Four Novels (12 page)

“And for the child?”

“Nothing.”

“This is where the scream came from, I remember,” the child said.

He went over to the sun in the doorway, took a step down, and disappeared onto the sidewalk.

“A nice day,” the patronne said.

She saw that the woman was trembling, and she avoided looking at her.

“I was thirsty,” Anne Desbaresdes said.

“The first warm days, that’s the reason.”

“In fact, I think I’ll have another glass of wine.”

From the persistent trembling of the hands gripping the glass, the patronne realized that it would take a while to get the explanation she wanted, but that, once the emotion had passed, it would come of its own accord.

It came faster than she had expected. Anne Desbaresdes drank the second glass of wine without pausing.

“I was just passing,” she said.

“It’s nice weather for a walk,” the patronne said.

The man had stopped reading his paper.

“At this time yesterday I was at Mademoiselle Giraud’s.”

Her hands were steadier, and the expression on her face was almost normal.

“I recognize you.”

“There was a murder,” the man said.

Anne Desbaresdes told a lie.

“I see . . .I was just wondering.”

“That’s natural enough.”

“Of course,” said the patronne. “I had a regular procession of people in here this morning.”

The child outside was hopping on one foot.

“Mademoiselle Giraud is teaching my little boy to play the piano.”

The wine must have helped, for her voice had also become more steady. A smile of deliverance slowly appeared in her eyes.

“He looks like you,” said the patronne.

“That’s what they say.” The smile broadened.

“The eyes.”

“I don’t know,” said Anne Desbaresdes. “You see . . . since I was taking him for a walk, I thought I might as well come here today. So . . .”

“Yes, a murder.”

Anne Desbaresdes lied again.

“Ah . . . I didn’t know.”

A tugboat eased away from the dock, and got underway with a hot, even clatter of its engines. The child stood still on the sidewalk while the tugboat was maneuvering, then turned to his mother.

“Where’s it going?”

She said she didn’t know. The child left again. She picked up the
empty glass in front of her, realized her mistake, set it down on the counter, and waited, her eyes lowered. Then the man came over.

“May I?”

She was not surprised, which upset her all the more.

“It’s just that I’m not used to drinking, Monsieur.”

He ordered some wine, and took another step towards her.

“The scream was so loud it’s really only natural for people to try and find out what happened. I would have found it difficult not to, you know.”

She drank her wine, the third glass.

“All I know is that he shot her through the heart.”

Two customers came in. They recognized this woman at the bar and were surprised.

“And I don’t suppose you can tell me why?”

It was obvious that she was not used to drinking wine, and that at this hour of the day she was generally doing something quite different.

“I wish I could, but I’m not really sure of anything.”

“Perhaps no one knows?”

“He knew. He’s gone out of his mind, been locked up since yesterday evening. As for her, she’s dead.”

The child ran in from outside and snuggled against his mother with a movement of happy abandon. She stroked his hair absent-mindedly. The man watched her more closely.

“They loved each other,” he said.

She started, almost imperceptibly.

“Well, now do you know what the scream was about?” asked the child.

She did not answer, but shook her head no. The child moved again towards the door, her eyes following him.

“He worked at the dockyard. I don’t know about her.”

She turned towards him, moved closer.

“Perhaps they had problems, what they call emotional problems.”

The customers left. The patronne, who had overheard, came to the corner of the bar.

“And she was married,” she said, “three children, and she drank. It makes you wonder.”

“But maybe it was like I said?” suggested Anne Desbaresdes, after a pause.

The man did not acquiesce. She was embarrassed. And then her hands began to shake again.

“I really don’t know . . .” she said.

“No,” the patronne said, “take it from me, and generally I’m not one to meddle in other people’s affairs.”

Three new customers came in. The patronne moved away.

“Still, I think it might have been what you said,” the man smiled. “Yes, they must have had emotional problems. Maybe that’s why he killed her. Who knows?”

“Yes. Who knows?”

Mechanically the hand reached for the glass. He made a sign to the patronne for some more wine. Anne Desbaresdes did not protest; on the contrary, she seemed to expect it.

“From the way he acted with her,” she said softly, “as if it didn’t matter to him any more whether she was alive or dead, do you think that it’s possible for anyone to reach such a . . . state . . . except . . . through despair?”

The man hesitated, looked directly at her, and said sharply.

“I don’t know.”

He handed her her glass; she took it and drank. Then he brought her back to topics that were doubtless more familiar.

“You often go for walks through town?”

She drank a little wine, a smile came back to her face like a mask, more pronounced than before. She was becoming slightly drunk.

“Yes, I take my child for a walk every day.”

He glanced at the patronne, who was talking to the three customers. It was Saturday. People had plenty of time to kill.

“But in this town, small as it is, something happens every day, as you well know.”

“I know, but no doubt on some days . . . something happens to shock you,” she stammered. “Usually I go to the parks or the beach.”

And all the time, because of her growing intoxication, she brought herself to look more directly at the man in front of her.

“You’ve been taking him on these walks for a long time?”

The eyes of this man, who was talking to her and watching her at the same time.

“I mean you’ve been going to the parks and the beach for a long time,” he went on.

She felt uncomfortable. Her smile vanished into a pout, which left her face brutally exposed.

“I shouldn’t have drunk so much wine.”

A siren wailed, announcing the end of work for the Saturday shift. Immediately afterwards the radio started to blare unbearably.

“Already six o’clock,” the patronne said.

She turned the radio down, and busied herself setting up lines of glasses on the counter. Anne Desbaresdes remained looking dumbly at the docks for a minute, as if she were unable to decide what to do with herself. Then, as the distant noise of approaching men was heard from the port, the man spoke to her again.

“I was saying that you’ve been taking your child for walks to the beach or the parks for a long time now.”

“I’ve thought about it over and over again since yesterday evening,” said Anne Desbaresdes, “ever since my child’s piano lesson. I couldn’t help coming here today, you know.”

The first men came in. The child, his curiosity aroused, made his way through them, and went up to his mother, who pulled him against her with a mechanical movement of protection.

“You are Madame Desbaresdes. The wife of the manager of Import Export et des Fonderies de la Côte. You live on the Boulevard de la Mer.”

Another siren sounded, more faintly than the first, at the other end of the docks. A tugboat arrived. The child pulled himself brusquely away and ran off.

“He’s learning to play the piano,” she said. “He’s talented enough, but he doesn’t apply himself, I must admit.”

In order to make room for the men who kept coming into the café in large numbers, he moved closer and closer to her. The first customer left. Others were still arriving. Between them, as they came and went, one could see the sun setting on the sea, the flaming sky, and the child who, on the other side of the dock, was playing all alone those games whose secret could not be discerned at that distance. He was jumping over imaginary hurdles and seemed to be singing.

“I want so many things for the child all at once that I don’t know how to go about it, where to start. And I make a mess of it. I must be getting back because it’s late.”

“I’ve often seen you. I never imagined that one day you would come here with your child.”

The patronne turned the radio up a little for the late-comers who had just come in. Anne Desbaresdes turned towards the bar, made a wry face, accepted the noise, forgot it.

“If you only knew how much happiness you really want for them, as if it were possible. Perhaps it would be better if we were separated from each other once in a while. I can’t seem to understand this child.”

“You have a beautiful house at the end of the Boulevard de la Mer. A big walled garden.”

She looked at him quizzically, then came back to reality.

“But I get a lot of pleasure from these piano lessons,” she said.

The child, trailed by twilight, came back towards them. He stayed there looking at the people, the customers. The man made a sign to Anne Desbaresdes to look outside. He smiled at her.

“Look,” he said, “the days are getting longer and longer . . .”

Anne Desbaresdes looked, adjusted her coat, carefully, slowly.

“Do you work here in town, Monsieur?”

“Yes, in town. If you came back here, I’d try to find out some more and tell you.”

She lowered her eyes, remembered, and went pale.

“Blood on her mouth,” she said, “and he was kissing her, kissing her.” She went on: “Did you really believe what you said?”

“I said nothing.”

The sun was now so low in the sky that it shone on the man’s face. His body, leaning lightly against the bar, had been bathed in it for some time.

“Since you saw what happened, it wasn’t possible to stop it, was it? It was almost inevitable?”

“I said nothing,” the man repeated. “But I think he aimed at her heart, just as she asked him to.”

Anne Desbaresdes sighed. A soft, almost erotic sigh.

“It’s strange, I don’t feel like going home,” she said.

Suddenly he took his glass, emptied it, made no answer, looked away from her.

“I must have drunk too much,” she said. “That must be it.”

“Yes, that must be it,” the man said.

The café was nearly empty. Not many people were coming in now. The patronne watched them out of the corner of her eye while she washed glasses, intrigued to see them staying so late. The child, back at the door, gazed at the now silent docks. Standing before the man, her
back to the port, Anne Desbaresdes said nothing for a long time. He seemed not to notice her presence.

“It would have been impossible for me not to come back,” she said finally.

“And I came back too for the same reason as you.”

“She’s often out for a walk,” the patronne said, “with her little boy. Every day in good weather.”

“The piano lessons?”

“Once a week, on Fridays. Yesterday. This trouble actually gave her a reason for coming out today.”

The man jingled the money in his pocket. He looked at the docks in front of him. The patronne did not press the matter further.

Past the breakwater the Boulevard de la Mer stretched out, perfectly straight to the edge of town.

“Lift your head,” Anne Desbaresdes said. “Look at me.”

The child, who was used to her ways, obeyed.

“Sometimes I think I must have invented you—that you don’t really exist, you know.”

The child lifted his head and yawned. His mouth was flooded with the last rays of the setting sun. Every time she looked at this child, Anne Desbaresdes was just as astonished as the first time she had seen him. But this evening her astonishment was greater than ever.

Three

T
HE CHILD PUSHED THE
railing, his little school satchel bouncing up and down on his back, then he stopped at the entrance to the garden. He looked at the grass around him, tiptoed slowly, on the lookout, you never know, for the birds that he would have frightened away ahead of him. Just then a bird flew away. He watched it for a time, till it landed in a tree in the garden next door, then continued on his way till he was beneath a certain window behind a beech tree. He looked up. Every day at this time there was a smile for him at this window. The smile was there.

“Come on,” shouted Anne Desbaresdes, “let’s go for a walk.”

“By the seashore?”

“By the seashore, everywhere. Come on.”

Again they walked along the Boulevard de la Mer towards the breakwater. The child was quick to understand, and was not overly surprised.

“It’s such a long way,” he complained—then he resigned himself, and hummed a tune.

It was still early when they passed the first dock. The southern horizon was darkened by black streaks, ocher clouds spewed skyward by the foundries.

It was early, the café was empty, except for the man at the far end of the bar. As soon as she went in, the patronne got up and came over to Anne Desbaresdes. The man did not move.

“What’ll it be?”

“I’d like a glass of wine.”

She drank it as soon as it was served. She was trembling more than she had three days ago.

“I suppose you’re surprised to see me again.”

“Oh, in this business . . .” the patronne said.

She glanced surreptitiously at the man—he had also grown pale—sat down, then shifting her position, turned, and with a quick movement switched on the radio. The child left his mother and went out on the sidewalk.

“As I said, my little boy is taking piano lessons from Mademoiselle Giraud. You probably know her.”

“Yes, I know her. For more than a year I’ve been seeing you go by, once a week, on Friday, right?”

“Yes, Friday. I’d like another glass of wine.”

The child had found a friend. They stood motionless at the end of the dock watching the sand being unloaded from a barge. Anne Desbaresdes drank half of her second glass of wine. Her hands were a little steadier.