Jealousy and in the Labyrinth (15 page)

The car immediately bursts into flames. The whole brush is illuminated by the crackling, spreading fire. It is the sound the centipede makes, motionless again on the wall, in the center of the panel.

Listening to it more carefully, this sound is more like a breath than a crackling: the brush is now moving down the loosened hair. No sooner has it reached the bottom than it quickly enters the ascending phase of the cycle, describing a curve which brings it back to its point of departure on the smooth hair of the head, where it begins moving down once again.

On the opposite wall of the bedroom, the vulture is still at the same point in its banked turn. A little below it, on top of the ship's mast, the other bird has not moved either. Below, in the foreground, the piece of cloth is still half raised by the same undulation of the swell. And the two natives in the canoe have not stopped looking at the plume of foam still about to fall back on the prow of their fragile craft.

And down below, the table top offers a varnished surface where the leather writing-case is in its place parallel with the long side of the table. To the left, a circle of felt intended for this use receives the circular base of the kerosene lamp.

Inside the writing-case, the green blotter is covered with fragments of handwriting in black ink: tiny lines, arcs, crosses, loops, etc. . . .; no complete letter can be made out, even in a mirror. Eleven sheets of pale blue writing paper of ordinary commercial size have been slipped into the side pocket of the portfolio. The first of these shows the evident traces of a word scratched out—on the upper right—of which only two tiny lines remain, greatly lightened by the eraser. The paper at this point is thinner, more translucent, but its grain is almost smooth, ready for the new inscription. As for the old letters, those which were there before, it is not possible to reconstitute them. The leather writing-case contains nothing else.

In the drawer of the table, there are two pads of writing- paper; one is new, the second almost used up. The size of the sheets, their quality, and their pale blue color are identical with those of the preceding ones. Beside them are lying three packages of envelopes lined with dark blue, still surrounded by their white band. But one of the packages is missing a good half of its envelopes, and the band is loose around those that remain.

Except for two black pencils, a circular typewriter eraser, the novel that has been the object of many discussions, and an unused booklet of stamps, there is nothing else in the drawer.

The top drawer of the heavy chest requires a longer inventory. In its right half are several boxes full of old letters; almost all are still in their envelopes, with stamps from Europe or Africa: letters from A .. .'s family, letters from various friends. . . .

A series of faint slaps is audible from the west side of the veranda, on the other side of the bed, behind the window with its lowered blinds. This might be the sound of steps on the flagstones. Yet the boy and the cook must long since be in bed. Besides, their feet—either bare or in espadrilles—are completely silent.

The noise has stopped again. If it was actually a step, it was a quick, slight, furtive one. It did not sound like a man's step, but that of a four-footed creature: some wild dog that managed to get up onto the veranda.

It has disappeared too quickly to leave a precise recollection: the ear has not even had time to hear it. How many times was the faint impact repeated against the flagstones? Barely five or six, or even less. Not many for a passing dog. The fall of a big lizard from the eaves often produces a similar muffled "slap"; but then it would have taken five or six lizards falling one after another, which is unlikely. . . . Only three lizards? That would be too many too. Perhaps, after all, the noise was repeated only twice.

As it fades in time, its likelihood diminishes. Now it is as if there had been nothing at all. Through the chinks of the blinds—a little later—it is, of course, impossible to see anything at all. All that can be done is to close the blinds by manipulating the cord at the side.

The bedroom is closed again. The chevrons of the floor tiles, the grooves of the walls, and those of the ceiling turn faster and faster. Standing on the pier, the person watching the floating debris begins to bend over, without losing any of his stiffness. He is wearing a well-cut white suit and has a colonial helmet on his head. The tips of his black mustache are waxed and point upward in an old-fashioned style.

No. His face, which is not illuminated by the sun, lets nothing be supposed, not even the color of his skin. It looks as if the little wave, continuing its advance will unfold the piece of material and reveal whether it is an article of clothing, a canvas sack, or something else, if there is still enough daylight to see.

At this moment the light suddenly goes out.

It has probably faded gradually, up to now; but this is not for sure. Was its range shortened? Was its color yellower?

Yet the pump valve was primed several times early in the evening. Has all the kerosene been burned already? Had the boy forgotten to fill the reservoir? Or does the suddenness of the phenomenon indicate the sudden obstruction of a tube, due to some impurity in the fuel?

In any case, relighting the lamp is too complicated to bother about. To cross the bedroom in darkness is not so difficult, nor to reach the big chest and its open drawer, the packages of unimportant letters, the boxes of buttons, the balls of yarn, a skein of fine silk threads like hair, nor to close the drawer again.

The absence of the hissing of the kerosene lamp makes it easier to understand the considerable volume it produced. The chain which was gradually playing out has suddenly been broken or unhooked, abandoning the cubical cage to its own fate: falling free. The animals too must have fallen silent, one by one, in the valley. The silence is such that the faintest movements become impracticable.

Like this shapeless darkness, the silky hair flows between the curving fingers. It falls free, thickens, pushes its tentacles in all directions, coiling over itself in an increasingly complex skein whose convolutions and apparent mazes continue to let the fingers pass through it with the same indifference, with the same facility.

With the same facility, the hair lets itself be unknotted, falls over the shoulder in a docile tide while the brush moves smoothly from top to bottom, from top to bottom, from top to bottom, guided now by the breathing alone, which in the complete darkness is enough to create a regular rhythm capable of measuring something, if something remains to measure, to limit, to describe in the total darkness, until the day breaks, now.

The day has broken long since. At the bottom of the two windows facing south, rays of light filter through the chinks of the closed blinds. For the sun to strike the facade at this angle, it must already be quite high in the sky. A . . . has not come back. The drawer of the chest to the left of the bed is still half open. Since it is quite heavy, it creaks as it slips back into place.

The bedroom door, on the contrary, turns silently on its hinges. The rubber-soled shoes make no sound on the hallway tiles.

To the left of the door to the veranda, the boy has arranged as usual the low table and the single chair and the single coffee-cup on the table. The boy himself appears at the corner of the house, carrying in both hands the tray with the coffee-pot on it.

Having set down his burden near the cup, he says: "Missy, she has not come back."

In the same tone he might have said, "The coffee, it is served,"

"God bless you," or anything at all. His voice invariably chants the same notes, so that it is impossible to distinguish questions from other sentences. Besides, like all the native servants, this boy is accustomed never to expect an answer to his questions. He immediately leaves again, this time going into the house through the open hall door.

The morning sun rakes this central part of the veranda, as it does the whole valley. In the almost cool air that follows daybreak, the singing of birds has replaced that of the nocturnal crickets, and resembles it, though less even, embellished occasionally by a few somewhat more musical sounds. As for the birds, they are no more evident than the crickets—no more than usual—fluttering in concealment beneath the green clusters of the banana trees, all around the house.

In the zone of bare earth that separates the trees from the house, the ground sparkles with innumerable dew-covered webs which the tiny spiders have spun between the clumps of dirt. Further down, on the log bridge over the little stream, a crew of five workmen is preparing to replace the logs which the termites have eaten away inside.

On the veranda, at the corner of the house, the boy appears, following his usual route. Six steps behind him comes a second Negro, barefoot and wearing shorts and an undershirt, his head covered with an old, soft hat.

The gait of this second native is supple, lively and yet unconcerned. He advances behind his guide toward the low table without taking off his extraordinarily shapeless, faded felt hat. He stops when the boy stops, that is, five steps behind him, and remains standing there, his arms hanging at his sides.

"The other master, he has not come back," the boy says.

The messenger in the soft hat looks up toward the beams, under the roof, where the pinkish-gray lizards chase each other in short, quick runs, suddenly stopping in the middle of their trajectory, heads raised and cocked to one side, tails frozen in the middle of an interrupted undulation.

"The lady, she is angry," the boy says.

He uses this adjective to describe any kind of uncertainty, sadness, or disturbance. Probably he means "anxious" today; but it could just as well be "outraged," "jealous," or even "desperate." Besides he has asked no questions; he is about to leave. Yet an ordinary sentence without any precise meaning releases from him a flood of words in his own language, which abounds in vowels, particularly a's and e's.

He and the messenger are now facing each other. The latter listens, without showing the least sign of comprehension. The boy talks at top speed, as if his text had no punctuation, but in the same singsong tone as when he is not speaking his own language. Suddenly he stops. The other does not add a word, turns around and leaves by the same route he came in, with his swift, soft gait, swaying his head and hat, and his hips, and his arms beside his body, without having opened his mouth.

After having set the used cup on the tray beside the coffee-pot, the boy takes the tray away, entering the house by the open door into the hallway. The bedroom windows are closed. At this hour A ... is not up yet.

She left very early this morning, in order to have enough time to do her shopping and be able to get back to the plantation the same night. She went to the port with Franck, to make some necessary purchases. She has not said what they were.

Once the bedroom is empty, there is no reason not to open the blinds, which fill all three windows instead of glass panes. The three windows are similar, each divided into four equal rectangles, that is, four series of slats, each window-frame comprising two sets hung one on top of another. The twelve series are identical: sixteen slats of wood manipulated by a cord attached at the side to the outer frame.

The sixteen slats of a series are continuously parallel. When the series is closed, they are pressed one against the other at the edge, overlapping by about half an inch. By pulling the cord down, the pitch of the slats is reduced, thus creating a series of openings whose width progressively increases.

When the blinds are open to the maximum, the slats are almost horizontal and show their edges. Then the opposite slope of the valley appears in successive, superimposed strips separated by slightly narrower strips. In the opening at eye level appears a clump of trees with motionless foliage at the edge of the plantation, where the yellowish brush begins. Many trunks are growing in a single cluster from which the oval fronds of dark green leaves branch out, so distinct they seem drawn one by one, despite their relative smallness and their great number. On the ground the converging trunks form a single stalk of colossal diameter, with projecting ribs that flare out as they near the ground.

The light quickly fades. The sun has disappeared behind the rocky spur that borders the main section of the plateau. It is six-thirty. The deafening racket of the crickets fills the whole valley—a constant grating with neither nuance nor progression. Behind, the whole house has been empty since daybreak.

A ... is not coming home for dinner, which she is taking in town with Franck before starting back. They will be home by about midnight, probably.

The veranda is empty too. None of the armchairs has been carried outside this morning, nor the low table used for cocktails and coffee. Eight shiny points mark the place where the two chairs are set on the flagstones under the first window of the office.

Seen from outside, the open blinds show the unpainted edge of their parallel slats, where tiny scales are half detached here and there, which a fingernail could chip off without difficulty. Inside, in the bedroom, A ... is standing in front of the window and looking through one of the chinks toward the veranda, the openwork balustrade, and the banana trees on the opposite hillside.

Between the remaining gray paint, faded by time, and the wood grayed by the action of humidity, appear tiny areas of reddish brown—the natural color of the wood— where the wood has been left exposed by the recent flaking off of new scales of paint. Inside her bedroom, A ... is standing in front of the window and looking out between one of the chinks in the blinds.

The man is still motionless, leaning toward the muddy water, on the earth-covered log bridge. He has not moved an inch: crouching, head down, forearms resting on his thighs, hands hanging between his knees. He seems to be looking at something at the bottom of the little stream —an animal, a reflection, a lost object.

In front of him, in the patch along the other bank, several stems look ripe for cutting, although the harvest has not yet been started in this sector. The sound of a truck shifting gears on the highway on the other side of the house is answered here by the creak of a window-lock. The first bedroom window opens.