The Wine of Solitude (25 page)

For the first time, floods of heavy tears flowed down her face. She was alone. The rain had left the Champs Elysées deserted. Little by little she began to warm up; her blood started flowing more quickly, more lightly through her veins.

She raised her head. The wind was picking up. Lights from the little toy stores and sweet shops shone in the rain. It had nearly stopped now; it was just a light drizzle that dried in the wind as it fell. Only the sand on the lower paths was drenched in still, rust-coloured water.

‘I never would have left my father,’ thought Hélène, ‘never. But he’s dead, he’s at peace now, and as for me, I’m free, free … free from my house, my childhood, my mother, free from everything I hated, everything that weighed heavily on my heart. That’s all in the past now; I’m free. I’ll work. I’m young and healthy. I’m not afraid of life.’ She looked lovingly at the cloudy sky and the sturdy green trees, their leaves heavy with raindrops; a ray of sunlight appeared between two clouds.

A child passed by; he bit into an apple, looked at the marks his teeth had made and laughed.

‘I should go,’ thought Hélène.

Then immediately: ‘But why? Nothing’s keeping me here and I have nothing to go to. I’m free. How peaceful …’

She closed her eyes and listened happily to the wind. It was blowing in from the west so must have come from the coast, carrying with it the smell and taste of the sea. Every now and then the clouds would part to reveal an astonishingly warm, bright ray of sunlight, then close up again to form a thick, heavy blanket. But when the sun shone for a moment everything sparkled, the leaves, the tree trunks, the damp benches and the little light drops of glittering water that fell to the earth from the branches. With warmer cheeks, and holding her hands tightly between her knees, Hélène listened to the wind; she strained to hear it as if listening out for a friend’s voice. It began softly beneath the Arc de Triomphe, rushed through the tops of the trees making them bend, then surrounded Hélène, whistling and swirling with joy. This strong, cleansing wind cleared away the insipid smell of Paris. It shook the trees so hard it seemed as if some heavy, powerful hand were rocking their trunks, a hand as terrible as the hand of God. The chestnut trees swung back and forth, swishing wildly. The wind dried Hélène’s tears, burned her eyes; it seemed to penetrate her head, calmer and lighter now, to warm her very blood. Suddenly she took off her hat, rolled it up in her hand, threw her head back and realised with inexpressible astonishment that she was smiling, that she was gently parting her lips to hold on to the taste of the whistling wind as it swept over her.

‘I’m not afraid of life,’ she thought. ‘The past has given me my first experiences of the world. They have been exceptionally difficult, but they have forged my courage and my pride. And that immutable treasure is mine, belongs to me. I may be alone, but my solitude is powerful and intoxicating.’

She listened to the sound of the wind and felt she could
sense, within its raging, a hidden rhythm, solemn and joyous, like the rhythm of the sea. Its sounds, shrill, raucous and piercing at first, merged into a powerful harmony. She could perceive a sense of growing coherence, like the beginning of a symphony, when the astonished listener hears the first notes of a leitmotif, then loses them and, disappointed, seeks them out once more; then suddenly the theme returns and this time you understand that it will never be lost again, that it is of a different order, more beautiful, more intense, and you listen, reassured and confident as the life-giving tempest crashes against your ears in waves.

She stood up and at that very moment the clouds parted; between the pillars of the Arc de Triomphe, blue sky appeared to light her way.