She blows on the herbal tea, which is too hot. Though scattered, the steam still reaches her nostrils. She takes a sip, drawing in air at the same time to keep from burning herself. She knows that her body is analysing the substance, confirming what her nose had announced, accepting the infusion, which is already no more than decomposed chemistry mixed with juices, salts and enzymes. She takes another sip, enjoying the concentration this insignificant gesture requires. She hears the sitting-room clock strike two. Sleep will not come, though she feels weary.
One by one, she observes the objects in the room: the chairs; the grain of the wooden table, deepened by the moonlight, secretly confessing its age in the darkness; the windows; the old-fashioned wallpaper; the kitchen cupboards; the stove labouring over a pot of baked beans; the various knick-knacks and saucepans hanging here and there within Lucienne’s reach. Objects she has observed and ignored countless times. She lingers over the silence, that opaque texture enveloping the countryside’s sleep, a thick and more secretive fabric. She has no regrets about moving here. For such an urban woman, she had no difficulty giving up cultural stimulation, the teeming abundance and impatience of busy people. Country people are certainly no better, and their neuroses often resemble fields constrained by the plough. They instinctively hunch their backs against winter, knowing the season will toy with them for a long while. Their joys can seem more stunted. Since complaining serves no purpose, happiness too is rarely displayed, except in stock phrases, ancient pearls polished in the waters of tradition.
A shadow appears at the window. Bruz gets up and stretches, jumps to the floor and rubs against his mistress’s legs with a worried meow.
“What is it, my cat?”
He jumps onto the table and purrs.
“You’re not allowed up here.”
The cat sits across from her and meows.
“You’ll wake Lucienne.”
In any case, Lucienne will already know she was in the kitchen. She will make her usual comment—“Couldn’t sleep?”—without asking for any further explanation. Another characteristic of the country. People make do; they accept. Marthe reconsiders. People do the same in the city, but because there is so much to do and see, they likewise forget to straighten their backs; they walk with bowed heads, immersed in unrealised dreams and tasks, tasks and still more tasks to complete. She shrugs in the dark. In the city, speed, labyrinths, experiences; in the country, wind, sunlight and the simple life. Two forms of erosion, the same result.
Bruz comes closer and rubs his head against Marthe’s chin. She kisses him. The cat leaps to the floor, then jumps into her lap, curls up, purrs and seems to fall asleep at once. Another shadow emerges, this time from her memories. She sees herself five years ago, wandering from room to room, Léo’s confessed betrayal in her hand. She takes a sip of tea without first cooling it, stops midway and sets down the cup. “When will you stop tormenting yourself?” she hears herself ask. A third shadow passes, a form both opaque and diffuse, which she immediately recognises as her own existence. “Concentrate.” She closes her eyes, picks up the cup, brings it to her lips and blows. The spirit of the plants fills her nostrils. “Taste the tea.” She obeys. “You must write to Léo.”
The town is barely twenty kilometres from the village. Yet one could believe oneself lost and forgotten, abandoned to nature in peace. She sets down her cup and opens her eyes. What would she say to Léo? She waits for an answer, questioning the objects in the kitchen. The night offers only its silence, a wall with a severe, refined polish.
At night, all things are not grey but equal, equivalent, as level as a resting sea, as harmonious as they become with the passage of death. “You’re wasting your time.” She shakes her head. Time does not belong to her; it has not even been lent to her. It is the water into which one dips a paddle. Would it be enough, then, to stop paddling? To let her boat drift through life, to be dead in a sense, freed from foolish fears and consuming caresses? “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” Who is speaking inside her?
She sets Bruz on the floor. The cat does not seem pleased and meows very loudly.
“Shh…”
She gets up and walks to the window. To have nothing left to lose. She enters the sitting room, takes a book at random from the shelves and throws it into the fire, then grabs another and tosses it on top of the first, a third, a fourth, then a fifth. The fire seizes the books and grows. She sits, listens to the sound of the flames and watches their violent light restore the room’s morning colours. For a moment she fears she has put in too many, but the chimney was cleaned recently; it can take them. The pages twist. She knows that she is angry and, at the same time, at peace, because she knows she is on the right path.
She must begin to dream. She no longer believes in dreams, or at least no longer grants them the importance they held when she was practising. Yet they have remained the same: actors performing before an eternally empty auditorium, confident in the genius of their performance and heedless of the day’s jeers. She now lets them perform as they please, pays their wages, the rent and the posters, but keeps the doors closed and does not truly attend the shows. For a moment she thinks she senses Lucienne’s presence and understands that the woman is laying a blanket over her. She opens her eyes to thank her and discovers she is alone, a timid light filtering through the windows, the fire stirred back to life. What time is it?
“Lucienne?”
Silence. She closes her eyes again. That is what happens when one stops paddling: the boat no longer moves and one crosses the hours in quantum fashion, by magical leaps. Lucienne really did come and place a blanket over her. But when? Marthe rises and grimaces, for her bones had grown accustomed to sleep and her muscles had dozed off on the job. She looks out the window. The housekeeper is sitting in one of the rocking chairs, wearing her coat. Marthe takes hers from its hook and is about to go outside when she notices her bare feet. She puts on her slippers and wraps the blanket securely around herself. The morning cold grips her. Lucienne gives her a sidelong glance.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“That’s right… Thank you for the blanket.”
“You’re welcome. You’ll catch cold dressed like that.”
Marthe sits down.
“I’m used to it, as you know… Have you been up long?”
“An hour.”
Marthe breathes in the air and watches the first rays of sunlight. The clouds do not move. The river seems to be growing numb rather than flowing onwards.
“It might snow,” she says.
“It might stay, too. Smells like a freeze.”
Marthe agrees.
“You don’t often sit out here in the morning.”
“I didn’t want to wake you with my pots.”
“I don’t want to hold you up.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world. We all do, when we want it,” the housekeeper says in the tone of someone speaking mostly to herself.
Marthe concedes the truth of this and surrenders to the spectacle before her. She knows its actors and scenery only too well; the seasons resemble those Chinese operas governed by strict rules, a kind of challenge to monotony. The river eats the land, the land drinks the river, the sky chases away the hours, and time lands on its feet, goes to drink at the river, falls asleep in the grass.
“Why is it so beautiful here?”
Marthe does not expect Lucienne to answer.
“You and I have become old roots.”
Lucienne does not react, though she sighs, then says, letting her gaze float near the horizon:
“As long as we haven’t turned into weeds.”
Marthe smiles.
“Wouldn’t you like to travel?”
The housekeeper shrugs.
“Sure, maybe one day.”
“With your Mexican?”
“Oh no, not with him!”
Lucienne’s sudden anger surprises her. The sound comes out hoarse and vehement, a rare tone for her. Lucienne lowers her head and sniffs hard. Something happened yesterday. She raises her head again and continues staring at the river, her features rigid and her mouth a straight line.
“Things didn’t go well yesterday?” Marthe asks, making her voice as inviting as possible.
Lucienne pouts.
“Not too well, no.”
“What happened?”
Lucienne does not answer. She takes a deep breath.
“Women can be real bitches when they put their minds to it.”
The housekeeper turns so that Marthe can see her swollen face.
“My God, Lucienne! Did he beat you?”
There it is, country violence. One cry and it is over.
“No, his wife followed us. She waited till we were in the motel and had started making love…”
Marthe guesses the rest. She will never cease to marvel at Lucienne’s frankness in discussing such things as though she were talking about buttering toast in the morning. The housekeeper continues, forcefully expelling her breath.
“I never saw a woman so mad. She didn’t even bother with Pedro. She threw herself at me and landed one hell of a punch.”
Marthe understands that Lucienne has done nothing to treat it. She gets up.
“I’ll fetch some ice.”
“No, it’s nothing. I’ve had worse. When I was young, a cow once knocked me senseless while I was trying to milk her.”
Marthe bursts out laughing.
“I don’t quite see the connection…”
Lucienne stares at her.
“I do…”
Marthe can see that she is serious.
“Come inside. I’m putting something on your face anyway. You’re too beautiful to let yourself be disfigured like this.”
“Oh, come on…”
“Lucienne! Honestly!”
The housekeeper’s only answer is to stand up. They go inside. Marthe sits her at the table, goes to the downstairs bathroom and returns with a small towel filled with ice.
“Put this over your eye.”
“It’s too late. You know that.”
“Oh, hush.”
She returns to the bathroom, comes back with a brush and begins untangling Lucienne’s abundant hair. Lucienne lets her.
“When did it happen?”
“Last night…”
As always, Lucienne answers only what she is asked.
“You left early in the afternoon. Pedro’s wife didn’t sit in her car all day while the two of you frolicked.”
“We weren’t frolicking! We went for a drive.”
Marthe smiles.
“Do you love Pedro?”
“I did.”
Lucienne’s hair is already smooth. The brush passes through it easily. To make a difference, Marthe gathers large strands and strokes them before drawing the brush through.
“He did nothing to defend you?”
“That’s right…”
Silence. Marthe continues needlessly brushing Lucienne’s hair.
“Balls as big as an ox, but he whimpers like a calf when a woman gets mad at him. Me, anyway, I defended myself. You should’ve seen Germaine. She’s got my nail marks across both nipples.”
Marthe bursts out laughing.
“You think that’s funny?” Lucienne asks, amused herself.
Marthe answers with something else.
“Shall I braid your hair?”
“Go on, then.”
“I have some good foundation upstairs. It’ll cover that…”
“I don’t usually wear makeup.”
“That’s no reason not to. Besides, our new tenants are coming to visit today… They’ll think I beat you…”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
Marthe has divided Lucienne’s hair in two and begins to braid it.
“Your hair is so thick and strong.”
“You tell me that every time.”
“What can I say? I’m jealous of it.”
“Yours isn’t bad either, and red as brick. Men like that. It shows off your breasts.”
“What?”
“Don’t tell me no one’s ever said so!”
Marthe smiles. Lucienne continues:
“You’re known as a beautiful woman, even at your age. Plenty of men would like to live with you.”
“I’m too old for that.”
“There’s no age limit on love.”
“There is.”
“Don’t play the old maid. Changing the subject—why are there books missing from the shelves?”
Marthe stops braiding, then starts again. She suddenly feels foolish and does not know how to explain a symbolic gesture meaningful only to the person who makes it and bound to seem ridiculous to anyone else.
“I’m burning them. I don’t need them anymore.”
“The town library could use them.”
“They’re mostly in English, and I don’t think the people around here would be interested in treatises on masturbation.”
“You don’t have any treatises on that. I know. I dust them every week.”
Marthe laughs.
“You know me too well. I have no defence.”
“I never hurt you.”
“Yes, once, when you spilled hot bacon fat.”
“That was an accident!”
“I’m teasing you…”
“I know.”
Marthe has almost finished the first braid and savours Lucienne’s words. Knowing that this woman knows, understands and loves her brings her peace. Lucienne gives a small laugh.
“Anyway, that’ll teach me to believe in a man…”
“Things were going well with him, though.”
“Yeah, too well. At our age, you’d think we would’ve learned our lesson.”
“Oh, that…”
Marthe begins the second braid.
“You see, Lucienne, I may be getting a little arthritis, but inside and out I have just as many desires. They don’t grow quiet as we age, except when we fool ourselves and play at being grown-ups.”
Lucienne sighs.
“You ought to find yourself a boyfriend. At least you wouldn’t be bored in bed.”
Marthe laughs. Lucienne uses a teenager’s word in the tone of an old hand.
“I’ve had my share. Don’t worry.”
“I’ll never have enough.”
Marthe sighs in turn. What about her?
“I gave everything to Léo. I don’t think I’d be ready to begin again. My life is elsewhere now.”
“Where?”
Marthe smiles.
“Elsewhere…”
“That’s exactly the problem. You’re wasting your time.”
Marthe concentrates on the braid. Lucienne lets her work. Marthe begins to hum; the melody is tentative but harmonious. Her thread of a voice fills the air. Lucienne listens, holding the ice over her eye.
“Those braids are taking you long enough,” she finally says.
“I’m finished now.”
“It’ll make a change, having young people in the house.”
“I hope they don’t find us too old.”
Lucienne shrugs again, as though annoyed by the remark.
“A woman like you, who lived with the great Léo Arcand…”
Marthe laughs.
“For all the good it did…”
“Don’t say things like that.”
Marthe looks out the window.
“You’re right. It doesn’t matter; nothing is useless. And the young woman is an artist.”
“Birds of a feather flock together.”
The vernacular version of the Casimir effect, Marthe thinks.
“And where do you fit into all this, my dear Lucienne? Why are you with us?”
The large woman sits up very straight.
“I’m the housekeeper.”
“You’re more than that.”
“I’m paid to be here.”
“You could have left long ago.”
“I love you all too much.”
“That’s more like it.”
Lucienne shows her the towel filled with ice.
“It feels good.”
“Well, yes…”
Favours returned, toneless words rich in implication, the courtesies of tenderness. Marthe takes the two braids, winds them into a bun on top of Lucienne’s head and deftly knots them so they will stay in place, then holds up the mirror for her.
“Thanks a lot. What are the others going to say?”
“Tell them the truth. They’re your friends.”
“Yeah…”
Lucienne gets up, throws the ice into the sink and is already bustling about. Marthe watches her for a moment. The episode is over.
“I’m going upstairs.”
Lucienne answers with the sound of pots and pans.