said:
'I'm going to get something to drink to warm me up ...'
'At the buffet?'
'No. You can't get anything decent at a buffet. I think I saw an American bar not far from here ...'
'You don't know Nantes?'
'I arrived this morning ..
'Are you going to stay long at La Roche?'
'Perhaps for years, perhaps for ever. That will depend on your friend M. Boquet.'
We were walking towards one of the doors, which I now held open for her.
'If you will allow me ...'
She did not bother to reply. Quite naturally we crossed the square together in the downpour, avoiding cars, hunching our shoulders, hastening our steps.
'Wait a minute; I arrived from this direction, didn't I? ... Then it's on the left ... near the corner of a street... There's a big sign in green lights...'
I could have gone back to the Gaillards for dinner, or to a dozen other friends who complained every time I came through Nantes without stopping to see them. I was not familiar with the bar she took me to, which was new: a narrow room, dimly lighted, with dark woodwork and high stools in front of the bar. It was the kind of place which did not yet exist in the provinces when I was a student, and I have never quite got used to them.
'Barman, a martini, please ...'
I'd much rather not talk about her as I saw her that evening, your Honour, but then you wouldn't understand, and my letter would be useless. It is difficult, I assure you, especially now.
Isn't it true, Martine, that it is difficult?
Because, you see, she was such a banal little thing. She was already perched on one of the stools, and one felt that she was at home there, that it was an old habit, that together with the more or less luxurious setting it formed a part of her conception of life.
The cigarette too. She had hardly finished the first one when she lighted another, once more staining it with her lipstick, and turned to the barman, half closing her eyes because of the smoke (I have always hated women who made faces when they smoked).
'Not too much gin for me.. .'
She asked for olives. She munched a clove. She had hardly closed her bag when she opened it again to take out her compact and lipstick.
I was irritated and resigned at the same time. Here's something else that will help you to understand. I love big dogs that are strong and conscious, quietly conscious, of their strength. I have a horror of those little dogs that are never still, that run around after their own tails and insist on attention all the time. Well, that evening she made me think of one of those little dogs.
She lived to be looked at. She must have thought herself very attractive. She did think so. I almost forgot that she herself told me so a little later.
'Is your friend Boquet the kind of man who sleeps with his secretary? I only met him once, by chance, and I didn't have time to ask him...'
I don't know what I answered. It was so stupid! Besides, she never waited for an answer. It was only what she said that interested her.
'I wonder what makes every man run after me. It isn't because I'm beautiful, because I'm not. It must be some kind of charm ...'
A charm which in any case did not work with me. Our glasses were empty, and I must have ordered fresh drinks unless the barman served us of his own accord.
She was thin, and I don't like thin women. She was very dark, and I have a preference for blondes. And she looked like a cover girl.
'Is La Roche nice?'
You see the kind of question.
'Is it boring?'
'Possibly ..
There were a few customers, not many, all habitués, as is always the case in places of that sort. And I have noticed that, in no matter what city, they are always the same physical type, dress alike and make use of the same vocabulary.
She looked at them, one after the other, and you felt that she could not live without being noticed.
'No really - he's getting on my nerves, that old codger.'
'Which one?'
'Over there in the left-hand corner. The one in that very light sport suit. In the first
'I'm going to get something to drink to warm me up ...'
'At the buffet?'
'No. You can't get anything decent at a buffet. I think I saw an American bar not far from here ...'
'You don't know Nantes?'
'I arrived this morning ..
'Are you going to stay long at La Roche?'
'Perhaps for years, perhaps for ever. That will depend on your friend M. Boquet.'
We were walking towards one of the doors, which I now held open for her.
'If you will allow me ...'
She did not bother to reply. Quite naturally we crossed the square together in the downpour, avoiding cars, hunching our shoulders, hastening our steps.
'Wait a minute; I arrived from this direction, didn't I? ... Then it's on the left ... near the corner of a street... There's a big sign in green lights...'
I could have gone back to the Gaillards for dinner, or to a dozen other friends who complained every time I came through Nantes without stopping to see them. I was not familiar with the bar she took me to, which was new: a narrow room, dimly lighted, with dark woodwork and high stools in front of the bar. It was the kind of place which did not yet exist in the provinces when I was a student, and I have never quite got used to them.
'Barman, a martini, please ...'
I'd much rather not talk about her as I saw her that evening, your Honour, but then you wouldn't understand, and my letter would be useless. It is difficult, I assure you, especially now.
Isn't it true, Martine, that it is difficult?
Because, you see, she was such a banal little thing. She was already perched on one of the stools, and one felt that she was at home there, that it was an old habit, that together with the more or less luxurious setting it formed a part of her conception of life.
The cigarette too. She had hardly finished the first one when she lighted another, once more staining it with her lipstick, and turned to the barman, half closing her eyes because of the smoke (I have always hated women who made faces when they smoked).
'Not too much gin for me.. .'
She asked for olives. She munched a clove. She had hardly closed her bag when she opened it again to take out her compact and lipstick.
I was irritated and resigned at the same time. Here's something else that will help you to understand. I love big dogs that are strong and conscious, quietly conscious, of their strength. I have a horror of those little dogs that are never still, that run around after their own tails and insist on attention all the time. Well, that evening she made me think of one of those little dogs.
She lived to be looked at. She must have thought herself very attractive. She did think so. I almost forgot that she herself told me so a little later.
'Is your friend Boquet the kind of man who sleeps with his secretary? I only met him once, by chance, and I didn't have time to ask him...'
I don't know what I answered. It was so stupid! Besides, she never waited for an answer. It was only what she said that interested her.
'I wonder what makes every man run after me. It isn't because I'm beautiful, because I'm not. It must be some kind of charm ...'
A charm which in any case did not work with me. Our glasses were empty, and I must have ordered fresh drinks unless the barman served us of his own accord.
She was thin, and I don't like thin women. She was very dark, and I have a preference for blondes. And she looked like a cover girl.
'Is La Roche nice?'
You see the kind of question.
'Is it boring?'
'Possibly ..
There were a few customers, not many, all habitués, as is always the case in places of that sort. And I have noticed that, in no matter what city, they are always the same physical type, dress alike and make use of the same vocabulary.
She looked at them, one after the other, and you felt that she could not live without being noticed.
'No really - he's getting on my nerves, that old codger.'
'Which one?'
'Over there in the left-hand corner. The one in that very light sport suit. In the first
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