Gabriel Chevallier - Fear

‘You have some fun out there then, eh?

I stare in shock at this bloodless old fool. But I answer quickly and pleasantly:

‘Oh, gosh, yes, I should say so, sir…’

He beams happily. I have the feeling he is about to exclaim: ‘Oh-ho, those good old poilus !’

Then I add:

‘… We really enjoy ourselves: every evening we bury our pals! ’

His smile goes into reverse and the compliment freezes on his lips. He grabs at his glass and sticks his nose in it. In shock he swallows his beer too fast and it heads straight for his lungs. This is followed by a gurgling noise and then a little jet of spume that he spouts into the air and which descends on to his stomach, in a cascade of frothy bubbles.

‘Something go down the wrong way?’ I inquire, mercilessly.

His body is convulsed with catarrhal rumblings and spluttering. Above his handkerchief I can only see his yellow eyes, streaming with tears. Behind my hypocritically concerned expression, my mind is beginning a savage, vengeful scalp dance.

We leave soon after. I know what the gruyère man will say the minute we go out the door:

‘I say, is Dartemont’s lad some kind of troublemaker? No manners at all, that boy, you know!’

‘I can’t imagine he gives Dartemont much to be happy about!’

‘Not a single stripe or medal after a whole year of war — makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

They will shake their heads as if to say ‘everyone has his cross to bear’ and order another cold beer to buck themselves up. And then one of them will make a suggestion: ‘Are you all free this evening? I know a little place where we could have a bite of dinner and…’ Between men, they are proposing a little debauch for themselves. And if a pretty girl should pass by then, ho-hoh! they’ll invite her to join them. They’re so terribly lonely right now, those little lasses. Obviously, they understand a bit about the aftermath of this carousing: the gout, the pains in the liver… But what the hell! Mustn’t mollycoddle yourself — everyone is suffering these days!

All’s fair in love and war, eh?

I have a week left to treat myself to some pleasure, to gorge myself on it, store it up to last me for many months. It may be my final pleasure, and perhaps these seven days will provide the last memory of my life. No time to waste, let us start the pleasure hunt, track it down, grab it.

But then, what is pleasure? Make a list of possible pleasures. Meals? No, they can only be an accompaniment to pleasure, a seasoning. The theatre? No again. Plays are empty and false given the reality that’s waiting for me. The joys of family life? A mother could perhaps understand me, make me feel I belonged, but I lost mine when I was very young. Friends? I would certainly like to see my friends again, exchange impressions as we go down our old paths. But my friends (I have three true ones) are scattered at the front; one was wounded in Champagne soon after me. The pleasures of vanity? It seems they exist. I don’t know where you find such things. In various salons no doubt, but I have no access to such places, and no desire to go there.

Which leaves, then, the pleasures of the heart. The term is too romantic. Let’s be accurate: a woman. I have known a few well, in various ways. But they were young and not very free. The first difficulty is to find them again, and then to revive their feelings for me, feelings that I have not exactly helped to sustain, for they spoke of eternal, absolute emotions and at the age of twenty, caught in the war, I could not sign an emotional pact binding for the whole future. I was thinking ahead, as often happens when you try too hard to act in good faith. So those possible lovers must have taken their hearts elsewhere. A woman’s heart cannot remain unoccupied for long. The younger the hearts, the more demanding, and the more rights they claim. I didn’t want to make any promises. Promising nothing, and being far away, I fear I’ve lost them all. Love is a transaction, at least of emotions in the rarest cases: you love to get something in return. Since I wasn’t there, I couldn’t give anything. And now I can only give seven days of an infantryman, whose life is at risk. Whose career has not begun and whose heart, it must be said, is unreliable. What woman would want me? To accept this gift, she would at least have to have known me before, kept a different image of me than the one I offer in the pathetic uniform that I was given at the hospital.

That leaves the pleasure that you buy, of inferior quality but pleasure nonetheless if you can afford the luxury version. Unfortunately I have very little money, enough to buy only cut-price pleasure, the pleasure of the poor, as loathsome as eating in a cheap café. What I need is a week of opulence and all I have ahead of me is a week of scrimping.

I take my chances; I go out.

I head straight for the places where, before the war, I was sure to find friends. I look in the cafés, go up and down the same streets over and over again. Everything that made this landscape familiar has gone, my city no longer knows me, and I feel alone. Once, in clothes of my own choice, I possessed a degree of confidence that my uniform has taken away. Women turn naturally to what is glamorous and elegant: all the officers, members of the General Staff, employees from military headquarters, in their fancy outfits, who can guarantee something lasting. I am afraid to approach a woman! Soldiers must go with soldiers’ girls, and everyone knows it…

I wander around, at a loose end, and without much hope. I’m beginning to realise that life here has taken on a new rhythm, from which we’re excluded and which leaves no place for one of those adventures I’m dreaming of. The women are beautiful, and have a more determined look than they used to; no trace on their faces of any secret sorrow. So where are all those lovers brought to despair by the separations of war?

I have the address of one of the young women I spent some time with in 1914. I decide to go and wait near the place where she lives in the hope of catching her coming in or going out. It’s a slim chance but I have no better way of finding her.

I met Germaine D… yesterday evening, the fifth day of my leave. About time! I paced up and down the shop windows of a gloomy street which I knew was on her regular route home. And suddenly there she was, illuminated by a gas light. In spite of the new cut of her clothes, I recognised her walk or the way she held herself, something at least which told me it was definitely her. I watched her stranger’s face coming closer, unaware of my presence, a pensive, inscrutable face which became distinct as she approached. I stepped out into the light. She stepped back indignantly — then blushed: it was her turn to recognise me. Without any reproaches, without showing any great surprise, she simply promised me an afternoon, this afternoon. Perhaps I could even see her tomorrow, too, but — ‘Not for long, we’ve got people at home, and I can’t do what I want.’

I took her to a pied-à-terre that someone had offered me. She was gracious enough not to look too closely at this makeshift flat, nor to criticise its dubious character and anonymity. She was gracious enough, despite my neglect, to give herself without hesitation, with that air of abandon and pleasure (at last!) of sensual women, grateful for what they are experiencing. By mixing our memories with the present, she had the skill immediately to re-establish an intimacy between us that cancelled out our year apart and naturally acquired the tone of our former rendezvous. And she had the generosity not to distract us from this precious time by complaining about my silence. She accepted me as she found me and saw me as she had before. It was that above all that I sought: someone for whom I was no longer a soldier. She left me with my little bouquet pinned to her coat. ‘I am very proud of my medal!’ she said.