Act of Passion (10 page)

'I think maybe I'm a little bit hungry.'

She isn't sure. Just a diffused uneasiness which she quickly satisfies by eating a piece of bread and butter or some cheese.

I too was hungry, undoubtedly, but for what?

It came so insensibly, this uneasiness, that it is impossible, I repeat, to date the beginning of it within a year or two. I paid no attention to it. We have been so conditioned to think that what exists, exists; that the world is really as we see it, that we must do this or that and never act otherwise...

I shrugged my shoulders.

'Bah! A slight depression ...'

Was it, perhaps, because of Armande, who did not give me enough rein?

That is what I decided one day, and thenceforth it was Armande and Armande alone who for me epitomized the over-calm city, the over-harmonious house, the family, work, all that was too monotonous in my daily existence.

'She is the one who wants to keep it like this. She who keeps me from being free, from living the life of a real man.'

I watched her. I spied on her. Every word of hers, every gesture, confirmed me in my idea.

'She's the one who insisted on having the house as it is, on organizing our life in a certain way, on my living as she sees fit...'

And that, your Honour, is what I have understood recently. Armande, little by little, without knowing it herself, took on for me the character of Destiny. And, in revolt against that Destiny, I revolted against her.

'She's so jealous she won't allow me one moment of liberty.'

Was it jealousy? I sometimes wonder. Perhaps simply because she believed that a wife's place was by her husband's side?

About this time I went to Caen, for my aunt had just died. I went alone. I can't remember what kept Armande at home, probably the illness of one of the children, for , one or the other of them was almost always ill.

Passing by the little street, I remembered the girl with the red hat, and the blood rushed to my head. I thought I understood what it was I needed. That evening, in my mourning clothes, I went to the Brasserie Chandivert which I found almost unchanged, except for a few additional lights. It seems to me that the place is more spacious now and that they have still further enlarged it at the back.

I was seeking, I wanted the same adventure. With a sort of anguish I looked round at all the women sitting alone. Not one of them resembled even vaguely the girl of the past.

What of it! I felt the need of deceiving Armande, of deceiving my Destiny as sordidly as possible, and I chose a big blonde with a vulgar smile and a gold tooth in the front of her mouth.

'You're a stranger here, aren't you?'

She did not take me home with her, but to a little hotel behind the church of St John. Her gestures in getting undressed were so professional that it sickened me, and at a certain moment I was on the point of leaving.

'How much will you pay me?'

And then suddenly it took possession of me. It was like a need for vengeance, I can't think of any other word. Surprised, she kept repeating, showing her gold tooth:

'Well, I'll be damned!'

That, your Honour, is the first time I was unfaithful to Armande. I put into it as much fury as if I had been trying at any cost to find my shadow.

Chapter Five

The clock outside the station, a great reddish moon suspended in darkness, showed six minutes to seven. Just as I opened the door of my taxi, the big hand advanced one minute, and I remember clearly its jerky movement and how it went on quivering as though, having started too impetuously, it could with difficulty contain itself. A train whistled - mine probably. I was encumbered with a lot of little packages which were threatening to come undone; the taxi-driver could not change the note I handed him. It was pouring and, with my feet in a puddle of water, I had to unbutton my overcoat and my jacket and search through my pockets for small change.

Another taxi drew up in front of mine. A young woman got out, looked round in vain for a porter - there is never one to be had when it is raining - and finally, carrying her two heavy-looking suitcases herself, made a dash for the station.

We were to meet again a few moments later, one behind the other, in front of the ticket window.

'La Roche-sur-Yon, second class, single .. .'

Taller than she, I could see, by looking over her shoulder, the inside of her handbag lined with moiré silk - a handkerchief, a compact, a cigarette lighter, letters, and keys. I had only to repeat what she had just said:

'La Roche-sur-Yon, second class, single.'

I gathered up all my little packages. I ran. A station attendant opened a glass door, and when I reached the platform the train was just pulling out; with my ridiculous cargo it was impossible for me to jump on to the step of the moving train. One of my friends, Deltour, the garage owner, standing in the doorway of one of the compartments, waved to me. It is unbelievable how long it takes a train you have just missed to leave. The cars seem to continue to move interminably along the platform.

As I turned I noticed, standing close beside me, the young woman of the two suitcases.

'We've missed it,' she said.

In fact, your Honour, those were the very first words Martine said to me. They strike me for the first time as I write them.

'We've missed it...'

Don't you find that extraordinary?

I wasn't too sure that she was addressing me. She did not seem too much put out.

'Do you know what time there's another train?'

'At ten twelve ...'

And I looked at my watch, which was idiotic since there was an enormous luminous clock facing the platform.

'Well, the only thing to do in the meantime is to put our baggage in the cloakroom,' she said, and again I couldn't be sure whether she was talking to herself or trying to start a conversation.

Although the platform was covered, large drops were leaking through the glass roof on to the rails. A station is like a tunnel; except that, contrary to tunnels, the interior is light and the darkness at both ends, with a chill wind blowing towards you.

Mechanically I followed her. She had not actually suggested it. Being sufficiently loaded down myself, I could not help her with her bags, and it was I who had to stop twice to pick up the packages I appeared to be juggling.

Alone, I would not have thought of the cloakroom. It never occurs to me. I am more inclined to pile up my things beside me in some familiar café or restaurant. I should undoubtedly have had dinner at the buffet in the station and read the papers in my corner until time for the next train.

'You live at La Roche-sur-Yon?'

I said yes.

'Do you know M. Boquet?'

'Of the Galleries?'

'Yes. He is the proprietor of a department store.'

'I know him.'

She opened her bag again, took out a cigarette and lighted it. I was struck by the way she held her cigarette, I can't tell you why. She had a way all her own of holding a cigarette. She gave a little shiver.

It was December, your Honour. A little less than a year ago. One week before Christmas, which explains all my little packages.

I had gone to Nantes with one of my patients who required an emergency operation. I had made the trip in the ambulance, and that is why I was without my car. Gaillard, the surgeon, had taken me home with him when we left the hospital and given me some raspberry brandy which had been sent to him from Alsace by one of his former patients.

'You are dining with us this evening. But of course you are. My wife is out and if she comes home and doesn't find you here she will be furious with me for having let you go.'

I explained that I absolutely had to catch the six-fifty train, that I had two patients coming the same evening, and that Armande had given me a whole list of things to buy.

That was fatal. I spent two good hours running round the shops. I lost I don't know how much time matching buttons she could probably have found just as well at La Roche. I bought a few toys and other little things for the children. It had been raining all day, and each time I went from one shop to another I would pass through a curtain of driving rain.

Now I found myself in the station beside a young woman I didn't know, and whom I had barely even looked at. We were the only persons at the baggage counter in the middle of a vast empty space. The attendant thought we were together. If it hadn't been for that enveloping space, which gave us a false air of solidarity, I should probably have walked away with as much nonchalance as I could muster.

I didn't quite dare. I noticed that she was cold, that she was wearing a dark tailored suit, very chic, but much too light for the season. She had on a curious little hat, a sort of flower made of satin which she wore over one eye.

She looked pale under her make-up.. She shivered again and said:

'I'm going to get something to drink to warm me up ...'

'At the buffet?'

'No. You can't get anything decent at a buffet. I think I saw an American bar not far from here ...'

'You don't know Nantes?'

'I arrived this morning ..

'Are you going to stay long at La Roche?'

'Perhaps for years, perhaps for ever. That will depend on your friend M. Boquet.'

We were walking towards one of the doors, which I now held open for her.

'If you will allow me ...'

She did not bother to reply. Quite naturally we crossed the square together in the downpour, avoiding cars, hunching our shoulders, hastening our steps.

'Wait a minute; I arrived from this direction, didn't I? ... Then it's on the left ... near the corner of a street... There's a big sign in green lights...'

I could have gone back to the Gaillards for dinner, or to a dozen other friends who complained every time I came through Nantes without stopping to see them. I was not familiar with the bar she took me to, which was new: a narrow room, dimly lighted, with dark woodwork and high stools in front of the bar. It was the kind of place which did not yet exist in the provinces when I was a student, and I have never quite got used to them.

'Barman, a martini, please ...'

I'd much rather not talk about her as I saw her that evening, your Honour, but then you wouldn't understand, and my letter would be useless. It is difficult, I assure you, especially now.

Isn't it true, Martine, that it is difficult?

Because, you see, she was such a banal little thing. She was already perched on one of the stools, and one felt that she was at home there, that it was an old habit, that together with the more or less luxurious setting it formed a part of her conception of life.

The cigarette too. She had hardly finished the first one when she lighted another, once more staining it with her lipstick, and turned to the barman, half closing her eyes because of the smoke (I have always hated women who made faces when they smoked).

'Not too much gin for me.. .'

She asked for olives. She munched a clove. She had hardly closed her bag when she opened it again to take out her compact and lipstick.

I was irritated and resigned at the same time. Here's something else that will help you to understand. I love big dogs that are strong and conscious, quietly conscious, of their strength. I have a horror of those little dogs that are never still, that run around after their own tails and insist on attention all the time. Well, that evening she made me think of one of those little dogs.

She lived to be looked at. She must have thought herself very attractive. She did think so. I almost forgot that she herself told me so a little later.

'Is your friend Boquet the kind of man who sleeps with his secretary? I only met him once, by chance, and I didn't have time to ask him...'

I don't know what I answered. It was so stupid! Besides, she never waited for an answer. It was only what she said that interested her.

'I wonder what makes every man run after me. It isn't because I'm beautiful, because I'm not. It must be some kind of charm ...'

A charm which in any case did not work with me. Our glasses were empty, and I must have ordered fresh drinks unless the barman served us of his own accord.

She was thin, and I don't like thin women. She was very dark, and I have a preference for blondes. And she looked like a cover girl.

'Is La Roche nice?'

You see the kind of question.

'Is it boring?'

'Possibly ..

There were a few customers, not many, all habitués, as is always the case in places of that sort. And I have noticed that, in no matter what city, they are always the same physical type, dress alike and make use of the same vocabulary.

She looked at them, one after the other, and you felt that she could not live without being noticed.

'No really - he's getting on my nerves, that old codger.'

'Which one?'

'Over there in the left-hand corner. The one in that very light sport suit. In the first place, when you're his age you don't wear a pale green suit! Especially at this time of day and at this season of the year! For the last ten minutes he hasn't stopped smirking at me. If he continues I shall go over and ask him what he wants ...'

Then a few moments later:

'Let's go! Or I'll slap his face.'

We went out and it was still raining. Like the evening of the little red hat in Caen. But at the moment, I never once thought of Caen.

'Perhaps we'd better go and have dinner,' she said.

A taxi was passing. I hailed it and we found ourselves together in the damp darkness of the back seat. It occurred to me that it was the first time I had been in a taxi with a strange woman. I could see indistinctly the milky blur of her face, the red light of her cigarette, and two slim silk-stockinged legs. I could smell the odour of her cigarette, of her clothes, and of her wet hair.

If I felt anything - and it was very vague - it was that odour of wet hair.

'I don't know whether we'll find a table at Francis's at this hour, but that's where we're likely to get the best food.'

One of the best restaurants in France! There are three floors of quiet little dining-rooms without any useless luxury, where the maîtres d'hôtels and the wine stewards all look like ancestors, having been with the restaurant since it first opened.