Симона де Бовуар – She Came to Stay (страница 9)
‘Oh, how I’d like to,’ she said enthusiastically.
‘If you agree it’s as good as done,’ said Françoise. ‘I’ll get Inès to send you a letter saying that she’s found you a job. And the day you make up your mind, all you’ll have to do is write to me “I’m coming,” and you will come.’ She patted the warm hand that lay trustingly in hers. ‘You’ll see, you’ll have a beautiful rich little life.’
‘Oh, I do want to come,’ said Xavière. She sank with all her weight against Françoise’s shoulder; for some time they remained motionless, leaning against each other. Xavière’s hair brushed against Francoise’s cheek. Their fingers remained intertwined.
‘It makes me sad to leave you,’ said Françoise.
‘So it does me,’ said Xavière softly.
‘My dear little Xavière,’ murmured Françoise. Xavière looked at her, with eyes shining, parted lips; mollified, yielding; she had abandoned herself completely. Henceforth Françoise would lead her through life.
‘I shall make her happy,’ she decided with conviction.
A ray of light shone from under Xavière’s door. Françoise heard a faint jingling and a rustle of garments, and then she knocked. There was a prolonged silence.
‘Who is it?’
‘It is I, Françoise. It’s almost time to leave.’
Ever since Xavière had arrived at the Hotel Bayard, Françoise had learned never to knock at her door unexpectedly, and never to arrive early for an appointment. All the same, her arrival always created mysterious agitation on the other side of the door.
‘Would you mind waiting for me a minute? I’ll come up to your room in a moment.’
‘All right, I’ll wait for you,’ said Françoise.
She went upstairs. Xavière liked formality. She never opened her door to Françoise until she had made elaborate preparations to receive her. To be taken by surprise in her everyday privacy would have seemed to her obscene.
‘I only hope everything goes well tonight,’ thought Françoise. ‘We’ll never be ready in three days.’ She sat down on the sofa and picked up one of the manuscripts which were piled on the night table. Pierre had asked her to read the plays sent in to him and it was work that she usually found entertaining.
She threw down the manuscript and rose to her feet. She had plenty of time to make up her face again, but she was too agitated. She lit a cigarette, and a smile came to her lips. Actually she enjoyed nothing better than this last-minute excitement. She knew perfectly well that everything would be ready when the time came. Pierre could do wonders in three days. That question of mercury lights would be settled. And if only Tedesco could make up his mind to fall into line with the rest of the company …
‘May I come in?’ asked a timid voice.
‘Come in,’ said Françoise.
Xavière was wearing a heavy coat and her ugly little beret. On her childlike face was a faint, contrite smile.
‘Have I kept you waiting?’
‘No, it’s all right. We’re not late,’ said Françoise hastily. She had to avoid letting Xavière think she might have been in the wrong; otherwise, she would become spiteful and sullen. ‘I’m not even ready myself.’
She powdered her nose a little, by force of habit, and turned quickly away from the looking-glass. Whatever face she wore tonight did not really matter: it did not exist for herself and she had a vague hope that it would be invisible to everyone else. She picked up her key and gloves and closed the door.
‘You went to a concert, didn’t you?’ she asked. ‘Was it good?’
‘No, I haven’t been out,’ said Xavière. ‘It was too cold and I didn’t feel like going.’
Françoise took her arm.
‘What have you done all day? Tell me about it.’
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Xavière plaintively.
‘That’s the answer you always give me,’ said Françoise. ‘But I’ve told you all the same that it gives me pleasure to imagine your life in detail.’ Smiling, she looked at her closely. ‘You’ve washed your hair.’
‘Yes,’ said Xavière.
‘You’ve set it beautifully. One of these days I’ll ask you to do mine. And what else? Did you read? Did you sleep? What sort of lunch did you have?’
‘I didn’t do anything at all,’ said Xavière.
Françoise insisted no further. It was impossible to achieve any fixed degree of intimacy with Xavière. The trifling occupations of a day seemed to her as indecent a subject of conversation as her bodily functions, and since she hardly ever left her room she rarely had anything to recount. Françoise had been disappointed by her lack of curiosity. Tempting movies, concerts, outings had been suggested to her to no purpose; she remained obstinately in her room. Françoise had been stirred by a moment of romantic excitement that morning in a Montparnasse café when she thought she had acquired a rare treasure. Xavière’s presence had brought her nothing fresh.
‘I had a full day myself,’ said Françoise gaily. ‘This morning I gave the wig-maker a bit of my mind; he’d only delivered half the wigs. And then I went hunting for props. It’s difficult to find just what I want; it’s a real treasure hunt. But you can’t imagine what fun it is rummaging among curious old theatre props. I must take you with me some day.’
‘I would like to come very much,’ said Xavière.
This afternoon there was a long rehearsal and I spent a lot of time giving the finishing touches to the costumes.’ She laughed. ‘One of the actors, who is very stout, had padded his buttocks instead of his stomach. You should have seen his figure!’
Xavière gently squeezed Françoise’s hand.
‘You mustn’t tire yourself out. You’ll make yourself ill!’
Françoise looked at the anxious face with sudden affection. At times Xavière’s reserve melted; she was no more than a fond ingenuous little girl, and one almost wanted to cover her pearly cheeks with kisses.
‘Now there won’t be anything else for a long time,’ said Françoise. ‘You know, I wouldn’t lead this sort of life all the time; but when it lasts only a few days and we hope to be successful, it’s worth while giving everything in one’s power.’
‘You are so energetic,’ said Xavière.
Françoise smiled at her.
‘I think it will be interesting tonight. Labrousse always has his finest inspirations at the last minute.’
Xavière said nothing. She always appeared embarrassed when Françoise spoke of Pierre, although she made a show of admiring him greatly.
‘It won’t bore you to go to this rehearsal?’ said Françoise.
‘I’ll enjoy it very much,’ said Xavière. She hesitated. ‘Obviously I’d prefer to see you under different circumstances.’
‘So would I,’ said Françoise without warmth. She hated these veiled reproaches which Xavière let fall from time to time. Unquestionably she had not given her much of her time, but surely she could not be expected to sacrifice to her the few hours she had for her own work!
They found themselves in front of the theatre. Françoise looked up affectionately at the old building with rococo festoons ornamenting its façade. It had a friendly, demure look that warmed the heart. In a few days, it would assume its gala appearance, it would be ablaze with all its lights: tonight, it was bathed in shadow. Françoise walked towards the stage-door.
‘It’s strange to think that you come here every day, much as you might go to an office,’ said Xavière. ‘The inside of a theatre has always seemed so mysterious to me.’
‘I remember before I knew Labrousse,’ said Françoise, ‘how Elisabeth used to put on the solemn air of an initiate when she led me along the corridors. I felt very proud of myself.’ She smiled; the mystery had faded. But this yard, cluttered with old stage sets, had lost none of its poetry by becoming an everyday sight. The little wooden staircase, the same colour as a garden bench, led up to the green-room. Françoise paused for a moment to listen to the murmur coming from the stage. As always, when she was going to see Pierre, her heart began to beat faster.
‘Don’t make any noise. We’re going to cross the stage-floor,’ she said.
She took Xavière by the hand and they tiptoed along behind the scenery. In a garden of green and purple shrubs, Tedesco was pacing up and down like a soul in torment. Tonight, his voice sounded curiously choked.
‘Sit down here. I’ll be back in a moment,’ said Françoise.
There were a great many people in the theatre. As usual, the actors and the small-part players were grouped together in the back stalls, while Pierre alone was in the front row. Françoise shook hands with Elisabeth, who was sitting beside a little actor from whom she had scarcely been separated for a moment during the last few days.
‘I’ll come and see you in a moment,’ she said. She smiled at Pierre without speaking. He sat all hunched up, his head muffled in a big red scarf. He looked anything but satisfied.
‘Those clumps of shrubbery are a failure!’ thought Françoise. ‘They will have to be changed.’ She looked uneasily at Pierre and he made a gesture of utter helplessness. Tedesco had never been so poor. Was it possible they had been mistaken in him up till now?