It’s a curious sensation to arrive in a strange city, knowing that there you’ll love with a love you’ve never experienced before. That’s how it was. We stopped at a little hotel on the river—I don’t remember the name of the river that runs by Limoges. The room had faded wallpaper and very ordinary furniture; in those years many hotels were like that; you’ve only to look at the films of Jean Gabin. Miriam asked me to say that she was my wife, she didn’t want to identify herself and the hotel didn’t ask for the papers of both members of a couple. From the room we could see the river, bordered by willows; it was a fine night and we fell asleep at dawn. “Who is it you’re running away from, Miriam,” I asked her. “What’s wrong in your life?” But she laid a finger across my lips.
An absurd route, as I said before. We went down to Rodez and then towards Albi and its vineyards, because of a landscape she wanted to see. I thought it was an outdoor view but it was a painting, and we found it. We skipped Toulouse and made for Pau, because her mother had spent her childhood there, and I lingered over the idea of her mother as a child, in a boarding school which we couldn’t locate. It was the first time I’d thought of the childhood of a woman companion’s mother, a new and strange sensation. We looked at the splendid square and at the houses, with their white attic windows suspended from tile roofs, and I imagined a winter in Pau, behind one of those windows. I was tempted to say: Listen, Miriam, let’s forget about everything else and spend the winter behind one of these windows, in this city where nobody knows us.
When we got to Biarritz it was Saturday; the rally was to be the next day. I thought we’d go to the Hôtel des Palais and take two rooms there, but she chose to go elsewhere, to the Hôtel d’Angleterre, and she signed the register in my name. In luxury hotels, too, they don’t ask to see a woman’s papers. She was hiding out, obviously, and I was haunted by the strange sentence she had pronounced on the day of our first meeting, a subject to which she refused to return. I put my hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes—we had gone down to the beach at sunset, seagulls were standing around, a sign of bad weather, they say, and some children were playing in the sand. “I want to know,” I told her, and she said: “Tomorrow you’ll know everything. Tomorrow evening, after the rally, we’ll meet here on the beach and go for a drive in the car. Don’t insist, please.”
The rally rules demanded that every driver be dressed in the style of the period of his car. I had bought a pair of baggy Zouave-style trousers and a tan cloth cap with a visor. “This is a show,” I said to Miriam; “it’s not a race, it’s a fashion parade.” But she said no, I’d see. Competition wasn’t the order of the day, but almost. The course ran along the ocean, a road riddled with curves hanging over the water: Bidart, Saint-Jean-de-Luz, Donibane and, finally, San Sebastian. We set out three by three, our names drawn by lot, regardless of the type of car. The time was to be clocked and calculated according to each car’s horsepower. And so we started out with a 1928 Hispano-Suiza, called La Boulogne, and a bright red 1922 Lambda, a superb creation (suffice it to say that Mussolini had one). Not that the Hispano-Suiza was to be sneezed at; it was definitely elegant, with its bottle-green coupé body and long chrome hood. We were among the first to take off, at ten o’clock in the morning. It was a fine typically Atlantic day, with a cool breeze and clouds flitting across the sun. The Hispano-Suiza took off like a shot. “We’ll let it go,” I said to Miriam; “I refuse to let others set the pace; we’ll catch up when I feel like it.” The Lambda stayed quietly behind. It was driven by a fellow with a black moustache, accompanied by a young girl, probably rich Italians, who smiled at us and every now and then called out ciao. They remained behind us on all the curves until Saint-Jean-de-Luz, then they passed us at Hendaye, the border town, and began to slow up on the straight, flat road to Donibane. I thought it was strange that they should linger at this particular point. We had passed the Hispano-Suiza before arriving at Irun; now I meant to step on the accelerator and I expected the driver of the Lambda to do likewise. Instead, he let us pass with the greatest of ease. For a hundred yards or so we were side by side; the girl waved and laughed. “They’re out for a good time,” I said to Miriam. They caught up with us at the end of the straight, at which point there were two nasty curves in rapid succession. We’d tried them out the evening before, and they were imprinted on my memory. Miriam cried out when she saw them coming at us, pushing us towards the precipice. Instinctively I braked and then accelerated, managing to hit the Lambda. It was a hard, quick blow, enough to throw the Lambda off the road, to the left, where it slithered along the inside embankment for about twenty yards. I was following the scene in the rear-view mirror as the Lambda lost a fender against a pole, skidded towards the centre of the road and then back to the left where, having run out of all impetus, it bogged down in a pile of dirt. Plainly the passengers were not injured. I was drenched with cold sweat. Miriam clasped my arm. “Don’t stay,” she said, “please, please don’t stay,” and I drove on. San Sebastian was directly below us; no one had witnessed the incident. After passing the finish line I made for the improvised, open-air garage, but I didn’t get out of the car. “It was intentional,” I said; “they did it on purpose.” Miriam was very pale, and speechless, as if petrified. “I’m going to the police to report it,” I said. “Please,” she murmured. “But don’t you see that they did it on purpose?” I shouted. “That they were trying to kill us?” She looked at me, with an expression half troubled, half imploring. “You can take care of the car,” I said; “get the bumper straightened while I walk around.” And I got out, slamming the door; there was nothing seriously wrong with the car and the whole thing could have been just a bad dream. I wandered around San Sebastian, especially along the sea. It’s a fine city, with those white late nineteenth-century buildings. Then I went into an enormous café—the sort you find only in Spain, the walls lined with mirrors and a restaurant attached to it—and ate some fried fish.
Miriam was waiting in the car, near the garage. She had put on make-up and regained her composure and the fear was gone. Mechanics straightened the bumper, the rally was over and people were streaming away. I asked her if we’d won anything. “I don’t know,” she answered, “it doesn’t matter, let’s go back to the hotel.” I didn’t notice the time; it must have been around three. As far as Irun we didn’t say a word. At the border, when they saw that we’d taken part in the rally they waved us by, and we were back in France. It was only then that I noticed. I noticed by pure chance, because we had the sun at our backs and its reflection on the radiator ornament bothered me, as if it were sparkling in a mirror. Coming the other way, that morning, it hadn’t been a bother because the wood had to some extent absorbed the chrome, leaving it opaque. I stopped the car, but I didn’t get out and look more closely because I already knew. “They’ve changed the elephant,” I said. “This one is in metal, steel or silver, I don’t know which, but it’s not the same.” Then I thought of something else, something absurd, but I voiced it: “I want to see what’s inside.” Miriam looked at me and paled. Once more she was ashen grey, as at the time of the incident, and seemed to be trembling. “I’ll tell you about it this evening,” she said; “please, my husband will be here in a few hours and I want to go.” “Is he the one you’re afraid of?” I asked. “When I first met you, you told me something, do you remember? Is he the one?” She squeezed my hand, trembling. “Let’s go, please,” she said, “don’t let’s waste any more time. I want to go back to the hotel.”
We made love intensely, almost convulsively, as if it were a last act, dictated by an impulse of survival. I lay, dazed, between the sheets, without sleeping, in the sort of drowsy state that allows the mind to wander from image to image. Before my eyes there paraded Albert and the Pegasus body shop, the attic on the square in Pau, a small metal elephant, a ribbonlike road along a cliff overhanging the ocean, with Miriam standing at the edge of the precipice until the Count noiselessly crept up on her and pushed her over, and she fell,
hugging the handbag which she never let go. That’s how my mind was working when Miriam got up and went into the bathroom. My right arm travelled down the side of the bed to the floor, searching for the bag, my hand delicately opened it and felt the butt of a revolver. Unconsciously I took it, got quickly out of bed and dressed. I looked at my watch; there was plenty of time. When Miriam came out of the bathroom she grasped the situation but did not object. I told her to pack and wait for me. “No,” she said, “I’ll wait for you on the beach; I’m afraid to stay alone in a hotel room.” “At half-past nine,” I said. “Leave the car with me,” she said; “it’s wiser for you to go in a taxi.” I went down to pay the bill and caught a cab. Mist was falling. I got out near the station and wandered about, wondering what I was going to do and knowing perfectly well that I hadn’t the slightest notion. It seemed perfectly ridiculous to wait for a man I’d seen twice in my life, and what for? To threaten him, to say that I knew he meant to kill his wife? And what if he wouldn’t give up the idea? What would I do if he reacted? I turned the little toylike revolver over and over in my pocket. There were a few people in the station, the loudspeaker announced the arrival of the train and I hid, trying to look casual, behind a column on the platform. After all, he already knew me. Shall I face up to him there, I wondered, or follow him along the street? The hand gripping the revolver was sweaty. At this point people began getting off the train: a group of carefree Spaniards, a nursemaid with two blond children, a newly-wed couple, a few tourists. Finally the railway attendants opened all the train doors and, armed with brooms and suction pumps, began to clean up. A few seconds went by before I realized that he hadn’t been on the train at all. Suddenly I was stricken with panic; not exactly panic but tremendous anxiety. I raced through the station, hailed a taxi, and made for the Hôtel des Palais. I could have gone on foot, but I was in a hurry. The hotel was magnificent, one of the oldest in the city, a majestic yet airy white structure. The receptionist examined the register from start to finish and from finish to start, running his finger down the list of guests. “No,” he said, “we’ve no guest by that name.” “Perhaps he hasn’t arrived yet; look at the reservations, will you?” He took his list and examined it with the same care. “No, sir, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing.” I asked for the telephone and called the Hôtel d’Angleterre. “The lady left shortly after you,” said the desk clerk. “Are you sure?” “Yes, she handed in the key and went off in the car; the porter loaded the luggage.” I left the Hôtel des Palais and walked to the beach, which was only a few steps away. I went down the steps and walked slowly over the sand. It was half-past nine, a mist had fallen and the waves were high; summer nights at Biarritz can be chilly. At the place where we were to meet there was a bathhouse with a row of deck chairs. I sat down on one and looked out to sea. I heard a church bell ring out ten o’clock, then eleven and twelve. The revolver was still in my pocket; I was tempted to throw it into the ocean, but I couldn’t do it, I don’t know why.
Do you know, once I put an advertisement in Le Figaro: “Lost elephant looking for 1927 Bugatti.” That’s a good one, isn’t it? But you’ve made me drink too much, Monsieur, although when it comes to drinking you’re good company. Sometimes, when you’ve drunk a bit, reality is simplified; the gaps between one thing and another are closed, everything hangs together and you say to yourself: I’ve got it. Just like a dream.
But why are you interested in other people’s stories? You too must be unable to fill in the gaps. Can’t you be satisfied with your own dreams?
SPELLS
For instance, you see, these are my father’s feet; I call them Constantine Dragases, like the last emperor of Byzantium, a brave and unfortunate men—they all betrayed him and he died along on the battlements—but you see them as two ordinary feet made of plastic. I found them on the beach last week; sometimes the sea washes pieces of dolls ashore. Well, I found these two legs and immediately I understood that it was Papa, from wherever he was, sending me a facsimile of his feet in order to meet my memories halfway. I felt it; I don’t know if you understand.
And I said, well, yes, of course I understood, but couldn’t we play at something else, outdoors, in the garden? In the house everyone was sleeping; it was an adventure to slip out while they were all taking their afternoon naps and the house was immersed in silence. But if that didn’t suit her we could stretch out, flat on our stomachs, on the rug in her room and read The Phantom of the Opera. This time I wouldn’t budge, I promised, so as not to disturb her reading. I revelled in it, I thought I was dreaming, when she read aloud, in a whisper, close to my ear. I’ll be your humble listener, Cleliuccia, I said, I swear it. Then I wanted to kick myself because I’d blown it. Damn the carelessness that was always causing me to mix up Cleliuccia with the unhappy witch Melusina!
She threw me a fierce look through her one good eye and then took off the ridiculous glasses with one cardboard lens, letting her defective eye roll around in peace instead of rotating wildly as it did when she was angry. Words counted a lot for Melusina, how many times did she have to tell me so? Because words are things, of course, no need to repeat it, I got the idea: they were things transformed into the ghost of pure sound, and with the things of this world you have to be very careful, because they are sensitive, quite so. But how to make the point that her squint wouldn’t be offended if she simply called it a squint instead of a lack of focus in the left eye? It wasn’t even noticeable unless she was nervous, and she had long blond hair, and I liked her, even her ineptness at sports didn’t bother me; I should have liked to tell her all these things. But it would have been disastrous to speak of her ineptness at sports after the unpardonable mistake of calling her Cleliuccia. Cleliuccia indeed! That was what Aunt Esther called her and for this reason she came close to hating my aunt, that is, if she hadn’t been Aunt Esther, and you couldn’t hate Aunt Esther, no matter how hard you tried. How can you hate someone like my mother, Clelia would ask, as if seeking my assent. True, very true, I answered with a feeling of relief; nobody can hate Aunt Esther because she’s too good. Stupid, that’s what she is, she retorted, and you can’t hate somebody stupid; what I hate is clever people, clever and tricky. I knew whom she meant and preferred to change the subject. Not that it bothered me, perhaps I simply wasn’t interested; I preferred playing in the garden. I was only three years younger and my company wasn’t to be scorned. And then do you think it’s good for you to stay in the house all day, in semi-darkness, among the dolls? I asked her. Didn’t the doctor prescribe fresh air and sports? I looked out of the window and felt an enormous, almost overpowering urge to make for the pine woods. I was thinking of previous summers, and how things would never be the same. I could no longer count on the gateman’s son; during the year he had grown tall, there was a thin line of hair under his nose, he smoked, stealthily, behind the garage, and rode along the shore on a bicycle. He was called Ermanno now and wouldn’t have played Lothair to her Mandrake; I wouldn’t dare suggest it. Within a short time everything had changed. What “everything”, and why? I thought of the time when Clelia was Diana, betrothed to the Man in the Iron Mask, or the terrible Queen Maona, the snake charmer, and Ermanno and I tried to discover the secret of her elixirs. Now it seemed almost ridiculous, and so it must seem to her, too, as she sat in her half-dark room, reading Gaston Leroux, Arsène Lupin, and The Dead Woman’s Kiss. Our races to the pine woods and among the bushes … all gone, I knew it. Now, at best, there was the walk to the beach, two boring hours under the beach umbrella and, on Saturday evenings, ice cream at one of the tables set out at the café of the Andrea Doria Bathhouse. Then the same thing all over, day after day; only ten days had gone by and the summer would never end. I thought, first, of writing to my father, but what excuse was there for asking him to come and take me away, just that I no longer liked being there? And what Clelia had told me about her new father, could I tell him that? No, I couldn’t, I’d sworn not to. I had to call him Uncle Tullio and be nice to him as he was nice
to me. When he arrived, on Saturdays, he always brought two parcels, one for Clelia and one for me. In Clelia’s there was a doll, because she had a collection of dolls, even if she no longer played with them. And what did I have to say? Actually I liked Uncle Tullio; he was the jolliest fellow and, when he was there, the house was no longer a morgue. On Saturday evenings, he took us to the Andrea Doria Café, and I could have two ice creams, including “Nero’s Cup”, with the candied cherries. I liked the way he dressed, too, impeccably, with a linen jacket and a bow tie. He and Aunt Esther made a very fine couple; when we strolled on the promenade people turned around to look at them and I was happy on my aunt’s behalf. My sister couldn’t stay a widow for the rest of her life, said my mother; she did well to make a new life for herself, poor dear. Anyone would have said the same thing, to see her strolling on the promenade, in her pretty blue dress, her hair cut as short as a girl’s, a happy woman on the arm of a husband who had forgotten the horrors of the War. Everybody seemed to have forgotten the War; they were all disporting themselves on the beach. As for me, I had no memory at all of the War; during the bombing I was in the process of being born. But from inside the house Aunt Esther’s life didn’t seem so happy, and I was in a position to know. On the day of my arrival she’d called me into the small drawing room with the spinet piano (why there, as if I were an honoured guest?) and almost implored me to have a good time this summer, such a good time. Play, play, my boy, to your heart’s content! A strange request, since I’d come, just as in the preceding summers, looking for a good time. And why did she wring her hands? Be good to Cleliuccia, please; keep her company and play with her, do you hear? And she hurried out of the room as if she were about to cry.