A Fine Passage (5 page)

Carmen hops out of bed.

“You're awful excited! What's up, then?”

“Nothing. Don't know. I'm all wide awake this morning. Ouch!”

Carmen has stubbed her toe on the bedpost on her way to the bathroom.

“That'll teach you.”

Terry hears the stream of urine in the bowl, likes even that of her. He falls half asleep waiting for her to come back. But Carmen takes her time.

“Well, are you coming back to bed or what?”

“I'm starting to have a belly. 'Bout time! Wasn't sure it was real. The whole thing, I mean. Being pregnant and all.”

She climbs back into bed. Terry hugs her under the blankets, puts his hand on her belly.

“We ought to find a name for him.”

“She's a girl, I think.”

“Is that what you'd like, then?”

“Naw. Girl, boy, it's all the same to me. I hope it won't cry too much, though. Don't much care for babies who cry.”

“You'll have to get used to it, won't you?”

“Don't I know it.”

Neither speaks for a moment. Then:

“We ought to go into the bookstores today, read up on it — being pregnant, babies, giving birth, and all that. We could buy a book about it while we're at it.”

“Would I have to be reading it too?”

“Wouldn't do any harm. I mean on account of you being the mother and all.”

“Well, I suppose. You've got a point.”

They lie in bed a little longer while the day gathers itself and begins. They wash up, and Carmen tries on the gift Terry gave her at the end of their day apart, a collection of seven panties, one for each day of the week. He liked that the days were written in French.

The man who'd shown no sign of reading had suddenly decided to go to Copenhagen instead of Israel. He'd never been to Denmark and had nothing in particular to do there, which were two perfectly good reasons to go.

He wanders awhile in the streets of the capital before going to Odense, just to see a bit more of the country. From time to time, his ear picks up a language he understands.

“You live in Denmark, but you don't live like the Danes.”

The man who'd shown no sign of reading eavesdrops on a conversation between two white-collar workers at a nearby table.

“Is that a criticism?”

“I'm only saying that you're betraying your identity. Which is why one consumes your articles with a grain of salt.”

The two men eat a moment in silence.

“Plus you were wrong about Maastricht, and you flip-flopped on the Euro.”

The man to whom these remarks are addressed continues to chew on his food, takes a sip of wine.

“So you think I'm finished?”

His interlocutor considers this before replying.

“Depends. Maybe not. But watch out for those sudden U-turns. In your case, I'm not sure whether you ought to slow down or speed up. You know what they say about travesties . . .”

“And why not? That's what I'd like to know!”

“Don't know. Just doesn't suit you, is all.”

Carmen pauses before completing her thought, hoping it won't be necessary to spell it out.

“Makes you look a bit of a poof.”

She knew it wasn't a word to use lightly.

“A bit of a poof!”

Terry looks at himself again in the mirror, trying to see what Carmen sees. Not only does he not see it, but he really likes the coat.

“I really don't see what's poofish about it.”

He buttons the jacket up to the neck, raises the collar, turns a little to the left, a little to the right. Carmen can see he likes the coat; she tries to soften the blow.

“Up like that, it's not so bad. Could be the colour. It's sort of shiny.”

“Does it look cheap, then?”

Carmen thinks she's spotted a thread of doubt in Terry's mind, but she's careful not to reply too quickly. She doesn't want to give the impression of taking advantage of his hesitation.

“I suppose it does, in a way.”

His hands in the pockets, Terry turns again in front of the mirror, a little to the left, a little to the right.

“I'm positive you can do better.”

Now Terry looks uncertain. Carmen doesn't like to see him like this.

“Well, if you like it that much . . . I suppose it's not all that expensive.”

Terry takes the coat off, puts it back on its hanger.

“I'm not so sure any more. I'll think on it awhile.”

In the street, he adds: “You really think it makes me look a bit of a poof?”

Claudia gazes at the man who has returned, leaving a woman charmed and a boy calmed in his wake.

“What did you tell them? They really look much better.”

“Not very much. It could be my voice. My mother used to say I had a voice of extinction.”

Claudia is surprised by the expression. The man shrugs, laughs a little.

“I never knew if it was actually a compliment, though she did insist I call her often. She didn't mind how far away I lived, as long as I called so she could hear my voice.”

Claudia listens to the man, trying to figure out what his mother meant. As a matter of fact, his voice does sound a bit as though it is being pitched into a deep well.

“Where did your mother live?”

“In the country near Dijon. She hardly left her little village.”

The man has turned thoughtful. Claudia doesn't dare look at him.

Finally, he tells her: “You too must surely have some sort of power, a pole of attraction — how can I put it? — something indecipherable.”

Claudia is nonplussed by his statement, which though he says it gently, nevertheless leaves her a little off balance.

“Maybe. I don't know.”

The man places his hand on hers, looks at her with nothing but kindness.

“One day you'll know. And that day, if I have any luck, you'll remember me.”

The man squeezes her hand gently before drawing back his arm. He looks at his watch.

“Well, I've got to go now.”

He gets up, pays the bill, and returns to pick up the rest of his things. He offers Claudia a slight bow in lieu of a final farewell, or perhaps it's an
au revoir
. She can't decide.

Then he lets one or two seconds pass before concluding: “I wish you happiness.”

Today Hans notices that the Band-Aids are on different fingers. The woman before him has also changed her hairdo; now it's a spectacular arrangement of curls and straight tresses.

“You would like to become no one, wouldn't you?”

Again, the woman does not wait for a reply.

“What's more, you believe you will become someone by becoming no one. It's a very old dilemma.”

With that, the woman turns towards the Bay window. Hans perceives this as a turn away from any answer he might give, and he concludes once and for all that he is not here to talk about himself.

“Did you know that it was the fires more than the earthquakes that devastated San Francisco? The earthquakes certainly didn't help, but misfortunes travel in pairs. Nor does good fortune come alone, for that matter.”

The woman turns back towards him. Hans notes that her swivel chair is well oiled.

“At this moment, you're not thinking about what I just said, are you?”

As a matter of fact, Hans is thinking that he must buy some oil for the squeaking armchair in his room.

“Well, that doesn't matter either. The important thing, really, is that many people come here with the ultimate hope of finding themselves, of making something of their lives. And every year, several hundred of them throw themselves off the Golden Gate Bridge. Speaking of which, have you ever walked across that bridge?”

As a matter of fact, no, Hans has never walked across.

And as if the accident hadn't been enough to shatter me completely, did the investigators have to botch their job as well? If they had done it properly, they would have realized that I was trying to close the glove compartment when that damned tug on the steering wheel pitched me into the way of the semi-trailer. Didn't they find me partly stretched out over the passenger seat, my fingers cut off in the open compartment? And if they had taken the trouble to check whether it was the radio or the tape deck that was on at the moment of impact, don't you think they might have asked themselves a few additional questions? After all, the music to which one chooses to die is not without importance.

Here, when I throw a tantrum, they barely look at me; they don't even give me the satisfaction of a what's-the-use. To them, it's simply laughable. I suspect that they wish I'd be reborn, reincarnated, and leave them in peace. In their eyes, my explanations don't hold water. As far as they're concerned, and here I choose my words carefully, to err is only human. I admit that, with time, such a vision tears gaps and punches holes in one's reasoning.

“You've experienced some small happiness recently. Perhaps yesterday or the day before. It's done something to you. I can see it.”

It was true that in the light of his room on Telegraph Hill, Hans had discovered the grey-greenish tone of the ice at the foot of the mill in his jigsaw puzzle. The colour had struck him as exactly right and delightful, and he'd succeeded in assembling that entire section. The puzzle is advancing, and that too is a source of joy for Hans. He even hoped to see the Napa vineyard cowboy again, to tell him of the progress of his peculiar enterprise.

“Well? And how do you like your panties, then?”

Terry and Carmen are sitting at a terrace drinking coffee.

“Phew! I didn't think you were going to talk to me today.”

“And why's that?”

“Don't know. You haven't said barely a word since morning, have you? I sure would like to know what's on your mind.”

“Aw, not much. I'm just in my head, is all.”

Terry's mood was all the more unsettling because the weather was truly gorgeous, a real spring day.

“Anyhow, I'd sure like to be in there as well. Inside your head, I mean.”

Terry shrugs. “I suppose it's as good a place as any.”

The therapist continues to chat to Hans about one thing or another until she wraps up the session. As she walks him to the door, she asks:

“What will you be doing tomorrow?”

Hans had not thought about it yet.

“Of all the days of the week, Tuesday is the one most often chosen by suicides to throw themselves off the Golden Gate. It's a good day to go on the attack.”

Hans freezes on the spot, but he can feel something like an air current sweep through his body.

The man who'd shown no sign of reading spent several days in Denmark, tuning in to conversations of which he understood at once everything and nothing, before travelling to Paris.

Sitting in a café, he thought he recognized the young man he'd met by the door to the washroom on the plane that brought him recently from Boston to London. The young woman seated beside him might very well be in the early stages of pregnancy, although it barely shows. The two young people are talking together, but they also look a little bored. The man cocks an ear.

“And tell me again, why was it we had to go through London instead of coming straight here?”

“It was cheaper for the open tickets, wasn't it?”

“Right. Aren't you the clever one to have unscrambled all that and got us all the way here.”

The man who'd shown no sign of reading is no linguist, but he guesses the young people are speaking some sort of Caribbean dialect.

“And when are we off to Arles, then?”

“I'm not done working that out. Might be we'll start at Lyons. And what's your great hurry? I like it fine right here.”

The man is no longer sure what dialect it is.

“Might be we shouldn't hold off too long. Anyway, we can come back here anytime, can't we? After the delta, I mean.”

The two young people are silent for a bit.

Then: “A cigarette'd be nice right about now, wouldn't you say?”

“Oh, Lord, yes.”

As was his habit after a session, Hans took his time walking home. He stopped to eat, allowed himself to be distracted here and there, did a bit of window shopping. Back in his room, he lay down on the bed to take a nap, legs crossed, hands behind his head. When he awoke, he lay a long time examining his room, the white walls, the transparent curtains on the windows, the majestic honey-coloured beams supporting the ceiling.

Still lying on his bed, he counts the small diamonds he's removed from the canvas pouch he carries around his neck. He has six left.

That evening, the woman who smokes only in public glances through the pages of Gorky to see what's in store for her there. She falls asleep rather quickly but wakes with a start. Without checking the time, she picks up the telephone.

“What's wrong?”

“I don't know. I feel terrified suddenly .”

“Where are you? At home?”

“Yes.”

“I'm coming. Don't move.”

A few minutes later, there's a knock on the door. The dark street is empty. The friend enjoys this sort of crisis.

“I brought my things. I'll sleep here.”

They set up camp in the living room, sipping her-bal tea.

“Now you see this can't go on! Do you enjoy suffering or what?”

The other woman says nothing.

“I mean, love is all right. But this guy is being
and
nothingness.”

The other woman continues to say nothing.

“You ought to take a holiday, take a trip, see people.”

The other woman shrugs as though none of that applies to her.

“I'm only saying it for your own good. You don't see yourself. You look like you're dying.”

The other woman sighs, not entirely disagreeing.

“I don't know what you see in him. Okay, he's likeable. Charming, even. But he's a dreamer. You need someone less . . . more grounded.”