As for his wife, she was a nasty individual. Anne did not know her and I saw her lovely face quickly take on that disdainful, mocking expression she usually assumed in company. Charles Webb talked a lot, as usual, all the while looking across at Anne in an inquisitive way. He was clearly wondering what she was doing with that womanizer Raymond and his daughter. I felt full of pride at the thought that he was soon going to find out. My father leant over to him as he was drawing breath and, out of the blue, said:
‘I’ve news for you, old chap. Anne and I are getting married on the fifth of October.’
Webb looked from one to the other, quite dumbstruck. I was delighted. His wife, who had always had a soft spot for my father, seemed disconcerted.
Webb then bellowed: ‘My compliments! What a splendid idea! My dear lady, you are amazing for taking on such a rascal! Waiter! This calls for a celebration.’
Anne was smiling; she was calm and relaxed. Just at that moment I saw Webb’s face light up and I did not turn round to look.
‘Elsa! My God, it’s Elsa Mackenbourg! She hasn’t seen me. Have you seen how lovely that girl is looking nowadays, Raymond?’
‘Isn’t she just!’ said my father complacently, as if she belonged to him.
Then he remembered and his expression changed.
Anne couldn’t fail to notice my father’s tone of voice. In one rapid movement she turned from looking at him to looking at me. As she opened her mouth to say no doubt the first thing that came into her head, I leant across and spoke to her:
‘Anne, your elegance is causing quite a stir. There’s a man over there who can’t take his eyes off you.’
I had dropped my voice to a confidential pitch but was speaking loud enough for my father to hear. He spun round and caught sight of the man in question.
‘I dislike that kind of thing,’ he said, taking Anne’s hand.
‘Aren’t they sweet?’ exclaimed Madame Webb mockingly. ‘Charles, you shouldn’t have bothered these two love-birds. You could just have invited young Cécile here.’
‘“Young Cécile here” wouldn’t have come,’ I said bluntly.
‘Why not? Have you boyfriends among the fishermen?’
She had once seen me sitting on a bench talking to a bus conductor and ever since had treated me as if I had lost caste – that’s what she called it: ‘losing caste’.
‘Yes, I have,’ I said, trying to sound cheery.
‘And do you fish often?’
The worst of it was that she thought she was being funny. I was getting more and more annoyed and I said: ‘I don’t know much about what old trouts do, but I myself do fish.’
There was silence. Then Anne spoke up, composed as always:
‘Raymond, would you ask the waiter to bring a straw? You really do need one with freshly squeezed orange juice.’
Charles Webb quickly moved on to the topic of refreshing drinks. My father had to suppress his laughter. I could see it by the way in which he became engrossed in his glass. Anne shot me an imploring look. On the spot it was decided that we would all have dinner together, which is what happens when people have narrowly avoided falling out.
I drank a lot during the meal. I needed to blot out the anxious expression Anne wore whenever she looked at my father or what could have been gratitude whenever her eyes rested on me. Whenever Webb’s wife made a dig at me, I looked back at her with a beaming smile. She found this tactic of mine disconcerting and she very quickly became aggressive. Anne signalled to me not to react. She had a horror of scenes and she sensed that Madame Webb was all set to create one. For my part, I was used to scenes, they were common occurrences in the circles in which we moved. So I wasn’t at all on edge as I listened to her.
After dinner we went to a nightclub in Saint-Raphaël. Shortly after we got there, Elsa and Cyril arrived. Elsa stopped in the entrance, spoke very loudly to the lady in charge of the cloakroom and, with Cyril in tow, carried on in. It struck me that she was behaving more like a tart than a girlfriend but she had the looks to carry it off.
‘Who is that whippersnapper?’ asked Charles Webb. ‘He looks very young.’
‘It’s love,’ whispered his wife. ‘Love suits him.’
‘What an idea!’ my father said angrily. ‘It’s an infatuation, that’s what it is.’
I glanced at Anne. She was studying Elsa in a calm, detached way, the way that she would look at the fashion models who presented her collections, or at very young women. She showed no trace of acrimony. For a moment I admired her intensely for her lack of pettiness or jealousy. In any case, I couldn’t understand what she might have to be jealous about as far as Elsa was concerned. She was a hundred times more beautiful and more subtle than Elsa. Being drunk, I told her so. She looked at me curiously.
‘Do you really think I’m more beautiful than Elsa?’
‘There’s absolutely no doubt about it!’
‘That’s always nice to hear. But you’re drinking too much, yet again. Give me your glass. You’re not too upset at seeing Cyril over there, are you? Anyway, he’s clearly not enjoying himself.’
‘He’s my lover,’ I said brightly.
‘You are thoroughly drunk! It’s just as well that it’s time to go home.’
When, with relief, we left the Webbs, I made a point of addressing Madame Webb politely. My father took the wheel and my head lolled over on to Anne’s shoulder.
I kept thinking how much I preferred her to the Webbs and to all the people we usually saw. She was better than them, more dignified and intelligent. My father didn’t say much. No doubt in his mind’s eye he was going over the arrival of Elsa.
‘Is she asleep?’ he asked Anne.
‘She’s sleeping like a baby. She behaved herself quite well, relatively speaking. Except for the reference to old trout, which was a bit direct.’
My father began to laugh. There was silence. Then I heard his voice again.
‘Anne, I love you, I love only you. Do you believe me?’
‘Don’t keep saying that, it frightens me.’
‘Give me your hand.’
I almost sat up to protest: ‘No, not while you’re driving along a cliff top!’ But I was rather drunk, and there was Anne’s perfume and the wind from the sea blowing in my hair and the little scratch that Cyril had made on my shoulder when we were making love, so many reasons to be happy and to say nothing. I was falling asleep. Meanwhile, Elsa and poor Cyril must have been setting off laboriously on the motorcycle his mother had given him for his last birthday. I don’t know why, but the thought of it moved me to tears. This car was so smooth, it had such good suspension, it was just made for sleep … Madame Webb was unlikely to be getting much sleep at that moment. Probably at her age I’ll also be paying young men to love me, because love is the sweetest thing, it’s what in life is most vivid and has the most point. So the price paid hardly matters. What mattered was not to become embittered and jealous, as she was of Elsa and Anne. I began to laugh softly to myself. Anne’s shoulder sank down a little lower for me. ‘Go to sleep,’ she said firmly. I went to sleep.
Eight
The next day I awoke feeling perfectly fine, barely tired, just with the back of my neck aching slightly as a result of my excesses. As it was every morning, my bed was bathed in sunlight. I pushed back my sheets, took off my pyjama top and turned my bare back to the sun. With my cheek resting on my folded arm, I could see close up the coarse texture of the linen sheet and beyond that, on the tiled floor, the vacillations of a fly. The sun was warm and gentle, it seemed to make my bones expand beneath my skin and to take special care to bestow its warmth upon me. I decided to spend the whole morning like that, not budging.
The previous evening was gradually becoming clearer in my memory. I remembered having told Anne that Cyril was my lover and I laughed to think that when you are drunk you say things that are true and no one believes you. I also remembered Madame Webb and my altercation with her. I was familiar with that type of woman: in thos
e circles and at her age they were often odious because they had nothing to occupy themselves with, yet they still desired to live life to the full. Anne’s serenity had led me to view Madame Webb as being even more idiotic and annoying than usual. It was only to be expected. I failed to see who among my father’s female friends could stand comparison with Anne for long. In order to spend a pleasant evening with these people, you had either to be a little drunk and enjoy arguing with them or to be in an intimate relationship with one or other of the spouses. For my father, it was simpler: he and Charles Webb both loved the thrill of the chase. ‘Guess who I’m going to wine and dine and then bed tonight! The little Mars girl, the one who was in Saurel’s film. I was going into Dupuis’ place when …’ My father would laugh and slap him on the shoulder: ‘Lucky man! She’s almost as lovely looking as Élise.’ Schoolboy talk, but what I liked about it was both men’s enthusiasm and ardour. And during interminable parties or on the terraces of cafés, I even liked Lombard’s melancholy avowals: ‘She was the only one I ever loved, Raymond! You remember that spring before she left me? It’s crazy, a man’s life ruined for the sake of one woman!’ There was something inappropriate and demeaning about all of this, but there was a warmth, too, in two men exchanging confidences over a drink.
Anne’s friends probably never talked about themselves. Doubtless they did not indulge in such escapades. Or even if they did talk about such things, it would most likely be with a shamefaced laugh. I was ready to share with Anne the condescending attitude she would adopt towards our acquaintances; it was not unkind and it was contagious. Yet I could see myself, at thirty, being more like our friends than like her, and finding her silence, her aloofness and her reserve suffocating. Indeed, I could imagine, in fifteen years’ time, being somewhat blasé; I could picture myself leaning across to an attractive man, just as world-weary as I was, to say:
‘My first lover was called Cyril. I was not quite eighteen; the sun was hot over the sea …’
I took pleasure in visualizing the man’s face. He would have the same little wrinkles as my father. There was a knock at the door. I hastily got into my pyjama top and called: ‘Come in!’ It was Anne, carefully balancing a cup.
‘I thought you might be in need of some coffee … You’re not feeling too bad, I hope.’
‘I’m feeling fine,’ I said. ‘I was a little bit tipsy last night, you know.’
‘You’re the same every time we take you anywhere …’ She began to laugh. ‘But I must say I found you entertaining. It was a long evening.’
I was no longer noticing the sun, nor even paying attention to the taste of the coffee. Whenever I talked to Anne, I was totally absorbed, I was no longer observing myself. And yet she was the one who was always calling me into question and forcing me to judge myself. It was because of her that I experienced intense moments of difficulty.
‘Cécile, do you enjoy being with those sorts of people, the Webbs and the Dupuis?’
‘I find the way they behave mostly quite tedious, but they can be very funny.’
She too was watching the comings and goings of the fly on the floor. I thought there must be something wrong with the fly. Anne had long, heavy eyelids so it was easy for her to look condescending.
‘Don’t you ever realize how monotonous their conversation is and – how can I put it? – how lumbering it is? All those stories of contracts, girls, parties, do they never bore you?’
‘You know,’ I said, ‘I spent ten years in a convent so it still fascinates me that these people have no morals.’
I did not dare add that it also appealed to me.
‘Even after two years,’ she said. ‘Yet it’s got nothing to do with being rational or moral, it’s a question of one’s sensitivity and having a sixth sense.’
I supposed I didn’t have one. I distinctly felt that I was lacking something in that department.
‘Anne,’ I asked abruptly, ‘do you think I’m intelligent?’
She began to laugh, astonished at the directness of my question.
‘But of course I do! Why do you ask?’
‘Even if I were an idiot, you would give me the same answer,’ I sighed. ‘You often give me the impression of being one step ahead of me.’
‘It’s just a question of age,’ she said. ‘It would be highly regrettable if I were not a little more self-assured than you. You would be able to influence me!’
She laughed out loud. I was vexed.
‘That 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 eye. Feeling awkward, I shifted slightly. Even today I cannot get used to this mania people have for staring at you when they are talking to you or for coming up close to you to make sure you are listening. Of course it’s a miscalculation on their part, because when it happens my only thought is of retreat and escape. I say: ‘Yes, yes,’ while doing everything I can to get away and flee to the other end of the room; I become furious at their insistence, their lack of discretion, their claims to my exclusive attention. Anne, fortunately, did not feel obliged to corner me in this way. She confined herself to looking me steadily in the eye so that it became hard for me to sustain that detached, light-hearted note that I so much favoured.
‘Do you know how men of Webb’s type finish up?’
I thought to myself: ‘And of my father’s type.’
‘In the gutter,’ I said brightly.
‘The time comes when they are no longer attractive or “on form”, as the saying goes. They can’t drink any more and they are still thinking about women. The only thing is, they now have to pay for them and accept a host of little compromises to escape their loneliness. They are sad dupes. That’s when they opt to become sentimental and demanding … I’ve seen a lot of them turn into wrecks in that way.’
‘Poor Webb!’ I said.
I was at a loss. In truth, that was how my father risked ending up. At least, it would have been the end in store for him if Anne had not taken charge.
‘You hadn’t thought of that,’ said Anne with a little smile of commiseration. ‘You don’t think much about the future, do you? That’s youth’s privilege.’
‘Oh, please,’ I said, ‘don’t cast my age up at me like that. I use that card as little as possible. I don’t think being young gives me a right to every privilege or excuse. I don’t attach any importance to it.’
‘What do you attach importance to? To being left alone? To being independent?’
I was afraid of conversations like this, especially when they were with Anne.
‘I don’t attach importance to anything,’ I said. ‘I don’t do a lot of thinking, you know.’
‘I find you rather irritating, you and your father. “You don’t ever think about anything … you’re not good at much … you don’t know …” Does that make you pleased with yourselves?’
‘I’m not pleased with myself. I don’t like myself. I don’t set out to like myself. There are times when you force me to make my life complicated. I almost resent you for it.’
She began to hum to herself, pensively. I recognized the tune but I couldn’t remember what it was.
‘What is that song, Anne? It’s annoying me.’
‘I don’t know.’ She smiled again, seeming a little discouraged. ‘Stay in bed and rest yourself. I’m going to pursue my research into the family’s intellect elsewhere.’
‘Of course,’ I thought, ‘it’s easy for my father.’ From where I was I could hear him saying: ‘I don’t think about anything much, because I love you, Anne.’ For all her intelligence, that reason would be likely to appear valid to her. I had a good long stretch and dived back into my pillow. I did reflect a lot on things, in spite of what I had said to Anne. Really, she was dramatizing the situation. In twenty-five years’ time my father would be a lovable sexagenarian with white hair and a fondness for whisky and highly coloured reminiscences. We would go
out together. I would be the one to recount my escapades to him and he would be the one giving advice. It struck me that I was excluding Anne from this future of ours. I was unable to find a place for her in it, I just couldn’t picture it. Our chaotic flat could sometimes be desolate, but at other times it was full of flowers and abuzz with activity and unfamiliar accents; it was frequently cluttered up with luggage. I just could not imagine it pervaded by the order, silence and harmony which Anne brought with her wherever she went, as if she were bringing the most precious of assets. I was terrified that I would die of boredom. I probably feared her influence less since loving Cyril in a real and physical sense. That had liberated me from many of my terrors. But, more than anything, I feared boredom and repose. To be inwardly reposeful, my father and I needed to be outwardly in ferment. And that was something that Anne would never be able to acknowledge.
Nine
I am talking a lot about Anne and myself and very little about my father. Not that he did not play the most important part in this story, nor that I do not deem it interesting. I have never loved anyone as much as him and, of all the feelings I experienced at that period, those I had for him were the most stable, the deepest and the ones I set most store by. I know him too well and feel too close to him to want to talk about him. However, it is he more than anyone whom I should discuss, in order to be able to present his conduct in an acceptable light. He wasn’t a vain man, nor was he an egoist. But he was a frivolous man, incorrigibly so. I cannot even say that he was irresponsible or incapable of deep feelings. There was nothing frivolous about his love for me, nor could it be regarded as merely a fatherly habit. He more than anyone could suffer through me. For my part, had I not once been close to despair solely because, in averting his gaze from me, he had seemed to be casting me off? He never put his love affairs before me. Some evenings, he must have passed up on what Webb called ‘great opportunities’ just so that he could take me home. But beyond that I cannot deny that he had given himself over to doing whatever he wanted, to caprice and convenience. He was not one for reflection. He tried to give everything a physiological explanation, which he said was the rational one: ‘Do you find yourself hateful? Sleep more and drink less!’ It was the same with the overwhelming desire he sometimes felt for a particular woman; it never occurred to him either to repress it or to elevate it into becoming a more complex sentiment. He was a materialist, but he was sensitive and understanding and quite simply very kind.