“Leave me alone!” cries Melkior in desperation. “Anyway, good night.” He turned around and was about to leave, but ATMAN stabs his back with a pointing finger.
“Are you quite sure it will be a good night, Mr. Melkior?” and gives him an insolent grin.
Melkior looks at him with impotent scorn. He is on the verge of riposting, but the staircase lights go off. What can he say to him now in the dark?
The palmist’s nearness makes him shudder. Instinctively he stretches out his arms and touches ATMAN, who is coming near step by tiny step with an accelerating hiss of “kill … kill … kill …” He pushed him back hard, in terror, and begins a panicky grope for a wall to cover his back. And fumbles for the switch with all ten fingers to turn on the lights. But the switch is gone. The wall is gone, too. Nowhere around him is there a single solid object to protect him, anything firm, secure, anything but emptiness and dark. And ATMAN is gone, too. There is only his laughter from some strange, sobbing distance ha-ha-ha. And repeated striking sounds, a bang, shouts. As if someone is calling out to him in French. And the light suddenly comes on.
He opened his eyes. The light was on in his room. How long had he been asleep? Snoring? What snoring? He had been hearing himself snore. Something struck his window again. A pebble. And someone shouting in the street, “Mon ami, mon ami!”
He went over to the window. Ugo was gesticulating in the middle of the street. Drunk, of course. Melkior opened the window.
“Elle m’aime, elle m’aime!” Ugo was shouting from down there, sending him kisses blown with both hands. “Elle m’aime, mon cher, elle m’aime, Melchior!”
Melkior’s heart sank. Elle l’aime! Well, let ATMAN hear it, too.
“But who? Qui est celle qui vous aime?” Let it be all spelled out to “him below.”
“She, la Grande!” Ugo shouted dementedly. “Tell you all about it tomorrow. Ah, l’amour! À demain, mon cher. Good night, Oh noble and wise one. Ah, l’amour!”
And off went Ugo, declaiming Baudelaire in some version of his own, with much pathos, assuredly with tears in his eyes: à la très belle, à la très bonne, à la très chère … qui remplit tout mon coeur, tout mon coeur… salut à l’immortalité …
Melkior closed the window. Lost in thought. So they did it straight away, the same evening. No sooner had she met him than … The harlot. That’s their taste in men — talkers and drunks. Didn’t I tell you she’d … said he to himself. This is how ATMAN talks to himself. Me and “myself.”
Hang it all, am I in love? Or is this envy? The thing, I think, is to drink (hey, a rhyme!), to be a lush, a swooze. The floozy! He even felt sorry for Freddie. Sparing but a single thought for it. Hypocritically. How easily this comes to women! And then Ugo walks about shouting L’amour. This is all a brothel.
He threw himself onto the bed. He bit a corner of his pillow and began tugging at it furiously. He felt a chicken feather in his mouth. There you are. L’amour. The hen. She will lie down under any rooster. La cocotte. In any backyard. She will even lie down under a parrot, multicolored, chattering. — Sorry, I thought you were the new rooster. — Not at all, Madame. I’m a general. Nice uniform, eh? — Divine! — I’m a hundred and twenty. A young parrot. — And a general already, eh? — Yes. That is why, Madame, I suggest un peu d’amour before the war. — So there will be one? — Certainly. — And you will kill me. — Yes, and eat you, too. I can already see you, Madame, in soup. Two drumsticks … — Enough of your lasciviousness, monsieur le Perroquet! — Oh no, I’m only a gourmet. Troop movements. We have no time for the finer points. Be mine. — Just like that? — Yes. But with love! — Oh, you’re not to be trusted. All you males are the same. You want everything straight away. — Oh no, not straight away. Half of you boiled today, the other half roasted tomorrow, Madame la Poule. Orderly! See to it that Mrs. Cocotte does not suffer. Use a sharp knife. Give her the Marie Antoinette treatment. Boil the rump. — How tenderhearted you are. — That’s what I am like. My profession is something else altogether. I hate cruelty. Do you like my beak? — It’s divine! — It’s terrific in lovemaking. Il est formidable. You will see. I could tell you my memories. We live long. We, crocodiles, elephants, and porpoises. Pity you’re not a porpoise. You will grow old soon. — I can’t help it, can I? — No, indeed you cannot. Do you lay eggs every day? — How indiscreet you are! I do only when I’m pregnant. — By cocks? — By a cock, by a rooster. By my Coco. — All he does is make noise, the fool. Cock-a-doodle-dooo … What does that mean? Nothing. Rubbish. — You’re jealous of him. It means “the dawn is breaking …”—“… a new day’s in the making.” So much for “cock-a-doodle-doo.” For all that he was a colleague of mine, truth be told. Anyway, they will screech in the middle of the night, too, the fools. And you admire them for it. Women love noise. Women generally love dunderheads. — Not all of them do. — I know. You don’t love them. Those who love us are always the exception. — I did not say I love you. — Never mind. You will. It’s my charm. We parrot-generals are a charming lot. Shall we have a drink? — Heavens, you’ll get me drunk. — Stewed hen. I have seen it before. Not bad. — You are trying to seduce me. — I admit a glass of cognac makes it easier for a woman to understand love. — Is this what you call love? — Well, what do you think love is? Clucking? At least I’m a realist. — You are a seducer of poor helpless women. You are low. — And you are marvelous when angry, Madame la Poule! I’m going to kiss you. — No! Oh, no. For God’s sake, no. Oh, what are you doing? What are you doing to me? — Loving you, my darling. My one and only love. — But I, I love only Coco, my Coco. Him, only … Oh you are terrible, you are! — I am, darling, I am. I’m crazy, my sweet little Poulette! — My little Pappagallo! — I’ll devour you, my sweet little Poupoulette! I’ll devour you! — Eat me, my little one. Eat me, eat me, eat me … ohh …
Tomorrow I’ll give Enka a buzz.
He was tired and out of sorts. He remembered Enka’s furious lovemaking and felt a fierce desire for her. Perhaps Coco was on night duty at the clinic? Should he go down to the pay phone and call her right now? How delighted she would be, now, in the middle of the night. She would say, Quelle surprise! She liked to clothe her adultery in French phrases. For the sake of the décor. Costume muck. À la Pompadour. She was with him, that is to say under him (as Iago would have put it) on the broad canopied bed. The telephone on the night table rang. He tried to prevent her from lifting the handset. No, she wanted to take the call. Precisely because of the situation! She winked at him. It was Coco. Ringing from the university, between two lectures. “How are you, ma poulette?” He was bored stiff. She answered him in French. Mon bichon, mon chéri. She was reading the book he had recommended. She did not like it. Boring. When are you coming home? Two more hours of lectures. Come back as soon as you can, on fera des chikki-chikki. Coco was chuckling into the receiver. Happy. She rang off. She was laughing. “Now then, where were we?”