The Widow (21 page)

Arlette couldn't remember being that detached about a dead husband, less than a week afterward.

She didn't seem to have any children? Did she work?

A quiet woman. Easy circumstances. Just getting over the loss of a husband, learning to live with the widow. Conventional in conventional surroundings. No sign of anything outside a well-padded rut. So why is the woman so guarded? Wary … suspicious, even.

Does all this night air make one more observant, or simply more imaginative? There is such a thing as over-observing: a woman is naturally observant of another her own age. But which woman has been over-observant of the other?

She drove back through the Esplanade but instead of turning to her own street went on down the Boulevard de la Marne, came out at the Orangerie and skirted it till she got to the highly superior apartment block where the elegant and
dynamic young advocate, Maitre Friedmann, lived with his pretty and charming young wife, their delightful children and a temporary lodger.

Paul let her in, glancing at his watch and frowning slightly.

‘I'm sorry, am I shockingly late?' asked Arlette apologetically.

‘Not in the least. Marie-Line is, though: I told her I wanted her back by ten. Is that unreasonable?'

‘Not in the least.'

‘I think of myself and old Clancy as the young swinging set, what. Young girls under one's roof, that's a responsibility. Not my own daughter, so the greater. Stop laughing, you cow.'

‘Stop apologizing.'

‘Have a drink.'

‘Yes, I need one, rather. But I've come to take her off your hands, you'll be glad to hear.'

‘No longer ashamed to say it'll be a relief,' admitted Claire, ravishing legs stretched out beyond a dashing batik print. ‘A wonder there's any drink left to offer you.' Paul smiled.

‘That's an exaggeration, but she does sip a bit slylike, and she pinches money from Claire's purse, all rather a trial so we tightened the belt and said it was in a good cause. The good cause seems to have collapsed – I had ol' Arthur on the phone, you wound these frightful doctors round your finger, I hear. Objectively rather a pity. No tighter closed shop than the medics with their lips sealed, except of course the Law Society: I was quite looking forward to a fast fifteen rounds with that Siegel, even though I've come in my heart to sympathize secretly.'

‘That happened to me; I started feeling sorry for him. I'm bound to say that Freddy Ulrich was reasonable. He also gave me some money which is yours for all the trouble you took.'

‘Stuff, I want no money, I did nothing. Keep it. But what did he give it you for – hoping you'd keep your mouth shut?'

‘Don't be an ass. Tell you in a sec. The thing is, the coast's clear for Marie-Line, the old man has sworn mightily he won't pester her, and I think the sooner she's home the better.
Tonight, even. Then she can go to school in the morning, all normal and proper. Listen, before she gets here – is she taking any dope? I thought not. Booze yes, but nothing worse.'

‘Wouldn't put it past her,' said Paul.

‘Oh nonsense,' said Claire. ‘That's most unfair. She's quite ordinary. She has this irritating nonchalance, but I keep thinking what I was like at nineteen, perfect little horror: she's just the same. Pestering one, you know, to assert herself. Never says where she's going and always late for meals. Talk to her she's not listening. Ask her to lend a hand tidying and she'll break all your good cups. Just when you're blissfully quiet suddenly turns the radio on full blast. Sings, skips, dances, and when you say something looks at you, as though just realizing you were in the room, and puts on the sad sack look as though sorry for you being so utterly wet. But absolutely nothing perturbed or disturbed or what does the shrink call it? Not like my children – now they're all deeply perturbed but they throw themselves into it, enjoy it. Tearing hair and shrieking. She's just goddamned nonchalant. I don't mind really but it drives Paul bats.'

‘Just that I long to give her a slap. Big boots, little whip,' glaring and gibbering. ‘Sadistic porn film: knickers down, you; I'll show you how we tame lions.' The women kept up the merry laughter with false enthusiasm as the door opened and Marie-Line slouched in. Not looking dissipated really; a bit smudgy, a bit messy.

‘Hallo there,' said Arlette.

‘Hi,' slumping on the sofa. ‘Sorry I'm a bit late, I went to a movie.'

‘Was it good?'

‘No, shitty. I'm thirsty, can I have some lemonade?'

‘Of course. In the fridge in a jug. Anybody else want some? Me a bit, Line, bring a second glass.' There was a loud crash in the kitchen.

‘See what I mean?'

‘Sorry, I let a glass drop. I swept it up,' virtuously.

‘You'll be interested in this,' said Arlette – ‘I had a lengthy,
and I'm glad to say helpful, session with your Uncle Freddy.'

Marie-Line didn't look a bit interested, picked at a thumbnail.

‘I'm glad to say he's being reasonable, and I don't claim credit for that by any means. Your father agrees that he went too far. We mustn't try to force him to say so; on the contrary: do all we can to help him save face. He promises he'll not make you any reproach, and no more of this curfew business. Of course you can see your friends, and whom you like. Us too, we hope. What is asked of you is not much. To come in at a reasonable time, and let people know where you are – it was rude not to let Claire know you were going to a film. And, Marie-Line, you will agree, you can't avoid seeing it yourself, you're drinking much too much. That's ruinous to your health and it's spoiling your complexion. I'm not going to make a sermon. It's getting late too, and I promised you'd be home tonight.' Marie-Line who had just been looking sullen looked suddenly desolate. ‘Cheer up, darling. That's not a hardship.'

‘You were willing enough for me to leave before. They talked you round, huh?'

‘To avoid a head-on clash, yes. Situation changes,' said Paul.

‘No longer an avoidance but an evasion. I'd give anyone the same advice; shun litigation when the other side looks conciliatory. Arlette is absolutely right. Showing obstinacy would weaken your position, which is now strong.'

‘And any time you feel isolated or need support, you know we're here.'

The girl made her mind up to put a good face on it.

‘Thanks,' she said, giving Claire a kiss, ‘you've been nice and I was horrid.'

‘We've simply loved having you,' with equal gallantry.

‘Arthur agrees,' said Arlette turning the car. ‘The way he sees it, and I must say me too, that if you get down to it and pass your exam your father will be pleased, and feel rewarded. The exam is useless, nobody knows better than Arthur, but it
gives you freedom of movement. Whether you go to the university or not, you'd feel that these years haven't been altogether wasted, and I'm pretty sure we could get your father to agree then to your living away from home if you wanted.'

‘Mmm.'

‘I rather liked Cathy,' at the red light on the Boulevard d' Anvers. ‘She may be a bit of a priss, and defensive about her precious standing, but I thought her basically a nice person.'

‘Mmm.'

‘I'm serious about not drinking so much, you know. One's character becomes vile and oneself unattractive.'

‘Yes yes, I know,' crossly.

‘That's right, I promised I wouldn't preach. Smoking the odd joint is nothing much to make a fuss about to my mind. Don't be tempted into anything harder.'

‘I don't get any kick out of it: I just go a bit sleepy and silly.'

‘Think yourself lucky. Nothing stupider anyhow than being pinched by the cops for possession. And nothing nastier than being sent for the cure. The psychiatric clinic would be a holiday in comparison.'

‘Mmm.'

Arlette thought the subject best left unpursued.

‘Your boy Michel – who does Greek, is that right? – sounds nice; I'd like to meet him.'

‘He is nice. A bit weird,' making no offer to effect an introduction.

Warned off. It had been on the tip of her tongue to ask about the other Michel, who according to that girl Françoise was at the Beaux Arts. Quite possibly one or the other was a figment of imagination, or would they turn out to be one and the same?

After the heavy flow of traffic along the main road the ‘bourgeois' corner of the Meinau was a haven of peace and respectability. Lights still burned in most of the houses: the street looked innocent and friendly. Doctor Siegel's desirable
residence had the porch light on, to show they were expected. Marie-Line scrabbled in her jacket for keys; Arlette stopped her and rang the bell.

‘I must say a polite word, you see. I won't embarrass you.'

Siegel opened himself, youthful and unbuttoned in a silk dressing-gown which looked a bit staged.

‘Sorry to be so late. Marie-Line had gone to the cinema, and I hadn't realized.'

‘That's of no consequence. Well my girl,' with a paternal kiss on the forehead, received dutifully. ‘You'll come in and have a drink.'

‘For no more than a minute then, but nothing to drink thanks; I've still got to drive.'

‘Wise of you. Never mind. I have at least the opportunity of thanking you, and to express my regret for some tempestuous remarks when last we met.' One must say this for a bourgeois upbringing: you learn to turn a handsome phrase.

‘I was a bit of a virago, I'm sorry to say.'

‘The fault was mine. You must allow me to make amends.'

A stiff little bow, and the hand came out of the pocket clutching the kind of little envelope that fits a calling card.

‘Well,' said Arlette, falling absurdly into cliché, ‘in the spirit it's offered, then. That's most generous of you.'

‘We won't discuss it,' in quite the old voice, ‘but my brother assures me there is now no misunderstanding between us. My daughter is very close to my heart.' It had a touching dignity.

‘I can only say that in this short time we've grown fond of her. I'll say goodnight then. My regards to Madame Pelletier; I was happy to have met her. Sleep well, Marie-Line, and drop in any time you like.' She waved cheerfully and whisked down the path, Monsieur Siegel waiting correct and Japanese upon the doorstep until she was out of the gate. Well; that could have been a lot worse.

The amount of traffic there still was! The long-distance freight went on all night but the pub crowd was still thick on the road, and well tanked-up. Arlette drove with care. She wasn't used to being out late, and felt mindful of Arthur's
counsels of prudence. She kept her doors locked and her windows wound up, and a wary eye on the rear-view mirror. But nobody seemed to be following her. In the Rue de l'Observatoire she parked a little way down, and spied out the land with some care, and walked rather too fast to her door, her heels making a fussy tap on the pavement. But no practical jokers tonight. A few students with loud cheerful voices.

Arthur had gone to bed, in a hedgehog mass as usual of books, pipes and bits of paper with useful notes upon them, folded into narrow spills and serving as markers. Why did he need all that – being intent upon something with a blonde on the cover? He did not speak but uttered grunts.

While undressing she discovered the little amend. Two carefully folded and pinned five-hundred franc notes. Now that is delicate, or would you call it cautious? No trace of anything changing hands. Doesn't appear, what, on Monsieur Siegel's income-tax returns. No, nor mine either.

Arlette went and got an orange and an apple, and climbed into bed.

‘Stop making those greedy sucking sounds,' said Arthur.

A peaceful morning, as well as wealthy. The local paper had a bland retraction of any nasty hints it might have dropped, studiedly airy, so that one needed to know how to read between the lines before realizing that Paul had thrown a fright into them and Siegel, after blowing up a large red balloon, had rather unfairly gone and popped it. Devout protests about not wishing to cast aspersions upon impeccable credentials.

This all had an immediate effect upon business. The phone rang; a woman sounding middle-aged and fairly excitable had
a problem. How urgent was the problem? Could it wait until tomorrow? Today was rather a busy day. Well all right, yes.

It spurred Arlette into thinking it Was a busy day, and she dressed in a hurry.

The Lycée Fustel de Coulanges looks much the same today as at the turn of the century. Or since the Revolution, come to that: the fine eighteenth-century façade, in the dark red and pale pink of Alsace sandstone, needs only the tide-mark at its foot removed – the seawrack of metal beercans and plastic yoghurt-pots. The visual impression left by parking cars in the Place du Chateau, between the Cathedral and the Rohan Palace, is deplorable.

Behind the façade the military quadrangle is equally unchanged: the uniformed boys changing class to the roll of the drum, just like V.M.I. or West Point, would not feel displaced. The scruffy horde in jeans, like the motorbikes outside, looks fragile and impermanent. Some are girls now, but it is not easy to tell which. ‘May I just take your trousers down an instant?' begs the anthropologist politely. Lifting perhaps his solar topee.

The twin pillars of such an establishment, the Provost and the Dean, are unchanged too; remote gods behind padded doors, only appeased by human sacrifice. But you do not go to them for casual information about a pupil; you go to the director of studies. Arlette found the director in a small cluttered office papered entirely in work-charts and graphs, a big easy comfortable man. Face of severity, and of much kindness and humour. Framed in the large shaved jaw the mobile mouth was dangerous. Like a sea-anemone waving innocently. Small imprudent animals could find themselves caught. He had the enviable skill, while being at all times frantically busy, of appearing to have all the time in the world.