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  The same hand swung in the opposite direction. Theresa staggered under the blow. He wanted to catch her, but—almost against his will—his fist hit her shoulder. She fell. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. He couldn’t stand the clear, cold look she was giving him, but a strange new pleasure had gotten hold of him. He kicked her, with his bare foot. Theresa moaned, rolled over and turned her stomach toward him. Deliberately. He lost his head, and drove in his foot with all his strength.

  He didn’t stop until he ran out of energy, suddenly ashamed, covering his face with his hand so he wouldn’t have to see that little naked body, curled up on the floor—that bruised face, those dark, cold, understanding eyes. He gritted his teeth, turned his back.

  “There’s a bit of a lesson for you…”

  She didn’t answer. The boy wasn’t a monster. His heart turned inside him. Without a word, he picked Theresa up and carried her to the bed. She lay there without moving, her eyes riveted on him.

  “It’s their fault,” he breathed. “Those bastards. Down there. With their Jaguar.”

  He turned toward the foreigners in the trailer, wherever they were, and shouted, shaking his fist:

  “Bastards! Sons of Bitches!”

  That made him feel better. He nearly had his dignity back, as he told her:

  “I know what I’ve got to do. You’ll have your loot, don’t cry.”

  Then he turned his back on Theresa and went to brood at the window.

  “Goddam loot!”

  Chapter XII

  Pedro was going through the motions of reading the paper, keeping an eye on his wife over the edge. She was still. Motionless. Speechless. Yet, every time he glanced back at the paper, he felt Germaine’s eyes boring through him.

  How could he get the gun away from her without setting her off again? He couldn’t knock her down, could he? And he couldn’t predict her reaction to anything any more.

  “Want to look at the paper?” he said, trying to get a conversation going.

  He laid the paper on the table and took up the plastic coffee pot.

  “How about a spot of coffee?”

  Smiling, he had to pour a new cup for himself, instead.

  “It’s funny, we’re getting more like the Yanquis all the time. It says here that down at home the prostitutes are asking for private phones. Want to be ‘call girls,’ just like in New York.”

  He laughed and got no response. Then Germaine raised her head and burst out laughing, too. And kept on laughing. It was frightening; she kept right on. His jaw tightened. He had to do something. He jumped up, came around the table and slapped Germaine. She stopped. Her shoulders slumped. She sighed deeply, and fell back into her stupor. He dropped to his knees beside her, hiding his face in her skirt, crying like a child. Absent-mindedly, staring into nothing, she caressed his neck.

  “I’m going for a walk,” Fred said. “You coming?”

  Theresa shook her head. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him. He shrugged.

  “All right, go see if the coast is clear. Try to help me out once in a while, will you—instead of just sitting around all the time. You know I can’t be seen here …”

  Without a word, she got up and put on the raincoat. No one in the hallway. She went halfway down the stairs, listening. Two voices, Mathilde’s and Charles’, came floating up from the kitchen. She waved to Fred; all clear. He came straight down.

  Night was falling. Germaine’s hand on his neck was stilled; Pedro raised his eyes. Germaine seemed to be asleep. He kissed her hand, softly, and picked her up in his arms. She let him carry her, holding her bag tightly to her. As he walked toward the trailer, she murmured:

  “That’s how you used to carry me, Pedro”

  She snuggled against his chest.

  “Oh, I feel good …”

  He carried her inside, slamming the door behind him with his foot. He laid her gently down on the bed and sat down next to her.

  “Better, darling?”

  Her eyelids narrowed. The last light of the evening, coming through the window, glanced off a single tear in the corner of her eye. He leaned over to kiss it away. She held him there. He stretched out beside her. And they stayed like that, without moving, on the narrow little bed. Pedro tried to remember how different things had been long ago. No, not as long as all that, Six, seven months ago? Before the baby died. Before Germaine’s “accident”.… Forget about that. Here, for a moment, he could rest.

  A harsh light broke in on them. The roar of a motor seemed to make the walls shake. A rush of air swept around the trailer, and the car passed, leaving them in the dark again. Pedro sat up.

  “I know you’re in love with another woman,” Germaine said hoarsely.

  “What?”

  He let it pass. He reached for the light-switch and flipped it on. Germaine covered her eyes with her hand to keep out the light, staring at him from underneath it.

  “Remember what you used to say? Women who sleep alone are like fireplaces without a fire.”

  He understood. But he couldn’t answer her. Germaine wasn’t a woman any more, not to him. He loved her, but things had changed; he couldn’t prove his love to her in the usual way. He turned, so she wouldn’t see it in his face.

  “You’ve got nothing to say?” she said in the same hoarse voice.

  He turned back to her, and took her hands.

  “Germaine, you’re the only one I’ve ever loved … I swear it.”

  She pulled her hands back, her face darkening; she wanted to say something that could cut him to ribbons. She couldn’t think what. She reached down for her bag instead and opened it, shaking. Pedro turned pale. He’d forgotten. He’d been so busy trying to calm her, he’d lost his best chance to get hold of the gun. So that’s that, he thought, she’ll pull out the gun and …

  “Germaine,” he cried, “you believe me, don’t you?”

  He held his breath; she kept hunting around in her bag. Then she pulled out a handkerchief and started to wipe her eyes.

  It was too much for him, he had to sit down.

  “I believe you, Pedro.”

  Now what? He couldn’t keep track of her. She was smiling, carefully powdering her face

  “I believe you as far as the past is concerned,” she added, taking up her lipstick.

  She dabbed at her lips, pressed them together, looked into her vanity mirror and then, furious without warning, threw powder and lipstick into her bag, shouting:

  “But as far as the present and the future goes, you’re a liar! I know everything!”

  She reached into her bag again. This time, Pedro didn’t hesitate. He lunged for her. They struggled.

  “Let me go! I’m through with you! I forbid you …”

  She was fighting with all her might. He tried to pin her arms back, he was suddenly afraid to die. His elbows hit the light-switch. They kept on wrestling in the dark, they no longer knew why. Suddenly his fingers touched the leather of the bag and he remembered why. But Germaine had already managed to break away, snap the lights on, back off from him; her hair was hanging down, she was panting, her face was tight and her hand was in her bag.

  “You’re not going to get away with it!” she spat out. “I know why we came back to France. I know damn well why. You want to get rid of me so you can run off with your new girl friend. But I won’t play, you hear me? I’d rather …”

  Pedro didn’t move. He looked at her hopelessly, resignedly. “Finish what you were saying,” he mumbled wearily. Dying was all he wanted by now. What was the point of knocking yourself out to stay alive? When you’d already lost everything that meant anything to you?

  Slowly, she brought her hand up out of the bag. Her face was glowing, she was enjoying herself. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t fight it any more. Let her shoot and get it over with.

  “And what about this?” Germaine shouted. “D’you deny this, too?”

  He opened his eyes. And recognized t
he letter she was waving. The answer from his in-laws. She must have found it in his pocket last night.

  She unfolded the sheet, and read it aloud:

  “‘… poor Pedro, you must feel awful …’ What’d you write them? You certainly put it over on them, whatever it was; you must feel awful, but how I feel doesn’t seem to count.… Here, listen to this: ‘Of course you are right. She will be less unhappy here, near us, in the south of her childhood, near her family … We’ll put her away at Dr. Frazelle’s at le Canet …’”

  She crushed the letter and threw it his face.

  “We’ll put her away.… So you want me put away, that’s it, isn’t it, so you can go back and take up with your new girl friend. You don’t care what you do to get rid of me, you can’t stand me. You’ll even say I’m crazy.”

  Pedro put his face in his hands. He was played out. He couldn’t tell what she’d say or do next, and he couldn’t help her condition. Germaine threw herself into his arms, suddenly sobbing.

  “It’s not true, Pedro, it’s not true that I’m crazy. Tell me it’s not true! You’re all I’ve got in the world, Pedro!”

  “No, darling, you’re not crazy and I’m not in love with anyone else.”

  “Then don’t take me down south, please, please!”

  “Would you like to stay here, tonight? We’ll sleep in the trailer, like the two lovers we are, and, tomorrow, we’ll decide what to do.…”

  “Yes … yes.… You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  She wept, sitting on the floor, leaning against his legs. Hope returned to Pedro. So did his instinct for self-preservation. He saw the bag on the floor, beside his wife. He picked it up without moving his leg and slid it behind his back.

  “If you think I’m crazy,” she said, “why …”

  He interrupted her.

  “I don’t think you’re crazy, Germaine. You’ve had a terrible shock, and you’ve got to take care of yourself, lead a regular life, recover so we can be happy again.”

  “Then why did they say ‘put me away’?”

  “Just a bad choice of words, darling.”

  She was quiet for a second. Then:

  “Then why didn’t you ‘put me away’ in Brazil, near you? Why the trailer, why the business about the vacation?”

  “Because I wanted you to see your family again, you know you love them. I wanted you to see the place where you grew up. I know you never really liked Brazil much. You missed France, didn’t you? And then, we’d talked about camping out here for a vacation so often, I thought …”

  He thought he saw a face at the window, just now. He jumped up, opening the door. Running steps sounded on the highway. A shadow vanished into the trees.

  “What d’you think you’re doing?” Pedro shouted. “Hoodlum!”

  Fred turned red.

  “Hoodlum yourself, you dirty greaseball!” he muttered.

  He saw the foreigner close the door. Fred moved off in the direction of the inn, kicking every clod and stone along the way.

  “What’re you up to now?” Pedro asked.

  Germaine had opened the wall cupboard and taken out the blankets. She rolled them up under her arm.

  “Darling, don’t be angry. I’m perfectly all right, and I believe everything you say. But I wouldn’t be able to sleep in here …”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m going to sleep outside, in the woods. I couldn’t relax here.”

  “But why not?”

  She shook her head impatiently.

  “I couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t start driving south while I was asleep.”

  He didn’t want to argue.

  “All right, know what we’ll do? Give me the blankets; I’ll sleep in the woods.”

  Germaine laughed aloud.

  “No, Pedro, I’m not that crazy.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “All you’ve got to do is lock the door while I’m asleep; then you get in the car and head south.”

  She kissed the tip of his nose, said goodnight at the door, and jumped down.

  “Pleasant dreams, Pedro darling.…”

  He followed her a moment with his eyes. She’ll get scared in the dark, under the trees, he thought to himself, and she’ll come back. But his wife’s shadow disappeared among the branches. Her flashlight glittered here and there, as if she were looking for a likely corner, then disappeared too. He sighed and stretched himself on the bed. He reached out his hand for her bag. Good. She’d forgotten all about it.

  Fred reached the inn completely out of breath. From the garden, he could see the couple getting dinner ready in the kitchen. He pushed the door open and ran through the lobby to the stairs.

  Mathilde slammed the casserole on the stove.

  “You can say what you like, Charles. But I’ve had about enough of your ‘Monsieur’ Courtois. Did you hear him? Slamming around like that. What’s the matter with his face, that he can’t let you see it?”

  A small dry, laugh came from her husband.

  “Well, there’s trouble up there, the bloom is off.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “He wouldn’t have gone out without her, otherwise. You know what I mean? Anyway, you can see her face. Not bad, really. The rest, too, take my word for it.”

  “You think he sneaks around like that because he’s afraid of his wife?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Upstairs, Fred opened the door a crack. By the light of the kerosene lamp, he saw Theresa stretched out on the bed. She didn’t move. Quietly, he came in and crossed the room, stood at the window again, looking out in the direction of the trailer.

  Pedro crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and looked at his wrist watch. 10:30. He stared out through the window, waiting for Germaine to return. But he couldn’t see a thing. He turned off the lights.

  Silence and darkness. The trees rustled from time to time in the breeze.

  He came back to his bunk, annoyed. Where’d she get the idea of buying a gun? While he thought of it, he’d better get rid of it. He opened her bag. His fingers wriggled inside; lipstick, powder, passport and God knows what. He cursed. He emptied the bag on the bed, spread out the contents with shaking hands. Turned on the lights to make sure. He had to give up; the gun wasn’t there.

  She must have taken it while he was chasing off the prowler.

  Chapter XIII

  In private life, Denise, EXIM’s model secretary, was a modern girl who believed in snap decisions and also in old-fashioned remedies such as patching up quarrels on a pillowcase. She kicked off her shoes and stepped into her slippers.

  “Aren’t you getting undressed?” she asked Paul.

  Paul’s face was dark. He lit one cigarette from another, with the gesture of a man who knows how to sulk conscientiously and efficiently. He turned on his heel, and howled:

  “No! And you want to know something else?”

  His question caught Denise in the middle of unsnapping her brassiere: luckily, it was a graceful pose, her body bent forward slightly and her arms curving backward. Every love affair makes its own weather. Theirs thrived on thunder. She immediately hoisted a small, sad smile, like a flag at half-mast.

  “Please, darling, if you’ve got something to say, hurry it up. It’s late, and I have an office to go to tomorrow.”

  He hated her—and loved her, at the same time—when she pulled his kindly rages down to the level of a child’s whim.

  “So do I, if you can imagine,” he said, for lack of anything better.

  Half-undressed, appetizing and fresh, Denise moved toward him. The submissive slave, sure of her beauty and the power it would bring her sooner or later. She circled his neck with her arms and said, in the voice of a Christian martyr interviewing the lions:

  “Is that nice, to treat me like that, since yesterday?”

  Her breasts, round and firm, barely veiled by her open bras
siere, had a special effect on Paul. He gave her a grunt instead of an answer. The last thing he wanted just now was an argument. She went on, sad but resigned:

  “All we get is a day-and-a-half weekend together, sweetheart. Let’s not spoil it.”

  He decided to prove how willing he was to go along. Precisely what she’d been waiting for.

  “No. Don’t touch me. You’ve hurt me too much, much too much.”

  It was one of her oldest techniques, but it was still in working order. Paul exploded.

  “Ah! Superb! With you, there’s always a little blood-money to pay first!”

  She slid into bed, pulling a modest sheet over her naked body.

  “Blood-money? Blood-money? What’s that?”

  “Natter away! Do your little strip tease, and then, soon as you know I’m good and warmed up, start with the questions and answers. That, my dear, is blood-money!”

  Denise dropped her jaw, but held on to her sheet.

  “That’s what you’re mad about? No! You were mad before, darling.”

  “No!” he shouted. “That’s not what I’m mad about. You twist everything I say!”

  “Well, explain yourself!”

  “That’s it. You want explanations, you demand explanations, just when …”

  “But what’s wrong with that?” she cried. “I’ve got to know what’s going on with you.”

  Nearly beaten already, he shrugged hopelessly.

  “All right! You are right! Always right! Your logic is brilliant. It kicks the daylights out of my logic, but that can’t be helped.”

  He had, however, been undressing all the time. Now he stopped. Denise sat up, forgetting her sheet. She wanted him.

  “Paul? You taking off your pants or not?”

  “Not. I’m better off with them on.”

  This was correct, in a way, a man taking his pants off has no dignity.

  “Better off with them on. Well … no guts, I suppose.”

  Cut to the quick, he turned around and started to step out of his trousers, nearly losing his balance.