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  —You think?

  —I’m sure. There were only hints on the screen. Nothing definite. No kisses, for example. Nothing so incontrovertible. And none of our friends up there are capable of reading the signs. Rainbow-gawkers…

  —And Monsieur Rey?

  —A mystery. He intrigues me so much, that if I thought he’d tell me I’d run to him now, in my dripping bathing suit, hair all over the place, and ask him. Either he’s one tough guy or he’s a fool.

  —How old are you, Odette?

  —You already asked. Eighteen.

  —You’re intelligent and know a few things.

  —I’m a virgin. That helps me be intelligent. Also, I’ve lived on my own a lot. My parents divorced when I was twelve. Mama is still young. Daddy’s rich and ambitious. Both of them have continued to love and to keep going, each in their own way. Both have shared confidences with me, as you would with a friend. As well they might. I wasn’t a little girl any more. I’d grown up fast and wasn’t bored by anything. I’ve learned all I know from them: I think I’ve managed to give them useful advice sometimes. To Daddy, when he needed a new tie, at the beginning of an affair, Mama, when she felt life was over after some fool left her.

  —You’re a boy, Odette.

  —As you wish…

  —A boy in a blue beret, a white dress, and wooden sandals, with blond hair, little fists, and dark-blue eyes. If you were a bit uglier, I could have given you a pair of boots, taught you to smoke a pipe, and we would have headed for the mountains, to sleep in cabins, each on hard boards, far from love and swooning and psychological complications.

  * * *

  Renée Rey is sick. Her blinds have been down all day. She was absent at lunch, but Monsieur Rey, who came down with Nicole, lunched somberly and with a good appetite.

  —He’s a brute, said somebody, a lady in the guesthouse.

  He’s a simple man, thought Odette.

  The doctor came downstairs. Renée had not wanted to see him, but her husband was firm.

  —I have to know what’s wrong with her.

  “Nothing wrong with her,” was the doctor’s reply as he left and this almost made Monsieur Rey lose his temper. He settled for pacing the garden gloomily.

  —Well, as long as there’s nothing wrong with her, you needn’t be upset, observed Odette innocently.

  —There’s nothing wrong with her but she’s pale, nothing wrong with her but she doesn’t eat, nothing wrong with her but she faints. For a farmer’s wife, this illness is too subtle. Over there, we’re either healthy or we’re stretched out, we stay on our feet or fall over. We’re properly hale and hearty or else properly sick.

  Shortly after the doctor had left, while Odette was listening to Monsieur Rey’s explanations in the garden, a servant sought Stefan Valeriu.

  —Madame Rey insists you come upstairs.

  He found her naked, stretched diagonally across the double bed, very pale but with her eyes shining feverishly. The light of dusk, reduced further by the heavy drapes, fully drawn, increased her pallor and cast heavy shadows across the pillows.

  —Are you sick?

  —No, I’m in love with you.

  —My dear Renée, that’s very nice, but is this really the time to tell me? When your husband, alarmed, might come up here at any moment? When the entire guesthouse has its eyes glued to the patient’s windows?

  —You’ll never understand. Touch me with your hand, see how I’m burning up. Kiss me, and see how I’ve waited for you. My man…my love…you’re mine!

  It was as though her body were begging him, revealing its most secret, private places, down to the deep, dumb roots of life. He felt that if he got any closer to her it would not be her burning lips or her gleaming Arab thighs he would feel, but her aorta pulsing with too much blood, veins, and a heart like a wound.

  He hesitated for a second and, in the tumult drawing him toward the woman in front of him, the thought that something definitive was being decided made something snap. He turned about, opened the door, slammed it behind him, and ran down the stairs—free.

  * * *

  A telegram was waiting for Odette in the dining room, on her table, at dinnertime. She opened it and read it without hurry.

  —It’s from Daddy. He’s coming by in his automobile the day after tomorrow, in the morning, to pick me up. We’re going to Antibes.

  —Were you expecting him?

  —No, but he likes to be a bit dramatic. He knows I like it too.

  * * *

  Odette is in her room, having gone up after the evening meal to write some letters and put a few things in order.

  —I want to be free all day tomorrow so it’s better if I get ready tonight. Daddy doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Good night.

  —Good night. I’ll be here. But if you like, later, on my way to bed, I’ll knock on your door for a little chat.

  —Please do.

  It’s been a long time since Stefan has been on his own on the terrace at night. Perhaps not since Madame Bonneau’s departure, before this long love affair had begun.

  How good it must have been then, he thinks, trying to remember, watching a firefly light up in the dark, like the pulse of a heart. He would happily forget everything that has happened since and to remember only this vast night, and the point of light created by this firefly.

  Pity it isn’t raining. He would stay out in it, bareheaded and with nothing around his neck, sleeves rolled up, leaning against a tree trunk, letting the water stream through his hair, down his forehead and cheeks, until he felt, together with the grass around him, part of the slumbering, insensible earth, free forever from guilt and remorse, free from the obsession behind those dimly lighted windows up there, where a passionate woman was in the grip of excessive love.

  But it isn’t raining and it isn’t going to rain, and the night is unbearably beautiful with this dramatic lake, its waters reflecting the full moon and the stars and the silver mountains. Never rains when you need it, Stefan thinks acidly, and turns to go to bed, glad that at least he’ll tarry a quarter of an hour in Odette’s room before retiring, to talk about various nothings. But there is no response when he knocks on the door.

  —Odette!

  Her light is on, however, and he can clearly hear her tense breathing on the other side of the door.

  —Odette, what’s this nonsense? Why won’t you answer?

  —Oh, it’s you. Good evening.

  —Good evening. I came to talk with you a bit.

  —Oh, it’s late now. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m sleepy.

  —I don’t mind at all. Just open up so I can shake your hand.

  Stefan waits for a few seconds, not sure whether he is amused or annoyed by what is happening.

  —Listen, Odette. I’m serious: if there’s some reason you can’t see me, tell me what it is and I’ll go. But if there’s no reason, open up for a moment. I’ll just say good night and go to bed. I’m tired too.

  —There’s absolutely nothing wrong, but I can’t open the door.

  —Why?

  —Just because.

  —I’ll have you know I’m not leaving here until either you give me a proper explanation or you open up.

  She doesn’t reply and Stefan visualizes her on the other side of the door, annoyed, balling her fists, lower lip drawn downward, with the nervous smile she has during a quarrel whenever she feels helpless.

  —I’m going to wait here, you know. I’ve lit my pipe and I’m leaning against the wall, comfortably, my hand in my pocket, waiting. Until one, until two, until morning…

  Odette has put out the light. Probably she has got into bed and is listening carefully to hear if he has gone. Sometimes, quietly, pleadingly, like an annoyed child, fighting against sleep, she whispers something.

  —Stefan, go to bed. Stefan, it’s late. Stefan, you’ll be tired tomorrow…

 
; It’s his turn not to reply, frowning and surly, determined to stay, but knowing the door is not going to open that night.

  * * *

  Stefan Valeriu went away at daybreak and didn’t return until late in the evening, when dinner was over. He rambled through several local villages, smoked an enormous amount, and had very serious conversations with peasants he met about the crops and the weather.

  Maybe it isn’t nice to run off, he thought several times on his journey, but Renée Rey’s mysteriously shut windows encouraged him, even from afar, to keep going.

  —It’s better this way. Much better.

  As for Odette, it would be a good thing to tweak her ear as though she were a cheeky kid and let her know what he thought of the previous evening’s prank, which he had not enjoyed one bit.

  Back at the guesthouse, he is very glad it’s late, with the dining room deserted and everybody gone to bed. The lights are low in the Reys’ window, Odette Mignon’s is dark.

  —All the better!

  Still, he should bid her a good journey. She’ll be gone tomorrow before daybreak and he’ll certainly never see her again.

  —She was sweet sometimes…

  And, going upstairs to his room, he smiles when he realizes that with those words he has reached the end of the story with that beautiful, slightly screwy, blue-eyed girl. He’s bone-tired, and with each step upward he feels closer to the imminent bliss of removing his boots, stretching out his naked arms and falling onto his cool bedsheets. Seven more steps, two more, finally there. His hand falls heavily on the door handle, he opens the door and enters his room—with the hazy sensuality of a returning wanderer—and turns on the lamp.

  —Good evening, Odette.

  Why wasn’t he startled? It would have been natural and reasonable to react like that. A little jolt at least, finding her there in his room, in his bed, at such an hour, naked, calm, and familiar. But instead of amazement and noisy exclamations, all he can find to say is “Good evening, Odette.”

  —Good evening, Stefan.

  He goes to her and kisses both her cheeks, caresses her rounded knees and then takes off his rucksack.

  —You know, I’m whacked. I’ve walked an incredible distance today. Have you been waiting long for me?

  —A couple of hours.

  —Didn’t it drag?

  —No. I turned off the light, undressed, and got into bed. The view from here is lovely, toward the forest.

  He continued to undress, without haste or excitement.

  —Anything new in the guesthouse?

  —Nothing. Madame Rey didn’t come down today either. Monsieur Rey asked after you. I said my farewells to all of them in the evening and went to get my bags ready. I only left out my travel dress and look, you’ve gone and sat on it.

  —Sorry. Will I turn the light out?

  He’s standing naked in front of the bed, relaxed and unashamed, as though they are friends who have known each other for a long time.

  —Yes, do.

  They embrace in silence, and his arms envelop her. He explores her from the top of her head to her ankles, glad that her robust yet fine body is neither trembling nor impatient. He feels her calm breasts, hears the steady beating of her heart, her peaceful breathing. The girl’s thighs open like wings, yieldingly but deliberately.

  Her body is attentive and receptive, following his suggestions trustingly, responsive like the keys of a piano to his touch. They don’t need to struggle to find each other in the dark, don’t lose each other, don’t speak: the harmony is that of two stalks, growing, entwined. And Odette’s clear, sharp cry—a single cry—of pain, of triumph, of freedom, doesn’t frighten either of them, and flies through the open window and is lost in the woods, where it wakes a squirrel perhaps, or blends with the distant and equally free call of a wildcat.

  —Are you crying, Odette?

  She isn’t. She is warmer than before, and her hurt body presses more closely to his, still firm and sure, but her shoulders are heavier and her defeated hands lie on the pillows.

  —Are you sleepy, Odette?

  No, she isn’t. She has never been more awake, never been less confused, more aware of what is happening. Look, this is your hand, this is my knee, these are your rough lips, this is my ear that you’re kissing without its sending a shiver through me, that’s your too-broad shoulder blade, and these are my wrists and over there, look, the first rays of daybreak…Soon, from Serrier, the sound of an approaching automobile will be heard. You have to go, the car down there is beeping its horn, calling you from the roadway.

  Why doesn’t she cry, why doesn’t she ask him to make her stay, why doesn’t she cling to him more desperately, why does she stay so close beside him and why does she love him as though it’s forever and not just for an hour?

  Odette is standing in the doorway in the same white dress and blue beret she wore that first day, about to leave, suitcase in hand.

  —Goodbye, Stefan.

  She stands in the threshold.

  —Odette?

  —Yes?

  —Tell me now. Why wouldn’t you open the door the other evening?

  She thinks for a moment.

  —I don’t know, Stefan. I really don’t!

  SIX

  September has arrived, lovely in its weakening light. There are fewer boats on the lake, their sails have been furled, and the white passenger ferries make fewer trips. A notice on the jetty announces that the 8:27 service will no longer run. With each passing day, more shutters close over the windows of the guesthouse: people are leaving. Will that window, today laughing in the sun, its white curtains fluttering, be open again tomorrow? And the one beside it? And the one above? One by one they close, like lights going out.

  For the past several days, Renée Rey has left her room. After lunch, at around two o’clock, she takes a walk either alone or with Monsieur Rey. She takes his arm and they walk in silence. Sometimes they stop to pet the guesthouse’s huge, shaggy sheepdog. Madame Rey is paler than before and looks taller, and when anybody comes across her she smiles like a convalescent. She has spoken a few inconsequential words with Stefan, with no more sadness than when speaking to the others.

  —It’s so lovely outside and it was horrible up there in my room. I missed you all, and the sun.

  It seems they will be gone in a day or two. They’ve written ahead to Marseille to inquire about the weather, as Renée needs a calm crossing. In the evening she reclines on a chaise longue while Monsieur Rey and Stefan play chess. Just as in the first days. When it is completely dark, the lights of the train station far beyond the lake can be seen, and the Paris train at midnight, like a thick, articulated, phosphorescent snake. They pause in the middle of their game and watch it until it disappears.

  —We have a tough life, says Monsieur Rey, breaking the silence. I don’t regret it and wouldn’t change it. But it is tough. I’m sure Renée has tears in her eyes, watching that same train, which she won’t be taking again for who knows how many years. Maybe never. That doesn’t scare me, but, you see, there’s something in me, a kind of affliction, that gives me pause. I know it’ll pass. It will pass for her too. Work takes care of all that. The sun, the plantations, the desert, the breeze at night, the Arabs…But you have to understand how different things are here, how appealing it is and how a woman in particular would find it all irresistible…

  He forgets about the game and speaks quietly, the furrow between his eyebrows deeper than usual. Then he suddenly stands up.

  —I’m going up to pack. We’re leaving tomorrow. Stay with Renée until I come back.

  Stefan goes to the terrace, where Madame Rey’s shawl is dimly visible in the darkness.

  —Monsieur Rey went upstairs. He asked me to keep you company. May I?

  —Of course.

  —It seems you’re leaving tomorrow.

  —I didn’t know, but all the better. />
  He sits on the grass and for a long time doesn’t speak, listening to the breathing of the woman next to him. He sees a firefly, captures it, holds it in his fist to better see how the little creature extinguishes the little lamp in its head, but she asks him to put it in her hair and he does this. In the dark, the glowing spark looks like an enormous hair clasp, just bright enough to backlight her head with a faint aura.

  Everything seems completely peaceful and then Renée bursts into tears. Good, friendly tears which Stefan helps along, caressing her hands, receiving the weeping with equanimity, as he would the rain.

  —Will you be staying on long, Stefan?

  —I don’t really know. I’m waiting for news from back in my country. Perhaps a week. Maybe longer.

  —You don’t mind me crying?

  —Why should I, Renée? It’s nighttime. Nobody can see. And somebody needs to cry for us all.

  * * *

  Nothing else happens and the days pass pointlessly, leaving behind them the air of an unlived-in, unfurnished house, its rooms resounding with the footfalls of a solitary visitor. The morning light is raw, like egg white, and the light of evening as warm as the porcelain bowl of a kerosene lamp. A photograph has arrived from the Rey family, sent from Marseille on the eve of their departure, along with their friendly regards. Stefan has placed it in the frame of his mirror and he expects he will leave it there when he departs. A letter has arrived for Odette Mignon and the owner of the guesthouse has given it to Stefan, as she has no forwarding address. Stefan doesn’t know it either. It’s strange that Odette didn’t offer such information, stranger still that Stefan didn’t ask for it. Several forgotten items have been found in her room: a piece of embroidery, a book, a scarf, and three or four amateur photographs. They show a flighty-looking Odette, her skirts flapping in the wind, her blue beret askew, her hands aloft to catch some imaginary ball. “She passed by like a girl you’d meet on a tram,” says Stefan, looking out the window, toward the empty lake, across which a single sailboat hastens, like a frightened bird. Near the jetty, several seagulls swoop low and skim the water with their bellies, then rise again, disoriented. The glum footfalls of the lame chambermaid, Anetta, can be heard as she makes her rounds of the rooms before dark, to check that all is in order.