before. That's very theatrical, she thought, but she laid her cheek on Simon's hair with a small, happy laugh.
"And what am I going to do until six?" he persisted.
"I don't know . . . you're going to work."
"I shan't be able to," he said. "I'm too happy."
"That doesn't stop people from working!"
"Me it does. Besides, I know what I'll do. I'll drive around and think of you, then I'll lunch alone, thinking of you, and then I'll wait for six o'clock. I'm not one of your energetic types."
"What will your lawyer friend say?"
"I don't know. Why should I waste my time preparing for my future when only my present interests me. And overwhelms me," he added with a sweeping bow.
Paule shrugged. But Simon did exactly as he had said, that day and the days that followed. He motored about Paris, smiling at everyone; ten times he drove past Paule's shop, at ten miles an hour; he read a book, parking anywhere, laying it down at times to throw back his head and shut his eyes. He had the look of a happy sleepwalker, and this did not fail to move Paule and endear him to her more. She had the impression of giving and was amazed that this should suddenly strike her as almost indispensable.
* * *
Roger had been travelling for ten days, in appalling weather, rushing from one business dinner to another, and the northern province was symbolised for him by an interminable slippery road and the characterless interiors of restaurants. From time to time he put through a call to Paris, asking for two numbers at the same time, and listened to the complaints of Maisy-Marcelle before complaining to Paule—or after. He felt despondent, helpless, his life resembled this province. Paule's voice was changing, becoming at once more anguished and more distant; he wanted to see her again. He had never been able to spend a fortnight away from her without missing her. In Paris, of course, where he knew she was always ready to see him, always at his disposal, he could space out their meetings; but Lille restored her to him as she had been right at the beginning, when his life had depended entirely on hers and he had been as afraid of conquering her as he was now afraid of losing her. On the last day of his travels, he announced his return. There was a silence, then at once she resumed: "I've got to see you." The words had a final ring. He asked no questions, but arranged to meet her next day.
He returned to Paris that night and at two in the morning was outside Paule's. For the first time, he hesitated to go up. He was not sure of finding that same happy face, forcing itself to be calm, which his surprises usually prompted; he was afraid. He waited ten minutes, self-impeded, providing himself with poor excuses—"She'll be asleep, she works too hard," and so forth—then drove off. Outside his own flat, he hesitated again, then suddenly swung the car round and drove to Maisy's. She was asleep; waking, she thrust a puffy face towards him. She had been out very late, she said, with her inevitable producers . . . she was so happy ... as a matter of fact, she had just been dreaming about him, etc. He undressed rapidly and went straight off to sleep, despite her provocations. For the first time, he did not want her. At dawn he complied mechanically, laughed a little at her gossip and decided that everything was all right. He spent the morning in her flat and left her ten minutes before his rendezvous with Paule.
13
"I MUST make a 'phone call," said Paule. "After lunch will be too late."
Roger stood up as she left the table, and Paule gave him that brief, apologetic smile which she could not deny herself whenever she obliged him, through the conventions of society or of the heart, to put himself out for her. She thought of this with irritation as she walked down the dank stairway which led to the telephone. With Simon, it was different. He was so keen, so glad, so prompt to look after her, to open doors for her, to light her cigarettes, to anticipate
J.A. Konrath, Bernard Schaffer