“You’re mad, darling! You know how trustworthy I am.”
“Still, there’s something of you in this story. You are a bit like the husband.”
So she reread the story of the unfaithful wife. Then, getting up, she went to dress without saying anything. She came back a few minutes later.
“Good-bye, darling. I’ll be back around six o’clock. Be good and work well.”
“You don’t want me to come along?”
“How foolish you are! You are feeling poorly. You told me yourself you have a headache. It’s cold outside. You have a slight fever. Give me your hand. See, your hand is burning!”
“Yes, but if I dress warmly?”
“I don’t think it would be wise. A man like you must be well cared for.”
“You know I don’t like to stay home alone, darling.”
“But I’ll be back before six!”
And she left. It is obvious she did not want me to accompany her. But I pay this no mind. I understand that a woman can feel the need to be alone from time to time. It could even be that she truly did not want me to go out because I was feeling poorly. Perhaps she was thinking about my health, perhaps not. She wanted to be alone for no reason; she wanted to be alone for a variety of reasons. I know that just because one is hiding something, it does not mean that one is guilty. She could easily have been hiding the fact that she was going to see someone, meeting a girlfriend, without necessarily being unfaithful to me.
And so, I soon stopped thinking about her. Have you noticed that it takes several hours of absence before you think about the woman you love when she has gone out freely, happily, with her errands to run?
I sat down at my desk with the intention of writing. Do not think some vague suspicion was keeping me from working. I assure you I was not thinking about her. If I was incapable of doing anything at all it was more because I felt lazy than because I was worried.
To my great sadness it was then that, bored with my indolence, I decided to go out.
* * *
I shall always remember that radiant winter afternoon. No wind. A blue sky that grows dark before the evening papers come out. A pure sky where the sun seems to be an intruder. A white dust that surprises you because the previous day it was raining.
I was strolling calmly. It was pleasant to feel that my fever gave me permission not to hurry. Like a convalescent, I walked down a boulevard, taking interest in small things. Whenever our life is peaceful, whenever everything smiles on us, how agreeable it is to take interest in small things! You stop, you look. No one pays attention to you. These small things don’t really interest us. It’s our soul that is content with simple things, our soul that wants to find its youth again because it is happy contemplating small things, for no reason, simply not to think.
Such joy in being alive! And to imagine that we struggle to push away everything that could prevent us from moving along like this, gently, slowly, toward some intangible goal, almost unconsciously, happy to listen to the sounds, smell the aromas, see the light, touch a few objects.
A clock chimed. I did not count the chimes, but I sensed from the duration of the ringing that it was four o’clock.
And at that moment, dear sir, something horrible occurred. Have the kindness to read what follows attentively. I must tell you yet again that my happiness is in your hands. You know what a great responsibility it is for someone’s happiness to depend on you. Think of a person in your life who made you suffer. Think that, in his shoes, you would not have acted as he did. I am not asking you to do for a stranger what you would have done for a loved one. I’m simply asking you to attempt to understand and advise me.
I looked at a storefront. I looked at it distractedly, like people do when they have no one with whom to share what they notice. Then I turned around. Now you will find out what happened.
For merely a second, I saw a taxi pass close to me and in the taxi, my girlfriend was kissing a man.
You’ve grasped what I just said. I saw a taxi and, in this taxi, my girlfriend was kissing a man. She was blocking my view of him, but not entirely; I could see that he was hatless.
I swear on everything that is most sacred in the world that I saw my girlfriend kissing a man in a taxi. I swear. I saw them. He was letting himself be kissed. It was she who was leaning toward him. The taxi passed a few feet in front of me. I saw them. I’m sure of it, absolutely sure. Why would I say that if I had not seen them? I even remember today, two months later, all the details with extraordinary precision. She was to the left of this man. And her left knee was higher than the right and hid the man’s legs. I did not have the time to see her hands. I don’t know where they were. But, on reflection, I really have the impression that her right hand was behind her companion’s back, while her left hand must have been holding him around the neck. There is no possible doubt. She was kissing a man. I saw the bright color of the hat she had put on before going out. I saw her, my girlfriend in this taxi and I also saw a bit of the man she was kissing. Yes, it was her. But, then, I just don’t understand. If she doesn’t love me, why doesn’t she leave me? It was her. I saw her. I was not thinking about her when I saw her. Otherwise it would be easy to imagine that, since I was thinking of her so vividly, I gave her features to the first woman I saw.
And now, since I have offered you all my certainty, let me tell you again that it is true: I saw her in this taxi; it was her.
I went back home, completely demoralized. Before my eyes I continually saw the inside of this taxi that in my mind—a bit dark, lit from the front, with its cushions—resembled a small bedroom. I even imagined flowers in this taxi, flowers I had not seen. It is impossible to describe what I was feeling. I would have to choose among a thousand fleeting thoughts. I need to present you, dear sir, with a few of these inconsistent thoughts that, in my head, followed one another with dizzying speed. And if I could manage to sort some of them out, to see them separately from the others, it would seem, by their insignificance, that my pain was not as great as I claim. So I shall not describe my pain. Can one really portray suffering with words? In this account, I don’t think so. I am too removed from what happened. Any perfect description of pain presupposes an effort I can no longer make. I can only write as I am writing, just clearly enough for you to understand me.
I went home and lay down on a bed. Remaining motionless seemed odious to me, but by forcing myself to lie down, I wanted to prove I was still in control of myself.
Until my girlfriend returned, I never ceased thinking about her. No, I had not been mistaken. If I’d had even the slightest doubt, I would have done everything I could to fuel it until it became a certainty. But there was not even the shadow of a doubt. It is dreadful to find yourself confronting reality in this way. No matter what line of reasoning you come up with to forget it, it reappears quickly, more real than ever.
I spent two interminable hours like this, thinking, all the while waiting for the one I love.
Suddenly the door opened. She was there.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, darling. Why are you here? Do you feel ill? You should have undressed and gone under the blankets.”
I did not answer. I was torn between the desire to tell her everything I had seen, immediately, and the desire to remain silent in order to hold onto a reason to be sad, in order to take an incomprehensible pleasure in hearing my girlfriend lie. I hid my confusion behind an imaginary headache.
“Get under the blankets, my love. If I had known you were so sick, I would not have gone out. I would have taken care of you. Lie down now. I’ll make you something warm. And I’ll sit next to you and read you the papers. I have never seen you so ill. What’s wrong? Do you want me to go get a doctor?”