It was dark when they reached the house. They pushed the gate; it creaked as it swung open. They crossed the garden slowly so as not to run into the trees. A cat slipped between their legs, frightening the woman, making her heart pound. A wave of heat rose from her throat to her forehead.
“Let’s go,” she said, tugging at her husband’s jacket.
“Leave me alone.”
They reached the massive wooden door with two lion heads for knockers. They pushed. The door didn’t give. Again, using their shoulders, they pushed as hard as they could. The door shook but didn’t open.
“The wood’s swollen, but we’ll get in. You’ll see.”
“I help.”
They gave a start. Behind them a shadow was leaning over, wanting to be helpful. The man commenced shoving the door with his shoulder. Hard. All at once the door opened, and they almost fell inside.
“Me too enter. Legs no good. Tired, tired.”
Roca lit a match and the man’s teeth and black eyes shone in the flame.
“Look for the switch.”
“There’s no electricity.”
A dank sickening odor of garbage, smoke, humidity, and putrid food hit them. The match went out and Roca lit another. On the table stood a plate of rotten meat and a few empty bottles of what had been good wine. The large room must have been the dining room. On the ledge above the fireplace a row of copper pots cast a dark gleam. Beside a glass tube with a pansy was a photograph of a young couple. He was wearing the uniform of a French officer, she a white dress. She was holding a bouquet of little flowers.
“Hungry, go look for something good.”
When they were alone, the woman grabbed her husband’s arm anxiously.
“It’s the Negro from Artenay.”
“I’m scared.”
“He looks like a good man. Want to go upstairs and see what we find?”
“And if we run into him on the stairs?”
“Stop worrying. Come on.”
They went upstairs. You could see all of Orléans ablaze, as if the furious fire had waited for night before igniting. The light from the flames flooded the room. They could move from one room to another without needing matches. In a small room, beside a bed covered with a crocheted spread, was a shiny, sticky area.
“Someone spent the night here and vomited.”
There were two more very large rooms, connected to the smaller one through a barely visible door that had been wallpapered over to look the same as the wall.
“Can you hear that? It’s a dueclass="underline" artillery. They’ll never stop. It’s getting louder and louder.”
“And the Negro?”
“He probably got lost.”
“I hope so.”
“Wonder what he’s carrying in that suitcase. When he went to get us a bottle of wine in Artenay, did you notice he didn’t want to leave it?”
“He was right. What if he had to hide during the bombing?”
Neither the main door nor the bedroom doors had locks. They stretched out on the bed. The legs of the bed were broken and the mattress dipped.
“Do you really think we’ll get some rest here?”
“I’d be able to sleep on a bed of brambles. You’ll see.”
“Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“Planes. Listen. They’re really close. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t sound like canons.”
The red glow enveloped Orléans like a throbbing halo licking the sky. At short intervals a tongue of fire circled into the air, straightened up like a sword above the roofs, then disappeared mysteriously into the heart of the immense forge. Soon after, another appeared, higher and brighter.
“The planes are dropping bombs.”
The house shook and the open window banged shut. You could hear the sound of breaking glass.
“Cover your face, cover it!”
He stretched his hand out, feeling for the floor. Bits of glass lay all around the bed. The artillery battle continued, without stop.
“I’m dying of hunger. Not found anything.”
They hadn’t heard him enter. The Negro was standing at the foot of the bed, looking like an abandoned ghost. The metal locks on his suitcase gleamed in the bright flames, casting fleeting green and red reflections.
“Don’t think any more about food. Just go to sleep.”
“I don’t want to think, but—” he dropped the suitcase on the ground with a loud metallic sound and leaned down to pick it up. “But hand scraped, not let me sleep.” He sat down at the foot of the bed, causing the wood to creak. “My name is Wilson. When little, picked cotton in America, poor parents, servant rich folks. Was alone in Paris when war lost, bosses on summer holiday.”
“You’ll find a bed in the next room.”
“Feel lonely, very scared. Can I sleep near you, on the floor near you?”
The night seemed drunk with stars, sound, and fire. A never-ending stream of people and wagons passed the house.
“I drag cabinet from dining room, place behind front door. Nobody comes in to bother.”
It was hot, not a leaf moved in the garden. The Negro stood before them, between the bed and the window. They looked at him, and the Negro returned their look. Suddenly a breath of air made a branch from a linden tree dance across the wall.
“You might die there, if you keep standing.”
“Wilson want to sleep near you.”
“Do whatever you please, but shut up.”
He lay down on the floor, right by the bed, hugging his suitcase. Roca ran his hand through the space between the mattress and the bedpost and discovered a bottle. He smelled it: wine that was slightly off. He waited a long while, until the Negro was asleep. When he thought the man was no longer in this world, he drank slowly and silently, then handed the bottle to his wife. The blasts sounded as if they had calmed somewhat. He was falling asleep when his wife leaned over and whispered in his ear:
“See if he has the suitcase.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe he’s carrying jewels.”
“Go to sleep.”
“I’m wide awake. I can’t stop thinking about this man. We don’t know who he is or where he’s from. Do you hear me?”
“If you were as tired as me, you wouldn’t be talking nonsense. Go to sleep.”
•
He suddenly jumped straight up, screaming and running from one side of the room to the other.
“What is it, what’s the matter?”
“Maybe we should have just thrown him out the window.”
“Shut up. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, oh, there’s rats. House full of rats, bring bad luck. Run over face, slowly, over face, like Wilson was dead and worms begin to eat. Eat cheek, eat nose, eat strength, rats.” He was standing in the center of the room, moaning, his body swaying from side to side as he made a low squeal, like the lament of a night animal. “I like quiet, very quiet. Noise terrible. Want to return to America.”
THE THOUSAND FRANC BILL
”I’m fed up with being poor.”
She put on her old, worn-out coat and opened the door with a jerk. At the other end of the landing her neighbor was in the midst of waxing the parquet floor at the entrance to her apartment. It was too late when she realized: the woman had already seen her.
“You look really lovely. You’re even wearing eye makeup.” Still on her knees, the woman straightened up and looked at her in amazement, “And you’ve curled your hair. If I had your hair. . Will you be long?”