Faces flicker past like stills from a film as she gazes into the darkness of her cupped hands. Percival, the one with the yellow car, the insufferable bore who always whistled as they got to their feet afterwards; Charles, who died later in some accident involving gas and was one of the most inoffensive; Lucien, one of the few who drove just as fast on the way out as he did on the way back; Henri, who could not help crying like a spoilt child when he was not allowed to be as brutal as he needed to be if he were to make it; Jean, the gentleman who had already achieved middle age and was so afraid of his reputation that he forbade her to walk past the house he lived in, not far from hers; Jacques, young Jacques, who was so young he thought he knew all there was to know, and was about to be enlightened where women were concerned. That’s why she was so keen to conquer him. All right, he was so sweet when a quiff of hair fell down over his forehead and he was too preoccupied with something to notice; his eyes were never still for a second, not even when he was kissing her, but he was so sure of her, despite the difference in their age, or because of it perhaps, that he demanded she should submit herself without reservation to his tyrannical programme.
They’d come to a little headland, quite high up and in the middle of the night; water had been flowing down below on both sides, the air was warm and yet fresh at the same time, the peace was so immense that she hardly dared breathe as they got out of the car. Then he got it into his head that the engine should be running all the time, and she protested, gently at first but increasingly energetically. It offended his vanity that she refused to submit immediately, and so he revved up the engine until it was roaring like a bull into the night. Then he grabbed her roughly by the arm and pushed her in front of him to the tip of the headland, but when he tried to force her down, she just started laughing. She realized of course it was the car he really wanted to make love to, not her: her gasps and whispered words of passion would be drowned by the roaring of the car.
‘What are you laughing at?’ he asked; she could feel the tight grip he had on her arm slackening off, and noticed with satisfaction the acrimonious insecurity in his voice.
Of course, she didn’t answer, just carried on laughing as before, demolishing his great self-confidence bit by bit, and when she was finally convinced he was conquered once and for all, she pulled him to her urgently and they sank down together. Everything had gone as she knew it would; he plucked nervously at her clothes, and afterwards he jerked himself violently away from her and lay in the grass, abandoned to his own sobs.
She went back and sat in the car, and when he’d finished crying he returned and started the car with a tremendous jolt, then hurtled off through the darkness and silence at a hysterical speed, brushing against tree trunks and buckling the right wing and losing a headlight; but Jacques kept on driving like a madman until they came to the turning from the side road on to the main road when he lost control for a split second and they crashed into a milk lorry which skidded into a ditch. The smash ripped the door off one of its hinges, but that only made him drive even faster. Strangely enough she was quite calm, and it was not until some days later she grew scared when she thought of what might have happened. She realized of course he was only seeking revenge for his defeat, but that he would never be able to achieve it. She was just enjoying herself instead of being scared, enjoying the wind whistling past their ears and the black road which seemed to be spinning away beneath them. She remembered that night for the rest of her life, and the more frigid she became, the brighter the halo grew over her night with Jacques; she adorned the memory with flowers and garlands, built a triumphal arch around it, and the more frigid she became, the higher the arch grew.
But when she remembered it now on the island, it was not for the sake of her triumph — sorrow comes with great humility — but because it marked the end of something and the beginning of something else, the beginning of something which would finally force her into a solitude which was greater than most other people’s, the beginning of something which eventually, one day at sunset, made her crush an innocent iguana with a heavy, round stone.
No more cars screeched to a halt outside her front door, no horns sounded to bring her running to the window. Apart from a few walks in the immediate vicinity together with her housekeeper Mile Claire, she would spend all her time in an armchair in her room, sorting out Paul’s stamp collection or pasting her amateurish photographs into blue albums, something she’d put off for far too long.
She’d been standing in Paul’s room with her back towards him the day after the interlude with Jacques. She had tensed her back as hard as she could in order to withstand everything that was now engulfing her, but in the end, she was unable to resist any more. It was as if her back caved in, she fell to her knees and ground her head red against the windowsill, pressed her burning face against the wall in order to avoid the temptation of looking at the cripple in the bed.
‘You must think I’m deaf and dumb, but that’s not true as you may be aware, what I am is crippled. You think I can’t hear your laughter echoing throughout the flat, you think I can’t hear the sweet nothings at the front door, and the young boys in their cars queueing up outside.’
‘Don’t be silly, I’ve never made any secret of the fact that I sometimes go out for a bit of fun. I can’t wander about in this big house on my own all the time.’
Paul started rapping the bed end with his knuckles; he’d found an infernal way of grating on her nerves by a rhythmical succession of words, rapping and silence.
‘Have your fun, then. But when are we going to stop receiving these anonymous letters from people who take pleasure in tormenting me, and the signed letters from types who think they might get a reward for exposing the spicy situations they’ve seen you in? Or the anonymous telephone calls, those kind of telephone calls are always anonymous, which torment Mile Claire day in, day out? I didn’t marry a whore, but it’s a funny thing: you don’t marry whores, but one fine day you discover you’ve got them in the house nevertheless.’
More rapping. Then silence.
‘Why don’t you answer? Why don’t you say what you’re thinking: I didn’t marry a cripple. No, but you married an old man, because your father had been cooking the books. Shame and disgrace were looming, and you were his only chance of salvation, by marrying a rich man.’
‘Oh, why do you keep on tormenting me with the same old thing?’
‘I’m not the one who ought to be tormented, you are. And anyway, you’re not going to be tormented, just punished. You’ll get just punishment this time, but look out: next time it might be unjust. And you shouldn’t keep going on about blackmail, not even to yourself; I can read your thoughts, you see.’
More rapping. Then silence.
‘You know full well it’s not blackmail. Of course, it is true I won’t let you go without withdrawing all financial support for your father and his family; but once you’re caught, you’re caught — and that applies to both parties. And then there was some talk about punishment. It isn’t even a question of punishment, come to that; it’s just a simple penance for an unfaithful wife. You see, my charity is almost boundless, I’m ready to forgive almost anything. I expect you know the old penance for unfaithful wives: they have to go on their knees all round a church, carrying a candle. Well, you can choose your own day and your own time as long as it’s this month, that’s how charitable I am. For instance, you could do penance on a rainy day when not many people are around, and so there won’t be many who see you. Mile Claire will go with you as a witness. I’ve also bought a couple of dogs to keep you company so that you won’t get lonely in future, and a new caretaker’s due to start work any day now: he’s ugly and has only got one eye, so you won’t be tempted to seduce him. As you can see, I’ve only got your best interests at heart. But I really do insist you do your penance, not least in view of your father’s financial state.’