ça?'
'Je ne sais pas, Monsieur.'
Why not? Hendricks thought; she can bloody well know if it rains at Rouen since she lives there, for God's sake; she doesn't have to be a complete imbecile. 'June,' he said, stamping into his wife's room, 'get another maid, get someone pretty, put her in a blue uniform for a change.'
'Matthew, what is the matter with you?' Puffy-eyed, June stared at him over her breakfast tray, her letters, the Paris Herald Tribune , the telephone book. She had been out late, dancing; she could not remember when she had seen Matthew in the morning; the maids were none of his business; this was going too far.
'I think I'll go to a hotel for a few days. The house is getting on my nerves.'
'Honestly, Matthew. Pull yourself together. See a doctor. Play golf. Do something sensible. What will everyone think if you move to a hotel?'
'Whatever they like. Whatever you tell them.'
'What hotel?'
'I'll let you know.'
For a day, the suite at the Georges V with its colourless modern furniture, its woven curtains patterned in a tasteful design of knotted intestines, seemed a useful change; it amused him; he ordered drinks in his room, delighted to see no green uniforms, delighted not to feel June anywhere around. The view was different too, but on second thoughts not different enough. He had never liked the Right Bank; it was June who considered it bohemian if not common to live on the Left Bank unless you had a huge inherited house, it was June who selected their stylish maisonette in the Square du Bois de Boulogne. He moved the next day to the Lutetia, and the golden-oak furniture and the orange and blue flowers of the wallpaper brightened him; he felt that he was back in a remembered world that had been free and fun some time ago. If he changed hotels every two days that would keep him so busy he would not need to work. If he took sleeping pills at night, say twice in the night, he would not have a very long day. Then he could walk around and buy books along the quais. He did not want any of the books one bought along the quais; he would, instead, just walk; as soon as the rain stopped. He moved to the Hotel Jacob, where the walls were the colour of old dried blood, a knob was missing from the brass bed, and the mirror in the wardrobe rippled like water. He tried the Hotel Littré and did not find it funny, just sad, worn to colourlessness by a thousand passing strangers who did not have enough money. He was sick of moving and hotels. He sat at the small wobbly writing-table provided by the Hotel Littré, with the weak lamp-bulb burning against the grey morning light, and thought: I cannot write anywhere or ever. I don't know how I started to write and I don't know how I managed to write so much, and nothing I write makes sense, and who are those people anyhow and where is that island and what do they think they are doing there and why?
He had been awake for four hours, he needed a bath and a shave, he could smell himself, grey and dank like the towels, the room was cold. Clearly, in front of him, he heard the known voice asking, 'What are you doing here?'
He raised his eyes and saw, without surprise, a man; head and shoulders and fat, square, white hands.
'Pleased to meet you, at last,' Hendricks said; 'you look just like your voice.'
The man said nothing; apparently he had finished talking. He studied Matthew Hendricks through clean gold-rimmed glasses. He saw Matthew Hendricks entirely and had no opinion.
'What's your name?' Hendricks asked and said, into the silence, 'Don't bother, I know it anyhow. Well, Doctor, what can I do for you?'
He knew it was the other way around but he did not intend to be an affable or easy patient. He would haggle about the price and he would lie as much as he felt like. He would lead Dr Wolfgang Raumwitz a pretty chase.
'I did not ask you to come,' Hendricks said, 'and I do not specially want or need your services. First of all, I am going to pack and go home. You may
'Je ne sais pas, Monsieur.'
Why not? Hendricks thought; she can bloody well know if it rains at Rouen since she lives there, for God's sake; she doesn't have to be a complete imbecile. 'June,' he said, stamping into his wife's room, 'get another maid, get someone pretty, put her in a blue uniform for a change.'
'Matthew, what is the matter with you?' Puffy-eyed, June stared at him over her breakfast tray, her letters, the Paris Herald Tribune , the telephone book. She had been out late, dancing; she could not remember when she had seen Matthew in the morning; the maids were none of his business; this was going too far.
'I think I'll go to a hotel for a few days. The house is getting on my nerves.'
'Honestly, Matthew. Pull yourself together. See a doctor. Play golf. Do something sensible. What will everyone think if you move to a hotel?'
'Whatever they like. Whatever you tell them.'
'What hotel?'
'I'll let you know.'
For a day, the suite at the Georges V with its colourless modern furniture, its woven curtains patterned in a tasteful design of knotted intestines, seemed a useful change; it amused him; he ordered drinks in his room, delighted to see no green uniforms, delighted not to feel June anywhere around. The view was different too, but on second thoughts not different enough. He had never liked the Right Bank; it was June who considered it bohemian if not common to live on the Left Bank unless you had a huge inherited house, it was June who selected their stylish maisonette in the Square du Bois de Boulogne. He moved the next day to the Lutetia, and the golden-oak furniture and the orange and blue flowers of the wallpaper brightened him; he felt that he was back in a remembered world that had been free and fun some time ago. If he changed hotels every two days that would keep him so busy he would not need to work. If he took sleeping pills at night, say twice in the night, he would not have a very long day. Then he could walk around and buy books along the quais. He did not want any of the books one bought along the quais; he would, instead, just walk; as soon as the rain stopped. He moved to the Hotel Jacob, where the walls were the colour of old dried blood, a knob was missing from the brass bed, and the mirror in the wardrobe rippled like water. He tried the Hotel Littré and did not find it funny, just sad, worn to colourlessness by a thousand passing strangers who did not have enough money. He was sick of moving and hotels. He sat at the small wobbly writing-table provided by the Hotel Littré, with the weak lamp-bulb burning against the grey morning light, and thought: I cannot write anywhere or ever. I don't know how I started to write and I don't know how I managed to write so much, and nothing I write makes sense, and who are those people anyhow and where is that island and what do they think they are doing there and why?
He had been awake for four hours, he needed a bath and a shave, he could smell himself, grey and dank like the towels, the room was cold. Clearly, in front of him, he heard the known voice asking, 'What are you doing here?'
He raised his eyes and saw, without surprise, a man; head and shoulders and fat, square, white hands.
'Pleased to meet you, at last,' Hendricks said; 'you look just like your voice.'
The man said nothing; apparently he had finished talking. He studied Matthew Hendricks through clean gold-rimmed glasses. He saw Matthew Hendricks entirely and had no opinion.
'What's your name?' Hendricks asked and said, into the silence, 'Don't bother, I know it anyhow. Well, Doctor, what can I do for you?'
He knew it was the other way around but he did not intend to be an affable or easy patient. He would haggle about the price and he would lie as much as he felt like. He would lead Dr Wolfgang Raumwitz a pretty chase.
'I did not ask you to come,' Hendricks said, 'and I do not specially want or need your services. First of all, I am going to pack and go home. You may
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