The Tale of the Rose (30 page)

My turn came. The fellow asking for me was a stranger. From afar I saw a short, fat man wearing enormous glasses whose loud laughter reached me sooner than the features of his face. I saw that he did indeed have the papers that gave him the right to pick me up.

Closer up I recognized him; he was a friend of Tonio’s I hadn’t seen for at least twelve years. Yes, it was Fleury in the flesh, carrying with him all the sands of Africa. In my mind I saw him again as he had been back in the days when the airmail service was inaugurated. Now he looked like a caricature of himself; the twelve years that had separated us hadn’t made him any younger. He had been living in Brazil and drinking too much. His laugh grew louder and louder. “Consuelo, don’t you recognize me?”

I couldn’t answer. So he was the one who had come to welcome me in Tonio’s place. Why? Toward what new mystery was life propelling me? He squeezed my hand, and we began to walk through the hustle and bustle that always accompanies a ship’s landing. He went on talking in my ear, with occasional little spasms of coughing and laughter. “Your husband forbids you to speak to journalists. Do you understand? He forbids you to speak, to give any interviews whatsoever. Listen to me carefully: the journalists will come with their cameras, and I will tell them that you understand neither English nor French. You are deaf and dumb. Otherwise Tonio will send you away again, I don’t know where. We are at war. Forgive me, your silence is making me nervous, but this is serious. Tonio would never forgive you if you spoke.”

An American, accompanied by some policemen, came forward with that glacial smile journalists always have. “Bonjour, Madame de Saint-Exupéry?”

“I’m not Madame de Saint-Exupéry,” I said. “I’m her maid.”

The cameras, which were about to spring into action, were stopped by the journalist’s guttural cry, “Wait, there’s a mistake, this is the servant of Madame de Saint-Exupéry. Madame de Saint-Exupéry is still on board!”

I moved calmly past them, and they went on waiting for my “mistress.”

Relieved to be walking on solid ground, I slowly collected my thoughts. Now I understood Fleury’s little comedy. He had come to collect me at the foot of the gangway to make sure that no photograph was taken of my arrival. It would have been difficult to claim that we were not Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Exupéry if we were in each other’s arms. So Tonio did not want to be seen with me. Why? No doubt he was trying to spare one of his girlfriends the sight of a legitimate wife in her husband’s arms . . .

Bitterness was making me ugly. I began to hate life. And to think that in a few minutes I would see the face of my husband, who was fleeing from our reunion! Yet I couldn’t reproach him. The shock was too strong. After all I had been through during the war, after two years of absence, to find myself in front of my husband in flesh and blood . . . I took a deep gulp of the bitter, salty air of the dock. I wanted nothing to remain inside me but goodness, peace, and love. I loved him. Yes, I loved him still.

No amount of quibbling about interviews and photographers could change my feelings. But my heart grew weaker with every step. My ears started to ring, and my legs were no longer holding me up; they seemed to be made of cotton.

Soon I could make out nothing more than shadows and cries. I shut my eyes for a few seconds and clung tightly to Fleury’s arm. He helped me lean against a wall and comforted me. “Don’t faint now,” he said. “You’ve handled this very well so far. A little more courage, and you’ll see your husband. He’s just over there, behind that large column. Open your eyes, I beg you.”

I breathed deeply and let my arms go slack. The idea of seeing my husband again gave me back my strength. Had I been ordered back onto the boat to spend two months on a stormy sea, I would still have opened my eyes and walked, until my life’s last breath, back to the man I loved.

I stared at the column, which seemed to grow taller and taller. A hundred yards still separated me from Tonio. I saw his outline, like a tall tree, standing between some pillars. I began to make out the curves of his silhouette, his shoulders, which were a little stooped, as if he were holding up the column. He watched me approach, motionless.

This man was my husband. I could see him ten feet away from me, pale, wrapped in gray gabardine, locked up inside himself. He was wearing neither a hat nor gloves; he didn’t move. Finally I managed to touch him. He didn’t look like a living being. It had been a thousand years since we had seen each other, kissed each other, questioned each other with our eyes. I was right next to him now, and his arms were made of iron and my voice had fled beyond the mystery of life. It was he who abruptly opened his arms and held me tight enough to strangle me, shouting, “Let’s go! Let’s go right now.”

But like everyone else we had to wait for a taxi. We waited for almost an hour. I began to enjoy the courtesy that prevails among those standing on lines in New York. People are simple, patient, polite. No one grumbles or breaks in ahead of anyone else. This comforted me and calmed my nerves.

The first question Tonio asked me was “Who was that with you? Why did you give an interview?”

I was weary. “Listen,” I answered, “I didn’t speak to anyone.”

“But I saw you, I saw you speaking to someone.”

“Yes: I told a journalist that I was Madame de Saint-Exupéry’s servant. That’s all. Don’t interrogate me any further,” I pleaded. “I endured enough questioning over my papers when we landed. I got up at five this morning and was so nervous I haven’t eaten all day.”

In the taxi, we didn’t exchange a word, paralyzed by this reunion. The magical conversation I had been waiting for did not take place. Two beings who had just resumed their life together continued on, identical to themselves, not understanding each other, not connecting, walled into their silence as the taxi hurtled into the heart of the noisy city.

I didn’t know where my husband was taking me. My destiny was entirely in his hands. My heart could neither laugh nor weep.

“I’m taking you,” Tonio announced at last, “to the Café Arnold.”

“Why to a café?”

“Because people are waiting for us there. Some friends are giving a cocktail party for you. My editor, his wife, and some other people.”

“But I have to freshen up a little, do my hair at least,” I said shyly.

“New York is very spread out, distances here are large, and anyway, there’s a bathroom in the café where you can wash your hands.”

I had no choice but to obey. A few minutes later the car stopped in front of the Café Arnold at 240 Central Park South. I was bundled out, bellboys opened a series of heavy doors, and I found myself facing a dozen people who were laughing joyfully, curious to meet the wife of the great writer.

T
HE
C
AFÉ
A
RNOLD
is a French café. Its waiters are attentive and will serve you French apéritifs, absinthe, Chambéry-fraise, Martini, and of course the whole gamut of American cocktails, those erudite mixtures that the black barmen concoct for their thirsty customers like sorcerers brewing poisoned philters.

My shabbiness stood out against the polished good looks of the women in low-cut dresses who were questioning me about my trip and about France, all of them perfectly at ease in the company of their friends and husbands. Little by little, warmth, confidence, and pleasure in these beings who were surrounding me with their noisy friendship began to steal over me. The meal was copious. I saw mounds of butter on the table, breads and meats I hadn’t tasted for a long time. My husband was there beside me, as in the old days, and I was enjoying myself, surveying the hair, jewelry, and dresses of the women. It was difficult for me to imagine Oppède, to think back to my stone village. Was I alive? Was I dreaming? Or had my string of misfortunes simply come to its end? My husband was entertaining the guests with his eternal card tricks.

“It’s late,” a lady said finally. “I have to wake up early. I must go.”

My husband jumped as if wound up with a spring. “You, too, Consuelo,” he said. “You must be tired. Let’s go.”

A simple signature on the check sufficed to bring this sumptuous evening to an end. We took another taxi, and I heard my husband tell the driver, “Barbizon Plaza.”

Followed by the hotel manager, I walked through a three-room suite that struck me as the height of luxury. I was surprised to be in a heated apartment with a bathroom, but even more surprised by my sense that no one was living there. Then Tonio said, “Good night. I’m living in another apartment that’s too small for the two of us. I’ll call tomorrow to find out how you’re doing. I hope you have a good rest.”

He shook my hand and wished me good night. It all happened very quickly. I stared at him like an animal, without understanding. He repeated again, “Sleep well. See you tomorrow.” And I found myself standing there alone in the middle of the room, among unfamiliar furniture, in an unknown city.

I
T WAS HARD TO FIND ANSWERS
to all the questions that besieged me. This was truly a nightmare. I had left my friends in Oppède, and now I was alone, on the edge of a bed, in the chill of a hotel room. I couldn’t believe it. I sat on the floor the way I used to as a child when I had just broken a pretty doll or couldn’t understand some new game. I don’t know how long I stayed like that. I wished I could fly like a fairy out the window of my twentieth-story room into all the beautiful lights of the skyscrapers and go straight to God, where the angels would have been much better company than my husband. I didn’t even know his telephone number. Where could I find the comfort of a friendly word? My body was in a state of collapse, and my mind went feverishly back over the life I had led since I had married Tonio.

I paced through the icy suite, gazing at its porcelains, its engravings, those anonymous objects that are the same in every hotel room in the world. I looked out at the buildings of New York, all lit up. Which window was my husband’s? I was weeping softly when the door of the suite opened and a waiter peered in; he was bringing me a telegram and begged my pardon for having used his master key when I didn’t respond to his knocking. It was from Bernard Zehrfuss: “The knights of Oppède are with you in thought on your arrival in New York. We miss you terribly. Letter follows, your devoted Albert, Bernard, etc.”

Oh, how badly I had needed this message! Somewhere in the world were the hearts of friends who were thinking of me. I began a long letter to Bernard in which I was finally able to say everything that was overflowing inside me. The night went by in a kind of daze. Why was Heaven treating me so strangely? The day found me like that, still dressed, stretched out on the sofa.

Guests at the Barbizon Plaza were served a French breakfast, slipped through a slot in the door. There were several cupfuls of café au lait, along with bread, butter, and jam. I drank the steaming hot milk like a robot, still trying to define my situation. Where was Tonio? And who was he?

I gathered up the crumbs I had dropped on the floor. It was a pleasant task to reassemble the little bits of bread that were scattered across the blue carpet: this simple gesture brought back a kind of consciousness of life.

I had an answer to send to the telegram from my faithful knights. They were my wealth. My steadfast love. I wasn’t alone in this suite of icy rooms. I could think of them and love them, since they allowed me to show them my love. The telephone rang, and its ringing snapped me back to reality.

“Hello, hello, Madame de Saint-Exupéry? Your friend from the boat here—the Portuguese. I’ve just learned from your husband that you are alone at the Barbizon. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Come and see me,” I said. “If you have time.”

Fifteen minutes later, S. was sitting in my living room. We spoke of this and that. He asked me if he could bring his wife over for dinner. We remained silent on the question of my husband, though I was tempted to confide in this man who was so kind. When he left, he kissed my hand, and I had to snatch it away because tears were welling up my eyes. He slipped away discreetly, as if he knew he could do nothing for me. All I knew about him was the telephone number of his office. That way we would be able to talk sometimes. For me, even that meant a great deal.

The telephone rang again. This time it was my husband. He informed me that we didn’t live very far from each other, which meant that if I wanted to stretch my legs a little I could come see his apartment. I was touched and accepted his invitation. He barely gave me time to catch a glimpse of his place, told me he was busy for lunch, and recommended that I eat at the Café Arnold, down below his apartment, where we had gone the night before. After that, I adopted the Arnold as my own.

My husband was feeling the same anguish and exhaustion that I was. I felt sorry for him, and he realized it was cruel to make me live apart from him. I didn’t want to be the one to bring it up. I did tell him, however, that I wanted to go back to Oppède. I had nothing to do in New York; I was terribly bored already, the streets were alien to me, and I had no friends. He assured me that the next day, a Sunday, he would drive me to the country home of one of our friends, Michèle, who would undoubtedly be happy to serve as my guide to the city.