(from Buried Alive)
The night before last I was there, in that small living room. Her mother and her sister were there too. The mother wore a grey dress and the daughters wore red dresses. The furniture, too, was of red velvet. I was resting my elbow on the piano and looking at them. There was silence except for the record player, from which was coming the stirring, sorrowful song of ‘The Volga Boatman’. The wind roared; drops of rain beat against the window. The rain trickled, and with a constant sound blended with the melody of the record. Madeleine sat in front of me, thoughtful and gloomy, with her head leaning on her hand, listening. I looked stealthily at her brown, curly hair, bare arms, lively, childish neck and profile. This mood she was in struck me as being artificial. I thought she should always run, play and joke. I couldn’t imagine that thoughts came to her or that it was possible for her also to be sad. I liked her childish and unrestrained attitude.
This was the third time that I had met her. I was introduced to her first at the seaside, but she had changed a lot since then. She and her sister had been wearing bathing suits. They had been carefree, with cheerful faces. She was childlike, mischievous, with shining eyes. It was near dusk. The waves of the sea, the music from the casino – I remembered everything. Now they wore the reddish purple dresses that were stylish this year, whose long skirts covered them to the ankles. They looked aged, apprehensive and seemed preoccupied with life’s problems.
The record stopped, cutting off the distant, choked tune which was not unlike the waves of the sea. To liven things up, their mother spoke of school and the activities of her daughters. She said that Madeleine was a top student in art. Her sister winked at me. I smiled outwardly and gave short, perfunctory answers to their questions. But my thoughts were elsewhere. I was reviewing from the beginning my acquaintance with them. About two months ago, during the summer vacation just gone by, I had gone to the seaside with one of my friends. It was warm and crowded. We went to Trouville. In front of the railway station we took a bus. Through the forest beside the sea, our bus slipped among hundreds of cars, amid the sound of horns and the smell of oil and gasoline diffused in the air. The bus shook. Sometimes a view of sea appeared beyond the trees.
Finally we got off at one of the stations, Ville Royale. We passed through several alleys lined on each side with walls of stone and mud. We arrived at a small bun-shaped beach which had been built up on a rise by the sea. In the small square opposite the sea, a small casino could be seen. Around it, on the hills, houses and small villas had been built. Lower down, near the water, there was sand, and beyond that there were the waves. There, small children, alone or with their mothers, were busy playing ball or digging in the sand. A handful of men and women in bathing suits were swimming or were running into the water a little way and coming back. Others, on the sand, were sitting or lying in the sun. Old men lounged under striped umbrellas, reading newspapers and furtively watching the women. We, too, went in front of the casino, with our backs to the water, and sat on the long, wide edge of the sea wall. The sun was about to set. The tide was coming in, and the waves pounded on the shore. The sun sparkled on the waves in triangles of light. A big black ship could be seen going through the mist to the port of Le Havre. The air became slightly cool. The people near the water were coming up by and by. At this point my friend got up and shook hands with two girls who had come near us. He introduced me. They came and sat beside us on the high edge of the sea wall. Madeleine, with a large ball in her hand, sat beside me and started to talk as if she had known me for years. Sometimes she would get up and play with the ball in her hands and then she would come and sit beside me again. I’d tease her, grab the ball from her and then give it back to her and our hands would touch. Slowly we pressed each other’s hands. Her hand had a delicate warmth. I glanced furtively at her breasts, her bare legs, her head and neck. I thought to myself how nice it would be to lay my head on her breast and sleep right there by the sea. The sun set and a pale moonlight gave this small, remote beach an intimate, family atmosphere. Suddenly a dance tune sounded from the casino. Madeleine, her hand in mine, started to sing an American dance tune, ‘Mississippi’. I pressed her hand. From a distance the brightness of the lighthouse cast a half circle of light on the water. The roar of the water hitting the shore could be heard. People’s shadows were passing in front of us.
At this point, while these images were passing before my eyes, her mother came and sat at the piano. I moved aside. All at once I saw Madeleine get up like a sleepwalker. She went and searched through the sheet music scattered on the table, separated one piece, took it and put it in front of her mother, and came with a smile to stand near me. Her mother started to play the piano. Madeleine sang softly. It was the same dance tune that I had heard in the Ville Royale – the same ‘Mississippi’.