Reader for Hire Page 6
I can just see him with his attaché case, or his overflowing briefcase, or his elegant suitcase, dashing from stations to airports. Like all the rest of them, fretting, hurrying. Trying to look important. In a shower of expenses receipts. His company! His nickel! And not the tiniest window in his schedule to read a book. But then how does he have time for me? For the time I’m supposed to be devoting to his education? The answer is very simple, very straightforward, almost certainly rehearsed, premeditated: Listen, Madame, I’m going to admit something to you. It’s not just about time. I’m incapable, do you hear me, incapable of reading books. It must be something to do with my schooling, my way of life, the constant bustle of my work. I don’t know, but that’s the way it is… But, if someone could give me… a bit of help… If a voice, and it may well be yours, helped me… give me access to books… Do you see what I mean? I tell him there are cassettes, good-quality recordings that he could listen to on the train, in the plane, on a boat, and there are also all sorts of speed-reading techniques perfected specifically for overstretched businessmen. He looks sheepish, wounded, contrite: You don’t understand… I’m trying to explain that this needs to be… How can I put this?… Personalized… His tone of voice suddenly changes and he gets to his feet as if no longer wanting to sit there facing me: Right then, are you prepared to provide the service that your advertisement implies you offer? I’d be delighted if you were. Actually, the trickiest part will be timetabling it because of my schedule, but your terms…
I interrupt him with a wave of my hand. In the ensuing silence I let my eyes rove around the room, which feels huge and empty despite the beautiful reproductions (or perhaps they’re originals) of modern paintings gracing the walls. In fact, the whole apartment feels huge and empty. Does he live alone? He wears a wedding ring. And your wife? I ask. He looks piqued: I’m sorry… my wife? Can’t she read to you? I feel as if I’ve struck him some sort of blow. He instantly drops back down on to the pouffe where he’d been sitting, opposite mine. He hangs his head, takes his forehead in his hands, then looks up: his hair is all mussed up and his features express pure helplessness. The managing director has been reduced to a kind of pitiful puppet. As if to complete the picture, he loosens the knot of his tie and unbuttons his collar. We separated, he says, more than a year ago… Please believe me… I live all alone… He says it again: all alone… not even a cleaner… Actually, yes, a cleaner from work, that’s all… And, I say, is that why you’d like to be read to?
When I leave I promise to think it over. At least to send him my little brochure. His whole bearing has changed. He takes my hand beseechingly. What should I read, he asks, Duras? That may not be enough, you know, I tell him. People are talking about Claude Simon for the Nobel and, if that does happen, there’ll be a lot of discussion about him at dinners. But I warn you, it’s not easy. He holds on to my hand. I wonder whether he’ll ever let go. Come back, he says. Come back soon.
I comply with Eric’s wishes. I arrive wrapped head to toe in a long raincoat – it’s been raining doggedly since yesterday – and that’s how his mother finds me on the doorstep (Let’s take that off, put your umbrella down, get you dry!). Once in the bedroom for the reading session, I’m back in my crêpe dress over bare legs as if it were high summer (and she’s had time to notice, to clock this anomaly and give a brief frown).
Eric immediately shows how pleased he is. He seems eager, impatient. His features are peculiarly mobile. Right, he says, let’s read. My hair’s still wet but I sit down in the usual chair, making the fabric of my dress billow in my lap, and start another Maupassant story, because despite the Baudelaire interlude he wants us to stick to Maupassant, saying that he enjoys his books, finds them really entertaining, just what he feels like (and in this obstinacy there is probably an element of determination to show that his outburst that first time has done nothing to put him off fantastical or supernatural stories). This is a story about a group of men who gather one windy evening to go shooting:
A great wind was howling outside, an autumn wind, roaring and galloping, one of those winds that kills the last of the leaves and carries them off into the clouds…
As I read I let my dead-leaf dress rise up my thighs, very gradually and as if it were happening naturally. He watches. I can hear his breathing quite distinctly. Mine becomes fast, halting. I’m finding it really difficult to carry on reading, to enunciate properly. But I must:
The men were just finishing their supper, still booted, ruddy-faced, buzzing, excited…
I’ve no idea what I’m reading. I’ve no idea what this story is about. Just the words. To think I can never usually hear what I’m saying, but this time I distinctly hear the words I’m reading:… still booted, ruddy-faced, buzzing, excited…
Eric is very calm. He’s never seemed more attentive to the story. His breathing, which is regular but getting deeper and deeper, is a gauge of his concentration. I think that his eyes, lowered towards me, are attentive too. I raise my dress further. Pull it almost to the top of my thighs. I don’t know what sort of wild wind is blowing inside my head. Nor in his. I can’t control a slight quivering in my knees, or in my hands as they hold the book. He can see me perfectly clearly. He’s listening. Time goes by. The story, the words go by. This shooting party, it turns out, is made up of the demi-lords of Normandy, men who were half country squire, half peasant, wealthy and muscular, built to break the horns off an ox… they bellowed when they talked… I can’t hear a thing: They bellowed when they talked. It’s hot in this draught-proof room, so hot that I’m wondering whether I didn’t actually do the right thing wearing this dress. But the rain’s still coming down outside. Which poet was it who said it comes down ‘thick and bland’? I mustn’t forget that Eric likes poetry too, and should be introduced to more of it. We’re not going to become full-time subscribers to Maupassant! But we’re there now, the story has resolved into a leisurely rhythm. Here we go with the shooting party! I manage to control my breathing a bit. And Eric’s is slowing, settling. We’re both very calm.
The door opens. Eric’s mother (did she knock?) brings in hot chocolate. I just have time to pull my dress back down, pronto.
At La Générale’s house today I have to wait till I’m summoned again. Even though I’m bang on time. In the living-room-museum I once again have the difficult task of sitting facing her, the maid, the creature, less buttoned up than last time, but apparently still as keen to keep me company.
Just to have something to say, I comment on how odd it is that the display cabinet should be lit the whole time. Why doesn’t she turn those spotlights off? Even if La Générale is obsessive and insistent about it, she can’t check what’s going on from her bed. Oh, she says, you don’t know her. She gets up! Seeing my slight amazement, she explains that the countess (she doesn’t say La Générale when referring to her employer, but the countess) is not at all incapacitated, despite what her lengthy interludes in bed might imply, absolutely not. Her habit of staying in bed is just a way of conserving her strength and making allowances for – or, more precisely, forcing others to make allowances for – her great age, but sometimes she throws off the covers when you least expect it, gets out of bed, bends down to pick up the walking stick that she keeps hidden under the bed, and prowls, stick in hand, all round the apartment, having put on a dressing gown, of course.
You don’t know her! she says again. This is so she can inspect everything. If you only knew what she puts me through sometimes! And the humiliations! (Rudimentary sniffling, false tears held in check.) Here’s an example: I’m sure you’ll agree I could have been her reader, I like books and my voice is no more unpleasant than anyone else’s (oh, but it is, steely voice!), well, she gets you to come here, she chooses you! To humiliate me, do you see, to humiliate me.
Suddenly realizing that she’s genuinely unhappy and mortified, or at least I think she is, I tell her there’s no privilege in reading Marx, it’s actually more of a dreadful chore, that she should be counting
her blessings for avoiding it. I don’t know who this Marx is, she retorts tartly, but what I do know is that her whole family view it as a shame and a curse, at her age, don’t you see, that sort of book! The sniffling and false tears are back. I opt not to say anything in the face of this exasperating play-acting. Probably realizing that I’m irritated, she moves her chair closer to mine and says: Whatever you do, don’t go thinking I’m jealous of you or of your position. I know you’re much more capable than I am… more cultured… I know your voice is much nicer (deep sigh)… but also you’re much more attractive (I should hope so!)… Yes, you’re really very pretty (extra deep sigh).
La Générale herself comes and extricates me from this awkward situation. As if she can hear the conversation through the wall and wants to give a sort of instant illustration of what her housekeeper’s been saying, she sweeps into the room with her walking stick, oddly draped in her dressing gown, half actress, half ghost, obviously broken by old age but still formidable, theatrical in spite of herself. Nouchka, she says, there you are. Come, let me take your arm. And now she’s showing me all around the room, tethered to my arm. The creature has disappeared in a flash. The walking stick bangs down on the floorboards with imperious regularity. It’s as if La Générale wants to mark out all the stations of some cross, some pilgrimage. And we do actually have to stop at every engraving, every painting, every ornament. That, she says, is the coat of arms of the Austro-Hungarian Empire – I’m sure you recognize the two-headed eagle – and this is the sash of the Order of the Regency, with which my husband was decorated. There’s no point my telling you that I don’t attach the least importance to these trinkets from a bygone age. I keep them here out of respect for his memory, but to balance things out, here, kept under glass, I have the first petition – look, it’s handwritten – by the poor Ukrainian peasants of the Carpathians. It’s a document that never fails to move me. Can you see the blood, the tears that soaked into the paper?… Come, Nouchka! Hobbling, stamping with her walking stick and leaning heavily on my arm, she trails me over to the glass cabinet, and here she looks triumphant and seems to breathe more freely. As you can see, she says, this is a completely different matter, a different world, a different light! That’s why I keep the electricity on day and night, even though my family think it an outrage (spectacular rolling of that ‘r’). They’re so middle class, miserly as little shopkeepers who can think of nothing better to do than count their money, by which I mean watch their precious bank balance. They just don’t understand that the world is changing gear… Do you see what I mean, Nouchka?… Anyway, I don’t need to explain this cabinet to you, it speaks for itself… If you’d like one of these little badges for the lapel of your jacket, if you ever wear a jacket, that is, I could give you one of them. The choice is yours… but I really want you to have a look at this flag, which was torn by bullets on the barricades at Pest in ’46 and which probably still smells of gunpowder… And also the photo there… No, not the one of Vladimir Ilyich… No, the little one, at the bottom… A unique document… and I won’t tell you how it came into my possession, Nouchka. Have a look… she taps the end of her walking stick on the glass with something like impatience, pointing to a yellowed photo in the corner on the first shelf. On it I can make out a young man praying. She leans towards my ear and whispers: Stalin, Nouchka, when he was a seminarian in Georgia.
Then she takes my arm again and leads me off to her bedroom: Now let’s go and read!
It’s winter. But the sun is resplendent. I meet Roland Sora in a park near the university. He felt like stretching his legs outside. I’ve put on a thick woollen jacket over ski pants. He’s wearing an old fur-lined jacket that looks just the thing with his pipe. To our right, naked trees. But on the left, a line of privet in a tenacious green. There are children playing on slides and swings.
I tell him about my managing director. More specifically I say I’m planning to read him some Claude Simon, to complete his education to the highest level, so that during his business dinners he really can have the best of intellectual profiles. My ‘old master’ wonders whether I haven’t gone completely mad this time. He takes my arm in that slightly condescending way people use with someone who needs careful handling, who mustn’t be rushed. I leave him in no doubt that I’m very clear about my intentions and that, aware of my mission as a reader and the decisive effect it could now have in some cases, I want to strive not for mediocrity but for excellence. I might as well aim for the top. He doesn’t respond to this but takes me over to a slide where a very small girl preparing to go down the chute gathers up her skirt as we come towards her. He looks at her and smiles, in a sort of dream. I go back to what I was saying: Yes, I’ll start with a few pages of The Flanders Road… or perhaps The Georgics… Without taking his eyes off the little girl and talking absently, as if to himself, he says: Yes, that’s very you, my irreplaceable and brilliantly cultured Marie-Constance (honestly, such a shame you never finished your studies), but believe me, if you really want to go with Claude Simon, that’s not where you should start, particularly with a managing director. What you need is Lesson in Things… As the title implies, there’s an element of some sort of lesson in it, but there are also simple realities, or things… You couldn’t ask for better for a beginner.
Of course I’m aware of the utterly condescending but also slightly bitter irony in these last words. But he’s not a beginner, I retort, he’s cultivated, charismatic, refined, commanding, a very fine figure of a man too. He’s read a great deal, but he wants to keep up to date, that’s all, because he’s so busy now he doesn’t have time to read. Good, Roland Sora says, perfect! And he’s relying on you for this? Well, yes, I say, on me. He took my ad seriously, took my work seriously!
The master takes me over to an empty bench at the far end of the park. How about sitting in the sun for a bit? he says. I say it’s a good idea, but that it’s actually getting quite cold and we won’t be able to stay long. We’ve barely sat down when an old woman comes and settles herself on the same bench, right at the end. She’s holding a daisy that she must have picked but I can’t think where. You’d think she’s come to listen to what we’re saying. Roland looks irritated. He leans towards my ear – I can feel his warm, gentle breath on my lobe – and he murmurs: So, as far as I can make out, it’s going OK, it’s working. What’s working? I reply inanely. He leans a little closer, as if he really doesn’t want anyone to hear: It’s working with this new client… working well… at the highest level? I get the feeling he’s making fun of me, so I reply: He’s not a client, he’s already a friend, a very distinguished man, as it happens. The old woman isn’t paying the least attention to what we’re saying. She’s brought the daisy up to her face and starts pulling its petals out conscientiously. Well, I’m conscientious too.
I’ve been back to see the man at the agency to ask him to run my ad again, because under the terms of my contract it stops being rerun automatically after a specific period. He looked surprised. He was still chewing on his cigarette butt. He still eyed me with the same perplexed expression. I told him things were going well, but he didn’t seem to believe me. A combination of perfect scepticism and bovine indifference. His way of implying: None of this is any of my business… If you’re happy with it, well fine… If you have any problems, don’t come running to me… He asked me whether I wanted to keep the same wording. I hesitated, then asked him to add ‘poetry’. Instead of ‘Young woman available to read to you in your own home. Works of literature, non-fiction, any sort of book you like’, I want to say: ‘Young woman available to read to you in your own home. Works of literature, non-fiction, poetry, any sort of book you like.’ One extra word: ten extra francs. A little luxury. He made it clear he thought this ridiculous. That having ‘poetry’ sent the whole ad reeling into absurdity. I held my ground. A minor act of defiance, but it mattered to me.
And the result wasn’t long in coming. A young woman from the upper echelons of local society has written asking m
e whether I could read ‘poetry’ to her eight-year-old daughter from time to time. I’m now with this woman. Listening to her. She’s extremely beautiful, elegant and well turned out. These are her concerns: she works, she’s a property developer, she doesn’t have a spare minute and is quite unable to look after her little girl. She needs someone dedicated to do it for her. I tell her that I’m not a private tutor but a reader, she must have misunderstood. She keeps me there with a dazzling smile. Not at all, she saw exactly what the ad meant, she hasn’t misunderstood anything, if I would just let her make the point she wants to make: she could have as many private tutors as she likes, if that’s what was needed, but the child works hard at school, that isn’t the problem, the problem is that she’s alone when she’s home, sometimes for long evenings, and she desperately needs someone to entertain her and stimulate her mind at the same time, and… perhaps even show her a little tenderness that she, being such a busy woman, is – alas – not always able to give the child… She’s looking me right in the eye, as if really hoping to persuade; her beautiful film-star face has an almost pathetic gorgeousness to it with its immaculate hairdo, its spectacular blue eyelids, magnificently defined eyelashes, turquoise earrings, matching necklace, and that authority in her eyes and in her voice. There’s nothing more dreadful, she says, than being a working mother… Stay-at-home mothers who bemoan their situation don’t know how lucky they are… living their lives at a peaceful pace, being able to devote themselves to their children… We’re completely thwarted in that respect… Even more so for those of us with lots of responsibilities like myself; I don’t even have time to catch my breath… and with a husband abroad… But I will say one thing: I couldn’t for a moment imagine giving up this manic lifestyle and my responsibilities… They’re my destiny, my lot in life… I can’t picture myself any other way… Can’t imagine a different life for myself… And it keeps getting worse, getting more intense, accumulating all the time… Some of my friends even say I should go into politics… Perhaps I’m made for it… Either way, I’m happy living like this, in this whirlwind, this madness… and that’s why there’s this terrible problem and I’m asking you to help me resolve it… Clorinde, you’ll soon see, is very sweet, very endearing… If you’ll allow me, I’ll go and get her…