She stiffened. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ Besson said. ‘I was just looking at you—’
‘Oh stop playing the fool. I was hoping — I was hoping we’d be able to have a serious discussion. Once and for all. I’ll park the car somewhere—’
She turned off into a side-street. Both hands gripping the black plastic-sheathed steering-wheel, the upper part of her body leaning to the left, eyes alert, mouth firmly shut, feet pressed on the pedals, she threw all her strength into controlling the moving weight of the car.
‘If you see a place, tell me,’ she said.
‘Look, there—’
She braked, then drove on.
‘That won’t do, it’s the entrance to a garage.’
Besson relaxed against the upholstery. The engine purred steadily, now and then increasing in volume. The windscreen-wipers moved to and fro together, and at every jolt the seats creaked under them.
‘How’s the car going?’ Besson asked. ‘All right?’
‘Not too badly,’ said Josette. ‘Not now I’ve had the valves reground.’
‘What sort of speed can you get out of it?’
‘Well, you know me, I’m a bit scared of driving fast. But when I’m on a good straight road I step it up.’
‘How much do you do?’
‘Oh, it depends—’
‘No, I mean, what’s the most you’ve ever done?’
‘I don’t know — eighty, eighty-five, something like that.’ She turned and looked at Besson. ‘You’re pale, you know,’ she said. ‘You — well, frankly, you look tired out. You haven’t a job now, though, have you?’
‘No,’ Besson said. ‘I’m doing nothing just now.’
A traffic-light shone red ahead of them. The car drew to a halt at the crossing, and a crowd of shadowy figures hurried across. The seconds passed insistently. It was as though the cessation of movement had suddenly revealed their existence, concentrated now on the circular red light, unwinking, like an eye. The girl sat beside him, hands resting on the wheel, not saying a word. Besson watched her, saw her face react, become gently drawn into the scene outside. With her contained, withdrawn body, her made-up eyelids, the pins and ribbons supporting her hair, she was palpably present, there, prepared to fight and to win. Besson made an effort to shake off the torpor that was stealing over him, to make conversation.
He said: ‘I saw an accident just now, while I was waiting for you outside the Prisunic. A bus ran into the back of a car.’
‘Was it serious?’
‘Yes — well, not too bad, actually. The car had its boot smashed in, but the bus wasn’t damaged. I don’t quite know how it happened — I suppose the driver of the car braked a bit too sharply, and the other chap didn’t have time to react. Unless the car backed into the bus, of course. Anyway, they started slanging each other in the middle of the street, and a crowd gathered. But the police didn’t even bother to come and see what was going on.’
The light changed to amber, then to green. The girl’s arms moved, her hands busied themselves with shifting gear, turning the black ring of the wheel, flipping down the indicator-lever. The idling engine roared into life, and the car moved forward, as though on rails. Far off in the night, above the roof-tops, came a flash of lightning, white tinged with pink, momentarily revealing heavy-piled clouds. While Josette talked, Besson kept his ear cocked for the inevitable sound of thunder. But whether because of the distance, or the rain, he heard nothing.
‘… or never. Do you understand, François? It’s true, you know you’ve been different for some time now. I can’t really understand why. I’d like to have a serious talk about the whole situation — don’t you think we should?’
Besson stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray beside the dashboard.
‘If you like,’ he said. ‘But you’re wrong when you say I’ve changed. It’s not me that’s changed, it’s the things around me. I honestly think—’ He broke off, then said: ‘Look, we can’t have this kind of discussion while we’re driving round town.’
‘I know,’ Josette said. ‘I’m looking for somewhere to park. I’ve got to go to the post-office and send off a money-order first, anyway. After that, if you like, we can go and park somewhere quiet, out of town. Up on the hill, for instance.’
‘All right.’
Finally she pulled up in a space reserved for taxis. As she was backing her bumper hit the front of another car.
‘I’m only going to leave it here a minute,’ she said. ‘Just long enough to send this money-order. You coming, or staying here?’
‘I might as well come,’ Besson said.
‘All right then, close the window your side.’
They got out of the car. It was hard to tear oneself away from that imitation-leather seat, especially when it was so cold outside. Besson thrust his hands into his pockets, and the two of them walked off together.
The post-office was warm, well-lit, and crowded. Besson sat on a bench and watched Josette while she queued. Behind the counters a number of girls in sky-blue uniform were writing or telephoning. In the main hall there was an interminable ebb and flow of feet over the flagged floor, men’s, women’s, walking, standing, coming in, going out. The walls were painted a dirty white, and shone with the bright glow from the electric light bulbs. This was a temple dedicated to work, where time was, as it were, abolished through total mechanization, divided into infinite particles by the rattle of typewriters and dull thud of franking-stamps.
Alone in one corner, an old woman, accompanied by her dog, stood facing the wall, searching through a directory for some name or other. The dog, a long-haired bitch, had its head down and was sniffing at a grey patch on the floor. Besson felt an impulse to follow their example. He moved slowly across to the wall-desk, and with back bent and nose deep in the pages of the massive volume, he spelt out these magical and fortuitously juxtaposed names:
Sébestien
Séchard
Sechardi
Ségur
Senon
Sepia
Setton-Prince
Shave
Simon
Simon
Simon
Simonetti
There was certainly no lack of names: they packed every page from top to bottom, and behind them, behind these curt, spiky rows of letters, lurked human beings, full of movement and death, young or old faces, lives as self-contained as so many glass balls. They existed, they lived here on earth, they had names and surnames and addresses, jobs which they performed conscientiously or with indifference, wives, children, friends. No doubts, no self-correction. Hermetic and impenetrable, they remained the people who one cannot know and dare not laugh at. These thick, worn volumes, with their dog-eared pages, each blackened by the touch of innumerable sweaty fingers, served as a kind of bible for them the living. This was their stern and factual saga, the tale of their adventures reduced to one simple sign, a sort of small cross made with a ball-point pen that marked them out as something hard and inflexible amid the muddy flux of existence. If one were to read them all like that, name after name, without emotion or hatred, one would possess them all, incapsulated within oneself, possess the very core and essence of their lives, make them close neighbours. They would no longer be able to get away from you, perpetually escape to their unknown hide-outs.
‘Looking up something?’ Josette asked. Besson raised his head.
‘Yes — no — that is, I was just looking.’
They walked out of the post-office together.
‘Did you send your money-order?’ Besson enquired.
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Have you anything else to do?’
She opened the car door. ‘No,’ she said.
Inside the air was warm and sluggish. The closed windows muffled any noise from the street. They could hear rain pattering on the roof overhead.