Honeymoon Read online

  •

  At the end of the curfew week, Rigaud told her that he had to leave the flat because the building was going to be sold. It belonged to a Jew who had taken refuge abroad and whose property had been sequestrated. But he had found another flat near the Vincennes zoo and, if she liked, he could take her there.

  •

  One evening they had dinner in the restaurant in the Rue d'Armaillé with the fair-haired young man in the light grey suit and the patch over his eye. Ingrid instinctively disliked and distrusted him. And yet he was very affable, and asked her questions about the Châtelet where she pretended she had been a dancer. He called Rigaud tu. They had known each other as children, in the lower forms of their Passy boarding school, and he would have liked to reminisce about this period of their life at greater length, if Rigaud hadn't said curtly:

  "That's enough about that ... It brings back unpleasant memories ..."

  The blond young man made a lot of money out of black market deals. He was in contact with a Russian who had offices in a town house in the Avenue Hoche, and with a whole lot of other "interesting" people whom he would introduce to Rigaud.

  "There's no point," Rigaud had said. "I'm thinking of leaving Paris …"

  And the conversation had come back to the flat. The young man was offering to buy all its furniture and paintings before Rigaud left. He had mentioned them to one of his "connections", whose agent he would be. He prided himself on being a connoisseur of antique furniture. He acted the man of the world and mentioned with feigned indifference that one of his ancestors had been a Marshal of the Empire. Rigaud simply called him Pacheco. When he had introduced himself to Ingrid, he had said, with a slight bow of the head: Philippe de Pacheco.

  •

  The next afternoon there was a ring at the flat door. A youth in a lumber-jacket announced that Pacheco had sent him with a van and the removal men. He had taken the liberty of opening the street gates and parking the van in the courtyard, if no one had any objection. As the removal men began collecting the furniture, Ingrid and Rigaud took refuge at the far end of the salon, in the conservatory. But after a few moments they decided they would rather go out. A van covered by a tarpaulin was waiting by the steps.

  They walked down the gently-sloping Avenue de Wagram. The snow had melted on the pavements, and a pale winter sun was breaking through the clouds. Rigaud told her that Pacheco was going to bring him the money from the sale of the furniture that evening, and that they could move into their new flat at once. She asked him whether he was sorry to leave this area. No. He had no regrets, and he was even glad not to be staying there.

  They had reached the Place des Ternes. Suddenly she felt an impulse: to carry straight on to Montmartre and return to the hotel in the Boulevard Ornano, to retrace, in the opposite direction, the steps she had taken the other evening to get away from the curfew zone. She sat down on a bench. Once again she began to tremble.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing. It'll pass."

  They turned back. He put his arm round her shoulder, and gradually she felt reassured at the thought of going back with him up the Avenue de Wagram towards the Étoile.

  •

  There was now a second van with a tarpaulin parked beside the other by the steps. Several men were loading the Louis XV bureau, a console table and a chandelier. The youth in the lumber-jacket was supervising the removal men's comings and goings.

  "Will you be much longer?" Rigaud asked him.

  He replied in a sing-song voice:

  "No … no ... We've nearly finished ... We aren't taking this stuff very far ... Avenue Hoche ..."

  That was no doubt the town house Pacheco had mentioned, where the Russian had his "offices".

  "There's plenty of it ..."

  He shifted from one leg to the other and gave them a condescending look.

  Everything had gone from the library but the books on the shelves. They had even taken the curtains. There was not a single piece of furniture left in the big salon, the chandelier had been taken down and the carpet rolled up. Only the paintings were still in place. They shut themselves in a boudoir next to the salon, from which the men had forgotten to take the divan.

  •

  At about seven, Pacheco put in an appearance, accompanied by a man of about fifty who had a fat face and silvery hair and who was wearing a fur-lined coat. Pacheco introduced him as the Marquis de W. He was the one who was interested in the paintings. He wanted to see them and choose some, or perhaps even take them all. The youth in the lumber-jacket had joined them and seemed to know the self-styled marquis very well, as he said to him in his sing-song voice:

  "Have you come to see the stuff?"

  In the salon, the Marquis de W., who hadn't taken off his fur-lined coat, inspected the paintings one by one. The youth in the lumber-jacket stood behind him, and after a moment said:

  "Do we take it down?"

  And on a nod from the Marquis de W., he took the painting down and propped it up against the wall. At the end of this inspection, all the paintings had been taken down. Ingrid and Rigaud stayed in the background. The Marquis de W. turned to Pacheco:

  "Does your friend still agree the price we fixed?"

  "He does."

  Rigaud was then obliged to join them, and the Marquis de W. said to him:

  "I'm taking all the paintings. I'd have been quite willing to buy the furniture, but I don't need it."

  "We've already found a buyer," Pacheco said.

  Rigaud had imperceptibly drifted away from them. Ingrid was still at the back of the salon, near the door. He went over to her. He looked at the three men standing in the middle of the empty room, the one in his fur-lined coat which seemed as new as his title, Pacheco in a raincoat with its collar turned down, and the youngest one in his lumber-jacket. They looked like burglars who had just finished the job but who had nothing to fear, and could afford to linger at the scene of their misdeeds. The light streamed down from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling in the place of the chandelier.

  •

  The Marquis de W. and the youth in the lumber-jacket left the flat first and started down the stairs. Pacheco handed Rigaud a cardboard shoe box:

  "Here ... You can check that it's all there ... Will you come and see us out?"

  Rigaud, shoe box in hand, preceded Ingrid down the stairs. They all found themselves on the steps outside the house. Night had fallen, and it was snowing slightly. The larger of the two vans began to drive off, and had difficulty in turning into the Rue de Tilsitt. Then the other van followed.

  "Maybe we could have dinner together," Pacheco suggested.

  Rigaud nodded. Ingrid was keeping in the background. "You must be my guests," said the Marquis de W.

  "Why don't we go to the restaurant where we were the other evening?" said Pacheco.

  "Where was it?" the Marquis de W. asked.

  "In the Rue d'Armaillé. Chez Moitry."

  "Good idea," said the Marquis de W. Then, turning to Rigaud:

  "I gather the house has been sequestrated, and is on the market. Maybe you can give me some tips."

  The youth in the lumber-jacket kept by the Marquis de W.'s side like a bodyguard. It was snowing harder, now.

  "See you chez Moitry in an hour," said Rigaud. "I must just make a last tour of inspection upstairs."

  He joined Ingrid on the steps. They watched the others cross the courtyard and go through the gate. With a chauffeur's gesture, the youth in the lumber-jacket opened one of the doors of a black saloon parked outside.

  The Marquis de W. and Pacheco got in. It was snowing harder all the time, and the car disappeared round the corner in the Rue de Tilsitt.

  •

  Rigaud had taken a bag into the salon. Under the harsh light of the bulb hanging from the ceiling, he packed a few sweaters, a pair of trousers and the shoe box full of bank-notes that Pacheco had given him. Ingrid had no other clothes than the ones she was wearing. He closed the bag.

&n
bsp; "Must we really have dinner with them?" Ingrid asked.

  "No ... no … I don't trust those people ..."

  She was relieved. She too felt ill at ease in their presence.

  "We'll go to the other flat right away ..."

  When he went out of the salon he left the light on. As he was shutting the flat door he said to Ingrid, who was on the landing:

  "Wait here a moment …"

  He soon came back with a pair of skis, and some big boots which he put in the bag.

  "They're souvenirs ..."

  On the stairs, each took one handle of the bag. Rigaud had put the skis over his shoulder.

  •

  It was still snowing. The pavement was covered in a white layer which gleamed in the darkness. The Place was deserted, and they sank up to their ankles in the snow. The Arc de Triomphe stood out clearly in the moonlight.

  "It's a pity you haven't got any skis," said Rigaud. "We could have skied there ..."

  They went down the steps to the métro. There were not so many people in the carriage as there had been the other evening between Châtelet and Barbès-Rochechouart. Ingrid sat down near the doors and held the bag on her knees. Rigaud remained standing, because of the skis. The other passengers looked at him curiously. And in the end, he didn't even pay attention to the successive stops: Marbeuf, Concorde, Palais Royal, Louvre ... He tightened his grasp on the skis against his shoulder and imagined himself once again, as he had been the previous year, in the ski-lift taking him all the way up to Rochebrune.

  •

  The train stopped at Nation. The line didn't go any farther. Rigaud and Ingrid had gone past Bastille, where they ought to have changed for the Porte Dorée.

  They came out of the métro into a big snowfield. Neither of them knew the district. Maybe there was a street that would be a short cut to 20, Boulevard Soult? They decided to go the safest way: along the Cours de Vincennes.

  They hugged the façades of the buildings, where the snow wasn't so deep. Rigaud was carrying his skis over his shoulder, and the bag in his left hand. Ingrid kept her hands in her coat pockets, because she was cold.

  They saw a sledge going by on the pavement, harnessed to a black horse. Maybe the silence, the full moon and the phosphorescent snow were creating mirages. The sledge advanced slowly, no faster than a hearse. Rigaud put his skis down on the ground and ran after it, calling to the driver, who stopped his horse.

  He agreed to take them to 20, Boulevard Soult. Usually he drove a cab, but during the fortnight that Paris had been snowbound he had used this sledge which he had discovered in a shed in Saint-Mandé, near where he lived. He was wearing a big lumber-jacket and a fisherman's cap.

  They glided along the Cours de Vincennes. Rigaud's skis were tied on to the back of the sledge. With an abrupt movement of his arm, the cabbie whipped his horse whenever it slowed to a walk. But as they approached the Porte de Vincennes, its trot became faster. They no longer knew what town they were in or what countryside they were travelling through. The sledge cut through several little streets to get to the Boulevard Soult. It was a silent, deserted mountain village during Midnight Mass. Ingrid nestled down in the hollow of Rigaud's shoulder.

  I LEFT MY HOTEL ROOM in the late morning without having received a message from Annette, and went back to the flat. I put the yellow key in the lock and had difficulty in opening the door.

  I came upon the concierge in the end bedroom, putting sheets on the twin beds.

  "You needn't have bothered," I said. "I'll do it myself."

  He straightened up.

  "But it's no trouble, Monsieur. After all, you aren't going to camp here, are you?"

  He looked at me reproachfully.

  "And this afternoon I'll run the vacuum cleaner over the place. There's far too much dust …"

  "You think so?"

  It had been accumulating for a long time. I tried to work out how long it had been since Ingrid and Rigaud left.

  "I'll get rid of those skis in the cupboard, and those old boots ..."

  "No. They must stay where they belong."

  He seemed surprised at my determination.

  "Just imagine if that Monsieur Rigaud came back and found his skis gone …"

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  "He'll never come back."

  I helped him tuck in the sheets. We had to separate the twin beds, which had been pushed together.

  "They're going to reconnect the phone at the beginning of next week," he told me. "And the electricity this afternoon."

  So everything was for the best. I would phone Annette and tell her to come and join me here. We would live together in this flat. She'd be surprised at first, but she would finally understand, as she had finally understood so many things when we first knew one another.

  •

  We went out on to the Boulevard Soult and walked to the service station. The Kabyle in the blue dungarees shook my hand.

  "I'll leave you to your shift," he said to the concierge. "Will you keep me company for a bit?" the concierge asked me.

  "With pleasure."

  We sat down on the chairs by the petrol pump. We stayed in the sun. It didn't overwhelm us as it had the previous days, but enveloped us in a gentle warmth and an orange-coloured light.

  "It's already autumn," said the concierge. And he pointed to the foot of a tree, where a few dead leaves were stuck in the wire cage round its trunk.

  "I must remember to check the radiators in your flat. Otherwise you won't have any proper heating this winter."

  "There's still time," I said.

  "Not so much ... It goes fast ... As from September, the days get shorter …"

  "I don't know whether I shall still be there this winter." Yes, all of a sudden the prospect of staying in this district during the winter chilled my heart. In the summer, you're a tourist like any other, in a town that is also on holiday. You aren't in any way committed. But in the winter … And the thought that Annette would agree to share my life at the Porte Dorée didn't make me feel any more cheerful. My goodness, where and how was I going to spend the winter?

  "Is something bothering you?" the concierge asked. "No."

  He stood up.

  "I have to go and do some shopping for my dinner. Can you stay here? If by any chance anyone wants some petrol, will you be able to work the pump?"

  "There can't be much magic about it," I said.

  •

  An old navy-blue English car had been standing for a few moments opposite the petrol station on the other side of the road. I thought I recognized Annette's car. Yes. It was indeed Annette's car. But I couldn't see who was driving.

  The car made a wide U-turn on the deserted boulevard and pulled up outside the service station. Ben Smidane. He put his head out of the window.

  "Jean … It took me a long time to find you ... I've been watching you for the last ten minutes to make quite sure that it was you ..."

  He gave me a rather nervous smile.

  "Shall I fill her up?" I asked.

  And without even giving him time to reply, I unhooked the pipe and began to fill the tank.

  "You've found a new job, then?"

  His tone was jocular, but he couldn't manage to conceal his concern. He got out of the car and stood squarely in front of me.

  "Annette sent me … You must give her some sign of life, Jean …"

  I hooked the pipe slowly back on to the pump.

  "She's very worried about you."

  "She certainly shouldn't be."

  "She didn't want to phone you because she's afraid ..."

  "Afraid of what?"

  I was automatically wiping the windscreen with a rag I'd found on the petrol pump.

  "She's afraid you're going to involve her in an adventure that leads nowhere ... Those are her own words ... She doesn't want to come and see you here ... She told me that she isn't twenty any more ..."

  •

  The concierge was slowly coming towards us on the p
avement, carrying his shopping bag. I introduced Ben Smidane to him. Then Ben got back behind the wheel and signed to me to come and sit beside him. He drove off. There were vestiges of Annette's scent in the car.

  "It would be so much simpler if I were to take you back to your wife now.

  We were driving very slowly in the direction of the Porte Dorée.

  "Not just yet," I said. "I must stay here for a few more days."

  "Why?"

  "To give me time to finish my Memoirs."

  "Are you writing your Memoirs?"

  I could see that he didn't believe me. And yet I was telling the truth.

  "Not really Memoirs," I said. "But almost."

  We had reached the square with the fountains and were driving past the former Colonial Museum.

  "I've been making notes over a long period, and now I'm trying to turn them into a book."

  "And why couldn't you write your book at home, at the Cité Véron, with Annette?"

  "I need a certain atmosphere …"

  But I didn't feel like giving him any sort of explanation.

  "Listen, Jean ... I'm leaving tomorrow for the Indian Ocean … I'm going to be there for several months ... I won't be able to act as a go-between for you and Annette any longer ... It would be a real shame if you were to make a definite break …"

  "You're lucky to be still at an age to go away ... "This had escaped me, just like that. I too would have liked to go away instead of going around in circles on the periphery of this town like someone who can no longer find any emergency exits. I so often have the same dream: I'm on the landing stage, waiting to take off, my water skis on my feet, I'm gripping the rope and waiting for the speedboat to move off and tow me over the water at top speed. But it doesn't move.

  He left me outside the hotel.