contact’ I had long hoped for was finally about to happen. I was sure of it. From the drawing-room drifted the muted voice of a tango singer:
A la luz del candil . . .
‘Shall we stretch our legs a little?’
‘Why not?’ you replied.
I gave a last glance towards the French window. The panes were misted and I could see only three large blots bathed in a yellowish fog. Perhaps they had fallen asleep . . .
A la luz del candil . . .
That song, snatches of which still reached me on the breeze at the far end of the driveway, puzzled me. Were we really in Seine-et-Marne or in some tropical country? San Salvador? Bahia Blanca? I opened the gate, tapped the bonnet of the Talbot. We had no need of it. In one stride, one great bound, we could be back in Paris. We floated along the main road, weightless.
‘Suppose they notice that you’ve given them the slip?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Coming from you, always so timid, so servile towards them, the remark astonished me . . . For the first time, you appeared relaxed. We had turned up the Chemin du Bornage. You were whistling and you even attempted a tango step; and I was fast succumbing to a suspicious state of euphoria. You said: ‘Come and take a tour of my house,’ as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
At this point, I realise I’m dreaming, and so I avoid any sudden gestures for fear of waking. We cross the overgrown garden, step into the hall and you double-lock the door. You nod towards various overcoats lying on the floor.
‘Put one on, it’s freezing here.’
It’s true. My teeth are chattering. You still don’t really know your way around because you have difficulty in finding the light-switch. A sofa, a few wing chairs, armchairs covered with dustsheets. There are several bulbs missing from the ceiling light. On a chest of drawers, between the two windows, a bunch of dried flowers. I presume that you usually avoid this room, but that tonight you wanted to do honour me. We stand there, both of us embarrassed. Finally you say:
‘Sit down, I’ll go and make some tea.’
I sit on one of the armchairs. The problem with dust covers is that you have to balance carefully so as not to slip. In front of me, three engravings of pastoral scenes in the eighteenth-century style. I can’t make out the details behind the dusty glass. I wait, and the faded décor reminds me of the dentist’s living room on the Rue de Penthièvre where I once sought refuge to avoid an identity check. The furniture was covered with dustsheets, like this. From the window, I watched the police cordon off the street, the police van was parked a little farther on. Neither the dentist nor the old woman who had opened the door to me showed any sign of life. Towards eleven o’clock that night, I crept out on tiptoe, and ran down the deserted street.
Now, we are sitting facing each other, and you are pouring me a cup of tea.
‘Earl Grey,’ you whisper.
We look very strange in our overcoats. Mine is a sort of camel-hair caftan, much too big. On the lapel of yours, I notice the rosette of the
Légion d’honneur
. It must have belonged to the owner of the house.
‘Perhaps you’d like some biscuits? I think there are some left.’
You open one of the dresser drawers.
‘Here, have one of these . . .’
Cream wafers called ‘Ploum-Plouvier’. You used to love these sickly pastries and we would buy them regularly at a baker’s on the Rue Vivienne. Nothing has really changed. Remember. We used to spend long evenings together in places just as bleak as this. The ‘living-room’ of 64 Avenue Félix-Faure with its cherry-wood furniture . . .
‘A little more tea?’
‘I’d love some.’
‘I’m so sorry, I haven’t got any lemon. Another Ploum?’
It’s a pity that, wrapped in our enormous overcoats, we insist on making polite conversation. We have so much to say to each other! What have you been doing, ‘papa’, these last ten years? Life hasn’t been
A la luz del candil . . .
‘Shall we stretch our legs a little?’
‘Why not?’ you replied.
I gave a last glance towards the French window. The panes were misted and I could see only three large blots bathed in a yellowish fog. Perhaps they had fallen asleep . . .
A la luz del candil . . .
That song, snatches of which still reached me on the breeze at the far end of the driveway, puzzled me. Were we really in Seine-et-Marne or in some tropical country? San Salvador? Bahia Blanca? I opened the gate, tapped the bonnet of the Talbot. We had no need of it. In one stride, one great bound, we could be back in Paris. We floated along the main road, weightless.
‘Suppose they notice that you’ve given them the slip?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Coming from you, always so timid, so servile towards them, the remark astonished me . . . For the first time, you appeared relaxed. We had turned up the Chemin du Bornage. You were whistling and you even attempted a tango step; and I was fast succumbing to a suspicious state of euphoria. You said: ‘Come and take a tour of my house,’ as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
At this point, I realise I’m dreaming, and so I avoid any sudden gestures for fear of waking. We cross the overgrown garden, step into the hall and you double-lock the door. You nod towards various overcoats lying on the floor.
‘Put one on, it’s freezing here.’
It’s true. My teeth are chattering. You still don’t really know your way around because you have difficulty in finding the light-switch. A sofa, a few wing chairs, armchairs covered with dustsheets. There are several bulbs missing from the ceiling light. On a chest of drawers, between the two windows, a bunch of dried flowers. I presume that you usually avoid this room, but that tonight you wanted to do honour me. We stand there, both of us embarrassed. Finally you say:
‘Sit down, I’ll go and make some tea.’
I sit on one of the armchairs. The problem with dust covers is that you have to balance carefully so as not to slip. In front of me, three engravings of pastoral scenes in the eighteenth-century style. I can’t make out the details behind the dusty glass. I wait, and the faded décor reminds me of the dentist’s living room on the Rue de Penthièvre where I once sought refuge to avoid an identity check. The furniture was covered with dustsheets, like this. From the window, I watched the police cordon off the street, the police van was parked a little farther on. Neither the dentist nor the old woman who had opened the door to me showed any sign of life. Towards eleven o’clock that night, I crept out on tiptoe, and ran down the deserted street.
Now, we are sitting facing each other, and you are pouring me a cup of tea.
‘Earl Grey,’ you whisper.
We look very strange in our overcoats. Mine is a sort of camel-hair caftan, much too big. On the lapel of yours, I notice the rosette of the
Légion d’honneur
. It must have belonged to the owner of the house.
‘Perhaps you’d like some biscuits? I think there are some left.’
You open one of the dresser drawers.
‘Here, have one of these . . .’
Cream wafers called ‘Ploum-Plouvier’. You used to love these sickly pastries and we would buy them regularly at a baker’s on the Rue Vivienne. Nothing has really changed. Remember. We used to spend long evenings together in places just as bleak as this. The ‘living-room’ of 64 Avenue Félix-Faure with its cherry-wood furniture . . .
‘A little more tea?’
‘I’d love some.’
‘I’m so sorry, I haven’t got any lemon. Another Ploum?’
It’s a pity that, wrapped in our enormous overcoats, we insist on making polite conversation. We have so much to say to each other! What have you been doing, ‘papa’, these last ten years? Life hasn’t been
Similar Books
