The Mandarins

Scriassine’s face remained grave. ‘Do you ever horrify yourself?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But I’m not very introspective,’ I added with a smile.

‘That’s why you’re so relaxing,’ Scriassine said. ‘The moment I met you I found you relaxing. You gave the impression of being a well-brought-up young girl who always listens quietly while the grown-ups are talking.’

‘I have an eighteen-year-old daughter, you know.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything. Besides, I find young girls insufferable. But a woman who looks like a young girl – that I find charming!’ He examined me very closely. ‘It’s a funny thing. The women in the crowd you go around with are all quite free. But you – one wonders if you’ve ever deceived your husband.’

‘Deceived! What a horrid word! Robert and I are completely free to do as we please; we hide nothing from each other.’

‘But have you ever made use of that freedom?’

‘Occasionally,’ I said. I finished my drink, trying to conceal my embarrasment. There really weren’t very many occasions; in that respect, I was quite different from Robert. Picking up a good-looking girl in a bar and spending an hour with her seemed perfectly normal to him. As for me, I could never have accepted a man for a lover if I didn’t feel I could become friends with him – and my requirements for friendship are quite exacting. I had lived the last five years in chastity, with no regrets, and I believed I would go on that way forever. It seemed natural to me for my life as a woman to be ended; there were so many things that had ended, forever …

Scriassine silently studied me for a moment and then said, ‘In any case, I’ll bet there haven’t been many men in your life.’

‘That’s true,’ I replied.

‘Why not?’

‘I suppose the right ones just didn’t come along.’

‘If the right ones didn’t come along, that’s simply because you never looked very hard.’

‘Everyone knows me as Dubreuilh’s wife, or as Doctor Anne Dubreuilh. Both inspire nothing but respect.’

‘Well, I for one don’t feel any special respect for you,’ Scriassine said, smiling.

There was a brief silence and then I asked, ‘Why should a woman who’s free to do as she pleases sleep with everyone on earth?’

He looked at me severely. ‘If a man, a man for whom you might have a little liking, asked you straight out to spend the night with him, would you do it?’

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On him, on me, on the circumstances.’

‘Let’s suppose that I asked you now. What then?’

‘I don’t know.’

I had seen it coming ever since we broached the subject but, nevertheless I was taken by surprise.

‘I am asking you. Which is it – yes or no?’

‘You’re going a little too fast,’ I said.

‘I hate a lot of beating around the bush. Paying court to a woman is degrading for both oneself and for the woman. I don’t suppose you go for all that sentimental nonsense, either.’

‘No, but I like to think things over before I make a decision.’

‘Think it over then.’

He ordered two more whiskies. No, I had no desire to sleep with him, or with any other man. My body had too long been steeped in a sort of selfish torpor. What perverse turn of mind could have made me want to disturb its repose? Besides, it seemed impossible. It always amazed me that Nadine could give herself so easily to total strangers. Between my solitary flesh and the solitary man seated beside me drinking his whisky, not the slightest bond existed. To think of myself naked in his naked arms was as incongruous as imagining him embracing my old mother.

‘Let’s wait and see how the evening turns out,’ I said.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ he replied. ‘How can you expect us to talk politics or psychology with that question bothering us? You must know already what you’re going to decide. Tell me now.’

His impatience seemed to assure me that, after all, I wasn’t my old mother. Since he desired me, I was forced to believe I was desirable, if only for an hour. Nadine claimed she was as indifferent about getting into bed as sitting down at table. Maybe she had the right idea. She accused me of approaching life with white kid gloves. Was it true? What would happen if for once I took off my gloves? If I didn’t take them off tonight, would I ever? Reason said to me, ‘My life is over.’ But against all reason, I still had a good many years to kill.

‘All right,’ I said abruptly, ‘the answer is yes.’

‘Ah! now there’s a good answer,’ he said in the encouraging voice of a doctor or professor. He wanted to take my hand, but I declined that reward.

‘I’d like a cup of coffee. I’m afraid I’ve had a little too much to drink.’

‘An American woman would ask for another whisky,’ he said with a smile. ‘But you’re right; it’d be a damn shame if either of us were under the weather.’

He ordered two coffees which we drank in embarrassed silence. I had said yes mainly because I had come to feel a certain affection for him, because of the precarious intimacy he had created between us. But now that yes was beginning to chill my affection.

No sooner had we emptied our cups than he said, ‘Let’s go up to my room.’

‘Right away?’

‘Why not? It’s obvious we have nothing more to say to each other.’

I could have wished for more time to get accustomed to my decision; I had hoped our pact would generate, little by little, a feeling of complicity. But as a matter of fact, I really didn’t have anything more to say.

Suitcases were scattered everywhere about the room. There were two brass beds, one of which was covered with clothing and papers, and on a round coffee table stood several empty champagne bottles. He took me in his arms and I felt a hard yet gentle mouth pressing against my lips. Yes, it was possible, it was easy. Something was happening to me, something different. I closed my eyes and stepped into a dream as lifelike as reality itself, a dream from which I felt I would awaken at dawn, carefree and lighthearted. And then I heard his voice: ‘The little girl seems frightened.’ Those words, which hardly had anything to do with me, rudely brought me out of my dream. I pushed myself free.

‘Wait a moment,’ I said.

I went into the bathroom and hastily freshened up, pushing aside all thoughts; it was too late now to think. He joined me in bed before there was time for any questions to arise in me. I clung tightly to him; at that moment he was my only hope.

At last he said commandingly, ‘Open your eyes.’

I raised my eyelids, but they weighed heavily and closed quickly against the light which hurt them. ‘Open your eyes,’ he was saying. ‘It’s just you and I.’ He was right; I didn’t really want to escape, but first I had to grow accustomed to that strange presence. Becoming aware of my flesh, seeing his unfamiliar face, and under his gaze losing myself within myself – it was too much all at once. But since he insisted, I opened my eyes and I looked at him. I looked at him and was halted midway in my inner turmoil, in a region without light and without darkness, where I was neither body nor spirit. He threw off the sheet, and at the same moment it occurred to me that the room was poorly heated and that I no longer had the belly of a young girl. The mutilated flower burst suddenly into bloom, and lost its petals, while he muttered words to himself, for himself, words I tried not to hear. But I … I had lost interest. He came back close to me and for a moment the warmth of his body aroused me again.

‘How could I ever feel any tenderness for this man?’ I thought. There was a discouraging hostility in his eyes, but I didn’t feel guilty towards him, not even by omission.

‘Don’t worry so much about me. Just let me …’

‘You’re not really cold,’ he said angrily. ‘You’re resisting with your head. But I’ll force you …’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No …’