“That girl is limp and dull,” he told himself. “How could she possibly help me? But she must be twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old. Is she slow-witted? I’m not used to this sort of thing, I’m not used to it at all.”
With her, he sensed, he had a boundless capacity for power and cruelty, which no one had ever let him glimpse before.
In his room he found a young man pacing back and forth from the bed to the armoire, who let out an infuriated little sigh when Herman came in. Suddenly tired, Herman fell onto the chair. He kept his back to the window, but through the rain he’d had time to see the watchful, smiling face of the old woman across the way, now so firmly pressed to the glass that her nose was misshapen. With a weary, distracted ear, he heard the young man eagerly introduce himself, standing before him, legs spread as if he feared Herman might try to flee. Who was he? Well, he was Gilbert, Charlotte’s younger brother, the one who, as perhaps Herman already knew, played tennis every week with the district councilor, being the only inhabitant of the village—Gilbert that is—who knew how to hold a racket, that’s why he and no one else had the good fortune to head off every Saturday to L., thirty kilometers away, where his tennis partner lived, for a friendly two-hour contest, summer and winter alike, for which—for that purpose alone, which must show Herman what kind of hope people here placed in his connections—his parents, the owners of the Relais, had bought him a car, a bright-red little 205 turbo, so he could get to L. on his own after the district councilor, Lemaître, his tennis partner, had offered to come from L. every Saturday and pick him up, so intent was he on having Gilbert for his weekly tennis match. Did he, Herman, play tennis? When he was a teenager, not since. And at the moment he was literally exhausted; he was broken. Gilbert knew Herman was a Parisian—which, to tell the truth, was the real reason for his visit, so Herman could tell him a little more about that, because Gilbert had every reason to be extremely interested.
Vexed, Herman put a finger to his lips.
“Let’s forget I’m a Parisian,” he whispered. “For the moment I’m not one, and I can’t say when I’ll ever see Paris again.”
“Oh, no, I’m not going to forget that!” Gilbert cried.
And immediately his brow darkened, he looked almost cruel. He was a tall young man with a handsome, hard face, as single-minded, determined, and high-strung as Charlotte seemed tranquil and complacent. Although he grated on Herman’s nerves, the sort of blinkered resolve that clenched his jaw amused and attracted him. So what did Gilbert want? Nothing, besides making Herman’s acquaintance, now that they were neighbors. Because Gilbert lived in room thirteen—he gently knocked on the wall over the head of the bed—just through there. At the same time he was very eager, once Herman could find the time to invite him in for a while (but, mused an anxious Herman, could he dare refuse to give a young man as manifestly impulsive as this all the time he might want?), to get Herman’s advice and expertise on the possibilities that he, Gilbert, might have of finding a well-paid job in Paris, something in high-power business.
“Please, stop talking about Paris,” said Herman softly, turning toward the window in spite of himself.
“Yes, yes, I know, your problem, your case!”
Gilbert gave a broad wave of disdain. Yes, he’d heard about it, what was the big deal? If something’s meant to be found it turns up, if it’s meant to be lost and forgotten no one will ever lay eyes on it again. So all Herman had to do was find out which of those his problem was, and then he’d understand, and there was no point in tormenting himself or trying to outsmart people.
Herman frowned and crossed his arms, but he was too tired to answer. Then Gilbert’s face and manner abruptly changed. He smiled, put on a genial air and slightly flexed his knees, bending his upper body toward Herman, charmingly casual. A thick lock of fine, almost white hair slipped over his forehead. In a much gentler voice he told Herman he was going to organize a four-man tennis match, and Herman would be his partner against Lemaître and someone from L., no doubt a friend of Lemaître’s—they’d have to see about that. It would be an interesting thing to do from many points of view.
Herman protested that he hadn’t played in years. And the thought of a tennis match, however improbable the prospect, made him even more tired than before. There was nothing appealing about Gilbert—but how very flattering and captivating he could be… It was all because of this place’s tradition of profound graciousness, because otherwise he was hardly even civil. He gave Herman the impression of a crude, menacing innocence, and he found it strangely agreeable not to resist him, although it wasn’t long ago at all that he would have serenely scorned these naïve attempts to charm him or maybe wouldn’t even have noticed them, wouldn’t have seen them or felt them.
“I went to Paris once,” said Gilbert, “but I didn’t have the money to stick around.”
He confided to Herman that he was counting on the district councilor, Lemaître, to give him a boost toward a comfortable, reasonably plush existence in Paris. Now he was counting on Herman too. Did Herman doubt the two of them could be friends? With a smile, Gilbert assured him he knew just how to go about winning Herman over.
“Yes, we’ll see,” murmured Herman, on the point of falling asleep on his chair.
He thought he could feel Gilbert bending his pale, hairless face even closer, friendly, interested, aquiver with the little calculations and ruses churning in his mind, and now intent on Herman with a persistence that—Herman thought, half-dreaming—would soon surely turn tiresome. He had to try to get back to Paris before anyone asked him for help he didn’t want to give, even as he was depending on everyone’s help to solve his problem. So from here on out he would have to be careful not to cross anyone.
4 – He must have slept soundly for three or four hours, because he woke up in the dark. From his pitch-black room, he saw the window across the way blazing with light, but with no sign of the face. Even as he was feeling a rush of relief, the woman reappeared, as if she’d made out that Herman was up now. She smiled at him broadly, which gave her rumpled features a certain elegant beauty, then nodded, pleased to see Herman again, relaxed and open-hearted. Then she put her forehead to the windowpane and stayed perfectly still. Slightly nettled, he wondered what had made her suspect he was awake and watching for her. What else could he conclude but that she’d felt it? He didn’t dare close the curtain, out of consideration for her feelings. Not to mention that he feared any failure to observe the ways of the village, and the danger of her spreading it around that he’d just moved in and was already hiding.
He left the room; it was six o’clock. In the silent hotel, heading downstairs to the lobby, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being spied on from every conceivable corner, but, he realized, he was growing used to the idea that he was never alone, no matter how it might seem, and even beginning to find, alongside his tenacious but fading resentment, a timid sort of pleasure in it.
Now he was outside, on the main street, his umbrella unfurled.
“How shameful,” he told himself, “sleeping all afternoon instead of looking for Rose while it was light.”