won’t tell it.”
“Go ahead,” Rand said.
Michel smiled.
“Go ahead.”
“Two weeks ago, on an easy climb, he fell to his death.”
“Why don’t you talk about something you know?” Françoise complained.
“I said I knew nothing. That’s what makes it fascinating. I’m interested in the psychology of it. It’s a story of someone completely unlike me. I don’t have courage. I don’t have the slightest bit. Intelligence, that’s all.”
“Too much intelligence and not enough of something else,” she said.
“Here is a man with courage.” He indicated Rand. “He doesn’t like me. Look.”
“Oh, you are boring!” Françoise cried.
“Look, he wants to fight. He wants to take his fists and smash what he doesn’t like. That’s the American spirit.”
“Will you shut up?”
“Why don’t you hit me?” he challenged.
Rand stared at him.
“What’s wrong? Can’t you speak?”
“Oh, stop it,” Françoise said.
“But the story was true!” he called out as he was leaving. “You know that, don’t you? You see? He knows.”
20
“M ICHEL! M ICHEL IS A pede and a drunk. You should have thrown him into the street,” Colette Roberts said. She was having a hurried coffee before opening her shop. In the morning her face had a visible weariness like the city itself. The flat, winter light, the drabness.
“Michel is not even French,” she said. “He’s a Polish Jew. Your hair, you know, looks like the rumpled tail of a big rooster.”
He felt handsome in her presence, alive. She was like a mirror in which he saw himself perfectly. She knew how to manage things; she was not an amateur in life.
“Where is Catherin?” she asked.
“She had to go to the bank.”
“Come by and have a drink this evening. I have a friend coming from Nice.” Someone entering the bar greeted her. She turned to them, smiled. “I’m late,” she suddenly realized. “Come at six.” She dropped some coins on the counter. She was a woman who would never be down for long.
In the mornings he read, sitting near the window, a copy of the Tribune a day or two old. In the afternoon they went out.
The tunnels of the Métro were filled with slogans. The talk in the cafés was always political, fierce. On the kiosks were posters of scandal, exposé. France was like a great, quarreling family, the Algerians, the old women with their dogs, the people in restaurants, the police—a huge, bickering family bound eternally by hatred and blood.
There were afternoons of emerging soft-eyed from movies and walking past the gray vaults of the Montparnasse Cemetery, feet cold, to reach home. Afternoons when light snow was falling from nowhere and the city was blue as ice, the sound of traffic far off. Or in cafés, talking and watching the crowd. A woman in a green silk shirt sat alone at a nearby table. She was reading something taken from her handbag. A timetable. Suddenly her eyes opened wide. She was talking to herself, astonished. She rose, put on her coat, and ran out.
Secret afternoons, undisclosed. Silence sealing the windows. In the filtered light she seemed mythic, gleaming, as if for the first time the marvel of a body was revealed. She was wearing only her underpants. The blood was beating slowly in his neck. Samurai hours. The shutter of a camera clicked.
“Will they develop these?”
“Of course,” she said.
“I doubt it.”
She was sitting cross-legged on the bed when he came out of the bath, lazily playing solitaire. The kings and queens had names, the jacks were Hector, Lahire. He lay beside her, watching.
“Is this what they mean by wasting your life?”
“You’re joking,” she said.
Great as it was, the city could not sustain him. Faint in its streets, its chill, winter passages, came a lonely, haunting sound, small, incessant, something being chipped away bit by bit. The pale sky only made it louder. It was the sound of an ice ax, Cabot’s. It would not stop.
At four in the morning he
“Go ahead,” Rand said.
Michel smiled.
“Go ahead.”
“Two weeks ago, on an easy climb, he fell to his death.”
“Why don’t you talk about something you know?” Françoise complained.
“I said I knew nothing. That’s what makes it fascinating. I’m interested in the psychology of it. It’s a story of someone completely unlike me. I don’t have courage. I don’t have the slightest bit. Intelligence, that’s all.”
“Too much intelligence and not enough of something else,” she said.
“Here is a man with courage.” He indicated Rand. “He doesn’t like me. Look.”
“Oh, you are boring!” Françoise cried.
“Look, he wants to fight. He wants to take his fists and smash what he doesn’t like. That’s the American spirit.”
“Will you shut up?”
“Why don’t you hit me?” he challenged.
Rand stared at him.
“What’s wrong? Can’t you speak?”
“Oh, stop it,” Françoise said.
“But the story was true!” he called out as he was leaving. “You know that, don’t you? You see? He knows.”
20
“M ICHEL! M ICHEL IS A pede and a drunk. You should have thrown him into the street,” Colette Roberts said. She was having a hurried coffee before opening her shop. In the morning her face had a visible weariness like the city itself. The flat, winter light, the drabness.
“Michel is not even French,” she said. “He’s a Polish Jew. Your hair, you know, looks like the rumpled tail of a big rooster.”
He felt handsome in her presence, alive. She was like a mirror in which he saw himself perfectly. She knew how to manage things; she was not an amateur in life.
“Where is Catherin?” she asked.
“She had to go to the bank.”
“Come by and have a drink this evening. I have a friend coming from Nice.” Someone entering the bar greeted her. She turned to them, smiled. “I’m late,” she suddenly realized. “Come at six.” She dropped some coins on the counter. She was a woman who would never be down for long.
In the mornings he read, sitting near the window, a copy of the Tribune a day or two old. In the afternoon they went out.
The tunnels of the Métro were filled with slogans. The talk in the cafés was always political, fierce. On the kiosks were posters of scandal, exposé. France was like a great, quarreling family, the Algerians, the old women with their dogs, the people in restaurants, the police—a huge, bickering family bound eternally by hatred and blood.
There were afternoons of emerging soft-eyed from movies and walking past the gray vaults of the Montparnasse Cemetery, feet cold, to reach home. Afternoons when light snow was falling from nowhere and the city was blue as ice, the sound of traffic far off. Or in cafés, talking and watching the crowd. A woman in a green silk shirt sat alone at a nearby table. She was reading something taken from her handbag. A timetable. Suddenly her eyes opened wide. She was talking to herself, astonished. She rose, put on her coat, and ran out.
Secret afternoons, undisclosed. Silence sealing the windows. In the filtered light she seemed mythic, gleaming, as if for the first time the marvel of a body was revealed. She was wearing only her underpants. The blood was beating slowly in his neck. Samurai hours. The shutter of a camera clicked.
“Will they develop these?”
“Of course,” she said.
“I doubt it.”
She was sitting cross-legged on the bed when he came out of the bath, lazily playing solitaire. The kings and queens had names, the jacks were Hector, Lahire. He lay beside her, watching.
“Is this what they mean by wasting your life?”
“You’re joking,” she said.
Great as it was, the city could not sustain him. Faint in its streets, its chill, winter passages, came a lonely, haunting sound, small, incessant, something being chipped away bit by bit. The pale sky only made it louder. It was the sound of an ice ax, Cabot’s. It would not stop.
At four in the morning he
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