took him in her arms.
‘My dear,’ she said. ‘My dear.’
She stroked his hair, and there was a long moment of silence. Boris could already see stars circling when Lola began to speak. Her voice sounded unfamiliar in that crimson night.
‘Boris, I’ve got no one but you, I’m alone in the world, you must love me, I can’t think of anyone but you. If I think of my life, I want to throw myself into the river, I have to think of you all day. Don’t be a beast, darling, you must never hurt me, you’re all I have left I’m in your hands, darling, don’t hurt me: don’t ever hurt me — I’m all alone.’
Boris awoke with a start, and surveyed the situation with precision.
‘If you are alone, it’s because you like to be so,’ he said, speaking in a clear voice, ‘it’s because you’re proud. Otherwise you would love an older man than me. I’m too young, I can’t prevent you from being alone. I believe you chose me for that reason.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Lola. ‘I love you to distraction — that’s all I know.’
She flung her arms wildly round him. Boris heard her once more saying, ‘I adore you,’ and then he fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER 3
S UMMER . The air was warm and dank. Mathieu was walking in the middle of the road, under a lucid sky, swinging his arms, and thrusting his way through heavy golden tapestries. Summer. Other people’s summer. For him a black day was beginning, which would move on a slow and tortuous course until the evening, like a funeral procession in the sunshine. An address. Money. He would have to run all over Paris. Sarah could provide the address, Daniel would lend the money. Or Jacques. He had dreamt that he was a murderer, and something of his dream still lurked in the depth of his eyes, crushed beneath the dazzling pressure of the light .16 Rue Delambre, here it was: Sarah lived on the sixth floor, and the lift was of course out of order. Mathieu walked upstairs. Behind closed doors, servants were at their housework, clad in aprons and with dusters knotted round their heads: for them, too, a day had started. What day? Mathieu was slightly out of breath when he rang, and he thought, ‘I ought to do some physical exercises,’ and he also thought with annoyance: ‘I say that to myself every time I walk upstairs.’ He heard a faint patter of footsteps: a short, bald man, with light eyes, opened the door with a smile. Mathieu recognized him, it was a German, a refugee, he had often seen him at the Dôme, ecstatically sipping a cup of café-crême, or brooding over a chessboard, and licking his thick lips.
‘I want to see Sarah,’ said Mathieu.
The little man grew grave, bowed and clicked his heels: he had violet ears.
‘Weymüller,’ said he in a formal tone.
‘Delarue,’ said Mathieu unemotionally.
The little man resumed his genial smile. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said. ‘She’s below, in the studio: she will be delighted.’
He ushered him into the hall and trotted off. Mathieu pushed open the glazed door, and went into Gomez’s studio. On the landing of the inner staircase, he stopped, dazzled by the glare that flooded through the great, dusty skylights: Mathieu blinked, his head began to ache.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Sarah’s voice. Sarah was sitting on the divan, in a yellow kimono, he could see her skull under the thin, stiff hair. Opposite her — a flaming torch: a red-haired brachycephalic...‘It’s Brunet,’ thought Mathieu with annoyance. He had not seen him for six months, but he wasn’t at all pleased to run into him again at Sarah’s. It was embarrassing, they had too much to say to each other, their fading friendship lay between them. Besides, Brunet brought with him an air of out-of-doors, a whole healthy universe, an abrupt and stubborn world of revolt and violence, of manual labour, of patient effort, and of discipline: he would not be interested in the shameful little bedroom secret which Mathieu was about to
‘My dear,’ she said. ‘My dear.’
She stroked his hair, and there was a long moment of silence. Boris could already see stars circling when Lola began to speak. Her voice sounded unfamiliar in that crimson night.
‘Boris, I’ve got no one but you, I’m alone in the world, you must love me, I can’t think of anyone but you. If I think of my life, I want to throw myself into the river, I have to think of you all day. Don’t be a beast, darling, you must never hurt me, you’re all I have left I’m in your hands, darling, don’t hurt me: don’t ever hurt me — I’m all alone.’
Boris awoke with a start, and surveyed the situation with precision.
‘If you are alone, it’s because you like to be so,’ he said, speaking in a clear voice, ‘it’s because you’re proud. Otherwise you would love an older man than me. I’m too young, I can’t prevent you from being alone. I believe you chose me for that reason.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Lola. ‘I love you to distraction — that’s all I know.’
She flung her arms wildly round him. Boris heard her once more saying, ‘I adore you,’ and then he fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER 3
S UMMER . The air was warm and dank. Mathieu was walking in the middle of the road, under a lucid sky, swinging his arms, and thrusting his way through heavy golden tapestries. Summer. Other people’s summer. For him a black day was beginning, which would move on a slow and tortuous course until the evening, like a funeral procession in the sunshine. An address. Money. He would have to run all over Paris. Sarah could provide the address, Daniel would lend the money. Or Jacques. He had dreamt that he was a murderer, and something of his dream still lurked in the depth of his eyes, crushed beneath the dazzling pressure of the light .16 Rue Delambre, here it was: Sarah lived on the sixth floor, and the lift was of course out of order. Mathieu walked upstairs. Behind closed doors, servants were at their housework, clad in aprons and with dusters knotted round their heads: for them, too, a day had started. What day? Mathieu was slightly out of breath when he rang, and he thought, ‘I ought to do some physical exercises,’ and he also thought with annoyance: ‘I say that to myself every time I walk upstairs.’ He heard a faint patter of footsteps: a short, bald man, with light eyes, opened the door with a smile. Mathieu recognized him, it was a German, a refugee, he had often seen him at the Dôme, ecstatically sipping a cup of café-crême, or brooding over a chessboard, and licking his thick lips.
‘I want to see Sarah,’ said Mathieu.
The little man grew grave, bowed and clicked his heels: he had violet ears.
‘Weymüller,’ said he in a formal tone.
‘Delarue,’ said Mathieu unemotionally.
The little man resumed his genial smile. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said. ‘She’s below, in the studio: she will be delighted.’
He ushered him into the hall and trotted off. Mathieu pushed open the glazed door, and went into Gomez’s studio. On the landing of the inner staircase, he stopped, dazzled by the glare that flooded through the great, dusty skylights: Mathieu blinked, his head began to ache.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Sarah’s voice. Sarah was sitting on the divan, in a yellow kimono, he could see her skull under the thin, stiff hair. Opposite her — a flaming torch: a red-haired brachycephalic...‘It’s Brunet,’ thought Mathieu with annoyance. He had not seen him for six months, but he wasn’t at all pleased to run into him again at Sarah’s. It was embarrassing, they had too much to say to each other, their fading friendship lay between them. Besides, Brunet brought with him an air of out-of-doors, a whole healthy universe, an abrupt and stubborn world of revolt and violence, of manual labour, of patient effort, and of discipline: he would not be interested in the shameful little bedroom secret which Mathieu was about to
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