Emmanuel Bove: Henri Duchemin and His Shadows

Despite the crowd, they arrived quickly at the young woman’s hotel. Shoulder against the wall, she went in first, opened the glass door of an office half way, and took her key.

A maid was making up her room. When the couple arrived, she withdrew.

Expressing his surprise that people were compelled to work at night, Henri Duchemin went in. The curtain around the dressing table was drawn back. He saw a blue pitcher and basin. There were photographs on the mirror. Pollen from a branch of mimosa mixed with ashes from the fireplace.

“Are you tired?” he asked her.

“I don’t feel comfortable.”

“Do you need a bit of air?”

“Yes, open the window.”

Henri Duchemin opened the window. A house so close that you could reach out and touch it got lost in the dark night.

“How are you feeling now?”

“I’m cold.”

“Do you love me?”

“I don’t know.”

“A little while ago you did.”

“Too bad.”

She took off her skirt, stepped over it, and began to wash. Half undressed as she was, her torso seemed too long.

“You’re beautiful.”

He went over to her and tried to take her by the waist.

“Leave me alone.”

She splashed him. Taken by surprise, he let her go. His lips were dry. A drop of water rolled down his nose.

“You don’t love me?”

“Leave me alone or I’ll scream.”

“No, don’t scream, don’t scream. I’ll go.”

“Go then.”

He opened the door. The sound of his footsteps filled the corridor as if he were a giant. He raced down the stairs, imagining he was falling with each step, for he did not have the time or the strength to move his legs.

* * *

When he got to the street, he walked away with long strides. The lights from the stores bothered him. He passed in front of a cinema and saw a poster. It was of the heroine of a film. She was crying. The candor on this face awakened a need for love in Henri Duchemin that made him cry along with her.

The farther he got from this neighborhood, the more numerous the streetlamps seemed, the wider the sidewalks, the bigger the windows.

Henri Duchemin was walking along the slatted wall of a cemetery when he noticed someone in front of him. He picked up his pace. Soon he was next to an old man. The sleeves of his too-long overcoat hid his hands.

“It’s bitter cold,” said Henri Duchemin.

The stranger’s white beard inspired trust. Henri Duchemin was afraid of being alone with himself. Talking with this old man until morning would make the time pass.

“Indeed it is.”

“You’re on your way home, I assume?”

“Yes.”

There was a moment of silence. The two men walked side by side. Henri Duchemin would have wanted to walk faster, but he did not.

“And you, young man, where are you going?”

“I’ll be leaving at dawn.”

“What’s your job?”

“I’m an office worker.”

A few black crosses rose above the wall. Farther on, behind the cemetery, were new houses.

“Perhaps you don’t have a place to sleep?” said the old man.

“I don’t.”

“Come home with me. It will be warmer. I don’t live far from here.”

The two men ventured down a dark street. From time to time they passed beneath an archway. It began to grow lighter. The moon was gone. It had not waited for the sun in order to disappear.

At last they entered a detached house whose sides had been battered by the wind.

There was no light to guide their steps; they groped their way up the stairs. At each landing, afraid of bumping into each other, they raised their feet one too many times. Above their heads, the woodwork presented a reverse image of the stairs. Drafts blew the doors shut noisily.

“Wait a moment. I have to find my key.”

A few seconds later, the two men entered a hovel. The old man lit a candle. A newspaper covered the table. Henri Duchemin sat down in an armchair no sturdier than the one in his room.

When the old man took off his overcoat, he appeared in a worn morning coat with a pocket in each of its distinct tails. Now, with an old man’s clipped movements, he paced back and forth, he bent down. Before lighting the fire, he had to pull the grate on the stove several times. The cloud of ash that rose settled on his shoes, turning them white.

Old clothes hung on nails fanned out near the floor. There was very little air in the garret. A doily lined a shelf. On the shelf, a fork, salt, a tin. Everywhere, broken, ravaged furniture, the kind found in handcarts.

The fire blazed. It could be seen through the stove’s bands. The old man was straightening things up. From time to time he stopped to ask Henri Duchemin if he were cold. Or else he would bring his hand close to the dormer window to make sure no air was seeping in.

At last he sat down. His face was lit by the candle flame. He sat straight on his stool, legs next to each other, hands clasped.

The circle of smoke the candle made on the ceiling moved ceaselessly. The only sound was the crackling of the wood. A gentle warmth pervaded the garret. Drops fell from the ceiling like diluted ink.

The old man poured some ashes on the fire. It seemed to go out. Thick smoke came out of the ill-fitted pipe. Then, all of a sudden, the fire blazed again.

Henri Duchemin noticed with joy a pale dawn through the dormer window. He had a feeling that all was for the best. More than anything else, he must not think, because it might make him sad, which would be ridiculous just when day was dawning.

He really had deserved an easier life. He had suffered his share. Now, he was able to see that the world was well designed. Aren’t both happy and unhappy people necessary?

He looked at the pained face of the old man.

“You are unhappy!” he said.

“Yes.”

“You haven’t been lucky!”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Now, you know, it’s too late. I don’t know what I’d do if I were you.”

“What can I say? A person can get used to anything. I’m not as unhappy as I seem,” the old man answered.

“You’re not unhappy?”

“No, nor happy.”

“Well I, I am happy. I can do anything I want. I won’t be made fun of any longer. I’m going abroad in a little while. And I have a lot of money on me. One would never know it.”

“No.”

“You see. One can be wrong. I have a lot more money that you realize.”

“Yes, but you murdered someone.”

Henri Duchemin grew pale. It seemed that all the blood in his body was draining out through a hole. He looked at his hands. They were open. He had never looked at them when he was suffering.

The old man spoke. He said: “I obey the voice of the heavens. It tells me to stay poor. It tells me of the joy that comes from the love of God.”

A pale light was falling from the dormer window. The stains on the wall circled the entire garret.

The old man was praying. He swayed as if his stool were resting on a cloud.

Henri Duchemin stammered:

“What will become of me? What will become of me? I am lost, I’ve killed, I’ve killed.”

The old man raised his eyes.

“In order to redeem yourself, you must suffer.”

The sky was still growing lighter. The stars were disappearing one by one. Suddenly an infinite elation entered Henri Duchemin’s soul. A beatific vision replaced the sordid walls that surrounded him. Slowly, in the light of day, the old man, standing with one hand raised, began to move away. A myriad of stars flashed like diamonds. Dazzled, Henri Duchemin was walking along the paths of paradise. Everywhere were baskets of flowers, gilded vases, and angels flying upside down.

“Yes, I have killed, but I shall suffer, suffer my entire life. I shall redeem myself. I shall be forgiven. I will do everything. I’ll endure anything to be forgiven. Oh, to be forgiven! I shall be so happy. I shall suffer, suffer, my entire life.”