8
THAT NIGHT ANNE was serving dinner at the Lion d’Or. She told herself, as she asked the diners, ‘Have you chosen?’, ‘What would you like for dessert?’ and all the other questions it was her job to put, that at least this was the last time she would be doing it. She would leave tomorrow. Moving on had worked before: it would work again.
After dinner she went to work for an hour in the bar, which was abnormally busy. The bad weather had kept ashore many of the fishermen from the coastal villages, and some of them had come into town. Anne gave them drinks and took their money with measured politeness, riding the lewd remarks, unaware of her surroundings. One fisherman offered her a drink and she accepted, even though it was strictly against the rules. What did it matter now, anyway? It seemed to have no effect on her, so she drank another, to the delight of the men at the bar.
Mattlin appeared at his usual time and elbowed his way through the press. He smiled at Anne in his abstracted way, suggesting he had better things he should be doing. Anne smiled back as she gave him his drink.
When her shift was ending, Mattlin asked her if she wanted to go with him for a drink. She didn’t but she was stunned by what had happened and befuddled by the three glasses of wine she had already had. It was kind of anyone to want her company, she thought; so she agreed. As she took her coat from a hook behind the bar she cast one last look around the room, at the earnest talkers and drinkers and the one or two foolhardy diners who had tackled Bruno’s dish of the day at the far end of the room where the lamps gave a splashed effect on the brown wallpaper behind them.
Mattlin took her to a bar near the station, the same one she had been to with Hartmann after their weekend away. He ordered a bottle of wine and a waitress lit the candle in their raised wooden stall where no one else could see them. Mattlin smoked and waved his hands around. Anne watched the shapes the glowing end of the cigarette made in the air. She was aware dimly that she was smiling in a vacant way and that Mattlin was becoming increasingly excited. He poured her more wine and she raised the glass again to her lips.
He grinned. ‘You seem very relaxed tonight, Anne.’
‘Oh yes, oh yes. Very relaxed.’
He spoke of a project he was working on and asked her about her work, but she answered only in the briefest sentences, still with the same dazed smile. He ordered another bottle of wine and she, to his delighted surprise, made no resistance when he filled her glass again. When he had taken her to a café or a bar before she had never drunk more than one glass.
He saw her put her head forward into her hands and took her by the wrist. ‘Would you like to go now?’ he said.
Anne nodded, and as she tried to extricate herself from the stall, she stumbled. Mattlin caught her arm and stopped her from falling.
‘Shall I walk you home?’
She nodded, and he took her arm, guiding her along the back streets towards the church.
At the street door in the rue des Acacias, Anne fumbled for her key and Mattlin opened the lock for her. He guided her across the courtyard and to the narrow black door. He said, ‘I’d better help you upstairs,’ and she made no protest.
She said, ‘I want to sleep,’ and moved over the polished wooden hallway towards the bedroom. Mattlin followed and took her in his arms. She wanted to cry, but no tears came, so she clung to him. He was someone; she was not alone.
He pressed his face into hers and parted her lips with his tongue. She pulled her head away, but she did not let go of his arms because she didn’t want to be on her own.
He began to run his hands over her body, squeezing her breasts, then pushing her towards the bed. She was overtaken by a fatigue so complete that even her will to resist was affected.
Again she felt his tongue, huge and hard, sticking into the corners of her mouth, crushing her own fluttering and retreating tongue with its muscular probing. She felt his weight on top of her and his right shoulder jarred into her chin as he tore off his jacket. His breath seemed to blow hotly through her head; so close were his lips that his whisper sounded like a shout and when he began to tell her the things he was doing and what further things he intended to do, it sounded like a threat.
He lifted himself from her to kneel on the bed and fumble with the buttons on his trousers. The sight of his urgency filled her only with indifference. When she felt him inside her she was reminded for an instant of the night at Merlaut when she had experienced this frightening but wonderful sensation for the first time. Then she had felt transfixed and defenceless but also powerful and renewed. Now she felt, more than anything else, exhausted.
Although she heard Mattlin grunting with the effort of self-restraint, it didn’t take him long to finish. He eased himself off her and felt in his abandoned jacket pocket for a cigarette. He lay back puffing the smoke to the ceiling.
‘I hope that was all right,’ he said.
Anne rolled over on her side and closed her eyes.
When he had finished his cigarette, he took her elbow and tried to rouse her. Anne, half-asleep, feigned deeper sleep. He spoke to her kindly and asked if he could fetch her anything. He sounded anxious when she didn’t reply.
He stumbled about the room, picking up pieces of discarded clothing. When he was dressed again he leaned over the bed and listened to her breathing with his ear against her face. He kissed her on the forehead.
She heard his footsteps going down the stairs and echoing as he crossed the courtyard. Without undressing or opening her eyes, she pulled the covers over her.