Read Online Good Morning, Midnight by Jean Rhys - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jean Rhys
Tags: General Fiction
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l'etrangere....The last thing she says is: 'All the hats now are very difficult. All my clients are complaining.'
I feel saner and happier after this. I go to a restaurant near by and eat a large meal, at the same time carefully watch ing the effect of the hat on the other people in the room, comme ca. Nobody stares at me, which I think is a good sign.
A man sitting near by asks if he may look at my evening paper, as he wants to go to the cinema tonight. Then he ties to start a conversation with me. I think: "That's all right....'
When I go out into the Place de l'Odeon I am feeling happy, what with my new hair and my new hat and the good meal and the wine and the fine and the coffee and the smell of night in Paris. I'm not going to any beastly little bar tonight. No, tonight I'm going somewhere where there's music; somewhere where I can be with a lot of people; somewhere where there's dancing. But where? By myself, where can I go? I'll have one more drink first and then think it out
Not the Dome. I'll avoid the damned Dome. And, of course, it's the Dome I go to.
The terrace is crowded, but there are not many people inside. What on earth have I come in here for? I have always disliked the place, except right at the start, when the plush wasn't so resplendent and everybody spat on the floor. It was rather nice then.
I pay for my drink and go out. I am waiting to cross the street. Someone says: 'Excuse me, but can I speak to you ? I think you speak English.'
I don't answer. We cross side by side.
He says: 'Please allow me to speak to you. I wish to so much.'
He speaks English with a very slight accent. I can't place it. I look at him and recognize him. He was sitting at a table in the corner opposite to mine at the Dome.
'Please. Couldn't we go to a cafe and talk?'
'Of course,' I say. 'Why not?'
'Well, where shall we go?' he says in a fussy voice. 'You see, I don't know Paris well. I only arrived last night.'
'Oh?' I say.
As we walk along, I look sideways at him and can't make him out. He isn't trying to size me up, as they usually do - he is exhibiting himself, his own person. He is very good-looking, I noticed that in the Dome. But the nervousness, the slightly affected laugh....
Of course. I've got it. Oh Lord, is that what I look like ? Do I really look like a wealthy dame trotting round Montparnasse in the hope of - After all the trouble I've gone to, is that what I look like ? I suppose I do.
Shall I tell him to go to hell ? But after all, I think, this is where I might be able to get some of my own back. You talk to them, you pretend to sympathize; then, just at the moment when they are not expecting it, you say: 'Go to hell.'
We are passing the Closerie des Lilas. He says: 'This looks a nice cafe. Couldn't we go in here?'
'All right. But it's very full. Let's sit on the terrace.'
The terrace is cold and dark and there is not another soul there.
'What about a drink?'
'You'll have to get hold of the waiter. He won't come out here.'
'I'll get him.'
He goes into the cafe and comes back with the waiter and two brandies.
He says: 'Have you ever felt like this - as if you can't bear any more, as if you must speak to someone, as if you must tell someone everything or otherwise you'll die '
'I can imagine it.'
He is not looking at me - he hasn't looked at me once. He is looking straight ahead, gathering himself up for some effort. He is going to say his piece. I have done this so often myself that it is amusing to watch somebody else doing it.
'But why do you want to talk to me?'
He is going to say: 'Because you look so kind,' or 'Because you look so beautiful and kind,' or, subtly, 'Because you look as if you'll understand....
He says: 'Because I think you won't betray me.'
I had meant to get this man to talk to me and tell me all about it, and then be so devastatingly English that perhaps I should manage to hurt him a little in return for all the many times I've been hurt....'Because I think you
I feel saner and happier after this. I go to a restaurant near by and eat a large meal, at the same time carefully watch ing the effect of the hat on the other people in the room, comme ca. Nobody stares at me, which I think is a good sign.
A man sitting near by asks if he may look at my evening paper, as he wants to go to the cinema tonight. Then he ties to start a conversation with me. I think: "That's all right....'
When I go out into the Place de l'Odeon I am feeling happy, what with my new hair and my new hat and the good meal and the wine and the fine and the coffee and the smell of night in Paris. I'm not going to any beastly little bar tonight. No, tonight I'm going somewhere where there's music; somewhere where I can be with a lot of people; somewhere where there's dancing. But where? By myself, where can I go? I'll have one more drink first and then think it out
Not the Dome. I'll avoid the damned Dome. And, of course, it's the Dome I go to.
The terrace is crowded, but there are not many people inside. What on earth have I come in here for? I have always disliked the place, except right at the start, when the plush wasn't so resplendent and everybody spat on the floor. It was rather nice then.
I pay for my drink and go out. I am waiting to cross the street. Someone says: 'Excuse me, but can I speak to you ? I think you speak English.'
I don't answer. We cross side by side.
He says: 'Please allow me to speak to you. I wish to so much.'
He speaks English with a very slight accent. I can't place it. I look at him and recognize him. He was sitting at a table in the corner opposite to mine at the Dome.
'Please. Couldn't we go to a cafe and talk?'
'Of course,' I say. 'Why not?'
'Well, where shall we go?' he says in a fussy voice. 'You see, I don't know Paris well. I only arrived last night.'
'Oh?' I say.
As we walk along, I look sideways at him and can't make him out. He isn't trying to size me up, as they usually do - he is exhibiting himself, his own person. He is very good-looking, I noticed that in the Dome. But the nervousness, the slightly affected laugh....
Of course. I've got it. Oh Lord, is that what I look like ? Do I really look like a wealthy dame trotting round Montparnasse in the hope of - After all the trouble I've gone to, is that what I look like ? I suppose I do.
Shall I tell him to go to hell ? But after all, I think, this is where I might be able to get some of my own back. You talk to them, you pretend to sympathize; then, just at the moment when they are not expecting it, you say: 'Go to hell.'
We are passing the Closerie des Lilas. He says: 'This looks a nice cafe. Couldn't we go in here?'
'All right. But it's very full. Let's sit on the terrace.'
The terrace is cold and dark and there is not another soul there.
'What about a drink?'
'You'll have to get hold of the waiter. He won't come out here.'
'I'll get him.'
He goes into the cafe and comes back with the waiter and two brandies.
He says: 'Have you ever felt like this - as if you can't bear any more, as if you must speak to someone, as if you must tell someone everything or otherwise you'll die '
'I can imagine it.'
He is not looking at me - he hasn't looked at me once. He is looking straight ahead, gathering himself up for some effort. He is going to say his piece. I have done this so often myself that it is amusing to watch somebody else doing it.
'But why do you want to talk to me?'
He is going to say: 'Because you look so kind,' or 'Because you look so beautiful and kind,' or, subtly, 'Because you look as if you'll understand....
He says: 'Because I think you won't betray me.'
I had meant to get this man to talk to me and tell me all about it, and then be so devastatingly English that perhaps I should manage to hurt him a little in return for all the many times I've been hurt....'Because I think you
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