“你还会弹钢琴吗？”他不无悲哀地问她。
“钢琴？”她反问。
她吃了一惊，她自己都已经想不起来了：她已经忘记了她的年轻时代。只有他，只有他一个人，还眷恋着记忆中玛尔特的颈背，她背对着他，坐在黑色的钢琴前，年轻的颈背笔直而端然，一头金色的长发。他转过头去。
“为什么和我说起钢琴？”她坚持问。
他没有回答，只是抓紧了她的手。他的心跳令他害怕，他又感觉到了那种熟悉的痛苦。啊！给我一点儿片刻的安全感吧，达夫妮的肩膀，或者酒的滋味。但达夫妮此刻正和居伊那个臭小子住在一起，而喝酒只会让他的病情恶化。他怕了，没错，他害怕了……
他的意识在消散，肌肉在萎缩。多么可怕。他极度害怕死亡，以至于无法对她挤出一个微笑。
“我害怕。”他对玛尔特说。
他重复着这三个字，加重语气。这三个字，生涩、粗粝、诚恳。而他这辈子，曾是那么习惯那些轻快顺口的词语，“亲爱的”“我的甜心”“你想什么时候”“马上”“明天”。玛尔特这个名字听起来不是那么柔和，他很少把它放在嘴边。
“别担心。”她说。
然后，她向他俯下身，将手放在他的眼睛上。
“一切都会好的。我会在这里，不会离开你。”
“哦，不可能，”他说，“要是你要出门，比如去购物……”
“那也马上就回来。”
她的眼眶浸满泪水。可怜的玛尔特，这令她很不好受。而他，却感到些许释怀。
“你不恨我？”他问。
“我还记得好多事呢。”她在他耳边喃喃地说。这声音令他想起起码十个相似的声音，带着喘息，在沙龙的某个角落，或是在海滩上。他的棺木后面应该会跟着一长串的呢喃，温柔又滑稽。在他的扶手椅上，达夫妮，他最后的情人，也许会抱着他的照片凭吊，而年轻的居伊则会勃然大怒。
“没事的，”他说，“我真希望能死在一片麦田或者玉米地中。”
“你说什么？”
“让麦秆在我的头顶随风舞动。你知道，有句话这么说：‘起风了，好好活着。’”
“放轻松。”
“人们总是对垂死的人说，放轻松。现在是时候了。”
“是的，”她说，“是时候了。”
她的声音很美，玛尔特的声音。他一直把她的手握在自己的手心里。他将握着一个女人的手死去，这多好。至于这个女人是不是属于他，已不重要。
“幸福，”他说，“两个人的幸福，不是那么容易……”然后他笑出声来，因为到头来，幸福，他已经不在乎了。幸福，或者玛尔特，或者达夫妮，都已无关紧要。他只剩下一颗心在跳动，一下，两下，三下。此刻，这是他唯一爱着的东西。
The Gigolo
He walked beside her along the rain-sodden paths full of dead leaves, giving her his hand now and again to guide her round a puddle. He smiled as he did so, a genuine, unforced smile. It occurred to her that this walk in the woods round Meudon would have been a penance for any young man, especially with a woman of her age. Not an old woman, but a bored, jaded one who walked through the woods without any real pleasure, merely because it was preferable to the cinema or a crowded bar.
Of course, for him, there had been the drive there,
in the luxurious fast car which it gave him a childish pleasure to drive; but was that sufficient compensation for this interminable, silent walk along these desolate autumnal paths? ‘He’s bored, he must be bored to death.’ Strangely relishing the idea, she turned down another path, one which led them further away from the car, with a sort of dread mixed with hope– the hope that he would suddenly revolt against this boredom, lose his temper, say something wounding, unforgivable, anything that would underline the gap of twenty years between them.
But he always smiled. She had never known him irritable or rude, never seen him smirk in the ironical,condescending way of very young men who know they are desirable. The smirk which said so plainly: ‘All right, as a favour to you... But remember,I’m as free as air: so don’t irritate me.’ The cruel smirk of youth which had made her cold, hard and wounding, and had so often caused her to end an affair.With Michel, for instance, the first time she had noticed it, then the others...
‘Careful,’ he said, taking her arm, saving her from tearing her stockings or her dress, her well-cut elegant dress, on a bramble. If he should ever smirk like that, would she still be able to throw him out like the rest of them? She didn’t feel she would have the heart. Not that she respected him more than the others: she kept him completely, dressed him, gave him expensive presents which he didn’t throw back in her face. He never went in for those stupid, boorish ploys the others indulged in, those sulky moods when they wanted something or felt they were the injured party in the bargain struck between their bodies and her money–that was it,really: they felt hard done by. They would get her to buy them all manner of luxuries and expensive trinkets which they didn’t even want, simply in order to restore their self-esteem.
The word esteem made her laugh inwardly.It was none the less the only word for it.
Perhaps Nicholas’s charm lay in the fact that he really hankered after these presents; not that he demanded them, but he took such evident pleasure in receiving them that she felt like a normal woman rewarding a child instead of an ageing mistress buying a fresh young body she secretly despised. She quickly dismissed such thoughts. Thank God, she didn’t go in for being maternal and protective with that bunch of grasping young men who were too handsome for their own good. Neither did she go in for disguising the facts; she was cynical and clear-headed,and they knew it and respected her for it,however grudgingly. ‘You give me your body, I pay you for it.’ Some, piqued at not having to rebuff her,had tried to introduce a vague touch of sentimentality,perhaps in order to get a little more out of her.These she had sent to other protectresses, explaining to them exactly where they stood: ‘I despise you, as I despise myself for putting up with you. I only keep you for the sake of those two hours at night.’ She relegated them to the rank of animals, deliberately,without a qualm.
With Nicholas, it wasn’t so simple: he brought no trace of affection, or caddishness or sentimentality to his role as gigolo. He was friendly, polite and a good lover, not very expert, perhaps, but passionate,almost tender . . . He stayed at home all day, lolling about on the carpet, reading anything he could lay his hands on. He didn’t ask to be taken out all the time, and when they did go out he seemed to be unaware of the meaningful looks they attracted: he was as attentive and smiling as if he were escorting the young woman of his choice. In fact, apart from the condescension, the brutality with which she treated him, there was nothing to distinguish their relationship from that of an ordinary couple.
‘Aren’t you cold?’ He glanced at her anxiously as though her health really mattered to him more than anything else in the world. She felt exasperated with him for playing his part so well, for being so nearly what she might still have hoped for ten years ago;she remembered that at the time she still had her rich husband, her rich and ugly husband, whose business affairs were his sole preoccupation.
How could she have been so stupid as to have failed to take advantage of her beauty, now faded,and been unfaithful to him? She had been asleep and it had taken her husband’s death and her first night with Michel to awaken her. Everything had begunthat night.
‘I asked you if you were cold.’
‘No, no. Anyway, it’s time we went back.’
‘Wouldn’t you like my jacket?’
His beautiful Creed jacket... she glanced at it without interest as at some dull new possession.A russet and grey check, its autumn colours suited Nicholas’s thick, silky auburn hair.
‘How autumnal we are,’ she murmured to herself.‘Your jacket, this wood...my autumn.’
He didn’t reply. She was surprised at herself because she never alluded to her age. He knew perfectly well how old she was and he didn’t care. She might just as well throw herself into that lake. She imagined herself for a moment, floating in the water in her Dior dress . . . Thoughts like that were all very well for the young. ‘At my age, one doesn’t think of death, one clings to life.’ One clings to the pleasures of money, of the night; one makes the most of things, and of people, such as this young man walking beside one down a deserted woodland path.
‘Nicholas,’ she said, in her hoarse, imperious voice. ‘Nicholas, kiss me.’
They were separated by a puddle. He looked at her for a moment before stepping over it, and the thought flashed through her mind: ‘He must hate me.’ He took her in his arms and gently raised her head.
‘My age,’ she thought, as he kissed her, ‘just for the moment you’ve forgotten my age; you’re too young to play with fire without getting burnt,Nicholas...’
‘Nicholas!’
He looked at her, a little breathless, his hair rumpled.
You were hurting me,’ she said with a faint smile.
They walked on in silence. She was surprised at the quickening of her pulse. That kiss– what had come over Nicholas?-that kiss was like a farewell kiss, hungry and sad, as if he loved her. He was as free as air; women and luxuries were his for the asking.What had possessed him? And that sudden pallor... He was dangerous, extremely dangerous.They had been together over six months; it couldn’t go on any longer without leading to trouble. Besides,she was tired, tired of Paris, of the noise and rush. Tomorrow she would leave for the Midi, alone.
They were back at the car. She turned to him and took his arm in an automatic gesture of pity. ‘After all,’ she thought, ‘the poor boy’s losing his livelihood.Even if it’s only temporary, it’s a nasty blow.’
‘I’m leaving for the Midi tomorrow, Nicholas. I’m tired.’
‘Will you be taking me?’
‘No, Nicholas, I shan’t be taking you.’
She almost wished that she was; it would have been fun showing Nicholas the sea. He must have been there before, of course, but he always gave the impression of discovering everything for the first time.
‘You’ve had enough of me?’
He spoke softly, his eyes downcast. There was a break in his voice which touched her. She had a glimpse of the life he would have, the sordid quarrels,the compromises and the boredom, all because he was too handsome, too weak and the ideal prey for a certain kind of woman belonging to a certain milieu and with a certain income, women like herself.
‘I haven’t had enough of you in the least, my dear Nicholas. You’re very sweet, very attractive, but it couldn’t go on for ever, could it? It’s over six months since we met.’
‘I know,’ he said, as though his mind were elsewhere.‘The first time was at that cocktail party of Mme Essini’s.’
She suddenly remembered that hectic party and the first glimpse she had had of Nicholas, looking miserable because old Mme Essini was talking to him at very close quarters and giggling girlishly. Nicholas was pressed up against the bar, with no hope of escape.The scene had amused her at first, then she had looked at Nicholas with increasing interest and cynical speculation. These cocktail parties were like horse fairs or cattle shows. One almost expected to see mature ladies lifting the young men’s upper lips to examine their teeth.
Finally, she had gone over to greet her hostess, and passing before a mirror, had suddenly been struck by her own beauty. Nicholas’s relief at the interruption had been so obvious that she couldn’t help smiling, and her smile had put old Mme Essini on her guard.
She had introduced Nicholas with reluctance.Then there had been the usual gossip about people and their private lives. Nicholas seemed rather at sea. After an hour, she found him decidedly attractive and resolved to tell him so at once, as was her wont. They were sitting on a sofa by a window, and he was lighting a cigarette when she addressed him by name in a voice that scarcely faltered:
‘I find you very attractive, Nicholas.’
He made no response, but took the cigarette out of his mouth and gazed at her.
‘I live at the Ritz,’ she went on coldly.
She was well aware of the importance of this last point. The Ritz was the answer to every gigolo’s dream. Nicholas made a slight gesture of protest,but said nothing to show that he had understood.She thought: ‘Well, that’s that,’ and rose to her feet.
Nicholas got up too. He was rather pale.
‘May I escort you home?’
In the car, he had put his arm round her shoulders and asked her innumerable eager questions about the overdrive and the finer points of the engine. In the bedroom, it was she who had kissed him first,and he had taken her in his arms with a slight tremor and a mixture of violence and gentleness. At dawn,while he slept like a child, dead to the world, she had gone to the window to watch the day break over the Place Vend?me.
Thereafter, it had been Nicholas playing patience on the floor, Nicholas by her side at the races, Nicholas’s eyes on the gold cigarette-case she gave him,
and Nicholas suddenly seizing her hand during a party and kissing it. And now there was Nicholas whom she was about to leave and who said nothing,who was keeping up this pose of exaggerated indifference...
She got into the car and threw her head back, suddenly exhausted. Nicholas got in beside her and drove off.
From time to time on the way back she glanced at his preoccupied, distant profile, and could not help thinking that she would have been madly in love with him at twenty and that maybe life was nothing but a hopeless mess. When they reached the Ported’Italie, Nicholas turned to her:
‘Where are we going?’
‘We have to drop in at Johnny’s Bar,’ she said. ‘I’ve made a date with Mme Essini there for seven o’clock.’
Mme Essini was punctual as usual. It was one of her few virtues. Nicholas shook the old lady’s hand,looking rather distraught.
Watching them both, a pleasing idea came to her:‘By the way, I’m leaving for the Midi tomorrow,so I shan’t be able to come to your party on the sixteenth.
I’m so sorry.’
Mme Essini regarded them both with a bogus air of affection:
‘You lucky things, off to the sun...’
‘I’m not going,’ said Nicholas shortly.
There was a silence. The eyes of both women converged on Nicholas, Mme Essini’s the more meaningfully.
‘Then you must come to my party. You can’t stay in Paris all alone, it’s too depressing.’
‘What a good idea,’ she interjected.
Mme Essini’s hand was already resting possessively on Nicholas’s sleeve. The latter’s reaction was unexpected. He jumped up and walked out. She found him waiting by the car.
‘What’s come over you, Nicholas? Poor old Essini might have been a bit premature, but she’s fancied you for a long time, there’s nothing to get upset about.’
Nicholas stood there without a word and seemed to be breathing with difficulty. She felt an upsurge of pity.
‘Get in. You can tell me all about it when we get home.’
But he didn’t wait until they got home. He told her in a strangled voice that he wasn’t an animal to be bought and sold, that he could perfectly well look after himself and that he refused to be put out to pasture with an old vulture like Essini. And in any case he couldn’t do anything for her, she was too old...
‘But my dear Nicholas, she’s my age.’
They had arrived. Nicholas turned towards her and suddenly took her face between his hands. He looked at her searchingly and she tried in vain to free herself, conscious that her make-up had probably not survived the day.
‘You’re different,’ said Nicholas in a low voice.
‘You’re... you’re attractive. I like your face. How could you...’
There was a note of despair in his voice as he let her go. She was dumbfounded.
‘How could I what?’
‘How could you offer me to that woman? Haven’t I spent six months with you? Didn’t it occur to you that I might become attached to you, that I could... ?’
She turned away brusquely.
‘You’re cheating,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I can’t afford to cheat. I’ve had enough. Go away.’
Alone in her bedroom, she examined herself in the mirror. She was irretrievably old; she was over sixty and her eyes were full of tears. She packed hurriedly and went to bed alone in her double bed. She cried for some time before going to sleep, putting it down to nerves.
The Unknown Visitor
She took the corner at full speed and pulled up sharply in front of the house. She always sounded her horn on arrival. She didn’t know why, but every time she arrived home she would give David, her husband, this warning that she was back. That day,she found herself wondering how and why she had acquired the habit. After all, they had been married for ten years, they had been living for ten years in this charming cottage in Berkshire, and it hardly seemed necessary to announce herself in this way to the father of her two children, her husband and ultimate protector.
