Night Without Stars

  now it had been just a thought, a threat, a promise with a hint of

  bravado. Now it leered at me like a challenge to my own integrity

  and guts. You can’t be so very sorry for yourself if all the time it’s

  in your own hands to do something about it.

  And it seemed to me just then that hesitation would be admitting

  you were beaten. If you hesitated, all the weak comforting thoughts

  would creep in and you’d never have the courage again. Now.

  Now. Make a move while the anger is there.

  Someone took the other seat at my table.

  The girl from the shoe-shop said: “Forgive me. But you are ill.”

  I peered at her. I felt a bit of a fool, as if my inmost thoughts

  had been surprised.

  “I’m all right.”

  “I came out for lunch and saw you here.”

  “I’m all right.”

  She didn’t speak for a minute, seeming to weigh me up.

  I said with a sort of casual irritableness, to throw her off the

  scent: “ Do these winds ever get on your nerves, or are you all

  immune?”

  “We don’t like them, of course.”

  “First you get the Mistral—and now it’s something else.”

  “The Tramontane. It will drop to-morrow.”

  “Then I shall be better to-morrow.”

  She said: “ Do you want to be left alone? You have only to say.”

  “I do.”

  She didn’t move. “ You’re blind, aren’t you.”

  I tapped on the table for the waiter but didn’t answer. I was

  angry now—not so much with her as at that weak part of myself

  which was trying to be glad of her interest.

  “It’s the war, isn’t it? I know the signs so well. The war-injured

  are different from other people—afraid of showing themselves, afraid of sympathy. Well, I’ll not give you sympathy if you don’t want it. But … I thought you were a stranger in a foreign country. I thought it was the least I could do to come and see.…”

  “M’sieu?”

  “Bring this lady something to drink. What will you have, mad’moiselle?”

  “Nothing, thank you.”

  “An aperitif for Mad’moiselle.”

  He reeled off the usual list, and after a minute she chose one. I don’t remember what it was. The waiter went away.

  She said: “Have you been in France long?”

  “Since November.”

  “You speak the language very fluently. But your accent is bad. What has made you so ill to-day?”

  The waiter came back with her aperitif.

  “I’m not ill”

  “… I’m sorry. But I mustn’t be sorry, must I? At least I’m sorry that you fell in our shop.”

  “Your carpet was commendably clean.”

  “It—upset us all very much.… What are you going to do now?”

  “Have lunch, I should think. Perhaps you’ll join me.”

  She moved her chair. “ No, thank you. That was not what I meant at all.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I think so.…”

  Quite suddenly now, having got its way, the resentment began to go. “Sit down. I thought you wanted to help me.”

  “I had only thought if I could be of some use … if you were ill.”

  “It would be some use if you saved me from a solitary meal.”

  “If that is all you need …”

  Two women at the next table were arguing noisily. I said: “Talking of accents, yours is not the local one.”

  “No.…”

  “Do you come from Paris?”

  “No, but I was at school there for a time.”

  “During the war?”

  “Before.”

  I said: “I studied in Paris for a year just before the war. I was hoping to go back there sometime but it hasn’t turned out that way.”

  “Perhaps you will yet.”

  I shook my head.

  She seemed to think that out for a minute. “ Did you go back to England when the war came?”

  “No, the year before. Or, at least, a man with my name did. I doubt if I should recognise him now.”

  She said sombrely: “Should we any of us recognise ourselves?”

  “Ah. A fellow feeling. But you at least are not among the throw-outs, redundant war property within the meaning of the act.”

  She hesitated, seemed about to say something, stopped.

  “I will lunch with you if you want me to, m’sieu.”

  “It’s the least you can do, mad’moiselle.”

  “Madame,” she said.

  We went up the street to Biffi’s. I felt a bit ashamed of being boorish. She’d had every excuse to drop the thing and walk out, and I didn’t really want a nasty taste in my mouth. It’s very hard to deceive a near-blind man, and I was sure she’d interfered only out of kindness of heart. You couldn’t hold that against her. After all, I thought, forgetting my earlier feelings, there’s not all that hurry.

  Her voice was low-pitched and quick-speaking—you didn’t need to see her to know what her wits were like—it was eager and faintly humorous, and often she’d end her sentences with an upward lilt which was like a laugh without quite being one. It was an extraordinarily “ round” voice, capable of all sorts of changes of tone. She sounded very young—most of the time.

  Well, it was true I didn’t want her sympathy; but the meal was a change. Her name was Alix Delaisse and she lived in an apartment in a street off the Rue St Francois de Paule. She tried to get me to talk, as if knowing that was really the way to help. She seemed irritated about the way I’d come to France to stay with friends and then chosen to go off alone just when they were most needed. What were friends and relations for if they couldn’t be of use now?

  “They could be of use if they could help me to see.”

  “But they can help you to see. That’s just how. Companionship’s a way of seeing, isn’t it? Aren’t we all blind if we haven’t any friends?”

  We argued about it, and I listened to the sound of coffee being poured. The whole thing had suddenly come down off its pinnacle, become matter-of-fact and ordinary again. For the time being at least melodrama was out.

  “Without being personal,” I said, “ you’re hardly the type one expects to find—where you are. Have you been selling “brogues’ for long?”

  “Oh … nearly two years.”

  “And before that?”

  “Before that was—the occupation.” She was not encouraging me to inquire into it

  “Does your husband work in Nice?”

  “No. It’s nearly time I went back.”

  “You’re—young to be married.”

  “Oh, I’m not all that young.”

  “Would you do me the favour of moving to this chair? I can see nothing from there and I’d like to make sure.”

  After a minute she laughed in slight embarrassment but she moved over.

  “You are young. Not more than twenty-two.”

  “Twenty-three. That can be old. It depends where you have lived.”

  “And the colour of your hair?” “ Brown.”

  “A dark brown like the leather of books?”

  “Lighter than that. And not made in our own workshops.”

  “Just as good as pre-war, I’ve no doubt.”

  Feeling bad swung the other way now, to the other extreme. A sort of reaction. It would have been silly if it hadn’t been natural.

  “Did I deceive you coming into the shop; or did you think here’s a silly fellow pretending he’s like other men?”

  “You deceived me.”

  “Until I fell over your foot-rest. Have you ever thought what death-traps those things are for the stiff-necks of the world?”

  “I was afraid you had hurt yourself.”

  “I did hurt myself.”

  “But bad
ly. You’re so tall. That makes it worse.”

  The slight scent she was using wasn’t exactly a cheap one. I guessed it came from the Schiaparelli or Chanel stable.

  “So you advise me” I said, “to go back home.”

  “Now you’re poking fun at me.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Well, yes. Or return to your friends here. Or make other friends.”

  “How can I make friends with people I can’t see?”

  “You should find it easy.”

  “Only with those who make it easy.”

  We got up to leave.

  I said: “D’you think your husband would mind if I improved on this friendship?”

  There was silence. “I don’t think so,” she said shortly.

  “May I meet him sometime?”

  “… Perhaps.”

  “Will you dine with me to-morrow night?”

  “Not to-morrow, I’m afraid.”

  “Saturday?”

  “Thank you.”

  All right, I thought, that’s settled. I’ll stay around till then.

  Chapter 5

  That was the way it began. I’ve often thought if I’d picked another shoe-shop not any of the rest would have happened. Or part of it would have happened anyway but I should have had no share in it. By the Saturday I might have, solved all the mysteries by opening a vein in my bath. Instead of that I was giving some thought to the best way of spending the evening out.

  Of course I knew I was most probably running into trouble. In a few days there would be an excited young Frenchman round at my apartment wanting to do the blood-letting trick for me. Or perhaps Delaisse would be a blasé intellectual who’d want to talk the whole thing out on the existentialist plane.

  While I waited for her I thought this was the first time I’d taken a girl out for nearly three years. The last one had been Rachel on that London leave. (Rachel married now and with a son.) One or two of Claire Winterton’s younger guests had made on-coming remarks, but I’d had a complex about the whole business. In this new mood it seemed objectless to have been so stuffy. Perhaps this was one way of getting back on life.

  I stood and waited on the corner of the Place Masséna and listened to the rickety old trams thumping past. Under the portico a woman was shouting in a monotonous metallic voice: “ Samedi Soir. Paris-Presse. Samedi Soir. Paris-Presse.” She might have been calling the faithful to prayer. There had been only a light breeze to-day, and this had dropped with evening. A bite in the air now the sun was gone.

  I heard her come up before she spoke, in fact I knew she stood a few moments looking at me, but I didn’t let on.

  “Good evening, M. Gordon.”

  “Mme. Delaisse.”

  We shook hands formally in the French way and then we got a taxi and drove to a place I knew on the front.

  “This is very expensive,” she said as we went in. “Can’t we go somewhere cheaper?”

  “One of the drawbacks about going out with a man like me is that there’s nothing much to do in an evening except talk and eat This is a good place to do both.”

  “There are cheaper places to do both. Less smart. I—shall feel a little out of my depth.”

  “I don’t think I quite believe that.”

  She looked up quickly in surprise.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh … just that”

  “Just what?”

  “I can’t put it more plainly because I don’t know myself. I’ve an instinct that you won’t really feel—out of your depth. Or should have no need to.”

  She didn’t say any more until we were seated. When we came to order the wine I left it to her and after hesitation she chose a good vintage.

  I said gently: “ My guess is that you come of a good family and that the war has made all the difference. Right?”

  She said: “What is a good family? My father was good. My grandfather was good. Is that what you mean?”

  “All right,” I agreed. “What are your views on the fall of the Government?”

  “No. Talk about yourself. Where were you wounded? I want to know that. Was it in France?”

  “D’you think it tactful to bring up the subject?”

  “I think it would be too tactful if I avoided it.”

  I said in surprise: “ Maybe you’re right.… Though I don’t want to go on about it.”

  All the same I found myself telling her about Normandy and the tank battles round Caen and how the shell had burst much nearer two other men who had only got scratched up a bit … I went on about the rest, and didn’t realise till afterwards that it was practically the first time I’d told anyone the whole thing.

  We put in most of the evening there, I sat near enough to make out the light in her eyes sometimes and the glimmer of her teeth. She’d a pleasant laugh, self-deprecating and a little husky. She was wearing a tight velvet bodice of some sort with a white brooch at her throat. I think she was more frank and open and more quickly companionable with me because I had this drawback. I wasn’t, as other men: ordinary standards didn’t apply.

  She’d a queer way of looking at things. She wouldn’t talk about her own experiences, but it was plain enough they had been bitter some way or another. Underneath her liveliness, her self-chiding humour, her youth, was a layer of bitterness, or resentment or grief, I couldn’t tell quite what. It was like wandering through flowery fields and stubbing your toe on a stone.

  For the first time for months my own interest was drawn out and away. I wanted to know about her. The change from a week ago was enormous.

  We sat on through the coffee and the cognac and the cigarettes, getting more friendly all the time, till quite suddenly she stiffened in her chair and then went on talking one per cent faster than before. I took no notice until a man stopped at our table and she looked up as if seeing him for the first time.

  “Good evening, Alix.”

  “Oh, good evening, Pierre.”

  “Strange, our meeting like this.”

  “Yes, isn’t it. M. Gordon, may I introduce M, Pierre Grognard.”

  We shook hands. He was a biggish man, plump and fairly young. His hands were manicured and had never done hard work. His grip was just a contact, as if he’d passed you something over a counter.

  “I hope you didn’t feel tired after last night,” he said to her.

  “No, of course not. It was fun.”

  “If we’d come away when you said, I should have been fifty thousand francs richer.”

  “Oh, well … that’s the way of things.”

  “Next time I’ll respect your judgment, Alix.”

  “It wasn’t really judgment. I always like to seize my winnings when they’re there.”

  “Good principle. I shall take it to heart. You are visiting Nice, monsieur?”

  “Yes, I’ve been here since February.”

  “I hope you find it agreeable.”

  “Very pleasant, thanks.”

  “In the summer, of course, it gets too hot.”

  “I like the heat.”

  “Do you? I always try to get up into the mountains. One can breathe there. Well, I must go. Au ’voir, Alix. Tuesday?”

  She hesitated a second. “Yes, Tuesday.”

  “Good. Au voir, monsieur.

  “Au voir.”

  As I sat down I thought it wasn’t only a husband who might resent my being about.

  She fidgeted a minute rather uncomfortably, digging in her handbag for something and generally trying to be busy. I waited.

  At length she said: ‘I think soon we should go.”

  “Why? I said gently.“ D’you feel in need of an early night?”

  “That” she said, “is presuming a little, M. Gordon.”

  “… Would it also be presuming a little to suggest that you call me Giles?”

  Knowing the continental preference for formality, I thought she might jib at this, but after a minute she said: “Very well— if you wish it.”

&
nbsp; There was another silence.

  “You must agree,” I said, “that it’s a bit unusual to meet someone who works in a shoe-shop during the day and at night goes to the Casino and wins—and loses—fifty thousand francs. It—”

  “Oh, no, don’t make that mistake. It was Pierre who gambled. It is his money. I stood and watched.”

  “And advised him.”

  “And advised him.”

  “And you are going to do the same next Tuesday?”

  “Oh, if he wants to go I shall go with him, I suppose.”

  “Who is he? May I ask that?”

  “I don’t think I want to discuss him, please.”

  “Fair enough.” I thought the thing out. “All right,” I said.

  “I’ll tell you. Pierre Grognard’s about thirty-three or four. He’s come up in the world. Began life as a school teacher or—no-more likely a lawyer’s clerk, somewhere in the north. Don’t think he’s in law at present, but knows enough about it to get round it when he wants. He’s in commerce some way, probably owns a big shop or hotel. Thoroughly respectable now. Knows how to do things at the right time with the right people. Fond of women, and conceited about his successes. Smokes Havana cigars and very fond of garlic and probably shell-fish. Still a bit nervy and unsure about something in spite of all his prosperity.”

  She didn’t speak for a while. The waiter came, and I got the bill and paid it.

  When he’d gone she said in a queer voice: “ I’m troubled.”

  “Why?”

  “Tell me why you’re interested in Pierre?”

  “I’m not interested in him.”

  “Has someone been talking to you?”

  “I’ve never heard of him till to-night”

  She sat back in her chair. “How do you know all that?”

  “When you can’t see you rely on what you hear, what you touch, what you smell. They all grow twice as keen. And other things. I don’t know. One gets into a bit of an old maid, all sensitised plate and impressions. Positively no witchcraft.”

  “You swear you have never heard of Pierre before?”

  “Certainly, if it helps you.”

  “I am still disquieted.”

  “Why?”

  “I wonder how much you know about me.”

  I laughed. “ I’ve told you.”

  “All?”

  “Well nearly all. I had a feeling just now that you really don’t like Grognard as much as you try to.”