Frantic Page 6

  “Well now. That all you can think of? Go back? Where?”

  “We could spend the week end at my apartment?”

  “You’re too kind. A week end in a working-girl’s attic.”

  “And tomorrow, we could go to the movies.”

  “Using what for loot?”

  “Well… what’ll you pay them with here?”

  “We’ve got till tomorrow night. Quit fussing about the future all the time, will you?”

  “Fred.… Please.”

  Fred laughed.

  “You’re really a problem. Don’t be scared. Ever. Trust Fred. I’ll figure out something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Listen, are you looking for trouble or what?”

  “I’m afraid, Fred.”

  This pulled him up short. Because he was afraid, too. But he wouldn’t admit it. That would be too “bourgeois” for comfort. He tried to reassure her, and himself. “Well, listen, I’ll phone the old man, you know? He’ll send down a check, anything to avoid a scandal.”

  This plan didn’t sweep Theresa off her feet.

  “And we’ll get into trouble about the stolen car,” she said.

  Fred hadn’t thought about that. He raised one eyebrow as a sign of deep thought.

  “I’ll be damned. You’re right. All right, we’re going to organize this whole thing. By the rules.…”

  He looked around him, and noticed a raincoat carefully folded on the back seat. His face lit. “There you go. See, the big thing is, if there’s any trouble later on, nobody can identify us. You follow me? Now, you put my jacket over your head, on account of the rain, you know. I put on this guy’s raincoat and his hat, and who knows me? And we stay out of the light, am I right? Wait a minute.”

  He explored the glove compartment and found the gun. He pulled it out, and waved it and laughed:

  “And if the manager gives us any lip … huh?”

  “Fred, for God’s sake, put it down, don’t touch it!”

  “OO, help, help!” he said cheerfully, putting the gun back in its place. “I admire your courage, m’dear, I do indeed. Can’t you ever take a joke? Let’s go … What now?”

  The gate clicked open. In the house, a curtain was pulled aside, the door opened, and steps crunched down the gravel path. The rain had ended, but it was damp and the trees were still dripping slowly. The owner of the hotel, therefore, wasn’t surprised to see two tourists wrapped up like mummies.

  “You came to the right place!” he called out. “The heat’s on!”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d take the car into the courtyard,” Fred said, faking his voice.

  The lobby was inviting: chairs, low tables and a raised desk where the hostess, a large jolly woman, was busy adding up bills. She gave them a huge smile.

  “Monsieur, Madame; terrible weather, I know, I know.… But wait till tomorrow, you’ll see … you’ll just love our sunshine.… The forecast says.”

  She stopped. The guests were rushing through the lobby as if a pack of hounds were after them. Not exactly a good sign. She rose halfway from her stool.

  “Can I help you?”

  Fred nudged Theresa with his elbow. She said timidly:

  “A room, please. For the week end.”

  They’d safely reached the shadows under the stairs. They could relax a little, and they almost looked normal. The owner’s wife turned her smile back on, full force.

  “Oh, I think I know what’s going on,” she said, wagging a naughty finger. “On your honeymoon, am I right?”

  “Right as rain,” Fred said.

  The owner appeared in the doorway.

  “Give ’em number 8, Mathilde; it’s ready.… I’ll drive your car in, Monsieur.”

  He vanished into the night. His wife lit a kerosene lamp on her desk.

  “The electricity’s out on the second floor. But we’re ready for anything, aren’t we? And it’s more romantic, somehow, isn’t it? This kind of light is much more colorful. You won’t mind, will you?”

  “Nope,” Fred said. “You’re right. More romantic.”

  For Theresa’s benefit, he winked and threw up a thumb. The lady of the house led the way up the stairs, holding her lamp at arm’s length.

  “Otherwise, I’d have had to put you with us, on the first floor. Just now, of course, there aren’t many people, it’s not the season. But you’ll be just as snug as can be.… And my husband’s cooking, well, you’ll see.… He used to be a chef in the Paris hospitals.”

  She took them down the corridor of the second floor.

  “And we’ve got the heat on, isn’t that nice? Now, tell me, have you had your dinner? Would you like me to bring you up a little something?”

  “Yes, tea,” Theresa said.

  “And some toast. And some butter. And some cheese,” Fred added.

  ‘And some marmalade!” the hostess finished. “Isn’t it odd. Now that all the young people are watching their figures, they eat breakfast for dinner. I’ll bring it right up. Ah, here we are!”

  She opened the door of room 8, went in first, and put the lamp on the mantel. The youngsters followed her in, turning their backs to the light. The room was large, furnished sparsely but with taste. A very low, very large bed, covered with a cretonne spread, matching curtains that modestly concealed the washstand and the bidet. A huge old Norman chest of drawers. A table, two chairs and a vast Voltaire armchair with one wing coming off.

  “Now how’s that?” the hostess asked, full of enthusiasm.

  “Just fine. Thank you, Madame.”

  “I’m so glad. Now I’ll be leaving you, you little lovebirds. I’ll go make your tea and toast … and I’ll bring them right up with the registration. You won’t mind filling it in, will you? Oh, it’s not for us, you know …”

  “Don’t trouble,” Fred said. “You fill it in for us.”

  “Just as you like.… As far as we’re concerned, we know how to be discreet, it’s part of our job, isn’t it? And anyone can see that you two wouldn’t hurt a fly … not ever a tsetse fly!” She laughed heartily, but, hearing no echo, stopped. “But the police, my dears, you’ve no idea how they carry on.…”

  Fred looked at Theresa with a little one-sided smile. He said, taking his time:

  “Monsieur and Madame Julien Courtois, 118 Rue Molitor. Paris.”

  The girl nearly squeaked with fright. Luckily, Mathilde was already on her way out.

  “Monsieur Julien Courtois and Madame. Splendid. See you soon!”

  She closed the door from the outside. They were alone. Fred threw off the raincoat and jumped on the bed with both feet.

  “And that’s that! All there is to it!”

  He dropped on his back.

  “Well? Say something! Was that organized or was that organized? Eh? Yes or no, am I an operator?”

  A little relieved, more than a little amused, Theresa watched him. She thought: “What a baby!” And still, his cleverness, his intelligence and all the whirl be kept creating around him—she really had to admire him. He stretched out his arms:

  “A kiss for the brains of the outfit?”

  She came towards him slowly, thinking about the latch she hadn’t closed: the worried working-girl, Fred would have said. When she was in his reach, he grabbed her waist and pulled her down onto him, seeking her lips like a hungry man looking for fruit. She melted immediately. The boy’s hands hurried to find her naked body under the sweater. She arched her back and groaned softly:

  “Fred! Cher.…”

  Suddenly he sat up straight, dropping Theresa on the bed. Outside, the Frégate’s gearshift, under the host’s careless hand, was grinding its teeth in rage.

  “He’s killing my wagon!”

  Theresa’s hands pulled down on his neck. He breathed deeply, threw himself on her mouth again. His fingers found the tip of a breast. She moaned with delight. He took her in his arms and his face tightened, changed, ma
tured. The girl felt his muscles tense and opened her eyes to look at him: she loved him most of all for this moment, when the boy became a man.

  Downstairs, the hostess was putting cups on a tray.

  “Wipe your feet, Charles,” she told her husband as he came in. “You’ll drag in all the mud in the garden. Listen, did you get a look at his registration, while you were parking the car?”

  “Uh-huh,” he mumbled. “Julien Courtois.” He was not in a good humor.

  “Good. That’s the name he gave me.… Only, we’ll just take a few precautions, eh?.… Now what’s the matter with you?”

  “We were doing fine, all by ourselves …”

  “Cry someplace else. This pays our expenses for the week.”

  “If those kids pay us.”

  “He’s got a car. There’s money, somewhere.”

  She poured hot water in the teapot. Charles picked up a piece of toast from the tray and buttered it calmly.

  “Ah, toast is a great thing, you know? Get rid of all your stale bread …”

  Mathilde pulled the tray away.

  “Don’t eat it all, you pig, leave them a little.”

  “What’s your hurry?” He nodded toward the ceiling. “They’ve got other things to do besides eat, those kids.”

  “Haven’t you got a dirty mind. What do you know about it?”

  “The way you put up the lamp, you can make out the shadows. Eh?”

  “You don’t say? So that’s what held you up. The original dirty old man. Well, don’t strain yourself, Tarzan, she’s got a young one, she won’t be waiting up for you.”

  He shrugged, grunted and swallowed the last bite.

  “Anyhow, she’s married.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” his wife said. “I’ll bet the rabbit cape you don’t want to buy me against your Sunday tie that she’s not his wife. Didn’t you see the way they were creeping around?”

  “Am I supposed to give a damn?”

  He stretched out his hand for another piece of toast. She slapped it.

  “Enough, I told you.”

  Hoisting the tray, she made for the stairs. Absent-mindedly, he gave her a hearty slap in the buttocks as she passed him. She laughed, balancing the tray:

  “You old ass! Those kids giving you ideas?”

  “Fred, Fred, do you love me?” There was anxiety in her voice. For once, Fred wasn’t in a mood to put on airs. His face, completely relaxed; was pure and astonishingly young. He looked like a little boy. He nodded his head, slowly, several times. There was a knock on the door.

  “May I come in?” Mathilde called through the door.

  Theresa panicked.

  “Just a second, please …”

  She jumped, naked, to the foot of the bed, picked up the raincoat and wrapped it around her, while Fred adjusted his clothes.

  “Come in.”

  The hostess came in, with the expression they must teach in schools of hotel administration all over the world. Discretion personified. Theresa was painfully embarrassed; she felt she owed an explanation.

  “We’ve been making ourselves at home … my clothes were soaked …”

  She suddenly remembered Fred’s instructions, and turned around so she couldn’t be identified. Fred, stretched out on the bed, was camouflaged behind a pillowcase. But Mathilde had other cats to skin. She was covertly looking over the girl’s underwear, scattered around the room. She put the tray on the table and left. From the door, she gave them a knowing wink, closed the door and rushed down the stairs.

  “Charles! What’d I tell you?”

  Taken by surprise, he could only say:

  “Damned if I know.”

  “She’s not his wife.”

  “She told you?”

  “No, but I saw her underwear. She’s poor as a rat. If you’d seen that slip.… Him, with a car like that, he must have a good job somewhere. And, anyway she doesn’t have a brassiere.”

  “So?” Charles said, baffled.

  “So, married women always wear brassieres. I’m dead sure she’s his girl friend; his wife, no.”

  Fred had thrown himself on the toast.

  “Do you love me?” Theresa had asked again.

  He looked at her, laughing. She looked like a lost puppy, with her sad eyes and her slender body awash in the raincoat.

  “One thing at a time. Eat,” he said.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  She was miserable, but she didn’t dare show it. Fred was the same as ever. She filled a cup; he took it and emptied it in one gulp. Then he spread cheese and jam on a piece of toast, and bit into it like a steam shovel.

  “If you want me to love you, I’ve got to get my strength back,” he said, pointing his chin at the bed.

  She smiled, but barely. As always, she had to follow Fred’s mood. As he put the cup down, she took his hand and put her lips to it. Then she rubbed her cheek on it, tenderly.

  “You’re too much,” he said, proud of himself. “No cool customer, you. Regular passion pot, you. Boil over like the head on a warm beer….”

  He thought that one over, his toast pausing halfway to his mouth:

  “Hmmm, say, that has a certain ring to it … like the head on a warm beer… What’s the matter, doesn’t it grab you?”

  She tried to join in the game, but her heart wasn’t in it. He frowned.

  “All right, what’s wrong now?”

  “Nothing, Fred, honestly.”

  “So why the big long face? No, you know what? I’ve gone to a lot of trouble for you. No arguments. It’s true. You think all this jazz is for me? Nuts. It’s for you. For you I steal a car. For you I pay for the country …”

  She loved to see him angry. Anger is supposed to be a masculine thing, only God knows why. Without realizing it, she’d put a hand inside the raincoat and over her stomach. Free association did the rest, and she interrupted:

  “D’you think we can get married soon?”

  He was drinking another cup of tea. He choked on it.

  “What is that, the question of the year? How the hell would I know?”

  She began to insist, stood closer to him.

  “But you love me! You said you wanted to marry me!”

  He bit off a king-sized mouthful, to give him time to think. He couldn’t lose face in the eyes of the only person in the world who took him seriously. Theresa sat down cross-legged in the armchair. Her knees peeped out of the raincoat, glistening softly in the shadows. Fred came to a decision. He began to stride up and down the room, waving his hands, making his shadow dance on the wall.

  “It’s disgusting! Here I dedicate my life, my life, to expose this bourgeois bunk, the whole pile of crap, and you, what d’you want to talk about? Marriage. Can’t think of anything but yourself! Miss Me-First!”

  Actually, he didn’t really feel like fighting with her; she looked so good.… He shrugged, sat down on the arm of the chair and stroked her knee with his hand.

  “Anyhow, what d’you care? We’re here. Together …”

  Fred’s voice grew hoarse; his hand moved over Theresa’s bare skin. She felt herself sinking under a wave of desire: she fought it. He felt her stiffen; he threw out a torrent of words, he knew the power that words had over her, they put her defenses to sleep. Not this time, though. Now he bent down to take her lips; shock tactics, he called it, a kiss always made Theresa lose her head. This time she kept it. She drew back and, desperately, asked him again:

  “Fred! Will you marry me?”

  “Hell, yes,” he said, “it’s a deal.” He was in a hurry.

  He tried to seize her, to kiss her by force, to wipe out all resistance.

  “Even though it’s bourgeois?” she insisted. She was still drawing back. “Fred, tell me the truth… You’re not going to run out on me?”

  This was a little too much. Fred leapt up.

  “Tell you the truth? What is this, blackmail? Listen to me, The
resa, listen to me good. You—me—strictly speaking, we don’t owe each other a thing.”

  He nibbled at the last of the toast for a moment.

  “Not a thing. My conscience is clear, so’s yours. I’ve had a ball with you; you’ve had a ball with me. You can’t tell me different. So everybody’s even, see? The books are balanced, lady.”

  But she was irresistible. Her head was bowed with the effort of trying to understand him, and the raincoat was opening at her breast. He softened, picked up her hand and kissed the palm. He smiled:

  “If you want to know the truth, you owe me. You know my motto:

  Say what you like about Fred,

  He really swings in bed.”

  He burst out laughing and took her in his arms, kneeling down before her. Theresa didn’t stop him. But she didn’t join him. He gave up, eager to be done with obstacles.

  “Sure, you dope. I’ll marry you. Anything to spite the old man.”

  “Promise me, Fred. Swear it!”

  He stared at her.

  “Theresa, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  Then she smiled. She was at peace. Her pupils were shining with tears of happiness.

  “I’m pregnant, Freddy.”

  His mouth hung open. His arms fell to his sides. She slid from the chair and pressed herself to him; the two of them knelt on the carpet.

  “I’m so weak, Freddy … still so, bourgeois, I guess I’d never be brave enough to raise him alone …”

  Chapter VIII

  The vestibule of Julien’s apartment, on the Rue Molitor. Geneviève was standing still and slack, like a sailboat that had lost the wind and come to the end of its tack. She was looking at her brother. He was bright red in the face, still panting. He motioned the maid to leave and sat down heavily.

  “Right,” he said. “Now are you convinced? He’s not here. Now you’ve made sure.”

  She tried to say yes, but she couldn’t speak; she’d been so sure of a miracle, and it hadn’t happened. Georges looked away from her.

  “Hardly worth the trouble, was it? But you had to run after me like a lunatic, scare my neighbors half to death. You were so sure he’d be back by now. Why the devil do I listen to you?”

  He got up painfully.