Honeymoon (6 page)

In the mornings they went down to the beach which stretched below the pine forest between the Casino and the beginning of the road to the Cape. The hotel's private beach, with its pergola and its bathing huts wasn't functioning now "as it did in peacetime", as the hall porter put it. A few deck chairs and sunshades were still at the guests' disposal. But they weren't allowed to use the bathing huts until the end of the war. Newcomers wondered whether they weren't committing an offence when they used this beach. They were even a little ashamed of sunbathing. In the first days, Rigaud had to reassure Ingrid, who was always afraid that someone would come and ask them what they were doing there, because she was still suffering from the after-effects of the precarious life she had lived in Paris. He had bought her a pale green swimming costume in a boutique in Juan-les-Pins. And also a pareu, with pastel-coloured printed designs, like the other women
wore. They would lie on a pontoon, and as soon as the sun had dried their skin they dived into the sea again. They would swim out, and then return to the beach side by side, swimming on their backs. At the beginning of the afternoon, when the sun was too hot, they would cross the deserted road and walk up the path lined with pines and palm trees that led to the entrance to the Provençal. Often, the hall porter was not at the reception desk. But Rigaud kept their key in his bath-robe pocket. Then there would be the slow ascent in the lift, the dark landings going by, leaving them to imagine the silent, interminable corridors, the rooms which probably contained no more than their bed-frames. As the lift rose, the air became lighter, and they were enveloped in the coolness of the half light. On the fifth floor, the big wrought-iron gate would bang behind them, and then nothing else would break the silence.

From their balcony they gazed down at the pine forest, and under its dark-green fringe they could make out the white patch of the casino. And along the wall round the hotel, the steep street where nobody went by. Then they closed their shutters – pale-green shutters, the same colour as Ingrid's swimming costume.

•

In the evenings, they would cross the square in the pine forest and go and have dinner at the only restaurant in Juan-les-Pins that ignored the restrictions. Customers came there from Nice and Cannes. At the beginning, Ingrid felt ill at ease there.

The habitués greeted each other from table to table, the men tied their sweaters casually over their shoulders, the women showed their tanned backs and swathed their hair in creole foulards. You could overhear conversations in English. The war was so far away … The restaurant was in a wing of a
building near the casino and its tables spilled over on to the pavement. It was said that the
patronne
– a certain Mademoiselle Cotillon – had had a brush with the law, but that these days she enjoyed "protection". She was very pleasant, and in Juan-les-Pins she was known as the Princesse de Bourbon.

•

They went back to the hotel, and on moonless nights a feeling of anxiety descended on them both. Not a single street lamp, not a single lighted window. The Princess de Bourbon's restaurant was still aglow, as if she was the last to dare to defy the curfew. But after a few steps this light disappeared, and they were walking in the dark. The murmur of conversation faded, too. All those people whose presence at the tables reassured them, and whom they saw on the beach during the day, now seemed unreal: walkers-on from a touring company who had got stuck in Juan-les-Pins because of the war and were compelled to play their parts of phoney holidaymakers on the beach and in the restaurant run by a phoney Princesse de Bourbon. The Provençal itself, whose white mass could just be made our in the shadows in the background, was a gigantic pasteboard set.

And every time they crossed this dark pine forest, Ingrid was suddenly shaken by sobs.

•

But they went into the lobby. The glittering light of the chandelier made them blink. The porter was standing behind the reception desk in his uniform. He smiled, and gave them the key to their room. Things regained a little consistence and reality. They found themselves in a real hotel lobby with real walls and a real uniformed porter. Then they went up in the lift. And once again they became a prey to doubt and anxiety when they pressed the button for the fifth floor, as all the buttons for the other floors were covered with sticky tape to make it quite clear that they were not in use.

At the end of their long ascent in the dark, they came to a landing and a corridor faintly lit by naked bulbs. That was the way it was. They went from light to shade and from shade to light. They had to get used to this world in which everything could fluctuate from one moment to the next.

•

In the mornings, when they opened the shutters, a harsh light flooded into the room. It was exactly like the summers of the past. The dark green of the pines, the blue sky, the scent of eucalyptus and oleanders from the Avenue Saramartel which goes down to the beach … In the heat haze, the Provençal's great white façade soared upwards for all eternity and you had the impression that this monument protected you, if you gazed at it from the pontoon, lying there after your swim.

Just one very small detail was enough to blot this landscape: a dark patch Rigaud had noticed for the first time, late one afternoon, on a bench in one of the paths in the pine forest. Ingrid and he were coming back from a walk on the boulevard along the coast. A man in a city suit was sitting on the bench, reading a newspaper. And in contrast to the dark colour of his suit, his complexion was milky white, like that of someone who never exposes himself to the sun.

The next morning they were both lying on the pontoon. And Rigaud again noticed this dark patch leaning on the balustrade of the terrace, to the left of the steps leading down to the beach. The man was watching the few people who were sunbathing. Rigaud was the only one who saw him, as the others had their backs to him. For a moment he had wanted to point him out to Ingrid, but he changed his mind. He got her into the sea, they swam even farther out than usual, and then returned to the pontoon, swimming on their backs. Ingrid
preferred to stay on the beach, as the pontoon was scorching. Rigaud had gone to fetch her a deck chair from the veranda outside the bathing huts. He went back to Ingrid, who was standing at the edge of the water in her pale-green swimming costume, and looked up towards the balustrade. This time the man seemed to be spying on Ingrid, smoking a cigarette which remained glued to his lips. His face was still as milk white, in spite of the sun. And his suit appeared even darker in contrast with the white veranda and beach huts. Rigaud had spotted him once again at aperitif time, sitting at the far end of the lobby, staring at the guests coming out of the lift.

•

So far, he hadn't been able to see his features very clearly. But that same evening, in the Princesse de Bourbon's restaurant, he was able to do so at leisure. The man was sitting at a table near theirs, at the back of the room. A bony face. Blond hair with reddish glints, combed back. His milk-white skin seemed to be pitted over his cheekbones. He was wearing his city suit and casting a beady eye over the tables where the habitués were sitting. It was almost as if he wanted to take a census of them. Finally his gaze came to rest on Ingrid and Rigaud.

"Are you on holiday?"

He had tried to soften the metallic tone of his voice as if attempting to worm a shameful secret out of them. Ingrid turned her head towards him.

"Not exactly," Rigaud said. "We're on honeymoon."

"On honeymoon?"

With a nod, he expressed feigned admiration. Then he took a cigarette holder out of his jacket packet, stuck a Caporal in it – he packer was on the table – lit it and took a long puff, which hollowed his cheeks.

"You're lucky to be on honeymoon."

"Lucky? Do you really think so?"

Rigaud regretted the insolent manner m which he had replied. He had stared at the man with wide-open eyes, pretending to be astonished.

"Given the circumstances, very few people your age can indulge in a honeymoon …"

Once again that smooth tone. Ingrid remained silent. Rigaud guessed that she was embarrassed and would have liked to leave the restaurant.

"Can you stand those cigarettes?" Rigaud asked the man, pointing to the packet of Caporal on the table.

A sudden impulse. It was too late to go back on it now. The man was looking at him, screwing up his eyes. Rigaud heard himself say:

"Don't they make your throat sore? I have some English ones, if you like."

And he held out a packet of Craven A.

"I don't smoke English cigarettes," said the man, with a twisted smile. "I can't afford them."

Then he began to study the menu, and thereafter pretended to ignore Ingrid and Rigaud. He went on indefatigably looking from table to table, as if he wanted to engrave everyone's face in his memory and take notes later on.

•

When they were back at the hotel, Rigaud regretted his childishly provocative gesture. He had found the packet of Craven A, empty, in the drawer of the bedside table, left there by a guest from the palmy prewar days. Ingrid and he were leaning over the balcony. Below, the roof of the church and the umbrella pines were silhouetted in the moonlight. The terrace of the Princesse de Bourbon's restaurant was hidden under the foliage.

"Who can that fellow be?" Ingrid asked.

"I don't know."

If he had been on his own, he wouldn't have been at all worried by the presence of that man. Since the beginning of the war he had never been afraid of anything, but he was afraid for Ingrid.

•

Often, the dark patch – as Rigaud called him – remained invisible. They might almost have thought that the sun in Juan-les-Pins had caused it to vanish for ever. Unfortunately, it reappeared in places where they no longer expected it. On the balustrade of the beach when people were bathing. On the pavement of the road to the Cape. On the terrace of the casino. One evening, when Rigaud was just about to take the lift up to join Ingrid in their room, he heard a metallic voice behind him:

"Still on honeymoon?"

He turned round. The man was in from of him, looking fondly at him.

"Yes. Still on honeymoon."

He had replied in the most neutral way possible. Because of Ingrid.

•

One night he woke up at about three o'clock, and opened the window because of the stifling heat. Ingrid was asleep, and she had folded the sheet down at the foot of the bed. A glint of moonlight lit up her shoulder and the curve of her hip. He felt nervous, and couldn't get back to sleep. He got up, and tiptoed out of the room to see if he could get a packet of cigarettes. The light from the bulbs in the corridor was even dimmer than usual. The one in the lift was out, but downstairs the chandelier was shining very brightly.

He was just about to cross the lobby when he saw the dark patch behind the reception desk. The man was alone, bending over a wide-open register and taking notes. He hadn't seen Rigaud, and there was still time for him to turn round and go back up to his room. But like the other evening, at the Princesse de Bourbon's restaurant, a sudden impulse came over him. He walked slowly over to the reception desk. The man was still absorbed in his work. When he got up to him, Rigaud put both his hands down flat on the marble. Then the man raised his head, and produced a stony smile.

"I've come to get a packet of cigarettes," said Rigaud. "Craven A, I suppose?"

It was the same smooth tone as the other evening.

"But I'm disturbing you in your work. I'll come back later."

And Rigaud openly bent over the book in which the man was writing his notes: a list of names that he had copied, the names of the guests written in the hotel register. The man snapped his notebook shut.

"As there aren't any Craven A, maybe you'd like one of these? …"

He offered him his packet of Caporal.

"No, thank you."

Rigaud had said that in a pleasant tone. He didn't take his eyes off the big hotel register, open in front of him.

"Were you taking notes?"

"I was gathering some information. And while I work, you are on honeymoon …"

As he had the other evening, he gave Rigaud a fond look. And his smile revealed a gold tooth.

Rigaud had lowered his head. In front of him, the dark patch of the suit. A crumpled suit. A too-small black tie hung down from the collar of the brown shirt. The man had lit a cigarette. Ash fell on to the lapels of his jacket. Rigaud suddenly noticed a strange smell – a mixture of tobacco, sweat, and violet scent.

"I'm really sorry to be on honeymoon," said Rigaud. "But that's the way it is … And it can't be any other way …"

Then he turned his back and crossed the lobby to the lift. When he reached the gate, he gazed at the man over at the reception desk. The other was also staring at him. And under Rigaud's insistent look, he finally went back to his work, trying to make it look as natural as possible. He leafed through the hotel register, and from time to time wrote something in his notebook – no doubt the name of a guest, which had escaped his attention.

•

In the room, Ingrid was still asleep. Rigaud sat down at the foot of the bed and looked at her smooth, childish face. He knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep.