Pantomine, n. A play in which the story is told without violence to the language. The least disagreeable form of dramatic action. (A. Bierce, ibid, p. 97)
Painful hangover hangs over my next day, and aspirins and coffees only relatively come to the rescue. Phone ring pierces my head right through, but I dutifully answer. Paul proves to be too far away to be even hearing ring. Familiar voice addresses me with cordiality and affability. A strong pang at the stomach reveals me that it is Jacques. He courteously asks me if I am well, and I inform him that alcohol has never been my best medicine. He laughs sympathetically and asks me if a nice walk on the beach or a cup of coffee or anything will help, and I am reminded that he had asked me out last night. Am also reminded of strong guilt feelings upon return and of enjoyable sex afterwards, so accept gracefully and gratefully. He'll come and pick me up in a matter of minutes, if I want. I think I have to get myself presentable, and reply that two hours would be much better, and we both agree about that. As soon as Paul's face reemerges from the void, I announce him that one of the people I met at the party last night invited me for an outing and, being as open-minded as I know him to be, he doesn't remonstrate and actually thinks of it as a good idea. This makes me feel more confortable about seeing Jacques and I get myself ready, justly feeling that I did not lie when I said "to go out with someone from the party", and Paul didn't inquire (perhaps out of excessive trust in me) on the gender of the person, and I didn't feel compelled to specify.
In the morning, bright and early, at the dawn of 10 am, transport myself to the Cafe, throbbing heart floating over my stomach. Georgette, Maurice and Philippe already there and can't wait to give me details of their picnic. Preciously I preserve the dear secret in my chest. We talk, more friends come, cafe louder, livelier, Marcel appears, the rest doesn't count.
"Hey, Marcel, at last; we are invited at the MedalliáŠáre tomorrow. Mme Fouquet wishes us to read our poetry at her party. We cannot miss, we promised." "The old bag!" "We promised..." "I know, I know. I can hear her already: 'Oh, petit Marcel, you are such a delightful person. What are you going to entertain us with tonight?', as if she didn't know. By the way, Charles, have you read the Barre article on le Figaro yesterday? Quel imposteur, hein?" Quietly I chew my hardboiled egg, drink sherry and listen to this bunch of friendly people, and Marcel, virilly participating, often leading discussion, so loved, so respected. Is it my impression that he's more extroverted than usual and gifted? Afterwards he offers me a ride home, welcomed. We drive through the city deserted and sparsely lit. The car stops in front of my door, Marcel turns to me. "It was a wonderful evening, no ma petite?" "Yes, very lovely." Reaches across the gear box and kisses my cheek. "Goodnight Marcel." Am thunderstruck, he kisses my lips. Remain frozen, shocked. He reads my coldness.
"Goodnight Marcel. I'll see you tomorrow." His eyes breathing on my lips retrieve surprised. "Goodnight." I leave him, his sad, almond eyes follow me in bed. I think we were both in front of unavoidable truth. It's not possible for us to fool around, in which field I've not outgrown my puberty. And we cannot even go back to simple friendship. After all, it's all my fault. It's never been a pure and simple friendship right from the start; looking back, I can see I've always been attracted to him. Therefore I must have provoked him. In bed, cannot sleep a wink. In demi wake see face of Marcel sweet guy, Marcel lively with friends, Marcel leader, Marcel with cheap women, Marcel sleeping with cheap women, Marcel naked, Marcel in love with me. I can't get used to it. Get up many times, drink lots of milk and brandy, same result, no result. A very long night followed by a very long day; no sign of Marcel, accentuated by blatant avoidance of Pigalle, rue Condorá‡áet and cafá‚á. Walking around, brousing bookstores, buying records of depressing Brel, stealing postcards, drinking tea and coffee in all the cafá‚ás in the city, staying away from any bohemien.
Go back home, undress, slip under the covers and read Proust. Phone rings, identify Marcel's voice, tremble. Sweet and lively, he asks for my forgivance, he didn't mean to offend me, he thought I wouldn't mind, but he realizes that it was unexpected and respects my feelings. Who needs understanding sensitive lovers, after all? He wonders if we could cover it all up with some good Provená‡áal food, but regret to decline, since I'm already in bed (on which he tactfully restrains from joking) and don't feel like getting into clothes again. Tomorrow for sure. We part amicably, as if no sexual interference ever took place. All this sentimental yo-yo is wearing me out.
Peaceful meeting with Paul solves our situation of not having a situation any longer. We decide to part, in view of lack of relationship on each part. He's going to move into fancy loft on the boulevard Haussmann; I shall find a furnished room in Pigalle, much more affordable than present hotel suite. Which brings up money problem and Paul offers to pay bills and give me extra money to live on. Accepted. In exchange I promised to always be available in case he needs a warm body for a night. Bright laughter.
"I'll always be there if you need a friend, you know that. You shouldn't talk of cheap sex between us. I still care for you, don't forget." Thank him for this pledge and remember that I should need it sometime, maybe sooner than he thinks. Start feeling like a Manon Lescaut of the XX century, living in ill-famed quartier of Paris, among prostitutes strolling down the streets of Pigalle, blue-lit bars containing same genre of employees, sexy shops everywhere, my kind of place. Much safer than any ritzy place in the city. Be able to walk at night without being bothered. At the most some remarks from harmless immigrants or drunk workers or get a friendly look from some temporarily unemployed walker.
"My little boy, it is with the utmost regret and repulsion that I announce to you the end of our friendship. The feelings which you so passionately expressed for me have infected me leaving you indifferent and happy. Your happiness, although it should replenish my heart with joy, hurts me so much, you would not dare to look at me again. I had forgotten that it is my destiny to love worty men too late, once I have rejected them already and lost their love. Paul and I will be moving to Monpellier next week. After we have broken up, I've been miserable and with him at least I can feel secure.
Your friendship has been very good and precious to me. You have made me see things unseen for me, you have made me feel and enjoy the beauty of art and poetry. I shall be grateful to you forever. Forgive me, if I ever hurt you in any way. You can only hurt the people you love, and that is my excuse, if ever I can feign one. I pray you, don't let me see your face ever again. I don't want you to remember me as a crying brat.
yours forever, Madeleine"
Innate tendency to overdramatize feelings pretty apparent in senseless note. Group of people raids into cafe, Marcel's face and laughter barely emerging, a brunette under his arm. Crumple letter in a frenzy of anger, throw it on the floor and leave unnoticed.