“Not right away. But in a few years. I have a friend there.”
“Do you go there occasionally?”
“Rarely. He writes sometimes. To another address of course. He’s married, but his wife is in the hospital. Tuberculosis. One or two more years at the most, the doctors say. Then he’ll be free.”
Ravic got up. “God bless you, Rolande. You have sound common sense.”
She smiled appreciatively. She believed he was right. Her clear face showed not a trace of tiredness. It was fresh as if she had just got up from sleep. She knew what she wanted. Life held no secrets for her.
Outside it had become bright day. The rain had stopped. The pissoirs stood like armored turrets at the street corners. The doorman had disappeared, the night was wiped out, the day had begun, and a bursting crowd thronged the entrances to the subway—as if they were holes into which they flung themselves as sacrifice to some dark deity.
The woman started up from the sofa. She did not cry out—she just started up with a low suppressed sound, propped herself on her elbows, and stiffened.
“Quiet, quiet,” Ravic said. “It’s me. The man who brought you here a few hours ago.”
The woman breathed again. Ravic saw her only indistinctly; the glow of the electric bulbs blended with the morning creeping through the windows in a yellowish, pale, sticky light. “I think we can turn these off now,” he said and turned the switch.
He felt again the soft hammers of drunkenness behind his forehead. “Do you want breakfast?” he asked. He had forgotten the woman and then when he got his key he had believed she had left. He would have liked to be rid of her. He had drunk enough, the backdrop of his consciousness had shifted, the clanging chain of time had burst asunder, and memories and dreams stood around him, strong and fearless. He wanted to be alone.
“Do you want some coffee?” he asked. “It’s the only thing that’s any good here.”
The woman shook her head. He looked more closely at her.
“What’s the matter? Has anybody been here?”
“No.”
“But something must be the matter. You stare at me as if I were a ghost.”
The woman moved her lips. “The smell—” she said.
“Smell?” Ravic repeated uncomprehendingly. “Vodka hardly smells, neither does kirsch or cognac. And cigarettes you smoke yourself. What’s there about that to be scared of?”
“I don’t mean that.”
“What is it then, for God’s sake?”
“It is the same—the same smell—”
“Heavens, it must be ether,” said Ravic, suddenly understanding. “Is it ether?”
She nodded.
“Have you ever been operated on?”
“No—it is—”
Ravic did not listen further. He opened the window. “It will be gone in a minute. Smoke a cigarette meanwhile.”
He went into the bathroom and turned on the faucets. He saw his face in the mirror. A few hours ago he had stood here in the same way. In the interim a human being had died. It did not matter. Thousands of people died every moment. There were statistics about it. It did not matter. For the one individual, however, it meant everything and was more important than the still revolving world.
He sat down on the edge of the tub and took off his shoes. That always stayed the same. Objects and their silent compulsion. The triviality, the stale habit in all the delusive lights of passing experience. The flowering shore of the heart by the waters of love—but whatever one was, poet, demigod, or idiot—every few hours one was called down from his heavens to urinate. One could not escape it! The irony of nature. The romantic rainbow over gland reflexes and bowel movements. The organs of ecstasy at the same time diabolically arranged for excretion. Ravic flung his shoes into a corner. Detestable habit of undressing! Not even this could one escape! Only one who lived alone understood it. There was a sort of damnable resignation, of yielding in it. He had often slept in his clothes to get away from it; but it was only a postponement. One could not escape it.
He turned on the shower. The cool water streamed over his skin. He drew a deep breath and dried himself. The comfort of small things. Water, breath, evening rain. They, too, were things that only one who lived alone could understand. Grateful skin. More freely circling blood in the dark channels. To lie down in a meadow. Birches. Summer clouds. The sky of youth. What has become of the adventures of the heart? Killed by the dark adventures of existence.
He returned to the room. The woman was crouching in a corner of the sofa, the blanket drawn high about her.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Scared?”
She nodded.
“Of me?”
“No.”
“Of the outside?”
“Yes.”
Ravic closed the window. “Thank you,” she said.
He looked at the nape of her neck in front of him. Shoulders. Something that breathed. A fragment of strange life—but life. Warmth. No stiffening body. What could one give another but a little warmth? And what was more?
The woman moved. She trembled. She looked at Ravic. He felt the wave receding. A deep coolness came without heaviness. The tension was over. Space opened before him. It was as though he had returned after a night on another planet. Suddenly everything was simple—the morning, the woman—there was nothing more to think.
“Come,” he said.
She stared at him.
“Come,” he said impatiently.
3
HE WOKE UP with the feeling that he was being watched. The woman was sitting on the sofa. But she was not looking at him; she was looking out of the window. He had expected to find her gone. He was annoyed that she was still there. He could not stand people around him in the morning.
He thought of trying to fall asleep again; but it was disturbing to know that the woman might be watching him. He made up his mind to get rid of her at once. If she was waiting for money, it was simple. It would be easy in any case. He sat up.
“Have you been up long?”
The woman started and looked at him. “I couldn’t sleep any longer. I am sorry if I woke you.”
“You did not wake me.”
She got up. “I wanted to leave. I don’t know what kept me sitting here.”
“Wait. I’ll soon be ready. You’ll have breakfast. The famous coffee of the hotel. We both will have enough time for that.”
He rose and rang the bell. Then he went into the bathroom. He noticed that she had used it; but everything was neatly arranged and in place, even the used bathtowels. While brushing his teeth he heard the chambermaid come in with the breakfast. He hurried.
“Did it embarrass you?” he asked when he came out of the bathroom.
“What?”
“Because the girl saw you. I didn’t think of that.”
“No. Nor was she surprised.” The woman looked at the tray. It was breakfast for two persons although Ravic had not said anything.
“Of course not. This is Paris. Here, drink your coffee. Have you a headache?”
“No.”
“Well, I have. But it will be gone in an hour. Here, a brioche.”
“I can’t eat.”
“Of course you can. You only imagine you can’t. Try something.”
She took the brioche. Then she put it back again. I really can’t.”
“Then drink your coffee and have a cigarette. That’s a soldier’s breakfast.”
“Yes.”
Ravic ate. “Aren’t you hungry yet?” he asked after a while.
“No.”
The woman put out her cigarette. “I think—” she said and stopped.
“What do you think?” Ravic asked without interest.
“I should be going now.”
“Do you know your way? This is near the Avenue Wagram.”
“No.”
“Where do you live?”
“In the Hôtel Verdun.”
“It’s a few minutes from here. I can direct you outside. Anyway, I’ll have to take you past the porter.”
“Yes—but it’s not that.”
She was silent again. Money, Ravic thought. “I can easily help you out, if you are hard up.” He took his wallet out of his pocket.
“Don’t! What’s that for?” the woman said brusquely.
“Nothing.” Ravic put the wallet back.
“Excuse me—” She rose. “You were—I have to thank you—it would have been—the night—alone, I wouldn’t have known …”
Ravic remembered what had happened. It would have been ridiculous if the woman had made any claim on him—but he had not expected her to thank him, and it was far more disturbing.
“I really would not have known …” the woman said. She was still standing before him, undecided. Why doesn’t she go? he thought.
“But now you know?” he said just to say something.
“No.” She looked at him frankly. “I do not know yet. I only know that I must do something. I know that I cannot escape.”
“That’s a lot.” Ravic took his coat. “I’ll take you down now.”
“It’s not necessary. Only tell me—” She hesitated, searching for words. “Perhaps you know—what must be done—if …”
“If?” Ravic said after a while.
“If someone dies,” the woman blurted and suddenly collapsed. She wept. She did not sob, she merely wept, almost soundlessly.
Ravic waited until she was calmer. “Has someone died?”
She nodded.
“Last night?”
She nodded again.
“Did you kill him?”
The woman stared at him. “What? What did you say?”
“Did you do it? When you ask me what to do you must tell me.”
“He died!” the woman cried. “He died! Suddenly he was—”
She covered her face.
“Was he sick?” Ravic asked.
“Yes—”
“Did you have a doctor?”
“Yes—but he did not want to go to the hospital—”
“Did you have the doctor yesterday?”
“No. Earlier. Three days ago. He had—he ranted against the doctor and refused to see him again—”
“Didn’t you call another doctor afterwards?”
“We didn’t know any. We have only been here three weeks. This one—the waiter got us this one—and he did not want him any more—he said—he thought he would be better off without him—”
“What was the matter with him?”
“I don’t know. The doctor said pneumonia—but he didn’t believe him—he said all doctors are crooks—and he was really feeling better yesterday. Then suddenly—”
“Why didn’t you take him to the hospital?”
“He did not want to go. He said—he—I would betray him when he was away—he—you don’t know him—there was nothing to be done—”
“Is he still at the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell the owner of the hotel what had happened?”
“No. Suddenly when he grew silent—and everything was so silent, and his eyes, I couldn’t bear it and ran away—”
Ravic thought about the night. For a moment he was embarrassed. But it had happened and it was unimportant: to him and to the woman. Particularly to the woman. This night nothing really had mattered to her and only one thing was important: that she go through it. Life consisted of more than sentimental similes. The night Lavigne had heard that his wife was dead he had spent in a brothel. The whores had saved him; a priest could not have helped him through it. Whoever understood this, understood it. There was no explanation for it. But responsibilities went along with it.
He took his coat. “Come! I’ll go with you. Was it your husband?”
“No,” the woman said.
The patron of the Hôtel Verdun was fat. He hadn’t a single hair on his skull, but to make up for it he had a dyed black mustache and bushy black eyebrows. He was standing in the lobby; behind him a waiter, a chambermaid, and a cashier with a flat bosom. It was evident that he already knew everything. He burst into abuse as soon as he saw the woman enter. His face paled, he waved his fat little hands in the air, and he sputtered with rage, indignation and, as Ravic saw, relief. When he came to “police, aliens, suspicion, and prison,” Ravic interrupted him.
“Do you come from Provence?” he asked.
The patron stopped short. “No. What do you mean?” he asked in surprise.
“Nothing,” Ravic replied. “I only wanted to interrupt you. An utterly senseless question is the best way. You would have gone on talking for another hour.”
“Who are you, sir? What do you want?”
“That’s the first intelligent sentence you’ve said up to now.”
The hotelkeeper calmed down. “Who are you?” he asked more quietly, careful not to insult an influential man under any circumstances.
“I’m the doctor,” Ravic replied.
The patron saw that there was no danger here. “There is no need of a doctor now,” he burst out anew. “This is a case for the police!”
He stared at Ravic and the woman. He expected fear, protest, and entreaties.
“That’s a good idea. Why aren’t they already here? You’ve known for several hours that the man is dead!”
The patron did not answer.
“I’ll tell you why.” Ravic took one step forward. “You don’t want a scandal because of your guests. Many people would move out if they knew about such things. But the police must come, that’s the law. It’s up to you to hush it up. But that wasn’t what bothered you. You were afraid the mess would be left in your lap. You needn’t have been. Besides you were worried about your bill. It will be paid. And now I want to see the corpse. Then I’ll take care of everything else.”
He walked past the hotelkeeper. “What is the room number?” he asked the woman.
“Fourteen.”
“You don’t have to come with me. I can do it alone.”
“No. I don’t want to stay here.”
“It would be better for you not to see any more.”
“No, I will not stay here.”
“All right. Just as you like.”
It was a front room with a low ceiling. A few chambermaids, porters, and waiters were crowded around the door. Ravic pushed them aside. There were two beds in the room; in the one next to the wall, the body of the man was lying. He lay there yellow and stiff, with curled black hair, in red silk pajamas. His hands were folded; a small cheap wooden Madonna on whose face were traces of lipstick stood on the table beside him. Ravic picked it up—on its back was stamped “Made in Germany.” Ravic examined the face of the dead man; there was no rouge on his lips nor did he seem to have been that type. The eyes were half open; one more than the other, which gave the body an expression of indifference, as if it had grown stiff in eternal boredom.
Ravic bent over the corpse. He took stock of the bottles on the table near the bed and examined the body. No trace of violence. He drew himself up. “Do you know the name of the doctor who was here?” he asked the woman.
“No.”
He looked at her. She was very pale. “First of all you sit down over there. On that chair in the corner. And stay there. Is the waiter who called the doctor for you here?”
His eyes skimmed over the faces at the door. There was the same expression on each of them: horror and greed. “François was on this floor,” said the charwoman, who was holding a broom like a spear in her hand.
“Where is François?”
A waiter pushed his way through the crowd. “What was the name of the doctor who was here?”
“Bonnet. Charles Bonnet.”
“Do you know his telephone number?”
The waiter fumbled for it in his pockets. “Passy 2743.”
“Good.” Ravic saw the face of the patron emerging from the crowd. “Let’s close the door first. Or do you want the
people from the street to come in, too?”
“No! Get out! Get out! Why do you stand around here stealing my time for which you get paid?”
The patron chased the employees out of the room and closed the door. Ravic took the receiver from the hook. He called Veber and talked to him for a short while. Then he called the Passy number. Bonnet was in his consultation room. He confirmed what the woman had said. “The man has died,” Ravic said. “Could you come over and make out the death certificate?”
“That man threw me out in the most insulting manner.”
“He can’t very well insult you now.”
“He didn’t pay my fee. Instead he called me an avaricious quack.”
“Would you come so that your bill can be paid?”
“I could send someone.”
“You’d better come yourself. Otherwise you will never get your money.”
“I’ll come,” Bonnet said after some hesitation. “But I won’t sign anything before I’m paid. It amounts to three hundred francs.”
“All right. Three hundred. You’ll get it.”
Ravic hung up. “I’m sorry you had to listen to this,” he said to the woman. “But there was no alternative. We need the man.”
The woman already had some money in her hand. “It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “Such things are not new to me. Here is the money.”
“There is no hurry about that. He’ll be here right away. Then you can give it to him.”
“Couldn’t you yourself sign the death certificate?” the woman asked.
“No,” Ravic said. “We need a French physician for that. It is best to have the one who treated him.”
When the door closed behind Bonnet the room became suddenly quiet. Much quieter than if just one man had left the room. The noise of cars on the streets sounded somehow tinny, as though bounced against a wall of heavy air through which it could penetrate only with difficulty. After the confusion of the past hours the presence of the dead man was now there for the first time. His powerful silence filled the cheap small room and it did not matter that he wore bright red silk pajamas—he reigned even as a dead clown might reign—because he no longer moved. What lived, moved—and what moved could have power, grace, and absurdity—but never the strange majesty of that which will never move again, but only decay. What was completed alone possessed it, and man reached completion only in death—and for a short while.