Simone Beauvoir - The Mandarins

‘I don’t believe so.’

Henri was anxious to get back to the paper. Only Paula must surely have telephoned the station, must know that the train was on time. She would be sitting there waiting, her eyes riveted to the clock, listening attentively to every sound.

After they had left Nadine in the lift surrounded by her baggage, Henri said, ‘On second thoughts, I think I’ll go home first.’

‘But the boys are waiting for you,’ Vincent protested.

‘Tell them I’ll be over in an hour.’

‘All right. I’ll leave the Rolls to you,’ Vincent said. He stopped the car in front of the house. ‘Should I take the bags out?’ he asked.

‘Just that small one, thanks.’

Unhappily, Henri pushed open the downstairs door, which banged noisily against a garbage pail; the concierge’s dog began barking. Before he even had a chance to knock, Paula had flung open the door to the flat.

‘It’s you! It’s really you!’ For a moment she remained motionless in his arms, and then she stepped back. ‘You look wonderful. You’re all sunburned! Was the trip back tiring?’ She smiled, but a little muscle in the corner of her mouth was quivering spasmodically.

‘Not at all,’ he replied, setting the suitcase down on the couch. ‘Here are some things for you.’

‘How sweet of you!’

‘Open it.’

She opened the suitcase. Silk stockings, doeskin sandals and a handbag to match, lengths of material, scarfs, gloves. He had chosen every article with anxious care and he was a little disappointed when, moved and yet vaguely indulgent, she only looked down at them, without touching them, without even bending over to examine them closely.

‘How really sweet of you!’ she repeated. And then, suddenly turning towards him, she exclaimed. ‘Your suitcases! Where are they?’

‘Downstairs in the car. Did you hear that L’Espoir got a car? Vincent picked me up in it,’ he said animatedly.

‘I’ll call the concierge and get him to bring them up,’ Paula said.

‘Don’t bother,’ Henri said, adding very quickly, ‘How did you spend the month? The weather wasn’t too bad, was it? Did you get out a little?’

‘A little,’ she replied evasively, her face cold and expressionless.

‘Who did you see? What did you do? Tell me all about it.’

‘Oh, nothing very interesting happened,’ she replied. ‘Let’s not talk about me.’ Quickly, but in a listless voice, she added, ‘Your book is a sensation, you know.’

‘I haven’t heard a thing yet. Do they really like it?’

‘Oh, the critics really didn’t understand anything, of course. But even so, they scented a masterpiece in it.’

‘It’s good to hear that,’ he said with a reserved smile. He would have liked to ask her a few questions, but he found Paula’s manner of speaking insufferable. He changed the subject. ‘Did you see the Dubreuilhs? How are they?’

‘I saw Anne for a moment one day; she’s up to her ears in work.’

She answered his questions reluctantly, tight-lipped. And he, he was burning with impatience to get back to his life!

‘Did you keep the back issues of L’Espoir?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t read them.’

‘No?’

‘There was nothing of yours in them. And I had other things to think about.’ She sought his eyes and suddenly her face came to life. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this past month and I’ve come to understand a great many things. I’m sorry about that scene I made before you left. I’m sincerely sorry.’

‘Oh, let’s not talk about that!’ he said. ‘First of all, you didn’t make a scene.’

‘Yes,’ she insisted, ‘I did. And I repeat, I’m truly sorry. I’ve known for a long time that a woman can’t be everything to a man like you. Not even all the women in the world. But I never really accepted it; I’m prepared now to love you with complete generosity, to love you for what you are and not for what I want. You have your mission and that has to come above all else.’

‘What mission?’

She forced a smile. ‘I’ve come to realize that often I must have been a burden to you; I can understand your wanting a little solitude. Well, you need not worry any more. I promise you your solitude, your freedom.’ She looked very intensely at Henri. ‘You’re free, my love, and I want you to know this and believe it. Besides, you’ve just finished proving it, haven’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he said, adding feebly, ‘but as I explained to you …’

‘I remember,’ she said. ‘But with the change that’s taken place in me, I can assure you you no longer have any reason to move to a hotel. Listen, you want independence, adventures; but you want me, too, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then stay here. I swear you won’t have any reason to regret it. You’ll see for yourself how much I’ve changed and how little I’ll get in your way from now on.’ She stood up and reached for the telephone. ‘The concierge’s nephew will bring your things up.’

Henri rose and walked towards the stairway leading to the bedroom. ‘Later,’ he said to himself. He couldn’t after all, begin torturing her again the moment he came back. ‘I’m going to clean up a little,’ he said. ‘They’re waiting for me at the office. I just stopped off to give you a kiss.’

‘I understand perfectly,’ she replied tenderly.

‘She’s going to bend over backwards to prove to me I’m free,’ he thought unhappily as he got into the little black car. ‘But it won’t last. I won’t stay there indefinitely,’ he said to himself bitterly. ‘I’ll start taking care of that little matter tomorrow.’ But for the moment, he no longer wanted to think about Paula; all he wanted was to luxuriate in his happiness at being back in Paris. The streets were grey and the people had been cold and hungry that winter; but here, at least, everyone wore shoes. And then, you could speak to them, speak for them. In Portugal, the thing that was so depressing was the feeling of being a completely impotent witness to a totally foreign disaster.

Getting out of the car, he looked affectionately at the façade of the building. How had things gone at the paper while he was away? Was it true his novel was a success? He climbed the stairs quickly and when he reached the top he was greeted with cheers. A streamer hanging across the hallway read ‘Welcome Home!’ Standing with their backs to the walls, his colleagues formed a military arch, but in place of swords, they held their fountain pens. They began singing an unintelligible couplet in which ‘Salazar’ rhymed with ‘gal and car’. Only Lambert was missing. Why?

‘Everyone to the bar!’ Luc cried out, giving Henri a hearty slap on the back. ‘How did it go?’

‘What a sunburn!’

‘Look at those clodhoppers.’

‘Are you going to do an article on Portugal?’

‘Hey! Look at that shirt!’

They fingered his suit, his tie; they shouted and joked and asked question after question while the bartender filled and refilled their glasses. Henri in turn questioned them. Circulation had dropped off a little, but the paper would soon be going back to a larger format, which would help make up the loss; there had been some trouble with the censor – nothing very serious; everyone had nothing but praise for his book, and he had received a tremendous amount of mail; on his desk, he would find every issue of L’Espoir for the month he had been away. Preston, the Yank, was trying to arrange for a larger allotment of paper, enabling them to put out a Sunday magazine supplement. And there were a great many other things to discuss. But all this noise, the voices, the laughter, the problems, added to three nights of fitful sleeping, made him dizzy – dizzy and happy. What a silly idea to have gone to Portugal in search of a past that was dead and buried, when the present was so joyfully alive!