The Tenant Read Free Page A

and the fact that the poor woman had one foot in the grave did nothing to comfort him. He was not a selfish or an evil young man, and he would honestly have preferred to remain in his present unhappy situation, if by doing so he could have saved her.
    “I’m going to talk to this Stella,” he thought. “Perhaps she can tell me some of the things I don’t know.”
    But he had no idea of how to strike up a conversation, because the girl persisted in weeping. It was difficult to bring up the subject of the apartment without first having prepared the ground. On the other hand, he was very much afraid that the moment they left the hospital she would hold out her hand and say good-by, before he had had a chance to decide what to do. And as if this were not bad enough, a sudden violent need to urinate made it impossible for him to entertain a coherent thought. He forced himself to walk slowly, in spite of the fact that all he wanted to do was race breathlessly to the nearest toilet.
    At last, he summoned up courage to attack the problem. “You mustn’t give in to your grief,” he said, as calmly as possible. “If you like, we could go and have something to drink. I think it would help you.”
    Then he bit his lips until they bled. His need was becoming monstrous, intolerable.
    She tried to answer, but a sort of hiccup cut through the words. She gave him a sad little smile, and her head bobbed in a gesture of acceptance.
    The sweat was pouring from Trelkovsky’s forehead like rain. Need punched at his belly like a strong man’s fist. But they had left the hospital now, and there was a large café just across the street.
    “Shall we go over there?” he suggested, with poorly feigned indifference.
    “If you like,” Stella said.
    He waited until they had found a table and their order was taken, before saying, “Excuse me for just a minute, please. There’s a telephone call I have to make.”
    When he came back, he was a new man. He felt like laughing and singing, both at once. It was only when he saw Stella’s face again, still moist with tears, that he remembered to take on an appearance of concern.
    They stirred idly at the glasses the waiter had brought them, but said nothing. Stella was gradually becoming more calm. He watched her carefully, waiting for the psychological moment when he might bring up the matter of the apartment. He also looked at her breasts again, and at that moment he was sure that he would go to bed with her. Finally, he summoned up strength enough to speak.
    “I will never understand suicide,” he said gravely. “I have no argument against it, but it’s beyond my comprehension. Had you ever discussed it—with her?”
    She told him that they had never talked about it, that she had known Simone for a very long time, but that she knew of absolutely nothing in her life that could have explained such an act. Trelkovsky suggested that it might, perhaps, have been the result of a disappointment in love, but Stella was sure that it was not. She knew of no serious relationship at all. Ever since Simone had come to Paris—her parents were in Tours—she had lived alone, seeing only a few friends. She had had two or three affairs, of course, but without consequence. Simone spent most of her leisure time reading historical novels. She worked in a bookshop.
    There was nothing in all of this information that could be considered an obstacle to Trelkovsky’s future. He was angry with himself because this pleased him. It seemed almost inhuman. To punish himself, he thought back to this woman who had tried to kill herself.
    “Perhaps she will pull out of it,” he said, but without conviction.
    Stella shook her head. “I don’t think so. Did you notice? She didn’t even recognize me. I still can’t get over that. What a tragedy! I know I won’t be able to work this afternoon. I’m just going to stay alone at home, and have a fit of the blues.”
    Trelkovsky did not have to go to work either. He had