“I haven’t much appetite.”
“I’m sorry. May I have them? I’m ravenous.”
“By all means.”
When the waiter had departed, leaving a fresh cup and pots of coffee and hot milk, I pursued, “I’m sure Paul would be furious if he knew you were here.”
She took her first long sip of cafй au lait thirstily, looking into the cup as a child does. “Hmm, that’s good. Yes, I’m sure he would be. But let’s not talk about that. It’s too perfect a morning.”
“No, Katya. I want to talk about it. I’ve passed a dreadful night, and I want to talk about what is happening to me… to us.”
“You know, Jean-Marc, you’re not the only one who has passed a terrible night,” she said with a note of remonstration in her voice.
I could not believe, from the freshness in her face and the clear sparkle of her eye that she had suffered through a white night.
As it turned out, she was not speaking of herself. “When I came down this morning I found Paul asleep on the floor of the salon. He had been drinking and he looked ghastly and somehow pitiful, lying there under the hearth rug he had pulled over himself. I felt quite perfidious, leaving him in that state. But I had to be away from the house. Out into this glorious morning. And too…” She glanced away. “…I wanted to be with you, I suppose.”
It was difficult for me to picture the cool, self-possessed Paul Treville drinking his way through a night of suffering, but the image gave me an odd sense of fellow-feeling with him, not unmixed, I must confess, with a certain satisfaction at his having shared in the pain his high-handedness had caused. But overriding this mixture of sympathy and callous satisfaction was the warming effect of that phrase, “…I wanted to be with you.”
I placed my hand over hers, and she did not withdraw it for a full minute before confessing with a little laugh, “I really don’t know how to drink coffee with my left hand, and I’d feel a fool to spill it.”
I lifted my hand. “Katya, let me be frank with you.”
“That always means you intend to say something unpleasant.”
“No, not at all. Well… perhaps. I don’t understand how you can be in such good spirits while I—and Paul, evidently—am suffering so.”
“It’s something one learns, Jean-Marc. One must learn to empty one’s mind and seek… not joy, exactly… peace, perhaps. How else could one go on?”
“But, for God’s sake, what in your life—in your family-brings you such pain that you have to build barricades against it?”
She sat still for a moment, her eyes lowered as though she were thinking something out. Then she shook her head. “No. It’s not a thing I can talk about. Not even with you.”
“But you
“Hush!” Then, more softly. “Hush, please.”
“Well, you will at least let me say that I am fond of you, won’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling at me with a wistful sadness. “I know you are. And I take pleasure in it.”
“But you are not willing to share this—whatever it is—with me?”
“I’ll share other things with you. When I’m happy, or when I think of a particularly good pun… I’ll share those things with you. That will have to be enough.”
“It’s not enough at all. Good Lord, Katya, we share our happiness with anybody… with total strangers. It’s sharing the sadnesses and pain that matters. Surely you know that.”
“Yes, I know that. It’s one of those truisms that has the misfortune of being true.”
“Well then?”
Her eyes searched mine for a moment. Then she smiled. “You know, Jean-Marc, your eyes are so dark they’re almost black. It must take a tremendous amount of light to fill them.”
I turned away from her, displeased at having the subject changed in that obvious way.
“Please don’t pout, Jean-Marc.”
“I am not pouting.” Unfortunately, there is no way to say that without sounding petulant.
“Listen to me, dear.” This word of affection touched me even through my frustration and despair, particularly as she used the intimate
“That’s because he feels nothing deeply.”
“That is untrue. And it’s unfair. I’ll talk to Paul, and I’m sure he’ll reconsider and allow you to visit Etcheverria. Then we can take our little walks in the garden. And we can chat. And I’ll permit you to applaud my puns. And from time to time I’ll ride my bicycle into Salies and eat up all your brioches. Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”
I shook my head, disconsolate.
“But you must promise to join Paul and me in our little subterfuge. Father must not have the slightest hint that you and I are fond of each other. It won’t be all that difficult. As you know, Papa’s interest in the world around him is rather slight. So smile for me, won’t you? We shall have lots of things to share.”
“But we only have a week!”
She frowned, bewildered. “Only a week? Why? Are you going somewhere?”
“It’s you who are going, Katya! Your family is leaving Etcheverria. Your brother was in town yesterday making the arrangements.”
“Oh,” she said softly. Her fingers found a wisp of hair at her temple and twisted it absently. “Oh, I see.” Her voice was vacant and distant.
“I was sure Paul hadn’t told you.”
“What?” she asked, tugging herself from her thoughts. “Oh, no. No, he didn’t tell me.”
We sat in silence for a time before I asked, “You don’t want to go away, do you?”
“No, of course not. But that’s not the point. If Paul was making arrangements, then we must go.”
“Why, in the name of God?”
“It has happened before. When we had to leave Paris to come here.”
“What happened in Paris?”
She frowned and shook her head curtly.
“What is your family running from?”
She looked at me, then smiled faintly. “Oh, like most families, we have skeletons in our closet. I make no bones about that. Oh, come now, that wasn’t such a bad pun. If it didn’t merit a laugh, it was at least worth a smile. Or, at very least, a groan.”
“I don’t feel like smiling.”
“Don’t take things so seriously, Jean-Marc.” She rose. “Now I must return home. I’m sure Paul will need help with all the details of moving. But you must come take tea with us this afternoon. Please. If we have only a week together, it would be stupid of us not to use it well.”
I sighed and nodded. “Yes, you’re right. I’d be pleased to take tea with you.”
“Good. Until soon?”
“Yes. Until soon.”
She wheeled her bicycle across the square, pausing to bestow a warm smile and a nod of greeting to a brace of ladies who had obviously been gossiping about us and who were flustered at the familiarity of this hatless girl who was clearly no better than she ought to be, with her public morning assignations, the seeming openness of which did not fool them in the least.
At tea, Monsieur Treville was in a cheerful and loquacious mood, which was the salvation of the small talk, as my thoughts were elsewhere, Paul was so icy and withdrawn that he forsook even his habitual baiting of his father’s mental obliquity, and Katya was content to sit back and smile on the three men in turn, rather maternally and distantly, it seemed to me.
“So this is what my children do every afternoon while I toil in the service of Clio, is it? Sit about and drink tea. Prodigal. Well, I suppose it’s harmless enough. But you mustn’t let my ne’er-do-well offspring seduce you away
