Marie (5 page)

She no longer felt a sense of unease, nor did she want to laugh; she was now profoundly annoyed by the whole scene. She said drily: ‘Well now, Denis, what about this magazine?’

He explained that he had launched it for commercial reasons, with a view to being able to spend time on more important work without having to worry so much about money. But now that the new magazine had ‘taken off’ he thought that he could try to make it appeal to a more intellectual readership whilst preserving its popular nature. He would write some pieces of literary criticism, and Marie a column on philosophy.

‘That would be it,’ he said. ‘You’d be the one who’d give the magazine a bit of class. But remember, I want your articles to make an impression but they must also be accessible to the people who buy it.’

The whole chaotic atmosphere had reduced Marie to a state of extreme irritation; she was in no mood to be compliant. The silent anger that had been rising up in her ever since she had come into the apartment suddenly exploded.

‘Listen, Denis, if what you want from me is ten pages on the
Critique of Pure Reason
, that’s fine. And if you want me to help you draft recipes for Veal Marengo, Kromesky Chicken or whatever, that’s fine, too, even if I have to make them up. But if you want me to take two spoonfuls of Spinoza, one of Plato, three grams of Bergson, and bind the mixture with a digestive sauce that will suit these ladies’ stomachs, that’s not on at all. I am quite simply not cut out for that kind of work …’

Marie carried on in the same vein. He had never heard her talk for so long, in such a strong, furious voice. So taken was he by her animated gestures, her nervous hands and her eyes, which had finally come to life – albeit accusingly – for a full few minutes, that he quite forgot to answer back.

When she had finished Denis was in a state of shock, not knowing what to say but wanting to be friendly. He went up to the table and filled her glass. ‘What do you think of this drink?’

‘It’s a little sweet. You ought to have put in less port and more gin,’ she said, in a voice still loaded with anger.

Obediently, he poured half the contents away and added more gin. ‘You haven’t said anything about the apartment,’ he said, after a few moments of silence. ‘It’s just been redesigned, I’d like to know what you think.’

‘It’s probably very nice, but you can’t see the colours with that useless little lamp,’ she replied.

And looking at the closed curtains she asked: ‘Is that a false window?’

He turned out the lamp and opened the curtains. The room was flooded with light, so sudden and so strong that they blinked.

She got up and stood in the middle of the room. ‘If it had been like this when I arrived, things might have turned out differently, in every respect,’ she said, giving him a hard look.

After the attitude she had just shown, and the sentence she had just uttered, Denis had only two possible options: to take her by the shoulders and throw her out, or to make
love to her. Realising this, Marie felt responsible for the situation, and waited with some concern to see what he would do. Instead of being cross he looked at her and said: ‘Do you always reveal yourself like this, Marie, so dramatically?’

She felt sad, her anger suddenly deflated. ‘Reveal myself … reveal myself?’ she repeated softly, as though to herself.

‘You ought to speak out more often, Marie, to open up a bit. You should speak to other people more often, you’d do them good.’

His voice was guarded, and had taken on an imploring note. Marie looked at him with a tenderness touched with pity – at his hands and his hair, at his weak forehead and his sad, shallow eyes. This was a man she would never love.

Outside, she thought: Poor Denis, he’s only a little boy, really, but at a deeper level continued to be angry and repelled. She was hot – she hadn’t taken her coat off even for a moment – and she was still nauseated by the taste of the cocktail. She was stifling, she needed air. She passed Alésia Métro and made her way on foot up the avenue d’Orléans.

At a crossroads she was attracted by the sight of a neighbourhood fête. It was like a little funfair – you didn’t often see them in Paris.

She stopped in front of a large merry-go-round of the roller-coaster type, a vast multi-coloured moving machine supervised by a tall young man wearing a navy-blue pea-jacket; his cap was set sideways on his fair hair. For the moment he had no customers, but it didn’t seem to worry him. As he leaned against the picture that concealed the rotating wheel,
he had the air of an indifferent but all-powerful master, like a god who might enjoy watching his world revolve whilst awaiting the moment when he feels the urge to fill it with people. He stopped the merry-go-round then started it again – out of habit, or perhaps out of caprice. Then he spotted Marie standing nearby, watching him. He cried out: ‘Hey, big beauty, come over here!’

Smiling, she jumped on to the floor, which was already vibrating, all ready to go. The man held out his hands, then seized her just as the merry-go-round was starting, and sat her on a horse. ‘I’m putting you on the biggest one – for the same price as the smallest!’

He rode pillion behind her, taking hold of her wrists and reaching his arms over hers in a double cross. Without holding on to anything, they were carried faster and faster, around and around. He propelled her along from his torso and arms, transmitting to her chest a long, deep, come-and-go routine – depending on whether the merry-go-round was moving up or down. ‘It’s like waves in the sea!’ he said. ‘A very stormy sea!’ she retorted.

The phrase pleased him so much that he began to sing it, to the restrained, cracked melody of the carousel. They were now going at maximum speed, and when they were on the downward slope, Marie’s hair streamed behind her. The man was no longer singing, but breathing like a siren, softly going up, briskly going down; on the flat bits he held on to her more tightly.

When the machine had slowed down and he’d pulled up the brake, Marie held out her thirty sous, the advertised
price for the ride. He hesitated, wanting to refuse but not daring to do so. He found a solution: he accepted the money and said: ‘Shall we go and have a drink in the café opposite, so I can keep an eye on my stand?’

‘Yes!’ she said, delighted.

They went into the bar. The man was so tall that in order to lean his elbow on the counter he had to stand in an unnatural position, but he managed it gracefully, his thighs in an elegant curve.

Looking at Marie, he said: ‘I can’t make it out, it’s very unusual: a young woman like you in such a nicely cut coat, so well turned out and so smart – all alone at a fair, without even a hat on …’

Marie smiled and shrugged her shoulders. She looked across at the merry-go-round and said, as if by way of explanation: ‘They’re wonderful, fairs.’

‘They’re not bad,’ he conceded.

They talked for a while, about this and that, and, when they’d finished their coffees, left the café.

They shook hands and he said: ‘It’s funny – you meet someone, you become pals, then you say goodbye …’

‘Yes, it’s funny,’ she said.

He returned to his merry-go-round and Marie went on her way.

The machine was moving gently. The man sat sidesaddle on a horse, opposite to the movement of the circuit, so that he could watch Marie walk away. A few metres on, she turned back towards him and raised her hand; he took
off his cap and held it at arm’s length in a motionless farewell, observing her with a solemn smile. She saw him for a few seconds only, before the roundabout took this god to the other side of the world.

BACK HOME MARIE FOUND
the kitchen in a state of disarray; she’d left straight after lunch without having time to do anything. All that to arrive at the rue Marguerin on the dot, all because of that idiot Denis! She put some water on to boil, tidied up the room, and then paused, her mind going back to the merry-go-round, singing as the man had done, with the words they’d made up. When the water was hot she washed the dishes and put them away. The stove had got spattered as she’d prepared lunch, so she wiped it, ran an emery cloth over it, spread it with a steel-coloured paste and began to scrub it, happily, until the cast iron shone, like a mirror.

I
T WAS A FINE OCTOBER
, with steady temperatures, every day lit by a pale sun. As the trees of Paris gently shed their leaves, the air filled with a smooth, peaceful sense of mortality.

Marie felt neither enthusiasm, hatred, distress or even indifference, but a kind of wild peace. If she had any desire at all, it was to be a man walking along a road, sleeping and eating on the hoof, sitting on a pile of stones and cutting up his bread with a knife. If she experienced any happiness, it was the strange, hard pleasure of availability. She walked with a steady step, her eyes clear, her head unusually high. The season of the year was dying too gently for the season of her heart which, in the remembrance of a single night, was struck by a flash – a crude, almost cold clarity.

Marie had hardly seen Claudine, and even then it was usually by chance, at a gathering of friends. She had hardly
spoken to her, not wanting to see those distressed, abandoned looks that Claudine bestowed on her.

From the outside it looked as if nothing had changed between Jean and Marie. Then one evening, Jean expressed a desire to go to a cinema to see a new Russian film that everyone was talking about. Marie was not drawn to the idea, and said so. Jean seemed surprised and upset by her refusal, but Marie added: ‘But you could go on your own – why don’t you?’

He was at first astonished, then delighted. He ate his supper fast and after he’d left she heard him whistling away on the stairway – something he hardly ever did. She told herself that Simone and Alice would be at the cinema and that he would come home very late. He hadn’t even bothered to finish his pudding; his plate was still half full.

She took all this in without feeling unhappy about it; it only proved what she already knew.

When he came home he found her in bed. Opening her eyes, she said unreproachfully: ‘How late you are.’

‘I stayed on to have a chat with Alice.’

He was right next to her, and she could see a light-red mark on his cheek, just by his mouth.

‘Go and wipe your mouth,’ she said.

He went up to the mirror then came towards her. He thought she was going to issue her usual little series of rebukes, or to say how sad she felt, and he wanted to lean over her, kiss her and say, as he always did, that these encounters meant nothing, that the love they shared was unshakeable.
But he could tell from her face that she had gone back to sleep. Her skin seemed paler and her beautiful hair, spread out in curls on the pillow, looked like a shining helmet. That nervous tension in her mouth, which was always there even when she was asleep, had gone, and her breathing was slow, barely perceptible, showing no sign of sadness or precipitation. She was lying on her back with her wrists chastely crossed on her breast, just as she used to when she was fifteen.

When Jean came home late, however deeply asleep Marie was, she would move at the touch of his body when he slipped in beside her; instinctively, she would stretch out her arm and fling it over his chest, in a gesture of protectiveness. Today, in her virginal sleep, she stayed dead to the world.

A
T THE BEGINNING
of November Jean left for Maubeuge again. Marie was ready early, and went with him on the bus to the station. A few minutes later she once more found herself staying behind on the platform as the train pulled out.

Nine o’clock on a cold morning, and Paris is bustling. Soon the clouds might disperse, and by midday the air might recapture a degree of warmth, but now Marie walks as rapidly as she can in the increasingly bitter air of the wide Neuilly avenues.

Set amongst the big
hôtels particuliers
is a more modest house, almost hidden by the trees of the neighbouring garden, which extend right along its façade. The impression is not that this park-like garden has strayed on to someone else’s property: the smaller building looks as if it’s been wedged into someone else’s territory.

The narrow path leading to the house looks like a right of way. Marie has walked up it and pulled shut the low gate behind her; she is so accustomed to the noise it makes that she does not hear it. The path lengthens narrowly between two hedges of high shrubs, then widens out towards the left into a small garden which opens out in front of the house. This is where Claudine and Marie played when they were children.

The front door is hardly ever locked. Marie doesn’t ring the bell but before lifting the latch she knocks a few times on the wood, quickly, according to a familiar pattern: whether they hear her or not, she has always done this to announce her presence.

In the corridor she walks quickly on – she knows that at this hour her parents will be taking their breakfast in the big glazed kitchen. They are sitting next to each other (when he was alive, her maternal grandfather sat opposite them, with Claudine at one end of the table and Marie at the other) and the maid is near the stove, busy with something or other: she doesn’t leave the room because she knows she isn’t disturbing them.

‘Marie? Hello, darling!’

‘Marie, how early you are! You’ve never turned up so early before!’

‘I’ve just put Jean on the train to Maubeuge.’

‘So you’ve come home to Mum and Dad to seek consolation …’

‘Would you like a cup of cocoa?’

Hot-water chocolate, since Marie’s father does not like milk. She delights in the slightly insipid liquid, and the intense memories it revives.

Marie looks at her mother: at this hour she hasn’t finished dressing, and her hair, which is still brown, is covered with a hairnet that is supposed to keep her waves in place during the night. She puts a hand up to her absurd-looking hair and apologises with the confused, almost girlish smile that she adopts when talking about herself – always a source of amusement to both husband and daughter. Marie’s eyes meet her father’s and they laugh; then they both turn towards the woman whose hair is not done and regard her tenderly. Marie says warmly: ‘It makes me so happy to see you like that!’

Her father gets up; it’s time for him to go to the office.

Marie stays behind with her mother. Even though she never goes more than two weeks without coming back to this house, today it seems as though she’s been away for several years; that’s what gives her an expression that is both moved and inquisitive. She reaches out fondly to every object, every movement, every word, as if seeking some kind of forgiveness.

She says: ‘Have you seen Madame Palafroid recently, Mother?’

Her mother has always made a mess of pronouncing this impossible name and Marie awaits her reply anxiously.

‘Yes, I have – Madame Palefroid is very well.’

Marie seizes upon the word ‘Palefroid’, savouring the ‘e’ as if it were a precious object.

She gets up and, standing next to the table, looks out of the window. From here you could see the little garden but not the path. She remembers herself and Claudine sitting at the table, heads bent over their big grey cloth-covered exercise books. Hearing someone on the path, they looked at each other and cried out: ‘A visitor!’ Then, disappointed: ‘It’s the baker …’

Marie summons up and recalls all the sounds, the smells, the sights of this garden, and abandons herself to them.

The maid, José, has just come up from the cellar with a basketful of vegetables; she then disappears again to tidy the bedrooms. Marie’s mother empties the vegetables on to the table and begins to scrape them. Marie finds a small kitchen knife in the drawer of the dresser and helps her. The two women do not speak: between them there is a peaceful silence inhabited only by the sound of the knives scraping the tough skin of the carrots. So as not to lose a second of her daughter’s presence, the mother has postponed the completion of her toilette: she has put on an apron over her morning dress and she is still wearing that odd little hairnet. The faces of both women are at peace.

No more knife noises; the vegetables are scraped. From time to time a drop of water falls from the tap and, without making a sound, plops on to a small dishcloth in the sink. The silence is perfect, ineffable. Leaning over to her mother Marie puts her arm round her waist, pulls her towards her and says quietly: ‘On Thursday mornings we used to go to the market together …’

‘Yes, and you always made for the spot where there were the most bits and pieces … you’d ask me to buy you a heap of old rags …’

It’s not hard to get a mother to talk about the past. As Marie’s mother talks and tells stories, she recreates in her heart the little girl that Marie used to be. Looking at this young woman now in her arms, she speaks of a Marie who was still rich in many different kinds of love, who had not yet been overtaken by a single love. Marie lets her go on: she cannot tell her mother that she no longer needs help from memories. She lets her head fall on to the maternal shoulder and rests it there, offering up that instant to her mother alone. A long, miraculous moment in which Marie gives herself back to her mother.