The Woman Who Had Imagination Read Free Page B

learn to be a waiter? Did he know how long it took to learn that? How long did he think? How long?’ The boy listened mechanically, his sense numbed by Rosset’svoice, as Rosset told him his duties, how he must take the orders for wine and coffee, pour the wine and coffee, lay the knives and forks, clean the knives and forks, how he would be subordinate to everyone, Rosset, Madame Rosset, the waiters, the chef, even to the girl at the counter, how he must wash up the dishes in the afternoon and again in the morning. By a curious cynically playful tone of voice, Rosset implied that there was little to do. Only to pour the wine and the coffee, only to wash up, that was all: only a little — a little, but so important.
    Rosset talked on without ever pausing for answer. All the time the boy stood stiff, half-stupid, his big mute eyes bulging. At the end of it all he understood only two things: that it took a life-time to learn to be a waiter and that the only way to learn English was Rosset’s way, to speak nothing but English, to be addressed in nothing but English. He was wondering how, since he knew not a single word of English, he was to do this when Rosset suddenly shouted again:
    â€˜Sit down!’
    He sat down, as before through fear, and again Rosset leered in triumph. A moment later he sucked in his thick lips and became almost menacingly serious. That was the way! Did he understand that? He was to speak French to no one but Rosset; to the rest, the diners, the waiters, the girl at the counter, he was to speak English. And so he would learn.
    He gave the boy one single look, a queer look ofinsinuation, his dribbling lips curled and one eyelid sagging, and then was finished.
    â€˜Madame!’ he called. ‘Madame!’ Without waiting he rolled off, grunting, between the rows of tables and vanished as Madame Rosset appeared in the restaurant to take the boy to his room.
    Pierre followed Madame upstairs, to a little room under the roof, four stories up. Madame was fat and glum but there was no strength in her bulk and nothing to fear in her silence: she had weak grey eyes that blinked continually as though at a strong light and a little red cupid mouth whose colourlessness she painted over with some dark red colour, like that of cheap red wine; her hair was black and frizzy, half hiding her little tumbling black ear-rings. She was like some round, naive, mindless doll. Perhaps Rosset had forbidden her to talk, for when she spoke she kept glancing back, with little apprehensive uneasy smiles, towards the stairs. She seemed glad when she had told the boy to change into the waiter’s suit that lay on the little iron bed and be down in the restaurant by six. She left him a candle, flickering on the wooden washstand under the roof-window. He would rather have been in darkness. He changed his suit; the trousers struck damp against his legs, his hands were cold and he could not manipulate the shirt studs. Only these things kept him from blowing out the candle, from plunging himself into a darkness in which he could feel safe from Rosset, in which he could even hide fromRosset if necessary. He did not realise until he began to go downstairs the full depth of his weakness and terror; his legs would scarcely support his body, weighed down by its flood of sickness and dread, a sickness which he felt might at any moment make him swoon and a dread which was already half-turned to terror. He groped his way heavily and slowly, as though ill, downstairs. At moments only his body seemed to be in existence; the rest of him became annihilated, dead even to terror. At last the smell of cooking reached him, awoke the deadness in him and gave him a little comfort. He went into the restaurant with a queer, forced, half-paralysed step.
    To his relief Rosset was not back. A waiter was just drawing back the bolts of the street-door to open the place for the evening. Pierre stood still, watching. The waiter switched on