The Voyeur (16 page)

The salesman, at the last moment, had had to call out to her in order to be recognized. After having inquired why he had found the farm deserted and locked, he turned to the object of his visit: the sale of wrist watches. There, at the roadside, he had gained his first success on the island.

He tried to calculate from memory the total amount received since he had landed. First of all there was old Madame Marek: one hundred fifty-five crowns; next, the exhausted-looking couple: one hundred fifty-five crowns, making three hundred ten; then the proprietress of the café: two hundred seventy-five—and three hundred ten: five hundred eighty five . . . five hundred eighty-five . . . five hunched eighty-five. . . . The next transaction had not been a sale but a gift: he had made a present of a gold-plated lady's watch to the girl ... or young woman . . .

As a matter of fact there had been a third person at lunch at Jean Robin's. It was to her that Mathias had shown his collection, since the sailor was obviously uninterested., (Standing in front of the little window, he was looking outside.) The salesman had set down his suitcase at the end of the long table—pressing the clasp, folding back the cover, moving aside the memorandum book . . .—the girl, who was beginning to clear the table, had come closer to look.

He took the cardboard strips out of the suitcase one by one; she admired them without saying a word, opening her eyes very wide. He stepped back a little to let her examine his wares as long as she liked.

Over her shoulder, he saw her fingering a gold-plated watch strap, then the case itself, more slowly. Twice— once in one direction, then in the other—her middle finger followed the circular shape. She was slender and graceful, bending her neck at the nape—under his eyes—within reach of his hand.

Leaning over a little, he says: "Which do you like best?"

Still without answering, without turning around, she picks up the cardboard strips one by one. Exposed by the rounded collar of her dress, a long scratch studded with red pearls tears across the tender skin of her neck. Mathias imperceptibly stretches out his hand.

He checks the gesture at once. The arm falls back. He has not tried to stretch out his hand. Slender and graceful, the young woman bends her head a little lower, exposing the nape of her neck and the long scratch at its base. The tiny pearls of blood seem to be still wet.

"This one is the prettiest."

After the story about Violet, the fisherman had again begun on some general considerations of life on the island—oddly contradictory though they were. Each time that he seemed to want to illustrate what he was saying by some more personal detail, the latter contradicted the very point of view he was defending. In spite of this, the general tone of his remarks retained—in appearance, at least—a coherent structure, so that a distracted attention would not realize the anomalies involved.

It was to have a pretext for leaving the table—the first step toward departure—that Mathias had proposed showing the watches. He could not delay any longer, for he had to finish his rounds and return to the harbor before four-fifteen.

Suitcase, clasp, cover, black memorandum book . . .

Having glanced distractedly at the first cardboard strip, the fisherman turned his back to look out the window. His companion, on the contrary, came closer to look. It occurred to Mathias that he might thank her for her hospitality by making her a present of one of the cheaper watches, which at her age would still make her happy.

Afterward, he returned to the village, which he quickly finished canvassing. He managed to sell several more watches—including three to a single family, the one that ran the grocery-general store.

After Black Rocks, the road ran east along the coast, but at a certain distance from the cliff, and turned inland after the fork leading to the nearby point—where there was no house to interest the salesman—toward the seaboard villages extending to the southwest section of town. Mathias, who was riding very fast, hurrying because of the lateness of the hour, soon found himself among the first houses. He managed to make a good many sales without wasting too much time, as many in the little clusters of houses as in the isolated cottages that marked the intervals between them. Encouraged by his success, he even made excursions off the main road (venturing farther inland again), returning to the coast at an important fishing village—the last before the big pier, the harbor dominated by its ruined fortifications, the flat housefronts along the quay, the landing slip, and the little steamer which was doubtless already preparing for departure.

But the salesman did not take advantage of the short cut which would have brought him directly to the harbor. His watch indicated barely three o'clock, and according to his schedule he still had to explore the whole northwest section of the island—that is, the wild and sparsely settled west coast to the left of the lighthouse, then the steep peninsula called "Horses Point," symmetrical to the one he was now heading for, and finally the villages—or rather the groups of farmhouses—scattered between the point and the fort, located inland for the most part, so that he would not even try the least accessible ones if his time was running short.

For the moment he had more than an hour ahead of him, and if he hurried he could make up for his delay without difficulty. He therefore returned to the main road and kept to his prescribed course.

Almost at once he was at the point where the road to Black Rocks, which he had taken this morning after leaving town, crossed the main road. To his right the town began some five hundred yards away at the bottom of the hill, with the house where the widow Leduc lived with her three daughters. To the left would be the fork leading to the mill. Actually the salesman did not remember the landscape precisely enough to situate these elements with much assurance. He had barely noticed the crossroads in passing. But he had no doubt that it was indeed this crossroads, and that was the important thing. Besides, Mathias did not have time, on this second occasion, to worry any more about it.

As he rode along he mechanically looked at his watch again, to reassure himself that he was not too late to begin this last section of his itinerary—the big loop from the cliff to Horses Point and back. He continued straight on his way; the hands had virtually not moved at all. Since there was no traffic at the crossroads, he did not even have to slow down.

He touched his suitcase with his fingertips to be sure it was still there on the luggage rack—where he had finally fastened it in an ingenious way that permitted him to remove and replace it promptly. Then he looked down at the movement of the pedals, the chain, the gearing, the wheels that turned without any grinding noise. A film of dust was beginning to cover the chromium tubing.

Pedaling still faster, he was now traveling at a speed that astonished the few people he passed coining toward him; those he passed from behind sometimes gave an exclamation of surprise—or of fear.

He came to a sudden halt in front of the traditional clumps of mahonia and dismounted. He knocked at the window-panes, leaned his bicycle against the wall, picked up the suitcase, entered at once. . . . Hallway, first door to the right, kitchen, the big oval table covered with an oilcloth patterned with little flowers, opening the clasp, etc. . . . When the customer looked dubious, Mathias waited no more than a few moments; often he left without even having unpacked his collection. With practice, thirty seconds are enough to tell the ones that will never buy anything.

Along this coast, many farmhouses were in ruins, or in such disrepair that there was no reason to visit them.

There was a fork to the right which certainly led to town. Mathias continued straight ahead.

The road, unfortunately, became rather bad. Since he did not want to slow down, the salesman was severely jolted by the irregularities of the terrain. He tried as much as he could to avoid the most evident holes, but their number and depth constantly increased, making his progress increasingly hazardous.

The entire surface of the road was soon nothing more than holes and humps. The bicycle was shaken by a continual jarring, and at every rotation of the wheels bucked against huge stones; his precious burden was threatened with one bad fall after another. In spite of his efforts, Mathias was losing speed.

The wind off the point was not as strong as was to be feared. The edge of the cliff, higher than the adjoining moor, protected the latter somewhat. Nevertheless, the salesman, who here received it full in the face, found the wind an additional impediment.

From now on he stopped with relief here and there to show his merchandise. But luck was less with him in this part of the country. In the few homes into which he made his way, he found only undecided and quibbling people with whom it was impossible to come to an agreement.

He failed to make two sales after having wasted much more time than usual, believing at every moment that a decision would finally be reached and that only one more complimentary moment would keep him from regretting all that had already passed. When he left the second of these houses, having failed completely, he consulted his watch with a certain uneasiness. It was a little after three-thirty.

Leaping onto the seat without bothering to fasten the suitcase to the luggage rack, he began pedaling as hard as he could, holding the handlebars with one hand and the imitation-leather handle of his suitcase in the other.

Luckily the road from here on was in slightly better condition. After the first village on the north coast, it became quite good in fact. The road now led to the fort and then the town. The wind was once again behind him—or almost.

He rode on at a steady speed, although conscious of a slight nervousness.

The houses were becoming a little more numerous—and less poverty-stricken—but whether it was because the salesman presented his wares too hurriedly, or simply did not permit his customers the minimum amount of time indispensable to country people's decisions, Mathias did not make as many sales as he had anticipated.

He made the first scheduled side-trip—a very short one— at the old Roman tower near the village of Saint-Sauveur. He was cordially received but managed to sell only one watch—and from the cheapest series.

When
he looked at his watch again, it was already ten minutes to four.

He calculated rapidly that at most a mile and a quarter separated him from the little triangular square where he would leave the bicycle at the café-tobacco shop-garage. Without side-trips, it would take him about ten minutes to get there, including the short walk from the tobacco shop to the boat and the thirty seconds he needed to pay the garageman.

He had just under a quarter of an hour until then. The salesman would have time enough to try his luck at a few last doors.

Rushing on as if he were being pursued, running, bounding, throwing himself about—but without wasting his strength in gesticulations—he persisted until the last possible moment. Leaving matters somewhat up to chance, as soon as a house along the road seemed to look rather prosperous, or less ramshackle, or newer, he jumped off the bicycle and raced to the door, suitcase in hand.

Once. . . . Twice. . . . Three times . . .

When he found a window open on the ground floor, he spoke from outside, ready to show his merchandise from where he stood. Otherwise he walked into the kitchen without even knocking. Sometimes he economized on words and gestures—excessively, even.

As a matter of fact, all of these attempts were useless. He was going too fast: he was taken for a madman.

At five after four he caught sight of the fort. Now he would have to get back to town without stopping again. There were only three hundred yards or so to travel uphill, then the slope down to the harbor. He wanted to go faster still.

The bicycle chain began to make an unpleasant sound— as if it were rubbing sideways against the sprocket-wheel. Mathias pedaled vigorously.

But the grinding noise grew more pronounced so rapidly that he decided to get off and examine the transmission. He set his suitcase down on the ground and crouched over the machine.

There was no time to study the phenomenon in detail. He confined himself to pushing the sprocket-wheel back toward the frame—dirtying his fingers as little as possible— and started off again. The abnormal friction seemed to grow worse.

He got off again at once and twisted the axle of the sprocket-wheel in the opposite direction.

As soon as he was back on the seat again he realized that matters were going from bad to worse. He was making no progress at all: the machinery was almost completely jammed. Trying another remedy, he manipulated the gearshift—once, twice, three times—pedaling at the same time. As soon as it reached its maximum gear expansion, the chain sprang away from the sprocket-wheel.

He got off the bicycle, set down the suitcase, and lay the machine on its side in the road. It was eight minutes after four. This time, while adjusting the chain in place on the little toothed wheel, he covered himself with grease. He was sweating.

Without wiping his hands he seized his suitcase, mounted the bicycle again, and tried to pedal. The chain sprang away from the sprocket-wheel.

He put it back a second time, then a third. He tried it on all three gear-wheels, without managing to make it hold on any: it came off at the first revolution. Giving up, he continued on foot, half-running, half-walking, holding the suitcase in his left hand and with his right pushing the bicycle.

An essential piece of the machinery must have been broken during the jolting on the bad road from Horses Point.

Mathias had just begun walking down the slope to town when he suddenly realized he might be able to coast down without using the pedals. He got back on the bicycle and impelled himself forward with a vigorous kick. For balance he pressed the hand carrying the suitcase against the left grip of the handlebars.

Now he had to be careful not to disturb the chain which he had put back around the sprocket-wheel—therefore he must not move his feet, or he would make it spring off again and tangle with the rear-wheel spokes. In order to fasten the chain more firmly to the sprocket-wheel, since it no longer had to revolve, the salesman thought of attaching it with a piece of cord he had picked up that morning; he began looking for the cord in the pockets of his duffle coat. But not finding it in either one, he remembered. . . . He remembered that he no longer had it.