Dimanche and Other Stories Read Free Page A

what good is that? Friendship and trust are all right for old people. Even tenderness is not for us. Love, well, that’s something else.” She remembered the sharp pain that tender words and kisses sometimes seemed to conceal. She went inside.
    The café was empty. The sun was shining. A clock on the wall ticked. The small inside room where she sat down smelled of wine and the dank air from the cellar.
    He was not there. She felt her heart tighten slowly in her chest. “I know it’s quarter past three, but surely he would have waited for me?”
    She ordered a drink.
    Each time the door opened, each time a man’s shadow appeared, her heart beat faster and she wasfilled with happiness; each time it was a stranger who came in, gave her a distracted look, and went to sit down in the shadows. She clasped and unclasped her hands nervously under the table.
    “But where can he be? Why doesn’t he come?”
    Then she lowered her head and continued to wait.
    Inexorably, the clock struck every quarter of an hour. Staring at its hands, she waited without moving a muscle, as if complete silence, complete stillness, would somehow slow the passing of time. Three thirty. Three forty-five. That was nothing, one side or the other of the half hour made little difference, even when it was three forty, but if you said, “twenty to four, quarter to four,” then you were lost, everything was ruined, gone forever. He wasn’t coming, he was laughing at her! Who was he with at that very moment? To whom was he saying, “That Nadine Padouan? I’ve really got her!” She felt sharp, bitter little tears prick her eyes. No, no, not that! Four o’clock. Her lips were trembling. She opened her bag and blew on her powder puff, the powder enveloping her in a stifling, perfumed cloud; as she looked in the little mirror she noticed that her face was quivering and distorted as if underwater. “No, I’m not going to cry,” she thought, savagely clenching her teeth together. With shaking hands she took out her lipstick and outlined her lips, then powdered the satin-smooth, bluish hollow under her eyes where, one day, the first wrinkle would appear. “Why has he done this? Did he just want a kiss one evening, is that all?” For a moment she felt despairingand worthless. All the painful memories that are part of even a happy and secure childhood flooded into her mind: the undeserved slap her father had given her when she was twelve; the unfair teacher; those little English girls who, so long ago, had laughed at her and said, “We won’t play with you. We don’t play with kids.”
    “It hurts. I never knew it could hurt so much.”
    She gave up watching the clock but stayed where she was, quite still. Where could she go? She felt safe here and comfortable. How many other women had waited, swallowing their tears as she did, unthinkingly stroking the old imitation leather banquette, warm and soft as an animal’s coat? Then, all at once, she felt proud and strong again. What did any of it matter? “I’m in agony, I’m unhappy.” Oh, what fine new words these were: love, unhappiness, desire. She rolled them silently on her lips.
    “I want him to love me. I’m young and beautiful. He will love me, and if he doesn’t, others will,” she muttered as she nervously clenched her hands, her nails as shining and sharp as claws.
    Five o’clock … The dim little room suddenly shone like a furnace. The sun had moved around. It lit up the golden liqueur in her glass and the telephone booth opposite her.
    “A phone call?” she thought feverishly. “Maybe he’s ill?”
    “Oh, come on,” she said, with a furious shrug. Shehad spoken out loud; she shivered. “What’s the matter with me?” She imagined him lying bleeding, dead in the road; he drove like a madman …
    “Supposing I telephoned? No!” she murmured, acknowledging for the first time how weak and downcast she felt.
    At the same time, deep down, a mysterious voice seemed to be