Bonjour Tristesse (9 page)

"Anne, you're causing quite a sensation. There's a man over there who can't take his eyes off you."

My father twisted round to look at the man in question:

"I won't have that sort of thing!" he said, taking Anne's hand.

"Aren't they sweet?" exclaimed Madame Webb, ironically. "Charles, we really shouldn't have disturbed them; it would have been better to have invited Cécile by herself."

"She wouldn't have come," I said unhesitatingly.

"Why not? Are you in love with one of the fishermen?"

She had once seen me in conversation with a bus conductor, and ever since had treated me as though I had lost caste.

"Why yes, of course!" I said with an effort to appear gay.

"And do you go out fishing a lot?"

She thought she was being funny, which made it even worse. I was beginning to get angry, but did not know what to answer without being too offensive. There was dead silence. Anne's voice interposed quietly:

"Raymond, would you mind asking the waiter to bring me a straw to drink my orange juice?"

Charles Webb began to talk feverishly about refreshing drinks. Anne gave me a look of entreaty. We all decided to dine together as though we had narrowly escaped a scene.

At dinner I drank far too much. I wanted to forget Anne's anxious expression when she looked at my father, and the hint of gratitude in her eyes whenever they rested on me
.
Every time Madame Webb made a dig at me I gave her an ingratiating smile. This seemed to upset her, and she soon became openly aggressive. Anne signed to me to keep quiet, she had a horror of scenes in public, and Madame Webb seemed to be on the point of creating one. For my part I was used to them. Among our associates they were frequent, so I was not disturbed by the prospect.

After dinner we went to another bar. Soon Elsa and Cyril turned up. Elsa was talking very loudly as she entered the room followed by poor Cyril. I thought she was behaving badly, but she was pretty enough to carry it off.

"Who's that puppy she's with?" asked Charles Webb. "He's rather young, isn't he?"

"It's love that keeps him young!" simpered his wife.

"Don't you believe it!" said my father. "It's just an infatuation."

I had my eyes on Anne. She was watching Elsa in the calm, detached way she looked at very young women, or at the mannequins parading her collection. For a moment I admired her passionately for showing no trace of jealousy or spite, but how could she be jealous, I wondered, when she herself was a hundred times more beautiful and intelligent than Elsa? As I was very drunk, I told her so. She looked at me curiously:

"Do you really think I am more beautiful than Elsa?"

"Of course!"

"That is always pleasant to hear, but you are drinking too much. Give me your glass. I hope it doesn't upset you to see Cyril here? Anyway he seems bored to death."

"He's my lover," I said with gay abandon.

"You are quite drunk. Fortunately it's time to go home."

It was a relief to part from the Webbs. I found it difficult to say goodbye politely. My father drove, and my head lolled onto Anne's shoulder.

I began to reflect how much I preferred her to the people we usually saw, that she was infinitely superior to them in every way. My father said very little, perhaps he was thinking of Elsa.

"Is she sleeping?" he asked Anne.

"As peacefully as a baby. She didn't behave badly on the whole, did she?"

They were silent for a while, then I heard his voice again:

"Anne, I love you; only you. Do you believe me?"

"Don't tell me so often, it frightens me."

"Give me your hand."

I almost sat up to protest: 'For heaven's sake, not on the Corniche!', but I was too drunk, and half asleep. Besides there was Anne's perfume, the sea breeze in my hair, the tiny graze on my shoulder which was a reminder of Cyril; all these reasons to be happy and keep quiet. I thought of Elsa and Cyril setting off on the motor cycle which had been a birthday present from his mother. I felt so sorry for them that I almost cried. Anne's car was made for sleeping, so well sprung, not noisy like a motor bike. I thought of Madame Webb lying awake at night. No doubt at her age I would also have to pay someone to love me, because love is the most wonderful thing in the world. What does the price matter? The important thing was not to become embittered and jealous, as she was of Elsa and Anne. I began to laugh softly to myself. Anne moved her shoulder to make a comfortable hollow for me. "Go to sleep," she ordered. I went to sleep.

8

The next morning I woke up feeling perfectly well except for a slight ache in my neck. My bed was flooded with sunshine as it was every morning. I threw back the sheets and exposed my bare back to the sun. It was warm and comforting, and seemed to penetrate my very bones. I decided to spend the morning like that, without moving.

In my mind I went over the events of the evening before. I remembered telling Anne that Cyril was my lover. It amused me to think that one can tell the truth when one is drunk and nobody will believe it. I thought about Madame Webb. I was used to that sort of woman: in her milieu and at her age they often become odious through their self-indulgence; Anne's calm dignity had shown her up as even more idiotic and boring than usual. It was only to be expected; I could not imagine anyone among my father's friends who would for a moment bear comparison with Anne. In order to be able to face an evening with people like that, one had either to be rather drunk, or be on intimate terms with one or other of them. For my father it was more simple: Charles Webb and he were libertines: "Guess whom I'm taking out tonight? The Mars girl, the one in Saurel's latest film." My father would laugh, and clap him on the back: "Lucky man! She's almost as pretty as Elise." Undergraduate talk, but I liked their enthusiasm.

Then there were interminable evenings on Café terraces, and Lombard's tales of woe: "She was the only one I ever loved, Raymond! Do you remember that spring before she left me? It's stupid for a man to devote his whole life to one woman." This was another side of life.

Anne's friends probably never talked about themselves, perhaps they did not indulge in such adventures. Or if they spoke of them, it must be with an apologetic laugh. Already I almost shared Anne's condescending attitude towards our friends: it was catching. On the other hand, by the age of thirty, I could imagine myself being more like them than like Anne, and by then her silence, indifference and reserve might suffocate me. There was a knock at the door. I quickly put on my pyjama top and called "Come in!" Anne stood there, carefully holding a cup.

"I thought you might like some coffee. How do you feel this morning?"

"Very well," I answered. "I'm afraid I was a bit tipsy last night."

"As you are each time you go out," she began to laugh. "But I must say, you were amusing. It was such a tedious evening."

I had forgotten the sun, and even my coffee. When I was talking to Anne, I was completely absorbed; I did not think of myself, and yet she was the only one who made me question my motives. Through her I lived more intensely.

"Cécile, do you find people like the Webbs and the Dupuis entertaining?"

"Well, they usually behave abominably, but they are funny."

She was watching a fly on the floor. Anne's eyelids were long and heavy; it was easy for her to look condescending.

"Don't you ever realise how monotonous and dull their conversation is? Don't those endless stories about girls, contracts and parties bore you?"

"I'm afraid," I answered, "that after ten years of convent life their lack of morals fascinates me."

I did not dare to add that I also liked it.

"You left two years ago," she said. "It's not anything one can reason about, neither is it a question of morals; it has something to do with one's sensibility, a sixth sense."

I supposed I hadn't got it. I saw clearly that I was lacking in this respect.

"Anne," I asked abruptly, "do you think I am intelligent?"

She began to laugh, surprised at the directness of my question.

"Of course you are! Why do you ask?"

"If I were an idiot, you'd say just the same thing," I sighed. "I so often find your superiority overpowering.''

"It's just a question of age," she answered. "It would be a sad thing if I didn't feel a little more self-assured than you."

She laughed. I was annoyed:

"It wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing."

"It would be a catastrophe," she said.

She suddenly dropped her bantering tone and looked me straight in the face. I at once felt ill-at-ease, and began to fidget. Even to-day I cannot get used to people who stare at you while they are talking, or come very close to make quite sure that you are listening. My only thought then is to escape from such proximity. I go on saying 'yes', while gradually edging away; their insistence and indis
cretion enrage me. What right have they to try to corner me? Fortunately Anne did not resort to these tactics, but merely kept her eyes fixed on me, so that I could no longer continue to talk in the light-hearted vein I usually affected.

"Do you know how men like Webb end up?"

I thought: 'And men like my father.'

"In the river," I answered flippantly.

"A time comes when they are no longer attractive or in good form. They can't drink any more, and they still hanker after women, only then they have to pay and make compromises in order to escape from their loneliness: they have become just figures of fun. They grow sentimental and hard to please. I have seen many who have gone the same way."

"Poor Webb!" I said.

I was impressed. So that was the fate in store for my father? Or at least the fate from which Anne was saving him.

"You never thought of that, did you?" said Anne, with a little smile of commiseration. "You don't think much about the future, do you? That is the privilege of youth."

"Please don't throw my youth at me like that! I use it neither as an excuse, nor as a privilege. I just don't attach any importance to it."

"To what do you attach importance? To your peace of mind? Your independence?"

I dreaded conversations of this sort, especially with Anne.

"To nothing at all," I said. "You know I hardly ever think."

"You and your father irritate me at times: 'You haven't given it a thought . . . you're not worth much . . . you don't know.' Are you satisfied to be like that?"

"I'm not satisfied with myself. I don't like myself, and I don't try to. At moments you force me to complicate my life, and I almost hate you for it."

She began to hum to herself with a thoughtful expression. I recognised the tune, but did not know what it was:

"What's the name of that song, Anne? It gets on my nerves."

"I don't know," she smiled again, looking rather discouraged. "Stay in bed and rest, I'll continue my research on the family intellect somewhere else."

I thought it was easy enough for my father. I could just imagine him saying 'I'm not thinking of anything special because I love you, Anne.' However intelligent she was, Anne would accept this as a valid excuse. I gave myself a good stretch and lay down on my pillow. Anne was dramatising the situation: in twenty-five years my father would be an amiable sexagenarian with white hair, rather addicted to whisky and highly-coloured reminiscences. We would go out together; it would be my turn to tell him my adventures, and his to advise me. I realised that in my mind I was excluding Anne from our future: I did not see how she could fit in. Amidst the turmoil of our flat, which was sometimes bare, at others full of flowers, the stage for many and varied scenes, often cluttered up with luggage, I somehow could not envisage the introduction of order, the peace and quiet, the feeling of harmony that Anne brought with her everywhere she went, as if they were the most precious gifts. I dreaded being bored to death; although I was less apprehensive of her influence since my love for Cyril had liberated me from many of my fears. I feared boredom and tranquility more than anything. In order to achieve serenity, my father and I had to have excitement, and this Anne was not prepared to admit.

9

I  have spoken a great deal about Anne and myself, and very little of my father. Yet he has played the most important part in this story, and my feelings for him have been deeper and more stable than for anyone else. I know him too well, and feel too close to him to talk easily of him, and it is he above all others whom I wish to justify and present in a good light. He was neither vain nor selfish, but incurably frivolous. I could not call him irresponsible or incapable of deep feelings. His love for me is not to be taken lightly or regarded merely as a parental habit. He could suffer more through me than through anyone else, and for my part I was nearer to despair the day he turned away as if abandoning me than I had ever been in my life. I was always more important to him than his love affairs. On certain evenings, by taking me home, he must have missed what his friend Webb would have called 'great opportunities'. On the other hand, I cannot deny that he was unfaithful and would always take the easiest way. He never reflected, and tried to give everything a physiological explanation which he called being rational: "You think yourself hateful? Sleep more and drink less!" It was the same when at times he had a violent desire for a particular woman. He never thought of repressing it, or trying to elevate it into a complex sentiment. He was a materialist, but kind and understanding and had a touch of delicacy. His desire for Elsa disturbed him, but not in the way one might expect. He did not say to himself: 'I want to be unfaithful to Anne, therefore I love her less,' but 'This need for Elsa is a nuisance, I must get over it quickly or it might cause complications with Anne.' Moreover he loved and admired Anne. She was a change from the stupid and frivolous women he had consorted with in recent years. She satisfied his vanity, his sensuality and his sensibility, for she understood him, and offered her intelligence and experience to supplement his. But I do not believe he realised how deeply she cared for him. He thought of her as the ideal mistress and an ideal mother for me, but I do not think he visualised her as the ideal wife for himself, with all this implied. I am sure that in Cyril's and in Anne's eyes he was like me, abnormal, so to speak; but although he considered his life banal, he put all his vitality into it and made it exciting.