“Do I love you because you don’t think of the future?”
“Then you would have had to love every man in the sanatorium. Let’s see—we’re going to have sole with roasted almonds and drink a young Montrachet with it.”
“Then why do I love you?”
“Because I happen to be here. And because you love life. I am an anonymous specimen of life to you. Extremely dangerous.”
“For me?”
“For the one who is anonymous. He can be replaced at random.”
“So can I,” Lillian said. “So can I, Clerfayt.”
“I’m no longer quite so sure of that. If I had any sense, I’d clear out as soon as possible.”
“You’ve barely arrived.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Where to?” Lillian asked, without believing him.
“Far away. I have to go to Rome.”
“And I have to go to Balenciaga’s to buy clothes. That’s farther than Rome.”
“I really am going. I must see about a contract.”
“Good,” Lillian said. “That will give me time to plunge into the adventure of the fashion houses. My uncle Gaston is already talking of placing me under guardianship—or marrying me off.”
Clerfayt laughed. “He would like to put you into a second prison before you know what freedom is.”
“What is freedom?”
“I don’t know either. I only know that it is neither irresponsibility nor aimlessness. It’s easier to say what it is not than what it is.”
“When are you coming back?” Lillian asked.
“In a few days.”
“Do you have someone in Rome?”
“Yes,” Clerfayt said.
“I thought so.”
“Why?”
“It would be strange if you had been living alone. I wasn’t living alone either, when you came.”
“And now?”
“Now,” Lillian said, “I’m far too drunk on life itself to be able to think it over.”
She went to Balenciaga the following afternoon. Aside from sports things suitable for the sanatorium, Lillian had hardly any wardrobe. Some of her dresses dated from wartime; others had been her mother’s, which she had had made over by a seamstress.
She watched the women who sat around her. She studied their clothes and probed their faces for the kind of excitement that filled her. She did not find it. She saw spiteful, aging parrots, too heavily made up, who gazed at the younger ones out of lidless eyes, and young women of brittle elegance whose knowing looks took in everything but the incomprehensible fascination of simple existence. Among these sat a band of good-looking Americans, chattering enthusiastically in their naïve way. Only here and there, burning to perishability in the busy emptiness like a lighted candle between window decorations, was a face that had some magic—usually an aging face—one that confronted age without terror, and on which time lay, not like rust, but like the patina upon a noble vessel, intensifying its beauty.
The parade of the mannequins began. Lillian heard the muted noise of the city seeping in from outside, like deliberate drumming from a modern jungle of steel, concrete, and machines. The mannequins on their slender ankles seemed wafted in like artificial animals, long chameleons who changed their clothes like the colors of their skins and silently glided past the chairs.
She settled on five dresses. “Would you like to try them right away?” the saleswoman asked.
“May I?”
“Certainly. These three will fit you just as they are; the others are a little too wide.”
“When can I have them?” Lillian asked.
“When do you need them?”
“At once.”
The saleswoman laughed. “At once means in three or four weeks at the earliest, here.”
“I need them at once. Can I have the models that fit me?”
The saleswoman shook her head. “No, we need them every day. But we’ll do what we can. We’re overwhelmed with work, Mademoiselle. If we were to carry out all the orders in turn, you would have to wait six weeks. Shall we try the black evening dress now?”
The models were brought to a booth lined with mirrors. The seamstress came along to take the measurements. “You’ve chosen very well, Mademoiselle,” the saleswoman said. “The dresses suit you as if they were designed for you. Monsieur Balenciaga will be delighted when he sees them on you. A pity he is not here now.”
“Where is Monsieur Balenciaga?” Lillian asked merely from politeness as she slipped out of her dress.
“In the mountains.” The saleswoman mentioned the site of Lillian’s sanatorium. To Lillian, it sounded like some place name in the Himalayas. “He’s making a health cure there,” the seamstress said.
“Yes, that is the place for it.”
Lillian straightened up and looked into the mirror. “You see, that is what we meant,” the saleswoman said. “Most women buy what they like. You bought what suits you. Don’t you agree?” she asked the seamstress.
The seamstress nodded. “Now for the coat!”
The evening dress was coal black and clinging, but the coat that made up the costume was wide and capelike, of a half-transparent material that stood out as if it were starched.
“Striking!” the saleswoman said. “You look like a fallen archangel.”
Lillian looked at herself. Out of the big three-leafed mirror, three women returned her look, two in profile and one full face, and when she moved a little to the side, she saw, reflected from the wall mirror behind her, a fourth, who had her back turned to her and seemed on the point of going away.
“Striking!” the saleswoman repeated. “Why can’t Lucille wear it this way?”
“Who is Lucille?”
“Our best model. The one who showed the dress.”
Why should she wear it this way? Lillian thought. She will wear a thousand other dresses, and will go on modeling dresses for many years, then marry and have children and grow old. But I will wear it only this summer. “Can’t you make up this one dress in less than four weeks?” she said. “I need it and I have little time.”
“What do you think, Mademoiselle Claude?” the seamstress asked.
The saleswoman nodded. “We will begin on it at once.”
“When?” Lillian asked.
“It can be ready in two weeks.”
“Two weeks—” It was like two years.
“If all goes well, ten days. We need several fittings.”
“All right. If there’s no help for it.”
“There is no help for it.”
She went for fittings every day. The quiet of the booth cast a strange spell over her. Sometimes she heard the voices of other women from outside, but in the gray-and-silver haven of her own booth, she was isolated from the bustle of the city. The seamstress moved around her like a priestess around an idol. She pinned, pleated, gathered material, cut, murmured inaudible comments from a mouth bristling with pins, knelt, eased here and drew in there in an ever-repeated ritual. Lillian stood still and beheld in the mirrors three women who resembled her and at the same time were far away from her, to whom something was being done before her eyes that only distantly had anything to do with her, and that nevertheless profoundly transformed her. Sometimes the curtain of her booth was lifted and another client looked in—with the swift, keen glance of the eternal warriors of the sex, ever watchful, and ever on their mettle. At such times, Lillian felt that she no longer had anything in common with all that. She was not out to capture a man; she was out to capture life.
In the course of these days, a relationship of strangely detached intimacy developed between herself and the various women in the mirror, who were different with every new dress. She spoke to them without speaking; the images smiled at her without smiling. They were grave, and, in a subdued way, close to one another, like sisters whom life has flung apart, so that they never thought to see each other again. Now, they met as if in dream, and it was a silent rendezvous, already
filled with gentle sadness—soon they would have to part once more, and this time, surely, for good. Even the dresses, with their Spanish feeling, had a little of that mood—the stark black of the velvets; the hectic red of the silks; the wide coats which made the body almost insubstantial, and the heavy brocades of the short torero jackets, with their suggestion of sand and sun and sudden death.
Balenciaga returned. He sat in on a fitting and said not a word. Next day, the saleswoman brought something silvery into the booth; it looked like the skin of a fish that had never felt the sun. “Monsieur Balenciaga would like you to have this dress,” the saleswoman said.
“I have to call a halt. I’ve already bought more than I should have; every day I’ve ordered something more.”
“Try it on. You’ll be pleased with it.” The saleswoman smiled. “And I assure you that the price will be satisfactory. The House of Balenciaga would like to have you wearing its clothes.”
Lillian put on the silvery nothing. It was almost pearly in color, but instead of making her pale, it raised the color of her face and shoulders to a golden bronze tone. She sighed. “I’ll take it. It’s harder to say no to such a dress than to the blandishments of Don Juan and Apollo.”
Not always, she thought, but at the moment it was so. She was living in a weightless world of gray and silver. Mornings, she slept late; then she went to Balenciaga; afterward she wandered at random through the streets; and in the evenings she had dinner by herself in the hotel’s restaurant. The restaurant happened to be one of the best in Paris; she had not known that. She had no desire for company and missed Clerfayt only slightly. The anonymous life that poured in upon her from all sides, from streets, cafés, and restaurants, was powerful enough and new enough to her so that she did not yet greatly miss a life of her own. She let herself drift; the crowd sustained her and did not shock her; she loved it because it was life, unknown, thoughtless, foolish life devoted to the thoughtless and foolish goals which bobbed on its surface like colored buoys on a choppy sea.
“You have bought wisely,” the saleswoman said to her at the last fitting. “These are dresses that will never be out of fashion. You can wear them for years.”
Years, Lillian thought, shivering and smiling. “I will only need them for this summer,” she said.
Chapter Nine
IT WAS LIKE AWAKENING from a mild intoxication. For almost two weeks, she had lost herself among dresses, hats, and shoes like a drinker in a wine cellar. The first dresses were delivered, and she sent the bills to Uncle Gaston, who, after all, had only sent her her monthly sum. He had made the excuse that these financial rearrangements were taking a great deal of time.
Next day, her uncle appeared, highly excited. He sniffed around the hotel, told her that she was completely irresponsible, and, wonder of wonders, demanded that she move to his apartment.
“So that you can have me under your control?”
“So that you can live more economically. It’s a crime to spend so much on things to wear. They would have to be made of gold to be worth these prices.”
“They are made of gold. It’s a pity you don’t see it.”
“To sell sound, interest-bearing securities for a few scraps of cloth—” Gaston groaned. “I’ll have to have you placed under guardianship!”
“Just try to. Every judge in France would understand my actions. In the end, it would be you who would be sent to a mental hospital for observation. If you don’t let me have my money, and soon, I’ll buy twice as many things and send you the bills.”
“Twice as many of these rags! You’re—”
“No, Uncle Gaston, I’m not crazy. You are. You who stint yourself on everything, so that a dozen heirs whom you hardly know and heartily detest can go through the money later on. But let’s not talk about it any more. Stay to dinner with me. The restaurant here has very good food. I’ll put on one of my new dresses for you.”
“Out of the question. To throw more money out on—”
“But you will be my guest. I have credit here. And while we eat, you can tell me more about how sensible people live. At the moment, I’m as hungry as a skier after six hours’ practice. No, hungrier. Going for fittings gives you an appetite. Wait downstairs for me. I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
She came down an hour later. Gaston, pale with ill-humor and the boredom of waiting, sat in the lobby at a small table which held a leafy plant and a scattering of magazines. He had not ordered an apéritif. To her delight, he did not recognize her at once. He actually twirled his mustache when he saw her descending the dimly lit staircase, pulled himself straighter, and threw her the look of an old-fashioned roué. “It’s I, Uncle Gaston,” she said. “You wouldn’t be having incestuous thoughts, I hope.”
Gaston coughed. “Nonsense,” he growled. “It’s only that my eyes are bad. When was the last time I saw you?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“I don’t mean that time. Before.”
“About five years ago—and then, I was half starved and all to pieces.”
“And how are you now?”
“Now, I’m still half starved, but my mind is made up.”
Gaston took a pair of pince-nez from his pocket. “For whom have you bought these dresses?”
“For myself.”
“You don’t have any—”
“The only marriageable men up in the mountains were ski instructors. They were not bad, as long as they wore their ski outfits, but out of them, they seemed like farmers.”
“You’re all alone?”
“Yes, but not the way you are,” Lillian said, preceding him into the restaurant.
“What would you like to eat?” Gaston said. “Of course it’s my treat. I’m not hungry. And you? Light, nourishing foods, I suppose. An omelette, fruit salad, Vichy water…”
“For me,” Lillian replied, “sea urchins to start with—a dozen of them. And a vodka.”
Involuntarily, Gaston looked down the line of prices. “Sea urchins are bad for you.”
“Only for misers. They stick in their throats, Uncle Gaston. Then a filet poivré …”
“Isn’t that too sharp? Boiled chicken, I’d think. Or didn’t you have oatmeal at the sanatorium?”
“Yes, Uncle Gaston. I’ve eaten enough oatmeal and enough boiled chicken up in the mountains, looking out on the glories of nature, to last me my lifetime. Enough! And with the steak, let’s have a Château Lafite. Or don’t you like that wine?”
“I can’t afford it. I’ve become very poor, my dear Lillian.”
“I know. That’s what makes it so exciting to eat with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“With every drop, I drink a drop of your heart’s blood.”
“Ugh!” Gaston said, jolted out of his poverty-stricken air. “What a thing to say. And in connection with such a wine! Let’s talk about something else. Can I taste your sea urchins?”
Lillian passed the plate across to him. Gaston gobbled down three. He continued to eat sparingly, but kept up with her on the wine. If he were going to have to pay for it, he wanted to have something of it. “Child,” he said, when the bottle was empty, “how time flies! I remember you when you—”
Lillian felt a brief, sharp pang. “I don’t want to remember any of that, Uncle Gaston. Tell me one thing: Why was I named Lillian? I hate that name.”
“It was your father’s choice.”
“Why?”
“Would you like a liqueur with the coffee? Cognac? Chartreuse? Armagnac? I could have guessed it!” Gaston had visibly thawed. “All right, two armagnacs. Yes, as I was saying, your father—”
“What?”
The ostrich winked. “As a young man, he was in New York for a little while without your mother. Later on, he wanted his daughter to be called Lillian. Your mother had no objection. I learned, privately of course, that while he was in New York he was supposed to have had a—well, a very romantic affair. With a girl named Lillian. Forgive me, but you asked—??
?
“I’m so glad!” Lillian said. “I always thought the name was something Mother must have picked out of a book. She used to be a great reader.”
The ostrich head nodded. “Yes, she was. Enough for two—your father kept away from books. Well, Lilly? Are you really intending to stay on in this place?” He looked around. “Don’t you think it’s a mistake?”
“I was just going to ask you about that. After the wine, you’ve actually become almost human.”
Gaston sipped at his armagnac. “I’ll give a little party for you.”
“You threatened me with that once before.”
“Don’t you want one?”
“Not if it’s a tea or a cocktail party.”
“A dinner. I still have a few bottles of wine—only a few, but they’re the equal of this.”
“Good.”
“You’ve become a beautiful girl, Lilly. But hard! Hard! Your father was not like that.”
Hard, Lillian thought. What does he mean by hard? And am I like that? Or is it only that I have no time for the fraud of so-called good manners, which strews a little glitter over black truths, and thinks that that has made them disappear.
From her window, she could see the spire of Sainte-Chapelle. It thrust its filagree sharpness into the sky above the gray walls of the Conciergerie. She recollected the Sainte-Chapelle of earlier days. On the first day of good sunshine, she went to see it.
It was almost noon, and the room, with its high stained-glass windows, was flooded with light, as if it were a transparent tower of radiance. It seemed to be nothing but windows, full of Madonna blues and glowing reds and yellows and greens. So powerful was the torrent of colors, she could feel the hues on her skin, as if she were taking a bath in colored light. Aside from Lillian, there were only a few American soldiers in the church, and these soon left. She sat on a bench, wrapped in light as if it were the filmiest and most regal of all dresses, and she would have liked to be able to undress and see the transparent brocade gliding over her skin. It was a cataract of light, a weightless ecstasy, a falling and suspension at the same time; she felt she was breathing light; it was as though the blues and reds and yellows were coursing through her lungs and blood, as though the dividing line through skin and consciousness had been abolished and the light were penetrating her as she had seen it in X-ray photographs, except that the X rays went as deep as the skeleton, whereas these seemed to irradiate the mysterious force that made the heart beat and the blood pulse. It was life itself, and while she sat there, tranquil, without stirring, letting the light rain down upon her and into her, she belonged to it and was one with it. She was not isolated and solitary. Rather, the light received her and sheltered her, and she had the mystic feeling that she could never die as long as it held her so, and that something in her would never die—that part which belonged to this magical light. It was a great consolation, and she pledged herself never to forget it. Her life, those days that still remained to her, she felt, must be like this, a beehive filled with the ethereal honey of radiance: light without shadow, life without regret, combustion without ashes—