One Damn Thing After Another by Nicolas Freeling

had learned to distrust reason and pay close heed to instinct.
    Certainly reason was no help at all, because who the hell could have any use for following her? No Germans or press people. She reviewed in her mind all the people she’d met recently. The only person she could find that seemed remotely likely was Sergeant Subleyras, and that likelihood, based on the supposition that the police did sometimes follow people, and perhaps skilfully enough sometimes not to be clumsy and obvious, was surely precious remote. She had, though, learned a lot over the past year of how devious people can be. The world, which is as simple as E=mc 2 , is as complicated as Henry James could make it. A great pest, said Arthur, but this is what gives us a living.
    The house was very dark, and the minuting of electricity so nicely adjusted that you were plunged into pitchy blackness as you opened the lift door, whereupon the light in the lift went out too, leaving you liable to be mugged, raped, and left in a huddled heap. Arlette searched crossly in her bag for a lighter. Since her bag as usual was stuffed with treasures which men – ha ha – called rubbish, and since a lighter, like a key, a pen, or anything else one wants in a hurry, is adept at hiding, she stayed in the dark long enough to get frightened. Suppose the follower were creeping soft-soled up the fire stairs … She cursed this idiotic performance, found the lighter; the lighter found her the electricity switch for the passage; the current lasted just long enough for her to find the number of Xavier’s door and went out. It was that kind of building, She found the bell-push with her finger, and pressed it. Xavier opened the door, shed light on everything, and was confused at finding her looking put-out. His profuse apologies put her much further out: she swallowed her malcontent.
    The ‘studio’ was fairly large, which meant old: they haveshrunk steadily in size as the years have gone by. Light, because the window was large, even though the street was both dingy and narrow. Neat, although there was too much furniture; consequence of having had a much larger flat. Clean, because Xavier had made a special effort. He had learned, and doubtless painfully, the arts of living alone in a studio flat, and how very difficult it is to get fresh vegetables, after once eating cabbage three days running and still having to throw half away. He’d never had a broom in his hand, or known what eau-de-javel is used for. There is nothing more helpless than the bourgeois male deprived of that necessary adjunct, the bourgeois female, who is so much tougher than he is.
    It was what Arlette had come to see. She felt heartened; Xavier had had that much resource. He was very stiff and pompous, and pathetically glad to see her.
    She wanted to finish with him quickly. This was not only from unworthy motives of feeling unable to charge him anything: self-respect would make him insist on paying her for her time. Collecting lame ducks wasn’t the thing: had she needed the lesson her years doing physiotherapy had taught her. She wasn’t a psychiatrist; nor was she a soup-kitchen. In order to be helped, people must help themselves. He mustn’t depend upon her: he’d be falling in love with her or something, which would be most unsuitable.
    So drinking coffee, and not about to jump-up-to-help with cups and stuff, she did her best to be pithy.
    â€œWhat did you say?” asked Arthur at suppertime that evening.
    â€œIf I’d been talking to you – English bourgeois man of literary leanings – I’d have said go read
Little Dorrit
– all about society.”
    â€œShaw said that after reading it, one could be nothing but a socialist; which is perfectly true.”
    â€œHe’s in the same position as Arthur Clennam.”
    â€œAnd if he doesn’t meet a little Dorrit, who are after all sadly rare.”
    â€œBut he’s likelier to