“No, Boris.” Ravic looked at him. “Tricks have no place here. I’ll have none of them.”
“Then go home,” Morosow said.
“To the musty Palm Room? Or to my hole?”
Morosow left Ravic and strode ahead of a couple that wanted a taxi. Ravic waited until he returned. “You’re more sensible than I thought,” Morosow said. “Otherwise you’d be inside already.”
He pushed back his cap with the gold braid. Before he could go on, an intoxicated young man in a white tuxedo appeared in the door. “Colonel! A racing car!”
Morosow called the next taxi in the row and helped the wavering man in. “You don’t laugh,” the drunk said. “But colonel was a good joke, or wasn’t it?”
“Very good. Racing car was perhaps even better.”
“I’ve thought it over,” Morosow said when he came back. “Go in. I’d do it, too. It will have to happen sometime anyway; why not now? Finish it one way or another. When we’re no longer childish we are getting old.”
“I’ve thought it over, too. I’m going somewhere else.”
Morosow looked at Ravic in amusement. “All right,” he said finally. “Then I’ll see you again in half an hour.”
“Maybe not.”
“Then in an hour.”
Two hours later Ravic was sitting in the Cloche d’Or. The place was still rather empty. Whores sat at the long bar, like parrots on a perch, chattering. Near them several peddlers of fake cocaine stood around waiting for tourists. In the room upstairs, a few couples sat and ate onion soup. In a corner, on a sofa, two Lesbians whispered together drinking sherry brandy. One of them in a tailored suit with a tie was wearing a monocle and the other was a red-haired buxom person, in a very low-cut sparkling evening gown.
How idiotic, Ravic thought. Why didn’t I go to the Scheherazade? What am I afraid of? And why do I run away? It has grown, I know. These three months have not destroyed it—they have made it stronger. There’s no point in going on deluding myself. It was almost the only thing that stayed with me in all that creeping across frontiers, waiting in hidden rooms, in all that dripping loneliness of alien starless nights. Absence has strengthened it more than she herself could ever have, and now—
A stifled scream woke him out of his brooding. A few women had come in meanwhile. One of them who looked like a very light Negress, rather drunk, a flowered hat pushed to the back of her head, threw away a table knife and walked slowly down the stairs, shouting threats in the direction of the corner where the Lesbians were. No one stopped her. A waiter came upstairs. Another woman stood there and blocked his way. “Nothing has happened,” she said. “Nothing has happened.”
The waiter shrugged his shoulders and turned back. Ravic saw the red-haired woman in the corner getting up. At the same time, the woman who had kept the waiter off went quickly downstairs to the bar. The redhead stood still, her hand at her full bosom. She carefully opened two fingers of her hand and looked down. Her gown was slashed a few inches and underneath one saw the open wound. One did not see any skin; only the open wound in the green iridescent evening gown. The red-haired woman stared at it as though she could not believe it.
Ravic made an involuntary movement. Then he let himself sink back. One deportation was enough. He saw the woman in the tailored suit pulling the redhead back onto the sofa. At the same moment the second woman came back upstairs from the bar with a glass of brandy. The woman in the tailored suit knelt on the banquette, with one hand she kept the redhead’s mouth closed as she quickly pulled her hand away from the wound. The other woman poured the brandy into it. A primitive form of disinfectant, Ravic thought. The redhead moaned, moved convulsively, but the other one held her in a grip of steel. Two other women hid the table from the remaining guests. The whole thing was done extremely fast and skillfully. Hardly anyone saw the occurrence. A minute later a number of Lesbians and homosexuals crowded into the place as if summoned by magic. They surrounded the table in the corner, two lifted the redhead, held her up, the others, laughing and chattering, shielded the group, and they all left the place as if nothing had happened. Most of the guests were hardly aware of the disturbance.
“Good, wasn’t it?” someone asked Ravic from behind. It was the waiter.
Ravic nodded. “What was it about?”
“Jealousy. These perverts are an excitable lot.”
“Where did all the others come from so quickly? That seemed sheer telepathy.”
“They smell it, sir,” the waiter said.
“Very likely one of them telephoned. But it went fast.”
“They smell it. And they stick to each other like death and the devil. They don’t give each other away. No police—that’s all they want. They settle it among themselves.” The waiter picked up Ravic’s glass from the table. “Another? What was it?”
“Calvados.”
“All right. Another calvados.”
He shuffled away. Ravic looked up and saw Joan sitting a few tables from him. She had come in while he was talking with the waiter. He hadn’t seen her enter. She was sitting with two men. At the same moment she noticed him. She turned pale under her tan. She sat still a few seconds, without taking her eyes from him. Then, with a brusque movement, she pushed her table aside, got up, and came toward him. As she walked her face changed. It relaxed and became soft; only her eyes remained steady and transparent as crystals. To Ravic they appeared brighter than ever. They were of an almost furious intensity.
“You are back?” she said breathlessly in a low voice.
She stood close to him. For a moment she made a move as if she were about to put her arms around him. But she did not do it. Nor did she shake hands with him. “You are back?” she repeated.
Ravic did not answer.
“How long have you been back?” she asked in the same low tone as before.
“For two weeks.”
“For two—and I didn’t—you didn’t even—”
“No one knew where you were. Neither at your hotel nor the Scheherazade.”
“The Scheherazade—but I was—” She interrupted herself. “Why did you never write?”
“I could not.”
“You are lying.”
“All right. I didn’t want to. I didn’t know whether I would come back again.”
“You are lying again. That’s no reason.”
“It is. I could come back or not come back. Don’t you understand?”
“No. But I do understand that you have been here for two weeks and you haven’t done the least thing to—”
“Joan,” Ravic said calmly. “You didn’t get those brown shoulders in Paris.”
The waiter passed by, sniffing. He cast a look at Joan and Ravic. He was still full of the scene that had occurred earlier. As if by chance he removed the two knives and forks together with a plate from the red and white checked tablecloth. Ravic noticed it. “Everything is all right,” he said.
“What is all right?” Joan asked.
“Nothing. Something happened here a while ago.”
She stared at him. “Are you waiting here for a woman?”
“My God, no. Some people had a scene. One of them was bleeding. This time I did not interfere.”
“Interfere?” Suddenly she understood. Her expression changed. “What are you doing here? They will arrest you again. Now I know all about it. Half a year’s imprisonment next time. You must go away! I didn’t know you were in Paris. I thought you would never come back again.”
Ravic did not answer.
“I thought you would never come back again,” she repeated. Ravic looked at her. “Joan—”
“No! Not a thing is true! Nothing is true! Nothing!”
“Joan,” Ravic said warily. “Go back to your table.”
Suddenly her eyes were moist. “Go back to your table,” he said.
“It’s your fault!” she burst out. “Yours! Yours alone!”
Abruptly she turned around and went back. Ravic pushed his table to one si
de and sat down. He looked at the glass of calvados and made a move as if to drink it. He didn’t. He had been calm while speaking to Joan. Now, suddenly, he felt the excitement. Strange, he thought, the chest muscles vibrate under the skin. Why just those? He lifted the glass and observed his hand. It was steady. He emptied half the glass. While he was drinking he could feel Joan’s look. He did not glance her way again. The waiter passed by. “Cigarettes,” Ravic said. “Caporals.”
He lighted a cigarette and drained the remaining half of his glass. He could feel Joan’s look again. What does she expect? he thought. That I will get drunk from misery right here in front of her? He called the waiter and paid. The moment he got up Joan began talking vivaciously to one of her companions. She did not look up as he passed her table. Her face was hard and entirely expressionless and her smile was forced.
Ravic wandered through the streets and found himself unexpectedly in front of the Scheherazade again. Morosow’s face lit up. “Well done, soldier! I almost gave you up for lost. One is always pleased when a prophecy comes true.”
“Don’t be pleased too soon.”
“Don’t you be either. You’ve come too late.”
“I know that. I have already run into her.”
“What?”
“In the Cloche d’Or.”
“What the—” Morosow said, taken aback. “Mother Life has always new tricks up her sleeve.”
“When will you be through here, Boris?”
“In a few minutes. Everyone has gone. I have to change. Come in meanwhile. Have a drink of vodka on the house.”
“No. I’ll wait here.”
Morosow looked at him. “How are you feeling?”
“I feel like vomiting.”
“Did you expect anything else?”
“Yes. One always expects something else. Go and change.”
Ravic leaned against the wall. Beside him the old flower woman packed up her roses. She did not offer him any. It was a foolish thought, but he would have liked her to ask him. Now it was as if she did not think he would need any. He looked along the rows of houses. A few windows were still lit up. Taxis passed slowly. What did he expect? He didn’t exactly know. What he had not expected was that Joan would take the initiative. But why not? How much in the right anyone was already the minute he attacked!
The waiters left. During the night they had been Caucasians and Circassians in red coats and high boots. Now they were tired civilians. They slunk home in everyday clothes which looked strange on them. The last was Morosow. “Where to?” he asked.
“I’ve been everywhere today.”
“Then let’s go to the hotel and play chess.”
“What?”
“Chess. A game with wooden figures which simultaneously diverts you and makes you concentrate.”
“Good,” Ravic said. “Why not?”
He woke up and knew at once that Joan was in the room. It was still dark and he could not see her, but he knew she was there. The room was different, the window was different, the air was different, and even he was different. “Stop this nonsense!” he said. “Turn on the light and come here.”
She did not move. He did not even hear her breathe. “Joan,” he said. “We are not going to play hide-and-seek.”
“I’m not playing hide-and-seek.”
“Then come here.”
“Did you know that I would come?”
“No.”
“Your door was open.”
“My door is almost always open.”
She remained silent for a moment. “I thought you wouldn’t be here yet,” she said then. “I only wanted—I thought you would be sitting somewhere and drinking.”
“I thought so, too. I was playing chess instead.”
“What?”
“Chess. With Morosow. Downstairs in the hole that looks like a dry aquarium.”
“Chess!” She came out of her corner. “Chess! But that’s—! Someone who can play chess when—”
“I wouldn’t have thought it myself. But it worked. In fact it worked well. I was able to win a game.”
“You’re the coldest, most unfeeling—”
“Joan,” Ravic said. “No scenes. I’m in favor of good scenes. But not today!”
“I’m not making a scene. I am terribly unhappy.”
“All right. Then we’d better skip all that. Scenes are justifiable when one is moderately unhappy. I knew a man who locked himself in his room and solved chess problems from the minute his wife died until she was buried. People thought him unfeeling, but I know that he loved his wife more than anything in the world. He simply couldn’t act otherwise. Day and night he solved chess problems so he wouldn’t think about it.”
Joan was now standing in the middle of the room. “Is that why you did it?”
“No. I told you that was another man. I was sleeping when you came.”
“Yes, you were asleep! You can sleep!”
Ravic propped himself up. “I knew another man, Joan, who had lost his wife, too. He went to bed and slept for two days. His wife’s mother was beside herself because he did that. She didn’t know that one can do many incongruous things and be disconsolate at the same time. It is strange what etiquette has been built up just for unhappiness! If you had found me blind drunk, everything would have been in good taste. The fact that I played chess and went to sleep is proof that I am crude and unfeeling. Simple, isn’t it?”
A sound of crashing and shattering. Joan had seized a vase and thrown it to the floor. “Fine,” Ravic said. “I couldn’t stand that thing anyway. Just be careful you don’t get splinters in your feet.”
She kicked the pieces aside. “Ravic,” she said. “Why are you doing this?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Why? To give myself courage, Joan. Don’t you see that?”
She turned her face toward him quickly. “It looks that way. But with you one never knows what’s going on.”
She carefully stepped over the scattered pieces and sat down on his bed. He could see her face distinctly now in the early dawn. He was surprised that it was not tired. It was young and clear and intense. She wore a light coat which he had not seen before and a different dress from the one she had worn in the Cloche d’Or.
“I thought you’d never come back again, Ravic,” she said.
“It took a long time. I couldn’t have come any sooner.”
“Why didn’t you write to me?”
“Would it have helped?”
She looked aside. “It would have been better.”
“It would have been better if I hadn’t come back. But there is no longer any other country or any other city for me. Switzerland is too small; everywhere else are the Fascists.”
“But here—won’t the police—”
“The police have just as little chance of catching me as before. That was an unfortunate accident. We don’t need to think about it any more.”
Ravic reached for a pack of cigarettes. They lay on the table beside his bed. It was a comfortable table of medium size with books, cigarettes, and a few other things on it. Ravic hated the night tables and consoles with imitation marble tops that usually stand beside beds.
“Let me have a cigarette, too,” Joan said.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asked.
“Yes. Lie there. I’ll get it.”
She fetched the bottle and filled two glasses. She gave him one, took the other, and emptied it. While she was drinking, her coat slipped from her shoulders. Now in the brightening dawn Ravic recognized the dress she wore. It was the one he had given her as a present for Antibes. Why had she put it on? It was the only dress he had ever given her. He had never thought about things like that. He had never wanted to think about things like that either.
“When I saw you, Ravic—suddenly—” she said, “I couldn’t think at all. Not at all. And when you left—I thought I’d never see you again. I didn’t think so immediately. First I waited for you to come back to the Cloche d’Or. I thoug
ht you must come back. Why didn’t you?”
“Why should I have come back?”
“I’d have gone with you.”
Ravic knew that was not true. But he did not want to think about it now. Suddenly he did not want to think about anything. There Joan sat at his side, that was enough for the moment. He had not thought it would be enough. He didn’t know why she had come or what she really wanted—but suddenly, in a strange and deep and disquieting way, it was enough that she was there. What is it? he thought. Has it already gone that far? Beyond all control? To the point where darkness begins, the uproar of the blood, the compulsion of the imagination and the menace?
“I thought you wanted to leave me,” Joan said. “You did want to. Tell the truth!”
Ravic was silent.
She looked at him. “I knew it! I knew it!” she repeated with deep conviction.
“Give me another glass of calvados.”
“Is it calvados?”
“Yes. Didn’t you notice?”
“No.” She poured it. She rested her arm against his chest while she held the bottle. He felt her touch go through his ribs. She took her glass and drank. “Yes, it is calvados.” Then she looked at him again. “It’s good that I came. I knew it. It’s good that I came!”
It was growing lighter outside. The shutters began a low creaking. The morning wind rose. “Is it good that I’ve come?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Joan.”
She bent over him. “You know. You must know.”
Her face was so close to his that her hair fell over his shoulders. He looked at it. It was a landscape that he knew and did not know, very strange and very familiar, always the same and never the same. He saw that the skin on her forehead was peeling, he saw that the red of her lipstick was caked on her upper lip, he saw that she wasn’t made up quite properly—he saw all that in the face which was now so close above his that in this moment it blotted out all the rest of the world for him—he saw it and he knew that it was only his fantasy which made it mysterious, he knew that there were more beautiful faces, better faces, purer faces—but he knew too that this face, like no other, had power over him. And he himself had given it this power.