relieved Geneviève, who was already working in this bar in the early ’60sand who also, during the day, ran the refreshment stall near the bathing huts at the Sporting Club. A gracious blonde. It was said she had a heart murmur.
Meinthe is turned toward the man in the checked jacket. That jacket’s the only noticeable thing about him. Otherwise, he’s got a thoroughly ordinary face: small black mustache, rather large nose, brown hair combed back. A moment ago he looked decidedly drunk, but now he’s sitting up very straight, with a self-important smirk on his lips.
“Will you call …” (his voice is thick and hesitant) “Chambéry 233 for me …”
The barmaid dials the number. Somebody answers on the other end. But the man in the checked jacket remains at his table, stiff and straight.
“Monsieur, I have your party on the line,” the barmaid says, getting anxious.
He doesn’t budge an inch. His eyes are wide open and his chin thrust slightly forward.
“Monsieur …”
He’s a stone statue. She hangs up. She must be starting to worry. These two customers are really bizarre … Meinthe has been observing the goings-on with a frown. After a few minutes, the other man starts up again, his voice even more muted than before:
“Will you call … Chambéry 233 for me …”
The barmaid doesn’t move. He goes on imperturbably: “Will you call …”
She shrugs. Then Meinthe leans over to the telephone and dials the number himself. When a voice answers, heholds out the receiver toward the man in the checked jacket, who doesn’t move. He fixes his wide-open eyes on Meinthe.
“Come now, Monsieur …” Meinthe murmurs. “Come now …”
Finally he shrugs and lays the receiver on the bar.
“Perhaps you’d like to be home in bed, my dear?” he asks the barmaid. “I don’t want to keep you.”
“No. Anyway, we don’t close until two in the morning … A lot of people will be coming in later.”
“A lot?”
“There’s a convention. They’ll all end up here.”
She pours herself a glass of Coca-Cola.
“Not very merry here in the winter, is it?” Meinthe remarks.
“I’m going to Paris,” she declares aggressively.
“The right move.”
The man at the table behind him snaps his fingers: “Could I have another dry martini, please?” Then he adds: “And Chambéry 233 …”
Meinthe dials the number again and, without turning around, places the receiver on the stool next to him. The girl giggles. He raises his head, and his eyes fall on the old photographs of Émile Allais and James Couttet above the aperitif bottles. Another photo has been added, one of Daniel Hendrickx, who was killed in an automobile accident a few years ago. Surely Geneviève, the other barmaid, had it hung up there. She was in love with Hendrickx in the days when she worked at the Sporting Club. In the days of the Houligant Cup.
9.
That cup — where is it now? In the back of what closet? Or what storeroom? In the end, we used it for an ashtray. The pedestal the dancer was on had a convenient circular rim. We crushed out our cigarettes on it. We must have left it behind in the hotel room, and I’m surprised that I — attached to objects as I am — didn’t take it with me.
At first, however, Yvonne seemed to dote on it. She displayed it prominently on the desk in the living room. It marked the start of her career. The Victoires and the Oscars would come later. Later still, she’d refer to it with affection when talking to journalists, for I had no doubt that Yvonne would become a movie star. In the meanwhile, we pinned up the long article from
L’Écho-Liberté
.
We spent lazy days. We’d get up fairly early. In the morning, there was often mist — or rather a blue vapor that freed us from the law of gravity. We were light, so light … When we went down Boulevard Carabacel, we hardly touched the sidewalk. Nine o’clock. Soon the thin mist would be burned away by the sun. No guests yet on
Meinthe is turned toward the man in the checked jacket. That jacket’s the only noticeable thing about him. Otherwise, he’s got a thoroughly ordinary face: small black mustache, rather large nose, brown hair combed back. A moment ago he looked decidedly drunk, but now he’s sitting up very straight, with a self-important smirk on his lips.
“Will you call …” (his voice is thick and hesitant) “Chambéry 233 for me …”
The barmaid dials the number. Somebody answers on the other end. But the man in the checked jacket remains at his table, stiff and straight.
“Monsieur, I have your party on the line,” the barmaid says, getting anxious.
He doesn’t budge an inch. His eyes are wide open and his chin thrust slightly forward.
“Monsieur …”
He’s a stone statue. She hangs up. She must be starting to worry. These two customers are really bizarre … Meinthe has been observing the goings-on with a frown. After a few minutes, the other man starts up again, his voice even more muted than before:
“Will you call … Chambéry 233 for me …”
The barmaid doesn’t move. He goes on imperturbably: “Will you call …”
She shrugs. Then Meinthe leans over to the telephone and dials the number himself. When a voice answers, heholds out the receiver toward the man in the checked jacket, who doesn’t move. He fixes his wide-open eyes on Meinthe.
“Come now, Monsieur …” Meinthe murmurs. “Come now …”
Finally he shrugs and lays the receiver on the bar.
“Perhaps you’d like to be home in bed, my dear?” he asks the barmaid. “I don’t want to keep you.”
“No. Anyway, we don’t close until two in the morning … A lot of people will be coming in later.”
“A lot?”
“There’s a convention. They’ll all end up here.”
She pours herself a glass of Coca-Cola.
“Not very merry here in the winter, is it?” Meinthe remarks.
“I’m going to Paris,” she declares aggressively.
“The right move.”
The man at the table behind him snaps his fingers: “Could I have another dry martini, please?” Then he adds: “And Chambéry 233 …”
Meinthe dials the number again and, without turning around, places the receiver on the stool next to him. The girl giggles. He raises his head, and his eyes fall on the old photographs of Émile Allais and James Couttet above the aperitif bottles. Another photo has been added, one of Daniel Hendrickx, who was killed in an automobile accident a few years ago. Surely Geneviève, the other barmaid, had it hung up there. She was in love with Hendrickx in the days when she worked at the Sporting Club. In the days of the Houligant Cup.
9.
That cup — where is it now? In the back of what closet? Or what storeroom? In the end, we used it for an ashtray. The pedestal the dancer was on had a convenient circular rim. We crushed out our cigarettes on it. We must have left it behind in the hotel room, and I’m surprised that I — attached to objects as I am — didn’t take it with me.
At first, however, Yvonne seemed to dote on it. She displayed it prominently on the desk in the living room. It marked the start of her career. The Victoires and the Oscars would come later. Later still, she’d refer to it with affection when talking to journalists, for I had no doubt that Yvonne would become a movie star. In the meanwhile, we pinned up the long article from
L’Écho-Liberté
.
We spent lazy days. We’d get up fairly early. In the morning, there was often mist — or rather a blue vapor that freed us from the law of gravity. We were light, so light … When we went down Boulevard Carabacel, we hardly touched the sidewalk. Nine o’clock. Soon the thin mist would be burned away by the sun. No guests yet on
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