Promise at Dawn

  Having reached the Luxembourg, I had to walk past the Brasserie Médicis. As ill luck would have it I saw, even at that late hour, through the white net curtain, a natty bourgeois in the process of dealing with a porterhouse steak and steamed potatoes. I stopped, took one look at the steak, and fainted dead away. My hunger had nothing to do with it. True, I hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours, but at that period of my life I had a vitality which could stand up to anything and I often went without eating for thirty-six hours without shirking my obligations, of no matter what nature. No: what had made me faint was sheer humiliation, indignation and rage. No human being, I thought, should be placed in such a position, and I still adhere to that belief. I judge political regimes in terms of the amount of nourishment they can guarantee every individual, and when there are any political strings attached to the daily bread, when men can eat only by accepting or submitting, I vomit them. A man should have the right to eat without any conditions.

  I was choking with rage. I clenched my fists, everything went dark and I fell full length on the pavement. I must have lain there for quite a while because when I regained my senses I found a crowd around me. I was well dressed, I was even wearing gloves and, fortunately, it never occurred to anyone to guess the reason for my fainting fit. An ambulance had already been sent for and I was much tempted to let myself be driven away: I was sure that I could find some means of filling my stomach at the hospital. But I refused to take that easy way out. With a few muttered words of apology, I extricated myself from the crowd and walked home. The double shock of humiliation and fainting had relegated the demands of my stomach to the background. I lit my lamp, took out my fountain pen and, there and then, started on a story which appeared in Gringoire a few weeks later under the title of “Une petite femme.”

  I also did some soul-searching and decided that I was taking myself too seriously and was lacking both in humility and a sense of humor. I had shown a defeatist attitude toward my fellow men, a lack of confidence in them, and had not even tried to explore the possibilities of human nature, which, after all, could not be entirely devoid of generosity. Next morning I embarked on an experiment, as a result of which my optimistic views turned out to be entirely justified. I began by borrowing a hundred sous from the floor waiter, then went to the Capoulade Café, where, standing at the counter, I ordered a cup of coffee and plunged my hand resolutely into a basket of croissants. I ate seven of them with gusto and then called for more coffee: after which I looked the waiter solemnly in the eyes—the poor devil had no idea that, in his person, the whole human race was being put to the test—and asked: “How much do I owe you?”

  “How many croissants?”

  “One.”

  He glanced at the basket, which was almost empty. Then he glanced at me. Then he glanced again at the basket. Then he shook his head. “Merde,” he said. “You lay it on too thick, buddy.”

  “Maybe two,” I said.

  “All right, all right, forget it,” he said. “I’m not completely dumb. Two coffees and a croissant—seventy-five centimes, all told.”

  I left the place transfigured. Something was singing in my heart—probably the croissants. From that day on I became the Capoulade’s best customer. Occasionally, the unfortunate Jules—that was the name of this great Frenchman—ventured a timid protest, though without much conviction.

  “Couldn’t you go stuff yourself someplace else? You’re going to get me into trouble with the boss.”

  “I can’t,” said I. “You are my father and my mother.”

  Sometimes he indulged in vague calculations to which I listened with only half an ear.

  “Two croissants? You can look me in the face and say that? Three minutes ago there were nine in the basket.”

  I took that remark very coldly. “There are thieves everywhere,” I observed.

  “Eh bien, merde!” said Jules admiringly. “Some cheek you’ve got, friend. What are you studying for, if I may ask?”

  “Law. I am working for a law degree.”

  “Some joke,” said Jules somberly.

  We became friends. When my second story appeared in Gringoire, I gave him a signed copy.

  I reckon that between 1936 and 1937 I must have got through something like one thousand or one thousand five hundred croissants at the Capoulade, without paying. I regarded it as a sort of scholarship awarded me by the establishment.

  I have, ever since then, had a particular fondness for croissants. I find something sympathetic in their shape, their crispness and their friendly warmth. I don’t digest them quite so easily now as I used to and our relationship has become more or less platonic. But I like to think of them lying there in their basket on the counter. They have done more for students than the Third Republic. As General de Gaulle would say, they are good Frenchmen.

  CHAPTER 25

  The publication of my second story in Gringoire came just in time. The day before, my mother had written me an indignant letter in which she announced her intention of unmasking, stick in hand, a lady who had turned up at the hotel and claimed to be the author of a story which I had published under the pen name of André Corthis. I was terrified. André Corthis really did exist, and had, indeed, written the story in question. It was becoming a matter of some urgency to provide my mother with something to go on. “Une petite femme” was like an answer to prayer, and, once again, the trumpets of fame reverberated through the Buffa Market. But by now I had come to realize that there could be no question of my living by my pen alone, and I set about looking for “work,” a word which sounded to me mysterious and a little desperate and which I pronounced with an air of grim resolution.

  I was, in succession, a waiter in a Montparnasse restaurant, a tricyclist deliveryman for a caterer’s firm, “Lunch-Diner-Repas Fins,” receptionist at a luxury hotel near the Etoile, a washer-up at Larue and at the Ritz, a desk clerk at the Hotel Lapérouse; I worked at the Cirque d’Hiver and at the Mimi Pinson dance hall, sold advertising space in Le Temps to the tourist agencies, and undertook, for a reporter on the staff of the weekly paper Voilà, a detailed inquiry into the settings, personnel and atmosphere of more than a hundred Paris brothels. Voilà never published my findings, and I later learned, much to my indignation, for I would have demanded a far larger fee, that I had been working, without knowing it, for an under-the-counter guidebook for the use of visitors to Gay Paree. Of all my jobs, that of receptionist in the hotel near the Etoile was by far the most disagreeable. I was constantly being snubbed by the chief clerk, who had a profound contempt for “intellectuals”—it was a matter of common knowledge that I was a student and an aspiring writer—and all the bellboys were pederasts. The sight of those kids of fourteen offering their services in no uncertain terms made me feel physically sick. By comparison, my round of the brothels for Voilà seemed like a breath of fresh air.

  I should not like anybody to think that I am making a deliberate attack on homosexuals. I have nothing against them—but I have nothing for them, either. Some of the most eminent pederasts among my friends have discreetly suggested that I ought to have myself psychoanalyzed to see if I could be cured of my weakness, since my fatal preference for women must be the result of some infantile trauma which might be overcome with a little patience and understanding. I am, by nature, prone to meditation and sadness, and I fully realize that in these days, after all that has happened to man in the way of concentration camps, slavery in its various forms and the hydrogen bomb, there is really no reason why he should not accept being —1 as well. We have acquiesced in so many varieties of servitude, humiliation, horror and bestiality that it is difficult to see why we should suddenly become difficult and choosy. However, there is always the future to be considered, and, for that reason, it seems to me a good thing that men in our time keep at least one small part of their persons intact, and in reserve, so that they will still have something left to surrender and to prostitute in times to come.

  The job I most enjoyed was that of deliverin
g food on a tricycle. The spectacle of food has always been a pleasure for me, and I found it by no means unpleasant to ride about Paris with a cargo of well-cooked dishes. Wherever I went I could be sure of a warm welcome. On one occasion I had to deliver a delicious little supper—caviar, champagne, foie gras, etc.—at a fifth-floor bachelor flat in the Place des Temes. I was received by a distinguished-looking gentleman with graying hair, who must have been a few years older than I am today. He was wearing what was then known as an “at home.” The table was laid for two. I recognized him as a fashionable writer of the period. He looked dejectedly at what I had brought, and seemed to be extremely downcast.

  “Always remember, my lad,” he said, “that all women are bitches. I should know. I’ve written several novels on the subject.”

  He looked with disgust at the caviar, the champagne and the chicken in aspic. Then he heaved a deep sigh.

  “You have a mistress?”

  “No,” I replied, “I’m broke.”

  He appeared to be favorably impressed.

  “Young though you are,” he said, “you seem to know women.”

  “I have known one or two,” I answered modestly.

  “Bitches?” he inquired hopefully.

  I took a squint at the caviar. The chicken in aspic didn’t look too bad either.

  “Oh là là!” I said, with a deep, heartbroken sigh.

  He nodded with satisfaction: “They were mean to you?”

  “Mean?” I repeated, with a tragic grin. “The word isn’t strong enough!”

  “And yet you are young, and by no means bad looking.”

  “Maître,” I said, taking my eyes with difficulty from the chicken: “Maître, I have been cocu, abominably cocu. The only two women I really loved betrayed me with men of fifty—fifty, did I say? Why, one of them was well over sixty.”

  “Really?” He had cheered up considerably. “Tell me all about it. Sit down. We might as well take advantage of this wretched meal. The sooner it disappears, the better.”

  I pounced on the caviar. I made but one bite of the foie gras and the chicken in aspic. When I eat, I eat: I don’t beat around the bush. I mean business and put all I have into each mouthful. As a rule I don’t much care for chicken, which I always find a bit tame, except when it’s served with a fine mushroom garnish, or when it’s drenched in tarragon sauce. Still, it is edible. I told him how two lovely young creatures, with the most delicately jointed limbs and unforgettable eyes, had left me for two elderly men with gray hair, one of whom was a well-known author.

  “It is true that women prefer experienced men,” said my host. “There is something reassuring for them in the company of a man who knows life and its ways, and has outlived a certain form of . . . hm!—youthful impetuosity.”

  I hastily agreed. There were three desserts, and I was getting along splendidly. My host poured me some more champagne.

  “You must have a little patience, young man,” he said benevolently. “One day you too will be fifty, and then you will, at last, have something to offer women, something they value above all else—authority, wisdom, a calm and assured touch—in other words, maturity. When that day comes, you will know how to love them, and you will be loved by them.”

  I grabbed the bottle and poured myself some more champagne. There was no point in keeping the gloves on: there was not a crumb of chocolate cake left. I got up. He took one of his own books from the shelves, and inscribed it for me. He laid his hand on my shoulder.

  “No need to despair, young man,” he said. “Twenty is a difficult age. But it doesn’t last—just a painful moment to be lived through. When one of your young women leaves you for an older man, take it for what it is, a promise for the future. One day you too will be a mature man.”

  “Merde,” I thought, uneasily.

  My reaction is just the same today, when it has caught up with me all right.

  The master went with me to the door. We shook hands, we looked one another straight in the eyes. A fine subject for the Prix de Rome: Wisdom and Experience Offering a Helping Hand to Youth and Its Illusions.

  I carried the book away under my arm. I had no need to read it: I knew what it would be about. I wanted to laugh, to whistle and to talk to the passers-by. The champagne and my twenty years gave wings to my tricycle. The world was my oyster. I pedaled through the Paris of bright lights and shining stars. I broke into song, taking my hands from the handlebar, beating time with my arms and blowing kisses to unaccompanied ladies in cars. I crashed a red light. A cop stopped me with an indignant blast on his whistle.

  “What the hell?” he shouted.

  “Nothing,” I said with a wink. “Life is beautiful, la vie est belle!”

  “Off you go,” he said, grinning, opening up instantly to that password, like a true Frenchman.

  1 Unprintable.

  CHAPTER 26

  I was in my third year at law school when I met an adorable Swedish girl, the type of girl every man in every country has dreamed about since the world first gave the blessed gift of Sweden to mankind. She was gay, pretty, intelligent, and, above all, she had a charming voice, and I have always been sensitive to voices. I have no ear, and between music and me there is a sad, resigned misunderstanding. But to women’s voices I am strangely sensitive. Why, I do not know. Perhaps there is something peculiar in the formation of my ears, a nerve, for instance, that somehow got where it shouldn’t be at all. I have even gone so far as to have my Eustachian tubes examined by a specialist, but he found nothing wrong. In short, Brigitte had the voice, I had the ear, and we were made to understand one another. As things turned out, we did—admirably. I listened to her, making her speak as much as I could, and I was happy. Rather simple-mindedly, in spite of the world-weary airs I affected, I believed that nothing could threaten such a harmonic and harmonious relationship. We were so happy together that other lodgers in the hotel, students of every color and from every latitude, smiled when they passed us on the stairs each morning. Then I began to notice that Brigitte was becoming pensive. She often went to see an old Swedish lady who lived at the Hôtel des Grands Hommes in the Place du Pantheon. She stayed there until late, sometimes until one or two in the morning.

  When she got back, she was always very tired and sad, and stroked my cheek with a melancholy and pitying kindness.

  A secret doubt wormed its way into my mind. I began to suspect that something was being hidden from me. My precocious perspicacity was such that it did not take much to arouse my doubts: could it be, I wondered, that the old Swedish lady had fallen ill, in a foreign land, so far away from her dear ones? And what if she was Brigitte’s own mother, who had come to Paris to consult one of the great French doctors? Brigitte had such a sweet nature, she adored me with such self-abnegation that she was perfectly capable of concealing her anxiety from me, if only to protect my peace of mind, so important in literary creation—I was busily writing a new novel. One night, about 1 A.M., obsessed by the idea of my poor Brigitte crying her eyes out at the bedside of a dying woman, I could stand the mystery no longer and went to the Hôtel des Grands Hommes. It was raining. The door of the hotel was locked. I took shelter under the portico of the law school, and kept my eyes glued to the facade of the hotel. Suddenly, a light went on in a fourth-floor window, and Brigitte came out onto the balcony. Her hair was undone. She was wearing a man’s dressing gown, and stood for a while motionless, with the rain beating down upon her face. I must admit that I was not a little astonished. What was she doing there in a man’s dressing gown, and with her hair all loose? Perhaps she had been caught in the storm and the doctor attending the Swedish lady had lent her his dressing gown, while her own clothes were drying? A young man in pajamas appeared on the balcony, and leaned on the rail at Brigitte’s side. This time I was positively amazed: I didn’t know that the Swedish lady had a son. It was then that the ground opened under my feet, that the portico of the law school collapsed on my head, and hell and damnation took hold upon my heart. The
young man put his arm around Brigitte’s waist, and my last hope—that perhaps she had merely gone into a neighbor’s room to fill her fountain pen—vanished in a flash. The scoundrel clasped Brigitte to him, kissed her on the lips, and led her back into the room. The light was discreetly dimmed but not extinguished: the murderer wanted to see what he was doing. I uttered a horrified yell and rushed across to the hotel entrance, intent on preventing the hideous crime that was about to be committed. There were four flights to climb, but I thought I could arrive in time, provided that the man was not a complete brute and had a modicum of good manners. Unfortunately, the door was shut fast, and I had to bang, ring, holler and dance about like a cat on hot bricks, thus wasting a lot of time, which drove me almost insane with rage and frustration, since my rival up above was almost certainly not having similar difficulties. To make matters worse, I had failed, in my panic, to mark down the exact window, so that when the porter did finally let me in, and I flew like an eagle from floor to floor, I did not know which door was the right one, and when the one I chose opened to my knock, I leaped at the throat of a sweet little thing whom I so terrified that he very nearly fainted in my arms. I had only to take one look at him to realize that he was not at all the type to entertain women in his bedroom—quite the contrary. He gave me a reproachful and entreating look but I was in far too great a hurry to do anything for him. So, back I was on the unlit stairs, wasting still more precious time trying to find the automatic light switch, and hollering all the time at the top of my voice. I was pretty certain now that I would be too late. The murderer had not four flights to climb, no door to break open, his work was all laid out for him, and he was probably gleefully rubbing his hands now. Suddenly, all my strength drained from me. I was a prey to complete despair. I sat down on a stair and wiped the sweat and the rain from my forehead. I heard a timid flop-flop and the willowy youth sat down beside me and took my hand. I lacked the strength even to withdraw it. He set about consoling me, and, so far as I remember, offered me his friendship. He caressed my hand and said that a man like myself should have no difficulty in finding a brotherly soul worthy of him. I looked at him with a vague sort of interest. But, no, there was nothing doing for me in that direction.