When they reached the door of the nursery school, Besson let the girl go in alone. At this point he was so buoyed up by her presence that he found himself able to stand there motionless on the kerb, smoking a cigarette and watching the passers-by.
After a few minutes the redheaded woman returned, leading a redheaded little boy by the hand. When the child saw Besson, he scowled. Marthe pushed him forward. ‘He’s a bit shy,’ she said. ‘Say hullo to the gentleman, Lucas.’
Besson bent solemnly down and shook hands with the little boy. His small hand felt cold and crinkly, like a monkey’s paw.
Then all three of them set off the way they had come, Marthe holding Lucas’s hand and Besson walking beside them. They made their way through a good many streets, at an easy, unhurried pace. The girl talked to her son and Besson in turn. At one point the little redheaded boy said he wanted a chocolate ice, and Besson bought ices for all of them. They walked on, licking their ices as they went, making occasional little jokes. It was all very peaceful and harmless; it could have gone on like this for days, even weeks. It was like strolling down a long warm beach towards the sea, with a fresh breeze blowing in your face; or, again, like wandering round a fair, without a thought in one’s head, gazing at the shooting galleries and the merry-go-rounds, inhaling the resinous odour of pralines and toffee-apples. A little further on they met a group of little girls and boys, and Lucas stopped to stare at them. Besson heard what the children were saying: it was an argument to decide, yes or no, whether there were any Indians in this part of the world. At another point the girl decided to go into a shop and buy herself a girdle. She left the little boy with Besson and vanished, saying: ‘Won’t be a second—’
After a moment Besson followed her into the shop, bringing the child with him, and watched her look through an assortment of elastic girdles. He released the little boy’s hand to light a cigarette: when he finished, the child’s hand crept back into his, quite naturally, as a matter of course.
Besson looked at him and said: ‘What’s your name?’
‘Lucas’, said the little boy.
‘How old are you?’
‘Four and a half.’
‘And where do you live?’
Silence.
‘Come on, tell me where you live—’
‘Don’t know.’
‘You mean you don’t know where your house is?’
‘Over there….’
‘Or that one there, maybe?’
But the child turned his gaze somewhere else, and that was the end of the conversation.
When the girl had bought her girdle, they set off along the sidewalk again: but this time the little redhaired boy held Besson’s hand.
Later, about nine or ten o’clock, after dinner, when Lucas was asleep in his own room, Besson and Marthe still sat talking in the kitchen. Here, more or less, is what they said to one another.
‘He takes after you,’ Besson said.
‘Lucas? He’s got my hair, yes. But in every other way he’s the image of his father.’
‘Doesn’t he ever ask where he is?’
‘Where who is? His father?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, I told him his father was dead. That way he doesn’t ask any questions.’
‘What does he do?’
‘Him? Oh, he’s a lawyer. Pretty well-known locally, too.’ She began to shred the cigarette she was holding, rolling it between the thumb and index finger of her left hand.
‘I’m not sorry I broke up,’ she said. ‘Not even for Lucas’s sake.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh — he was a really seductive type, you know, everything a woman could want. All the same, he was just a plain stinker. I never had the guts to cut loose from him, though. In the end he ditched me. Bit of luck, I suppose.’
‘He — he ditched you when you became — when you had your child?’
She shook her head. ‘No, not then. It happened about a year ago. Oh, he used to go out with every woman he met. He’d set me up in a bedsitter with — with Lucas. He used to come and visit me every evening. But I never saw him during the day. And yet he was really fond of his son. Used to play with him, all that sort of thing. Brought him toys. Which didn’t stop him being a plain bastard. Money, that was the only thing that mattered as far as he was concerned, money, money. He wanted to make more and more, all the time. He lashed it all out, too. To make people admire him. He liked being admired, it gave him a kick. Trouble was, I didn’t admire him enough, to his way of thinking. I didn’t flatter him. That’s what he couldn’t take about me, I reckon.’
‘Why didn’t you get married?’
She shrugged.
‘Was it he who didn’t want to?’
‘Oh, at the beginning he was all for it. But that didn’t tell me anything. He wanted to marry me because of the kid. There mustn’t be any scandal. Besides, he’d have liked to get Lucas to himself — his son, you know, to do what he liked with. Then after a while we got used to not being married. It wouldn’t have made any difference as far as I was concerned.’
Besson said: ‘Basically, he sounds the jealous sort to me.’
‘Yes, maybe. But I’m still not sorry it ended.’
‘Are you so sure?’
She did not answer. Besson began to fiddle with his coffee-spoon, twisting it round on the green oilcloth.
‘Everything he did, he did for his son,’ Marthe said. ‘He wouldn’t lift his little finger to help me. But his son was another matter. Besides — It’s a bit embarrassing to admit it, but — well, he’s still supporting me. Every month, ever since we broke up, he’s sent me a money-order. So I can bring up his son. Funny, isn’t it?’
‘Decent of him.’
‘Decent?’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Why d’you suppose he’s doing it? He’s scared. He’s afraid of gossip. Don’t you see it? He’s — well, he’s a very respectable citizen. He’s afraid of what people might say. He feels a certain responsibility for his son. He’s fallen out with his wife — mistress, if you like. All right. But he still sees to his son’s upbringing. He’s a good father, I’ll admit it. And he doesn’t act that way purely out of self-interest. It comes naturally. That’s the way he is. He’s respectable. He has responsibilities. It really is funny. All right by me, though — the cash certainly comes in handy.’
‘You should have refused to accept it.’
‘Yes, I know. I ought to have sent his money-orders straight back to him. I did, the first time. But I wasn’t having any luck finding a job. It’s tough getting work when you really need it. Then, the next month, he sent more money. After all, I thought, what odds does it make? He can’t buy me back this way.’
‘You ease his conscience for him.’
‘Well, fine. But that one’d have a good conscience anyhow. Besides, I’m no heroine, I’m telling you.’
Besson was silent for a moment or two. He sat there, hands resting on the oilcloth, rounded back hunched into the tubular metal chair, staring at the dirty plates and half-filled glasses of water that still littered the left-hand side of the table. The electric light beat harshly down on them, and the brightness reflected from each object pierced through his eyes to the inmost recesses of his mind, or body. A sense of fatigue, a drowsy stupor began to steal over him. He felt himself drifting far away from the immediate situation — the remains of supper, this bright-walled kitchen, this table, the harsh gleam of unwashed dishes. Yet the redheaded girl sitting opposite him was so close that he could almost fancy he had her in his arms, was clasping her roughly to him, a mere object.