Honeymoon Read online

  "I have a feeling that you drive even worse than I do," she said.

  She showed me the way. Once again the little track bordered by bamboos. It was so narrow that every time a car came in the opposite direction I had to pull in on to the verge.

  "Would you like me to take over?" she asked.

  "No, no. It'll be quite all right."

  •

  I parked the car outside the Hôtel de Paris, whose façade and little windows with their wooden shutters made it look like an hotel in the mountains, and we walked down to the port. It was the time of day when groups of tourists were strolling along the quayside admiring the moored yachts, or trying to find a free table on the terrace of Senéquier's. She bought a few things at the chemist's. She asked me whether I needed anything, and after a moment's hesitation I confessed that I needed some Extra Blue Gillette razor blades and some shaving cream, but that I hadn't any money on me. Then we went to the bookshop where she picked out a detective story. Next, to the port's bar-tabac. She bought a few packets of cigarettes. We had difficulty in making our way through the crowd.

  A little later, though, we were the only ones walking through the alleyways in the old town. I went back to that place in the course of the following years, and walked along the port and the same little streets with Annette, Wetzel and Cavanaugh. I couldn't help it, I couldn't entirely share their lightheartedness and joie de vivre. I was somewhere else, in another summer, more and more distant, and with time the light of that summer underwent a curious transformation: far from fading, like old, over-exposed photos, the contrasts of sun and shade became so accentuated that I recall everything in black and white.

  We walked down the Rue de la Ponche, and when we'd passed the arch we stopped in the square overlooking the Port des Pêcheurs. She pointed to the terrace of a derelict house.

  "My husband and I used to live up there, a very long time ago … You weren't even born …"

  Her pale eyes were still fixed on me, with their absent expression which intimidated me. But she was frowning in the way I had already noticed, which made her look as if she was gently mocking me.

  "How about a little stroll?"

  In the sloping garden at the foot of the Citadelle, we sat down on a bench.

  "Have you parents?"

  "I don't see them any more," I told her.

  "Why not?"

  That frown again. What could I answer? Strange sort of parents, who had always tried to find a boarding school or reformatory where they could get rid of me.

  "When I saw you by the side of the road this morning, I wondered whether you had parents."

  We went back to the port down the Rue de la Citadelle.

  She took my arm because of the sloping road. The contact of her arm and shoulder gave me an impression I had never yet had, that of finding myself under someone's protection. She would be the first person who could help me. I felt lightheaded. All those waves of tenderness that she communicated to me through the simple contact of her arm, and the pale blue look she gave me from time to time – I didn't know that such things could happen, in life.

  •

  We had come back to the bungalow along the beach. We were sitting in the deck chairs. Night had fallen, and the light from the bungalow was shining on us through one of the glass doors.

  "A game of cards?" he said. "But you don't seem all that keen on such activities …"

  "Did we play cards at his age?"

  She called him to witness, and he smiled.

  "We didn't have time to play cards."

  He had said this in a low voice, for himself alone, and I would have been curious to know what they had done for a living at that time.

  "You can stay the night here, if you have nowhere else to go," she said.

  I was ashamed at the idea that they took me for a tramp.

  "Thank you … I'd like to, if it's not too much of an imposition …"

  It was difficult to say, and I dug my nails into the palms of my hands to give myself courage. But the worst thing still remained to be confessed:

  "I've got to go back to Paris tomorrow. Unfortunately, all my remaining money was stolen."

  Rather than hang my head, I looked her straight in the eyes, waiting for her verdict. Once again, she frowned.

  "And that bothers you?"

  "Don't worry," he said. "We'll find you a seat on the train tomorrow."

  Above us, behind the pines, the villa and its swimming pool were lit up, and I could see silhouettes gliding over the blue mosaic.

  "They have parties every night," he said. "They stop us sleeping. That's why we're looking for another house."

  He suddenly looked worn out.

  "At the beginning, they were always inviting us to their parties," she said. "So we used to turn out all the lights in the bungalow and pretend we weren't there."

  "We'd sit in the dark. One evening they came down to fetch us. We took refuge under the pines, over there …"

  Why were they adopting this confidential, or even confessional tone with me, as if they were trying to justify themselves?

  "Do you know them?" I asked.

  "Yes, yes, a little," he said. "But we don't want to see them …"

  "We've become savages," she said.

  Voices were approaching. A little group, about fifty metres away, was coming along the pine-bordered path.

  "Do you mind if we put the light out?" he asked me.

  He went into the bungalow and the light went out, leaving us, her and me, in the semi-darkness. She put her hand on my wrist.

  "Now," she said, "we must talk very quietly."

  And she smiled at me. Behind us, he shut the sliding glass door slowly, so as not to make a noise, and came and sat down on the deck chair again. The others were very close now, just by the path leading to the bungalow. I heard one of them keep repeating in a husky voice:

  "But I swear I did! I swear I did …"

  "If they come right up to us, we'll just have to pretend to be asleep," he said.

  I thought of the curious sight we should present to them, asleep on our deck chairs in the dark.

  "And if they tap us on the shoulder to wake us up?" I asked. "Well, in that case we'll pretend to be dead," she said.

  But they left the bungalow path and went down the slope under the pines in the direction of the beach. In the moonlight, I could make out two men and three women.

  "The danger's over," he said. "We'd better stay in the dark. They might quite likely see the light from the beach."

  I didn't know whether it was a game or whether he was in earnest.

  "Does our attitude surprise you?" she asked me, in a gentle voice. "There are moments when we are incapable of exchanging a single word with anybody … It's beyond us …"

  Their silhouettes could be seen on the beach. They took off their clothes and put them down on a big tree trunk carved into the shape of a Polynesian totem pole, whose shadow gave you the impression of being on the shore of a lagoon, somewhere in the South Seas. The women, stark naked, ran down to the sea. The men pretended to chase them, uttering roars. Snatches of music and the hum of conversation came from the villa in the background.

  "It lasts until three in the morning," he said in a weary voice. "They dance and go for midnight bathes."

  For several moments we remained silent, in our deck chairs, in the dark, as if we were hiding.

  •

  It was she who woke me. When I opened my eyes I saw that pale blue or grey gaze fixed on me once again. She opened the sliding glass door of the bedroom and the morning sunshine dazzled me. We all three had breakfast outside. The scent of the pines was floating around us. Down below, the beach was deserted. No trace of their midnight bathes. Not a single article of clothing left behind on the Polynesian totem pole.

  "If you'd like to stay here for a few days, you can," he said. "You won't be in our way."

  I was tempted to say yes. Once again that tenderness, that feeling of exaltation swept ove
r me, as it had when I was walking down the sloping street with her. To allow oneself to live from day to day. To stop asking oneself questions about the future. To be in the company of kindly people who help you to get over your difficulties, and give you gradual confidence in yourself.

  "I have to go back to Paris … For my work …"

  They offered to drive me to the station in Saint-Raphaël. No, it was no trouble. In any case, they had to visit the Les Issandres house again. This time he drove, and I got into the back.

  "I hope you won't be frightened," she said, turning towards me. "He drives even worse than we do."

  He drove too fast, and I often had to cling on to the seat at the bends. My hand finally strayed on to her shoulder, and just as I was about to take it away he braked violently because of another bend, which made her grip my wrist very hard.

  "He's going to kill us," she said.

  "No, no, don't worry. It won't be for this time."

  At the station in Saint-Raphaël he made his way rapidly to the booking office, while she kept me back at the bookstall. "Could you find me a detective story?" she asked.

  I looked through the shelves and chose a book in the Série Noire.

  "That'll do," she said.

  He joined us. He handed me a ticket.

  "I got you a first class one. It'll be more comfortable."

  I was embarrassed. I tried to find the words to thank him. "You didn't need …"

  He shrugged his shoulders and bought a book in the Série Noire. Then they came with me on to the platform. There were about ten minutes to wait for the train. We all three sat down on a bench.

  "I'd very much like to see you again," I said.

  "We have a phone number in Paris. We shall probably be there this winter."

  He took a pen out of the inner pocket of his jacket, tore the endpaper out of his detective novel and wrote his name and phone number on it. Then he folded the page and gave it to me.

  I got into the carriage, and they both stood by the door, waiting for the train to start.

  "You'll be left in peace …" he said. "There's no one in these compartments."

  As the train began to move, she took off her sunglasses and I met her pale blue or grey eyes again.

  "Good luck," she said.

  At Marseilles, I went through my travel bag to make sure I had my passport, and I discovered, tucked under the collar of a shirt, a few bank notes. I wondered whether it was she or he who had had the idea of leaving me this money. Perhaps both at the same time.

  I TOOK ADVANTAGE of the fourteenth of July to creep into our flat in the Cité Véron without attracting anyone's attention. I went up the staircase that no one uses any more, behind the Moulin Rouge. On the third floor, the door opens on to a utility room. Before my false departure for Rio de Janeiro I had taken the key to this door – an old Bricard key whose existence Annette has no suspicion of- and conspicuously left on my bedside table the only key she knows, the one to the front door of the flat. So even if she had guessed that I'd stayed in Paris, she knew that I had left my key behind, and consequently that it was impossible for me to get into the flat unexpectedly.

  No light in the utility room. I groped my way to the handle of the door that opens on to a little bedroom, which would have been called "the children's room" if Annette and I had had any. A booklined corridor leads to the big room we use as a salon. I walked on tiptoe, but I was in no danger. They were all up above, on the terrace. I could hear the murmur of their conversation. Life was continuing without me. For a moment I was tempted to climb the narrow stairs with their plaited-rope hand rail and their life buoys hanging on the walls. I should come out on to the terrace which resembles the upper deck of a liner, because Annette and I had wanted our flat to give us the impression of always being on a cruise: portholes, gangways, rails … I should come out on to the terrace, and what I might describe as a deathly silence would fall. Then, when they'd got over their surprise, they'd ask me questions, they'd make a fuss of me, there would be even greater gaiety than usual and they'd drink champagne in honour of the revenant.

  But I stopped on the first step. No, decidedly, I had no wish to see anyone, or to talk, or to give any explanations, or to carry on with my old life as before. I wanted to go into our bedroom to get a few summer clothes and a pair of moccasins. I turned the doorhandle gently. It was locked on the inside. Below, on the carpet, a thin shaft of light. A couple had left the party while it was in full swing. Who? Annette and Cavanaugh? My widow – for wasn't she my widow if l decided never to reappear? – was she occupying the conjugal bed at this moment with my best friend?

  I went into the adjoining room, which I use as a study. The communicating door was ajar. I recognized Annette's voice.

  "No, no … My darling … Don't be afraid … No one's going to come and disturb us …"

  "Are you sure? Anyone could leave the terrace and come in here … Especially Cavanaugh …"

  "No, no … Cavanaugh won't come … I locked the door …"

  From the gentle, protective tones of Annette's first words, I could tell that she wasn't with Cavanaugh. Then I recognized the muffled voice of Ben Smidane, a young man we had elected to the Explorers' Club at the beginning of the year, with Cavanaugh and me as sponsors, a young man who wanted to dedicate himself to searching for the wrecks of boats that had gone down in the Indian Ocean and the Pacific, and who Annette had said had "the face of a Greek shepherd".

  •

  The light went out in the bedroom, and Annette said in a hoarse voice:

  "Don't be afraid, my darling …"

  Then I shut the door gently and switched on the light in my study. I searched the drawers until I found an old dark­green cardboard folder. I put it under my arm and left the room, abandoning my widow and Ben Smidane to their amours.

  I stood still for a moment in the middle of the corridor, listening to the hum of the conversation. I thought of Cavanaugh up there, a glass of champagne in his hand, standing at the ship's rail. With the other guests he would be gazing at the Place Blanche which looked like a little fishing port they were about to put into. Unless he had noticed Annette's prolonged absence and was wondering where on earth my widow could have got to.

  I saw myself again, twenty years earlier, with Ingrid and Rigaud, in the semi-darkness outside the bungalow. Around us, shouts and bursts of laughter similar to those now reaching me from the terrace. I was now about the same age as Ingrid and Rigaud were then, and whereas their attitude had seemed to me so strange then, I shared it this evening. I remembered what Ingrid had said: "We'll pretend to be dead."

  I went down the secret stairway, behind the Moulin Rouge, and found myself back on the boulevard. I crossed the Place Blanche and raised my head in the direction of our terrace. Up there, there was no danger of them spotting me among the crowds of tourists being disgorged from the coaches, and the people out for a stroll on the fourteenth of July. Did they still spare just a little thought for me? Deep down I was very fond of them: my widow, Cavanaugh, Ben Smidane and the other guests. One day I'll come back to you. I don't yet know the precise date of my resurrection. I shall have to have the strength and the inclination. But this evening I'm going to take the métro to the Porte Dorée. Light. So detached from everything.

  WHEN I GOT BACK, around midnight, the fountains in the square were still illuminated and a few groups, among which I noticed some children, were making their way towards the entrance to the zoo. It had stayed open for the fourteenth of July, and no doubt the animals would remain in their cages and enclosures, half asleep. Why shouldn't I too pay them a nocturnal visit, and thus have the illusion of making our old dream come true: letting ourselves be locked in the zoo overnight?

  But I preferred to go back to the Dodds Hotel and lie down on the little cherry-wood bed in my room. I reread the pages contained in the dark-green folder. Notes, and even short chapters, that I'd written ten years ago, the rough draft of a project cherished at the time: to write Ing
rid's biography.

  It was September, in Paris, and for the first time I had begun to have doubts about my life and profession. From then on I would have to share Annette, my wife, with Cavanaugh, my best friend. The public had lost interest in the documentaries we were bringing back from the antipodes. All those journeys, those countries where they had monsoons, earthquakes, amoebas and virgin forests, had lost their charm for me. Had they ever had any?

  Days of doubt and depression. I had five weeks' respite before dragging myself across Asia on the route followed by the 1931 car expedition across central Asia. I cursed the members of that expedition, whose tyre tracks I was obliged to discover. Never had Paris, the quais along the Seine, and the Place Blanche seemed so attractive. How stupid to leave all that once again …

  The memory of Ingrid was obsessing me, and I had spent the days before my departure in noting down everything I knew about her, which is to say not much … After the war, Rigaud and Ingrid had lived in the Midi for five or six years, but I had no information about that period. Then Ingrid had gone to America, without Rigaud. She had gone with a film producer. This producer had wanted her to be an extra in a few unimportant films. Rigaud had joined her, she had abandoned the producer and the cinema. She had again separated from Rigaud, who went back to France, and she had spent more years in America – years about which I knew nothing. Then she had returned to France, and Paris. And some time later, to Rigaud. And we were coming to the time when I had met them on the Saint-Raphaël road.

  I found it distasteful to read all my notes ten years later; it was as if someone else had written them. For instance, the chapter entitled "The American Years". Was I definitely sure that they had loomed so large in her existence?

  With time, this episode took on a trivial and almost ridiculous aspect. But when I wrote these notes I was more susceptible to irrelevances and glitter, and I didn't go straight to the nub. How childish it was of me to have cut out from a 1951 magazine a colour photo of the Champs-Élysées at night, in summer, under the pretext that it was in the summer of 1951, on one of the terraces in the A venue, that Ingrid had made the acquaintance of the American producer … I had attached this document to my notes, to give a better feeling of the atmosphere in which Ingrid lived when she was twenty-five. The sun umbrellas and the cane chairs on the terraces, the look of a seaside resort that the Avenue des Champs-Élysées still had then, the softness of the Paris evenings that suited her youth so well … And the name I had noted: Alexandre d'Arc, an old Frenchman from Hollywood, the man who, that evening, had introduced Ingrid to the producer, because he accompanied him on all his trips to Europe and was given the job of seeing that he met what in those days they called young persons …