Chapter 17 Chapter Seventeen

When I think about it, I find it strange: between Nina Lechnoy and Helene von Grauen—or at least the picture that Nina's husband and Helene's friends gave me of these two people Between - there seems to be a slight family resemblance.There wasn't much to choose between these two women.Nina was superficial and mysterious; Helen was sly and hard-hearted; both were flirtatious; neither was to my taste—nor did I think they were to Sebastian's.I doubt the two women knew each other at Blobel: they would get along well—in theory;On the other hand, I can now drop the Lechnoy line entirely—I feel relieved.What the French girl told me about her friend's lover could not have been a coincidence.Whatever feelings I felt after learning how Sebastian had been treated, I couldn't help feeling satisfied: my visit was almost over, and I didn't have to finish excavating Paul Paulici. The impossible task of my ex-wife, who, from what I understand, may be in prison or in Los Angeles.

I knew that fate had given me my last chance, and as I was anxious to ensure that I could get in touch with Helene von Grauen, I took great pains to write her a letter and send it to her address in Paris, That way she would be able to read the letter as soon as she got back to Paris.My letter was short: I simply told her that her friend had invited me to Lesco as a guest, and that I had accepted the invitation for the sole purpose of seeing her there; Discuss with her.That last sentence, though not honest enough, I thought was very tempting to listen to.I'm not sure if her friend had told her I wanted to see her when she called from Dijon.I dreaded that on Sunday Mrs. Lecerf would tell me coldly that Helene had gone to Nice.After posting that letter, I felt that, after all, I had done everything I could to secure our date.

On Sunday, I started at nine o'clock in the morning, in order to reach Lesco by arrangement in advance, around noon.I had boarded the train and realized with a sudden shock that I would be passing through the town of Sainte-Dameilles, where Sebastian had died and was buried.I once drove to St. Damier one unforgettable night.But now I don't recognize anything: when the train stops for a minute at the little platform at Saint-Dameilles, only the plate on the platform tells me that I've been here.The place seemed so austere, staid, and real, compared with the twisted vision of a dream that haunted my memory.Or is it warped now?

As the train moved on, I was inexplicably relieved: I wasn't retracing the horrible route I'd taken two months earlier.The weather was fine, and every time the train stopped, I seemed to hear the slight, even breath of spring, not yet visible, but definitely here: like "young ballerinas with cold limbs waiting on the sides of the stage actor", as Sebastian said. Mrs. Lecerf's house was large and shabby.If there are twenty or so old trees that are not growing well, it is considered a park.On one side of the house is a field, on the other side is a hill, and there is a factory on the hill.Everything here is tired, dilapidated, and gray; later, when I learned that the house was built more than thirty years ago, I was even more surprised at its dilapidated state.As I was walking towards the front door of the house, I met a man who was walking along the cobbled walk, his feet clattering; he stopped to shake my hand.

"Enchante de vous connaitre," he said, looking me up and down with melancholy eyes, "my wife is waiting for you. Je suis navre . . . but today I must go to Paris." He was a plain, middle-aged Frenchman with tired eyes and a natural smile.We shook hands again. "Mon ami, you're going to miss the train," Mrs. Lecerf's clear voice came from the balcony, and the man obediently walked away. Madame Lecerf wore a tawny dress today, and although her lips were brightly painted, it did not occur to her to paint her translucent face.The sun gave her hair a bluish sheen, and I couldn't help thinking that she was a young, pretty woman after all.We walked leisurely through two or three rooms, which seemed to roughly divide the concept of "living room" equally.I had the impression that we were the only two of us in this unpleasant, untidy house.She took a large shawl that lay on the green silk sofa and wrapped it around her.

"It's cold," she said. "There's one thing I hate in life—cold. You touch my hands. They always do, except in summer. Lunch will be ready in a minute. Sit down, please." "When will she come?" I asked. "Ecoutez," said Madame Lecerf, "won't you forget her for a moment, and talk to me about something else? Ce n'est pas tres poli, vous savez... tell me about yourself. You live Where? What do you do?" "Will she come this afternoon?" "Yes, yes, you stubborn man, Monsieur l'entete. She will come. Don't be so anxious. You know, women don't like men with idee fixes very much. Do you like my husband?"

I said, he must be much older than her. "He's kind but annoying," she went on, laughing, "and I sent him away on purpose. He and I have only been married for a year and it feels like a diamond wedding. I hate this house ,And you?" I said, this house seems very old. "Ah, 'old' is not the right word. When I first saw the house, it looked new. But since then it's faded and worn down. I once said to a doctor, If I touch all the flowers, they wither, except pinks and daffodils—isn't that weird?" "What did he say?" "He says he's no naturalist. There used to be a Persian princess like me. She withered all the flowers in the palace garden."

A stern, older maid looked into the room and nodded to her mistress. "Come," said Madame Lecerf, "judging by your face, Vous devez mourir de faim." When we got to the door we bumped into each other suddenly, because I was walking behind her, but she turned around suddenly.She grabs my shoulders and brushes her hair against my face. "You clumsy young man," she said, "I forgot to take my medicine." She found the medicine, so we wandered around the house looking for the dining room, and we found it.It was a dim place, with an oriel window, which seemed to have changed its mind at the last moment, in a half-hearted attempt to return to the state of an ordinary window.Two people walked in slowly from different doors without speaking.One was an old woman, who I took to be M. Lecerf's cousin.She seldom talks to people, and only whispers a few polite words when passing food.The other was a rather handsome man in knickerbockers, with a dignified countenance, and a strange strand of gray in his thin fair hair.He didn't say a word throughout lunch.Madame Lecerf introduced her guests with hasty gestures and little attention to names.I noticed that she was completely oblivious to the man's presence at the dinner table—and also noticed that the man seemed to be sitting alone, not next to anyone else.Meals for lunch were well prepared but out of order.Still, the wine was pretty good.

We exchanged dishes, and after finishing the first course, the blond gentleman lit a cigarette and wandered away.After a while, he came back with an ashtray.At this moment, Mrs. Lecerf, who had been absorbed in her meal, looked at me and said: "So you've been a lot lately? You know, I've never been to England—for some reason, just not. England seems like a pretty dull place. On doit s'y ennuyer follement, n'est- ce-pas?? And that fog...no music, no art of any kind...it's a special way of doing rabbit that I think you'll like." "By the way," I said, "I forgot to tell you that I wrote a letter to your friend telling her I'd be here, and . . . just to remind her to come here."

Madame Lecerf put down her knife and fork.She looks surprised and angry. "I wish you hadn't written it!" she cried. "But it doesn't hurt to write, does it? Or do you think—" We finished our rabbit meat in silence.Chocolate ice cream arrived.The blond gentleman carefully folded the napkin, stuffed it into a ring, stood up, nodded politely to the hostess, and left. "We're having coffee in the drawing room," Madame Lecerf said to the maid. "I'm mad at you," she said after we sat down. "I think you screwed up everything." "What, what did I do?" I asked.

She turned to look to the side.Her hard little breasts rose and fell (Sebastian had written that such things only happened in books, but this proved him wrong).The veins in her pale girlish neck seemed to vibrate slightly (though I'm not sure).Her eyelashes fluttered up and down.Yeah, she's definitely a beautiful woman.I wondered, is she from the south of France?Maybe from Arles.But no, she has a Parisian accent. "Were you born in Paris?" I asked. "Thank you," she said, still not looking at me, "that's the first question you ever asked about me. But it doesn't make up for your faults. It's the stupidest thing you could ever do. Maybe, if I'm trying to... sorry, I'll be back in a while." I sat back and smoked.The dust surged in a slanting beam of sunlight; the tobacco smoke also joined in, lingering gently and quietly, as if they could form a vivid picture at any time.I repeat here that I don't want to write anything about myself in these pages; but I think that if I say a little, it might make readers (who knows, maybe Sebastian's) Phantom) was amused, that is: for a split second I wanted to have sex with that woman.It was very strange indeed - at the same time, she was disturbing me - I mean what she said earlier.I somehow lost control.When she came back, my heart trembled. "Look what you've done," she said. "Helen isn't here." "Tant mieux," I replied, "she may be on her way here, and, indeed, you should understand how anxious I am to see her." "But why do you have to write to her!" cried Mrs. Lecerf. "You don't know her at all. I have assured you that she will be here today. What else do you want? If you don't believe me , if you wish to control me—alors vous etes ridicule, cher Monsieur." "Ah, mind you," I said sincerely, "I never thought of it that way. I just thought, well... as we Russians always say, butter doesn't affect porridge." "I guess, I don't like butter . . . and I don't like Russians much," she said.what can i doI glanced at her hand, which was next to mine.Her hands were trembling slightly, her dress was thin—I felt a strange chill run down my spine, making me shiver a little, not because of the cold.Should I kiss her hand?Can I be polite without feeling like a fool? She sighed and stood up. "Well, there's nothing else to do. I'm sorry you've turned her off, and even if she did come--well, no. We'll see. Would you like to visit our property? I I thought it would be warmer outside than in this miserable house—que dans cette triste demeure.” This "territory" included the garden and the grove which I had noted earlier.It was very quiet.The black branches are scattered with green patches, as if listening to the call of its own inner life.Something hideous, dreary hangs over the place.Much of the dug-up earth was piled against a brick wall, where the mysterious gardener had departed, leaving a rusty shovel there.For some strange reason, I recalled a recent murder where the murderer buried the victim in a garden like this one. Mrs. Lecerf said nothing; afterward she said: "If you make such a fuss about the past, you must be fond of your half-brother. How did he die? Suicide?" "Oh, no," I said, "he's got a heart attack." "I thought you were going to say he shot himself. That would be much more romantic. I'd be disappointed if your book ended with a bed scene. There are roses here in summer—here, in On the dirt floor—but don't expect to see me spend the summer here again." "I sure would never want to fake his life in any way," I said. "Ah, well. I used to know a man who published letters from his dead wife and distributed them to his friends. Why do you suppose your brother's biography would be of interest?" "Haven't you read it"——I just said this, a car that looked upscale but was splashed with mud suddenly stopped in front of the yard. "Oh, dear," said Mrs. Lesserff. "Maybe it's her," I exclaimed. A woman has gotten out of the car and stepped into a puddle. "Yes, it's her, that's right," said Mrs. Lecerf. "Now please stand where you are." She waved her hand, ran along the path, kissed her in front of the visitor, and led her to the left, disappearing behind a bush.After a while I saw them again, they had rounded the garden and were going up the steps.They disappeared into the house.I didn't get a good look at Helen von Grauen, just her open fur coat and brightly colored scarf. I found a stone bench and sat down.I was very excited and very proud that I finally caught my prey.On the stone bench was a cane cane, someone's, with which I poked the rich brown earth.i did it!After I've talked to her, I'm going back to Paris at night, and... an extraordinary and strange idea, like a swapped child, a trembling fool, crept into my head, mixed with other thoughts Together... Shall I go back tonight?How about that line, a breathless character in Maupassant's second-rate novel: "I forgot a book." But I forgot my book, too. "Oh, here you are," said Mrs. Lesserph's voice next to my ear. "I thought you had come home." "Hey, is everything going well?" "It's not going well," she replied calmly. "I don't know what you wrote in your letter, but she thinks it's about a movie business she's arranging. She says you lied to her. Now you do what I say Don't talk to her today, or tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow. But you're still living here, so be nice to her. She's promised to tell me all about it, and you might be able to talk to her later. What's the deal? Sample?" "It's very kind of you to take the trouble," I said. She sat down next to me on the bench, and because the chair was short and I was—well—strong, her shoulder touched mine.I licked my lips with my tongue and drew lines on the ground with the cane in my hand. "What do you want to draw?" she asked, then cleared her throat. "Draw the ripples of my thoughts," I replied foolishly. "A long time ago," she said softly, "I kissed a man just because he wrote his name backwards." The cane fell from my hand to the ground.I stared straight at Mrs. Lesserph.I gazed at her flat, white forehead, and I saw her violet eyelids, which she probably lowered because she misunderstood my gaze.When she lowered her dark-haired head, I saw the small light-colored birthmark on her pale cheek, the delicate nose, the pursed upper lip, the dull whiteness of her throat, and the paint on her thin fingers. Rose nails.She lifted her face, and looked at my lips with her strange velvety eyes, the irises of which were set a little higher than usual. I stood up. "What's the matter?" she said. "What are you thinking?" I shook my head.But she was right.I'm really thinking about something - something I have to deal with right now. "What? Shall we go in?" she asked as we walked back down the path. I nodded. "But she won't be downstairs for a while, you know? Tell me why you're upset?" I think I stopped and stared at her again, this time at her slender little figure wrapped in a tawny dress. I continued to walk forward in thought, and the sunny path seemed to frown at me. "Vous n'etes guere aimable," said Madame Lecerf. There is a table and some chairs on the terrace.The silent blond gentleman I had met at lunch sat looking at the hands of his watch.I touched his elbow awkwardly as I sat down, and when he let go, a tiny screw dropped to the floor. When I apologized to him, he said, "Boga radi." (It's okay.) (Ah, he's Russian, right? Well, that helps me.) Mrs. Lecerf stood with her back to us, humming softly, and stomping lightly on the square stone slab with one foot. At that moment I turned to my silent compatriot, who was staring blankly at his stopped watch. "Ah-oo-neigh na-sheiky pah-ook." I said softly. The lady swung her hand up to touch the back of her neck, and she turned around. "Shto? (What?)" asked my dull compatriot, casting a glance at me.Then he looked at the lady, grinned uncomfortably, and played with his watch. "J'ai quelque chose dans le cou... there was something in my neck, I felt it," Mrs. Lecerf said. "Actually," I said, "I told this Russian gentleman just now that I thought you had a spider on your neck. But I was wrong. It was a trick of the light." "Shall we play a record?" she said cheerfully. "I'm sorry," I said, "but I must go home. You'll forgive me, won't you?" "Mais vous etes fou," she cried, "you are crazy, don't you want to see my friend?" "Perhaps another day," I said reassuringly, "some other day." "Tell me," she said, and followed me into the garden, "what's the matter?" "You're kind of smart," I said in our casual, elegant Russian, "you're kind of smart enough to make me believe you're talking about your friends, when in fact you've been talking about yourself. If it weren't for fate Pushed your elbow, this little prank will go on for a long time, now you pour the curds and whey together. Because I happened to meet your ex-husband's cousin, the one who can write backwards Man. So I took a stab at it. When you subconsciously hear me muttering Russian phrases aside..." I didn't say a single word of it.I just nodded politely and walked out of the garden.I will send her the book in the future and she will understand then.