The Misunderstanding

  He didn’t dare go back to the hotel without his clothes; he remembered he had slept on the beach many times as a child. Wrapping himself in his robe, he huddled in the sand and fell asleep: it was a light, feverish sleep, interrupted by dreams, full of the sounds and scents of the sea.

  7

  THAT NIGHT, AS every night, Denise went and sat next to the little bed where Francette slept. Thumb in her mouth, Francette was off in the land of the sandman; in the soft light her tiny neck had deep creases of pink skin, as if she were wearing a necklace; she looked exactly like a fledgling, fragile and warm, nestled in the gentle heat of its feathers.

  Denise leaned over to see her better. With unusual clarity she could picture the time when she herself had slept in small beds like this one. For the first time, however, she marvelled at the long path she had travelled; it had seemed so brief because of its gentle monotony, its ease. And yet she was about to come into her prime … She laid her head down on the pillow next to Francette, her short curls mingling with the child’s tangled shock of hair. Closing her eyes, she began to remember … Her childhood, full of bright days, happy holidays, petty, childish sorrows which somehow, Lord knows why, with the passing years become more precious than the joyous memories … Then her adolescence, in the dark shadow of the Great War, her engagement, a proper, dutiful French marriage of convenience, then motherhood – a good, happy life, well ordered, of course … And yet, tonight, she felt dissatisfied, disappointed, as if she could feel her poor heart was burning …

  She got up, walked over to the window and stepped out on to the narrow wooden balcony planted with flowers; they smelled pungent and fresh. The summer night glistened … The empty little beach carved out by the sea was down below, the beach where Yves had waited for her, called out to her … That brief, magical moment had such a dreamlike quality about it that she now wondered if it had actually happened; a distinct feeling of unreality had stayed with her. But then, little by little, that changed … The longer she stood there, in the dark perfumed night, the more the present moment became blurred, vague, as if it were a dream, while the memory of that other moment grew stronger, more momentous, flowing through her heart and body in waves. Instinctively she reached out as if she were trying to sculpt the face she had caressed, the outline of the body she had held close; she looked as if she were carving the empty air, feeling her way, but confidently, as if she were a blind artist. Then, suddenly, she started shaking all over: beneath her fingers she thought she could feel the shape of his full, delicate mouth. She clenched her teeth: what she was feeling was akin to terror, yet it felt at the same time so painful and so wonderful that she whispered out loud, as if she were calling the name of a passer-by: ‘Love?’

  Later on, in the room next door to Francette’s, when Denise climbed back into the bed where her husband had slept, and when she instinctively reached out for the familiar shape of his large body under the sheets, Denise finally thought of him: her trusting, affectionate companion. She felt such pity for him that her eyes filled with tears; she was very fond of him. When he was with her she was bored and was content to think of other things, yet she did everything in her power to make life pleasant for him, to respond to his love with a great deal of affection and sensitive understanding. But when all was said and done she had deceived him. She made no excuses for herself. She knew very well that she had cheated him. Love … or rather, a brief romantic adventure: she would give her heart, of course, but he, the man, would only be interested in satisfying his vanity or his desire. She wanted nothing to do with the superficial poetry of some romantic novel. She understood only too well … Like all men, he would woo her the whole day long and then, in the evening, he would knock at her door, and it would last for three weeks, or a bit longer, or a bit less, and then they would separate, as if they were strangers. She wanted no part of it. She could picture the electric look in Yves’s eyes when she saw him the next day, an expression she was familiar with because she had seen it more than once in the eyes of men who had found her attractive. Until today, she’d just laughed, but … now … She began to cry, her heart full of immense, vague, tender pity, pity for herself, for her husband, abroad all alone – he might even be ill – but most especially pity for Yves, for the likely suffering his unrequited love might bring him.

  She decided that when she saw him the next day she would be cold and distant. But all morning long he played with Francette on the beach. He barely looked up when he spoke to her; he seemed more embarrassed than she was, which melted her resolve. That evening, when he asked if she wanted to go for a walk before dinner, she went, her heart pounding, but determined to resist his inevitable words of love. But he said nothing. The sun was setting over the sea amid swirling storm clouds. It was high tide; waves rolled and crashed, white and grey, against the sea wall; the birds circled above with plaintive cries. He spoke to her of insignificant things, as he had before. They were sitting on the parapet; night was coming quickly; large drops of rain began to fall; he took her arm to help her run towards the hotel. For a moment she thought he was trembling a little, but he quickly regained his composure. The rain tumbled down in angry torrents; a sharp wind rose up, bending the tamarisk trees, crushing their flowers; Yves threw his jacket over Denise’s shoulders; they ran like mad creatures through the rainstorm; he held her close to him; she could feel his taut fingers gripping her round the waist, but he remained obstinately silent, clenched his teeth, did not glance at her, while she surreptitiously raised fearful, yielding eyes to look at him.

  8

  THE DAYS PASSED and still he said nothing to her. He didn’t try to kiss her; he didn’t even allow himself to hold her cold, trembling hands longer than he should. He was too happy; with a kind of superstitious terror, he feared words as if they were a curse. He delighted in this moment in his life as if it were a luxury; it was a beautiful, unexpected gift offered to him by fate: peace, time to himself, the sea, this enchanting woman. For the moment, simply being with her was all he needed. Instead of weighing heavily, his long period of abstinence was something precious to savour, as if he had rediscovered his childhood. His desire for her caused him the kind of exquisite pain that is a pleasure to prolong, like when you are thirsty, at the height of summer, and you hold an ice-cold glass, misted with cool beads of water, to your lips for a long time, without drinking from it. He had experienced enough of life to understand the importance of his exhilaration and he jealously nurtured his emotion with pride, as if it were a rare flower. It was strange, but he had the impression of absolute security with her … the way men looked at her – in the morning on the beach, or in the evening when she came down into the hotel wearing a low-cut dress and diamond necklace – left him with a profound sense of calm: he was sure of her; he knew she was his, docile, at peace because of his feigned indifference, yet more intimately bound to him by everything that remained unexpressed between them than by the most passionate declarations of love. He was waiting, not out of any conscious ulterior motive, but because of a kind of innate indolence that was now more powerful than gestures or words.

  But summer was nearly over; the weather was changing; the holiday villas closed up, one after the other. In the morning, the long beach was utterly deserted under a pale sky clouded by sudden showers. Instead of taking long siestas on the warm sand, they went for walks. With Yves, Denise walked through the Basque country, down little winding lanes along the Pyrenees, through forests, turning gold at the start of autumn, past sleepy villages where night fell more quickly than elsewhere because the high mountains plunged them in shadow at sunset. One day, as happy as a child, he picked some blackberries for Francette in a little forest at the edge of the Nivelle river while she ran her bare hands and arms through the water; at every moment they had the magical sense of growing younger, of returning to a kind of forgotten innocence.

  There were still a few beautiful days towards the end of September. Yves suggested to Denise that they go to see the celebration in
Fuenterrabia: it was an ancient ceremony enjoyed as much by the French as by the Spanish. In Fuenterrabia they fired cannon and rifle shots; there was music and noise and dust; groups of children with berets pulled down over one ear held each other round the waist, blocked the narrow lanes, shouted and sang at the top of their lungs; men on horseback galloped in from all directions at a furious pace; their horses whinnied, frightened by the din and the smell of gunpowder; carts drawn by mules decked out in pompoms and little bells wobbled along the sharp paving stones, rearing up when the enormous cars drove by; all of Biarritz, Saint Sebastian and the Spanish provinces was there, from Irun to Pamplona. Dirty-faced brats were fighting, shouting incomprehensible insults at each other in a cross between Basque and Castilian; beautiful young girls with flowing hair walked by wearing embroidered shawls; the ones from the furthest provinces wore chignons high on their heads and combs decorated with flowers; some of the older women still wore black mantillas. Everyone was laughing, shouting, singing, bickering, bumping into each other round the fountain and outdoor stalls where they sold lemonade, fruit drinks, oranges, floury round cakes, rattles, balloons and fans. A wave of people blocked the narrow street. Denise had fun looking at the shops with their displays of rosary beads, crucifixes and Saints’ medals. The very old houses had overhanging roofs that almost touched above the road; balconies were decorated with shawls, embroidered blankets, lace tablecloths. A swift peal of bells rang out from the old dark gilt church. Yves seated Denise in a small café and bought her some hot chocolate with cinnamon and a sherry; she didn’t like the chocolate: it was too thick and sweet but she drank two or three glasses of the sherry, which was excellent. Her cheeks were hot and her eyes shone. She took off her hat and the sun through her curls made them look light and bluish, like smoke rings. They leaned over the railing to watch the procession go by; it was endless, with flags, rusty old cannons, drunken men who held on to their rifles with trembling hands. Then came the priests in their embroidered chasubles, raising a large image of the Virgin Mary, surrounded by lit candles. The crowd kneeled as they passed by and in the sudden silence the bells rang out even more wildly, making everything shake, or so it seemed, right down to the dark, ancient walls.

  Everyone walked to the church; little by little the square began to empty; soon, only Denise and Yves remained on the balcony, along with a group of Spanish peasants who were drinking in a corner of the café. It was nearly dusk, the sky was pink and the mountains seemed closer, full of mysterious, cool shadows. Denise was silent, quite tipsy, her eyes staring intently at the brilliant diamond on her finger. The evening breeze ruffled her hair.

  ‘My husband is coming back any day now,’ she suddenly said.

  Then, immediately embarrassed, upset, ashamed of her lie, she blushed. But he didn’t notice.

  ‘Soon?’ he asked anxiously.

  She made a vague gesture to avoid answering. She noticed, with a rush of emotion, that Yves’s lips were trembling slightly.

  ‘Will he come to collect you?’ he murmured. Then he immediately added, almost to himself, ‘It’s over … this wonderful holiday is over … I’d forgotten … The first of October is in two days … In two days I’ll be in Paris.’

  ‘In two days,’ she cried out.

  He felt as if his heart had stopped beating. And she thought she must be going mad: had it been a month since she looked at a calendar? Hadn’t she realised that autumn was coming? But then, really, what could it matter to her if he left, this stranger, this man she didn’t really know?

  ‘Denise,’ he called out softly.

  She didn’t dare reply; she could barely breathe. He took her hand and placed it on his warm brow.

  ‘Denise,’ he simply murmured again.

  Then she could hear his voice choked with emotion: ‘I can’t leave you. I can’t live without you now.’

  Then, forgetting she should say no, resist, make him desire her, she couldn’t hold back the great tears that rolled down her cheeks.

  ‘Neither can I,’ she said, ‘I can’t live without you.’

  9

  THAT EVENING SHE waited for him. She didn’t switch on the light; she sat on the bed, her hands folded between her knees. He had begged her to have dinner with him in Fuenterrabia or in one of those little inns with whitewashed walls nestled in the side of the mountains that, at night, look as isolated as a bandit’s hideout. But they have wonderful Spanish wine, grapes, cool, clean rooms with beds surrounded by mosquito nets and wooden floors warmed by the sun during the day that felt good on your bare feet. She had refused because of Francette, so he had immediately agreed to take her back to Hendaye, without even a hint of resentment.

  Oh, their return in a small boat on the Bidassoa river that reflected the shimmering pink of the evening sky … The weather-beaten old sailor with a gold earring in his left ear pretended to be asleep at the oars; the wind carried the taste and scent of salt. When they arrived in Hendaye it was already dark and enormous stars lit up the night. They hadn’t noticed darkness fall: their lips touching, eyes shut, they held each other close as the boat glided gently, silently, over the black water …

  Denise put her head between her trembling hands. In the next room a little voice called out: ‘Mama.’ Reluctantly, Denise stood up and went to her daughter. Francette was not asleep; her eyes were shining and she stretched out her arms towards her mother.

  ‘Mummy, did you bring anything back for me?’

  Denise always brought some little trinket back for her daughter, whether she went out for the day or to a ball; but today she had forgotten. Embarrassed for a moment, she quickly recovered. ‘Of course,’ she said confidently, ‘I brought you back the smell of the fair. I nearly lost it on the way home but I didn’t, it’s still here. Can you smell it?’

  Looking serious, she leaned in and offered Francette her cheek to sniff.

  Francette breathed in as deeply as she could, convinced by her mother’s earnest manner. ‘It smells really good,’ she said.

  Then she asked: ‘Mummy, when I’m a big girl, will I be able to go to the fair too?’

  ‘Of course, my treasure.’

  Then she asked: ‘Will I be a big girl soon? Will I?’

  ‘Very soon, if you’re a good girl.’

  Denise was touched and kissed the trusting little hand that was holding on to one of her fingers. She was happy that she felt neither the shame nor the remorse she had feared when looking at this innocent creature who fell so soundly asleep. Of course Francette would be a big girl very ‘soon’. She too would wait at night for her Master.

  If she’d had a son, Denise might have been more upset and ashamed. But standing before this future young woman whose lips would one day be sweet and covered in kisses, whose body would be eager for love, she could not understand the extent of her fall from grace. She kissed her, tucked her in, pulled the cover up to her chin and went out, quietly closing the door.

  She sat down once more on the unmade bed in her room and waited, head bent, hands clenched, submissive, waiting for the sound of a man’s imperious footsteps.

  10

  HE HAD LEFT her at dawn. She was sleeping, with her head buried in the crook of her arm. He almost had the impression that he had taken a young girl: she was so awkward, inexperienced and had such a delightful way of overcoming her modesty as she gave herself to him that it was almost as if she were a virgin. He had quickly realised that in spite of marriage and motherhood, she was not yet truly a woman.

  Soon afterwards she was taking her time to get washed and dressed, when a telegram was slipped under her door. She grabbed it, opened it:

  Arriving Hendaye 3 October. In good health. Kisses.

  JACQUES

  She lowered her head with a little – but oh so little! – remorse. Then she immediately began to think, to work out the dates … Yves would delay his departure for two days. She would make her husband go back to Paris with her right away; in any case, it was getting colder and Francette wa
s becoming restless because she’d been at the seaside for so long. She would be in Paris on the 4th, the 5th at the latest. Her whole life would change: how happy she was going to be! Gone would be the long days when she gradually killed time with dress fittings and social calls; gone those interminable hours with nothing to do, gone the feeling of emptiness and boredom that poisoned her life and prevented her from being happy. They’d have to find a little hideaway; she knew that Yves had a bachelor flat, but it would be so much more fun to have two beautiful rooms that she would keep filled with flowers and where they would choose all the knick-knacks … And they could go on long walks through Paris! She knew he loved old streets and houses as much as she did; she imagined how good it would feel to wander the riverbanks in the evening, at dusk, when the little lanterns on the barges along the Seine lit up, filling the deserted quays with shadows. With joy she remembered certain little bistros along the still river that she had looked at with curiosity when coming home from visiting someone on the left bank. No one would find them there; they would buy roasted chestnuts from the man at the corner; they would browse in antique shops and find silly souvenirs – expensive and charming – for their hideaway, and books – they both loved very old bound books with yellowing pages and tiny worm holes. Sometimes he would take her to the countryside to the silvery woods in Fontainebleau, and when spring came, she would arrange to have dinner with him outside the city, under an arbour of flowers beside a pond with croaking frogs. For the idea never even crossed her mind that their love might end before spring returned: she was the kind of woman who can only imagine love as eternal. She had given herself to him passionately, completely, with the naïve, boundless confidence of the innocent child she still was, so she naturally expected that he too would give himself entirely to her. She crushed her husband’s telegram, threw it on to the table without another thought and finished getting dressed. A sweet, powerful emotion filled her heart, the profound conviction that she had performed a rite that bound her to Yves for ever, something, in a word, that was akin to the adoring devotion of a wife.