Four Novels (22 page)

Maria complained for a long time, in the night. It was like dreaming. The shape did not move. It was like dreaming that it did not move from the moment it could be Rodrigo Paestra. To the shape, Maria was complaining about her fate.

The town became abstract like a jail. No longer the smell of wheat. It had rained too much. It was too late. You could no longer talk about the night. But about what then, about what?

“Oh, I beg you, I beg you, Rodrigo Paestra.”

She would have turned him in for a sip of brandy that she didn’t go and get. Maybe we can do something, Rodrigo Paestra. Rodrigo Paestra, in two hours it will be light.

She now said words that meant nothing. The difficulty was so great. She called him, called this beastliness of pain.

“Hey there, hey there.”

Without stopping, softly as she would with an animal. Louder and louder. She had closed the balcony windows behind her. Somebody had moaned, then fallen asleep.

Then the police came. There they were. These men had just arrived there, they were probably fresh troops, they were talking. They were talking more than the others. Reinforcements for dawn. There had been a rumor in the hotel that they would come. They talked about the weather. Maria, leaning over the railing of the balcony, could see them, one of them raised his eyes, looked at the sky, didn’t see Maria, and said that the storm had definitely vanished from these parts. On the square, in the distance, a light appeared. The truck bringing reinforcements? Or a café that they had had opened that night, so early, because of the murder and so the police could drink and eat there while waiting to surround the town at dawn? They were talking of thirty men, reinforcements that had arrived at the hotel. Rain, from Maria’s wet hair, turned into sweat. The patrol had left.

“Hey, hey,” Maria called again as she would call an animal.

The moon disappeared behind a cloud, but it wasn’t going to rain again. He didn’t answer. It was a quarter past one. She couldn’t see him while the cloud moved in the sky. Then the sky freed itself from this
cloud. It hadn’t rained. There he was again around the chimney, still motionless, unalterable, there for eternity.

“You’re an idiot,” Maria shouted.

No one had waked up in the town. Nothing happened. The shape had remained wrapped in its stupidity. In the hotel nothing had moved. But a window lit up in the house next to the hotel. Maria moved back a little. She had to wait. The light went out. No more shouting. The shout had come from the hotel, from a tourist. Therefore people went back to sleep. Again the deadly silence. And in this silence, Maria insulted him again.

“Idiot, idiot,” she said softly, being careful.

The patrol came again. Maria stopped shouting insults. The patrol passed. They had been talking about their families, about jobs. If Maria had a weapon she would shoot at the shape. So it would be done. The rain which would not dry made Maria’s blouse stick to her shoulders. She must wait for dawn and Rodrigo Paestra’s death.

She wasn’t calling any more. He knew it. Again she opened the corridor door. She saw, she could see them, the others, sleeping, cruelly separated. She looked at them for a long time. It hadn’t been fulfilled yet, this love. What patience, what patience, she didn’t leave the balcony. Rodrigo Paestra knew that she was there. He was still breathing, he existed still in this dying night. He was there, in the same place, geographically related to her.

As often happens in summer, a climatic miracle occurred. The fog had disappeared from the horizon and then little by little from the whole sky. The storm dissolved. It no longer existed. Stars, yes stars, in the pre-dawn sky. Such a long time. The stars could make you cry.

Maria wasn’t calling any more. She wasn’t shouting insults any longer. She hadn’t called him ever since she had insulted him. But she stayed on this balcony, her eyes on him, on this shape which fear had reduced to animal idiocy. Her own shape as well.

A quarter of an hour passed, shortening by that much the time that moved toward a green dawn; the dawn which would start by poking its nose into the wheat fields, and then would sweep this roof, opposite her, and would reveal him, and his terror, to the eyes of everyone. No, Maria wasn’t calling any more. Time was getting old, buried. She wasn’t going to call any more. Never again.

The night moved at a dizzy speed, without ever halting in its course.

Without events acting as relays. None but the bitter duration of failure. Maria recognized it.

There was one chance left. If he could see, through his shroud, that she was still there, at her post, waiting for him. And if, in his turn, he thought he should display a last act of kindness, and signal to her. One chance that he should remember that time was passing while she was waiting uncomfortably, on this balcony, where perhaps she would stay until dawn. One chance that, because of her, he should step for a short instant out of the artlessness of despair, that he should remember certain general principles of human behavior, of war, of flight, of hatred. That he should remember the pale red dawn moving over his land; the ordinary reasons for living, in the long run, until the end, even when these reasons have disappeared.

A blue light now fell from the sky. It wasn’t possible that he didn’t see this woman’s shape leaning toward him—as no other ever had—on the hotel balcony. Even if he wanted to die, even if he wanted this particular fate, he could answer her one last time.

Again the policemen of hell. They went by. Then there was silence. Behind Maria, the blue sky lit up the hallway where Claire and Pierre were sleeping, apart. An indescribable difference brought on by sleep, was keeping them apart for a few more hours. Tomorrow, their love would be fulfilled, unparalleled, screaming, in the hotel, in Madrid. Oh, Claire. You.

Did he lose hope of seeing her again while she had turned?

Something had emerged from the black shroud. Something white. A face? or a hand?

It was he, Rodrigo Paestra.

They confronted each other. It was a face.

The renewal of time asserted itself. They were face to face and looked at each other.

Suddenly, in the street, below, the police went by, already in the talkative, happy mood of the approaching killing.

Maria had fallen prey to happiness. They became bolder. While the police were passing by they kept looking at each other. The waiting finally burst open, released. From every corner of the sky, from all the streets and from those who were lying there. Just from the sky Maria would have guessed that this was Rodrigo Paestra. It was now ten to two. An hour and a half before his death, Rodrigo Paestra had accepted to see her.

Maria raised her hand to say hello. She waited. A slow, slow hand came out of the shroud, rose and also made the gesture, of mutual understanding. Then both of the hands fell down.

At last, the horizon was completely cleared by the storm. Like a blade it was cutting the wheat fields. A warm wind rose and began to dry the streets. The weather was beautiful, just as it would be beautiful during the day. The night was still whole. Perhaps solutions could be found to the problems of conscience. Perhaps.

Serenely Maria raised her hand, again. He answered, again. Oh, how marvelous. She raised her hand to tell him that he must wait. Wait, her hand was saying. Did he understand? He did. His head had completely emerged from the black shroud, as white as snow. They were eleven yards away from each other. Did Rodrigo Paestra understand that she wanted to help him? He had understood. Maria started again, patiently, reasonably. Wait, wait Rodrigo Paestra. Wait a little longer, I’m going down, I’m coming to you. Who knows, Rodrigo Paestra?

The patrol arrived. This time Maria entered the corridor. The head too had heard and had covered itself again with the shroud. But they couldn’t see anything from down below. The idea would never occur to them. Again they spoke about their work, about their low pay, of how hard it is to be a policeman. Like the previous patrol. Just wait. They were gone.

On its own the head had again come out of the shroud, and looked toward the balcony where this woman was waiting. Again she signaled that he should wait. The head nodded. Yes, he had understood that he should wait, that she was going down, coming to him.

Everyone in the corridor was sleeping. Maria took off her shoes to walk around the sleeping bodies. Her little girl was there, in a position of blissful tranquility, lying on her back. There was Claire too, asleep. And Pierre. Two steps away from her, wanted by Claire but unaware. Claire, this beautiful fruit of the slow degradation of their love.

Maria had gone beyond the corridor. She was holding her shoes in her hand. Through the skylight the brightness of the sky shone on the tables and made the tablecloths look blue, as well as the air. The tables were half cleared. Bodies were lying on the benches: the waiters had probably given their rooms to the tourists. The whole staff was still asleep.

Maria again crossed this area of sleep. It was summer. The staff was exhausted. The back doors must have been left open. It had been a
crime of passion, just a one-time murderer. Why would they have locked the doors? On the right there was the manager’s office, where Claire and Pierre, last night, had at last been alone, without her, for a long time. The office was dark. Maria looked through the glass pane. Nobody was sleeping there. If Maria wanted to leave by this side of the hotel, she would have to cross a short glass-enclosed passage adjoining the corridor.

The door to this passage was locked.

Maria tried again. Sweat covered her face. The door was locked. There was no other exit to the street besides the stairs leading from this passage. The only other way of leaving was through the servants’ hall.

Maria walked back through the dining room. Toward the doors in the rear. One of them was open. Leading to the kitchen. First there was a pantry. Then a long, immense kitchen. Everything was in complete disorder. This was noticeable because a big bay window let in more light there than in the dining room. Could it be dawn? It was impossible that it was dawn. Maria looked through the bay window. It was just a lamp in the courtyard where the cars were parked. The heat from the ovens could still be felt, sticky, heavy, nauseating.

There in the kitchen, near the exit, a young man was sleeping on a camp bed.

A door had been left open in the back; where the walls narrowed, between the bay window and a cupboard. Maria pulled it toward her. The young man turned over and groaned. Then he was quiet and Maria opened the door. The door opened on a spiral staircase. Had Rodrigo Paestra kept on hoping? The stairs were made of wood. They creaked under Maria’s footsteps. It was as hot there as during the day. Sweat was running down from Maria’s hair. Two floors. The staircase went on for two floors and was completely dark.

The glazed door was unlocked. It opened onto the garage, and the courtyard within the hotel. Maria hadn’t thought of that. But probably there was a watchman there too. He couldn’t have heard Maria calling Rodrigo Paestra. The courtyard was far from the street. Perhaps there was no one there. And in that case the gate would be locked. Maria looked at her watch. It was five past two. Pierre had driven the car into the garage. Maria didn’t know where it was. She went out. The courtyard seemed sandy, white. The cars were in the back, many of them under a shed, in the dark.

Maria was near the door. She closed it. The door made a long, shrill
sound, but apparently no one heard it. No one? Wait. No, apparently no one had heard the door complain.

Between this door and the shed, the courtyard was empty, wide and empty. She had to cross this space. A quarter moon lit up the courtyard. In the middle of this courtyard, the shadow of a roof. The roof of the last house in the town, before the wheat fields. Yes, the light which shone in the kitchen through the bay window came from a storm lamp hanging from the shed, very high, and dancing in the light night wind. The cars were shining. There probably was a reliable watchman. But where?

Just as Maria decided to cross the courtyard, the police went by in the street behind the courtyard gate. They were coming straight from the other street, the one where Rodrigo Paestra was. Maria recognized their soft footsteps in the mud of the street: the last one before the wheat fields. They were still talking. She looked at her watch. And noticed that thirteen minutes had gone by since she had left the balcony, in other words, since the previous patrol. She had put her shoes back on before opening the glazed door at the bottom of the staircase. She went on through the courtyard. And she reached the shed. Already the patrol was in the distance.

It was probably best to make a noise. There was the black Rover. Maria opened the door. Then she waited. A familiar perfume came out of the car: Claire’s perfume. Maria noisily slammed the door shut.

Someone coughed in the shed. Then someone asked what was the matter. Maria opened the door again, left it open, and walked toward the voice.

The man hadn’t moved. He had sat up on his camp bed, against the wall, in the corner of the shed that was farthest away from the gate.

“I’m a guest at the hotel,” Maria said. “I was looking for the little black Rover.”

She took out her cigarettes from her skirt pocket. She offered him one, lit it for him. He was about thirty. Very casually he took the cigarette. He probably had been asleep. He was covered with the same brown blanket as Rodrigo Paestra.

“You’re already leaving for Madrid?”

He was surprised. Maria pointed to the sky.

“No,” she said. “The weather is so nice. I couldn’t sleep in the corridor. I’m going for a ride.”

The man got up completely. He stood in front of her. She smiled at
him. There were still men who would look at her. Both of them were smoking and could see each other in the light of their cigarettes.

“I disturbed you, I’m sorry. But it’s because of the gate.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not locked. It’s the same every summer.”

He pulled himself together. Spoke about the weather, about the coolness which, every night, comes about that same time.