Aimez-vous Brahms (6 page)

Simon's letter still lay on the carpet and she trod on it getting out of bed. She picked it up and read it again. Then she opened the drawer of her desk, took out pen and paper, and replied.

* * *

Simon had hung back in the drawing-room, not wishing to mingle with the crowd congratulating the Grand Maître on the outcome of the case. The house was cold and dismal. There had been a frost in the night and the window revealed a captive landscape, two bare trees and a moribund lawn where a pair of rattan seats were quietly rotting, sacrificed to autumn by a neglectful gardener. Simon was reading an English book, a strange story about a woman who turned into a fox, and from time to time he laughed aloud. But his legs would not keep still; he crossed them, then uncrossed them, and gradually his feeling of malaise came between him and the book until finally he rose, set the book down and went out.

He walked as far as a small pond at the foot of the garden, inhaling the smell of coldness and the smell of evening, to which was added the more distant smell of burning leaves: he could barely distinguish the smoke behind a hedge. He liked this final smell more than anything and momentarily halted and closed his eyes, so that he could really take it in. Occasionally a bird would give a small, graceless cry, and the perfect unity and cohesion of its yearnings dimly consoled him in his own. He bent over the murky water, plunged his hand in and stared at his lean fingers to which the water gave the appearance of sloping almost perpendicularly from the palm. He did not move, but closed his hand in the water, slowly, as though to capture some mysterious fish. He had not seen Paule in seven days now, seven and a half days. She must have received his letter, given a slight shrug and hidden it so that Roger should not find it and make fun of him. For she was kind, as he well knew. She was kind and affectionate and unhappy, and he needed her. But how was he to let her know? He had already tried, one evening in this sinister house, tried to think of her so long and so intensely that he would get through to her in her far-off Paris, and had even come down in his pyjamas to scour the library for a work on telepathy. In vain, of course! He knew it was puerile: he always tried to get out of things by childish solutions or strokes of luck. But Paule was someone you had to deserve, there was no escaping the fact. He could not win her merely by charm. On the contrary, he felt that his looks set her against him. "I've a face like a hairdresser's assistant," he groaned aloud, and the bird momentarily broke off its piercing cry.

He walked slowly back to the house, stretched out on the carpet, put another log on the fire. Maître Fleury would be back soon, modest in his triumph but even more sure of himself than usual. He would revive famous trials before a few dazzled countrywomen who, their brains tiring slightly towards the end of the meal and their eyes somewhat blurred with wine, would begin to transfer their attentions to the young, silent, well-mannered pupil—to himself, in fact. "You stand a chance with that one, young Simon," Maître Fleury would whisper, probably singling out the oldest. They had been away together before, but the obsessive allusions of the great advocate had never led either of them into much mischief.

His anticipations were borne out. Only, it was one of the gayest dinners in his life: he talked endlessly, broke in upon the great advocate and captivated every woman in the room. On arrival, Maître Fleury had handed him a letter which had been forwarded from the Avenue Kléber to the Palais de Justice in Rouen. It was from Paule. He put his hand in his pocket, felt it against his fingers and smiled with happiness. And even as he talked, he tried to recall its exact wording, quietly reconstructing it in his head.

Mon petit Simon—she had always called him that —your letter was too sad. It is more than I deserve. Besides, I was missing you. I'm none too clear where I stand at the moment—and then she had written his name again: Simon, and then she had added those three wonderful words: Come back soon.

He was going back at once, the moment dinner was over. He would drive flat out for Paris, he would stop in front of her house, perhaps he would see her.  At two o'clock he was there, unable to budge. Half an hour later a car drew up in front of him and Paule got out, alone. He did not budge. He watched her cross the road and wave at the car, which drove off. He could not budge. It was Paule. He loved her and he listened to the love within him call out to her, go up to her, speak to her: he listened without budging, terrified, his mind aching and empty.

9

T
HE
lake in the Bois de Boulogne stretched icily before them under a cheerless sun; a hardy oarsman—one of those strange men one daily sees trying to preserve a figure which no one could possibly care about, so characterless is their appearance—was making a lone effort to resurrect the summer, his oar sending up an occasional spray of water, silvery, sparkling and almost inopportune, so sadly did winter proclaim itself among the frozen shapes of the trees. She watched him tussling down in the boat, his brow puckered with determination. He would row round the island and come back exhausted and pleased with himself: she found a touch of symbolism in this short, obdurate, daily pull. Simon, beside her, was silent. He was waiting. She turned to him and smiled. He looked at her without returning her smile. The Paule for whom he had driven right across a province the night before (a Paule not merely available but naked and vanquished in his mind like the road he had driven along) had nothing in common with the tranquil Paule (she had been barely pleased to see him) who drowsed beside him on an iron bench in trite surroundings. He was disappointed and, misinterpreting his disappointment, he thought he did not love her any more. That obsessed week in the country, in that dreary house, had been a perfect example of the absurdities into which his imagination could lead him. Yet he could not repress this aching desire within him, this dizziness at the very thought of tilting her weary head against the back of the bench, thereby bruising the nape of her neck, and of lowering his lips on to those serene full lips from which had flowed, for two hours now, a stream of gracious, pacifying words which he had no wish to hear. She had written: "Come back soon." And more than his longing for these words he rued his delight at receiving them, his ridiculous feeling of joy, his confidence. He preferred having been unhappy for a worthwhile reason to being happy for a poor one. He told her so, and her eyes swung away from the oarsman to settle on him.

"Mon petit Simon, everyone feels that way: it's perfectly natural."

She laughed. He had arrived at her flat like a madman that morning, and she had at once made it clear to him that her letter did not mean a thing.

"All the same," he resumed, "you're not a woman who would write 'Come back soon' to absolutely anyone."

"I was lonely," she said. "And in a funny mood. Of course, you're right: I shouldn't have written 'Come back soon'."

Yet she was thinking the opposite. He was there, and she was happy he was there. So lonely! She had been so lonely! Roger was having another affair (she had not been allowed to overlook it) with a film- struck blonde; he seemed rather ashamed, although they never discussed it, but his alibis revealed an ingenuity which contentment did not normally prompt in him. She had dined with him twice that week. Only twice. In fact, had it not been for this young man beside her, unhappy thanks to her, she would have been extremely unhappy herself.

"Come on," he said, "let's get back. You're bored."

She rose unprotestingly. She felt like driving him to breaking-point and reproached herself, as with an act of cruelty. It was the reverse side of her sadness, this cruelty: an absurd need to exact undeserved revenge from him. They got into Simon's tiny car, and he gave a bitter smile at the thought of how this first outing together ought to have gone: he should have been driving left-handed with prodigious skill, his right hand lodged in Paule's and that beautiful head resting on his shoulder. He reached his hand blindly towards her and she took it in both hers. She thought: shall I never, never be able to play the fool? He stopped the car; she said nothing, and he looked at his hand, lying limp in Paule's; hers were slightly parted, ready to let his escape (which was probably all they were waiting for), and he threw back his head, suddenly sick to death, resigned to leaving her for good. In that moment he had aged thirty years, he had submitted to life, and it seemed to Paule that she knew him for the first time.

For the first time he struck her as being like her, like them (herself and Roger). Not vulnerable, for she had always known he was that, and she could not imagine anyone who wasn't. But freed, stripped of everything that his youth, beauty and inexperience had damned in her eyes; somehow or other, she had always seen him as a prisoner—a prisoner of his facility, the facility of his life. And now he sat there, proffering—not to her, but to the trees—that dying profile, the face of a man who has given up the struggle. Simultaneously she recalled the gay, bewildered Simon she had met in his dressing- gown, and she wanted to restore him to his old self, to send him away for good, thereby consigning him to a momentary grief and a thousand future, all too predictable young women. Time would instruct him better, and less hastily, than she. He let his hand lie limply in hers, she felt his pulse against her fingers and suddenly, with tears in her eyes, not knowing whether she shed them for this susceptible young man or for her own rather dreary life, she carried the hand to her lips and kissed it.

He said nothing, but let in the clutch. For the first time, something had occurred between them; he knew it and he was even happier than the night before. She had finally 'seen' him, and if he had been fool enough to suppose that the first occurrence between them could only be a night of love, he had no one but himself to blame. He was going to need a lot of patience, a lot of tenderness and, no doubt, a lot of time. And he felt patient, tender, with the whole of life ahead of him. Indeed, he thought that this night of love, if it came, would be merely a stage and not the culmination to which he generally looked forward: there would be days and nights between them, perhaps, but it would never be finished. At the same time, he desired her fiercely.

10

M
RS
. V
AN
DEN
B
ESH
was getting old. Having always had up to then—on account of her looks and of what one might almost have called, certainly until that unhoped-for marriage with Jerome Van den Besh, a 'vocation'—more men friends than women, she experienced with the onset of age a loneliness which threw her out of gear and flung her at the first person who came along, male or female. She found Paule's company ideal, purely on the strength of their business relationship. The flat in the Avenue Kléber was upside-down: Paule had to call there practically every day and Mrs. Van den Besh invented countless excuses for detaining her. Besides, for all her apparent wool-gathering Paule seemed to be very friendly with Simon, and although Mrs. Van den Besh had failed to uncover the smallest trace of any more definite bond between them she could not help treating her to winks and allusions that seemed lost on Paule but drove Simon out of his mind. Which was how, pale and distraught, he came to grab hold of her one evening and threaten her—
her,
his mother!—with terrible violence if she went and 'spoiled' everything.

"Spoil what? Will you let go of me? Do you sleep with her or don't you?"

"I've already told you I don't."

"Well then ... If it isn't already in her mind, I put it there. You ought to thank your lucky stars. She's not a child. You take her to concerts and round the galleries and heaven knows where . . . Do you think that's what she wants? Why you numskull, you don't realise ..."

But Simon was already out of the flat. He had been back three weeks now and lived by Paule and for Paule and on the few hours she sometimes accorded him during the day, leaving her only at the last minute and holding her hand in his for a moment too long, like the romantic heroes he had always derided. So he was horrified when, the day her drawing-room was finished, his mother decided to give a dinner and invite Paule. She added that she would also invite Roger, Paule's official escort, and ten other people.

Roger accepted. He wanted to take a closer look at this young buck who followed Paule everywhere and of whom she spoke with an affection which was more reassuring to him than any restraint. Besides, he had a conscience about Paule, for he had neglected her over the past month. But he was infatuated with Maisy, with her stupidity, her body, with the appalling scenes she made, with her morbid jealousy and not least with the unexpected passion which she harboured for him and daily threw in his face with a shamelessness that entranced him. He had the impression of living in a Turkish bath; he dimly reflected that this was the last passion-in-the- raw he would ever inspire; he surrendered to it, ringing Paule to cancel a date ("All right darling, tomorrow then," she would say in her even voice) before returning to the frightful little boudoir where Maisy, with tears in her eyes, swore she would give up her career for him, if only he said the word. He observed himself with curiosity, wondering just how much stupidity he could stand; then he took her in his arms, she started cooing again and from the part-idiotic, part-obscene phrases she murmured he derived an erotic excitement such as he had rarely known. By providing Paule with company, therefore, young Van den Besh was in all innocence being very useful. As soon as he was through with Maisy, he would straighten things out; come to that, he would marry Paule. He was sure of nothing, nor of himself: the only thing he had ever been sure of was Paule's indestructible love and, these last few years, his own attachment to her.

He arrived a little late and realised at a glance that this was just the kind of dinner at which he would be bored to death. Paule often reproached him with his lack of sociability; and indeed, outside his work he saw no one, except for very specific purposes or else, as with Paule and a solitary friend, to talk. He lived alone; he could not stand certain social gatherings of a type all too frequent in Paris; he immediately wanted to behave crudely or walk out. This one was attended by a few select persons, well known in their sphere or by the newspapers and indubitably charming as well: over dinner the talk would be of plays or films or, worse still, of love and relationships between men and women, a topic which he particularly dreaded for he had the feeling of being quite unversed in it or, at the very least, incapable of formulating what knowledge he had. He greeted them all haughtily, holding his large frame a trifle stiffly and deriving, as always, the impression that his arrival had caused a draught —an impression which was not entirely unjustified, for he always created a diversion, so unassailable (and hence, to certain women, desirable) did he appear in the very first words of a conversation. Paule was wearing the dress he loved—a black one, cut lower than her others—and stooping towards her he gave her an acknowledging smile: she was the one acknowledgeable person in the room. And she shut her eyes for a moment, wishing desperately that he would take her in his arms. He sat down beside her. Only then did he spot the motionless figure of Simon. He thought how pained the boy must be by his presence and instinctively withdrew the arm he had slipped behind Paule's back. She turned, and abruptly, in the midst of the general hubbub, there was a three-cornered silence, intense between two of the parties and broken only by Simon's leaning forward to give Paule a light. Roger looked at them, at Simon's lanky figure, his earnest, rather too delicate profile inclined towards Paule's grave one, and a kind of irreverent laughter took hold of him. They were reserved, sensitive, well bred: he offered her a light, she refused him her body ("Thank you; no thank you"). The moment was rich in undertones. He, Roger, was made of different stuff: a little slut awaited him with the most commonplace pleasures, and, after her, the Paris night and a thousand chance meetings; then, at dawn, came exhausting, almost manual work with men of his own kind, weary-limbed men doing jobs that he had once done. At that moment Paule said: "Thank you" in her tranquil voice, and he could not prevent himself from taking her hand and squeezing it to call her back to him. He loved her. This little boy might drag her off to concerts and art galleries, but he would get nowhere. He rose, took a glass of Scotch from a tray, drained it at a gulp and felt better.