convalescence in her face. Finally he turns to go, but at the door her voice stops him. Yes? Turn out the light, she says. He does. Like Lucifer, he creates darkness and he descends.
[9]
I SEE MYSELF AS an
I am the pursuer. The essence of that is I am the one who knows while Dean does not, but still it is far from even. To begin with, no matter what I do, I can never uncover everything. That alone is enough to make him triumph. I can never anticipate; it is he who moves first. I am only the servant of life. He is an inhabitant. And above all, I cannot confront him, I cannot even imagine such a thing. The reason is simple: I am afraid of him, of all men who are successful in love. That is the source of his power.
She was waiting for him at six. It was already dark, and they drove through the thrilling streets, past shops that were open late, their windows alight. She goes up to get her things, including her little radio, and they drive to St. Leger, a small factory town, her town. Her house is by the canal. There they park and Dean waits for her in the car. A fine rain is falling. Men are still walking home from work, whistling, along the dark street. He cannot see them. Their voices arrive unexpectedly, like those in a church. He sits quietly. He listens to them cough, go by, and then gets out to walk along the bank of the canal. Bicycles pass. Some girls or women, he cannot tell, stop to look at the car. They are trying to see inside—he can make out the tableau by streetlight—their bicycles held upright in one hand, the metal of the hood glistening with points of rain. The rest of it, the long elegant line, is lost to shadow. Suddenly they turn towards the house where the door has just opened. Fluorescent light spills out and the murmur of voices. He hurries to meet her at the car.
She’s told her mother everything, she announces as they drive off.
“Everything?” he says.
“
They drive for a while in silence, coming to the main road.
“Eh, what did she say, your mother?” he asks.
“
“What?”
She shrugs. She doesn’t know how to explain it.
“
In Troyes they stop at her old hotel to ask if she has any mail. He can see her through the glass doors. They hand something to her, a single letter which, as she comes out, she puts in her handbag without reading.
They have dinner in the Brasserie Lorraine. An old dachshund, his paws turned white, sits by the bar. Sometimes he wanders among the tables or goes to the door and barks to go out. A waiter opens it for him. When he comes in again, he lies down with moans. Hesitations. At the end, a sigh. One can hear him breathing.
In every respect a wonderful dinner. She is talkative and happy. The food seems spread around her like vegetables to a roast. She is simply the living portion of the meal, and she smiles at his appetite which embraces her with glances.
Outside, in the small
The rain passes. There are scattered clouds with the moon behind them. The sky is brighter than the land. Annie is sleeping, curled up in the leather seat. He wakes her as they enter Paris. They drive along the river through light traffic and then down Rue de Rivoli, her favorite. She watches the passage of the long, immaculate arcades like a tourist. Then she takes out a mirror to inspect her face.
There is no difficulty. A porter takes them upstairs and along the corridors, the carpet creaking beneath their feet. He has the key in his hand. They come to the door. He inserts it. They wait behind him. The lock rattles. At last the room is revealed. It is classical and large. The objects within it, their arrangement, the colors all seem as if they have been together a long time, assembled by use. There is nothing recent or frivolous. A huge bed at which Dean quickly glances. Windows admitting streetlight. Mirrors. Chairs. A large bathroom in which the heat seems on.
He goes down to park the car. Finding a place is difficult. He cruises along the narrow streets. He doesn’t want to just leave it in a driveway. When he comes back, she is combing her hair. Except for a pair of the cheap, black panties one finds on the counters in Monoprix, she is naked. She smiles at him, a little stiffly, a little uncertain.
The water is running. In the bathroom he turns her around admiringly. She is very complaisant with all her clothes off. She moves readily to his touch. She’s quite beautiful. Slim. A bit of dark hair between her legs. They stand beneath the shower. He nestles himself flat in the meeting of her buttocks. An excruciating
He has wrapped her in an enormous towel, soft as a robe, and carried her to the bed. They lie across it diagonally, and he begins to draw the towel apart with care, to remove it as if it were a bandage. Her flesh appears, still smelling a little of soap. His hands float onto her. The sum of small acts begins to unite them, the pure calculus of love. He feels himself enter. Her last breath—it is almost a sigh—leaves her. Her white throat appears.
When it is over she falls asleep without a word. Dean lies beside her. The real France, he is thinking. The real France. He is lost in it, in the smell of the very sheets. The next morning they do it again. Grey light, it’s very early. Her breath is bad.
I cannot follow them through the city that day, through the December streets, avenues as bitter as the steppes. They have only a little money, I know that. They shop all afternoon and buy nothing. Then, tired of walking, they return to the hotel. Dean has to go on an errand—he needs a part for the car, he explains. Actually it’s a visit to the Vendome where his father is staying. He needs money.
“Money? My boy, certain large banks excepted, that is the single great need common to us all.”
He’s a drama critic. He has a fine, sable beard, carefully trimmed. His clothes are always beautiful. He is wearing a blue, batiste shirt that seems not to touch him anywhere except at the neck and wrists which he is buttoning, a shirt that encircles him with an elegant slimness.
“Money,” he says. “Of course. I share that need. Listen, are you coming to dinner with us?”
He is dressing to go out with friends. They’re all very clever. Long, amusing stories, usually irreverent. The women are as witty as the men. Saturday evening. The small cups are refilled with coffee. The Gauloise smoke ascends.
On the chair there are phonograph records. On the desk, fresh books. On the bureau, three leather watch-