XXIV
He arrived in Paris on the 16th of May, at seven in the morning.
He had seen the sunrise. Over a landscape of dark green, in which the familiar deciduous forests showed up like cypress groves, a glowing sphere rolled aloft as if taken with a slow-motion camera and faded visibly.
Tunda felt as if he had seen the sun rise for the first time. Always before it had climbed out of those mists which obscure the transition from night to day and make a mystery of the dawn. But this time night and day seemed to him sharply demarcated from each other by a few neat bands of cloud on which the dawn mounted as if up a staircase.
He had expected a clear blue morning sky in Paris. But the morning in Paris is drawn with a soft pencil. The dispersed smoke of factories blends with the invisible residues of silvery gas lamps and hangs above the façades of the houses.
In every city of the world, at seven in the morning, it is the women who are the first to emerge: servant-girls and typists. In every city Tunda had so far seen, it was the women who carried with them out into the streets an aura of love, of night, of beds and of dreams. But the Parisian women who set foot in the morning streets seemed to have forgotten the night. On their lips and faces they wore fresh new make-up which miraculously resembled a sort of morning dew. These women were as perfectly dressed as if they were going to the theatre. Instead, they walked with calm bright eyes into a calm bright day. They walked fast, on sturdy legs and sound feet which seemed to know how to deal with paving-stones. As Tunda watched them walk he had the impression that they never used either their soles or their heels.
He passed through ugly old alleys with torn-up paving and cheap shops. But when he lifted his gaze above the shop-signs, they were palaces which suffered tradesmen at their feet with unconcerned indifference. There were always the same old window-panes, divided into eight parallelograms, the same grey, thin-grooved, half-lowered blinds. Only rarely was a window open, and rarely did an unclothed person stand at an open window.
In front of the shops sat cats; they waved their tails like flags. Like watchdogs, they sat with carefully observant eyes over the crates of green lettuces and yellow turnips, lustrous bluish cabbages and rose-pink radishes. The shops looked like vegetable gardens and, despite the soft, lead-coloured atmosphere which veiled the sun, despite the smoke and heat suddenly rising from the asphalt, Tunda felt as if he were wandering in open country and smelled the odours rising from the ground.
He came to a small, circular, open place with a ridiculous monument in the middle. In fact, when he saw this monument he laughed out so loudly that he thought people would emerge from their houses. But not even those who were already there took any notice of him. They were a stout dark woman, who was standing before a milliner’s, and a tall man with a glossy black moustache who was just opening up his small chocolate shop. They conversed, appeared to see Tunda but deliberately ignored him. They cracked jokes in the early morning. Tunda laughed in front of the monument.
It portrayed a smooth-shaven man in a flowing overcoat, life-size, on a pedestal. That death had not interrupted his everyday life seemed self-evident. A minor disturbance, nothing more. Comfortably settled in the centre of the circus instead of embarking on the long road to the next world, a small theatre with classical columns in the background, he continued to pursue his vocation, namely poetry.
The open space, except for its two shops, was still asleep. The houses gently encircled it as a ring does a finger. From various openings alleys radiated outwards in all directions, and one of these intimated the gleaming dark green proximity of a park, resonant with birdsong.
At the corner was an hotel, an hotel like a shop.
Tunda went inside, it was dark, a bell whimpered, and a made-up young woman emerged from behind a cheap flowered curtain. She appeared bold, worthy of respect, because she had the courage to live in darkness behind this curtain, because she asked Tunda what he wanted in a tone that was unfeeling, almost aggressive and yet kind. She seemed to him bold indeed, she seemed to have the splendid gift of passing through dreams as a creature of flesh and blood, and to be herself a miracle in the midst of miracles.
In this hotel, and because of this woman, Tunda rented a room on the sixth floor. From the window he could see the stone poet’s soft hat, the sparrows dancing on his head, the theatre roof with its three-cornered jutting gable, all the radiating streets, the dark green of the garden on the right, and chimneys springing up far and wide like children in a blue haze.
In the afternoon he walked through streets large and small, broad and narrow, in which the terraces of cafés blossomed with small round tables on slender legs, and waiters moved about like gardeners; when they poured coffee and milk into the cups, it was as if they were watering white flower beds. Trees and kiosks stood on the kerbs, almost as if the trees were selling newspapers. In the shop-windows — he thought of the foolish shop-windows of the Rue de la Paix — the wares danced in what looked like apparent confusion, but was in fact a defined and regular pattern. The policemen strolled in the streets, yes, they strolled, a small cape over their right or left shoulder — it was remarkable that this article of clothing could protect against hail and cloudburst. Yet they wore it with an imperturbable confidence in the quality of the material or in the benevolence of the heavens — who can tell? They strolled, not like policemen, but like idlers with all the time in the world.
Tunda had the impression that, if he asked one of them where Irene might be, he would get an answer or, at least, some good advice. Irene lived in this city. Madame G. lived in this city. From the moment he had set foot in Paris he could no longer distinguish clearly between the two women. They were one woman and he loved her. He decided to write to Madame G.
He knew her address. He had copied it a dozen times; and, moreover, there lay in a compartment of his wallet the fatal scrap of paper with which she had betrayed herself.
He had bought new, soft, smooth writing-paper; he felt that with this paper he entered on a new period in his life. Much depends on these things; momentous letters, fateful letters, must be written on a pleasing attractive, animating, cheerful, festive kind of paper. He wrote this letter in violet ink in order to distinguish it from all other, ordinary letters. Above all, he had a confession to make to Madame G., one which might possibly disillusion her.
When he began to write, he had the feeling that the French language, especially, was made for confessions. Nothing easier than to be sincere in French. The naked truth, which always has a brutal ring, nestles softly yet clearly defined in its phraseology; it is visible rather than audible, as is fitting for the truth. The letter certainly had its faults; but no language lends itself to such noble, such ready-to-be-forgiven mistakes as does French. By the time he had sealed the letter and carefully inscribed the address, he was almost as audacious as his painted young hotelière.
Several days passed. No answer came. He waited. But this period of waiting was not accompanied by anxiety or apprehension, it was more like waiting in front of the lowered curtain at a theatre.
He stayed indoors most of the day. In the late mornings he was woken by a noise from the street which recurred regularly every day and whose origin he could not bring himself to determine. He was curious. He wanted to see what it was that he heard every morning. But he put it off from one day to the next; it was pleasant that he could voluntarily postpone it, and the ability to master his curiosity released a real and unsuspected feeling of power.