That Mad Ache & Translator Page 7

  “While we’re waiting, how about a whiskey?” suggested Charles. “I’m dead tired.”

  “Pauline doesn’t want me drinking any more,” said Lucile. “Why don’t You ask her for an extra-large glass, and then I’ll share it with You.”

  Charles smiled and rang for Pauline. Lucile thought to herself, “I’m starting to act like a little girl, without meaning to, and if I don’t watch out, soon I’ll have a bunch of stuffed animals on my bed.” She stood up, stretched, and went into her own room, where, gazing at her bed, she wondered if someday she would wake up with Antoine right next to her.

  CHAPTER 11

  Diane’s apartment, in the Rue Cambon, looked very lovely, with fresh flowers everywhere, and even though the evening breeze was very mild and she had left the French doors open, big fires were burning in the two fireplaces, one at each end of the salon. Lucile, charmed by it all, moved about the room, alternately taking in whiffs of air from the street, already presaging the hot and dusty summer soon to come, and the smell of the flaming logs, which brought back for her the previous autumn, such a harsh one, inextricably linked in her memory with the woods in Sologne where Charles took her on hunts.

  “How elegant,” said Lucile to Diane, “to have mixed two seasons in a single party.”

  “Yes,” said Diane, “but You know, one always feels inappropriately dressed.”

  Lucile gave a laugh. She had a soft and communicative laugh, she was clearly feeling quite at ease, and Diane began to wonder if wasn’t foolish to be jealous of her. Basically, Lucile was well-behaved; to be sure, she had that absent-minded way about her, a little out of it, which she shared with Antoine, but perhaps that was as far as it went between the two of them. Blassans-Lignières looked perfectly relaxed and Antoine had never been in a better mood… Surely her suspicions were groundless. And all at once she felt a burst of warmth, almost of gratitude, towards Lucile.

  “Come with me and I’ll show You the rest of the apartment. What do You say?”

  Lucile earnestly examined the bathroom done in Italian tilework, admiringly commented on the fancy fixtures in a large closet in the hallway, and then followed Diane into her bedroom.

  “Please don’t mind the clutter in here,” said Diane.

  Antoine, who had arrived late, had changed in Diane’s bedroom, and the shirt and tie he’d had on in the afternoon were lying on the floor. Diane quickly glanced over at Lucile, but saw merely the slightest sign of embarrassment, which anyone who was well brought up would have had. However, something was goading Diane, something she felt ashamed of but that she couldn’t fight off. She picked up the clothes, placed them on a chair, turned to face Lucile, who hadn’t moved, and gave a conspiratorial little smile. “Honestly, men are so messy…”

  Lucile stared right back at her and agreeably said, “Charles is very neat.” She could hardly keep herself from giggling. “So now,” she was thinking, “is she also going to complain about how Antoine never puts the cap back on the toothpaste tube?” She didn’t feel in the least bit jealous; in fact, seeing the tie there had felt like running into an old high-school friend, by some miracle, at the base of the Pyramids. All the while, Lucile had been thinking how truly lovely Diane was, and how baffling it was of Antoine to be abandoning Diane for her. Lucile felt objective and observant, and also very kind-hearted, just as she felt, in fact, every time that she drank a little too much.

  “We really should be getting back to the guests,” said Diane. “Goodness knows why I take it on myself every so often to throw one of these parties. For me as the hostess, it’s so exhausting. And on top of it all, I don’t get the feeling that people have all that great a time, anyway.”

  “It looks pretty lively to me,” said Lucile with conviction. “And also, Claire’s acting a bit snooty, which is always a good sign…”

  “Ah, so You noticed it too?”, said Diane with a smile. “I didn’t think — I mean, You always look a bit, uh…”

  “Muddled,” said Lucile.

  “That’s it precisely.”

  “Just this evening, Charles called me that once again. I’ll probably wind up believing it.”

  The two of them broke out in a simultaneous laugh, and all of a sudden Lucile felt a twinge of fondness for Diane. At least in this little circle, Diane had to be one of the only women with a bit of moral backbone, and she’d never heard her say anything trite or vulgar. Even Charles had kind words for her, and Charles was extremely critical of a certain type of vulgarity that Lucile had noticed was quite common. It was such a shame that she couldn’t make friends with Diane. Or maybe one day, if Diane were truly intelligent, everything might work out for the best. This extravagantly optimistic thought struck Lucile as yet another sign of her own wisdom, and if it hadn’t been for Antoine’s arrival in the room right then, she would’ve launched into an explanation to Diane that could only have ended up in a catastrophe.

  “Destret is looking for You everywhere,” said Antoine. “He’s furious.” He seemed confused to see Diane and Lucile together.

  “He must think that I’m jealous and that I was trying to find traces of evidence,” thought Diane, reassured by Lucile’s conspicuous good humor. “Poor Antoine…”

  “Don’t worry about us, I was just showing Lucile around the apartment. She’d never seen the place before.”

  And Lucile, highly amused by Antoine’s look of bewilderment, started laughing with Diane. With his two women ganging up on him, Antoine felt his masculine hackles starting to rise. “What is this? I jump out of the arms of one of them, go off and sleep with the other one, and the next thing I know, the two of them are getting together and laughing at me. If that doesn’t take the cake!”

  “Did I say something funny?” he asked.

  “Oh no, not at all,” replied Diane. “It’s just that You seem overly concerned with Destret’s little tantrums, when You know as well as I do that the man is perpetually in a pique. It just amused us, that’s all.” With that, she walked out of the bedroom, and Lucile, following in her wake, made a face at Antoine, expressing scorn and outrage. For a moment he was thrown, but then he smiled. After all, it had only been two hours since she’d said to him, “I love you, and it’s for keeps,” and he could still hear her voice as she’d said it. So let her act smug right now — it didn’t matter.

  Lucile, back in the salon, bumped into Johnny, who, clearly quite bored, rushed up to her, handed her a glass, and pulled her aside near a window. “I think You’re terrific, Lucile,” he said. “At least with You I can feel comfortable. I know You’re not going to regale me with Your comments on the play that just opened, or on the quirky manners of various guests.”

  “That’s what You say to me at every party.”

  “Well, I just wanted to tell You that You should watch out,” said Johnny abruptly. “You’re wearing a suspicious-seeming happiness.”

  Reflexively, she ran her hand across her face almost as if to wipe off her happiness, like a mask she’d forgotten to remove. But it was true: that very day, she’d said “I love you” to someone who had replied, “Me too.” Was this so obvious to everyone present? All at once she felt she was the focal point of the assembled group, she thought she saw eyes turning her way, and she started blushing. In one quick gulp she downed the glass of nearly unadulterated scotch that Johnny had given her.

  “I’m just in a good mood,” she softly protested, “and I find all these people quite charming.”

  And all of a sudden, though generally she was very retiring at these affairs, Lucile took it into her head to distract attention from her euphoric glow by following the ploy of certain unattractive ladies who never seem to stop jabbering away, hoping thereby to deflect attention from their misfortune. And so she glided from group to group, acting pleasant, ditzy, and sweet, even going so far as to compliment an astounded Claire Santré on the loveliness of her gown. Charles followed her with his eyes, most intrigued, and he was just about to spirit her off when Diane took his ar
m and said, “Charles, this is the first beautiful spring evening we’ve had, and we’re going dancing. Nobody feels like sleeping, and I’d bet that Lucile feels less like it than anyone else in the room.”

  She watched Lucile with a sense of friendly amusement, and Charles, who was aware of her jealousy and who had also seen her take Lucile aside a few minutes earlier, suddenly felt reassured by it all. Lucile had apparently gotten over Antoine. And between the lines, Diane was proposing to him a little party, a celebration in honor of this new state of tranquillity that they both craved. He accepted.

  They all agreed to meet up in a nightclub. Charles and Lucile were the first to arrive, and they danced and chatted gaily, since Lucile, feeling in her element, just couldn’t stop talking. But then she fell abruptly silent. She’d spotted a tall man at the door, a little taller than anyone near him, in a dark blue suit, and his eyes were yellow. This man’s face she knew by heart; she knew every mark on the skin under that dark blue suit, she knew intimately the shape of his shoulders. He walked in their direction and found himself a seat. As Diane was downstairs putting on her makeup, he invited Lucile to dance. The touch of his hand on her shoulder, the way his palm pressed against hers, and that curious distance, just a trace too far, that he kept between his cheek and hers, a distance that she knew so well from the heights of their passion, churned her up so much that she deliberately put on a faintly bored expression aimed at pulling the wool over the eyes of an audience that didn’t even see her. It was the first time she had danced with Antoine, and they were playing one of those lilting romantic ballads that you could hear everywhere that spring.

  He walked her back to their table. Diane, now with her makeup in place, was dancing with Charles. Lucile and Antoine sat down on the banquette, suitably far apart.

  “So you enjoyed that?” He looked furious.

  “Well, sure — didn’t you?” replied Lucile, caught off guard.

  “Not one bit,” said Antoine. “I don’t get any kick at all out of this kind of get-together. Also, unlike you, I detest playing the hypocrite.” And the truth was, he hadn’t been able to talk with Lucile all evening long, and he very much desired her. The thought that in but a few minutes she would be leaving with Charles was eating at him terribly. He was suffering from a crisis of possessiveness of the type that so often results from frustrated desire.

  “You’re just cut out for this kind of life,” he added.

  “And you?”

  “I’m not. Some men base their masculine pride on their ability to juggle two women. But as for me, my masculine pride would never allow me to take pleasure from making two women suffer.”

  “If only you could have seen yourself in Diane’s bedroom,” exclaimed Lucile. “You had such a guilty look…” And at this little jab, she burst out in laughter.

  “Don’t laugh,” said Antoine, clearly restraining himself. “In ten minutes, you’ll be in Charles’ arms, or else alone, but whatever, you’ll be far away from me…”

  “But tomorrow…”

  “I’ve had it up to here with your tomorrows,” said Antoine angrily. “You’ve got to get that through your pretty little head.”

  Lucile didn’t reply. She tried to look very serious but it didn’t work at all. The alcohol was going to her head. Some random young man came up and invited her to dance, but Antoine shooed him off without mincing any words, and for a brief moment, Lucile couldn’t stand him. She would gladly have danced, talked, or even absconded with a third party — she no longer felt herself obligated in any way, except to keep herself happy.

  “I’ve had a teensy bit too much to drink,” she said in a sad little voice.

  “You can say that again,” replied Antoine.

  “Maybe you should have done the same,” she said. “You’re no fun tonight.” This was the first time they had ever had an argument. But when she looked over at his obstinate, childlike face, she melted. “Antoine, you know that…”

  “Yeah, yeah — that you love me, and for keeps.” At this he abruptly stood up. Diane was headed back towards their table along with Charles, who looked very tired. He shot an imploring glance toward Lucile, at the same time asking Diane to excuse them: he had to get up early the next morning, and this club was really just too loud for him. Lucile made no protests, and simply followed him out. But in the car, for the first time ever since she’d met him, she felt like a prisoner.

  CHAPTER 12

  Diane was in the bathroom, taking off her makeup. Antoine had turned on the record player and, seated on the floor, was listening to, though not really hearing, a concerto by Beethoven. Diane could see him in the mirror, and the sight made her smile. Antoine was always sitting down right in front of the turntable as if it were a campfire or a pagan statue; it did no good whatsoever to explain to him that the sound came from those two fancy loudspeakers at the far ends of the bedroom, and that they shot each note straight toward the center of her room right where her bed was — he still just plunked himself down by the turntable itself, as if spellbound by the spinning of the glowing black disk.

  Having carefully removed her daytime makeup, Diane put on her nighttime makeup, so well calculated to conceal wrinkles without deepening them. Letting her skin breathe without makeup at night (as all the women’s magazines recommended) was no more an option for her than letting her heart breathe. Those days were long gone. She considered her looks crucial for holding onto Antoine, so she wasn’t going to compromise one bit of her current beauty in the hopes of stretching it out into some blurry, uncertain future. Certain temperaments — in fact, the most generous ones — harvest only the short-term pleasures and burn all the rest. This was Diane’s philosophy.

  Antoine was nervously listening to the soft noises emanating from the bathroom. The tearing-out of pieces of Kleenex and the rustling of Diane’s hairbrush largely drowned out the violins and the brasses of the orchestra. In five minutes, he was going to have to get up, undress, and slide in between these wonderfully luxurious sheets, right beside this exquisitely groomed woman, in this incomparably elegant bedroom. And yet it was Lucile he craved — Lucile, who always would fly into his flat, flop down on his landlady’s flimsy bed, flick her clothes off in a flash, and later flee in just the same way. Lucile was his ever-elusive, ever-fugitive, ever-welcomed one. She never settled down, she never would settle down, he never would wake up at her side, she would forever be just a fleeting presence in his life. What’s more, he had wrecked her evening and now he felt his throat tightening up, in the intense despair of a teen-ager.

  Diane emerged from the bathroom in her blue negligee and gazed briefly at Antoine’s back and the nape of his neck, blond and straight, not letting herself read the least trace of hostility into either of them. She was tired, she’d had a bit to drink, which was unusual for her, and she was in a good mood. Without any seductive intentions, she was just hoping that Antoine would talk to her, laugh with her, tell her of his childhood. She had no way of knowing that his mind was racing, obsessed with his presumed moral obligation to make love to her, nor did she expect that he, quite unfairly, believed her incapable of wanting anything but his physical self. And so, when she sat down near him and looped her arm through his in a friendly fashion, his unspoken reaction was, “All right, all right — give me a second” — a boorish thought, and one quite distant from his usual style. After all, even in the dreariest of his prior affairs, he had always treated lovemaking with a certain respect, had always preceded physical contact by a short period of meditation.

  “I adore this concerto,” said Diane.

  “Yes, lovely, isn’t it,” replied Antoine, with that politely disdainful lilt of someone lying on the beach to whom it has just been pointed out how blue the Mediterranean is.

  “The party worked out pretty well, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Real fireworks,” said Antoine, and he stretched out on his back on the carpet, eyes closed. In this position he seemed huge, and eternally alone. The tone of his own
words echoed in his brain, sarcastic and nasty, and he couldn’t stand himself. Diane was sitting there immobile, “old and handsome, and painted and fine”. Now where had he just read that phrase? Oh, yes — in the diary of Samuel Pepys.

  “Were you very bored?” She had stood up again and now was walking around the room, righting a drooping flower in a vase, running her fingers over a fine piece of woodwork. He could see her through his eyelashes. She loved objects, she loved these damned objects, and he was one of them — he was a masterpiece in her museum, he was her young gigolo. Oh, not really, of course — and yet he was always dining with her friends, sleeping in her apartment, living her life. Yes, he was a fine one to judge Lucile! She at least had the excuse of being a woman.

  “Aren’t you going to answer? Were you that extremely bored?”

  Oh, her voice. Her questions. Her negligee. Her perfume. He couldn’t take it any longer. He flopped over onto his stomach, putting his arms over his head. She kneeled down next to him. “Antoine… Antoine…” There was such desperation, such tenderness in her voice that he turned over once again, to face her. Her eyes were a little too bright. They stared at each other and then he turned his head, beckoning her towards him. She made an awkward and timid little motion towards lying down beside him, as if she feared she’d crack, as if she’d been hit by a spasm of rheumatism. And he, precisely because he didn’t love her, felt desire for her.

  Charles had departed for New York, alone, and his trip had shrunk down to just four days. Lucile, in her topless car, roamed the ever-bluer streets of Paris, waiting for the arrival of summer. She could already feel it in every fragrance in the air, in every glint of light on the Seine; she could already sense that familiar old smell of dust, trees, and soil that would soon engulf the Boulevard Saint-Germain at night, with its tall chestnut trees silhouetted against the pink sky, almost totally blotting it out; and those streetlamps, always lit too soon, annually made to lose face when, switching over from their wintertime role of cherished guides, they would become semi-parasites in the summer — caught between one day’s night, which never would quite grow dark, and the next day’s dawn, already champing at the bit to spread itself out all over the sky.