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daughter . . . Tell him that everything is all right . . ."
She hung up, very quickly. He went and sat beside her on
the settee.
"You live in an hotel?"
"Yes. With my father."
Their two rooms could easily have fitted into a corner of
the salon. She visualized the front door of the hotel, and the
red-carpeted spiral staircase that led up steeply to the first
floor. On the right of the corridor, rooms and . And this
3 5
salon where she now was, with its silk curtains, its panelling,
its chandelier, its paintings and conservatory . . . She won
dered whether she was in the same town or whether she was
dreaming, as she had been earlier in the metro, when she had
imagined herself returning to the Boulevard Ornano in
a horse-drawn cab. And yet there were no more than
twelve metro stations between this place and the Boulevard
Ornano.
"And you? Do you live here alone?"
He shrugged his shoulders ruefully, as if he were apolo
gizing.
Something suddenly gave her confidence. She noticed,
when he made a rather too abrupt gesture as he removed the
phone from the settee, that the lining of his tweed jacket was
torn. And his big shoes. One of them didn't even have a
lace.
"
99
They had dinner in the kitchen, at the far end of the flat. Bur
there wasn't very much to eat. Then they went back to the
salon, and he said:
"You'll have to stay the night here."
He led her into the next room. In the over-bright light of
the chandelier there was a four-poster bed with wooden ca
ings and a silk canopy.
"This was my mother's room . . ."
He noticed that she was surprised by the four-poster
bed and by the room, which was almost as big as the
salon.
"Doesn't she live here any more?"
"She's dead."
The bluntness of this reply took her aback. He smiled at
her.
"My parents have been dead for quite some time."
He walked round the room, as if on a tour of inspection.
"I don't think you'll feel very comfortable here . . . It would
be better for you to sleep in the library . . ."
She had lowered her head, and couldn't take her eyes off
that big shoe without a lace that made such a strong contrast
with the four-poster bed, the chandelier, the panelling and the
silks.
*
In the book-lined room they had crossed earlier, after the hall,
he pointed to the divan:
"I must give you some sheets."
Very fine voile sheets, pinkish beige and edged with lace.
He had also brought her a tartan wool blanket and a little
pillow without a pillow slip.
"This is all I could find."
He seemed to be apologizing.
She helped him make the bed.
100
"I hope you won't be cold . . . They've turned the heating
off . . ."
She had sat down on the edge of the divan, and he in the
old leather armchair in the corner of the library.
"So you're a dancer?"
He didn't really seem to believe it. He was giving her an
amused look.
"Yes. A dancer at the Chatelet. I was in the cast of Vienna
Walt ."
She had adopted a haughty tone.
"I've never been to the Chatelet . . . But 111 come and see
you . . .,
"Unfortunately, I don't know whether I'll be able to go on
.
wor kmg . . .,
"Why not?"
"Because my father and I are in trouble."
*
She had hesitated to tell him about her situation, but the tweed
jacket with the torn lining and the shoe without a lace had
encouraged her. And then, he often used slang words that
didn't go with the refinement and luxury of the tlat. She had
even begun to wonder whether he really lived there. But on
one of the shelves in the library there was a photo of him
much younger, with a very elegant woman who must have
been his mother.
He left her, wishing her a good night, and saying that at
breakfast the next day she would be able to drink some real
coffee. Then she was alone in the room, amazed to find herself
on that divan. She didn't put the light out. If she felt she was
falling asleep she would put it out, but not just yet. She was
afraid
of the dark because of the curfew that evening in the
eighteenth arrondissement, the dark that reminded her of her
father and the hotel in the Boulevard Ornano. How reassuring
10 1
it was to contemplate the bookshelves, the opalescent lamp
on the little table, the silk curtains, the big Louis XV bureau
over by the windows, and to feel the fresh lightness of the
voile sheets . . . She hadn't told him the truth. In the first place
she had pretended that she was nineteen. And then, she wasn't
really a dancer at the Chatelet. Next, she had said that her
father was an Austrian doctor who had emigrated to France
before the war, and that he worked in a clinic in Auteuil. She
hadn't touched on the root of the problem. She had added that
they were only living in the hotel temporarily, because her
father was looking for another flat. She hadn't admitted, either,
that she had purposely let the time of the curfew go by so as
not to go back to the Boulevard Ornano. In other times, no
one would have attached much importance to this fact, it
would even have seemed quite normal for a girl of her age,
and would simply have been seen as an escapade.
"
The next day, she didn't go back to the hotel in the Boulevard
Ornano. She again phoned MONTMARTRE -8 . Doctor Teyr
33 3 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl freetocraft.keep.pl
daughter . . . Tell him that everything is all right . . ."
She hung up, very quickly. He went and sat beside her on
the settee.
"You live in an hotel?"
"Yes. With my father."
Their two rooms could easily have fitted into a corner of
the salon. She visualized the front door of the hotel, and the
red-carpeted spiral staircase that led up steeply to the first
floor. On the right of the corridor, rooms and . And this
3 5
salon where she now was, with its silk curtains, its panelling,
its chandelier, its paintings and conservatory . . . She won
dered whether she was in the same town or whether she was
dreaming, as she had been earlier in the metro, when she had
imagined herself returning to the Boulevard Ornano in
a horse-drawn cab. And yet there were no more than
twelve metro stations between this place and the Boulevard
Ornano.
"And you? Do you live here alone?"
He shrugged his shoulders ruefully, as if he were apolo
gizing.
Something suddenly gave her confidence. She noticed,
when he made a rather too abrupt gesture as he removed the
phone from the settee, that the lining of his tweed jacket was
torn. And his big shoes. One of them didn't even have a
lace.
"
99
They had dinner in the kitchen, at the far end of the flat. Bur
there wasn't very much to eat. Then they went back to the
salon, and he said:
"You'll have to stay the night here."
He led her into the next room. In the over-bright light of
the chandelier there was a four-poster bed with wooden ca
ings and a silk canopy.
"This was my mother's room . . ."
He noticed that she was surprised by the four-poster
bed and by the room, which was almost as big as the
salon.
"Doesn't she live here any more?"
"She's dead."
The bluntness of this reply took her aback. He smiled at
her.
"My parents have been dead for quite some time."
He walked round the room, as if on a tour of inspection.
"I don't think you'll feel very comfortable here . . . It would
be better for you to sleep in the library . . ."
She had lowered her head, and couldn't take her eyes off
that big shoe without a lace that made such a strong contrast
with the four-poster bed, the chandelier, the panelling and the
silks.
*
In the book-lined room they had crossed earlier, after the hall,
he pointed to the divan:
"I must give you some sheets."
Very fine voile sheets, pinkish beige and edged with lace.
He had also brought her a tartan wool blanket and a little
pillow without a pillow slip.
"This is all I could find."
He seemed to be apologizing.
She helped him make the bed.
100
"I hope you won't be cold . . . They've turned the heating
off . . ."
She had sat down on the edge of the divan, and he in the
old leather armchair in the corner of the library.
"So you're a dancer?"
He didn't really seem to believe it. He was giving her an
amused look.
"Yes. A dancer at the Chatelet. I was in the cast of Vienna
Walt ."
She had adopted a haughty tone.
"I've never been to the Chatelet . . . But 111 come and see
you . . .,
"Unfortunately, I don't know whether I'll be able to go on
.
wor kmg . . .,
"Why not?"
"Because my father and I are in trouble."
*
She had hesitated to tell him about her situation, but the tweed
jacket with the torn lining and the shoe without a lace had
encouraged her. And then, he often used slang words that
didn't go with the refinement and luxury of the tlat. She had
even begun to wonder whether he really lived there. But on
one of the shelves in the library there was a photo of him
much younger, with a very elegant woman who must have
been his mother.
He left her, wishing her a good night, and saying that at
breakfast the next day she would be able to drink some real
coffee. Then she was alone in the room, amazed to find herself
on that divan. She didn't put the light out. If she felt she was
falling asleep she would put it out, but not just yet. She was
afraid
of the dark because of the curfew that evening in the
eighteenth arrondissement, the dark that reminded her of her
father and the hotel in the Boulevard Ornano. How reassuring
10 1
it was to contemplate the bookshelves, the opalescent lamp
on the little table, the silk curtains, the big Louis XV bureau
over by the windows, and to feel the fresh lightness of the
voile sheets . . . She hadn't told him the truth. In the first place
she had pretended that she was nineteen. And then, she wasn't
really a dancer at the Chatelet. Next, she had said that her
father was an Austrian doctor who had emigrated to France
before the war, and that he worked in a clinic in Auteuil. She
hadn't touched on the root of the problem. She had added that
they were only living in the hotel temporarily, because her
father was looking for another flat. She hadn't admitted, either,
that she had purposely let the time of the curfew go by so as
not to go back to the Boulevard Ornano. In other times, no
one would have attached much importance to this fact, it
would even have seemed quite normal for a girl of her age,
and would simply have been seen as an escapade.
"
The next day, she didn't go back to the hotel in the Boulevard
Ornano. She again phoned MONTMARTRE -8 . Doctor Teyr
33 3 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]