The Collected Stories of Colette (8 page)

“. . . ?”

“I mean, they rant and rave over everything, as much for a broken glass as for something very, very bad. Mine especially. She’s easily affected. Afterward, she was looking at me as if I fell from the moon, and she said in a soft voice, ‘My God, this child . . . this child . . .’ She looked so unhappy and so astonished, you would have thought I was the one who had scolded her. So much so that I put my arm around her like this and I rocked her up against me, saying, ‘There . . . there . . . my little darling, there! . . .’ It ended very happy.”

“. . . ?”

“Yes, we are! we
are
angry, but for a different reason. The story of the hat is from yesterday. Today . . . here, look at my finger.”

“. . . !”

“Yes, a cut, a big one, and the nail is split. It has hydrogen peroxide and I don’t know what else on it. And here, on my cheek, you can see a red burn; it stings. And my hair, can’t you see, on my forehead? Smell it: It must still smell a little like when they singe the pig in the square. These are all today’s ordeals, which got Mama and me angry with each other . . . I wanted curly bangs on my forehead; so, so I cut a few hairs—big deal! I know you always go further than you want with scissors . . . And I burned my cheek trying to turn the curling iron, to cool it down, like the hairdresser, you know: it makes it so pretty . . .”

“. . . ?”

“The cut, that was the scissors. A little farther and I would have poked out my eye . . . So, here I am, right, with my hand covered with blood, my hair singed and cut like a staircase, my cheek burned . . . And naturally, right when Mama comes back! Boy, did I ever catch it!”

“. . . !”

“Yes, I was in the wrong, but she scolded me in a way that wasn’t the way she usually does. I’m sure it wasn’t a question of what’s appropriate, or of dress, or of children who get into everything and are punished for it! It wasn’t even a question of me—or barely!’

“. . . ?”

“Wait, I’m about to remember . . . She was like a fury. She said that I had ruined
her
daughter for her! She said, ‘What have you done with
my
beautiful hair which I tended so patiently? You had no right to touch it! And that cheek, who gave you permission to spoil it! And this little hand? . . . How? . . . I’ve taken years, I’ve spent my days and my nights trembling over this masterpiece and all it takes is one of your exploits, you destructive little demon, to ruin the adorable result of so many pains! What you’ve done to it is cowardly, it’s shameful! Your beauty is mine, you don’t have the right to take away what I entrust to you!’ What do you think of that, Godmother?”

“. . .”

“Me either, I couldn’t think of anything to say. But it shook me up. I went under the stairs without saying a word. And I felt as sorry for myself as I could. I felt my hands, my legs, my head. ‘Poor little things,’ I said to myself, ‘your hands, your legs, your head aren’t even yours! You’re like a slave, then! A lot of good it did for your mother to give you birth, since she’s taken back all the rest! You wouldn’t dare even lose a single baby tooth or break a nail, for fear that your mother will claim it back from you . . . ‘ Well, you know how you talk to yourself when you want to make yourself cry . . . Oh, I have a mother who torments me so much, Godmother!”

“. . .”

“You think I do the same to her! It’s possible. So, if she’s nice to me at dinner, I can forgive her, too?”

“. . .”

“I really want to. It’s true, she did call me a destructive demon, but . . .”

“. . . ?”

“But she also called me an ‘adorable result,’ and I like that.”

“Here, Madame, in the little salon at the back, we won’t be bothered. Shampoo?”

“. . .”

“Naturally, I know the refrain: not enough time, just a rinse! And then afterward, they complain about having dry, split hair. I’ll bet you’re going to the preview at the Gymnase? I was sure of it! Did you like the one at the Ambigu?”

“. . .”

“It wasn’t what I was expecting. Nothing really new, nothing audacious, no ‘discovery.’ Not one entrance which makes you cry out.”

“. . . ?”

“Yes, cry out . . . ‘There’s one, at last!’”

“. . . ?”

“Well, a coiffure, naturally! There, like everywhere else, it was a mishmash, a mishmash of attempts; yes, that’s the expression I was looking for! You saw the fright wigs, the sugar loaf, spit curls, the eternal turban, the
sac à mouches
made out of tulle wrapping the head . . . Watch your eyes, the fumes . . . Next time I’ll give you a nice raw-egg shampoo.”

“. . . ?”

“Is it good? It’s excellent . . . for the egg sellers. Hah, hah!”

“. . . !”

“Sorry, the comb got stuck. You have dandruff.”

“. . . !”

“No, I made a mistake. Don’t pay any attention; it’s just that we’ve reached the point where I always say that . . . to my regular clients. But I have so little business sense! You see, I don’t insist. We’ve known each other a long time.”

“. . .”

“Not at all, the pleasure’s all mine. Besides, I have no malice whatsoever, and I leave to a certain colleague the bit about hair falling out after you have a baby.”

“. . . ?”

“You don’t know that one? It’s simple. A client—I mean a woman—loses her hair at the temples and hairline after having a baby, it never fails, but it grows back six months later. What does my colleague do? He says, ‘You’re losing your hair here, and here, and here, too . . .’—‘Oh, my God!’ the lady says—‘Don’t worry,’ says the hairdresser, ‘we have a tonic water which . . . a tonic water that . . .’ Anyway, to make it short, three months later the lady sees her hair starting to grow back and sings long and hard the praises of the tonic which . . . the tonic that . . . Shall I wave you?”

“. . . ?”

“It’ll take fifteen minutes. You ask me that every time, I’m not blaming you. And every time I tell you, ‘It’ll only take fifteen minutes,’ like I’m supposed to for every operation that takes twenty-five minutes. Which dress are you wearing tonight?”

“. . . ?”

“Yes, yes, I know the one, the gold lamé on a midnight-blue background. People have already gotten a pretty good look at you in that one.”

“. . . !”

“Certainly not, I have no intention of offering you another one like it. Because even if my means permitted me such whims, my clientele wouldn’t allow it. Ah! . . . But we can give your blue dress a new look.”

“. . . ?”

“With a pretty wig in the same shade.”

“. . . !”

“Jump if it amuses you, but not too high, because I’m holding the hair on your neck. A pretty blue wig, I think. With two rows of little paste gems and a spray of paradise blue . . . Fine, fine, you’ll come around!”

“. . .”

“Maybe not you
personally
, but your best friend, your teatime acquaintances, your sister-in-law, your cousin, all the women to whom you say when talking about colored hair, ‘What a horror! If I ever see you with dead, apple-green hair on your head, I’ll never speak to you again!’ Well, they will wear it, they’re already wearing it, and you’re still speaking to them. So I, your hairdresser, giggle in my little corner.”

“. . .”

“No, that’s not why. It’s because I realize that I, as a hairdresser, a simple
wigmaker
, I nevertheless have more influence over your closest friends than you have over them yourself. I could die laughing. I’ll be done in just a second.”

“. . . !”

“Yes, I do, I think it’s lovely. Look, a wig in a beautiful violet or midnight blue, like I’m suggesting to you, is ravishing with your complexion. It’s flattering, it gives contour.”

“. . . ?”

“Do
I
know what contour is? Well, I know what it is. Contour is . . . um . . . there, like that . . . something indefinable . . . I understand what I mean!’

“. . . ?”

“I’m with you a little less on the white wig. Mostly young women, very young, have gone for that one, and older women who were dyeing their hair.”

“. . . ?”

“Because older women who had been dyeing their hair said to themselves, ‘The day I no longer want to dye my hair, I’ll want completely white hair, like a young woman!’”

“. . . ?”

“No, they went on dyeing it. The idea was enough for them. We’re done. A little brilliantine?”

“. . . ?”

“It gives luster. It gives an extraordinary luster . . . to the lining of hats. Ah! Give a brief glance in the shop before you go, I have a small selection of colored wigs like none you’ve ever seen before . . . What’s that, what did you say?”

“. . . !”

“No, you won’t see them in Paris. You know where you will? In Germany. Berlin ordered thirty of them from me at the same time.
Fabriqué en France! Pariser Kunst!
So, did I ever give it to them—cabbage green, turnip yellow, Parma violet, and Prussian blue, which is only right. And do they ever pay—six, seven, eight hundred apiece; so there! One is patriotic in one’s own way: it’s just so much money coming in.”

“Phew! . . . Bonjour, Madame. Phew! Am I ever tired! How’s that knee?”

“. . .”

“So you say, so you say. Let’s have a look. It’s true, the swelling has gone down. But the area is still pretty black from the extravasated blood? Talk about a bad blow, that was a bad blow. Am I ever tired!”

“. . . ?”

“Why don’t I sit down? Ah, yes! . . . Don’t mind me, I say that every third thing—I’m tired. I say it because it’s the truth; I can’t help it anymore, I’m giving out. It’s a real blessing.”

“. . . ?”

“Think about it, Madame, it’s a slaughterhouse with me. It’s as if all these ladies are crazy. The one who wants to go to the south, another one who’s just come back from the south, another who won’t stop going out at night, and all the ones who’ve been thrashed dancing the tango—and worst of all, the ones who don’t dance, who don’t go out, who don’t travel—they’re the ones who get the most use out of my doormat . . . All of them in fact, I’m telling you! It’s to the point where when I reach your house, a week after for your sprain, I shout, ‘Oh, thank God, now for half an hour of relaxation, a nice quiet little sit-down massage!’ Softer leg, completely relaxed, please.”

“. . . ?”

“Don’t be a tease! There is a world of difference between that and saying that it’s a good thing that you sprained your knee! But I really am glad to have you between two big massages. When I leave your place, I go . . . clear into the wilds, to the end of Auteuil.”

“. . . ?”

“You know perfectly well I never say whose house it is. The lady I told you about, the one who’s so rich and so bad-tempered. You know, don’t you? She receives me like a dog if I’m two minutes late, especially since for the moment she’s without her head chambermaid; one that she had hired, a gem, was in the house for one hour . . . a story that would make you die laughing! The maid arrives, a very decent-looking girl; the lady, who had had a good lunch, cries out when she sees her, ‘Why, she’s so sweet, with the face of a real little soubrette! You’ll be called Marton, and I’ll use
tu
with you!’ So the maid says, ‘As for the name, it’s all the same to me; but as for using
tu
, if Madame doesn’t mind, I don’t think we’ve known each other long enough, Madame and I.’”

“. . .”

“Of course it wasn’t a bad way to put it. Only it cost her her job. To try and be witty at a hundred and twenty francs a month; at that rate, I’d just as soon be a dumb animal. Phew, am I tired!”

“. . .”

“Me, rest? You wouldn’t want that! And in the first place, I don’t like to rest. I’m made for working first and for complaining after. If I don’t complain, I’m not happy. Take days like the one I have tomorrow: at five o’clock in the morning, my Greek lady . . .”

“. . .”

That’s what I said: five o’clock in the morning. Well, if you’re looking for an easy job, I don’t advise you to become a domestic in her house. She never feels sleepy, and it annoys her that others are asleep. At five o’clock in the morning she’s leaning on all the bells, and while she’s waiting for the staff to come down, she runs around in her kimono, hiding little wads of paper behind and under the furniture, to see if the sweeping gets done. Right down to me whom she keeps from sleeping! She only wants her massage at five o’clock out of pure meanness; she pays me an arm and a leg for it, just for the pleasure of saying to me when I arrive, ‘Oh, my poor Antoinette, it mustn’t have been very warm coming here this morning. My thermometer read twenty degrees, outside the window!’ And then I show off; I say, ‘A little nippy, Madame, a little nippy. It gets the blood circulating. If you were out on the street at this hour, you wouldn’t have legs the color of butter like you do, probably.’”