Read Three Bedrooms in Manhattan Online
Authors: Georges Simenon
Three Bedrooms in Manhattan (16 page)
Everybody called her Kay. It was enraging. Why had she told him to open her letters?
This one was in English, stilted, formal.
I received your letter of August 14. I was delighted to discover that you were in the country. I hope the Connecticut air is doing you good. Business matters have made it impossible for me to escape from New York for as long as I might have wished.
However â¦
However what? He'd slept with her, too. They all had! Would the nightmare ever end?
⦠my wife would be delighted if you â¦
Bastard! But no. Combe was the one who was wrong. And he didn't have to be. It was all over. All he had to do was write, “Finished. Period, new page.”
Yes, a period and then a brand-new pageâand he wouldn't have to suffer anymore.
That was what he was thinking. That he'd suffer to his dying day on account of her.
And he was resigned to it.
Idiotically.
What would a fool like Laugier say about that?
But it was simple, so simple that ⦠Well, what was there to say?
That's how it was. Kay wasn't there, and he needed Kay. He'd seen himself as a tragic figure once because his wife, at the age of forty, wanted to fall in love again, to feel young again. Could he have been any more childish? Did it even matter?
He knew now it didn't. The only thing that mattered, the only thing in the world that was important, was Kay, Kay and the life she'd led, Kay and â¦
⦠and a phone call. That was all, just one phone call. He waited day and night. He set the alarm for one in the morning, then two, then three, to be sure he'd be awake enough to hear the ring.
At the same time, he said to himself:
It's fine. Everything's fine. It's over. It couldn't have ended any other way.
Because he could taste disaster on his lips.
No, really, it couldn't have ended any other way! He'd become François Combe again. They'd welcome him, at the Ritz, like a man recovering from a serious operation.
“Well, it's all over?”
“Yes.”
“It didn't hurt too much? You're not still sore?”
But there was no one at night to hear him pleading into his pillow, “Kay! My little Kay ⦠Please call, please!”
The streets were empty. New York was empty. Even their little bar was empty, and, one day when he wanted to play their song, he couldn't because a drunk they'd tried to throw out, a Scandinavian sailorâNorwegian or Danishâhad grabbed him by the elbow and insisted on divulging his incomprehensible secrets.
Wasn't it better like this? She was gone for good. She knew it, they both did. For good.
“Now it doesn't feel like going away ⦠it feels like coming home.”
What had she meant? Why like coming home? Home where?
Dear Madam: You have probably overlooked our bill for â¦
Three dollars and change for a blouse he remembered having taken from Jessie's dresser and put in the trunk.
That was Kayâa threat to his peace of mind and to his future, Kay who was Kay, who he could no longer do without.
He would forsake her ten times a day and then just as many times or more he'd plead for forgiveness, only to forsake her again minutes later. And he avoided men as if they were dangerous. He hadn't gone to the radio studio once. He hadn't seen Hourvitch or Laugier. He hated them now.
Finally, on the seventh day, or rather the seventh night, while he was fast asleep, the telephone shattered the silence of his apartment.
His watch lay beside it. It was two o'clock.
“Hello.”
He could hear the long-distance operators exchanging messages. One insistent voice repeated stupidly, “Hello ⦠Mr. Combe ⦠? Hello, Mr. Combe ⦠? C ⦠O ⦠M ⦠B ⦠E? Hello ⦠Mr. Combe ⦠?”
In the background he could hear Kay's voice, but she hadn't been connected yet.
“Yes ⦠This is Combe. Hello?”
“Mr. François Combe?”
“Yes, yes.”
And she was there, at the other end of the night. She asked softly, “It's you?”
And he found nothing better to answer with than “It's you?”
He had told her once, at the startâand she had laughedâthat she had two voices: one that was banal, that could have been anyone's, any woman's; the other was deeper, lower. He had loved that one from the very first moment he heard it.
He had never heard her voice over the telephone before, and happily it turned out to be the deeper one, a little lower-pitched even than he remembered, warmer, with a hint of a drawl, tender and seductive.
He wanted to shout, “It's over, Kay. I'm not going to struggle anymore.”
He understood. He would never abandon her again. He was impatient to tell her, since he had only figured it out just now.
“I couldn't call any sooner,” she was saying. “I'll explain everything later. It's all good news down here. Only it's been very hard to call. It still is. But from now on I'm going to try every night.”
“Can't I call you? You're not at the hotel?”
Why was there a pause? Did she guess that he already felt betrayed?
“No, François. I had to move into the embassy. Don't worry. And especially don't think anything's changed. When I got here, they'd just finished operating on Michelle. It seems to have been very serious. Acute appendicitis, and then peritonitis suddenly set in. Can you hear me?”
“Yes. Who's there with you?”
“The maid. A nice Mexican woman who has a room on the same floor. She heard some noise and wondered if I needed something.”
He heard her say a few words to the woman in Spanish.
“Are you still there? Anyway, my daughter. She's had the best surgeons in the country. The operation went well. But for several days there was a danger of complications. And that's that, my sweet.”
She had never called him that before, and it had a depressing effect on him.
“I think about you, you know, all alone in your room. Are you very unhappy?”
“I don't know. Yes ⦠no.”
“Your voice sounds funny.”
“Really? It's because you've never heard me on the telephone. When are you coming back?”
“I don't know yet. As soon as I can, I promise. In three or four days, maybe.”
“That's a long time.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, that's a long time.”
She laughed. He was sure he heard her laugh.
“Imagine, I'm barefoot and in my bathrobe, since the telephone is by the fireplace and it's chilly tonight. And you? Are you in bed?”
He didn't know what to answer. He didn't know what to say anymore. He had looked forward to this, he'd been waiting so long for it that now he didn't know who she was.
“Have you been good, François?”
He said he had.
And then, at the other end of the line, he heard her humming, very softly, their song.
He felt something warm welling up in him. He couldn't move or breathe. He couldn't speak.
She finished the tune, and after an intervalâwas she crying, or was she, too, unable to speak?âshe whispered, “Good night, my François. Go to sleep. I'll call you tomorrow night. Good night.”
He heard the faint sound of the kiss she was sending him across all that space. He must have stammered something. The operators were back on the line, and he didn't understand that they were telling him to hang up.
“Good night.”
And that was that. And his bed was empty.
“Good night,
my
François.”
And he hadn't told her what he wanted to tell her, he hadn't cried out the all-important message, the good news she had to know.
Only after he'd hung up did the words form on his lips.
“You know, Kay
â¦
”
“What, sweetheart?”
“What you told me at the station. The last thing you said.”
“Yes, sweetheart ⦔
“That you weren't going away, that you were coming home.”
She would have been smiling. He could see that smile so perfectly that it was as if he were hallucinating it, and he spoke out loud, all alone, in the emptiness of his room:
“I understand, at last, what you meant ⦠It's taken me a while, hasn't it? But don't be angry with me.”
“No, sweetheart.”
“Because men, you know, aren't as subtle as women ⦠And they're too proud ⦔
“Yes, sweetheart. It doesn't matter.”
In a voice so low, so soft â¦
“You came home first, but I'm with you now ⦠We're both home now, aren't we? And isn't it wonderful?”
“It's wonderful, sweetheart.”
“Don't cry ⦠You mustn't cry ⦠I'm not crying, either. But I'm not used to it yet. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“It's over now ⦠It's been a long time, and the going was sometimes hard ⦠But I'm here ⦠And I know ⦠I love you, Kay ⦠Can you hear me? I love you ⦠I love you ⦠I love you!”
And he buried his wet face in his pillow, his body racked with sobs, while Kay was still smiling at him, while her soft, deep voice was whispering in his ear:
“Yes, sweetheart.”
A
LETTER
came for him in the morning mail, and even without the Mexican stamp he would have known that it was from Kay. He'd never seen her handwriting before. But it was exactly like her! He was very moved by this Kayâgirlish, hesitant, and so terribly imprudent, a Kay nobody else knew.
He was probably being ridiculous, but in the curves of certain letters he thought he recognized the curves of her body. Some of the down strokes were very fine, like the imperceptible lines on her face. And there were sudden, unexpected forays into boldness. And a lot that was weak as well; a graphologist might have detected her illness, because he was certain, almost convinced, that she was still ill, that she had never been fully cured, and would bear her sickness with her all her life.
And her cross-outs, so oddly candid, when she stumbled on some syllable she couldn't spell.
She hadn't mentioned the letter during last night's phone call, probably because there hadn't been time. Perhaps there was too much else she wanted to say, or she'd just forgotten.
It was not as gray as it had been, and though the rain still fell, now it seemed like background music to his thoughts.
My darling,
How alone and unhappy you must be! I've been here for three days now and I haven't had time to write or found a way to telephone. But I've never stopped thinking about my poor François, who must be having a bad time there in New York
Because I'm sure you're feeling lost and alone, and I still wonder what I did, what you possibly see in me that makes my presence so necessary to you.
If only you could have seen how miserable you looked in the taxi at the station! It took all my courage not to turn around and come back to you. Can I tell you that it made me happy?
Perhaps I shouldn't say this, but since New York you've never been out of my thoughts, even when I'm with my daughter.
I'll telephone you tonight or tomorrow night, depending on how my daughter is doing. Since my arrival I've spent every night at the hospital, where they set up a bed for me in a room next to Michelle's. I admit I didn't dare ask for a line through to New York. Either I call from my room, where the door to my daughter's room is always open, or I call from the office, which is run by a dragon lady in eyeglasses who doesn't like me.
If all goes well, this will be my last night at the hospital.
But I'll tell you everything, because otherwise, I know, you'll imagine all sorts of things and just torture yourself.
First of all, I confess right away that I almost deceived you. Don't worry, my poor darling. You'll soon see what I mean. After I left you in the taxi and bought my ticket, all of a sudden I felt so alone that I raced to the restaurant. I wanted to burst into tears, my poor François! I could still see you looking out through the taxi window, all haggard and tragic.
There was a man next to me at the counter. I wouldn't recognize him if I saw him again or be able to say if he was young or old, but I said to him: “Talk to me, will you, please? I have twenty minutes before my train leaves. Say anything at all, anything, so I won't burst into tears right here in public.”
I must have looked like an idiot, once again. I was certainly acting like one, I realized afterward. But I needed to talk, to pour out my heart to somebody, and I don't remember what I told that stranger for the next quarter hour.
I talked about you, about us. I told him I was going away and that you were staying behind.
Then I thought I still had time to call you. It was only when I was in the booth that I remembered you didn't have a phone yet.
I ended up on the train, I don't know how, and I slept all day. I didn't even have the strength to walk to the dining car. All I had to eat was an orange.
Is all this boring to you? My daughter is asleep. The nurse has just gone out; she has to look after another patient on the floor and has to change the ice bag on the patient's stomach every hour.
I'm in my little bed like the one at the sanatorium, in a whitewashed room with a little light shining on the stationery, which is propped up against my knees.
I think about you, about us. I still wonder how it's possible. I wondered about that during the whole trip. You see, I can't get rid of the feeling that I don't deserve you! And I'm afraid of hurting you again. You know what I mean, my François, but I'm convinced now that one day you'll realize that this is the first time I've been in love. Are you beginning to feel it yet? I hope you are for your own sake. I don't want you to be hurt anymore.
I must stop writing about these things, otherwise I might pick up the phone and call New York whether Michelle can hear or not.
I was surprised to find her already quite grown up. She looks like me, much more like me than she did when she was small, when everyone said she took after her father. She's noticed it, too, and she looks at meâI'm sorry if I seem just a little conceited writing thisâshe looks at me, as I said, with a sort of admiration.
When I got to the station after two days of traveling, it was already past eleven. On the off chance, I'd sent a telegram from the border, and a car from the embassy was waiting for me at the station.
It seemed funny to be alone in a limousine crossing through a brightly lit city where the people were only just waking up. The driver said, “Madame needn't worry. The doctors believe the young lady is out of danger. The operation yesterday was successful.”
I was glad that Larski didn't meet me at the station. He wasn't at the embassy, either, where I was met by a sort of governess, very Hungarian and very much the great-lady-who-has-fallen-upon-hard-times. She showed me to the apartment set aside for me.
“If you wish to go to the hospital tonight, a car from the embassy is at your disposal.”
I don't know if you understand how it felt, sweetheart, to be all alone in that huge place with nothing but my poor suitcase.
“The maid will run a bath for you. Afterward, you will no doubt wish to eat something?”
I don't remember if I did eat. They rolled a table, all set, into my room like in a hotel. There was a bottle of Tokay, and I have to confess, and you can either laugh at me or scold me, that I drank it all.
The hospital was on a hill at the edge of town ⦠Everything was very formal. Larski was in the waiting room with one of the surgeons who had just examined Michelle. He bowed to me. By way of introduction, he said: “The mother of my daughter.”
He was in formal dress, which isn't that odd since he'd obviously just come from some diplomatic function, but it made him look icier than ever.
The doctor said that in his opinion the danger was over, but that he wanted another few days to be sure. It was only when he went away and Larski and I were left alone in that sort of sitting room that reminded me of a convent, that Larski, who was as cool and poised as ever, gave me the details.
“I hope you were not annoyed by my slight delay in notifying you, but I had some trouble locating your current address.”
And you know, sweetheart, that it wasn't my current address, because we were at our place!
Forgive me for those last two words, but I have to write them, to say them out loud, to convince myself that it's true. I was unhappyâI know you must have been, tooâand I should have been with you, which I know so well is the place where I belong.
In the middle of the night they decided to operate. I'm trying to tell you everything, but my thoughts get a little mixed up. Do you realize I still don't know how long Michelle has been in Mexico? We've barely had a chance to talk, and anyway she's so shy around me that she hardly says a word. If I start talking, the nurse signals me to be quiet. It's even written on the walls!
What was I saying, François? I forget how many days, exactly, I've been here. I sleep in the nurse's room, but she's hardly ever there, as I think I've already told you, because she has to spend so much time with the other patient, who's also a young girl.
Michelle often talks softly in her sleep. She speaks in Hungarian and mentions names I don't know.
In the morning, I help bathe her. She has a little body that reminds me of mine when I was her age, and it brings tears to my eyes. She's as shy as I was then. For one part of the washing-up she won't let me stay in the room, even if I turn my back.
I don't know what she thinks of me, or what people have told her about me. When she looks at me, she's both curious and astonished. When her father comes, she looks at us without saying anything.
I think of you all the time, François, evenâand I know this is not a nice thing to writeâeven the other evening, at about ten o'clock, when Michelle fell unconscious and everyone was so scared that they telephoned the opera to have her father paged.
Am I a heartless monster?
Larski looks at me strangely. Sometimes I wonder if something hasn't changed in me since I met you, since I fell in love with you, if there isn't something new in me that even people who don't care about me notice.
Even the Hungarian lady at the embassyâyou should see the way she looks at me!
Because every morning a car comes to take me back from the hospital. I go straight up to my apartment. I have my meals there. I've never laid eyes on the dining room, and what I know of the rest of the place comes from a glimpse I once caught passing through, when they were doing the cleaning and all the doors were open.
The only real conversation I've had with Larski was in his office. He telephoned me one day to ask if I could meet him there at eleven.
Like everyone else, he looked at me with some surprise. There may have been a hint of pity in his expression, too; probably because of my dress, my hands without rings on them, and my face, since I haven't bothered to put on makeup. But there was something more than pity in his eyes. I don't know what it was and can't explain it. It's as if people can sort of sniff out love, and it sets them on edge.
He asked me, “Are you happy?”
I said yes, very simply and looking him straight in the eyes, and he blinked first.
“I am taking advantage, if that is the phrase, of the occasion that has accidentally thrown us together again to inform you of my forthcoming marriage.”
“I thought you were already remarried.”
“I was. It was a mistake.”
He made an elegant gesture with his hand. Don't be jealous, François, but he really has very beautiful hands.
“I am remarrying, beginning my life again, and that's why I brought Michelle here, because she will have a place in my new home.”
He thought I was going to burst into tears or turn pale, I don't know. And the whole time, I swear it, I beg you to believe me, I was thinking about you. I wanted so much to say to him, “I'm in love!” But he already knew it. He could tell. It's impossible for people not to tell.
“That, Katherine, is why ⦔
Again I'm sorry, I don't want to hurt you, but I have to tell you everything.
“That is why you must not be angry about being excluded from the daily life of this house, and why I hope your stay here will not be unduly prolonged. I have tried to do my duty.”
“I thank you for it.”
“There are several other matters that I have wanted settled for some time, and, if I have not done so, it is only because I had been unable to locate you.”
I'll tell you all about it when I see you, François. I haven't made any hard-and-fast commitments. But please believe that everything I've done was for your sake, with you in mind, and in the belief that we will always be together.
Now you know pretty much everything about my time here. Don't on any account think I'm being humiliated. I'm a stranger in this house, and I speak to no one except the Hungarian lady and the servants. They're polite and distant. Except for one of the maids, a girl from Budapest, whose name is Nouchi. One morning she surprised me getting out of my bath and said, “Madame has skin exactly like Miss Michelle's.”
You, too, my love, told me one night that you liked my skin. My daughter's is much softer and whiter. Her skinâ¦
But here I am, getting sad again. I didn't want to be sad tonight when I wrote to you. But I wanted so much to send you something worthwhile!
And I have nothing to give you. On the contrary. You know what I'm thinking, what you're thinking all the time, in spite of yourself, and it frightens me, until I wonder if I should return to New York at all.
If I were a real heroine, like the ones people talk about, I probably wouldn't come back. I'd disappear, as they say, without a forwarding address, and perhaps you'd soon find someone to console you.
I'm not a heroine, my François. As you can see! I'm not even a mother. At my daughter's bedside, it's my lover I'm thinking about, my lover I'm writing to, and I'm proud to write that word for the first time in my life.
My loverâ¦
Like in our songâdo you still remember it? Have you gone out to listen to it? I hope notâimagining your poor head hearing it, I'm scared you might drink too much.
You mustn't. I wonder what you do with all the days, your long days of waiting. You must spend hours and hours in our room, and by now I'm sure you know every detail in the life of our little tailor, who I miss, too.
I don't want to think about it anymore, or else I'll call you and risk making a scandal. That is, if you did manage to get a phone installed so quickly!
I don't know yet if it'll be tomorrow night or the night after that Michelle will be well enough for me to sleep at the embassy, where there's a phone in my bedroom.
I've already asked Larski in passing, “Would you mind if I made a call to New York?”
I could see his jaw tighten. Now don't start imagining things, my love. It's an old tic of his. It's about the only sign of emotion anyone can make out on his face.
And I think he would have been quite happy to find that I was alone in the world, even desperate!
Not to take advantage of it, you idiot! That's all over. But because he's so incredibly proud.
He replied coolly, bowing from the waist, another tic of his that helps a diplomat, “Whenever you wish.”
He knew. And I, my love, wanted to shout your name in his face: “François!”
If this goes on much longer, I'll have to talk to somebody about you, anyone, the way I did at the station. You won't hold that stupid story at the station against me, will you? You know, don't you, that it was all because of you, because I couldn't carry you around with me all by myself for so long?
I remember how you looked when you said, “You just can't help turning on the charm, can you, even for a cafeteria boy or a taxi driver? You're so desperate for attention from men that you demand it from the beggars you give a dime to in the street.”
Well, I'm going to confess something else. No, I'd better not; you wouldn't understand. But so what? What if I said that I almost told my daughter about you, that I did mention you to her, vaguelyâoh, very vaguely, so don't worryâas if I were talking about an old friend, someone I can always trustâ¦
