Good Morning, Midnight (2 page)

Then I would conduct the customer to the floor above, where the real activities of the shop were carried on, and call for Mademoiselle Mercedes or Mademoiselle Henriette or Madame Perron, as the case might be. If I forgot a face or allotted a new customer to a saleswoman out of her turn, there was a row.

There was no lift in this shop. That's why I was there. It was one of those dress houses still with a certain prestige - anyhow among the French - but its customers were getting fewer and fewer.

I had had the job for three weeks. It was dreary. You couldn't read; they didn't like it. I would feel as if I were drugged, sitting there, watching those damned dolls, thinking what a success they would have made of their lives if they had been women. Satin skin, silk hair, velvet eyes, sawdust heart - all complete. I used to envy the commissionaire, because at least he could watch the people passing in the street. On the other hand, he had to stand up all the time. Yes, perhaps I had rather be myself than the commissionaire.

There was always a very strong smell of scent. I would pretend that I could recognize the various scents. Today it's L'Heure Bleue; yesterday it was Nuits de Chine....The place also smelt of the polish on the floor, the old furniture, the dolls' clothes.

The shop had a branch in London, and the boss of the London branch had bought up the whole show. Every three months or so he came over to the French place and it was rumoured that he was due to arrive on a certain day.

What's he like? Oh, he's the real English type. Very nice, very, very chic, the real English type, le business man....I thought: 'Oh, my God, I know now what these people mean when they say the real English type.'

He arrives. Bowler hat, majestic trousers, oh-my-God expression, ha-ha eyes - I know him at once. He comes up the steps with Salvatini behind him, looking very worried. (Salvatini is the boss of our shop.) Don't let him notice me, don't let him look at me. Isn't there something you can do so that nobody looks at you or sees you ? Of course, you must make your mind vacant, neutral, then your face also becomes vacant, neutral - you are invisible.

No use. He comes up to my table.

'Good morning, good morning, Miss-'

'Mrs Jansen,' Salvatini says.

Shall I stand up or not stand up? Stand up, of course. I stand up.

'Good morning.' I smile at him.

'And how many languages do you speak?'

He seems quite pleased. He smiles back at me. Affable, that's the word. I suppose that's why I think it's a joke.

'One,' I say, and go on smiling.

Now, what's happened?....Oh, of course....

'I understand French quite well.'

He fidgets with the buttons on his coat.

'I was told that the receptionist spoke French and German fluently,' he says to Salvatini.

'She speaks French,' Salvatini says. 'Assez bien, assez bien.'

Mr Blank looks at me with lifted eyebrows.

'Sometimes,' I say idiotically. Of course, sometimes, when I am a bit drunk and am talking to somebody I like and know, I speak French very fluently indeed. At other times I just speak it. And as to that, my dear sir, you've got everything all wrong. I'm here because I have a friend who knows Mr Salvatini's mistress, and Mr Salvatini's mistress spoke to Mr Salvatini about me, and the day that he saw me I wasn't looking too bad and he was in a good mood. Nothing at all to do with fluent French and German, dear sir, nothing at all. I'm here because I'm here because I'm here. And just to prove to you that I speak French, I'll sing you a little song about it: 'Si vous saviez, si vous saviez, si vous saviez comment ca se fait.'

For God's sake, I think, pull yourself together.

I say: 'I speak French fairly well. I've been living in Paris for eight years.'

No, he's suspicious now. Questions short and sharp.

'How long have you been working here?'

'About three weeks.'

'What was your last job ?'

'I worked at the Maison Chose in the Place Vendeme.'

'Oh, really, you worked for Chose, did you? You worked for Chose.' His voice is more respectful. 'Were you receptionist there?'

'No,' I say. 'I worked as a mannequin.'

'You worked as a mannequin?'

Down and up his eyes go, up and down. 'How long ago was this?' he says.

How long ago was it? Now, everything is a blank in my head - years, days, hours, everything is a blank in my head. How long ago was it ? I don't know.

'Four, nearly five, years ago.'

'How long did you stay there ?'

'About three months,' I say.

He seems to be waiting for further information.

'And then I left,' I say in a high voice. (Decidedly this is one of my good days. This is one of the days when I say everything right.)

'Oh, you left?'

'Yes, Left.'

Yes, my dear sir, I left. I got bored and I walked out on them. But that was four, nearly five, years ago and a lot can happen in five years. I haven't the slightest intention of walking out on you, I can assure you of that. And I hope you haven't the slightest intention of - And just the thought that you may have the slightest intention of - makes my hands go cold and my heart beat.

'Have you worked anywhere else since then?'

'Well, no. No, I haven't.'

'I see,' he says. He waves backwards and forwards like a tall tree that is going to fall on me. Then he makes a sound like 'Hah', and goes off into a room at the back, followed by Salvatini.

Well, this has gone badly, there's no disguising it. It has gone as badly as possible. It couldn't have gone worse. But it's over. Now he'll never notice me again; he'll forget about me.

An old Englishwoman and her daughter come into the shop. I escort them upstairs and then fidget about arranging the showcases at the back of the room. In an hour or so they come down again. They walk up to the showcases, the old lady eager, the daughter very reluctant.

'Can you show me some of these pretty things ?' the old lady says. 'I want something to wear in my hair in the evening.'

She takes off her hat and she is perfectly bald on top - a white, bald skull with a fringe of grey hair. The daughter stays in the background. She is past shame, detached, grim.

'Come along, mother, do let's go. Don't be silly, mother. You won't find anything here.'

There is a long glass between the two windows. The old lady complacently tries things on her bald head.

The daughter's eyes meet mine in the mirror. Damned old hag, isn't she funny?....I stare back at her coldly.

I will say for the old lady that she doesn't care a damn about all this. She points to various things and says: 'Show me that - show me that.' A sturdy old lady with gay, bold eyes.

She tried on a hair-band, a Spanish comb, a flower. A green feather waves over her bald head. She is calm and completely unconcerned. She was like a Roman emperor in that last thing she tried on.

'Mother, please come away. Do let's go.'

The old lady doesn't take the slightest notice, and she has everything out of both of the cases before she goes. Then: 'Well,' she says, 'I'm very sorry. I'm so sorry to have given you so much trouble.'

'It's no trouble at all, madame.'

As they go towards the door the daughter bursts out. A loud, fierce hiss: 'Well, you made a perfect fool of yourself, as usual. You've had everybody in the shop sniggering. If you want to do this again, you'll have to do it by yourself. I refuse, I refuse.'

The old lady does not answer. I can see her face reflected in a mirror, her eyes still undaunted but something about her mouth and chin collapsing.... Oh, but why not buy her a wig, several decent dresses, as much champagne as she can drink, all the things she likes to eat and oughtn't to, a gigolo if she wants one ? One last flare-up, and she'll be dead in six months at the outside. That's all you're waiting for, isn't it? But no, you must have the slow death, the bloodless killing that leaves no stain on your conscience....

I put the ornaments back in the cases slowly, carefully, just as they were.

That brings me up to dejeuner. I go upstairs. One long table here, the mannequins and saleswomen all mixed up.

There is, of course, an English mannequin. 'Kind, kind and gentle is she' - and that's another damned lie. But she is very beautiful - 'belle comme une fleur de verre'. And the other one, the little French one whom I like so much, she is 'belle comme une fleur de terre'

I still can't get over the meal at this place. I have been living for some time on bread and coffee, and it blows my stomach out every time. Hors d'oeuvres, plat du jour, vegetables, dessert. Coffee and a quarter of wine are extra, but so little extra that everybody has them.

Nobody talks about the English manager - a wary silence.

I go downstairs, feeling dazed and happy. Gradually the happiness goes; I am just dazed.

Salvatini puts his head out of the door behind me and says: 'Mr Blank wants to see you.'

I at once make up my mind that he wants to find out if I can speak German. All the little German I know flies out of my head. Jesus, help me! Ja, ja, nein, nein, was kostet es, Wien ist eine sehr schone Stadt, Buda-Pest auch ist sehr schon, ist schon, mein Herr, ich habe meinen Blumen vergessen, aus meinen grossen Schmerzen, homo homini lupus, aus meinen grossen Schmerzen mach ich die kleinen Lieder, homo homini lupus (I've got that one, anyway), aus meinen grossen Schmerzen homo homini doh re mi fah soh la ti doh....

He is sitting at the desk, writing a letter. I stand there. He is sure to notice how shabby my shoes are.

Salvatini looks up, gives me a furtive smile and then looks away again.

Come on, stand straight, keep your head up, smile....

No, don't smile. If you smile, he'll think you're trying to get off with him. I know this type. He won't give me the benefit of a shadow of a doubt. Don't smile then, but look eager, alert, attentive....Run out of the door and get away....You fool, stand straight, look eager, alert, attentive....No, look here, he's doing this on purpose....Of course he isn't doing it on purpose. He's just writing a letter....He is, he is. He's doing it on purpose. I know it, I feel it. I've been standing here for five minutes.

This is impossible.

'Did you wish to see me, Mr Blank?'

He looks up and says sharply: 'Yes, yes, what is it? What do you want ? Wait a minute, wait a minute.'

At once I know. He doesn't want me to talk German, he's going to give me the sack. All right then, hurry up, get it over....

Nothing. I just stand there. Now panic has come on me. My hands are shaking, my heart is thumping, my hands are cold. Fly, fly, run from these atrocious voices, these abominable eyes....

He finishes his letter, writes a line or two on another piece of paper and puts it into an envelope.

'Will you please take this to the kise?'

Take this to the kise....I look at Salvatini. He smiles encouragingly.

Mr Blank rattles out: 'Be as quick as you can, Mrs - er - please. Thank you very much.'

I turn and walk blindly through a door. It is a lavatory. They look sarcastic as they watch me going out by the right door.

I walk a little way along the passage, then stand with my back against the wall.

This is a very old house - two old houses. The first floor, the shop proper, is modernized. The showrooms, the fitting-rooms, the mannequins' room....But on the ground floor are the workrooms and offices and dozens of small rooms, passages that don't lead anywhere, steps going up and steps going down.

Kise - kise....It doesn't mean a thing to me. He's got me into such a state that I can't imagine what it can mean.

Now, no panic. This envelope must have a name on it.

....Monsieur L. Grousset. Somewhere in this building is a Monsieur L. Grousset. I have got to take this letter to him. Easy. Somebody will tell me where his room is. Grousset, Grousset....

I turn to the right, walk along another passage, down a light of stairs. The workrooms....No, I can't ask here. All the girls will stare at me. I shall seem such a fool.

I try another passage. It ends in a lavatory. The number of lavatories in this place, c'est inoui....I turn the corner, find myself back in the original passage and collide with a strange young man. He gives me a nasty look.

'Could you tell me, please, where I can find Monsieur Grousset?'

'Connais pas,' the young man says.

After this it becomes a nightmare. I walk up stairs, past doors, along passages - all different, all exactly alike. There is something very urgent that I must do. But I don't meet a soul and all the doors are shut.

This can't go on. Shall I throw the damned thing away and forget all about it?

'What you must do is this,' I tell myself: 'You must go back and say - quite calmly - "I'm very sorry, but I didn't understand where you wanted me to take this note."

I knock. He calls out: 'Come in.' I go in

He takes the note from my hand. He looks at me as if I were a dog which had presented him with a very, very old bone. (Say something, say something....)

'I couldn't find him.' 'But how do you mean you couldn't find him? He must be there.'

'I'm very sorry. I didn't know where to find him.'

'You don't know where to find the cashier - the counting-house?

'La caisse,' Salvatini says - helpfully, but too late.

But if I tell him that it was the way he pronounced it that confused me, it will seem rude. Better not say anything ....

'Well, don't you know?'

'Yes, I do. Oh yes, I do know.'

That is to say, I knew this morning where the cashier's office is. It isn't so far from the place where we put our hats and coats. But I don't know a damned thing now....Run, run away from their eyes, run from their voices, run....

We stare at each other. I breathe in deeply and breathe out again.

'Extraordinary,' he says, very slowly, 'quite extra ordinary. God knows I'm used to fools, but this complete imbecility....This woman is the biggest fool I've ever met in my life. She seems to be half-witted. She's hopeless....Well, isn't she?' he says to Salvatini.

Salvatini makes a rolling movement of his head, shoulders and eyes, which means: 'I quite agree with you. Deplorable, deplorable.' Also: 'She's not so bad as you think.' Also: 'Oh, my God, what's all this about? What a day, what a day. When will it be over?' Anything you like, Salvatini's shrug means.