had spent her whole life, acted on me like an aphrodisiac. My weary senses, my secret longing to have the bed to myself, all vanished. I didn’t spend a single night at home. I was in a blazing hurry, like someone who is going to die young and thus works twice as hard. I wanted to have the best from Marthe before motherhood ruined her.
Her childhood bedroom, which she had denied to Jacques, became our room. I enjoyed seeing the picture above the single bed of her at her first communion. I also made her look at another one of herself, as a baby, so that our child would be like her. Enchanted, I wandered round this house where she had been born and had blossomed. In a boxroom I found her cradle, which I wanted her to use, and made her get out her vests, her tiny little knickers, all Grangier family heirlooms.
I didn’t miss her apartment in J …, where the furnishings lacked the charm of even the most unsightly family furniture. It had nothing to teach me. Yet here, all this furniture, on which Marthe must have bumped her head when she was small, reminded me of her. Not only that,but we were alone, without town councillors or landlords. We behaved no better than savages, we walked around the garden, a true desert island, virtually naked. We lay on the lawn, had tea under an arbour covered with clematis, honeysuckle and Virginia creeper. We fought over bruised plums that I picked up still warm with sun, each holding one end in our mouth. My father had never managed to get me to do any work in the garden at home like my brothers did, yet I took care of Marthe’s. I raked, I weeded. In the evening after a hot day, I felt the same exhilarating manly pride from quenching the thirst of the soil and the parched flowers as I did from satisfying the desires of a woman. I had always regarded happiness as foolish—I now realised just how powerful it was. Thanks to my care and attention the flowers bloomed, the chickens dozed in the shade when I’d thrown them some seed—just kindness?—just selfishness! Dead flowers and thin chickens would have brought sadness to our island of love. The water and seed I gave them was intended more for myself than for flowers and chickens.
With this renewed love, I either forgot or disregarded what I had recently learnt. I took the promiscuity that was incited by being at this family house for the end of promiscuity. So the last week of August and the month of September were my only time of real happiness. I didn’t cheat, I didn’t hurt myself or Marthe. I couldn’t see any more obstacles. At the age of sixteen I contemplated a way of life that people wish for in their maturity. We would live in the country; we would be for ever young.
Lying beside her on the lawn, stroking her face with ablade of grass, slowly and deliberately I described to Marthe what our life would be. Since her return, Marthe had been looking for an apartment for us in Paris. When I announced that I wanted to live in the country, her eyes brimmed with tears: “I’d never have dared suggest it,” she said. “I thought you’d be bored all on your own with me, that you needed to be in a town.” “You don’t know me very well,” I replied. I would have liked to live near Mandres, where we had once gone for a walk, and where cultivators grow roses. It so happened that I had smelt these roses since then, when Marthe and I had been out for dinner in Paris and caught the last train back. In the station forecourt, labourers were unloading enormous crates which filled the air with perfume. When I was a child I had often heard about the mysterious train full of roses that went past while children were asleep.
But Marthe said: “Roses only flower for a short time. After that, aren’t you afraid you might think Mandres was ugly? Wouldn’t it be more sensible to find somewhere that isn’t as beautiful, but which has just as much charm?”
I had to admit she had a point. My longing to enjoy the roses for two months of
Her childhood bedroom, which she had denied to Jacques, became our room. I enjoyed seeing the picture above the single bed of her at her first communion. I also made her look at another one of herself, as a baby, so that our child would be like her. Enchanted, I wandered round this house where she had been born and had blossomed. In a boxroom I found her cradle, which I wanted her to use, and made her get out her vests, her tiny little knickers, all Grangier family heirlooms.
I didn’t miss her apartment in J …, where the furnishings lacked the charm of even the most unsightly family furniture. It had nothing to teach me. Yet here, all this furniture, on which Marthe must have bumped her head when she was small, reminded me of her. Not only that,but we were alone, without town councillors or landlords. We behaved no better than savages, we walked around the garden, a true desert island, virtually naked. We lay on the lawn, had tea under an arbour covered with clematis, honeysuckle and Virginia creeper. We fought over bruised plums that I picked up still warm with sun, each holding one end in our mouth. My father had never managed to get me to do any work in the garden at home like my brothers did, yet I took care of Marthe’s. I raked, I weeded. In the evening after a hot day, I felt the same exhilarating manly pride from quenching the thirst of the soil and the parched flowers as I did from satisfying the desires of a woman. I had always regarded happiness as foolish—I now realised just how powerful it was. Thanks to my care and attention the flowers bloomed, the chickens dozed in the shade when I’d thrown them some seed—just kindness?—just selfishness! Dead flowers and thin chickens would have brought sadness to our island of love. The water and seed I gave them was intended more for myself than for flowers and chickens.
With this renewed love, I either forgot or disregarded what I had recently learnt. I took the promiscuity that was incited by being at this family house for the end of promiscuity. So the last week of August and the month of September were my only time of real happiness. I didn’t cheat, I didn’t hurt myself or Marthe. I couldn’t see any more obstacles. At the age of sixteen I contemplated a way of life that people wish for in their maturity. We would live in the country; we would be for ever young.
Lying beside her on the lawn, stroking her face with ablade of grass, slowly and deliberately I described to Marthe what our life would be. Since her return, Marthe had been looking for an apartment for us in Paris. When I announced that I wanted to live in the country, her eyes brimmed with tears: “I’d never have dared suggest it,” she said. “I thought you’d be bored all on your own with me, that you needed to be in a town.” “You don’t know me very well,” I replied. I would have liked to live near Mandres, where we had once gone for a walk, and where cultivators grow roses. It so happened that I had smelt these roses since then, when Marthe and I had been out for dinner in Paris and caught the last train back. In the station forecourt, labourers were unloading enormous crates which filled the air with perfume. When I was a child I had often heard about the mysterious train full of roses that went past while children were asleep.
But Marthe said: “Roses only flower for a short time. After that, aren’t you afraid you might think Mandres was ugly? Wouldn’t it be more sensible to find somewhere that isn’t as beautiful, but which has just as much charm?”
I had to admit she had a point. My longing to enjoy the roses for two months of
Similar Books
