Slow hours. Yvonne often wore a black silk dressing gown with red dots and some holes here and there. I’d forget to take off my old “colonial” fedora.
The partly torn-up magazines littered the floor. Bottles of suntan lotion were everywhere. The dog lay across an armchair. And we listened to records on the old Teppaz player. We’d forget to turn on the lights.
Downstairs the orchestra would be starting to play and people began arriving for dinner. Between two numbers, we’d hear the babble of conversations. A voice would rise above the hubbub — a woman’s voice — or a burst of laughter. And the orchestra would start up again. I’d leave the French window open so that the commotion and the music could reach up to us. They were our protection. And they began at the same time every day, hence the world was still going around. For how long?
The open bathroom door framed a rectangle of light. Yvonne was putting on her makeup. I’d lean over the balcony and watch all those people (most of them in eveningattire), the shuttling waiters, and the musicians, whose individual characteristics I came to know by heart. For example, the orchestra leader stood leaning forward, his chin practically against his chest. And when the piece came to an end, he’d jerk his head upward, openmouthed, like a man gasping for breath. The violinist had a nice, rather piggy face; he closed his eyes and nodded, sniffing the air.
Yvonne was ready. I’d turn on a lamp. She’d smile at me and give me a mysterious look. By way of amusing herself, she’d put on black gloves that went up to her elbows. She’d stand in the middle of the room, surrounded by disorder, the unmade bed, the scattered articles of clothing. We’d leave on tiptoe, avoiding the dog, the ashtrays, the record player, and the empty glasses.
Late into the night, after Meinthe had brought us back to the hotel, we’d listen to music. Our nearest neighbors lodged several complaints about the “racket” we made. They were — as the concierge informed me — an industrialist from Lyon and his wife, whom I’d seen shaking hands with Fossorié after the Houligant Cup. I had a bouquet of peonies brought to them, with a note: “Count Chmara apologizes and sends you these flowers.”
Upon our return, the dog would bark, plaintively and regularly, and that would go on for about an hour. It was impossible to calm him. So we’d opt for putting on music to drown out his barking. While Yvonne undressed and took a bath, I’d read her some pages from the Maurois book. We’d leave the record player on, blasting out some frenetic song. I would vaguely hear the industrialist from Lyon poundingon the door between our rooms and the telephone ringing. He must have complained to the night porter. Maybe they’d wind up kicking us out of the hotel. So much the better. Yvonne had slipped on her beach robe, and we were preparing a meal for the dog (we had for this purpose a whole pile of cans and even a portable stove). After he ate, we hoped, he’d shut up. The Lyon industrialist’s wife shouted through the din the singer was making: “Do something, Henri,
do
something. CALL THE POLICE …” Their balcony adjoined ours. We’d left the French window open, and the industrialist, weary of beating on the communicating door, started reviling us from outside. So Yvonne took off her robe and stepped out onto the balcony, completely naked, except that she’d pulled on her long black gloves. The man stared at her and went red in the face. His wife was pulling him by the arm. And bawling: “Oh, the filthy bastards … The whore …”
We were young.
And rich. The drawer of her night table was overflowing with banknotes. Where did all that money come from? I didn’t dare ask her. But one day, while arranging the wads in neat rows so she could close the drawer, she explained that it was her earnings from the film. She’d insisted on being paid in cash, in 5,000-franc notes. She
The partly torn-up magazines littered the floor. Bottles of suntan lotion were everywhere. The dog lay across an armchair. And we listened to records on the old Teppaz player. We’d forget to turn on the lights.
Downstairs the orchestra would be starting to play and people began arriving for dinner. Between two numbers, we’d hear the babble of conversations. A voice would rise above the hubbub — a woman’s voice — or a burst of laughter. And the orchestra would start up again. I’d leave the French window open so that the commotion and the music could reach up to us. They were our protection. And they began at the same time every day, hence the world was still going around. For how long?
The open bathroom door framed a rectangle of light. Yvonne was putting on her makeup. I’d lean over the balcony and watch all those people (most of them in eveningattire), the shuttling waiters, and the musicians, whose individual characteristics I came to know by heart. For example, the orchestra leader stood leaning forward, his chin practically against his chest. And when the piece came to an end, he’d jerk his head upward, openmouthed, like a man gasping for breath. The violinist had a nice, rather piggy face; he closed his eyes and nodded, sniffing the air.
Yvonne was ready. I’d turn on a lamp. She’d smile at me and give me a mysterious look. By way of amusing herself, she’d put on black gloves that went up to her elbows. She’d stand in the middle of the room, surrounded by disorder, the unmade bed, the scattered articles of clothing. We’d leave on tiptoe, avoiding the dog, the ashtrays, the record player, and the empty glasses.
Late into the night, after Meinthe had brought us back to the hotel, we’d listen to music. Our nearest neighbors lodged several complaints about the “racket” we made. They were — as the concierge informed me — an industrialist from Lyon and his wife, whom I’d seen shaking hands with Fossorié after the Houligant Cup. I had a bouquet of peonies brought to them, with a note: “Count Chmara apologizes and sends you these flowers.”
Upon our return, the dog would bark, plaintively and regularly, and that would go on for about an hour. It was impossible to calm him. So we’d opt for putting on music to drown out his barking. While Yvonne undressed and took a bath, I’d read her some pages from the Maurois book. We’d leave the record player on, blasting out some frenetic song. I would vaguely hear the industrialist from Lyon poundingon the door between our rooms and the telephone ringing. He must have complained to the night porter. Maybe they’d wind up kicking us out of the hotel. So much the better. Yvonne had slipped on her beach robe, and we were preparing a meal for the dog (we had for this purpose a whole pile of cans and even a portable stove). After he ate, we hoped, he’d shut up. The Lyon industrialist’s wife shouted through the din the singer was making: “Do something, Henri,
do
something. CALL THE POLICE …” Their balcony adjoined ours. We’d left the French window open, and the industrialist, weary of beating on the communicating door, started reviling us from outside. So Yvonne took off her robe and stepped out onto the balcony, completely naked, except that she’d pulled on her long black gloves. The man stared at her and went red in the face. His wife was pulling him by the arm. And bawling: “Oh, the filthy bastards … The whore …”
We were young.
And rich. The drawer of her night table was overflowing with banknotes. Where did all that money come from? I didn’t dare ask her. But one day, while arranging the wads in neat rows so she could close the drawer, she explained that it was her earnings from the film. She’d insisted on being paid in cash, in 5,000-franc notes. She
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