Henri Duchemin and His Shadows Page 4

  Henri Duchemin removed his overcoat, smoothed his hair, and furtively threw the cotton from his ears under a chair.

  As he was wiping off his cutlery, he gazed around him. People envied him. Surely they thought that the woman with him was his mistress.

  “Do you love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you swear it?”

  “Yes.”

  Customers came and went. The electric light bulbs were reflected high up in the mirrors. Outside, groups walked by, singing. The squeaking of a balloon could be heard now and again in the room.

  The young woman opened and closed her mouth, as if she were tasting something.

  Henri Duchemin was thinking about the future. Yes, his heart would no longer race whenever someone knocked on his door. He would take care of his health. It’s wonderful to do so when you feel well. He would go to the dentist; he’d had a toothache for a long time. Gone was that awful sense that each day the pain, which could be cured if only one had the money, would continue to grow more acute.

  “Listen. Let’s go away, away.”

  “Where?”

  “Abroad.”

  The meal finished, Henri Duchemin felt better. He lit a cigar. The young woman’s eyes were closed. He looked at her more easily. Only the air passing between her lips proved this face was alive.

  “Let’s go.”

  She gave a start, then let her dull gaze flit from table to table.

  “Your hat, Monsieur?” asked the waiter.

  “No, no, I don’t have one.”

  This incident upset Henri Duchemin. To hide his distress, he opened his overcoat, which he had just closed.

  “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

  A group of people passing by forced him off the sidewalk. He turned back and, in a voice he thought sounded like that of every man, he swore at them. He was sure of himself. No one could have managed to intimidate him, not even a policeman.

  Despite the crowd, they arrived quickly at the young woman’s hotel. Shoulder against the wall, she went in first, opened the glass door of an office half way, and took her key.

  A maid was making up her room. When the couple arrived, she withdrew.

  Expressing his surprise that people were compelled to work at night, Henri Duchemin went in. The curtain around the dressing table was drawn back. He saw a blue pitcher and basin. There were photographs on the mirror. Pollen from a branch of mimosa mixed with ashes from the fireplace.

  “Are you tired?” he asked her.

  “I don’t feel comfortable.”

  “Do you need a bit of air?”

  “Yes, open the window.”

  Henri Duchemin opened the window. A house so close that you could reach out and touch it got lost in the dark night.

  “How are you feeling now?”

  “I’m cold.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A little while ago you did.”

  “Too bad.”

  She took off her skirt, stepped over it, and began to wash. Half undressed as she was, her torso seemed too long.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  He went over to her and tried to take her by the waist.

  “Leave me alone.”

  She splashed him. Taken by surprise, he let her go. His lips were dry. A drop of water rolled down his nose.

  “You don’t love me?”

  “Leave me alone or I’ll scream.”

  “No, don’t scream, don’t scream. I’ll go.”

  “Go then.”

  He opened the door. The sound of his footsteps filled the corridor as if he were a giant. He raced down the stairs, imagining he was falling with each step, for he did not have the time or the strength to move his legs.

  * * *

  When he got to the street, he walked away with long strides. The lights from the stores bothered him. He passed in front of a cinema and saw a poster. It was of the heroine of a film. She was crying. The candor on this face awakened a need for love in Henri Duchemin that made him cry along with her.

  The farther he got from this neighborhood, the more numerous the streetlamps seemed, the wider the sidewalks, the bigger the windows.

  Henri Duchemin was walking along the slatted wall of a cemetery when he noticed someone in front of him. He picked up his pace. Soon he was next to an old man. The sleeves of his too-long overcoat hid his hands.

  “It’s bitter cold,” said Henri Duchemin.

  The stranger’s white beard inspired trust. Henri Duchemin was afraid of being alone with himself. Talking with this old man until morning would make the time pass.

  “Indeed it is.”

  “You’re on your way home, I assume?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a moment of silence. The two men walked side by side. Henri Duchemin would have wanted to walk faster, but he did not.

  “And you, young man, where are you going?”

  “I’ll be leaving at dawn.”

  “What’s your job?”

  “I’m an office worker.”

  A few black crosses rose above the wall. Farther on, behind the cemetery, were new houses.

  “Perhaps you don’t have a place to sleep?” said the old man.

  “I don’t.”

  “Come home with me. It will be warmer. I don’t live far from here.”

  The two men ventured down a dark street. From time to time they passed beneath an archway. It began to grow lighter. The moon was gone. It had not waited for the sun in order to disappear.

  At last they entered a detached house whose sides had been battered by the wind.

  There was no light to guide their steps; they groped their way up the stairs. At each landing, afraid of bumping into each other, they raised their feet one too many times. Above their heads, the woodwork presented a reverse image of the stairs. Drafts blew the doors shut noisily.

  “Wait a moment. I have to find my key.”

  A few seconds later, the two men entered a hovel. The old man lit a candle. A newspaper covered the table. Henri Duchemin sat down in an armchair no sturdier than the one in his room.

  When the old man took off his overcoat, he appeared in a worn morning coat with a pocket in each of its distinct tails. Now, with an old man’s clipped movements, he paced back and forth, he bent down. Before lighting the fire, he had to pull the grate on the stove several times. The cloud of ash that rose settled on his shoes, turning them white.

  Old clothes hung on nails fanned out near the floor. There was very little air in the garret. A doily lined a shelf. On the shelf, a fork, salt, a tin. Everywhere, broken, ravaged furniture, the kind found in handcarts.

  The fire blazed. It could be seen through the stove’s bands. The old man was straightening things up. From time to time he stopped to ask Henri Duchemin if he were cold. Or else he would bring his hand close to the dormer window to make sure no air was seeping in.

  At last he sat down. His face was lit by the candle flame. He sat straight on his stool, legs next to each other, hands clasped.

  The circle of smoke the candle made on the ceiling moved ceaselessly. The only sound was the crackling of the wood. A gentle warmth pervaded the garret. Drops fell from the ceiling like diluted ink.

  The old man poured some ashes on the fire. It seemed to go out. Thick smoke came out of the ill-fitted pipe. Then, all of a sudden, the fire blazed again.

  Henri Duchemin noticed with joy a pale dawn through the dormer window. He had a feeling that all was for the best. More than anything else, he must not think, because it might make him sad, which would be ridiculous just when day was dawning.

  He really had deserved an easier life. He had suffered his share. Now, he was able to see that the world was well designed. Aren’t both happy and unhappy people necessary?

  He looked at the pained face of the old man.

  “You are unhappy!” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “You haven’t been lucky
!”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Now, you know, it’s too late. I don’t know what I’d do if I were you.”

  “What can I say? A person can get used to anything. I’m not as unhappy as I seem,” the old man answered.

  “You’re not unhappy?”

  “No, nor happy.”

  “Well I, I am happy. I can do anything I want. I won’t be made fun of any longer. I’m going abroad in a little while. And I have a lot of money on me. One would never know it.”

  “No.”

  “You see. One can be wrong. I have a lot more money that you realize.”

  “Yes, but you murdered someone.”

  Henri Duchemin grew pale. It seemed that all the blood in his body was draining out through a hole. He looked at his hands. They were open. He had never looked at them when he was suffering.

  The old man spoke. He said: “I obey the voice of the heavens. It tells me to stay poor. It tells me of the joy that comes from the love of God.”

  A pale light was falling from the dormer window. The stains on the wall circled the entire garret.

  The old man was praying. He swayed as if his stool were resting on a cloud.

  Henri Duchemin stammered:

  “What will become of me? What will become of me? I am lost, I’ve killed, I’ve killed.”

  The old man raised his eyes.

  “In order to redeem yourself, you must suffer.”

  The sky was still growing lighter. The stars were disappearing one by one. Suddenly an infinite elation entered Henri Duchemin’s soul. A beatific vision replaced the sordid walls that surrounded him. Slowly, in the light of day, the old man, standing with one hand raised, began to move away. A myriad of stars flashed like diamonds. Dazzled, Henri Duchemin was walking along the paths of paradise. Everywhere were baskets of flowers, gilded vases, and angels flying upside down.

  “Yes, I have killed, but I shall suffer, suffer my entire life. I shall redeem myself. I shall be forgiven. I will do everything. I’ll endure anything to be forgiven. Oh, to be forgiven! I shall be so happy. I shall suffer, suffer, my entire life.”

  But like a flock of birds, the angels flew off together toward a corner of the sky.

  Henri Duchemin followed them with his eyes. He saw them growing ever smaller. Then, he turned his gaze toward the vases: they were no longer gilded.

  He opened his eyes wide to see better. He awoke.

  Henri Duchemin got up. The cold had chilled his body to the bone. Now he recognized the wallpaper and the sideboard to which he did not have the key. The light of dawn was coming through the curtains. The marble fireplace, the two chairs, the bed had never seemed so still.

  Henri Duchemin picked up his hat and went out. For the first time, he saw flowerpots in the concierge’s window.

  The street was empty. A frightening calm fell from the starless sky. With a few flaps of its wings, a bird slowly crossed the empty space.

  Henri Duchemin walked straight ahead. On the horizon, wisps of smoke stood motionless against the gray sky. It was Christmas Day.

  He vaguely remembered his dream. He recalled an old man who had said that in order to redeem oneself, one must suffer. But that did not concern him, for he had never done anyone any harm.

  ANOTHER FRIEND

  I prefer English gardens to French gardens. It’s not that order and harmony are distasteful to me, nor that the imitation of nature delights me. I simply like not knowing exactly where I am. English gardens are mysterious with their waterfalls and secret alleyways. Though you quickly end up where you began, for a few moments you have the wonderful illusion of being lost. Most of all, you don’t have to walk across vast open spaces where so many people look at you.

  One hot August day I was strolling in the Parc Montsouris. Although it was noon, the sun was not in the middle of the sky. I could see it without moving my head, simply by raising my eyes.

  The morning hours are the finest in the whole day. All those evening thoughts—too ambitious or too modest—have vanished. Night has made me a new being.

  For me, the joys of the day never last beyond noon. That day, however, I was happy. I listened to the singing of the birds. I did not understand how some people could find it so appealing. Nothing in this chirping brought me any solace.

  I was walking very slowly down a shaded alleyway looking for an isolated bench as close to the center of the park as possible, so that all around me an equal expanse of trees and lawn would separate me from the city.

  The sky was blue. The air shimmered in the sunlight. A few insects that did not need to fear other, stronger insects hopped about on the grass. The intense, buzzing life of the fields and woods did not burst forth from this sheltered environment. The ground on which I walked reverberated. It did not absorb my footsteps the way country soil does.

  I like giving bread to the birds. I do it because it’s a sign of a charitable soul. I’m even more commendable in that nothing attracts me to them. Like most people, I am fond of their grace and independence, but not to the extent that I find contentment throwing them crumbs.

  As soon as I had located the bench I was looking for, I removed from my pocket the piece of bread I’d brought with me.

  There were already a dozen or so birds around me when I noticed, a few yards away, a man watching me. I will not say, as some people would, that I felt him looking at me. That would be a lie. Yet I am sure that a woman in my position, seeing this stranger as I saw him then, that is, out of the corner of my eye without turning my head, would certainly have sworn she felt this gaze weighing on her.

  Still, I continued tossing crumbs. I tossed them as close to me as possible. It’s always very satisfying to see birds come close. The trust they show in us enchants us and, although we know they would trust anyone, we want to believe they have gleaned our good intentions.

  The stranger was still looking at me, and so I spoke to the birds. I even gave them nicknames. I wanted one of them to come take a crumb from my fingertips, which would have made it seem that those birds knew me, and that I often came to the park. Sadly, none of them did.

  And as interested as I appeared to be in what I was doing, I didn’t stop thinking about the man watching me. He must have been saying to himself: “Some people are odd. Here is a poor wretch sharing the little he has with the birds. If nothing else, he must have a big heart. I’ve never seen a poor man do this.”

  Surely he was telling himself this. I was conscious of my generosity. Since I had only a tiny piece of bread left, I divided it into crumbs. The stranger took a few steps toward me. The birds flew away. I turned to him humbly, my expression reproachful.

  “Don’t be angry with me, monsieur,” he said gently. “The birds will return.”

  Only then did I dare observe the stranger closely. He was an elderly man of average height, well-dressed. He had on pince-nez and those rubber boots that can be worn on either foot. He was looking at me with so much kindness that for a moment his pince-nez seemed to mist over.

  “Do you come here often?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  For the first time in my life I was not embarrassed to meet someone. I was in such a perfect position to be liked that I could speak to anyone without being afraid.

  “You must be fond of animals?”

  “Very.”

  I stood up, and without really thinking, simply to give myself something to do, I threw the bread in the grass where the birds had been.

  “You’re a good soul,” he said after a moment of silence.

  I did not answer. And yet these were not words that should have remained between two silences. No one ever complimented me before. No one ever said to me what other people hear so frequently. These fine words filled me with joy. I even felt I could have cried had I wanted to.

  I continued to throw smaller and smaller crumbs. This stranger surely was very sensitive. He was embarrassed. When I looked at him, I had just enough time to see his eyes, for he lowered his h
ead at almost the same moment.

  “You know,” he said, pointing to the birds so I would not look at him, “they’ll come back.”

  “But I don’t have any more bread.”

  Now I have to confess something. When I said “But I don’t have any more bread,” there was a spiteful tone to my voice. We all have our weaknesses. No one is perfect. I said “But I don’t have any more bread” as if I were criticizing him for not having any, as if he should have foreseen I would run out, as if I wanted him to buy me some so I could go on giving it to the birds.

  Fortunately, I am intelligent. Right away I understood what was petty in my attitude and I made up for it by saying in a natural voice:

  “The birds have had enough for today.”

  “Do you think so?”

  The stranger was so kind he had not even noticed my little outburst.

  We moved away. He was walking slowly, at his own pace. I matched my step to his. From time to time, he stopped to look at the sky.

  “What a day!”

  An immense joy filled me. I could tell that this stranger had a great love of simple things. He took interest in a thousand little trifles. He was, then, a man like me. Someone who does not know me well could think at first that I am hard to please and that this is why I am unhappy. No, all I ask for is a little friendship. I know the sign of great wisdom is not asking men to give what they cannot. One must take men as they are. I know this. I am wise. I ask only to take them as they are. But even this is denied me.

  I walked next to the stranger with cautious steps, prepared to speed up or slow down, like those girls who proposition passersby.

  I could hear each and every noise. The garden was almost deserted. Sometimes, across a lawn, we could see someone going by.

  The stranger walked with his head bowed. I watched him. We didn’t know where we were going.

  On a bench, a poor man was eating a bit of bread with a slice of meat. One always wonders, where do people who eat outside sleep? The stranger looked at him with pity. Oh! Don’t think I was jealous. Not at all; it was a great joy for me to see that, in spite of everything, there were men on earth who felt compassion for the wretchedness of others. No, I was not jealous. I am not jealous of actual beggars, of people whose poverty does not surprise them, who desire nothing and don’t notice when someone feels sorry for them. The man eating on his bench was not a schemer. He did not even exchange a look of complicity with the stranger. He was truly a poor man, the sort of poor man I like.