“Come on, come on.”
Peter went limp.
“Come on now, get up!”
Peter stayed limp. Pulling him by the arm, she dragged the boy along. He let himself be dragged. With his other hand, which was trailing along the floor, he grabbed a wooden dog.
“Come on, Peter,” said Julie. “Stand up!”
The boy came to his feet. His free arm described a quadrant in the air and brought the wooden dog down on the bridge of Julie’s nose. The blow made a dull sound. The girl’s eyes filled with tears. She let go of the little boy and staggered. She held both hands to her nose. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Peter, suddenly panic-stricken, threw his arms around Julie’s waist and began kissing her side noisily, desperately. He seized her hand and kissed that. He said not a word.
“It’s okay,” said Julie.
Her voice was a snuffle; her nostrils were clogged with blood. She contemplated Peter. In this house of defectives, she was almost surprised that he did not have webbed feet.
“You hurt me,” she said. “Really hurt me. But let’s start over. I want to be your friend. Tomorrow we’ll get to know each other. Right now it’s time for little boys to go beddy-bye. Agreed?”
“What about my TV?”
“Enough with the TV! It’s time to sleep. No more TV!”
Peter grabbed the wooden dog and hurled it into the television. The cathode-ray tube imploded. Shards of hot glass, valves, transistors, and scraps of metal and plastic sprayed noisily in all directions. The tuner ricocheted off the wall.
“Kaya!” yelled Peter at the top of his lungs.
Julie let him have a stiff-armed, resounding slap across the face. The boy was flung against the wall. He rebounded, regained his balance, and stood, as it were, to attention, fists clenched and eyes closed. His eyelids trembled. Julie was horrified at having struck him so hard. She shot a sideways glance at Hartog, who was crossing the room to unplug the demolished television set. The redhead was unperturbed.
“Okay,” said Julie to Peter. “I hit you. You hit me first. We’ll start from scratch again tomorrow. Agreed?”
“Agreed, agreed, agreed, agreed!” cried Peter. “Stop asking me if I agree!”
He climbed into his bed and buried himself under the covers. Hartog put a hand on Julie’s shoulder.
“Come and have dinner.”
7
The telephone woke Julie. As she picked up the receiver, she glanced at her watch. Six thirty-five. Her head ached; her mouth was dry.
“Am I waking you up?” came Hartog’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Would you be so good as to come down to my office?”
“Where is it?”
“Ground floor, door K. I’ll expect you. There’s coffee.”
“Fine.”
“You have ten minutes,” said the phone.
They hung up. Julie disentangled herself from the sheets, almost fell, and sat on the edge of the bed. She had a terrible hangover. She rubbed her eyes with her fists.
In the bathroom, the fluorescent tube over the sink shed a nasty oyster-hued light on her. Julie brushed her teeth, untangled her hair, and swallowed two Tofranils. No time to take a shower. She made herself up cursorily and went back into her room. Her little Hermes Baby typewriter was open on the table with a sheet of paper inserted in it. Julie leant over and read:
NEUILLY, 5 JUNE
Doctor Y. Rosenfeld
Château des Bauges
78-Gouzy
Dear Doctor,
I realize that I tried to put off leaving because. .
“Oh my God!” Julie muttered. “You must have been completely plastered!”
She tore the paper from the machine, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it into the cylindrical aluminum wastepaper basket. She opened the closet and slipped into black pants and a yellow blouse.
“You are going to get yourself canned,” she remarked.
She went and took the elevator. On the ground floor she had no difficulty finding door K. (The K, in gilded metal, stood out in relief in the middle.) Julie knocked. She heard Hartog’s voice within.
“Come in!”
The girl complied, closing the door behind her. The office was square, all white, with a white table cluttered with papers and files, a white chair, and two white leather armchairs and a matching reclining couch. Hartog was seated on the edge of the couch, talking on a telephone handset with a built-in dial and a long coiled cord. The redhead was unshaven. He wore a white nylon dressing gown over black-and-blue pajamas. He was smoking. A standing metal ashtray was beside him.
“I don’t give a damn about Goujon’s project,” he shouted into the phone. “I’ve told you what I want. I’ve sent you a sketch. That’s not enough? Shit!”
Julie hovered in the middle of the pale gray carpet. Hartog gestured for her to sit down. He dropped ash on the floor.
“He can stick it up his ass!” he yelled into the phone. “Walkways between the workers’ housing units, freeway up to the site. Costs? What costs? The costs are my business!”
Julie heard not coûts (costs) but coups (hits), and she understood strictly nothing.
“Good, that’s better. Call me the day after tomorrow in Munich.”
He rang off without saying goodbye and turned towards Julie. The redhead’s face was glistening. Sweat pearled at the roots of the seriously thinning hair on his liver-spotted cranium. He lit a Gitane from the butt of his last one.
“I asked for coffee! Where in the hell is my coffee?”
A knock at the door.
“Come in!”
The valet came in with coffee on a white tray.
“It’s high time, Georges,” grumbled the redhead.
“I had to make it myself,” said Georges in a rebellious tone of voice.
“How come? I pay a cook, don’t I?”
“Madame Boudiou is not at all well,” answered Georges. “She’s had a seizure. Almost swallowed her tongue again.”
“Put that down here and get out!”
“Yes, sir.”
Georges left the room. Hartog got to his feet and wiped his face with a black handkerchief. He went over to a side door and disappeared, though he remained within hearing distance.
“You were drunk last night,” he shouted.
“Possibly,” said Julie in a sullen tone. “I can’t remember anything.”
“Alcohol and tranquilizers, huh?” said the invisible millionaire in an oddly cheerful tone. “Better not make a habit of it. Not while you’re working.”
“I wasn’t working.”
“Okay. Pour the coffee, there’s a good girl.”
Julie served the coffee. Hartog reappeared wearing pants, his torso and feet bare. He was bandaged from waist to pectorals. He was holding a battery-powered electric shaver. He swatted the telephone.
“What a bunch of assholes!”
He rummaged through the papers piled on the table, extracted a large watercolor drawing, and spread it out noisily in front of Julie.
“Look. I was the one who made this plan. Can you read a city planner’s drawing?”
“No.”
The redhead looked crestfallen.
“Well, screw it.” He sighed. “I know it’s good.”
“Did you get me up at half past six in the morning just to show me your little drawings?”
Hartog took a swallow of coffee. He looked at Julie curiously.
“Quite the little rebel,” he observed. “I know all about you. Pickpocket. Arsonist. Congratulations.”
“Of course you do,” replied Julie. “It’s all in my file.”
“You, all you poor people, are just too stupid. You go about things in the dumbest way.”
“Everyone can’t inherit money.”
Hartog shrugged.
“For my part I do something with my inheritance. You people wouldn’t know what to do with one. You, Fuentès and company, people like you. What I do is create a work.”
“It’s all about money,” said Julie. “Money and little drawings.”
“Little drawings, little drawings,” Hartog repeated vaguely.