The Bark Tree Read online

  “Something must have been going on next door, earlier on. I heard footsteps in the garden, and some men’s voices. There must have been several of them. I recognized Meussieu Marcel’s voice.”

  As she speaks, she pretends to be unaware of Théo’s presence.

  “I looked out of the window; I saw two men in the garden, they were carrying a third one, who looked as if he was dead, or ’d fainted. Someone opened the door. It was Meussieu Marcel. Him and the fellow with him, they got the one who was dead or who’d fainted into the house. The door shut again. That’s all I saw. In any case, I’m not particularly interested in what goes on in that house. Would you care for some white wine, Madam?”

  “Thank you, Catherine, just a drop.”

  “Me too, I want some,” says Théo, “and a whole glass.”

  “As I was saying,” continues Catherine, “I’m not particularly interested in what goes on in that house; all the more so as nothing ever does go on there. It’s absolutely typical of the sort of house where quiet, mediocre people live, and get old, without anything ever happening. Aren’t I right, Madam?”

  “As you see very well, Catherine, something was going on there tonight.”

  “It’s probably because it was never finished.”

  Catherine pours herself out a large glass of wine.

  “What do you think of this wine, Madam?”

  “It’s very good.”

  “It isn’t bad, but you ought to buy some champagne, Madam, a small crate of a dozen bottles for special occasions. You could allow yourself that, Madam.”

  “All right, Catherine, order a small crate, then.”

  “Certainly, Madam. When Meussieu Théo passes his baccalaureate we’ll open one.”

  “I hope we won’t have to wait as long as that,” says Théo.

  Mme. Pigeonnier laughs. Then Catherine starts talking to her about dresses and all that. Théo, while this is going on, devours everything within reach of his fork. When they finish their supper, Catherine clears the table; it’s getting late.

  “Ah, I’ll leave you,” says she.

  “Good night, Catherine,” sighs Mme. Pigeonnier.

  Théo says nothing. They hear Catherine going downstairs, and then coming up again to her room.

  “I’m going to bed,” says Theo, yawning.

  —oooooo—oooooo—

  His mother had put on a false beard to serve the boiled eggs; this unpleasant vision was followed by an access of very profound, but very short-lived, anxiety; the next moment Etienne opened his eyes. The night was barely over. He felt that Alberte, at his side, was awake; he himself hadn’t slept more than two hours.

  How could he find Le Grand? There was no reason why he should meet him again, no chance. Was it entirely his fault? He had been asking for some actual revelation, some light to be thrown on the environment in which he had lived an hour a day for the last three years, and Le Grand had given him a prophecy. Yes a prophecy. Wasn’t there something phony about his pointing out Narcense like that? You’ll know him, soon. That brown scar. And after all, Narcense, what a curious name! Is it a last name or a first name? He’s a musician. He loves his wife. He’s written to her. He loves his wife. He loves Alberte. He loves her. So Alberte exists for other men. The folly of wanting to hang Théo; a joke, that threat, a joke in bad taste; a joke, that absurd story about the dog Théo had told them; yes, Narcense’s uncle hanged Théo, no, the dog. He hanged his dog because he fell onto the coffin, onto Narcense’s coffin, his grandmother’s, and Théo has disappeared, has run away. Alberte is in despair. Narcense loves her, other men see her, follow her, yes, in the metro, touch her, often. That happens to me, I don’t do it on purpose, my hand just happens to be touching a woman’s body; when I was carrying the gadgets, for instance, uh-oh, I must have left the hard-boiled-egg-cutter on the table; why did I buy it? I didn’t tell Le Grand about it perhaps he could tell me why I’ve changed a lot in the last few weeks I’m aware of it now yes the world isn’t what it appears to be, at least when you live the same thing every day when you don’t see anything any more and yet there are people who live in the same way every day but I—I really didn’t exist, it all began with the little ducks before I didn’t think I didn’t exist you might say at least I don’t remember any more other people were living near me things were there there or somewhere else and I didn’t see anything and yet I must still look the same and other people if they’re like I was before perhaps other people don’t think they don’t exist they go from one place to another like I used to go from one place to another but it doesn’t mean a thing you might say even so it would be odd perhaps it’s the other way around and I was the one who was the exception I was the only one who didn’t exist and when I looked at the world I started to exist perhaps all this is in the philosophy books perhaps they explain it what sort of book would tell me Le Grand’s the one who’d know he is alive he’s always existed he sees everything he knows what you have to do to think I didn’t read when I was little I must have existed for instance when I was five I cried when the cat died so I did exist then and my cat that they killed it was the day of the little ducks everything happened on the same day it’s all confused yes what activity all of a sudden all these things happening there’s something else today as well Narcense hangs himself and gets cut down fundamentally that’s all part of everyday life whereas the hard-boiled-egg-cutter no that’s the difference one can be explained the other can’t be explained for Narcense perhaps it can’t be explained for him he is going beyond his own everyday life but he doesn’t make me go beyond mine now Le Grand he could make me go beyond it just like that you can go beyond it without appearing to that’s the odd part I live just like I used to before all I have to do is just give a sideways look as you might say and there I am out of it now Narcense he gives himself a lot of trouble a rope at night it’s very tragic with me it’s much odder I’m getting very good at it it’s very amusing to be in charge of your thoughts like this to talk to yourself in the old days when I woke up during the night I used to look at the fifth acanthus leaf on the wallpaper now I know how to tell myself extraordinary things I wonder if all this has been written down in books you can’t know that beforehand Le Grand will be able to tell me but how am I going to find him again how could he guess I’d meet Narcense perhaps he’s a friend of his he doesn’t seem to be or else he arranged things so that it’s very odd it’s funny he must be very clever if it wasn’t a prophecy then it was a conjuring trick in either case he’s very good at it perhaps one day I’ll be able to do conjuring tricks too the little ducks conjured themselves up for me by themselves that’s the odd thing but for Théo it was the opposite they were there they’d been there right away from the word go Théo was the one who’d seen who is he that kid he was here he’s disappeared I don’t know who he was I know the color of his eyes now I don’t know what his nose is like or his mouth I can’t manage to see his face isn’t it funny I’ve seen him every day and I find it impossible to remember his face what about Alberte can I remember her face her eyes her mouth.

  Etienne, much distressed, leans over and looks at those eyes, that mouth; had he forgotten them? He heard, in the next room, a metallic sound; an object had just fallen off something. The hard-boiled-egg-cutter. A cock wailed; others, stupidly, answered it. In the distance, a train whistled. A door opened; two voices whispered for a few moments.

  —oooooo—oooooo—

  Ffteen hundred feet high, the cliff damned the sea and the cliff looked as smooth as a mirror and perfectly vertical and the sea came and pulverized itself against it. Along the whole length of the cliff, the sea was turning white. It was the cliff that marks the limit of the Ocean, against which every wave is shattered. It rose up like a phallus, and stretched out like an arm.

  Parallel to it, a man was swimming: himself. He wanted to go ashore, but no hand was held out to him. He also had to avoid being crushed against the rock. While swimming parallel to the cliff, he wondered how long he
would be able to go on holding out against fatigue and cold; then he realized that night would not fall, because the sun was motionless. As he was swimming, his head in the water, he saw, very far beneath him, a stretch of fine, luminescent sand, unsullied by seaweed or sponges; he saw neither fish nor shell nor octopus nor crustacean. No living being reached that depth and, when he took a breath, he felt that even the smallest bacteria would not survive in that crystal air.

  He swam, then, for a very long time; more precisely, the visual perception of the cliff was immediately followed by that of the flight of steps that made it possible, so it seemed, to climb up to its summit. These steps were composed of metal rods, driven into the rock horizontally; a distance of about six feet separated each rod from the next.

  He went ashore without trouble and, grasping the lowest rod, he started the climb, that is, he had to balance himself, upright, on each rung, grasp the rung above and then pull himself up onto that rung on which he would again have to balance, and so on about two hundred and fifty times. Even though he had never done any gymnastics, he managed the climb without difficulty.

  When he had reached the hundredth rung, he looked down and saw that the seething foam of the sea had been reduced to a fine, whitish border. The sea was perfectly clear and lay on a bed of sand that was everywhere the same; no shadow was projected onto it. He looked up, and saw nothing but the rungs. He looked into the distance, over the Ocean; it seemed to him that he could make out the Eiffel Tower, but this was a mistake. The horizon, that universal castrator, allowed nothing to emerge.

  At the hundred and fiftieth rung, it seemed to him that the number of rungs above him had hardly decreased. At the two hundredth rung, this semblance became a certainty; he could go on climbing like this for a very long time. To such a situation there was only one possible solution; he continued, knowing the procedure, and reached the two hundred and fiftieth and last rung. Unfortunately, that still wasn’t the summit of the cliff, for it was crowned by a thick layer of ice. To tell the truth, what at first looked like ice, was rock crystal, as smooth as the cliff; the layer was some thirty feet high.

  He looked down; the sea had disappeared, and the rungs, and everything. There was nothing but this crystal. He touched it, and it was only with difficulty that he could release his hand; what he had taken for ice, and then for crystal, was solid and perfectly transparent glue. Climbing was now no more than a game. Stuck to the wall, he went from the bottom to the top, foot after hand, hand after foot, and reached the summit.

  When he had got there, he saw three things: the fringe of glue, which seemed to be for the cliff what the whitish border of the seething foam of the shattered waves was for the sea; an expanse of something that seemed to him to be a lake; and the rest, which he described as a meadow. He was by the lake. On all fours, he got to the edge; it really did seem to be a lake, but the water wasn’t genuine. He had immediate confirmation of this, for a clockwork horse came to drink at it; the animal leaned over the surface of the alleged water; before he’d touched it, he suddenly raised his head again, turned around, and went off on his little wheels.

  Marble tombstones were drifting across the lake, very peacefully, very calmly. And then Narcense felt a pain on both sides of his neck. The sun was still motionless. The pain spread around to the back of his neck, and around to his larynx. The sky, Narcense only realized at this moment, wasn’t blue, but white. The pain became circular; that white sky could only be made of very special air, of air which was not made for man to breathe; for me to breathe, thought Narcense. He started panting or choking; the tombstones went on floating on the atrocious liquid where toys go to drink; the sun was still motionless. Narcense died.

  The morning twilight filtered through the shutters. Narcense sat up in the bed and swallowed a mouthful of air; then he fell back again. The dawn spread through the room, a very sad, very grey dawn, the dawn that surrounds railroad stations. In the small, narrow room, there was only one chair and one table; on the chair, Narcense saw his clothes, on the table, a little parcel.

  He sat up in bed again, and drew a breath. He could breathe. He got up. He could walk. The sea and the cliff and the flight of steps and the lake and the wooden horse suddenly reappeared, all together. He tries to rearrange these elements. I started with a shipwreck—he took a few steps—a shipwreck in a forest. He leaned against the table. He grabbed the half-open parcel and looked at the strange object it contained. In the half-light, it looked like a little musical instrument, but he couldn’t grasp how it could be played. The clockwork horse reappeared; Narcense felt something like a wave of nausea and dropped the cutter-of-hard-boiled-eggs-in-thin-slices onto the floor.

  A few seconds later the door, gently, opened; a head appeared. Narcense recognized his concierge. A cock crew; others answered it. In the distance a train whistled. Narcense thought he could make out the Eiffel Tower, but this was a mistake; the horizon, that universal castrator, allowed nothing to emerge.

  Third Chapter

  As the train started, Pierre waved, and then turned his back, deciding that any other byplay was unnecessary. Skillfully avoiding the multiple threats of porters’ baggage carts and ferocious and overloaded latecomers, he reached the exit, hailed one of those tiny taxis which are the beauty of Paris and had himself driven to the Audit Bank. He would arrive just before the bank closed. That Narcense had not hung Théo, he knew from the silence of the papers; but he knew no more. When, the day before, he had woken up at dawn, lying near his car, he had indeed thought for a moment of going to see Etienne at his home; on second thought, though, he had preferred not to.

  He got to the Audit Bank at ten to. While he was waiting, he contemplated the building and calculated the degree of stupidity and abjection of the architect who had elaborated that arabesque. Even so, he had to admit that the bas- or haut-relief representing the Five Continents laying their “products” at the feet of a heavy-jowled goddess of Commerce was not without some charm for him. The cluster of bananas, pineapples and elephants’ tusks, which a Negress with beautiful breasts was offering with an inexplicable smile, seemed to him particularly pleasant.

  At the stroke of six, he abandoned these superficial observations and brought his gaze down to human level. Etienne caught sight of him and raised his arms, giving him to understand that he was expecting, or better still, hoping to see him.

  “Oh, I am so pleased to see you again! How nice of you to come and meet me. I didn’t know how to find you again. I wasn’t very polite to you the day before yesterday, I was a bit rude, even ...”

  “Oh no, oh no.”

  Etienne was speaking very rapidly.

  “Yes I was. I was rude to you, and I’m sorry. I thought you were making fun of me, that you were playing the prophet. But in fact, what you foresaw did happen. That same night. How did you know? Do you mind if I tell you what happened, first? The man with the scar is called Narcense. I discovered that the same afternoon ...”

  Pierre takes Etienne off to a quiet little café and listens to him as he recounts the whole story. So Narcense tried to hang himself, and Théo disappeared.

  “The next morning, Narcense and his concierge left very early, without any explanation. I heard them talking; but I went back to sleep, like a fool. During that time, they cleared out. By midday, Théo still wasn’t back; my wife was in despair; I went and reported it to the police. What a day! At six o’clock, he came home. He said he’d been afraid, and that he’d been wandering all night and all day—he seemed very tired. I think he was lying, but I really don’t care. As for Narcense. I don’t know any more about him than what I’ve told you.”

  None of this was particularly fascinating; only two points interested Pierre: Etienne’s visit to Blagny, and Narcense’s address.

  “But how on earth did you come to know of that bistro in Blagny?”

  Etienne gave him a strange look.

  “That was a discovery.”

  Then:

  “You still haven’t
told me ...”

  Pierre could guess well enough what he wanted to know; but what could he tell him? If Etienne were to see Narcense again, he would hear of his part in the Les Mygales adventure; and perhaps Narcense would even repeat everything he, Pierre, had been rash enough to say. He’d lose ground. Until it actually happened, the best thing was to keep quiet.

  Etienne is staring at him. What insistance! What passion! What gravity! What innocence! Pierre, suddenly, feels ill at ease. For a moment, he lowers his eyes, but then quickly pulls himself together, and goes on:

  “That French fries place at Blagny, I’d very much like you to take me there. What an odd place it must be!”

  “Would you like to go there now? Although—no, not today, if you don’t mind; I’d be too late; as it is, I must leave you right away. Tomorrow, if that suits you.”

  “Tomorrow—that’s fine. Here?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  For a moment, Etienne doesn’t quite seem to know where to look.

  “There are so many things I’d like to ask you.” (He holds out his hand.) “About existence.”

  He leaves.

  Pierre has remembered an address: 8 Boulevard of the Unknown Officer. That’s worth knowing; but, watching Etienne disappear, he suddenly has the disagreeable impression that things have gone beyond him.

  —oooooo—oooooo—

  Sitting astride a chair, Saturnin was meditating. He was picking his teeth; more precisely, one. A well-dressed gentleman said to him.

  “I would like to speak to Meussieu Narcense.”

  Saturnin raised his head and answered:

  “Not in.”

  The well-dressed gentleman persisted:

  “Out or away?”

  Saturnin explains:

  “Znot in, I tell you,” and resumed his meditations. The gentleman retreated a few steps, about twenty, and turned around; he saw Narcense, who was going out, and was coming straight toward him without seeing him. When he reached him, Hello, he said, and Narcense looked at him. He started by using exclamatorily the adverb the corresponding adjective of which would be good, then uttered the syllables that composed the name of the person he had recognized. Not at all surprised, at that; questioning, rather.