable. The grade was steeper now, obliging him to slow down: besides, the sun and the heat were becoming excessive.

He stopped twice to visit isolated houses along the road; he was in such a hurry to leave them that he suspected he had spoiled the sales by not staying ten seconds longer.

When he reached the fork to the mill he continued straight ahead: the detour suddenly seemed futile.

A little farther on, with the excuse that it was too modestly built, he passed without stopping a cottage just off the road —which was level from now on. He thought he would make at least an appearance at the Marek farm: he had known the family for so long, certainly he would sell something there. The road to the farm forked left from the main road after the next bend; at the same point on the right would be the path to the southwest coast—where young Violet is tending sheep at the edge of the cliff . . .

The tide is still rising. The sea dashes forward all the more violently because of the inshore wind. After the big waves crash against the shore, a series of whitish cascades streams back down the smooth slope. Sheltered by the foremost rocks, reversed by the undertow, little flakes of rust-colored foam whirl about in the sunshine.

In a hollow to the right, the waves, more peaceful here, die out one after the other on the smooth sand, leaving thin traces of foam which advance in successive and irregular festoons—ceaselessly effaced and revived in ever-fresh designs.

He was at the crossroads already, and there was the white milestone (it was sixteen hundred yards to the big lighthouse at the end of the road ).

The crossroads appeared immediately afterward: to the left the road to the farm, to the right a path that was quite broad at the outset but which subsequently narrowed to a vague dirt track—twisting to avoid roots and stumps, briar patches, and clumps of stunted gorse—just wide enough for the bicycle to pass. After a few hundred yards the ground sloped gently toward the first rises of the cliff. From here on Mathias could coast down.

II

A rectangular shadow less than a foot wide crossed the white dust of the road. It lay at a slight angle from the perpendicular without quite reaching the opposite side: its rounded—almost flat—extremity did not protrude beyond the middle of the road, of which the left side remained unshaded. Between this extremity and the close-cropped weeds bordering the road had been crushed the corpse of a little frog, its legs open, its arms crossed, forming a slightly darker gray spot on the dust of the road. The creature's body had lost all thickness, as if nothing but the skin were left — hard, dessicated, and henceforth invulnerable—clinging to the ground as closely as the shadow of an animal about to leap, limbs extended—but somehow immobilized in air. To the right the real shadow, which was much darker, gradually became paler, disappearing altogether after a few seconds. Mathias lifted his head toward the sky.

The upper edge of a cloud had just concealed the sun; a rapidly shifting bright fringe indicated its position from moment to moment. Other clouds, diffuse yet of less than ordinary size, had appeared here and there from the southwest. Most were of indeterminate shapes which the wind broke up into loose meshes. Mathias followed the trajectory of a sitting frog which stretched out to become a bird seen in profile, wings folded, with a rather short neck, like that of the sea gull, and a slightly curved beak; even its big round eye was recognizable. For a fraction of a second the giant gull seemed to be perched on top of the telegraph pole whose unbroken shadow extended once again across the road. In the white dust the shadows of the wires could not be distinguished.

A hundred yards beyond, a country woman carrying a knapsack was walking toward Mathias—doubtless coming from the village near the big lighthouse. The winding road and the situation of the crossroads at the bottom of a hill prevented her from seeing where the traveler had come from. He could just as well have come directly from the town as be returning from the Marek farm. On the other hand, the woman would have noticed this inexplicable standstill, which he himself was surprised at, now that he thought about it. Why should he have stopped in the middle of the road, his eyes raised toward the clouds, holding in one hand the handlebars of a chromium-plated bicycle and in the other a small fiber suitcase? Only then did he sense the numbness he had been floating in (for how long?); he did not succeed in figuring out why, in particular, he had not gotten back onto the bicycle instead of pushing it along in this unhurried fashion, as if he had nothing better to do.

The country woman was now only fifty yards away from him. She was not looking at him but had certainly noticed his presence and his unusual behavior. It was too late to spring onto the seat and pretend to have been riding along ever since he had left the town, or the farm, or anywhere else. No hill, however small, had obliged him to walk the bicycle instead of riding it in this part of the country, and his dismounting could only be justified by an accident (not a serious one ) that had occurred to some delicate part of the machinery—the gearshift, for instance.

He considered the rented bicycle gleaming in the sun, and decided that such slight disturbances sometimes occur in even the newest machines. Seizing the handlebars in his left hand, which was already holding the suitcase, he leaned over to inspect the chain. It seemed to be in perfect condition, carefully oiled, fitting satisfactorily around the gearing of the sprocket-wheel. Nevertheless, the traces of grease still clearly visible on his right hand proved that he had already been compelled to touch it as least once. However, this indication was quite useless: as soon as his right hand had actually brushed against the chain, the tips of all four fingers were blackened by several fresh grease spots which greatly exceeded the old ones in size and intensity—even partially concealed them. He added two horizontal stripes to the heel of his thumb, which had remained unspotted; then he straightened up. Two steps away he recognized the wizened, yellow face of old Madame Marek.

Mathias had arrived that very morning by the steamer, intending to spend the day on the island; he had immediately made efforts to procure a bicycle, but while waiting until one was available he had begun his rounds at the harbor, contrary to his original plans. Since he had not succeeded in selling any of his merchandise—notwithstanding its excellent quality and moderate price—he had doggedly called at all (at almost all) the houses along the road where his chances had seemed somewhat better. He had wasted still more time doing this—so much time that once back at the crossroads he had suddenly become alarmed at how late it had grown and had decided it would be wiser to continue straight ahead instead of making another detour all the way to the farm. To add to his troubles, the gearshift of the bicycle he had rented at the café-tobacco shop was not working properly and .. .

The old woman was going to pass without speaking to him. She had stared at him and then looked away as if she did not know him. At first he felt a kind of relief, then wondered if the contrary would not have been preferable. Finally it occurred to him that perhaps she had pretended not to recognize him on purpose, though he could not see why she should show any reluctance to gossip with him for a few minutes, or in any case to say good morning, if nothing more. On the off chance, he decided to speak first, in spite of the considerable effort it cost him at this particular moment. That way, at least, he would know how far he could go. He emphasized the grimace he had begun, imagining it resembled a smile.

But now it was too late to attract the woman's attention by a mere change of expression. She had already passed between the dried corpse of the frog and the rounded extremity of the telegraph pole. Soon she would be far behind him, and it would take a human voice to keep her from continuing toward still more inaccessible regions. Mathias clenched his right hand around the polished metal of the handlebars.

A sentence jolted out of his mouth—obscure and overlong, too sudden to be altogether friendly, grammatically incorrect—in which he could make out, nevertheless, the essential formulas: "Marek," "good morning," "not recognized." The old woman turned toward him without understanding what he had said. He managed to repeat the indispensable words more calmly, completing them by giving his own name.