True: she remembered little of what had happened. There are mechanisms of mercy that obliterate such from the memory.
A peculiarly nasty person, whom she couldnât see, never had seen as a person. She could not remember his face, nor anything human about him: he had aroused in her an intense uncontrollable violence. She had done things she had not known were in her. And it had been a wretched creature, mean-minded and sadistic, eaten by vanity, incapable of anything himself, who had manipulated a harmless immature boy.
She had been driven by what she had seen as the apathy and cynicism of the police. Rushed to Amsterdam, done all those things she could not recall, did not wish to. Violence â¦
Arlette the Avenger; the Detective ⦠no, and no: sheâd never again risk travelling that road.
She looked across the room; her handbag, with a pistol in it. Sheâd accepted it. A symbol that she was no longer the Widow; sheâd broken once and for all with the old life; not only in justice to Arthur, who deserved better than a palimpsest. Sheâd chosen a new road, set her feet upon it; had no intention of withdrawing. The pistol was a tool, like the waiting-room, like the recording gadget on the phone. But no violence: sheâd leave that to policewomen. And any more of Arthurâs jokes, about Marlowe or the Thin Manâs Wife, would get snubbed.
The âagencyâ existed, and for a purpose. It exists in the first place, she thought suddenly, to get rid of the Widow. A woman I have lived with for long enough. I am shaped, informed, ripened by my past, but itâs not going to get up on my back and ride me around. Pietâs legs, heavy-muscled, too hairy, wound round my neck strangling me ⦠thanks.
There was a small snort that might have been a snigger, so that Arthur glanced up for a second: the woman had a grin upon her face that seemed to have little to do with Mahler.
This woman ⦠whose body is again being used. Very nice too. Disagreeable to have been reminded how many men perceived nothing but a brutish sex-object. It will be painful no doubt. The Widow got puritanical about Flypaper Sex, and was forever washing the stickiness off her hands. Not fair to Arthur, who is so extremely unselfish. The woman Corinne had reminded her brutally that this body, stupid forked carrot, was a thing people got boringly obsessed with: better remember it.
The slow movement came to an abrupt end: she got up with a jolt to turn the record.
Chapter 12
Monsieur Dupontâs Café Confidences
Arlette stood outside the church of Saint Maurice, in silent converse with a bad statue of Jeanne dâArc on a horse. Not a bad patron saint for liberated women. It was rush hour: the Avenue de la Forêt Noire was full of noise and a bad smell. Even if seven monthsâ pregnant in an orange raincoat and pushing a large shocking-pink pram, do not attempt crossing the road. In fact especially not then, and especially not at a pedestrian crossing. Even under the particular protection of Jeanne dâArc. A Strasbourgeois in a car is a Hun: rather fond of raw meat under his saddle.
Just then a woman with a pram did cross the road, sailing head high, indifferent to stalled fuming automobiles and a chorus of klaxons. She even made an overweight pig of a Mercedes back up. Ah well, she was young and pretty. Nogesture of thanks to the driver, grinning all galantâuomo out of his prison window at her. Arlette, entertained, missed M. Dupontâs arrival.
âMadame is it, or Mademoiselle?â
âMadame if itâs of importance.â Efforts have been made to struggle with Mzz in French. Little velours hat: he noticed her staring at it and lifted it.
âErr, my car is parked. Youâve no objection to err, some café?â There was a tolerably dismal specimen of bistrot down the side street.
Aux Merlets de Lorraine
.
âWhat will you drink? Waiter, a quarter Perrier and
A peculiarly nasty person, whom she couldnât see, never had seen as a person. She could not remember his face, nor anything human about him: he had aroused in her an intense uncontrollable violence. She had done things she had not known were in her. And it had been a wretched creature, mean-minded and sadistic, eaten by vanity, incapable of anything himself, who had manipulated a harmless immature boy.
She had been driven by what she had seen as the apathy and cynicism of the police. Rushed to Amsterdam, done all those things she could not recall, did not wish to. Violence â¦
Arlette the Avenger; the Detective ⦠no, and no: sheâd never again risk travelling that road.
She looked across the room; her handbag, with a pistol in it. Sheâd accepted it. A symbol that she was no longer the Widow; sheâd broken once and for all with the old life; not only in justice to Arthur, who deserved better than a palimpsest. Sheâd chosen a new road, set her feet upon it; had no intention of withdrawing. The pistol was a tool, like the waiting-room, like the recording gadget on the phone. But no violence: sheâd leave that to policewomen. And any more of Arthurâs jokes, about Marlowe or the Thin Manâs Wife, would get snubbed.
The âagencyâ existed, and for a purpose. It exists in the first place, she thought suddenly, to get rid of the Widow. A woman I have lived with for long enough. I am shaped, informed, ripened by my past, but itâs not going to get up on my back and ride me around. Pietâs legs, heavy-muscled, too hairy, wound round my neck strangling me ⦠thanks.
There was a small snort that might have been a snigger, so that Arthur glanced up for a second: the woman had a grin upon her face that seemed to have little to do with Mahler.
This woman ⦠whose body is again being used. Very nice too. Disagreeable to have been reminded how many men perceived nothing but a brutish sex-object. It will be painful no doubt. The Widow got puritanical about Flypaper Sex, and was forever washing the stickiness off her hands. Not fair to Arthur, who is so extremely unselfish. The woman Corinne had reminded her brutally that this body, stupid forked carrot, was a thing people got boringly obsessed with: better remember it.
The slow movement came to an abrupt end: she got up with a jolt to turn the record.
Chapter 12
Monsieur Dupontâs Café Confidences
Arlette stood outside the church of Saint Maurice, in silent converse with a bad statue of Jeanne dâArc on a horse. Not a bad patron saint for liberated women. It was rush hour: the Avenue de la Forêt Noire was full of noise and a bad smell. Even if seven monthsâ pregnant in an orange raincoat and pushing a large shocking-pink pram, do not attempt crossing the road. In fact especially not then, and especially not at a pedestrian crossing. Even under the particular protection of Jeanne dâArc. A Strasbourgeois in a car is a Hun: rather fond of raw meat under his saddle.
Just then a woman with a pram did cross the road, sailing head high, indifferent to stalled fuming automobiles and a chorus of klaxons. She even made an overweight pig of a Mercedes back up. Ah well, she was young and pretty. Nogesture of thanks to the driver, grinning all galantâuomo out of his prison window at her. Arlette, entertained, missed M. Dupontâs arrival.
âMadame is it, or Mademoiselle?â
âMadame if itâs of importance.â Efforts have been made to struggle with Mzz in French. Little velours hat: he noticed her staring at it and lifted it.
âErr, my car is parked. Youâve no objection to err, some café?â There was a tolerably dismal specimen of bistrot down the side street.
Aux Merlets de Lorraine
.
âWhat will you drink? Waiter, a quarter Perrier and
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