Anne’s day of waiting ended as she heard at last the ring of the street doorbell and Mlle Calmette wobbling over to open it. Then she heard the old woman’s front door close behind her, and there remained only the sound of Hartmann’s footsteps crossing the gravel of the courtyard. She felt a pounding in her throat. She heard him on the stairs to her apartment where she knew he would be assailed by the smell of cooking. She stepped out on to the landing, her cheeks a little flushed against the darkness of her hair. She was apologising and welcoming him and her words were falling over each other; she took his proffered hand, the patch of colour in her face not unlike the colour of the slide which held back her hair just above the ear. She noticed that he moved and spoke with slow movements, presumably to calm her.
He opened the wine and poured some for her. She took it and sipped from the glass, looking at him over the rim as though she feared he might vanish if she let her gaze leave him. Hartmann laughed and raised his own glass to her.
‘Oh, monsieur, I hope you won’t be disappointed in the dinner. It’s so difficult with the gas-ring. I’m not complaining, of course, you know, but . . . it doesn’t give out a regular heat and it’s been very difficult, so I hope you won’t be disappointed.’
‘Of course not. What are we having?’
‘Coq au vin,’ said Anne, with a hint of surprise. ‘It’s what you asked for.’
‘Is it? Of course, yes. I’m sorry if it was such a nuisance. You could have done anything. I don’t mind, I just wanted to come and see you were settled all right.’
‘You’d forgotten that’s what you asked for, hadn’t you?’
‘I – well, yes. I’ve no recollection of it at all.’
Anne began to laugh. ‘And to think of the trouble I went to.’
Hartmann laughed too. ‘I don’t even particularly like it, as a matter of fact.’
‘Now really!’
He gave her the flowers he had gathered in the woods and she went to find a vase for them, glad to have a chance to compose herself a little.
Hartmann meanwhile glanced around the room. On a sideboard was a small pile of books and he walked over and picked them up. The first one was a cloth-bound edition of Essays by Montaigne. Although old, it had been recently purchased, as the bookseller’s pencilled inscription inside the front cover made clear. Recalling their conversation in the attic, Hartmann felt a wave of embarrassment. He put down the books and turned away from the side-table to see Anne coming back into the room with the flowers arranged in a striped blue vase.
Anne had read some of the essays in the book Hartmann said was his favourite but appeared unwilling to discuss them with him. He didn’t press her, but deferred to her opinions and tried to guide the conversation into areas where she would feel at ease. Sometimes, he noticed, she would grow quite voluble in her enthusiasm but then would suddenly stop, as though she were afraid of talking too much or too inconsequentially. Then he would begin his slow prompting again, leading her forwards until her self-consciousness was once more overcome by her natural exuberance.
The food at least had turned out as well as could be hoped, and when they had finished the wine Hartmann had brought, Anne went to find the bottle of brandy she had purchased for his previous visit. Hartmann stood with his back to the fireplace and looked around the room, which was lit not only by the candles but also by a dangling light above the table that had a white crocheted shade like an old maid’s bonnet.
Anne handed him his brandy and stood beside him. She watched as he turned a silver match-box round between the ends of his fingers.
‘Talking of friends,’ he said, ‘I had a letter from a man I used to know in Paris who lives not far from Bordeaux now. He has some sort of farm there, or rather his wife’s family does. He’s invited me to go for a weekend.’
‘How kind. Was he a close friend?’
‘Oh yes, quite close. I thought it might be enjoyable to go and see how he’s managing. We’re in a rather similar situation, really – trying to live in the country after years of the town.’
‘And does he like it?’
‘I don’t know. He’s very hospitable and I’m sure he’ll make it a good weekend, with shooting and picnics and all sorts of things during the day, and probably music in the evenings. Even dancing perhaps.’
‘How lovely.’
Hartmann lit a cigar. He blew the smoke out and said, ‘The thing is this: he’s asked me to bring someone with me and I don’t think Christine would be very interested, so I wondered if you might like to come. Just for a change of air, you understand. No obligations. You could do just as you liked. It might be nice for you to get away from the hotel for a day or two and meet some different people. You’d be entirely . . . independent there, you’d be left alone . . . If the idea appealed . . .’
For the first time he had known Anne, Hartmann was himself confused, allowing his voice to trail off inconclusively as he was unable to find words delicate enough to express his meaning. Anne, however, was too excited to notice any loss of composure.
‘It’s very kind of you. I don’t know what to say.’ In fact she did know what to say, but feared to seem precipitate. ‘It would be difficult to take the time off work, and Mme Hartmann . . . are you sure she wouldn’t want to come? Or rather if she knew I was going . . .’
‘She wouldn’t know.’
‘No . . . no, I suppose not. But at work, at the hotel, it might be difficult.’
‘You’ve been there long enough. Surely they owe you some holiday by this time? It’s the law now, you know. Thanks to M. Blum.’
‘I suppose so.’ Anne looked down.
‘Anne, I don’t want to force you. It might be better if you didn’t come, if you felt it would compromise you in some way. It was only a thought. I wouldn’t want you to do anything unless you felt whole-hearted about it. It would be mad to go there and spend the weekend wondering if what you were doing was the right thing. It should be a time just to relax and forget your worries.’ Hartmann appeared to believe sincerely in what he was saying, Anne thought.
In her imagination she saw a country mansion and smart evening parties and herself unsure of the etiquette and being talked about by other women behind her back. But she also saw herself being protected by Hartmann, walking at his side, and borne above all the difficulties of the occasion by his sublime self-confidence. Her decision was immediate, and depended on the simplest of things: it was a chance to be with him.
‘I’d love to come. If I can get permission from Mme Bouin.’
Hartmann smiled, and not even Anne at her most timorous could doubt the sincerity of his pleasure.
Not knowing where to look, she picked up the bottle of brandy from the table and poured some more before Hartmann could stop her. He grasped her wrist to prevent her filling his glass with drink he would have, out of politeness, to finish. Anne jumped at the feel of his flesh on hers and he quickly released her lest she should misinterpret what he was doing. The brandy spilled on to the floor and over Hartmann’s feet. He laughed as he wiped his shoes with a handkerchief and Anne, seeing he was not annoyed, laughed too.
‘I’ll come into the Lion d’Or tomorrow evening to find out how you got on.’
‘All right. I don’t think Mme Bouin is going to be very pleased.’
‘Well, don’t ask her. Ask the Patron. It’s his decision, after all.’
‘But I couldn’t do that! Mme Bouin says he’s terribly busy. And he certainly wouldn’t want to be disturbed by a waitress asking about her holiday.’
‘Why not? That’s his job, running the hotel. And he couldn’t be less sympathetic than this Mme Bouin, could he?’
‘No, that’s true, but even so –’
‘Go on, Anne. You’re a brave girl. “Robust” – wasn’t that the word I used?’
6
THE NEXT DAY she asked Bruno’s advice.
‘I’ve never met the old man, as a matter of fact,’ he said.
‘Never met h
im? But you’ve been here for years!’
‘I was hired by a man who was the general manager at the time. I was told the Patron was too caught up with his business accounts and other interests to see me. Why should I mind? I have an understanding with the Cow. She lets me take a holiday in August when I can go back to the only part of this country worth living in.’
‘That’ll be soon, then?’
‘Yes. But as for you, young woman, I’m not sure the Cow would be quite so accommodating. Perhaps you’d better go to the very top.’
Anne looked at him uneasily as he slid a pointed knife into the belly of a fish he held from his dangling left arm and spilled its innards on to the table.
‘What if I were to ask Pierre?’
‘What if you were? He’s only the head waiter. He has to take his turn like the rest of us. No,’ said Bruno, wiping his hands on his apron, ‘I think it’s the man at the top for you. Undo another button of your blouse, hitch your skirt up a bit. Perhaps that’ll help persuade him.’
‘Is he like that?’
‘Any man likes to see a bit of young flesh, that’s obvious.’
‘But I don’t even know where he lives.’
‘You go along the corridor on the first floor until you come to the mirrored doors. Through there, where it’s marked private, is a suite of different rooms. I think his study is facing you at the end, though I’ve never been there myself.’
That evening Anne arrived fifteen minutes early for work. She had combed her hair carefully and pinned it neatly back. She wore her newly ironed uniform and working shoes, together with a white apron. She ignored Bruno’s advice on her dress. She didn’t think a senior businessman would want to be distracted by a coquettish waitress; she didn’t think a senior businessman would want to be distracted at all. Apart from the lawyer and magistrate with whom she had had dealings as a child, the Patron, she thought, would be the most important man she had ever met.
After making sure that Mme Bouin was not in her usual lair, she swiftly climbed the main staircase and turned down the long dingy corridor at the top which smelled of something indefinable – old cardboard mixed, with cigarettes and dimly remembered plumbing failures. At the end was the door marked Private. Anne waited for a moment, feeling the throb of her heart as it rose up from her chest to falter somewhere in her throat. She thought of the huge sums of money the Patron might be negotiating on the telephone with business partners in Paris, in England, or even in America. She thought how much money she herself would give in order not to have to go any further with this venture. Then she thought of Hartmann throwing her luggage on to the rack of the train as they set off for Bordeaux, and she saw her left knuckle rap timidly on the door.
There was no reply. Against all her better judgment, she pushed open the door and was confronted by a dark, book-lined hallway off which several doors opened. She coughed loudly. Nobody came. She called out, ‘Excuse me,’ but there was no sound. Slowly she made her way down to the door at the end. She pressed her ear against it. She thought she could hear a faint shuffling sound. Perhaps the Patron was filing something, or opening a telegram. She closed her eyes and prayed for a moment, then lifted her hand and knocked boldly on the door. There was no response.
She began to panic. She couldn’t spend much more time in this private apartment without making her presence known to someone, or people might suspect she was trying to steal something. She would have to go back downstairs and tell Hartmann later on that she hadn’t been able to contact the Patron, so she couldn’t come with him to . . .
She found the oval door-knob turning in her hand, as if her fingers had moved of their own volition. In front of her was a large armchair in which a small, bald man was fast asleep, his mouth open, a book abandoned on his lap and a glass of wine on the table beside him. Anne let out a short gasp of surprise and the man opened his eyes.
‘I’m terribly sorry, most awfully sorry, I didn’t realise . . .’
It was the man who spoke. Anne in her turn was saying words with similar meanings: ‘Monsieur, I do beg your pardon, I’m sorry, I did knock but . . .’
For a while they stammered at each other, then both stopped. Then they both began again until the Patron held up his hand and Anne lapsed into silence, caught between fear and an urge to laugh.
He cleared his throat. ‘I was doing some accounts and I must for a moment have closed my eyes. Now what can I do for you, young woman?’
Anne looked at the book he had laid down. It appeared to be a detective story.
‘My name is Anne. I’m a waitress here.’
The Patron looked at her blankly.
‘I arrived about six months ago to take over from Sophie, the girl from Lyon, who had to go back to her parents.’
‘Ah yes, yes, of course. I do remember Mme . . . the manageress mentioning something. I suppose you want more money, do you? Well, it’s very difficult, you know. There’s not a lot of business at the moment. The hard times have come to France rather later than the other countries in the world. If you believe what you read in the papers, that is.’ He looked out of the window. ‘I don’t. Not really. All this political activity. Half the young people are communists one day and in these leagues the next. I don’t know what to make of it all.’
‘It’s not about money, monsieur. It’s about a holiday.’
‘A holiday? Good heavens, a holiday. Doesn’t Mme . . . What is her name? You know, the manageress, I always want to call her Briand, she’s such a fixer, don’t you know. What is it?’
‘Mme Bouin?’
‘That’s it. Mme Bouin, doesn’t she make the staff arrangements?’
‘I wasn’t told about holidays, monsieur. And Mme Bouin wasn’t at her desk this evening, so I . . . .’
‘Oh quite right, quite right. Come and see me, that’s it.’
Anne wasn’t sure if he was being welcoming or sarcastic. He seemed to be smiling anyway, so she went on, ‘I just wanted to take about four days off so I can go and see some friends near Bordeaux.’
‘What a good idea. It’s a lovely town. I want my son to go to university there, you know, but he’s got his heart set on Paris. It makes no difference, anyhow, because by the time he reaches that age he’ll have to go straight into the army anyway.’
‘May I go, monsieur?’
The Patron rubbed the hairless skin on the top of his head vigorously with a small, square hand. He took a step closer to Anne and looked at her. She could smell a mingled, not unpleasant, odour of garlic and tobacco on his breath. ‘Go on holiday? My God, I only wish I could!’
‘Mme Bouin says you’re very busy, monsieur,’ said Anne, rather regretting the sycophancy of her tone as soon as she had finished the sentence.
‘Does she? Does she? What on earth would she know about it? Busy?’ The Patron shook his head and walked over to his desk by the window from where he looked down on to the forecourt of his hotel. Some white shirt stuck out beneath his waistcoat and above his trousers, which in turn hung loosely at the back and finished abruptly some two or three inches above his ankles.
‘It’s not bad countryside round here, you know. Some good shooting. Terrible if you go down into Gascony, though. It’s so barren there that even the crows fly upside down to avert their eyes. All this is memory, only memory, of course.’ He turned round again to look at her. ‘I haven’t been out of this town for eighteen years. Do you know why?’ He came and stood close to her again. ‘Because I’m frightened. What do you think of that?’
‘I don’t know, monsieur, I –’
‘I’m sorry . . . Anne, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. Anne.’
‘I’m sorry, Anne. This isn’t fair to you. You’re a young woman who’s come to ask me for a holiday. Why should I tell you my problems? I thought you wanted more money, that’s what I thought. They pay you all right, do they?’
‘But monsieur, surely you . . . surely you authorise the wages and so on?’
‘No, I leave
all that to Madame Bri- . . . Madame . . . ?’
‘Bouin.’
‘Bouin. Is it enough?’
‘Yes, thank you. It’s enough.’
‘Do you know what I’m frightened of?’
‘No, monsieur.’
‘Nor do I. That’s the funny thing. It’s the trees and the sky and the roads, mainly. It’s odd, because I used to love them. The doctor said there was a name for it – agora-something. He says it should get better. But it hasn’t yet. Not in eighteen years. It happened at the end of the war. Have you seen the war memorial in the town? Most of my friends are on that slab of stone. We won’t do it again, you know. I’ll tell you one good reason why we won’t do it again, too. Because there aren’t enough Frenchmen left. The Germans killed too many. If my boy has to go and fight, he won’t last long. We can’t resist them this time. Dear God, what a mess they’ve made of it, the politicians, Poincaré, Briand and so on. What did they think would happen to the Boche? Of course they went broke. Of course they did!’ The Patron turned away in frustration. ‘Mind you, do you know who I blame? I blame the Americans. If they hadn’t been so greedy we wouldn’t have had to squeeze the Germans. They gave the Boche money to pay us, so we could repay the Americans. It was all American money going round and round. So the papers said, anyway.’
Anne watched in silence as the small man walked round his study. He said at last, ‘Of course you can go on holiday. I wish I could come with you. Tell the woman, Bouin, tell her I said you could go. You can come and see me again here, you know. If you want to talk. There’s my son, of course, but he’s only interested in girls. He hasn’t told me so, but I can tell by the look in his eyes. He was a mother’s boy, anyhow. He never had much time for me.’