wouldn’t believe it. When I think that I saw her the night before, and she was in such good spirits! What could have happened to her?”
Trelkovsky breathed a sigh of relief. The girl had obviously classified him at once as a member of Mademoiselle Choule’s large circle of friends. She wasn’t really asking him a question; she was simply stating her position. He studied her more closely.
She was pleasant to look at, because without being pretty she was exciting. She was the sort of girl: Trelkovsky conjured up in his imagination during the most private moments of his life. Insofar as the body was concerned, at least—a body which could perfectly easily have done without a head—it was well rounded, but without softness or fat. The girl was wearing a green sweater which threw the line of her breasts into sharp relief, and because of her brassiere—or the absence of a brassiere—he could distinguish the point of the nipples. Her navy-blue skirt had climbed to a point well above her knees, but this was the result of negligence, not calculation. The fact remained that a considerable portion of flesh was visible beneath the elastic strap that held her stocking. This milky, shadowed flesh of the thigh, extraordinarily luminous just before it dipped to the somber regions at the center, hypnotized Trelkovsky. He had difficulty detaching his gaze from it and looking up again at the girl’s face, which was absolutely commonplace. Chestnut hair, vaguely chestnut eyes, a large mouth awkwardly disguised with lipstick.
“To tell you the truth,” he began, after having cleared his throat, “I’m not really a friend. I scarcely knew her.”
Modesty forbade him from admitting that he didn’t know her at all.
“But believe me, I’m terribly sad and upset about what happened.”
The girl smiled at him. “Yes, it’s terrible.”
She turned her attention back to the prostrate figure on the bed, which seemed still to be unconscious, in spite of the one open eye.
“Simone, Simone,” the girl murmured, “you recognize me, don’t you? It’s Stella; your friend, Stella. Don’t you recognize me?”
The eye remained steadily fixed, contemplating some invisible point on the ceiling. Trelkovsky wondered if she might not be dead, but just then a moaning sound came from the mouth, stifled at first, then swelling to an unbearable scream.
Stella began to weep noisily, embarrassing Trelkovsky enormously. He was tempted to go “Ssh,” in her ear, because he was certain that everyone in the room was looking at them, thinking he was responsible for her tears. He glanced furtively at their nearest neighbors, to see how they were reacting. On his left, an old man was sleeping, his body twitching constantly beneath the covers. His lips mouthed a flow of unintelligible words, while his jaw moved rhythmically up and down, as though he were sucking on a giant bit of candy. A thread of blood-tinged saliva ran down the side of his face, to disappear in the whiteness of the sheet. On the right, a fat, alcoholic peasant stared in wonderment at the food and wine being unpacked by the group of visitors around his bed. Trelkovsky was relieved to see that no one was paying any attention to Stella and himself. A few minutes later, a nurse came up to tell them that they must leave now.
“Is there any chance of saving her?” Stella asked. She was still weeping, but only intermittently.
The nurse glanced at her irritably. “What do you think?” she demanded. “If we can save her we will. What more do you want to know?”
“But what do you think?” Stella said. “Is it possible?”
The nurse lifted her shoulders in annoyance. “Ask the doctor; he won’t tell you any more than I just have. In this kind of thing . . .” Her voice assumed a tone of importance, “. . . no one can really say. The fact that she came out of the coma is enough for now!”
Trelkovsky felt vaguely let down. He had not been able to talk with Simone Choule,
Trelkovsky breathed a sigh of relief. The girl had obviously classified him at once as a member of Mademoiselle Choule’s large circle of friends. She wasn’t really asking him a question; she was simply stating her position. He studied her more closely.
She was pleasant to look at, because without being pretty she was exciting. She was the sort of girl: Trelkovsky conjured up in his imagination during the most private moments of his life. Insofar as the body was concerned, at least—a body which could perfectly easily have done without a head—it was well rounded, but without softness or fat. The girl was wearing a green sweater which threw the line of her breasts into sharp relief, and because of her brassiere—or the absence of a brassiere—he could distinguish the point of the nipples. Her navy-blue skirt had climbed to a point well above her knees, but this was the result of negligence, not calculation. The fact remained that a considerable portion of flesh was visible beneath the elastic strap that held her stocking. This milky, shadowed flesh of the thigh, extraordinarily luminous just before it dipped to the somber regions at the center, hypnotized Trelkovsky. He had difficulty detaching his gaze from it and looking up again at the girl’s face, which was absolutely commonplace. Chestnut hair, vaguely chestnut eyes, a large mouth awkwardly disguised with lipstick.
“To tell you the truth,” he began, after having cleared his throat, “I’m not really a friend. I scarcely knew her.”
Modesty forbade him from admitting that he didn’t know her at all.
“But believe me, I’m terribly sad and upset about what happened.”
The girl smiled at him. “Yes, it’s terrible.”
She turned her attention back to the prostrate figure on the bed, which seemed still to be unconscious, in spite of the one open eye.
“Simone, Simone,” the girl murmured, “you recognize me, don’t you? It’s Stella; your friend, Stella. Don’t you recognize me?”
The eye remained steadily fixed, contemplating some invisible point on the ceiling. Trelkovsky wondered if she might not be dead, but just then a moaning sound came from the mouth, stifled at first, then swelling to an unbearable scream.
Stella began to weep noisily, embarrassing Trelkovsky enormously. He was tempted to go “Ssh,” in her ear, because he was certain that everyone in the room was looking at them, thinking he was responsible for her tears. He glanced furtively at their nearest neighbors, to see how they were reacting. On his left, an old man was sleeping, his body twitching constantly beneath the covers. His lips mouthed a flow of unintelligible words, while his jaw moved rhythmically up and down, as though he were sucking on a giant bit of candy. A thread of blood-tinged saliva ran down the side of his face, to disappear in the whiteness of the sheet. On the right, a fat, alcoholic peasant stared in wonderment at the food and wine being unpacked by the group of visitors around his bed. Trelkovsky was relieved to see that no one was paying any attention to Stella and himself. A few minutes later, a nurse came up to tell them that they must leave now.
“Is there any chance of saving her?” Stella asked. She was still weeping, but only intermittently.
The nurse glanced at her irritably. “What do you think?” she demanded. “If we can save her we will. What more do you want to know?”
“But what do you think?” Stella said. “Is it possible?”
The nurse lifted her shoulders in annoyance. “Ask the doctor; he won’t tell you any more than I just have. In this kind of thing . . .” Her voice assumed a tone of importance, “. . . no one can really say. The fact that she came out of the coma is enough for now!”
Trelkovsky felt vaguely let down. He had not been able to talk with Simone Choule,
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