You played the flapper, but you had nothing of the flapper about you, neither the mop of hair nor the rayon stockings, much less the soul. You belonged to another category, you could even be in a novel by Drieu, maybe, or by Pérez Galdós. You had a tragic, sense of life, perhaps it was your insuperable selfishness, like a condemnation. And then I began, amid the impatience that had already begun to manifest itself. Gino avoided serving in order not to disturb. Only the voice of Tony Bennett and the lapping of the Mediterranean could be heard.
On the pleasant shore of the French Riviera, about half way between Marseillesand the Italian border, stands a large, proud, rose-colored hotel. Deferential palms cool its flushed facade, and before it stretches a short dazzling beach. Lately it has become a summer resort of notable and fashionable people; a decade ago it was almost deserted after its English clientele went north in April
… .
Inevitably Bishop went to change the record. The sickly sweet tones of Cole Porter’s songs swept over us. Bishop was crazy about him. She thought that Cole Porter suited Fitzgerald. Or else she put on Nat King Cole singing
Quizás, quizás, quizás
. Anyway, I liked King Cole’s song, too. I felt it concerned me. It caused in me a slight melancholy.
Siempre que te pregunto, que cómo dóndey quándo
. … I tried to go on. All of you looked past me at the sea and the lights of the coast.
In the early morning the distant image of Cannes, the pink and cream of old fortifications, the purple Alps that bounded Italy, were cast across the water and lay quavering in the ripples and rings sent up by sea-plants through the clear shallows
… . But something hindered me. My voice was uncertain, I heard it. Why did it pain me to go on? Was it perhaps the evening? Was it the lights of the coast? Was it Nat King Cole? I stared at the twilight,
y asi passando el dia, y yo, desesperado
… You could at least have made a gesture of agreement. But no, you looked at me as calmly as the others, as if you didn’t know that
all that
concerned me. I go well through the night, right, Martine? I told you with my eyes, for a few nocturnal moments, and then you go to sleep and sleep, sleep, sleep. The wind blows the awnings. There are lights down there on the coast … But the day, what is your Perri during the day? He’s the character in a little game, the figurine in a story.
Enough. I had no wish to recite anymore, the others also had no wish to stay to listen to me. The game was open. That beginning was enough for openers. Now Bishop was aware of Rosemary Hoyt involved in dancing a slow,
very
sentimentaldance. I agree that she wasn’t eighteen years old any longer and in the water she wasn’t capable of Rosemary’s “sharp little crawl,” but what did that matter? It was all too mixed up. Rosemary danced with Tom Barban, who should have danced with you, but this would have happened tomorrow evening, maybe. For that evening the roles were assigned, and Mr. Deluxe was perfectly suited to the part of the adventurous, dissatisfied ex-aviator, not bad at all, moreover, maybe a little too distinguished for a legionnaire, too well-nourished. As for the other two, you didn’t need much imagination to place them. They were so irrelevant and therefore so interchangeable, the handsome Brady and his blonde. And as for you, yes, you were a splendid Nicole. You did her perfectly. You looked like Lauren Bacall, your Tom Barban said. I heard him whisper it to you. What a pain. And his clumsy attempts to hide with the edge of his jacket his erection visible under his linen pants? Intolerable. But he was Tom Barban, the legionnaire. Legionnaires are very virile, you know, dancing with a lady who looks like Lauren Bacall.
But I, who was I? I wasn’t Dick, even if I had his role—in real life, I mean. And I wasn’t Abe North either, no, in spite of my old novel. I would never have known how to write another, even if
On the pleasant shore of the French Riviera, about half way between Marseillesand the Italian border, stands a large, proud, rose-colored hotel. Deferential palms cool its flushed facade, and before it stretches a short dazzling beach. Lately it has become a summer resort of notable and fashionable people; a decade ago it was almost deserted after its English clientele went north in April
… .
Inevitably Bishop went to change the record. The sickly sweet tones of Cole Porter’s songs swept over us. Bishop was crazy about him. She thought that Cole Porter suited Fitzgerald. Or else she put on Nat King Cole singing
Quizás, quizás, quizás
. Anyway, I liked King Cole’s song, too. I felt it concerned me. It caused in me a slight melancholy.
Siempre que te pregunto, que cómo dóndey quándo
. … I tried to go on. All of you looked past me at the sea and the lights of the coast.
In the early morning the distant image of Cannes, the pink and cream of old fortifications, the purple Alps that bounded Italy, were cast across the water and lay quavering in the ripples and rings sent up by sea-plants through the clear shallows
… . But something hindered me. My voice was uncertain, I heard it. Why did it pain me to go on? Was it perhaps the evening? Was it the lights of the coast? Was it Nat King Cole? I stared at the twilight,
y asi passando el dia, y yo, desesperado
… You could at least have made a gesture of agreement. But no, you looked at me as calmly as the others, as if you didn’t know that
all that
concerned me. I go well through the night, right, Martine? I told you with my eyes, for a few nocturnal moments, and then you go to sleep and sleep, sleep, sleep. The wind blows the awnings. There are lights down there on the coast … But the day, what is your Perri during the day? He’s the character in a little game, the figurine in a story.
Enough. I had no wish to recite anymore, the others also had no wish to stay to listen to me. The game was open. That beginning was enough for openers. Now Bishop was aware of Rosemary Hoyt involved in dancing a slow,
very
sentimentaldance. I agree that she wasn’t eighteen years old any longer and in the water she wasn’t capable of Rosemary’s “sharp little crawl,” but what did that matter? It was all too mixed up. Rosemary danced with Tom Barban, who should have danced with you, but this would have happened tomorrow evening, maybe. For that evening the roles were assigned, and Mr. Deluxe was perfectly suited to the part of the adventurous, dissatisfied ex-aviator, not bad at all, moreover, maybe a little too distinguished for a legionnaire, too well-nourished. As for the other two, you didn’t need much imagination to place them. They were so irrelevant and therefore so interchangeable, the handsome Brady and his blonde. And as for you, yes, you were a splendid Nicole. You did her perfectly. You looked like Lauren Bacall, your Tom Barban said. I heard him whisper it to you. What a pain. And his clumsy attempts to hide with the edge of his jacket his erection visible under his linen pants? Intolerable. But he was Tom Barban, the legionnaire. Legionnaires are very virile, you know, dancing with a lady who looks like Lauren Bacall.
But I, who was I? I wasn’t Dick, even if I had his role—in real life, I mean. And I wasn’t Abe North either, no, in spite of my old novel. I would never have known how to write another, even if
Similar Books
