monsieur et madame, mister, missis and miss, I am trying so hard to be like you. I know I don't succeed, but look how hard I try. Three hours to choose a hat; every morning an hour and a half trying to make myself look like everybody else. Every word I say has chains round its ankles; every thought I think is weighted with heavy weights. Since I was born, hasn't every word I've said, every thought I've thought, everything I've done, been tied up, weighted, chained? And, mind you, I know that with all this I don't succeed. Or I succeed in flashes only too damned well....But think how hard I try and how seldom I dare. Think - and have a bit of pity. That is, if you ever think, you apes, which I doubt. Now the waiter has finished telling me how to get to the nearest cinema.
'Another Pernod,' I say.
He brings it. He fills my glass almost to the brim, perhaps in anticipation of another tip, perhaps because he wants to see me drunk as soon as possible, or perhaps because the bottle slipped.
The girl comes out with the last lot of glasses. I'm glad. It has just occurred to me that if I weren't here the door of her coffin might be kept open. Might be. Not that I would have gone away if it had occurred to me before. Why should I? The hands that sing the Marseillaise, the world that could be so different - what's all that to me? What can I do about it? Nothing. I don't deceive myself.
That's settled. I can start on the second Pernod.
Now the feeling of the room is different. They all know what I am. I'm a woman come in here to get drunk. That happens sometimes. They have a dink, these women, and then they have another and then they start crying silently. And then they go into the lavabo and then they come out - powdered, but with hollow eyes - and, head down, slink into the street.
'Poor woman, she has tears in her eyes.'
'What do you expect? Elle a bu.'
That's it, chere madame, I'm drunk. I have drunk. There's nothing to be done about it now. I have drunk. But otherwise quiet, fearful, tamed, prepared to give big tips. (I'll give a big tip if you'll leave me alone.) Bon, bien, bien, bon....
Sometimes somebody comes in for stamps, or a man for a drink. Then you can see outside into the street. And the street walks in. It is one of those streets - dark, powerful, magical....
'Oh, there you are,' it says, walking in at the door, 'there you are. Where have you been all this long time?'
Nobody else knows me, but the street knows me.
'And there you are,' I say, finishing my Pernod and rather drunk. 'Salut, salut!' (But sometimes it was sunny....Walking along in the sun in a gay dress, striped red and blue....i won't walk along that street again.)
The Cinema Danton. Watching a good young man trying to rescue his employer from a mercenary mistress. The employer is a gay, bad old boy who manufactures toilet articles. The good young man has the awkwardness, the smugness, the shyness, the pathos of good young men. He interrupts intimate conversations, knocking loudly, binging in letters and parcels, etcetera, etcetera. At last the lady, annoyed, gets up and sweeps away. She turns at the door to say: 'Alors, bien, je te laisse a tes suppositoires.' Everybody laughs loudly at this, and so do I. She said that well.
The film goes on and on. After many vicissitudes, the good young man is triumphant. He has permission to propose to his employer's daughter. He is waiting on the bank of a large pond, with a ring that he is going to offer her ready in his waistcoat pocket. He takes it out to make sure that he has it. Mad with happiness, he strides up and down the shores of the pond, gesticulating. He makes too wild a gesture. The ring lies from his hand into the middle of the pond. He takes of his trousers; he wades out. He has to get the ring back; he must get it back.
Exactly the sort of thing that happens to me. I laugh till the tears come into my eyes. However, the film shows no signs of stopping, so I get up and go out.
Another Pernod
'Another Pernod,' I say.
He brings it. He fills my glass almost to the brim, perhaps in anticipation of another tip, perhaps because he wants to see me drunk as soon as possible, or perhaps because the bottle slipped.
The girl comes out with the last lot of glasses. I'm glad. It has just occurred to me that if I weren't here the door of her coffin might be kept open. Might be. Not that I would have gone away if it had occurred to me before. Why should I? The hands that sing the Marseillaise, the world that could be so different - what's all that to me? What can I do about it? Nothing. I don't deceive myself.
That's settled. I can start on the second Pernod.
Now the feeling of the room is different. They all know what I am. I'm a woman come in here to get drunk. That happens sometimes. They have a dink, these women, and then they have another and then they start crying silently. And then they go into the lavabo and then they come out - powdered, but with hollow eyes - and, head down, slink into the street.
'Poor woman, she has tears in her eyes.'
'What do you expect? Elle a bu.'
That's it, chere madame, I'm drunk. I have drunk. There's nothing to be done about it now. I have drunk. But otherwise quiet, fearful, tamed, prepared to give big tips. (I'll give a big tip if you'll leave me alone.) Bon, bien, bien, bon....
Sometimes somebody comes in for stamps, or a man for a drink. Then you can see outside into the street. And the street walks in. It is one of those streets - dark, powerful, magical....
'Oh, there you are,' it says, walking in at the door, 'there you are. Where have you been all this long time?'
Nobody else knows me, but the street knows me.
'And there you are,' I say, finishing my Pernod and rather drunk. 'Salut, salut!' (But sometimes it was sunny....Walking along in the sun in a gay dress, striped red and blue....i won't walk along that street again.)
The Cinema Danton. Watching a good young man trying to rescue his employer from a mercenary mistress. The employer is a gay, bad old boy who manufactures toilet articles. The good young man has the awkwardness, the smugness, the shyness, the pathos of good young men. He interrupts intimate conversations, knocking loudly, binging in letters and parcels, etcetera, etcetera. At last the lady, annoyed, gets up and sweeps away. She turns at the door to say: 'Alors, bien, je te laisse a tes suppositoires.' Everybody laughs loudly at this, and so do I. She said that well.
The film goes on and on. After many vicissitudes, the good young man is triumphant. He has permission to propose to his employer's daughter. He is waiting on the bank of a large pond, with a ring that he is going to offer her ready in his waistcoat pocket. He takes it out to make sure that he has it. Mad with happiness, he strides up and down the shores of the pond, gesticulating. He makes too wild a gesture. The ring lies from his hand into the middle of the pond. He takes of his trousers; he wades out. He has to get the ring back; he must get it back.
Exactly the sort of thing that happens to me. I laugh till the tears come into my eyes. However, the film shows no signs of stopping, so I get up and go out.
Another Pernod
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