“Big Ninny, why aren’t you a cabinetmaker?
Don’t answer by saying that you have the means to live a better life, I know!
But what do you want me to do?
Sewing, typewriting, streetwalking?
Vaudeville is the trade of those who haven’t learned any.”
“But . . .”
From his tone I realize he’s going to say something serious and embarrassing.
I lift my head, which had been resting on his shoulder, and I observe attentively that face with its hard, straight nose, its wild eyebrows that shelter affectionate eyes, its bushy mustache that conceals a mouth with skillful lips . . .
“But, darling, you no longer need vaudeville, because I’m here and . . .”
“Shh!”
I urge him to be silent; I’m agitated, almost frightened.
Yes, he’s here and prepared for all sorts of generosity.
But that doesn’t concern me, I don’t want it to.
I can’t manage to draw a personal conclusion from the fact that my friend is wealthy.
I can’t succeed in allotting him the place in my future he’s ambitious for.
No doubt, that will come.
I’ll get used to it.
I ask for nothing better than to glue my lips to his and to discover in advance that I belong to him, yet I can’t associate his life with mine in my mind!
If he were to declare to me,
“I’m getting married,” I think I’d reply politely,
“Warmest congratulations,” while thinking deep down, “It’s none of my business.”
And yet, two weeks ago, I didn’t like the way he surveyed little Jadin so complacently . . .
Emotional complications, fussing, hairsplitting, psychological soliloquies.
My God, how ridiculous I am!
Wouldn’t it fundamentally be much more honest, and worthy of a woman in love, to reply to him,
“Of course, you’re here! Since we love each other, it’s you I ask everything of.
It’s so simple!
If I really love you, you owe me everything, and any bread that hasn’t come to me from your hands is impure bread.”
These thoughts of mine are most proper.
I ought to speak them out loud, instead of keeping silent in a wheedling way, rubbing my cheek against my friend’s clean-shaven cheek, which is as soft as a very soft pumice stone.
FOR SO MANY DAYS, my elderly friend Hamond had been stubbornly staying home, with the pretext of rheumatism, flu, or an urgent task, that I ordered him to come over.
He has delayed no further, and his discreet, detached look of a relative visiting newlyweds doubles my pleasure at seeing him again.
Here we are alone together and affectionate, just as in the past . . .
“Just as we used to be, Hamond!
And yet, what a change!”
“Thank God for that, child!
Are you going to be happy at last?”
“Happy?”
I look at him with sincere surprise.
“No, I won’t be happy.
I’m not even thinking of it.
Why would I be happy?”
Hamond clicks his tongue: it’s his way of scolding me.
He thinks I’ve got a fit of depression.
“Come now, come now, Renee . . . So things aren’t going as well as I thought?” I break out into a very merry laugh:
“Oh yes, Hamond, things are all right!
Too much so!
I’m afraid we’re beginning to adore each other.”
“And so?” “And so!
You believe that there’s something in that to make me happy?”