All Our Wordly Goods (20 page)

It was in their eyes, on their faces, in their vaguely absent expression; they looked as if only their female bodies remained while their souls were far away, following a train full of men, or a truck as it travelled down a road. Two young girls ran by, laughing. Behind them were an elderly couple.

‘Suzanne! Charlotte!’ their mother called out. ‘Behave yourselves now. Don’t be so insensitive.’

‘But
we
don’t have anyone going. Don’t make us stop laughing.’

Rose went white and stopped.

‘Let’s go home,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s too hot. I don’t feel well.’

All the Parisians were saying they would be bombed that very night. They waited, without real fear, but with curious fascination, as a bird waits for a snake to appear. You can’t run away, but the danger seems too unbelievable. You can’t understand it; you can’t imagine it. ‘Whatever happens, happens,’ everyone said.

That night, for the first time, they heard the sirens, that sound of rushing air that seems to rise up from the horizon, hurry towards you, growl like a storm, then moan, cry, whimper: ‘All I can do is warn you. Escape! Death approaches. You are helpless. Run!’ That night, almost everyone went down into the cellars. It was the first time. People laughed, showed off, felt pride in their hearts to be soldiers like the others. Ah, no one could
say that the country was divided in two any more, as it was in 1914, with some who died and the others who profited from their deaths: everyone was equal, everyone was fighting, they were all risking their lives.

Pierre did not want to take shelter; he was afraid the basement would be too cold for his old wound. It was more painful in the damp. Agnès wouldn’t leave him. Colette and Rose wanted to stay, but Agnès forced them to go. The inner courtyard was filled with the little lights of pocket torches. Never had anyone seen so many stars in Paris; without the glare of electric lights they flickered gently, making the sky look friendly and peaceful.

Pierre and Agnès pretended to sleep; his arm round his wife’s shoulders, Pierre forced himself to breathe regularly, but she wasn’t fooled. She knew he couldn’t sleep.

‘You’re still awake,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Guy.’

He had answered at once, his voice weak and broken. ‘How he’s aged,’ she thought.

She moved closer to him, pressing him against her, rocking him as if he were a child. To her, he was forever young. In her mind, her son who was gone and this soldier from the last war became vaguely confused. But as she held him close in the darkness and felt the scar on his hip, she remembered that he was fifty-five, that he was old and frail. An indescribable feeling of sadness, a combination of pity, fear and love, merged with all
the other sorrow of the past few weeks. She pressed her mouth to Pierre’s ear. ‘My poor dear, my poor darling …’

‘Ah, Guy,’ he said again, gently pushing her away, as if the very touch of his wife was unbearable to him. ‘Our little boy …’ He sighed.

‘He knows,’ thought Agnès, ‘he knows exactly what our child is facing. I shudder, wonder, imagine, but he … War, victory, battle, they aren’t just words to him as they are to me.
He
knows what they are. He remembers. He knows where his son is being sent.’

‘No one should have to live through that twice,’ she said.

But he wasn’t listening. He was speaking quickly, his voice full of passion. Far away in the distance they could hear the sound of gunfire; the anti-aircraft artillery was shooting at the enemy planes or carrying out exercises during the night air raids, to teach the Parisians to be cautious and patient.

‘Did you see how they left?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And what did you think?’

‘I think it was nothing like in 1914 when the soldiers left. No flowers, no fanfares, but …’

‘Yes, of course,’ he cut in, ‘they’re marvellous. They’re our lads; that says it all. If they have good commanders, if everything goes according to plan, they’ll make it through, as we did. But … I’m afraid. Too many people have told them about the last war.
The ones who fought in it remember it only too well. Collective memory is a terrible thing. They say that people tend to forget; yes, they do, but the way animals forget: they remember having suffered, but not why … This kind of memory is instinctive, full of blind resentment, injustice, hatred and stupidity. In 1914 we were as innocent as newborn babes. We went off cocksure. But they … they know that all our sacrifices were useless, that victory conquered no one; they’ve read, or seen, or heard everything that happened then, and since then — how do you think they’re supposed to bear it? The young have heard our stories from the cradle. How often have we told them how stupid it all was, how pointless. And now? What will happen? Some of them, the good ones, the really good ones, won’t even have the illusions they need to die a more or less decent death. As for the others … the majority … if the war lasts, there mustn’t be any brilliant victories at first, otherwise they’ll feel duped, like we did. But for us it happened towards the end. We held on, put up a fight. We carried on out of habit. But they … And to think we believed we had atoned for them, as if you could atone for an entire generation, an entire race, unless you’re God … I’m very sad, very worried, Agnès; you’re stronger than me, my darling.’

‘Come on now, you’re tired … in pain,’ she reassured him, gently rocking him. ‘Your hands are so warm. It’s hot in here. As soon as the air raid is over we’ll open the windows. Stay here. Don’t move. Try to sleep.’

The night passed. In the first light of a joyously beautiful and rosy dawn, as pigeons cooed on the rooftops, the sirens announced the end of the air raid.

Along the dark, freezing streets of Paris, people lit their way with small lanterns that cast a cold bluish light into the black night, blinding the other passers-by. Snow was falling. Men and women stopped for a moment in front of a newspaper stand. They blew into their hands, unfolded the paper; beneath the electric light they looked for the official statement on the first page: ‘Nothing new to report from the front.’ They continued on their way down the slippery street. Paris had been lucky, so far, but in the silent shadows it seemed to be expecting something terrible to happen. ‘How sad Paris is,’ thought Guy.

He was home on leave, having spent the beginning of winter with the troops advancing towards the Maginot Line, and the days were slipping past, trickling through his fingers like drops of water; he could not stop time. The first hours had been wonderful, full of a physical
sense of warmth and contentment. The bath, the bed, the clothing, everything felt so soft, so good against his body. He experienced the exhilaration of a traveller who finally stops at an inn and sits down at a table next to the fire after a long journey through the night, through the mud.

But as his departure grew nearer, his sense of well-being dissipated, gave way to a strange feeling of anxiety. In Paris he was spared nothing. ‘What a strange war,’ the civilians said. They congratulated him on how well he looked. ‘So it’s not so bad, this existence?’ People were surprised that they hadn’t yet marched into Berlin, weapons on shoulders. Even his father, his own father, who must still remember, had seemed a little … naïve … Yes, he couldn’t find any other way to express it: naïve in his judgements, in his questions.

Rose wasn’t as he remembered her any more either. She had lost her prettiness, and her face was fuller and paler than before. Only at night did he find her again.

That evening, two nights before he was to leave Paris, they decided to go out to dinner alone, just the two of them, without the family. She wanted to go to a little cabaret on the Ile Saint-Louis where they had secretly gone several times together when they were engaged. There was too much snow to take the car; they made do with the Métro. They walked towards the Ile Saint-Louis, arm in arm, in silence.

Suddenly Rose asked, ‘What was the name of that woman … you know?’

‘What woman?’

‘The one you wanted to …’

She stopped walking for a moment, let go of Guy’s arm, leaned against one of the parapets along the Seine.

‘The one you wanted to kill yourself for,’ she continued, her voice muted and as if terrified of herself.

‘Why are you asking me that?’

‘What was her name? Just tell me her first name.’

‘Nadine. Why are you asking me this today?’

‘No reason,’ she replied. She took his hand again and leaned gently against him as they walked. He could feel his heart pounding.

‘Was she a blonde? A brunette?’

‘Blonde.’

‘She was very beautiful, wasn’t she?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean?’ she exclaimed, annoyed.

‘I swear to you,’ he said, ‘I don’t know. All I remember, the only thing vivid in my mind — I don’t know how to explain it to you — is what I thought, what I felt, how I suffered … Man is an egotistical animal. And as for her, her face, her body,’ he said more quietly, ‘all that has faded away. But please, let’s not talk about it any more. It’s painful for me.’

‘Just one more question: did you ever see her again?’

‘No.’

‘Word of honour?’

‘Word of honour. But what’s going on, Rose? What’s the matter?’

She gently rubbed her forehead against Guy’s shoulder. It was not so much a caress as the kind of gesture you make to put pressure on an injured part of your body; it hurts more but makes it feel better too.

‘It’s since you left. Before, I was at peace. You were truly mine. I had … made you feel settled, do you understand? But out there, alone … men get bored, they think about things they wouldn’t normally think about in everyday life. She might have written to you.’

‘No, my darling … You’re being silly.’

‘You might dream about her.’

‘Listen, Rose, I can’t even remember the colour of her eyes. Nor the sound of her voice. It’s forgotten, over, dead,’ he said. But he was thinking, ‘That’s half truth and half lie, but … it’s what I have to tell her.’

She took a deep breath with a little whistling sound, like when you come up from under water. ‘Forgive me. We’ll never speak of it again. I’m so happy, if you only knew, I feel free again and now I can tell you …’

‘Tell me what?’

‘No. In a bit.’

‘But what is it, come on, tell me.’

‘In a minute,’ she said again. ‘In a minute,’ and she led him towards the door of the restaurant.

They went inside. The little room was brightly lit, full of people. Some friends waved to them. They chose a small table at the side.

Rose took off her gloves. ‘My hands are frozen. But it’s so nice in here, so warm. Look how busy it is. It’s
the same everywhere. In restaurants, in the theatres, it’s always crowded. You wouldn’t think there’s a war going on.’

‘Are you going to tell me now?’

‘Tell you what?’ she said, smiling.

They stopped talking; the waiter wanted to take their order. They chose their meal and the wine with great care. Now and again they were able to forget the war, forget his imminent departure, or rather, they didn’t forget, they just hid it away deep in their hearts. ‘Oh, too bad,’ they thought, ‘who knows what tomorrow will bring?’

He poured her a glass of Chambertin.

‘Let’s drink to the health of our child,’ she said, ‘to the child I’m going to have.’

‘Rose? Is it really true?’

She nodded; yes, it was true. She had known for a few days.

‘I saw Dr Lange, you see. But I didn’t want to tell you right away. I didn’t know what to do. I’m not sure why; you seemed so distant. It’s horrible, this war … No, don’t laugh. I’m a woman, and childish. But what can I do? I see things like a woman. You were snatched away from me, from my arms, from my bed, and thrown into a man’s world, a harsh world that I detest. Do you remember that book you made me read, the one you like so much, where a pilot, a commander, a leader of men laughs because the wife of someone he’s sent to his death is waiting for him to come home, with a lamp
lit on the table and flowers on the tablecloth and clean sheets on the bed? But she was the one who was right, and I, I …’

He wasn’t listening. ‘When is it due?’

She counted on her fingers. ‘End of May, beginning of June. A nice month to give birth, don’t you think? I always thought I’d like to have a baby at the start of summer. The bedroom full of flowers, so cheerful,’ she said, her voice emotional. ‘They give leave, don’t they, for the birth of a child?’

‘I’m very happy,’ he said over and over again, without looking at her, feeling oddly shy. ‘Very, very happy.’

It was more than a feeling of happiness; it was a sensation of triumph. Everything around them was so full of danger: the night, the harsh winter, the war. And then, suddenly, this hope, this child, this joyous defiance of fate. ‘Ah, you can mock me, but I can mock you as well.’ He felt as if he were staring at his destiny and speaking to it, without hatred, but thumbing his nose at it, just as an arrogant schoolboy might say to his teacher, ‘You want to destroy me but I’m still alive. You want to take away all my hope? But look: I’m married, I’m in love, I’m enjoying life, I’m having a child. And the more you try to beat me down, the more I’ll fight you.’

He half closed his eyes and raised his glass to his lips. ‘I’m so happy,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Rose.’

At the beginning of May, Monsieur Hardelot-Demestre arrived in Paris. He carried a small suitcase and his gas mask was slung over his shoulder. No one walked through Paris with this tin cylinder any more, despite the regulations, and Monsieur Hardelot-Demestre caught people looking at him rather mockingly. He walked briskly, his little white beard fluttering in the gentle wind. It was a warm, lovely day and the sky was very bright. You could sense a carefree, joyful laziness wafting over Paris; everyone was happy to see the end of the long winter and its cold darkness. The war continued, but there was so little fighting, so far away. Café terraces were full of people. Profitable deals for supplies were spreading by word of mouth. People were thinking about the changes in the Cabinet and betting on who would win. Monsieur Hardelot-Demestre found Paris charming. He had been a student there fifty years
before; it was he who recommended the Hôtel des Grands-Hommes in the Latin Quarter to Pierre’s parents; its gloomy little rooms had housed two generations of Hardelots.