There are two cafes opposite each other in this street near my hotel - the one where the proprietor is hostile, the one where the proprietor is neutral. I must be a bit drunk, because I lead them into the wrong one
My life, which seems so simple and monotonous, is really a complicated affair of cafes where they like me and cafes where they don't, streets that are friendly, streets that aren't, rooms where I might be happy, rooms where I never shall be, looking glasses I look nice in, looking glasses I don't, dresses that will be lucky, dresses that won't, and so on.
However, being a bit tight, here I am on the wrong side of the street in the hostile cafe. Not that it matters, as I am not alone.
One of the Russians, the younger, is good looking in a gentle, melancholy way. He is vaguely like the man who always took the spy-parts in German films some years ago. It's the shape of his head. The other is short and fair, with very blue eyes. He wears pince-nez. He must be the more alive of the two, because I find myself looking at him and talking to him all the time.
The usual conversation....I say that I am not sad. I tell them that I am very happy, very comfortable, quite rich enough, and that I am over here for two weeks to buy a lot of clothes to startle my friends - my many friends. The shorter man, who it seems is a doctor, is willing to believe that I am happy but not that I am rich. He has often noticed, he says, that Englishwomen have melancholy expressions. It doesn't mean anything. The other one is impressed by my fur coat, I can see. He is willing to believe that I am rich but he says again that he doesn't think I am happy. The short man must be the more worldly-wise; the other one is like me - he has his feelings and sticks to them. He is the one who accosted me.
'I feel a great sadness in you,' he says.
Tristesse, what a nice word! Tristesse, lointaine, langsam, forlorn, forlorn....
Now, for goodness' sake, listen to this conversation, which, after the second drink, seems to be about gods and goddesses.
'Madame Venus se fachera,' the short one is saying, wagging his finger at me.
'Oh, her!' I say. 'I don't like her any more. She's played me too many dirty tricks.' 'She does that to everyone. All the same, be careful....
What god do they worship in England, what goddess?' 'I don't know, but it certainly isn't Venus. Somebody wrote once that they worship a bitch-goddess. It certainly isn't Venus.'
Then we talk about cruelty. I look into the distance with a blank expression and say: 'Human beings are cruel - horribly cruel.'
'Not at all,' the older one answers irritably, 'not at all. That's a very short-sighted view. Human beings are struggling, and so they are egotists. But it's wrong to say that they are wholly cruel - it's a deformed view.'
That goes on for a bit and then peters out. Now we have discussed love, we have discussed cruelty, and they sheer of politics. It's rather strange - the way they sheer of politics. Nothing more to be discussed. Well, we'll meet again, shan't we?....Of course we shall. It would be a pity not to meet again, wouldn't it? Will I meet them at the Pekin tomorrow for lunch? I have an idea that I shan't be feeling much like Chinese food at half past twelve tomorrow. We arrange to meet at the Dome at four o'clock.
They conduct me to the door of my hotel. The younger one remembers that I have left my menu behind - I had been showing it to them, the sketches of the little women and the 'Send more money, send more money' - and goes back to get it.
'Don't trouble. I don't really want it.'
But he has gone before I can stop him. I must keep this thing. It's fate.
Again I lie awake, trying to resist a great wish to go to a hairdresser in the morning to have my hair dyed.
When I come out of the hotel next morning a little old woman stops me and asks for money. I give her two francs.
When she thanks me she looks straight into my eyes with an ironical expression.
As I go past the baker's shop at the corner of the street she comes out, with a long loaf of bread, smiles at me and waves gaily, I wave back. For a moment I escape from myself. But she disappears along a side street, eating the loaf, and again I start thinking about dyeing my hair.
I pass the Italian restaurant. I pass Theodore's. It's a long way to the place I usually eat at. I hesitate, turn back, go in. I had meant to avoid Theodore's, because he might recognize me, because he might think I am changed, because he might say so.
I sit down in a corner, feeling uneasy.
He hasn't changed at all. He looks across the room at me from behind the bar and half-smiles. He has recognized me....Very unlikely. Besides, what if he has, what's it matter? They can't kill you, can they? Oh, can't they, though, can't they?
Today I must be very careful, today I have left my armour at home.
Theodore's is more expensive than most of the restaurants round here and it is not very full. I watch the girl opposite cutting up the meat on her plate. She prongs a bit with her fork and puts it into her companion's mouth. He eats, registers pleasure as hard as he can, prods round for the best bit on his plate and feeds her with it. At any moment you expect these two to start flapping wings and chirping.
Then there's a middle aged couple with their napkins tucked under their chins and a pretty woman accompanied by her husband - husband, I think, not lover.
These people all fling themselves at me. Because I am uneasy and sad they all fling themselves at me larger than life. But I can put my arm up to avoid the impact and they slide gently to the ground. Individualists, completely wrapped up in themselves, thank God. It's the extrovert, prancing around, dying for a bit of fun - that's the person you've got to be wary of.
I order sole and white wine. I eat with my eyes glued on my plate, the feeling of panic growing worse. (I told you not to come in here, I told you not to.)
At last, coffee. I wish I wasn't sitting so far from the door. However, it's nearly over. Soon I shall be out in the street again. I feel better.
I light a cigarette and drink the coffee slowly. As I am doing this two girls walk in - a tall, red haired one and a little, plump, dark one. Sports clothes, no hats, English.
Theodore waddles up to their table and talks to them. The tall girl speaks French very well. I can't hear what Theodore is saying, but I watch his mouth moving and the huge moon-face under the tall chef's cap.
The girls turn and stare at me.
'Oh, my God!' the tall one says.
Theodore goes on talking. Then he too turns and looks at me. 'Ah, those were the days,' he says.
'Et qu'est-ce qu'elle fout ici, maintenant ?' the tall girl says, loudly.
Now everybody in the room is staring at me; all the eyes in the room are fixed on me. It has happened.
I am calm, but my hand starts shaking so violently that I have to put the coffee cup down.
'Everybody', Theodore says, 'comes back to Paris. Always.' He retires behind the bar.
I make a great effort and look at the tall girl. She immediately turns her eyes away and starts talking about food - different ways of cooking chicken. The little one hangs on every word.
Her red hair is arranged so carefully over her tiny skull. Her voice is hard and clear. Those voices like uniforms - tinny, meaningless....Those voices that they brandish like weapons.
But what language! Considering the general get-up what you should have said was: 'Qu'est-ce qu'elle iche ici?' Considering the general get-up, surely that's what you should have said. What language, what language! What would Debenham & Freebody say, and what Harvey Nichols?
Well, everybody has had a good stare at me and a short, disapproving stare at the two girls, and everybody starts eating again.
'Ah! quelle plaie, quelle plaie, les Anglais,' as the old gentleman in the Cros de Cagnes bus said. But a plague that pays, my dear, a plague that pays. And merrily, merrily, life goes on....'Quelle plaie, quelle plaie, les Anglais,' he said, sighing so deeply.
The waitress passes by my table and I ask for the bill.
'There is still some coffee left, madame. W
ill you have some more?' She smiles at me. Without waiting for me to answer, she pours what remains in the pot into my cup. She is sorry for me, she is trying to be kind.
My throat shuts up, my eyes sting. This is awful. Now I am going to cry. This is the worst....If I do that I shall really have to walk under a bus when I get outside.
I try to decide what colour I shall have my hair dyed, and hang on to that thought as you hang on to something when you are drowning. Shall I have it red? Shall I have it black? Now, black - that would be startling. Shall I have it blond cendre ? But blond cendre, madame, is the most difficult of colours. It is very, very rarely, madame, that hair can be successfully dyed blond cendre. It's even harder on the hair than dyeing it platinum blonde. First it must be bleached, that is to say, its own colour must be taken out of it - and then it must be dyed, that is to say, another colour must be imposed on it. (Educated hair....And then, what?)
I finish the coffee, pay the bill and walk out. I would give all that's left of my life to be able to put out my tongue and say: 'One word to you,' as I pass that girl's table. I would give all the rest of my life to be able even to stare coldly at her. As it is, I can't speak to her, I can't even look at her. I just walk out.
Never mind....One day, quite suddenly, when you're not expecting it, I'll take a hammer from the folds of my dark cloak and crack your little skull like an eggshell. Crack it will go, the eggshell; out they will stream, the blood, the brains. One day, one da....One day the fierce wolf that walks by my side will spring on you and rip your abominable guts out. One day, one day....Now, now, gently, quietly, quietly....
Theodore comes out from behind the bar and opens the door for me. He smiles, his pig-eyes twinkle. I can't make out whether his smile is malicious (that goes for me, too) or apologetic (he meant well), or only professional.
What about the programme for this afternoon ? That's the thing - to have a plan and stick to it. First one thing and then another, and it'll all be over before you know where you are.
But my legs feel weak. What, defeated already ? Surely not....No, not at all. But I think I'll cross the road and sit quietly in the Luxembourg Gardens for a while.
Piecing it together, arguing it out
All that happened was this: Theodore probably said to the girl: 'I think there's a compatriot of yours over there,' and the girl said: 'Oh, my God!' And then Theodore probably said: 'I remember her. She used to come here a good deal some years ago. Ah, those were the days....'
And this and that. And then the girl said: 'Qu'est-ce qu'elle fout ici ?' partly because she didn't like the look of me and partly because she wanted to show how well she spoke French and partly because she thought that Theodore's was her own particular discovery. (But, my dear good lady, Theodore's has been crawling with kindly Anglo-Saxons for the last fifteen years to my certain knowledge, and probably much longer than that.) And that's everything that happened, and why get in a state about it?....But I'm not, I'm not. Can I help it if my heart beats, if my hands go cold?
I turn my chair round with its back to the pond where the children sail their boats. Now I can see nothing but the slender, straight trunks of trees. They look young, these trees. This is a gentle place - a gentle, formal place. It isn't sad here, it isn't even melancholy.
The attendant comes up and sells me a ticket. Now everything is legal. If anyone says: 'Qu'est-ce qu'elle fout ici?' I can show the ticket. This is legal....I feel safe, clutching it. I can stay here as long as I like, putting two and two together, quite calmly, with nobody to interfere with me
Last night and today - it makes a pretty good sentence. ....Qu'est-ce qu'elle fout ici, la vieille? What the devil (translating it politely) is she doing here, that old woman? What is she doing here, the stranger, the alien, the old one?....I quite agree too, quite. I have seen that in people's eyes all my life. I am asking myself all the time what the devil I am doing here. All the time.
Old people pass and shabby women, and every now and again a gay-looking one, painted, in a big fur coat. A man goes by, strutting like a cock, wheeling a big pram. He is buttoned very tightly into a black overcoat, his scarf carefully arranged under a blue chin. Then another man, who looks almost exactly like him, playing with a little girl who can only just walk. He is shouting at her: 'You have a drop on your nose.' The little girl runs away from him shrieking in delighted fright, and he runs after her, taking small, fussy steps. They disappear into the trees and I hear him still calling out: 'Come here, you have a drop on your nose, you have a drop on your nose...."
It's all right. I'm not unhappy. But I start thinking about that kitten.
This happened in London, and the kitten belonged to the couple in the lat above - a German hairdresser and his English wife. The kitten had an inferiority complex and persecution mania and nostalgie de la boue and all the rest. You could see it in her eyes, her terrible eyes, that knew her fate. She was very thin, scraggy and hunted, with those eyes that knew her fate. Well, all the male cats in the neighbourhood were on to her like one o'clock. She got a sore on her neck, and the sore on her neck got worse.
'Disgusting,' said the German hairdresser's English wife.
'She ought to be put away, that cat.' Then the kitten, feeling what was in the wind, came down into my room. She crouched against the wall, staring at me with those terrible eyes and with that big sore on the back of her neck. She wouldn't eat, she snarled at caresses. She just crouched in the corner of the room, staring at me. After a bit of this I couldn't stand it any longer and I shooed her out. Very reluctantly she went at first, with those eyes still staring at me. And then like an arrow through the door and down the stairs. I thought about her all the rest of that day and in the evening I said: 'I chased that unfortunate kitten out of my room. I'm worried about her. Is she all right?' 'Oh, haven't you heard?' they said. 'She got run over. Mrs Greiner was going to take her to the chemist's to be put away, and she ran right out into the street.' Right out into the street she shot and a merciful taxi went over her....
I look at myself in the glass of my handbag. I said I would meet the Russian at four o'clock at the Dome. He is one of those people with bright blue eyes and what they call a firm tread. He is sure to be an optimist.
We'll sit in the Dome and talk about sanity and normal human intercourse. He'll say: 'No, no, not cruelty - just egotism. They don't mean it.' He will explain just where I'm wrong, just where the reasoning has tripped up. Perhaps....
There are hollows under my eyes. Sitting on the terrace of the Dome, drinking Pernods and talking about sanity with enormous hollows under my eyes?
I hear a clock striking and count the strokes. It's four o'clock. 'No, thank you,' I think, 'I'm not going wandering into the Dome looking like this - no, thank you.'
At once I feel a great regret. He might have said some thing to comfort me....
I am empty of everything. I am empty of everything but the thin, frail trunks of the trees and the thin, frail ghosts in my room. 'La tristesse vaut mieux que la joie.'
In the glass just now my eyes were like that kitten's eyes.
I sit without moving, not unhappy.
Now it's getting dark. Now the gates are shutting. (Qu'est-ce qu'elle fout ici, la vieille?)
Get up, get up. Eat, drink, walk, march....Pourquoi etes-vous triste?
Tomorrow I must certainly go and have my hair dyed. I know exactly the man I'll go to. His name is Felix, but I'm not sure of the street. However, if I go to the Galeries Lafayette I can find my way from there.
When you go into the room Felix is seated at a desk. He has curly hair, a sensitive face, very nice hands. He wears a black velvet jacket. The complete artist - Antoine's only rival. In the window of his shop a large photograph with an inscription: 'To Monsieur Felix, who has kept my hair beautiful for so long - Adrienne.' There's no hope of getting Felix to attend to me, of course, but I may have a good assistant.
It's all right. Tomorrow I'll be pretty again, tomorrow I'll be happy again, tomorr
ow, tomorrow....
I get up into the room. I bolt the door. I lie down on the bed with my face in the pillow. Now I can rest before I go out again. What do I care about anything when I can lie on the bed and pull the past over me like a blanket ? Back, back, back....
....I had just come up the stairs and I had to go down them again.
'No, no, your room's not ready. You must come back, come back. Come back between ive and six.' 'What time is it now?' 'It's half-past ten.'
'Courage, courage, ma petite dame,' she says. 'Every thing will go well.'
I go down the stairs again, clutching the banisters, step by step.
I stop a taxi. The man looks at me and hesitates. Perhaps he is afraid I may have my baby in his nice new taxi. What a thing to happen!
No danger at all, I want to say. Hours and hours and hours yet, she says.
I get back to the hotel and climb upstairs to my room. This is a hard thing to do. Has anybody ever had to do this before ? Of course, lots of people - poor people. Oh, I see, of course, poor people....Still, it is a hard thing to do, walking around when you're like this. And half past five is a long time of - centuries of time. When I climb the stairs again I am not seeing so well.
'Courage, my little lady. Your room is ready now.'
A room, a bed where I can lie down. Now the worst is surely over. But the long night, the interminable night....
'Courage, courage,' she says. 'All will be well. All is going beautifully.'
This is a funny house. There are people having babies all over the place. Anyhow, at least two are having babies.
'Jesus, Jesus,' says one woman. 'Mother, Mother,' says another.
I do not speak. How long is it before I speak?
'Chloroform, chloroform,' I say when I speak. Of course I would. What nonsense! There is no doctor to give chloroform here. This is a place for poor people. Besides, she doesn't approve of chloroform. No Jesus, no Mother, and no chloroform either....