Hedi Kaddour - Waltenberg

‘Yes, the enigmatic female, that can give you up to twenty thousand readers; in Maupassant, she’d be the woman who has been spurned and has not forgiven, her burning jealousy will henceforth be unspoken, she has the smile of a woman who has every day the rest of her life to wreak her revenge, you could do worse, but watch out for clichés, and what about the dog?’

Max smiles, his face brightens, a splendid Irish setter, nothing delicate about him, Max’s hands draw a rounded shape in space, a dog muscled from its runs in the open air, racing through the long grass, only two spurts of flame visible, its ears, at intervals. It’s a story which is out of the ordinary, Hans, the man is a native of the place, the woman has come from Switzerland, before the war, they met in 1913, in Geneva, on the Pont du Mont Blanc, it was early one afternoon, she was leaving the Valais to go to France, he was going to the shops, he could never remember which one, maybe he was going to Payot’s for some books.

Hans visualises the scene, you’d need to check if Payot’s bookshop existed at the time, your hero sees the woman from a distance, that gives us time to sketch the background, he’s reached the middle of the bridge, the water and the mountains sway gently, their looming bulk tinged with blue, a few well-fed birds watch the hands of the passers-by, on the roofs of the great hotels flags flap, bright sun, Hôtel des Bergues, we’ll need to say a word about the Hôtel des Bergues at this point, you need occasionally to be able to do the postcard stuff, now for the woman!

‘It’s the fluid way she walks that first strikes Thomas,’ says Max, ‘the man’s name is Thomas, Thomas de Vèze, old aristocracy badly mauled by history, I think I’ll only use his Christian name, an attractive walk, somewhat unusual for a woman at that time, neither uneven nor constricted, as flowing as her skirt, steady rhythm, he told me that women often have one foot more forthright than the other, but not her, she comes towards him, brisk, resolute, dark hair, no hat, in Geneva, can you imagine? She’s not wearing gloves, doesn’t lower her eyes, her clear blue eyes.’

‘It’s as vivid as if I was there,’ says Hans, ‘when she passes Thomas he turns, like any self-respecting Frenchman he is inspecting her backside, that “royal rear-guard when amorous battle is joined”, and he starts to follow her.’

‘No, you’re not even close, even today Thomas still has no idea what got into him: just as she is about to walk past him, he calls out, “You are so beautiful!”’

‘This Thomas de Vèze is a novice, Max, even in Germany no one would do a thing like that.’

‘She answered: “And who might you be?” They stayed together, they walked along the north side of the lake.’

‘Max, I can see her, she’s just eaten, she felt sated, drowsy, now she has forgotten how full she felt, for the setting I suggest initially a furtive note, a light breeze, from time to time it turns the leaves on the trees and shows their silver backs.’

Max has told Hans don’t mock, Thomas wants to know everything, the woman says her name is Hélène, she has just left her whole life behind, for reasons which do not concern him, her voice is low. ‘Right,’ says Hans, ‘a contralto, I’ve always liked contralto voices.’ And Hans’s mouth stays open, his chin begins to tremble, like the chin of a person who is about to cry, Hans is completely lost for words, you think you’re strong, you’ve managed to get everything in perspective, memories all in order, sorted, 1913, Arosa, Waltenberg, the giggles, the frozen lake, the large eagle, the bicycle rides, the raised bed, the hole in the chair, the recriminations when he looked at his watch, tea-time, the first time, her hand around the back of his neck, pink on the mountain tops, her breast outlined against the light in the window recess, and even that silly business one day at the Waldhaus, America too is tidied away, relegated to the distant future, transformed into the abstract idea of a destination, and Hans has met other women, some of them ‘hurt’ him as they say, an excellent feeling, to be able at last to say ‘contralto voices’ without shaking, without blushing, we used to go to see Madame Nietnagel, each week we’d go down to Lucerne, I loved it, we looked like an old married couple on an outing, when Lena looked at me as she sang, Nietnagel would say don’t turn your head like that, it strains the vocal cords, puts a strain on everything, Nietnagel’s crocodile eyes on me, she would say ‘Kappler, too many consonants in this name’, her crocodile gaze went over my head, became vague, I knew she was looking out of the window, she was watching for the sun, its rays on the pale yellow walls of the room, she really made Lena work, on the way back, in the train, Lena would lean her head on my shoulder, once she said ‘Kappler, Kappler, I like your name.’

You think you’ve succeeded in settling everything down, you say ‘contralto voices’ and then your stupid chin starts to tremble, an itty-bitty muscle, a stupid spasm, you close your mouth, but then your lower lip starts doing it too, and the lower jaw joins in, actually during the war I’d stopped crying altogether, Lena could be there, in the middle of the track, she could walk down the middle of the track, a wool dress in autumn colours, or hold my arm instead of Max’s, Max says nothing, he has taken Max by the elbow, he falls in step with him, he doesn’t ask a question but Hans answers it all the same:

‘I never saw her again. I’ve no idea where she is.’

A silence.

‘If you want, I could try to find her for you.’

‘No, Max, this is my business, if I’d wanted to I’d have already found her, I think about her every morning and that’s enough, I’m waiting, I really wish I had changed.’

‘So you’d find the same woman again? If you aren’t the same man, she won’t love you any more.’

‘She didn’t love me anyway, in Switzerland we parted company over something very painful, such stupidity, she behaved extremely well, I’m utterly useless, I’m going to change.’

Hans’s chin has started behaving itself. Hans laughs softly, he will become irresistible, he will go to America, Max will come with him, but Hans will not go, all I’m good for is letting my mind wander, it’s what I like best, I have a reputation for being a hard worker but in reality I spend hours and hours daydreaming, Hans’s dreams are the dreams of a shop girl, of a megalomaniac, of revenge, this morning I dreamed that as I was on my way to the Jardin du Luxembourg, I was stopped by ticket-collectors on the underground, they called the police although I hadn’t done anything wrong, I reminded them of my rights, the police were there, my German accent, I dreamed I got beaten up by the police, I was taken to the police station, an inspector who reads books sized up the situation, I’d been roughed up by the police, I got even, I demonstrated that what they’d done was totally and utterly wrong, the inspector talked to me about my books, in the end I got my own back, and quite right too, I dream daily, a vivid dream life, I see Lena again in my dreams and while I’m doing that I get older sitting at my desk, I am soluble in the air of my office, and also I dream because feeling guilty about dreaming gives me the strength to work. But for the moment, Max, I have to avoid saying ‘contralto voices’, so this girl of yours from the Valais will have to have a higher voice, but one just as good, which will easily rise above the noise of the traffic and the waves from the lake which sometimes beat against the embankment, wavelets.

In fact, according to Max, it was Thomas who did most of the talking. ‘Max, I can hear him from here! This Thomas de Vèze talks like he’s never talked before, either to other people or to himself, he has just had the encounter of his life, his own words sound strange to him, more indulgent about things in general, hesitant, he doesn’t know anything any more, and at the same time he has the feeling that he is about to discover everything, he gets confused, keeps glancing at her breasts, she doesn’t seem to mind, sometimes the gap in the material widens, he gets a glimpse of her collarbones, there is ten times less to see than there is of the women walking here in these gardens today, but for him it’s a continent, such things could give a man a thrill back then in 1913, a glimpse of a collarbone. Look Max, since I am responsible for the props in your story, am I allowed to place a very fine chain around her neck, a brief mention, not one of those meandering sentences?’