burst out laughing, then suddenly she throws herself back and claws at his hands.
"It isn't true, it isn't true."
He says, in a considered way:
"Listen to me, my pet, will you; since he said so himself. If it weren't true why should he have said it?"
"No, no."
"But he said so: listen, suppose . . ."
She began to laugh:
"I'm laughing because I'm thinking about ReneV'
"Yes."
He laughs too. She goes on in a low, earnest voice:
"So he noticed it Tuesday."
"Thursday."
"No, Tuesday, you know because of the . . ."
She sketches a sort of ellipsis in the air.
A long silence. The husband dips his bread in the gravy, Mariette changes the plates and brings them tart. I too shall
49want a tart. Suddenly the woman, a little dreamy, with a proud and somewhat shocked smile on her lips, says in a slow, dragging voice:
"Oh no, now come."
There is so much sensuality in her voice that it stirs him: he strokes the back of her neck with his fat hand.
"Charles, stop, you're getting me excited, darling," she murmurs, smiling, her mouth full.
I try to go back to my reading:
'Where do you want me to get it?"
"Buy some."
"And if Monsieur sees me?"
But I still hear the woman, she says:
"Say, I'm going to make Marthe laugh, I'm going to tell her . . ."
My neighbours are silent. After the tart, Mariette serves them prunes and the woman is busy, gracefully laying stones in her spoon. The husband staring at the ceiling, taps out a rhythm on the table. You might think that silence was their normal state and speech a fever that sometimes takes them.
"Where do you want me to get it?"
"Buy some."
I close the book. I'm going out for a walk.
It was almost three o'clock when I came out of the Brasserie vezelise; I felt the afternoon all through my heavy body. Not my afternoon, but theirs, the one a hundred thousand Bouvillois were going to live in common. At this same time, after the long and copious Sunday meal, they were getting up from the table, for them something had died. Sunday had spent its fleeting youth. You had to digest the chicken and the tart, get dressed to go out.
The bell of the Cine-Eldorado resounded in the clear air. This is a familiar Sunday noise, this ringing in broad daylight. More than a hundred people were lined up along the green wall. They were greedily awaiting the hour of soft shadows, of relaxation, abandon, the hour when the screen, glowing like a white stone under water, would speak and dream for them. Vain desire: something would stay, taut in them: they were too afraid someone would spoil their lovely Sunday. Soon, as every Sunday, they would be disappointed: the film would be ridiculous, their neighbour would be smoking a pipe and spitting between his knees or else Lucien would be disagreeable, he wouldn't have a
50
decent word to say, or else, as if on purpose, just for today, for the one time they went to the movies their intercostal neuralgia would start up again. Soon, as on every Sunday, small, mute rages would grow in the darkened hall.
I followed the calm Rue Bressan. The sun had broken through the clouds, it was a fine day. A family had just come out of a villa called "The Wave." The daughter was buttoning her gloves, standing on the pavement. She could have been about thirty. The mother, planted on the first step, was looking straight ahead with an assured air, breathing heavily. I could only see the enormous back of the father. Bent over the keyhole, he was closing the door and locking it. The house would remain black and empty till they got back. In the neighbouring houses, already bolted and deserted, the floor and furniture creaked gently. Before going out they had put out the fire in the dining-room fireplace. The father rejoins the two women, and the family walks away without a word. Where were they going? On Sunday you go to the memorial cemetery or you visit your parents, or, if you're completely free, you go for a walk along the jetty. I was free: I followed the Rue Bressan which
"It isn't true, it isn't true."
He says, in a considered way:
"Listen to me, my pet, will you; since he said so himself. If it weren't true why should he have said it?"
"No, no."
"But he said so: listen, suppose . . ."
She began to laugh:
"I'm laughing because I'm thinking about ReneV'
"Yes."
He laughs too. She goes on in a low, earnest voice:
"So he noticed it Tuesday."
"Thursday."
"No, Tuesday, you know because of the . . ."
She sketches a sort of ellipsis in the air.
A long silence. The husband dips his bread in the gravy, Mariette changes the plates and brings them tart. I too shall
49want a tart. Suddenly the woman, a little dreamy, with a proud and somewhat shocked smile on her lips, says in a slow, dragging voice:
"Oh no, now come."
There is so much sensuality in her voice that it stirs him: he strokes the back of her neck with his fat hand.
"Charles, stop, you're getting me excited, darling," she murmurs, smiling, her mouth full.
I try to go back to my reading:
'Where do you want me to get it?"
"Buy some."
"And if Monsieur sees me?"
But I still hear the woman, she says:
"Say, I'm going to make Marthe laugh, I'm going to tell her . . ."
My neighbours are silent. After the tart, Mariette serves them prunes and the woman is busy, gracefully laying stones in her spoon. The husband staring at the ceiling, taps out a rhythm on the table. You might think that silence was their normal state and speech a fever that sometimes takes them.
"Where do you want me to get it?"
"Buy some."
I close the book. I'm going out for a walk.
It was almost three o'clock when I came out of the Brasserie vezelise; I felt the afternoon all through my heavy body. Not my afternoon, but theirs, the one a hundred thousand Bouvillois were going to live in common. At this same time, after the long and copious Sunday meal, they were getting up from the table, for them something had died. Sunday had spent its fleeting youth. You had to digest the chicken and the tart, get dressed to go out.
The bell of the Cine-Eldorado resounded in the clear air. This is a familiar Sunday noise, this ringing in broad daylight. More than a hundred people were lined up along the green wall. They were greedily awaiting the hour of soft shadows, of relaxation, abandon, the hour when the screen, glowing like a white stone under water, would speak and dream for them. Vain desire: something would stay, taut in them: they were too afraid someone would spoil their lovely Sunday. Soon, as every Sunday, they would be disappointed: the film would be ridiculous, their neighbour would be smoking a pipe and spitting between his knees or else Lucien would be disagreeable, he wouldn't have a
50
decent word to say, or else, as if on purpose, just for today, for the one time they went to the movies their intercostal neuralgia would start up again. Soon, as on every Sunday, small, mute rages would grow in the darkened hall.
I followed the calm Rue Bressan. The sun had broken through the clouds, it was a fine day. A family had just come out of a villa called "The Wave." The daughter was buttoning her gloves, standing on the pavement. She could have been about thirty. The mother, planted on the first step, was looking straight ahead with an assured air, breathing heavily. I could only see the enormous back of the father. Bent over the keyhole, he was closing the door and locking it. The house would remain black and empty till they got back. In the neighbouring houses, already bolted and deserted, the floor and furniture creaked gently. Before going out they had put out the fire in the dining-room fireplace. The father rejoins the two women, and the family walks away without a word. Where were they going? On Sunday you go to the memorial cemetery or you visit your parents, or, if you're completely free, you go for a walk along the jetty. I was free: I followed the Rue Bressan which
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