Читать книгу The Confidant - Helene Gremillon - Страница 21

Why had I tried to change the course of events? I was pacing back and forth in Annie’s room, I felt terribly guilty. It was all my fault. Why hadn’t I read the letter to Eugénie? But in that room that was too small for my remorse I had not been able to confess as much to Annie. I had only just found her, I could not bear the idea of losing her again, or of making her angry with me. Three years without seeing her.

Even her absence for a few hours over the business with the keys made me feel sick.

And besides, I would have been forced to betray her mother’s secret; Annie would surely ask me why I was the one reading her letters.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was desperate for Annie to come back.

I remember I washed the tray and our cups, looked at the handful of books on the shelf, and straightened the crucifix over her bed. I leafed distractedly through the calendar to see what the coming days had in store. ‘Thunder in October, plentiful grape harvest’: so went the saying for that 4 October 1943.

All that fiddling with an aim to avoid doing what, in the end, I did anyway: open her dresser. Men’s clothing, belonging to her husband. And her own. Three dresses, two cardigans that were too light for the season, stockings rolled up in a ball and ugly underwear. I needed so badly to imbibe her scent that I hunted for her dirty laundry. Obscene. But because in the beginning my love for Annie had been chaste, I had no difficulty in loving her lustfully, my back against the door so I would not be caught out. Her full breasts hanging down: I had been obsessed by that image ever since the day when she had asked me to help her move a bench to prepare the theatre performance. She had leaned forward first, and her bodice had opened. She hadn’t noticed a thing, not the movement of the cloth, or the movement of my eyes. For a long time I dreamed of her breasts at that angle, hanging down, round and hanging, her breasts where I would have liked to…I came.

‘“Let’s wait until tomorrow.” I didn’t want it to happen under these conditions. Not with a man I did not know. Not for the first time.’

I suddenly understood what Annie had been referring to in her story, and I choked on the memory of it.

I had indeed always been the first.

For several months already the fact that she was seeing Madame M. had distanced Annie from me. I was hardly expecting her to come by the house for me. She dragged me to the lake, bypassing the towpath; I had the impression she wanted to tell me something. After a while she stopped.

‘Come on, in you go.’

I stayed on the shore, motionless, speechless. ‘In you go…’ I had already heard those words somewhere. Another woman, in another place. That place had been as damp as could be; there was a smell of mildew, which was hardly surprising, all the windows were boarded up and the door to that ‘house’ was the one that was opened and closed again faster than any door in town. Violette came up to me, never taking her eyes from me.

‘Come on, in you go…’

In spite of my fear I smiled. Once we were in, the rooms were actually downstairs. But you don’t chicken out after a password like that one…Violette went down and I followed her, feeling that, with this virile endeavour, I was going one step further in my story with Annie. There are not many women who enjoy being taken by a man for whom it’s the first time.

‘Come on, in you go…’

This time, the expression was in keeping with the layout of the place. Once I had regained my self-control I grabbed hold of the rope to pull the boat closer to the bank.

Annie climbed into the boat and I followed.

The boat was wider than it was deep. We lay on our backs to avoid being seen. Annie seemed preoccupied. I had the impression she wanted to tell me something, but she didn’t say anything. The sky must often serve as an excuse for awkward lovers, but we were not so lucky; it was too early for stars. And with my eyes riveted on the empty sky I felt lost. This time I was all alone. There was no Violette to guide me. I searched my memories in vain, I could not recall how it had started with her. I did not know which gesture, which caress to choose. Violette had undressed herself, displaying no particular fervour, no particular boldness, simply her slow, migraine-sufferer gestures, and the detachment that comes with habit. Clumsily I unbuttoned Annie’s shirt, one tiny fastener after the other. She was wearing sensible spring clothes, for that notorious month of ‘April showers’. Violette had the type of skin of women who do not look after their bodies, knowing it will be put to good use no matter what. Annie’s skin was smooth and soft. If she had kept her eyes open – like Violette – she would have seen that I was looking at her ample breasts against her slender chest. No, she wouldn’t have, because if her eyes had been open I would not have dared to look at her breasts. Her fists were clenched, too. Violette and I had been naked. Annie and I kept as many clothes on as possible. Violette had made me stroke her with my hand. Beneath my fingers I had discovered those rough patches, when in fact I had always thought it would be smooth. ‘It’s good when it’s wet like that,’ she said quietly, like a comment, a lesson. She had let go of my hand and I felt hers come gently to rest on my sex, where my entire body was concentrated, and then her body had replaced her hand. It’s good when it’s wet like that, I tried to reassure myself, my hand between Annie’s thighs.

Nothing in Violette’s body had distracted my attention. Everything in Annie’s troubled me. Violette’s face had suddenly relaxed, whereas Annie’s grew tense. I could not stand it, still less the sight of her body arching, lifting her chest in an upward movement that overwhelmed me.

Everything had gone well with Violette. But with Annie, badly.

She quickly pulled down her skirt. I quickly pulled up my trousers. Once we were dressed, we both felt better. Above all to be together. I was afraid that Annie might leave right away, but she didn’t, we went on lying there facing the stars that had still not come out. Again I had the impression that Annie had something to tell me, but she said nothing.

To this day, I am still angry with myself for not having found the necessary courage. I had found the courage to make love to her, badly, but not to get her to speak. I could have stopped her from going to her appointment with Monsieur M. and then none of this would ever have happened.

I was overwhelmed with emotion. I had indeed always been the first. Annie had not lied. Or at least, not about that.

Because if she had fallen pregnant from Monsieur M. ‘with the efficiency of a virgin’, as she liked to say, she should have left three months later: April…May…June. So, in July.

But she had left the day after Christmas, and that was something I remembered clearly. I had gone to her house to give her a little present, which in rage I threw against a tree on my way back home. She had just left with Madame M.

July…August…September…October…November…December…

So there were five months missing from Annie’s story; that was a lot.

If the door to her bedroom had not suddenly banged against my back, I might have guessed what had happened during that lapse of time she had conjured away.

I quickly got to my feet, tossing the underwear beneath the dresser to get rid of it. If this was her husband coming home, I would have to restrain myself from smashing him in the face. Annie fell into my arms so eagerly that I got a lump in my throat: she had honestly been afraid I would no longer be there when she got back. She had been quick. She took a strange statue out of her bag, a long-legged woman seated on a sort of chair, her hands open wide around the empty space as if she were holding an invisible object in front of her belly, and that was the name of the statue, ‘the Invisible Object’. It was a gift from Alberto that she had brought back from the shop to show me. She put it on the table but, rather than sitting down, she suggested that we go out.

This was the day that she normally went to the municipal baths; did I mind going there with her?

I found it somewhat strange, how eager she was suddenly to have a wash, but I did not dwell upon it. I supposed she was in a hurry because of the curfew. I hoped the fresh air would help me recover my wits, but Annie did not give me any respite. No sooner were we in the street than she continued her story where she had left off in order to go and drop off the keys. Without making any mention, naturally, of the mysterious months that had vanished. It would be years before I learned anything more about them.