“So have I,” the Chevalier says once more, and he prepares to tell him about his.
“A strange night, very strange, incredible,” repeats the man in the helmet, his stare heavy with insistence.
The Chevalier sees in this stare the stubborn urge to speak. Something in that stubbornness disturbs him. He understands that that impatience to speak is also an implacable uninterest in listening. Having run up against that urge to speak, the Chevalier instantly loses the taste for saying anything at all, and at once he ceases to see any reason to prolong the encounter.
He feels a new wave of weariness. He strokes his face with his hand and catches the scent of love Madame de T. has left on his fingers. That scent stirs him to nostalgia, and he wants to be alone in the chaise to be carried slowly, dreamily to Paris.
50
The man in the old-time outfit seems to Vincent very young, and thus almost required to take an interest in the confessions of people older than he. When Vincent told him twice “I’ve just spent a marvelous night” and the other answered “So have I,” he thought he’d glimpsed a certain curiosity in his face, but then, suddenly, inexplicably, it switched off, covered over by an indifference that was almost arrogant. The friendly atmosphere that lends itself to confidences lasted scarcely a minute and then evaporated.
He looks at the young man’s outfit with irritation. Who is this clown, anyway? Those shoes with the silver buckles, the white tights hugging
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the legs and buttocks, and all those impossible jabots, velvets, laces, covering and draping the chest. With two fingers he takes hold of the ribbon knotted around the fellow’s neck and examines it with a smile meant to parody admiration.
The familiarity of the gesture enrages the man in the old-time outfit. His face clenches, full of hatred. He raises his right hand as if to slap the impertinent fellow. Vincent drops the ribbon and retreats a step. After giving him a look of disdain, the man turns away and walks toward the chaise.
The contempt he spat upon him has plunged Vincent right back into his turmoil. Suddenly he feels weak. He knows he will not tell anyone the orgy story. He will not have the strength to lie. He is too sad to lie. He has only one desire: to forget this night speedily, this entire disastrous night, erase it, wipe it out, nullify it—and in this moment he feels an unquenchable thirst for speed.
His step firm, he hastens toward his motorcycle, he desires his motorcycle, he is swept with love for his motorcycle, for his motorcycle on which he will forget everything, on which he will forget himself.
51
Vera climbs into the car beside me.
“Look, there,” I tell her.
“Where?”
“There! It’s Vincent! Don’t you recognize him?”
“Vincent? The one getting on the motorcycle?”
“Yes. I’m afraid he’s going to go too fast. I’m really afraid for him.”
“He likes to go fast? He does that too?”
“Not always. But today he’ll go like a madman.”
“This chateau is haunted. It will bring everyone bad luck. Please, start the car!”
“Wait a second.”
I want to go on contemplating my Chevalier as he walks slowly toward the chaise. I want to relish the rhythm of his steps: the farther he goes, the slower they are. In that slowness, I seem to recognize a sign of happiness.
The coachman greets him; he stops, he brings his fingers to his nose, then he climbs up, takes his seat, huddles into a corner, his legs stretched comfortably before him; the chaise starts, soon he will drowse off, then he will wake, and all that time he will be trying to stay as close as he can to the night as it melts inexorably in the light.
No tomorrow.
No audience.
I beg you, friend, be happy. I have the vague sense that on your capacity to be happy hangs our only hope.
The chaise has vanished in the mist, and I start the car.
Milan Kundera, Slowness
(Series: # )
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