of the car, with its doors leading to the washroom and to the toilet. He opened the washroom door, surprising in a gentle embrace the Czech teacher, an austere woman in her fifties, and one of his classmates, who sat in the first row and whom Xavier haughtily scorned during his infrequent appearances in class. When they caught sight of him, the surprised lovers quickly moved apart and bent over the wash-stand, feverishly rubbing their hands under the trickle of water coming out of the faucet.
Xavier didn't want to disturb them, and he went back out to the front of the car; there he found himself face to face with the blond classmate, who fixed her big blue eyes on him; her lips were no longer moving, no longer singing the song about the canary, which Xavier had thought would never end. Ah, what naivete, he reflected, to believe in the existence of a song that never ends! As if everything here in this world, from the very beginning, has been anything other than betrayal!
Fortified by this thought, he took a look at the blond girl's eyes and knew that he must not take part in the rigged game in which the ephemeral passes for the eternal and the small for the big, that he must not take part in the rigged game called love. So he turned on his heels and went back into the little washroom in which the stocky Czech teacher was again planted in front of Xavier's schoolmate, her hands on his hips.
"Oh, no, please don't start washing your hands again," Xavier said to them. "It's my turn to wash my hands," and then he went discreetly past them, turned on the faucet, and bent over the washstand, seeking thus some relative solitude for himself and for the embarrassed lovers standing behind him. Then he heard the Czech teacher's urgent whisper: "Let's go next door," and the click of the door and the steps of two pairs of feet heading for the adjoining toilet. When he was alone, he leaned with satisfaction against the wall, abandoning himself to sweet reflections on the pettiness of love, to sweet reflections behind which gleamed two big imploring blue eyes.
7
Then the train stopped, a bugle call rang out, and there was a youthful din, banging and stamping; Xavier left his shelter and joined his schoolmates in their rush to the platform. And then the mountains, an enormous moon, and sparkling snow could be seen; they were walking in a night that was as clear as day. It was a long procession, in which the pairs of skis pointed upward like devotional accessories instead of crosses; like the symbol of a pair of fingers taking an oath.
It was a long procession, and Xavier walked along with his hands in his pockets because he was the only one without skis, the symbol of the oath; he walked and he listened to the remarks of his already tiring schoolmates; then he turned around and saw the blond girl, who was small and slender, stumbling in the rear and sinking into the snow under the weight of her skis, and when he turned around again a moment later he saw the old math teacher taking the skis from the girl and putting them on her shoulder along with her own and then taking the girl's arm in her free hand and helping her to walk. It was a sad scene, needy old age pitying needy youth; he looked at the scene and felt good.
After a while the sound of dance music reached them from afar, becoming gradually louder as they reached the restaurant surrounded by the wooden chalets in which the students would be staying. But Xavier had no room reservation, no skis to put away, no clothes to change into. So he went right into the dining room, where there was a dance floor, a band, and guests sitting at tables. He immediately noticed a woman in a thick, dark red sweater and ski pants; there were several men at her table with beer steins, but Xavier realized that the woman was elegant and proud, and that she was bored with them. He went over to her and asked her to dance.
They were the only dancers on the floor, and Xavier saw that the woman's
Xavier didn't want to disturb them, and he went back out to the front of the car; there he found himself face to face with the blond classmate, who fixed her big blue eyes on him; her lips were no longer moving, no longer singing the song about the canary, which Xavier had thought would never end. Ah, what naivete, he reflected, to believe in the existence of a song that never ends! As if everything here in this world, from the very beginning, has been anything other than betrayal!
Fortified by this thought, he took a look at the blond girl's eyes and knew that he must not take part in the rigged game in which the ephemeral passes for the eternal and the small for the big, that he must not take part in the rigged game called love. So he turned on his heels and went back into the little washroom in which the stocky Czech teacher was again planted in front of Xavier's schoolmate, her hands on his hips.
"Oh, no, please don't start washing your hands again," Xavier said to them. "It's my turn to wash my hands," and then he went discreetly past them, turned on the faucet, and bent over the washstand, seeking thus some relative solitude for himself and for the embarrassed lovers standing behind him. Then he heard the Czech teacher's urgent whisper: "Let's go next door," and the click of the door and the steps of two pairs of feet heading for the adjoining toilet. When he was alone, he leaned with satisfaction against the wall, abandoning himself to sweet reflections on the pettiness of love, to sweet reflections behind which gleamed two big imploring blue eyes.
7
Then the train stopped, a bugle call rang out, and there was a youthful din, banging and stamping; Xavier left his shelter and joined his schoolmates in their rush to the platform. And then the mountains, an enormous moon, and sparkling snow could be seen; they were walking in a night that was as clear as day. It was a long procession, in which the pairs of skis pointed upward like devotional accessories instead of crosses; like the symbol of a pair of fingers taking an oath.
It was a long procession, and Xavier walked along with his hands in his pockets because he was the only one without skis, the symbol of the oath; he walked and he listened to the remarks of his already tiring schoolmates; then he turned around and saw the blond girl, who was small and slender, stumbling in the rear and sinking into the snow under the weight of her skis, and when he turned around again a moment later he saw the old math teacher taking the skis from the girl and putting them on her shoulder along with her own and then taking the girl's arm in her free hand and helping her to walk. It was a sad scene, needy old age pitying needy youth; he looked at the scene and felt good.
After a while the sound of dance music reached them from afar, becoming gradually louder as they reached the restaurant surrounded by the wooden chalets in which the students would be staying. But Xavier had no room reservation, no skis to put away, no clothes to change into. So he went right into the dining room, where there was a dance floor, a band, and guests sitting at tables. He immediately noticed a woman in a thick, dark red sweater and ski pants; there were several men at her table with beer steins, but Xavier realized that the woman was elegant and proud, and that she was bored with them. He went over to her and asked her to dance.
They were the only dancers on the floor, and Xavier saw that the woman's
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