Die, n. The singular of "dice." We seldom hear the word, because there is a prohibitory proverb, "Never say die." At long intervals, however, some one says: "The die is cast," which is not true, for it is cut. The word is found in an immortal couplet by that eminent poet and domestic economist,
Senator Depew... (A. Bierce, ibid, p. 31)
gs of happy adolescence spent in the best neighborhood
"You in love?" Panic, retrieve from dangerous intimate position. Try answer casually, but for inner earthquake, trembling voice. "With whom?" "With him. The man who was with you at the party. I saw him wtih you before Gisele introduced us." "Oh Paul!" Reproachful reminder of a tie. "Yes, I am." "Then why are you here?" He looks deep in me, moonlit eyes very dark. "I enjoy talking to you." Is it the reason? Paul painful on my mind, wish I could forget. Look away, have presentiment of his next move. He smiles softly. "You want to know what I think?" No, but he tells me anyway. "I think you're not in love with him at all, I think that's why you came here with me, tonight. Am I right?" L'amour, l'amour, c'est une grande chose l'amour... l'amour est comme le ciel de Paris, beau comme la cuisine francaise... His eyes straight in mine, mentally he strips me of my clothes. Peturbation. Soft and cushy intimacy I don't want to avoid.
"Come come now, don't over do it! I can certainly grasp a point." But, with Paul in mind now, I feel very uncomfortable and internally decide that it would be much better for both of us to take off, far away from dangerous "amour" issue. So resort to abrupt question. "You know Proust?" "Proust? Proust what? I don't recall; is he in F 3?" "Oh c'mon, you know who I mean, Marcel Proust, the famous poet of French love, the one who wrote A la Recherche du temps perdu, you must have heard of it." "Mais oui, mais oui. Of course I know him. So what?" "Well, he talks a lot about l'amour, and he seems to think that it doesn't work; that the only good thing about it is that the pain we derive from it will help us see the truth much better, just like a lense helps us to see the words much more clearly, and that from its teachings we draw the raw material to create the work of art." "So, it is true, you are an artist. Is that why you write a lot? I mean, because you are unhappy in love?" Regret having blown off about Proust, realize the danger arisen from newly opened issue and again fall mute. Present state of conversation vaguely reminiscent of psychoanalytic sessions experienced in remote past.
"I guess so. Although I am not as sensitive as he is to the things of life, I certainly find all of myself in his writing, everything he says is true, as far as I am concerned." "But you are not a pessimist, you don't seem to be." "I can be, at times, so pessimistic that death seems the only solution." "No kidding!" "I am not kidding." "Neither am I. But I cannot imagine you committing suicide, you so full of life. It seems to me that you are the exact antinomy of death." "And yet I tried." "You? Suicide?" "A-ha. A long time ago, I thought about it again and again, last time it was about a year ago. You're right, though, I cannot do it. I do love life, but humans can all too easily get in the way and death can only appear as a better place to be." "When you're dead you're not and that's it. I don't believe in an afterlife. We don't have much time here on earth, and I think we should make the best of it; racing is a way of making it more intense." "Risking your life, you mean. I like that." "You do? Would you risk your life for a game?" "Certainly, what else for? I wanted to be a suffragette in my younger days, but what's the point? Everything is fleeting, everything is only temporary. There is no reason why we should attach ourselves to life, as if we were never going to die. We all die, sooner or later, and sooner is fine with me; you know, I burn away, everything in my life is fast, very high speed, like a GP, like a lightning, everything is concentrated in a few years, a few hours, a few minutes... I can never focus on anything for too long." "So you like risk. That's good. I should show you my car, you'd love it. Would you like to drive fast with me?" "Are you serious? I'd love to, I'm afraid I wouldn't be good at it." "Who cares. You' are with me, anyway. Eh, how about it?" "Well, sure. But..." "But what?" "Good heavens! Paul! I forgot all about him! He must be furious, I've got to go back to the hotel, he must be there. How late is it?" "It's 3:30, must you really go? Does he always get angry when you stay up late?" "Don't be silly, he's not my father. But I've got to go, right now. He doesn't like to worry about me, and I know he does anyway." "OK, let me find a car and we go right away. Don't worry. But I'd like to see you again. Maybe tomorrow?" "I don't know. We'll see. But now, please, go and find a car or any means that can take me to him!"
Jacques rushes to the street and is back in no time with a car and drives me home. As we drive away, I tribute the brightening pinkly beach with a last salute, not without a slight romantic, malincholic pang. I am silent all the way to the hotel, I am too worried about Paul to be relaxed at all. Jacques doesn't say anything either, but he doesn't seem to have any hostile feelings toward the new turn of the situation, and very agreeably does what he is not, after all, supposed to do, and occasionally smiles at me saying that it will only take a few minutes, and that if there is any problem whatsoever, now or anytime, I should call him, and when we finally get in front of the hotel, he writes me the numbers where he can be reached at, first the hotel in Monaco, then the hotel in Germany, then the one in Australia, etc. and finally the one in Geneva, just in case, but he is hopeful that we can get together sooner, as he is staying here only for two more days and... well, there is still so much we can talk about, and so much he still doesn't know about me. All this is phrased in a very efficient and fast way, as he must be conscious that I am in a hurry right now, and have no disposition to listen or to talk. We part with a "Ciao" and I get ready to deal with Paul.
Meet Marcel at the Peu de Jaume. Van Gogh's "Starry Night" and Monet's "Rouen" strike him dead. Hours spent in front of painted canvases. Almost adoration.
"What's so special about these crusts, Marcel?" Trance, Marcel starts elaborating on his artistic theories. "There is a grammar of painting. The borderline between sky and sea, the limit between earth and sea lives reversed. Boats like paths over which fishermen walk; houses like marine castles crowded with algae." To all his words I remained in profound stuporific admiration. His comments way over my head. Degas, Manet, Pissarro, Cézanne... all mesmerizing images; a past far gone, measuring feelings. L'absynthe, Degas, Marcel informs me, used Berthe Morisot for
the painting.
"Was she a slut?" If not, am disappointed at the 'all in the family' type of impressionistic paintings; should dislike impressionism which is very impressionistic but unrealistic. "You want to paint a slut? Paint one, a real one, don't invent one from a bourgeois salon, please." Marcel, tilting his head on the left, gives me an audition of his nervous laughter.
"Silly, Berthe was not a salonier! She was a painter." "Was she a slut?" "Not in the sense you mean, but..." "Then she is not. What does she know of sleeping with men of any sort for money, for mere survival? What did Degas know of sluts, after all?" Pets me, takes me in another room. Art lovers observing us, I realize I was yelling. "Don't be so touchy. You don't have to do what you do, nor you have to feel guilty for doing it." Regret having started discussion which leads to nowhere, if not making me feel guilty for having yelled. Guilt, what an obsessive and stupid emotion. Useless. "I must go now, Paul is waiting for me at Tortoni's." "Ah ha, chic place. You sure have elegant, rich friends." No comment.