Arrest, v.t. Formally to detain one accused of unusualness.
Pantomimeo
"Hey, Mlle Madeleine, Monsieur Marcel n'est pas la." "I know, Berthe, just the same I would like to go upstairs." "Suit yourself, mademoiselle." Sit on a step in front of his door. Talk to the door in the dark of the hall, asking for an answer to my queries. Wait and wait until it's dark outside. Strangers climbing up the stairs, embarassed salutes, gone. Still wait. Voices downstairs announce Marcel's entrance on my stage. "Oh, there you are. We were wondering were you were, Georges could swear you were there. I missed you, the talks were great, you would have loved it." His enthusiasm unaware of my pain has sooting effect on my self. Does he read me at all? Decide to put off role of melodrama heroine and be cheerful. Nothing to gain otherwise.
"Come in. I've got a lot to tell you and show you. I still have those notes and sketches from the trip to Neuilly. I imagine Michelle and Pierre told you all about it, but I'm sure they could not tell you what I saw. Oh, here they are." We chat, in fact he has good things to show me and I regret not having been there myself, but he's pretty good at filling in the gaps. We drink and converse animatedly and get really serious. Letter business all forgotten. As we get tired, physically, our conversation becomes lighter and soon we break out in hysterical giggle. Joking and kidding, we start tickling each other and teasing and we end up wrestling on the bed. We wrestle and wrestle until we reach that point of pleasure that is so vague and yet so strong that it is impossible to describe it as other than what science allows us to call it: orgasm.
"It was fun. We should do it again." "How many girls did you bring up here?" I was undoubtedly drifting away from the troupe. I could have probably been able to find company and distract myself from lugubrious thoughts or even get some good advice from and with Michelle or Franá‡áoise, both of them very sensitive and nice people, althought certainly Franá‡áoise a bit too touchy and Michelle too spacey. However, my mind was working in the masculine and specifically in marceline. Walking alone in deserted places, or sipping a cup of cafe au lait in foreign bistros was more appealing and suitable to my confused soul. More and more frequent "visits" to Marcel's place or to the Cafe only in the hope of finding him there. Everybody thought we were "together" but this general knowledge displeased Marcel more than it did to me.
My visits to rue Condorcet became more and more frequent, and so his "literary" trips with the rest of the troupe, without me, more often than not. Somehow my cheerfulness vanished little by little and a certain uneasiness in the heart, which I could not explain nor identify.
"Can I come tonight, Marcel?" "Sorry, petite, but I have a meeting with the other editors of the Sarrabande. I'll see you later. Would you like to stay here until later?" "Yes, that'll be fine. I'll read in the meantime." "Speaking of which, I have this book here that I wanted to show you. I think you'll appreciate it." Smile, good good Marcel. Lying on his bed, reading his book, drinking his liquids, feeling somewhat comfortable. Have vague feeling of being excluded from his group, but realize feeling utterly childish. Meeting only for editors and authors dedicated to the publication of magazin, I have nothing to do with it.
Immerge myself into Genette's book on Proust, underline heavily with a delicate pencil, make notations, check in original text, feel a sense of accomplishment. Ten o'clock, feel like writing letters to friends. Eleven o'clock, tired of writing letters I will never mail. Midnight, start worrying about Marcel being late, or simply a bit frustrated I will have less time with him. One o'clock, am definitely tired and eyes start closing on me. Two o'clock, curl up in the bed and doze off. Wake up and realize it's after dawn. Sunshine shyly filters through the curtains. Marcel did not come back. Am worried or sad or slightly angry. But have no right to be angry. Look out the window. City is waking up with me, getting to work, tradesmen walking around, shouting their trade to the four winds. Get myself some coffee, grab book again and read while sipping coffee. A key turns into the lock, it's around noon. God, noon already, I'm still in my underwear."Hi, petite. Did you have a good night sleep?" "Yes, I fell asleep waiting for you." "Oh, I'm sorry to keep you waiting. The meeting went for much longer than I thought, but I've got everything straightened out now.
"Mon petit garcon,
I missed you greatly aujourd'hui. It was such a beautiful day, staying at home was sinful, and yet I felt so lonely. You'd be affected by it, if you knew how unhappy I felt. My whole life seemed totally worthless. I have come to the realization I have nothing to offer to mankind, I have no skills, I have no purpose in life, if not to bum around and fuck worthless men and spend all day in bed. No ambition moves me, except for that little speck of pride that once in a while spurs me to do something, to make me create what I cannot create, pointless meanderings through the intricate paths of my soul. I envy you, you so busy, you so generally loved, surrounded by people who understand you and love you, involved in worthy activities, always present at interesting parties. I felt I have nothing to do with either you or any of your friends.
I spent the whole morning lying in bed. Reproachful noises coming from the window reminding me that others have to work and earn their daily bread in fruitful activities. Wondering why you left so abruptly, without saying a word to me. I'm all alone now, no one to talk to. I never knew I would be so alone without you around. I got really bored and tired of being bored and of analyzing my stupid self. Even Suzanne was away. Without thinking too much, I picked up the phone and called the only number I could remember. Jacques was rather surprised to hear from me, but agreeably set up to meet me for dinner. We met at Weber's. I was really charmed by the elegance of that place. I've never been in such a handsome restaurant. What beautiful people! We even had a pleasant conversation. I took him to my place, that is your room. I asked him why he came to see you last week. For a while he pretended not to understand, but then he told me the truth. The truth always turns out to be of a surprising simplicity. You could have told me that, I would have understood. I dove into his arms with anger, with pain.
toujours ta, Madeleine"
Bd. des Italiens is as I've always thought it to be. Proust gives a very brief, but equally lively description of it, and still is the elegant center of Paris. Elegant cafá‚á displays its white-clothed tables outside, inviting strollers to stop by and sip some pleasant liquid or stop for a munch. Jacques, merging with overall whiteness of surroundings, is cleanly relaxed on one of the chairs, sipping wine. Am temporarily hit by the idea that I don't like him simply because I have to like him. All I have to do is sleep with him, not be in love, and that's not really much to ask for from someone like me, very free, very unscrupulous, right? After famous first time, things have indeed improved between us. He has treated me more fairly, more like a human being, not just a dispenser of pleasure. Remote episode of him visiting Marcel still buzzing in my mind, puzzling image of two worlds apart meeting for what reason I have as yet to find out. Somehow this remote episode has switched on a link between the two men and has provoked a new feeling of fondness toward Jacques, as much unwelcomed as warm. As he's nonchalantly smoking his Dunhill (no, he wouldn't lower himself to a vulgar Gaulois), looking away in total absence, I slide into the chair next to him.
"Hello, pussy. How are you today? Is it a new hat, or a new dress? You look wonderful, today, wonderfully appetizing." Thank him with a smile, lower my eyes, I know he likes modesty and humility in women, pull out my cigarettes from purse and suck down my first puff. "Do you have an answer to give me?" I wish life were not so final, always have to make up my mind about something. As long as life throws things at me, or puts me in a situation of limbo, I can pretend a decision is not urgent, but when people put me in a condition of ultimatum, I get scared and confused and don't like to give answers. "I see, you have not thought about it. Did you talk to Paul?" Yes, I have, and as a matter of fact, Paul was not happy at all about arrangement, he thought he was getting wrong end of the deal. "I know what he wants, he'll get it, tell him not to worry. Business is not over between us." I'll tell him that, experience feeling of existing relationship between Paul and Jacques, but can't figure what kind. "Well, then?" "OK, it's a deal, but I want to set out a sort of agreement, what exactly I'm supposed to do, and what you are supposed to do." "Tough cookie, I like my pussy. Very well, then, you shall have your contract. Do you want lawyers around, or you trust it to be drafted by you and me?" Ignore sarcastic tone. Sure. But I want to be free, to have afternoons for myself, to be able to travel, and no jealousy. "Fine, but don't forget who's paying the bill. When I'm on tour, you can do whatever you want, but when I'm in town, you've got to be there." 24 hours a day? "Yes, 24 hours a day." And what about my friends in Pigalle? "Right. About your friends, you better stay away from them. They don't help neither your reputation nor mine. There are plenty of intellectuals among my friends, you don't need those perverted bums to stimulate your little mind."
Tempted to remind him of episode with Marcel, but feel not the moment for certain kind of retorsions, nod, promise, and settle everything between us, after all, I can't complain, pretty fair agreement, I will live pretty much the way I've always wanted, I will have a real place for myself, not a suite to be shared with someone else. He wants to take me to my new apartment, show me the place, make me feel at home, and steal a couple of hours of my life. Got to talk to Paul. Got to tell Paul to talk to Jacques. It's between them, they can arrange it the way they wish. But Marcel! I'll miss him enormously. I'll have to cheat. Wonder what would happen if I transgress the rules. Would I have to be faithful? Don't have the guts to ask similar questions, wait and see. My whole life is "wait and see."