Françoise Sagan - Bonjour Tristesse and a Certain Smile

I drank a lot during the meal. I needed to blot out the anxious expression Anne wore whenever she looked at my father or what could have been gratitude whenever her eyes rested on me. Whenever Webb’s wife made a dig at me, I looked back at her with a beaming smile. She found this tactic of mine disconcerting and she very quickly became aggressive. Anne signalled to me not to react. She had a horror of scenes and she sensed that Madame Webb was all set to create one. For my part, I was used to scenes, they were common occurrences in the circles in which we moved. So I wasn’t at all on edge as I listened to her.

After dinner we went to a nightclub in Saint-Raphaël. Shortly after we got there, Elsa and Cyril arrived. Elsa stopped in the entrance, spoke very loudly to the lady in charge of the cloakroom and, with Cyril in tow, carried on in. It struck me that she was behaving more like a tart than a girlfriend but she had the looks to carry it off.

‘Who is that whippersnapper?’ asked Charles Webb. ‘He looks very young.’

‘It’s love,’ whispered his wife. ‘Love suits him.’

‘What an idea!’ my father said angrily. ‘It’s an infatuation, that’s what it is.’

I glanced at Anne. She was studying Elsa in a calm, detached way, the way that she would look at the fashion models who presented her collections, or at very young women. She showed no trace of acrimony. For a moment I admired her intensely for her lack of pettiness or jealousy. In any case, I couldn’t understand what she might have to be jealous about as far as Elsa was concerned. She was a hundred times more beautiful and more subtle than Elsa. Being drunk, I told her so. She looked at me curiously.

‘Do you really think I’m more beautiful than Elsa?’

‘There’s absolutely no doubt about it!’

‘That’s always nice to hear. But you’re drinking too much, yet again. Give me your glass. You’re not too upset at seeing Cyril over there, are you? Anyway, he’s clearly not enjoying himself.’

‘He’s my lover,’ I said brightly.

‘You are thoroughly drunk! It’s just as well that it’s time to go home.’

When, with relief, we left the Webbs, I made a point of addressing Madame Webb politely. My father took the wheel and my head lolled over on to Anne’s shoulder.

I kept thinking how much I preferred her to the Webbs and to all the people we usually saw. She was better than them, more dignified and intelligent. My father didn’t say much. No doubt in his mind’s eye he was going over the arrival of Elsa.

‘Is she asleep?’ he asked Anne.

‘She’s sleeping like a baby. She behaved herself quite well, relatively speaking. Except for the reference to old trout, which was a bit direct.’

My father began to laugh. There was silence. Then I heard his voice again.

‘Anne, I love you, I love only you. Do you believe me?’

‘Don’t keep saying that, it frightens me.’

‘Give me your hand.’

I almost sat up to protest: ‘No, not while you’re driving along a cliff top!’ But I was rather drunk, and there was Anne’s perfume and the wind from the sea blowing in my hair and the little scratch that Cyril had made on my shoulder when we were making love, so many reasons to be happy and to say nothing. I was falling asleep. Meanwhile, Elsa and poor Cyril must have been setting off laboriously on the motorcycle his mother had given him for his last birthday. I don’t know why, but the thought of it moved me to tears. This car was so smooth, it had such good suspension, it was just made for sleep … Madame Webb was unlikely to be getting much sleep at that moment. Probably at her age I’ll also be paying young men to love me, because love is the sweetest thing, it’s what in life is most vivid and has the most point. So the price paid hardly matters. What mattered was not to become embittered and jealous, as she was of Elsa and Anne. I began to laugh softly to myself. Anne’s shoulder sank down a little lower for me. ‘Go to sleep,’ she said firmly. I went to sleep.

Eight

The next day I awoke feeling perfectly fine, barely tired, just with the back of my neck aching slightly as a result of my excesses. As it was every morning, my bed was bathed in sunlight. I pushed back my sheets, took off my pyjama top and turned my bare back to the sun. With my cheek resting on my folded arm, I could see close up the coarse texture of the linen sheet and beyond that, on the tiled floor, the vacillations of a fly. The sun was warm and gentle, it seemed to make my bones expand beneath my skin and to take special care to bestow its warmth upon me. I decided to spend the whole morning like that, not budging.

The previous evening was gradually becoming clearer in my memory. I remembered having told Anne that Cyril was my lover and I laughed to think that when you are drunk you say things that are true and no one believes you. I also remembered Madame Webb and my altercation with her. I was familiar with that type of woman: in those circles and at her age they were often odious because they had nothing to occupy themselves with, yet they still desired to live life to the full. Anne’s serenity had led me to view Madame Webb as being even more idiotic and annoying than usual. It was only to be expected. I failed to see who among my father’s female friends could stand comparison with Anne for long. In order to spend a pleasant evening with these people, you had either to be a little drunk and enjoy arguing with them or to be in an intimate relationship with one or other of the spouses. For my father, it was simpler: he and Charles Webb both loved the thrill of the chase. ‘Guess who I’m going to wine and dine and then bed tonight! The little Mars girl, the one who was in Saurel’s film. I was going into Dupuis’ place when …’ My father would laugh and slap him on the shoulder: ‘Lucky man! She’s almost as lovely looking as Élise.’ Schoolboy talk, but what I liked about it was both men’s enthusiasm and ardour. And during interminable parties or on the terraces of cafés, I even liked Lombard’s melancholy avowals: ‘She was the only one I ever loved, Raymond! You remember that spring before she left me? It’s crazy, a man’s life ruined for the sake of one woman!’ There was something inappropriate and demeaning about all of this, but there was a warmth, too, in two men exchanging confidences over a drink.

Anne’s friends probably never talked about themselves. Doubtless they did not indulge in such escapades. Or even if they did talk about such things, it would most likely be with a shamefaced laugh. I was ready to share with Anne the condescending attitude she would adopt towards our acquaintances; it was not unkind and it was contagious. Yet I could see myself, at thirty, being more like our friends than like her, and finding her silence, her aloofness and her reserve suffocating. Indeed, I could imagine, in fifteen years’ time, being somewhat blasé; I could picture myself leaning across to an attractive man, just as world-weary as I was, to say:

‘My first lover was called Cyril. I was not quite eighteen; the sun was hot over the sea …’

I took pleasure in visualizing the man’s face. He would have the same little wrinkles as my father. There was a knock at the door. I hastily got into my pyjama top and called: ‘Come in!’ It was Anne, carefully balancing a cup.

‘I thought you might be in need of some coffee … You’re not feeling too bad, I hope.’

‘I’m feeling fine,’ I said. ‘I was a little bit tipsy last night, you know.’

‘You’re the same every time we take you anywhere …’ She began to laugh. ‘But I must say I found you entertaining. It was a long evening.’

I was no longer noticing the sun, nor even paying attention to the taste of the coffee. Whenever I talked to Anne, I was totally absorbed, I was no longer observing myself. And yet she was the one who was always calling me into question and forcing me to judge myself. It was because of her that I experienced intense moments of difficulty.