Three Bedrooms in Manhattan (15 page)

They didn't look at each other. They were too scared. They were saying the words, but they didn't really believe what they were saying.

“You should get some sleep, Kay.”

“I couldn't.”

“Go to bed.” It was the kind of pointless thing people say at such moments.

“Do you think it's even worth it? It's already two. We'll have to leave here at six, in case we don't find a taxi.”

She almost said—he thought she almost said—“If only we had a phone …”

“That means we'll have to be up at five. You'll want a cup of coffee, won't you?”

She lay down on the bed, fully dressed. He paced around, then lay down beside her. Neither spoke or closed their eyes. They both stared at the ceiling.

He'd never felt so depressed, so filled with despair that was without an object, for which he had no words, and against which there was no defense.

He whispered, “You'll come back?”

Without answering, she found his hand under the cover and squeezed it hard.

“I wish I could die instead of her.”

“Stop it. Nobody's going to die.”

He wondered if she was crying. He passed his hands over her eyes and they were dry.

“You'll be all alone, François. That's what hurts me the most. Tomorrow, when you come home from the station …”

A sudden thought alarmed her, and she sat up, looking wide-eyed at him. “You're taking me to the station, aren't you? You must! I'm sorry for asking, but I don't think I could go through with it alone. I know I have to go, and you have to make me go, even if—”

She buried her face in her pillow, and neither of them spoke, lost in their separate thoughts, preparing for the loneliness that lay ahead.

She slept a little. He dozed off for a very short while and then got up to make the coffee.

The sky was even darker at five in the morning than at midnight. The streetlights did nothing to dispel the gloom, and the spitting rain threatened to continue all day.

“Time to get up, Kay.”

“All right …”

He didn't kiss her. They hadn't kissed all night—perhaps because of Michelle, perhaps because they both were afraid of losing control.

“Dress warmly.”

“All I have is my fur.”

“Wear a wool dress, at least.”

They managed to say meaningless things like “It's always hot on the train.”

She drank her coffee but couldn't eat anything. He helped her close her overstuffed suitcase, and she looked around the room.

“Do you mind if I leave the rest of my things here?”

“It's time to go. Come on.”

There were only two lit windows on the whole street. Other people who had a train to catch? People who were sick?

“Stay in the doorway. I'll go to the corner and try to find a cab.”

“We'll lose time.”

“If I don't find one right away, we'll take the subway. You'll stay here, won't you?”

Stupid question. Where was she going to go? He turned up his coat collar, lowered his head against the rain, and, keeping close to the buildings, ran for the corner. He'd just made it when he heard her voice behind him: “François! François!”

Kay stood in the middle of the sidewalk, waving her arms. A taxi had stopped two doors away, bringing a couple home after a night out.

Some coming home, others heading out—it was like the changing of a guard. Kay held the cab door open and spoke to the driver while Combe fetched her suitcase from the doorway.

“Grand Central.”

The car seat was sticky with the humidity, everything was soaked all around, the air was raw. She pressed herself against him. They kept silent. No one was in the streets. They didn't even see another car until they reached the station.

“Don't get out, François. Go home.”

She had laid an emphasis on the last word, to give him courage.

“There's still an hour to wait.”

“It doesn't matter. I'll get something warm at the bar. I'll try to eat something.”

She forced a smile. The taxi had stopped, but they didn't get out, not yet ready to run through the curtain of rain that separated them from the building.

“Don't get out, François …”

It wasn't cowardice—he actually didn't have the strength to climb out, to follow her into the labyrinth of the station, to stare at the ticking hand of the huge clock, to live through their parting, minute by minute, second by second, following the crowd when the gates were opened, catching sight of the train.

She leaned over to him, and there were raindrops on her fur coat. Her lips were burning. They clung to each other for a long moment, the driver's back to them, and Combe saw the light in her eyes, heard her stammer, as in a dream, “Somehow now it doesn't feel like going away…it feels like coming home.”

She pulled herself away from him. She had opened the door and gestured to a porter to take her suitcase. Combe would never forget the three quick steps she took, her momentary hesitation, the rain-streaked glass, the rain spattering on the sidewalk.

She turned, smiling, her face pale. She held her purse in one hand. One more step and she would disappear through the immense glass doors.

Then she waved with her other hand, without lifting it much, only reaching out to him slightly, letting her fingers say good-bye.

He saw her again, half hidden by the glass. Then she walked off behind the porter with quick, brisk steps, and the driver turned around to ask him where he wanted to go.

He must have told him the address. And without thinking, he had filled his pipe. His mouth felt furry and dry.

She had said, “Like coming home …”

He sensed a promise of sorts there.

But he didn't understand.

Combe hadn't taken a nosedive, which is what he'd expected. Instead it had been like slowly sinking, day by day, hour by hour.

For the first few days, at least, he was restless but still normal enough. All through that endless night, which now seemed so short, he had begged, “You'll call me?”

“Here?”

He'd sworn that he would have a phone installed immediately. He'd set about getting one the very first morning, afraid it would take too long and he'd miss her call.

“Will you phone me?”

“Of course, darling. If I can.”

“You can always call if you really want to.”

“I will, I promise.”

The phone had been installed. It turned out to be so easy that he was almost annoyed he hadn't had to move heaven and earth to get it done.

The city was gray and grubby. It rained. Now sleet was falling, darkening the street to such an extent that it was hard to make out the Jewish tailor in his cell-like room.

The phone had been installed ever since the second day, and he hadn't dared to go out, even though Kay could barely have made it to Mexico.

“I'll call information in New York,” she'd explained. “That's how I'll get your number.”

He'd already called information five or six times to make sure they knew he was connected.

How strange it was. Kay seemed to have melted away into the rain. He really did see her as through a rain-streaked window, a bit blurry, distorted, but that made him cling even harder to the image of her he was desperately trying to hold in his mind.

Letters came for her, forwarded from Jessie's address. Kay had told him, “Open them all. There won't be any secrets in them.”

And yet he hesitated. He let them pile up. He didn't decide to look until, on one, he spotted the blue-and-orange logo of Grace Lines. It was a letter from Jessie airmailed from the Bahamas.

He knew them all by heart now.

And it was all so far away. It was like looking through the wrong end of a telescope and seeing things taking place in a world that made no sense.

He repeated it to himself: “If push had come to shove!”

It was a strange feeling. There were times when he felt almost relieved, his head clear, unclouded, moments when the world was free of shadow, looking so crisp and fresh that it was almost physically painful.

This letter had a French stamp and a Toulon postmark. Hadn't Kay told him to open them all?

He read slowly, because every word held a special meaning for him.

This one, Combe knew, had slept with her. He knew where and under what circumstances. He knew everything, down to the last detail, since he'd practically begged to know. It hurt him and pleased him at the same time.

That's right, he had children, too.

Chubby!

He dug his fingernails into the curtain. And yet he was quite calm. He was still calm. It was only the first few days. He was so calm that he mistook the emptiness around him for real emptiness, and it was then that he thought coldly,
It's over
.

He was free again, free at six in the evening to have as many drinks as he wanted with Laugier, to talk with him as much as he liked.

If Laugier asked about that “thirty-three-year-old girl,” he was free to say, “Who?”

And there was no denying that it made him feel a little better. Laugier was right. It was bound to turn out badly. There was no way it could turn out well.

Sometimes he wanted to see Laugier again. On several occasions he got as far as the entrance to the Ritz, but he felt too guilty to go in.

Other mail came for Kay, mostly bills. Among them was one from the dry cleaners and there was another from a milliner who'd done something to a hat of hers, probably the one she'd worn on the night they met. He could see it now, perched over one eye, and right away it assumed the value of a memento for him.

Sixty-eight cents!

Not for the hat, but for doing something to it. To have a ribbon put on or taken off, some small, silly, feminine thing.

Sixty-eight cents …

He remembered the amount. And he remembered that the milliner was on Twenty-sixth Street. Then, in spite of himself, he imagined the way there, the way Kay, on foot, must have gone, as if during one of their long night rambles.

They'd done a lot of walking, that was for sure.

Nobody had called since the phone had been put in, nobody could have, since no one knew he had one.

Except Kay. Kay had promised, “I'll call as soon as I can.”

But Kay hadn't called. He was afraid to go out. For hours he sat, hypnotized, watching the Jewish tailor. He now knew when he ate, when he assumed or abandoned his hieratic pose at his worktable. Combe lived across the street from this other loneliness, and he knew what it was like.

And he was almost ashamed of the lobster they'd had delivered. Because now he could imagine himself in the other man's place.