Monsieur Monde Vanishes (15 page)

He merely muttered: “I'm going to get some sleep.…”

“See you tonight?”

“Yes.…”

Not until he was on his way up the dingy staircase did he grasp the meaning of her query. It disturbed him. Why had she asked him that? Was everything again in suspense?

He found the maid doing his room and he turned her out, almost rudely, contrary to his usual manner. He lay down and closed his eyes in a rage, but nothing was as it should be, neither the shadows nor the light, nor the sounds, not even the twittering sparrows, and his whole being tossed impatiently in the drab limbo.

Gambling was the opium of these people. Through his spy-hole Désiré could see them arriving, one after the other. First the croupiers, the sleek black ministrants of the rite, the professionals, who hurried through the hall without glancing around and made straight for the “workshop.” They did not leave coats or hats in the cloakroom; they had their own closet in the holy of holies, their soap and towels, and often a pair of clean cuffs as well.

Then came the clients, some of whom were important citizens. When they pushed open the door of the dance hall they had already discarded their outdoor garments, so that they seemed to be quite at home. The waiters, instead of rushing forward to show them to a table, greeted them as old acquaintances. Almost all of them wandered about with the casual air of people who have not yet decided what they are going to do. They would go up and shake hands with Monsieur René, exchange a few words with him, and smooth their hair with a careless gesture.

Monsieur Monde was well aware, by now, that they were inwardly in a ferment. He knew them all. The first to arrive that evening was a big orange importer who, so it was said, had begun by selling newspapers in the street or shining shoes on the Rambla of Barcelona, and who, at the age of thirty-five, had millions to play with. He was as handsome and well groomed as a woman. All the hostesses in the club looked at him with longing or envy. He would smile to them, showing fine gleaming teeth. Sometimes between two games he would take a turn around the dance hall and order a few bottles of champagne for them, a sure sign that he had won; but he was not known to have any mistress.

There was also the mayor of a neighboring town, who always hurried through for fear of being seen. He was a lean, tortured creature. At the gaming table he had his own set of habits and superstitions.

There was only one woman, but she was regarded and treated as respectfully as a man; a woman of about fifty, who ran a fashionable lingerie store, and who never let a night pass without a session at the gaming table.

Many of them, almost all of them, looked like Monsieur Monde's former self. Their bodies were well cared for, their skins rosy, their chins smooth-shaven, they were dressed in fine-quality cloth and beautifully fitting shoes, and they were all mature enough to be people of importance, often indeed to be overburdened with responsibilities. They had offices, employees, workmen; or else they were lawyers or doctors with a wealthy and large clientele. All of them had homes, wives, and families. And all of them, every night, at a certain almost mystic moment, were irresistibly drawn from their chairs, as though under a spell. Nothing could hold them back.

In all probability some of them told lies, inventing some fresh alibi for themselves every evening, some new professional or social engagement.

Others failed to avoid scenes and reproaches, the wrath and contempt of wives who could not understand them, and these would slink in furtively, ashamed of their presence here, ashamed of themselves.

None of them knew that behind a little round spyhole a man like themselves was watching them.

There remained the suckers, the simpletons, the braggarts, the foreigners brought in by touts as though on a leading string, who were made to drink at one of the tables before being gently propelled toward the “workshop” for a game that was more or less rigged.

And finally those who did not gamble, for whom gambling held no attraction, who took the dance hall and its crowd of women seriously and spent hours there stimulating their sexual appetites.

Monsieur Monde could see them, a hundred times in the course of an evening, leaning over toward their chance companion, Julie, Charlotte, or another, and he knew exactly what they were saying—just a couple of words: “Let's go.…”

And the girls would answer, tirelessly and with unvarying innocence:

“Not right now … The boss wouldn't let me leave yet.… He's very strict.… We're under contract.…”

They had to go on drinking. Bottles of champagne succeeded one another, flowers, boxes of chocolates, fruit. The whole thing was rigged. And when the time came at last, when dawn was near, sometimes when the sun had risen, the man, dead drunk, was thrust outside; very occasionally, the woman would accompany him to his hotel, where because he had drunk too much he was unable to perform.

Monsieur Monde, that evening, was thinking about them and about himself, meanwhile making a note of the bottles that left the pantry. He was thinking, too, about Thérèse. He had slept badly that afternoon. Afterward he had gone back to the restaurant where they had lunched together. Since they had made no plan to meet again, this was the only place where he might possibly find her. It had struck him that she might come back here, following the same line of argument as himself. He had questioned the waiter, who, however, had already forgotten her.

“A lady in a white hat, wasn't it?”

No such thing. It didn't matter. Besides, did he really want to see her again?

He felt tired. He felt old.

Monsieur René was, as usual, propped up on one corner of the table eating something. The busboy pushed open the swinging door. He made no announcement, merely summoned the dance-floor superintendent with a jerk of his head.

Monsieur René drew himself up at once and darted, quite unruffled, into the hall. The busboy hurried him to the main entrance. Just as he reached it, the door opened; and Monsieur Monde saw Thérèse herself appear. And Thérèse was quite obviously no longer welcome at the Monico. Monsieur René, without appearing to do so, was blocking her way. She was talking to him. She looked humble. He was shaking his head. What could she be asking him?

Monsieur René was moving forward gradually to make her retrace her steps through the door, but she outwitted his maneuver. The hostesses, who had understood that something was happening and who perhaps guessed what it was, were all looking curiously in that direction.

Thérèse went on imploring; then she changed her tone, uttered threats, insisted on coming in, wanted to speak to somebody else.

This time the man from Martinique laid a hand on her shoulder. She shook him off, and Désiré pressed his face closer to the spy-hole.

What could she be shouting at him with such vehemence? And why did the waiters, of their own accord, move forward strategically in support of their boss? How could they have guessed what was going to happen?

Suddenly, in fact, just as Monsieur René was slowly pushing her away with both hands, Thérése drew herself up and began to scream, her body tense, her face unrecognizable, presumably hurling coarse insults or threats at him.

Désiré could not tell how it had happened, but there she was on the floor, literally writhing in a wild fit of hysterics; the others, the
maître d'hôtel
in black and the waiters in their white aprons, bent down quite unmoved, picked her up, and carried her out, while the music went on imperturbably.

Monsieur Monde looked at Julie and saw that she was unconcerned. A waiter, whom he had not heard come into the pantry, sighed philosophically:

“She may as well go and have her fit on the sidewalk. She's bound to finish the night in the police station.…”

“What fit?”

“She's run out of morphine.…”

Then he slid off his high stool, abandoned his so-called desk, and made his way to the squalid back stairs. Halfway down he began to hurry, for he had to go a roundabout way to reach the main entrance. From a distance, in the darkness, he could see two or three of the Monico staff in the doorway, watching a retreating figure that kept stopping and turning around to shake a fist at them and hurl fresh insults.

He took his former wife by the arm. She gave a start, not recognizing him at first, and tried to struggle. Then she saw his face and burst into dreadful laughter.

“What do
you
want? … So you followed me, did you? … You're even more of a bastard than the rest!”

“Be quiet, Thérése!”

He could see figures at the corner of the street. People were coming toward them. They might be policemen.

“Of course, I've got to keep quiet.… You paid for my lunch! … I ought to be grateful to you! … And you gave me some money.… Say it, why don't you? You gave me some money! … But you took care to leave me stranded in the street. For the rest, you couldn't care less.”

He held on to her arm, and was surprised to find such strength in it. She kept on struggling, escaping from him, starting to run, and he would catch up with her, and she would turn on him and spit in his face.

“Leave me alone, I tell you! … I'll find some.… I've got to find some.… Or else …”

“Thérèse!”

“You beast!”

“Thérèse!”

Her face was distorted, her eyes were wild. He saw her collapse on the sidewalk at his feet, scrabbling at the pavement with her nails.

“Listen, Thérèse, I know what you want. Come along.…”

She did not hear him. The people who had come around the corner passed close by them and stopped for a moment. A woman was muttering: “It's shocking!”

Another, rather older woman was saying to the two men who were with them: “Come on.…” And they went, regretfully.

“Get up … Follow me … I promise you …”

“Have you got some?”

“I haven't, but I'll find some.…”

“You're lying!”

“I swear to you …”

She was laughing hysterically and looking at him wide-eyed, torn between mistrust and hope.

“What'll you give me?”

“Morphine.”

“Who told you?”

She struggled to her feet, unconsciously using her hands like a child. She was swaying and weeping.

“Where are you going to take me?”

“To my place.”

“Where's that? Are you sure you're not going to take me to the hospital? They did that to me once before.… I'd be capable of …”

“No, no … Come along.…”

“Is it far? … Let's go and find some morphine together.”

“No. When you're calmer … I give you my word of honor I'll bring you some.…”

It was grotesque, tragic, and ugly: at times the scene would lose some of its intensity as Thérèse grew calmer, and they would walk a little way past the houses, like ordinary passers-by; then she would stop again as though she were drunk, forgetting what he had just told her and clinging to him. Once her weight nearly dragged him to the ground.

“Come along.…”

They made a little headway. And they both ended by uttering incoherent words.

“I went everywhere.… I went to the doctor that
she
got it from.…”

“Yes, of course. Come along.…”

“They gave
her
as much as she wanted, because of her money.…”

“Yes, yes …”

Twice he was on the point of leaving her there and walking off. The journey seemed interminable. At last they saw the lights of Gerly's Hotel, and then there was a fresh scene when he tried to make her go in.

“I want to wait for you in the café.…”

“No … Come up to my room.”

He managed it, by dint of patience. He had never imagined life could be so tedious. He went up behind her, pushing her. She was in his room at last, but her suspicions revived, and he realized that she would try to escape; he went out swiftly and locked the door behind him.

Pressing his ear to it, he spoke to her under his breath.

“Stay quiet. Don't make a noise. In less than a quarter of an hour I'll be back and I'll bring you some.…”

Was she exhausted? He heard her collapse onto the bed, where she lay moaning like an animal.

Then he went down. In the brasserie he went straight to the manager and spoke to him in low tones. But the manager shook his head. No. He didn't have any. They didn't go in for that sort of thing. It was dangerous. You had to be very careful.

“Where, then?”

He didn't know that either. Cocaine and heroin were easier to get. He had heard of a doctor, but he didn't know his name or address.

Monsieur Monde was determined to leave no stone unturned. He didn't care what people might think of him. There was one doctor who came to the Monico almost every evening, played for high stakes, and often left again looking pale and distraught. He, perhaps, might understand.

The hardest part, for one who was only a member of the staff, would be to make his way into the “workshop” and get close to the gaming table. Still, it couldn't be helped; he would go.

Then the manager of the brasserie raised his head. “Listen!”

In spite of the six floors that separated them from the attic, they could hear a noise. It came from the stairs. The two men hurried up. The higher they went, the more clearly they could hear someone banging on a door, screams, the voices of a maid and of a lodger who happened to be at home and who was questioning the frantic woman.

“You shouldn't have brought her here,” the manager sighed.

What could Monsieur Monde do? He was at his wits' end.

“Call a doctor, will you? … Any doctor will do. We can't let this go on.…”

“Do you really want it?”

He nodded, thrust aside the maid and the lodger, and fitted his key into the lock. They wanted to come in with him, but he disliked the thought of anyone else witnessing the scene, and slipped into his attic, closing the door behind him.