What was odd was that she seemed genuinely to mean what she said. In the eyes of some restaurant goers in the town, Marta was probably regarded as a force for evil, as some sort of perverse tropical typhoon. The young lady, quite unconsciously, had an understated presence and was naturally very pleasant (she possessed that vague demeanor any elegant woman must have); some families in town ensured that their sons didn’t stray out of line. France has undergone many revolutions — the only thing they’ve yet to revolutionize is the institution of marriage based on material concerns.
“So, Marta, what you’d really like would be a cottage with frilly curtains where you could sit quietly and watch the rain fall the other side of the window. Beyond the small kitchen garden, you’d want the vista of a fresh green meadow, fenced in at the bottom by a row of tall trees planted alongside a canal. In any case, the kitchen is also a good place to sew in winter — by the stove, with the aroma from the soup simmering in the pot and a half-asleep contented cat purring drowsily.”
“You’re not from here — how come you are familiar with all this?”
“I use my imagination … I like the north. I’m sure that, if you were in one of these kitchens with rows of gleaming earthenware pots, you’d mend everything that came your way: your underwear and your outerwear … and other people’s. You’d trim and add buttons, patch, and open countless buttonholes. Your needle would be rough and ready like those young people use, but it would be an honest needle.”
“I’d like to tell you what I think about such things. It’s an ideal, but it’s an ideal that has an advantage — you can touch it with your hand. I’ll only add that I also like to sew in bed …”
While I was thinking how lovely it would be to see her in bed — sometimes these young women have such pink, terse flesh — I took a glance at the weather. The panorama was unpleasantly dramatic. On the horizon, over the English coast, the sky was melding into the sea in a scenario of desolate splendor. In the flickering light of dusk I could see motionless, lost sails, like greasy croquettes. Clouds of smoke appeared for a moment, then vanished into the atmosphere: phantasmagoric, wandering vessels. Sometimes the livid twilight eased and a patch of brightness glinted on the water and a large stain appeared on the sea, light-green like the glass of a soda-water bottle. This light illuminated the passage of the wind over a broad expanse of sea, and the white horses jumping on the back of the waves. But the stencil was short-lived; when the brightness faded, the thick, turbid, muddy color returned to the water, the horizon shut down and re-emerged, an obsessive presence on the solitary sea in the dramatic dying glow of twilight.
“This country’s charm is very relative, Mlle Marta!” I exclaimed with a laugh.
“It would have been worse, if it had rained …” she retorted spiritedly.
“Naturally, it could always be worse …”
We walked slowly towards Calais. It was the heart of summer and was starting to cool down. For a moment I thought that this drop in the thermometer might do me a favor. When the thermometer goes down hearts grow warmer and bodies tend to gravitate towards each other. Human societies originate in such reconciliations. However, my hunch turned out to be wrong. I was stuck with the thought that the thermometer hadn’t dropped enough. When it was time to say goodbye I told Marta I thought I’d spend a day in Ypres on my next trip.
“The war cemeteries are in Ypres,” she said. “However, that’s up to you if you want to go … It’s one option among many.”
I said I’d be delighted if she’d accompany me. She replied that she agreed in principle and that a final decision depended on the work she had.”
“Sewing?”
“Oh, no! I’ve left that for later, like all ideals.”
“The underground world?”
“Let’s leave that to me …” she answered after a hesitant pause.
When we met up again, I mentioned her gracious promise to spend a day with me in Ypres. She listened very politely, but I could sense the idea didn’t fill her with enthusiasm. She said she’d be most probably going to Flanders.
“Do you know Bruges?” she asked me. “That’s my country. Perhaps I’ll have a house there one day, on the outskirts, by the canal …”
This young lady was obsessed with domestic life.
I couldn’t claim to know Bruges really well. When I enrolled in a course on Erasmus and His Times given by Professor Busch at the University of Louvaine — I went there two or three times mainly to see the Memlings on show in different places in the city — Marta’s surprise question reminded me of one of the more pleasant memories that exquisite artist, one of the most delightful in the Western tradition, had left me. I also remembered that I had corresponded with Professor Busch and that I’d sent my letters to Bruges where I assumed he lived while researching his studies of Erasmus and Vives, on who he was a renowned specialist.
“I suspect, Mlle Marta,” I said, “that I have a friend in Bruges, a Dr. Busch, the Erasmist …”
I expected Marta to react with indifference to this quite banal item of information, but I saw it had intrigued her.
“But do you really know Dr Busch?” she asked, showing an unusual interest. “Do you really know him?”
“I attended a course of lectures about Erasmus he gave a year ago. I had the opportunity to meet him then. We had the occasional conversation. Then we corresponded. That gentleman was interested in things about Lluís Vives, who was from Valencia, and Valencia, mademoiselle, is a town in my country, you know?”
“That’s strange! You can’t imagine how much I’d like to meet this friend of yours. You say he is an Erasmist? What does it mean to be an Erasmist?”
“It means that he devotes himself to a gentleman who died many years ago, Erasmus, Erasmus Rotorodamus.”
“Bah …! Dr Busch is a big deal …”
“He’s a big deal, you say? What do you mean exactly? Are you hoping to marry him?”
“I don’t mean anything. Dr Busch is a German, a German with a well-concealed toupee.”
“In Belgium he’s thought to be a Belgian.”
“That’s perfectly compatible …”
Marta remained thoughtful, in a state of complete suspension. After a long pause, she suddenly said with a chuckle:
“Why don’t we go to Bruges? If you introduce me to Dr Busch, I promise to show you the city.”
“There’s an express that leaves for Brussels at nine A.M.”
But this train didn’t interest Marta. She chose a much slower one that left an hour earlier, because — so she said — she was looking forward to enjoying the landscape.
We met at the station at the time we’d agreed and took a train as far as Dunkirk. From Calais to Dunkirk the train runs alongside the dunes and sandbanks in the Channel. A desolate, desert landscape: strikingly monotonous and depressing. Then we took another train to Bruges via Diksmuide and Kortemark. It was quite a slow journey — somnolent would be the word. The grayness of the day intensified all that. We saw a large slice of western Flanders — what wonderful countryside!
After Dunkirk the quiet chug-chug of the train seemed to intensify the vibrations from Marta. Lolling back on her seat in the compartment — next to my left arm — her mouth slightly open, both entranced and aroused by the views, nose tilted slightly upwards, legs outstretched and eyes drowsy, she seemed in thrall to the outside world. I could hear her deep, quiet breathing. The train was progressing through Flanders’ fields, and the presence of that rather weary body so close to mine made it feel as if I was putting my ear and cheek to the pale earth and listening to its deep, regular heartbeat.