Jean-Marie Le Clézio - The Flood

‘Why didn’t you get married?’

She shrugged.

‘Was it he who didn’t want to?’

‘Oh, at the beginning he was all for it. But that didn’t tell me anything. He wanted to marry me because of the kid. There mustn’t be any scandal. Besides, he’d have liked to get Lucas to himself — his son, you know, to do what he liked with. Then after a while we got used to not being married. It wouldn’t have made any difference as far as I was concerned.’

Besson said: ‘Basically, he sounds the jealous sort to me.’

‘Yes, maybe. But I’m still not sorry it ended.’

‘Are you so sure?’

She did not answer. Besson began to fiddle with his coffee-spoon, twisting it round on the green oilcloth.

‘Everything he did, he did for his son,’ Marthe said. ‘He wouldn’t lift his little finger to help me. But his son was another matter. Besides — It’s a bit embarrassing to admit it, but — well, he’s still supporting me. Every month, ever since we broke up, he’s sent me a money-order. So I can bring up his son. Funny, isn’t it?’

‘Decent of him.’

‘ Decent ?’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Why d’you suppose he’s doing it? He’s scared. He’s afraid of gossip. Don’t you see it? He’s — well, he’s a very respectable citizen. He’s afraid of what people might say. He feels a certain responsibility for his son. He’s fallen out with his wife — mistress, if you like. All right. But he still sees to his son’s upbringing. He’s a good father, I’ll admit it. And he doesn’t act that way purely out of self-interest. It comes naturally. That’s the way he is. He’s respectable. He has responsibilities. It really is funny. All right by me, though — the cash certainly comes in handy.’

‘You should have refused to accept it.’

‘Yes, I know. I ought to have sent his money-orders straight back to him. I did, the first time. But I wasn’t having any luck finding a job. It’s tough getting work when you really need it. Then, the next month, he sent more money. After all, I thought, what odds does it make? He can’t buy me back this way.’

‘You ease his conscience for him.’

‘Well, fine. But that one’d have a good conscience anyhow. Besides, I’m no heroine, I’m telling you.’

Besson was silent for a moment or two. He sat there, hands resting on the oilcloth, rounded back hunched into the tubular metal chair, staring at the dirty plates and half-filled glasses of water that still littered the left-hand side of the table. The electric light beat harshly down on them, and the brightness reflected from each object pierced through his eyes to the inmost recesses of his mind, or body. A sense of fatigue, a drowsy stupor began to steal over him. He felt himself drifting far away from the immediate situation — the remains of supper, this bright-walled kitchen, this table, the harsh gleam of unwashed dishes. Yet the redheaded girl sitting opposite him was so close that he could almost fancy he had her in his arms, was clasping her roughly to him, a mere object.

He said: ‘I want to hear about your father. Tell me what he does, what kind of man he is.’

She smiled. ‘He’s just an ordinary sort of man, like anyone else.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Louis.’

‘How old is he?’

‘I’ve no idea. He must be a bit over sixty. Sixty-two, I think.’

‘What does he look like? Describe him to me.’

This time she laughed quite openly. ‘What does he look like? Wait a moment, let’s think. He’s tall, and grey-haired. He’s got very pale eyes, but that’s a symptom of old age — every time I see him I’m astonished by the colour of his eyes. They’re translucent, grey-blue, touches of green as well. Oh, and he’s got lines there, on each cheek. And another vertical one between his eyebrows. Maybe he’s got rather too strong a nose, but I think he’s very handsome. No, really, it’s true, for his age he looks pretty good.’

‘What’s his character like? All right?’

‘Some people would say No. Some people would call him very bad-tempered. But he’s always been terribly gentle with me. He let me do just as I liked.’

‘Then why don’t you live with him?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I couldn’t before, because — well, because of him . And now I’ve got used to living here. But maybe I’ll go back to him one of these days. I just don’t know.’ She eyed him with some curiosity, and added: ‘Now what about you? Tell me about your father.’

‘He’s a very reasonable sort of man,’ Besson said, simply. ‘I suppose you’d call him a disciplinarian, but I’m very fond of him. He’s got his fads, but then so has every—’

‘And your mother?’

Besson hesitated. ‘My mother? She’s my mother, that’s all. What else is there to say about her?’

‘Don’t you like her?’

‘I love her to distraction, I loathe her guts, I despise her, I believe in her. She’s — well, she’s my mother , don’t you understand?’

‘You live with your parents, and you—’

‘Yes, I know. You’re right. But it’s only a temporary arrangement. As soon as I get a new job I’ll rent a bedsitter somewhere in town. Unless you felt like offering me bed and board.’

She looked at him quite seriously. ‘Why not?’ she said. She began to trace a pattern on the oilcloth with her nail, in a mechanical fashion. Besson saw that she drew a series of parallel lines, and then filled the spaces between with them crosses.

‘Maybe it would teach him a lesson,’ she added, as an afterthought.

Besson said: ‘He wouldn’t send you any more money-orders.’

‘Don’t be so sure. He’d be rather proud of a situation like that. He’d look as though he was thinking: Well, there you are you see, what a woman — but my son’s my son, regardless. Let her do what she likes, it won’t make any difference .’

‘Anyway, you can’t stop yourself thinking about him, can you?’

She looked at him, her eyes still serious: but this time there was something almost tragic about her expression. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s true. I can’t. Let’s talk about something else.’

They went on chatting, with intervals of silence, still sitting at the kitchen table, arms on the green oilcloth. At one point she got up to go to the toilet, and Besson heard the solemn sound of flushing water. Then she came back and made some more coffee. Besson watched her moving close beside him. Her tawny hair was tousled; there were dark smudges under her eyes, and a strange light gleamed in the pupils, something akin to impatience. Her fine, slender hands moved nervously, with glints of yellow reflected light flashing off the ring marked J.S. From one unidentifiable source — perhaps the neon strip-lighting that flickered in the middle of the ceiling — a halo of quivering, palpable radiance had descended on her, permeating every last inch of her body, electrifying her hair and nails, the outline of her face, each movement of her fingers. Harsh light sparked continually from the fuzzed woollen surface of her beige dress, as though it were a second skin. Every element in her was dry and clearcut. Neither hot nor cold: electric. Faintly, as in a dream, Besson heard her voice speaking. It was different now, it had become fierce and raucous. Without rising from his chair he took the hand with the golden ring gleaming on it, and drew it towards him. The rest of her body followed easily, it was like pulling a go-cart. It hung poised and motionless for a moment, at the point of balance: then, suddenly, they slid down together, dropping softly and easily on to the linoleum flooring, where the harsh light was reflected like the sky in a pool of water. Before he plunged into the abyss Besson heard the voice whispering, close to his ear yet at the same time immeasurably distant: ‘We mustn’t … No, don’t … Mustn’t …’