The Diamond Waterfall (78 page)

Now it was Denise de Lanessan again, on one of her two topics: clothes and her appearance, usually combined.

“… the house of Patou. No, it is
not
the same since his death. Barbas is not Patou, and that is all.”

Someone said, “What is this
absurd
nickname the President suddenly has? Pouh-Pouh indeed! Our youngest son used to be called that—as a baby.”

“Precisely,” said Colonel Martin-Galliflet. “He was being filmed for the newsreels, one of his grandchildren cried, he took it on his knee, didn't realize
the sound track was on, and sang ‘Pouh-pouh.' The nation apparently was enchanted.”

“Who would be President today? Who could
wish
to?” M. Seydoux to his other neighbor. Conversation settled into gossip. Teddy, who knew hardly anyone discussed, glanced at him to see if he betrayed boredom. Unfortunately she caught his eye.

“No contributions? Don't your idle moments give you anything juicy to add?”

She made a small noise. He said:

“I think really you are perhaps not so idle, and spend your days—say, rescuing … fallen women? Am I right?”

“What is
your
business, which by the way you seem unable to mind, that it makes such a contribution to society?”

“A business of no importance whatsoever,” he said, “which wouldn't be missed if it went tomorrow. It's a living. A life. I am not particularly convinced of the value of it.”

She thought absurdly, If I didn't dislike him so I would probably rather like him. She feared that later in the evening there might be cards, which she detested, and that she might be partnered with him. But it was not like that. After Denise de Lanessan's husband, with a little persuasion, had given a very bad imitation of Fernandel, their host said, “This can't be the only talent present. Do startle us, someone.” Teddy was surprised when, without any shyness, M. Seydoux said:

“… Only what I can remember. Do keep on talking …” Accompanying himself, he sang in a light assured voice. Different styles: a gravelly Jean Gabin, changing his face so that he almost
was
Albert Préjean. Georges Milton for comic effect. Fréhel. Then: “One of Mireille's best,” he said.
“Depuis que je suis à Paris. “
His voice had the caressing intimate tones of Jean Sablon.

“What a talent,” someone said.

“A touch of the boulevardier. I had a father who was the life and soul … it was expected of us all.”

Aimée said, “And that was—where?”

“The Haute Savoie, my real home. I'd go back there tomorrow if business permitted.”

It had grown late, and the party broke up soon after. A flurry of chauf-feured cars collecting. Teddy would go as she had come, in a cab. Mme. Martin-Galliflet said, “Oh, but our friend's hotel—he would have to pass in your direction.”

So, what she had not wanted, she found herself in a taxi with him. She said, “Do you mind if I smoke?” adding, “You're favored. I should ask, but don't always.”

As she tried in the rocking taxi, turning a corner, to light her cigarette:

“One moment, I have my lighter.” She was disturbed by the hand so close to her face. Flash of white cuff, of expensive cuff links. A successful man who does not need me, whom I do not need.

“There's something with this lighter. Wait—”

She saw again, the missing finger. She said in a careless voice, “Forgive my asking. I'm not only idle but idly curious—your hand, that finger—were you born—”

“No, not congenital. The war.” He said it half-angrily: “I was fortunate, don't you think, that I lost only that?” She didn't answer. He went on:

“Four brothers. I'm the fifth son and the only survivor. A story you could hear any day, anywhere in France.” He paused, adding more gently, “Or England for that matter. I forgot for a moment. You speak so well, one doesn't immediately think, English.”

She said, “It
was
worse here. The figures show it. It just feels the same, if you—”

“I really am sorry. Brothers? Father?”

“One brother. And—my husband.”

“Forgive me. I hadn't thought. You seemed too young.”

“I married at seventeen.” She thought, Why should I tell him Gib wasn't killed? She felt again—sudden chill:
I slept with a dead man.

The taxi had stopped. She said in a forced, bright voice, “We're in the middle of a conversation. Won't you come in—a cognac, a whiskey?”

Leaning to open the cab door: “Yes, yes. Delighted. Why not?”

Why not indeed? Here I am again, she thought, about to allow—no, invite—a comparative stranger into my life, maybe my bed. It will be all right. Probably it will be quite enjoyable. In the morning I shall be disgusted, and glad he has left early to creep back to his hotel.

“Who are these?” He was looking at the photographs, a collage of them on the wall above her bureau. “Not all nephews and nieces, surely? You must be very blessed.”

She told him then a little, not too much, about the orphanage. In spite of herself she heard her voice soften. She could not keep hidden her enthusiasm, her love for these children. The one
certain
thing in my life. I shan't let him mock it.

He said, “You didn't tell me whose work this is?” A drawing, violently colored, of a fat woman and even fatter man sitting side by side, smiling. Benoît, whose parents while they were alive had beaten and starved him, had done it for her last week. He couldn't or wouldn't remember the bad times.

“A little boy,” she said. “He has drawn his parents.”

While they were speaking, they stood close together. She was terrified by the suddenly violent attraction. Perhaps that's what has been wrong all evening?
Involuntarily she shivered. (Soon he will take me in his arms and it will be all right. For the next few hours, it will be all right.)

“Now I must leave,” he said, “and surprise the night porter. I've so enjoyed the cognac, and the talk—”

She leaned forward very slightly, hardly knew that she was doing it. He put his arms around her quickly, trapping her. Their heads bent, lips met. She shut her eyes. Already, her legs … it was as if they had begun the walk to the bedroom.

But he was standing back, smiling. “I do have to go—”

It seemed to her he almost hurried. Thinking about it later, she realized he had left calmly, politely.

And forever.

She lay awake, unable to still her racing heart. Why is this thirty-nine-year-old woman lying sleepless, sixteen again and kissed by Gib in the library? Fm no older and wiser, merely more cynical. Would it have been any better
if…?

She opened a barely begun copy of
La Passantede Sans Souci
and read a few pages. Her attention wandered. It is a love story, she thought. I do not need to read about love.

Waking from a short sleep, drugged almost, she saw it was ten o'clock in the morning. She was glad she hadn't arranged to go to the orphanage. Blanche, the maid, who had been here two hours already, brought her coffee.

At half-past ten the telephone rang.

“Good morning, Henri Seydoux here. We met last night. …” She held the receiver in one hand, the cup of black coffee in the other. “I unfortunately have only a little time free in the day. At lunchtime. I hope you have too … Prunier's, downstairs … Yes?”

Yes. She had two hours to get ready. It wouldn't be enough. I am absurd. Half an hour wasted while I try on three different outfits. A bath run, then left to grow cold. Scent—too much, too little? More jewelry, less? And the hat. Too far forward, the wrong tilt?

She settled for a suit, simple and well cut, and with it a white brocade waistcoat. I am an empty-headed social butterfly, flitting from man to man. But looking at herself in the glass, she saw she was not dressed for the part.

As she came into Prunier's, seeing first the little pots of caviar on ice, lobsters, crayfish,
langoustines,
on her right the caisse, she did not dare to look at the tables.

He said, “You are not late—I was very early. And now, please—”

She ate prawns, and then sole. The minutes ticked away, faster than she would have thought possible.

“I chose here because it's good fast service—and delicious. It's unfortunate I have these three appointments this afternoon.”

Because she was afraid (what if he should
see
that I care?) and because of nerves, she was at her most brittle:

“You were lucky to find me at home. My engagement book—”

“Last night, in your home,” he said, “you weren't like this. Would you stop it, please?”

Her voice came out small and humble: “I'm sorry. I—”

“At some risk,” he said, “allow me to tell you you're very attracted to me. Although not as much as I to you. But you're wary, and this rudeness is the form it takes. Am I right?”

“Perhaps—”

“No
perhaps.
Certainly I'm right. But by itself—all that—it's not enough. You invited me to your home and then you were angry, I think, or disappointed, when I left you almost exactly as I found you. But why not? Why shouldn't I respect you?”

“Oh, respect,” she said. “Respect. Whatever next? You sound like an Englishman proposing marriage.”

“Instead of a Frenchman proposing—I think you know … what.”

“By all means—if you can spare the time.”

He held up his hand. “Enough, please. I'll order coffee. You shall pretend we're back in the taxi again. You were rather charming then, and natural.”

She felt her mouth work, I certainly don't need to cry here, among the lobsters and
langoustines.

“Are you free tonight?” He spoke hurriedly now. Suddenly the worried one. “I have nothing, but—”

“Quite free.”

“You see, I have only three more days. Then the weekend out of Paris. Monday, here from midday. On the Tuesday, Le Havre, and Montreal.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “Oh well—”

“Yes—oh well. You're thinking already that I wasted last night? Perhaps I did.”

The bill had come, and he was busy with that. Then suddenly, both hands cupped over hers, holding them down:

“Tonight I shall come straight to your apartment, about seven. We'll see then where we go. There's a great hurry, you know. You'll see.”

It was beyond excitement—she was beyond excitement. There were four hours to live through. She went to her favorite lingerie shop in the Rue de Rivoli, and came out with a nightdress that was almost a dinner gown— halter-necked with a fitted bodice, burgundy chiffon and georgette. I am being extravagant and ridiculous, she thought.

Evening.
La Route Enchantée
was showing not far away. Charles Trenet sang exuberantly of the country of love: come with us and you'll see …
love, love. … It seemed to her at first wasteful they should sit in the cinema when they might be alone—but the quiet couple of hours, holding hands as if young again, were somehow calming …

When they came out: “You could add Trenet to your repertoire,” she said.

“I was listening carefully, Teddee.” She liked very much how he pronounced her name. It made her seem in a way a different person.

They ate at a small restaurant, a cafe, a few corners down from her apartment. During the soup, she asked him, “Do you have a wife? I want to —must know, if you're married.” It suddenly mattered terribly.

“I was—until about six years ago. The marriage wasn't good and I'd become attached elsewhere and wanted to regularize that. She, Christine, had been my mistress for over eight years. I got an annulment—very difficult, causing great distress—so that we might marry. I think Christie became frightened, or met someone better—who knows? But within a week of my freedom it was all off. Since then, I've been very careful.”

“I'm always careful,” Teddy said. “Children?”

“One daughter, already married. She lives near Cahors.” He said, “You haven't married again. Did you wish to?”

“Yes, in principle. Though
maybe
… in case you hadn't noticed, there's a shortage of worthwhile men. My sister found a rotter, married him, and shot him dead.”

His eyebrows went up. “That's quite a story.”

“It was.”

“Later you can tell me about her, perhaps? Now, it's
your
story I want to hear, Teddee. You do have one, I think?”

That first night he shouted in his sleep. She woke in a fright, thinking, Some disaster. A burglar. A heart attack.

“Are you all right, what is it, darling? Henri,
what is it?”
She woke him up. She could not bear it. He said only:

“My God, one of my nightmares. I could have done without that. Forgive me.”

She wanted to comfort him, but it was nothing, he said (nothing, she thought afterward, when he had told her,
nothing).
Only a shell that had exploded in '16, burying him. Hardly an uncommon experience, he said—and at least he had survived. Since then, occasionally, if he became nervously excited it could happen: this reliving through a nightmare. Clutching, clawing, desperate to reach air …

He said, “I don't expect to have it again while we're together.”

While we're together.
That was the giveaway, that the time they would be together was so short. Only two more days and then he must leave for the weekend. After that, one more day, and he would be gone completely.

Over the next two days, except when they went to a restaurant or he had to meet business contacts, he was seldom out of her apartment. Much of the time was spent talking, when they were not making love (and all of that so perfect that superstitiously she did not dare to tell him. Accept, give, but do not appear vulnerable.). A lot of the talking was done by her. It was not that Henri was secretive—he answered questions frankly—but he seemed to have taken it on himself not only to listen to the story of her life, but to shape and alter her memories.