The Wonderful Clouds

"You've forgotten your hat," Josée said.

Alan shrugged his shoulders. The car was already rumbling, or rather, purring. It was an old dark-red Chevrolet. He took no interest in sports cars.

"This is Key Largo. It gets terribly hot," insisted Josée.

"Get in. Brandon will lend me his. He has a thick skull."

The only subject he wanted to talk about was Brandon, the only people he wanted to see were the Kinnels. Eve Kinnel was both intelligent and ugly, but not aggressively so. She was fond of Josée and, like Brandon, apprehensive of Alan. Indeed, the Kinnels saw eye to eye about everything, shared everything except, of course, Brandon's hopeless and secret infatuation for Josée.

It was Alan's new game. He assumed the air of a spectator helplessly watching a passionate love affair, called Eve "my poor fellow sufferer" and smiled meaningly whenever Brandon spoke to Josée. The situation was gradually becoming unbearable, in spite of the combined efforts of Josée and the Kinnels to turn it into a joke. Josée had tried everything: anger, apathy, entreaty. She had even gone off by herself, refusing to see the Kinnels, but Alan found her and spent the afternoon drinking and praising Brandon's charms.

They were supposed to go fishing together that day. Josée had slept badly and looked forward with a kind of savage delight to the moment when Eve, Brandon or she would burst out hysterically. With a little luck, it might happen today.

The Kinnels stood on the jetty with the dejected look they had worn for the past week. Eve held a basket of sandwiches, and with her free hand made what was meant to be a light-hearted gesture. Brandon smiled wanly. The large Chris-Craft rolled indolently in the little harbor; the sailor waited.

At that moment Alan stumbled and put his hand to the back of his neck. Brandon came up to him, took his arm:

"What's the matter?"

"The sun," said Alan. "I should have brought a hat. I don't feel well."

He sat on a stone bollard and dropped his head. The others looked at one another hesitantly.

"We'll stay here if you don't feel well," said Josée. "It would be madness to go out to sea in this sun."

"No, no, you love fishing, you three go without me."

"I'll drive you back home first," said Brandon. "You've possibly got a touch of sunstroke and it would be better not to drive."

"But you'd lose an hour's fishing and you're such an enthusiastic fisherman. No, it would be much better if Eve drove me home. She hates fishing and would probably rather look after me or read aloud to me."

There was a silence. Brandon turned away and Eve, who was looking at him, thought that she understood.

"That's the best idea. I'm sick of sharks and whatnot. And after all, you'll be back soon."

She spoke calmly, and Josée, who was about to protest, said nothing. But she was seething with rage. "That's just what he wants, the fool. And without running any risks ... he knows perfectly well that the boat is only a 30-footer, and there's a sailor aboard. And there is Eve, looking discreet, and Brandon blushing ... What does he really want?" She wheeled around and walked up the gangplank.

"Eve, are you sure ..." ventured Brandon.

"Why of course, darling, I'll take Alan home. Good fishing to you and don't go too far out; the sea is getting rougher."

The sailor whistled to himself, impatiently. Brandon reluctantly got into the boat and leaned his elbows on the rail, by Josee. Alan raised his head and looked at them, smiling: he seemed perfectly all right. The boat slowly left the dock.

"Brandon," said Josée suddenly, "jump. Jump ashore at once."

He looked at her, looked at the dock now a yard away, cleared the rail at a leap, slipped and recovered his balance. Eve screamed.

"What's going on?" asked the sailor.

"We're off," said Josée without turning. She looked Alan straight in the eye. Brandon stood on the dock nervously dusting himself off. Alan was no longer smiling. Leaving the rail, she sat in the bow of the boat. The sea was magnificent and she was alone. She had not felt so well for ages.

The basket had, of course, remained on the dock, so she shared the sailor's lunch. The fishing had been excellent: two barracudas, each caught after a 30-minute struggle. And she felt exhausted, famished, delighted. The sailor apparently lived on tomatoes and anchovies, and they joked over the thought of a huge succulent steak. He was very tall, rather loose-limbed, burned black, and had the eyes of a spaniel.

The sky began to cloud over, the sea grew choppy, and on reaching the end of the key they decided to turn back. The sailor lowered a line into the sea, and Josee took the fishing chair. Sweat streamed unceasingly from their bodies, each staring silently at the sea. Once, she felt a bite, but she struck too late and brought up an empty hook. She called the sailor to ask him for fresh bait.

"My name is Ricardo," he said.

"And mine, Josee."

"You're French?"

"Yes."

"What about the man on the dock?"

He said "the man," not "your husband." Key Largo was evidently not an island where couples were necessarily married. She laughed.

"He's American."

"He doesn't like fishing?"

"No. Sunstroke."

Since putting out to sea that morning they had not spoken of their strange departure. He bent his head. His hair was cropped short and was very thick. He baited the huge hook very quickly. Then he lit a cigarette and handed it to her. She liked the easy familiarity with which people treated one another in this part of the world.

"Do you like fishing by yourself?"

"I like being by myself now and then."

"I'm always by myself. I like it better that way."

He stood behind her. She vaguely thought that he might have been lashing the helm and that it was not a very wise thing to do with the sea growing rougher.

"You're hot," he said, and laid his hand on Josée's shoulder.

She turned. He looked at her steadily with pensive doglike eyes and there was nothing either threatening or ambiguous about his expression. She examined the hand on her shoulder; it was large, square, ill-kept. Her heart beat faster. What disturbed her was that quiet, watchful look, without a trace of embarrassment. "He'll remove his hand if I tell him to and that will be the end of it." Her mouth felt dry.

"I'm thirsty," she said faintly.

He took her by the hand. Two steps separated the deck from the cabin. The sheets were clean and Ricardo very brutal. Afterward, they found a wretched fish hooked on the line, and Ricardo laughed like a child.

"Poor thing ... we weren't bothering much about him ..."

His laugh was infectious and she began laughing with him. He held her by the shoulder. She was in a happy mood and did not remind herself that this was the first time she had been unfaithful to Alan.

"Are French fish as stupid as that?" asked Ricardo.

"No. They're smaller and much more wily."

"I'd like to go to France and see Paris."

"And the Eiffel Tower?"

"And the French girls. I'll start the engine again."

They returned slowly. The sea had calmed down: the sky was tinged a livid pink by a storm that had failed to develop. Ricardo steered, turning now and then to smile at her.

"A thing like this has never happened to me before in all my life," thought Josée, and smiled back at him. Before they landed he asked if she would go fishing again and she said no, that she was leaving soon. He stood on deck for a moment and she looked back at him once.

On the landing stage, she was told that her husband and Mr. and Mrs. Kinnel were waiting for her in the bar at Sam's. The Chevrolet had remained where it was. She joined them after taking a shower and changing her dress. In the mirror, she thought she looked 10 years younger and had recovered the half-mischievous, half-embarrassed expression that had been hers in Paris from time to time. "An exasperated woman is easy game," she said to the glass, quoting an old saying of her closest friend, Bernard.

They greeted her in polite silence, the two men rising a little too hastily. Eve gave her the ghost of a smile. They had spent the afternoon playing cards and seemed to have had a dull time of it. She talked about her two barracudas, was congratulated, and the conversation died. She made no made no attempt to revive it. Seated with her head bowed, she was staring at their hands, involuntarily counting their fingers. When she realized what she was doing, she burst out laughing. They jumped.

"What's the matter with you?" Alan said.

"Nothing. I was just counting your fingers."

"Well, at any rate, you've come back in good form, whereas Brandon has been dull as dishwater the whole afternoon."

"Brandon?" She had forgotten about Alan's game. "Why?"

"You made him abandon ship. Don't you remember?"

Strangely enough, all three looked annoyed.

"Oh yes, of course. The fact was that I didn't want Eve to spend the day alone with you. You never can tell ..."

"You're trying to turn the tables," said Alan.

"There are four of us," she said gaily, "enough to make two mixed pairs. Don't you think so, Eve?"

Eve looked at her in bewilderment and did not reply.

"But since you were eaten up with jealousy, and completely obsessed by the idea of Brandon and me cozily angling for little fishes together, you wouldn't have paid any attention to Eve, and she would have been horribly bored. So I sent Brandon back. That's all. What are we going to eat?"

Brandon nervously stubbed out his cigarette. He did not like her making fun -- even imaginary fun -- of the wonderful day they might have spent together. For an instant she felt sorry for him, but she was wound up and could not stop.

"Your jokes are in exquisite taste," said Alan. "I hope Eve finds them amusing."

"I still have a good one in reserve," said Josée. "I know you'll find it wildly funny. I'm keeping it for dessert."

She no longer made any attempt to control herself. She had found again the wild euphoria, the taste for violent, irreparable gestures that had been for years a permanent element of her nature. She felt inside her the laughter, the freedom, the glorious detachment of an earlier existence bursting once more into life. She rose from her seat and went to the kitchen.

They dined in heavy silence broken only by Josée's jokes, her travel tales and her reflections about food. The Kinnels finally thawed and began to laugh, too. Alan remained completely silent. He stared at her and drank a great deal.

"Here comes the dessert," said Josée suddenly, and turned white.

The waiter brought in a round cake topped by a single candle and placed it on the table.

"One candle," said Josée. "It's to celebrate the first time I've been unfaithful to you."

They sat petrified, looking from Josée to the candle, as though trying to solve a riddle.

Wonderful Clouds (continued)

"The sailor on the boat," she said impatiently. "Ricardo."

Alan got up, hesitated. Josée looked at him, then lowered her eyes. He went out slowly.

"Josée ..." said Eve. "That's a very poor joke."

"Not at all. Alan understood it perfectly."

She picked up a cigarette and her hand shook. It took Brandon a full minute to find his lighter and snap it open.

"What were we talking about?" asked Josée.

She felt exhausted.

• • •

The door of the car shut with a bang and Josée stood by it wavering. The Kinnels looked at her silently. Not a light in the house. Yet the Chevrolet was there.

"He must be asleep," said Eve, without much conviction.

Josée shrugged her shoulders. No, he was not asleep. He was waiting for her. There would be a monumental scene. She had a horror of scenes, of any kind of conflict and, where Alan was concerned, of words. However, she had only herself to blame. "I'm a fool," she thought, as she had so often before, "a complete fool. Why couldn't I keep my mouth shut ...?" She turned despairingly to Brandon.

"I don't think I'll be able to stand it," she said. "Take me to the airport, Brandon, lend me the money for the fare, I'm going back to France."

"You can't do that," said Eve. "It would be so ... er ... cowardly."

"Cowardly, cowardly ... What on earth does that mean? I'm only trying to avoid a useless scene, that's all. You're talking like a Boy Scout. Cowardly ..."

She spoke under her breath, desperately trying to find some way out. Someone was about to censure her, someone who had every right to do so. That was an idea she had never been able to accept.

"He must be waiting for you," said Brandon. "He must be very much shaken by all this."

All three whispered. They looked like terrified conspirators.

"All right," said Josée, "I can't go on dithering. I'd better go in."

"Would you like us to stick around a little while?"

Brandon had a look of tragic nobility. "My old beau's forgiven me," thought Josée, "but with a bleeding heart." She smiled swiftly.

"He won't kill me," she said, and as she saw the Kinnels' horrified expression, added emphatically: "And even if ..."

She waved goodbye to them and turned away, resignedly. In Paris, things would have happened differently: She would have spent the night with gay easygoing friends and then at dawn she would have gone home too exhausted to be terrified of a scene. But here, she had lingered with two stern critics, and whatever courage she possessed had gradually seeped away. "Perhaps he will kill me," she thought, "he's crazy enough." But she did not really believe it. Deep down, he would be delighted, would seize avidly on such a good excuse to torment himself. He would insist on knowing every detail, every ...

"My God," she sighed, "what on earth am I doing here?"

She wanted her mother, her home, her old surroundings, her friends. She had tried to be sophisticated, to travel, to marry, to leave her country. She had believed it possible to make a fresh start. And now, on a hot night in Florida, leaning against the door of that bamboo-filled house, she felt like sobbing, calling for help, behaving like a child of 10.

She pushed open the door, paused in the darkness. Perhaps he really was asleep. Perhaps she could tiptoe to bed without his hearing her. A wild feeling of hope swept over her. The way it was when she came back from school with a disastrous report, when she stood on the doormat listening to the confused sounds inside the house. Were her parents giving a dinner party? If so, she was saved. The impression was exactly the same, and she vaguely realized that she felt no more frightened now of an outraged husband than she had been, 15 years earlier, of parents who were not particularly bothered by a zero in geography, even though it had been earned by their only daughter. Perhaps there existed a limit for uneasy consciences, for the dread of consequences, and perhaps you reached it once and for all at the age of 12. Her hand went up to the electric switch and turned on the light. Alan was sitting on the sofa, looking at her.

"Ah, there you are," she said stupidly.

And she bit her lip. The retort was easy enough, but he spared her. He looked pale and there was no sign of a bottle anywhere near him.

"What are you doing in the dark?" she went on.

And she sat down meekly a few yards from him. He swept his hand over his eyes, as he often did, and she felt a sudden urge to put her arms around his neck, to comfort him, to say that she had lied. But she did not move.

"I've called up my lawyer," said Alan in a calm voice. "I told him I wanted a divorce. He advised me to go to Reno or somewhere. On the grounds of mutual misconduct, or just mine, as you like."

"Oh," said Josée.

She felt stunned and relieved at the same time, but could not take her eyes off him.

"After what's happened, I think it's the best thing to do," said Alan.

He rose and put on a record.

She nodded assent. He turned around so quickly that she jumped.

"Don't you agree?"

"I said yes; at least, I nodded yes."

The music filled the room and involuntarily she found herself trying to recognize it. Grieg?Schumann? There were two concertos that she always muddled up.

"I also called up my mother. I let her know -- very briefly -- how things stood and told her what I'd decided to do. She approved."

Josée did not reply. She looked at him, and the face she made signified: That doesn't surprise me.

"She even said that she was glad to see me behaving like a man at last," added Alan almost inaudibly.

His back was turned; she could not see his expression but imagined what it must be like. She made a hesitant move in his direction, then stopped.

"Like a man ...!" repeated Alan pensively. "Can you imagine? That's what got me. Honestly" -- and he turned to her -- "honestly, do you think it's behaving like a man to leave the only woman you've ever loved just because she spent half an hour in the arms of a shark fisherman?"

He put the question to her candidly, exactly as he would have put it to an old friend, without a trace of resentment or irony in his voice. "There's something about him that I like," thought Josée, "something crazy that I like."

"I don't know," she answered. "No, I don't think so really."

"You're being objective, aren't you? I'm sure of that. You're capable of being objective about anything and everything. That's one of the reasons why I love you so much. And so deeply."

She got up. They stood face to face, looking at each other with a deeper recognition. He placed his arms on her shoulders and she slid between them to lay her cheek against his sweater.

"I want you to stay. Of course I won't Wonderful Clouds (continued) forgive you," he said. "I'll never forgive you."

"I know," she replied.

"I haven't lanced the wound. There'll be no going back and starting again from the beginning, bygones won't be bygones. I'm not what my mother understands by a man, and you know it."

"Yes, I know," she said, and felt like crying.

"You're tired, so am I. What's more, I've lost my voice. I had to shout to make myself heard in New York. Can you imagine me yelling: 'My wife has been unfaithful to me. No, no, unfaithful. U for ...' Ludicrous, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said, "ludicrous. Now all I want is to go to sleep."

He released her, took off the record and put it away carefully before turning to her:

"Was he good in bed? Do tell me ... how was he?"

• • •

She was walking on high heels down Fifth Avenue, wearing a beatific smile, when she ran into Bernard. They stared at each other with the same amazement before falling into each other's arms.

"Josée ... I thought you were dead."

"No, only married."

He laughed. He had been very much in love with her in Paris a few years before and she remembered him as he was then, lean and dejected, in his old raincoat, saying goodbye to her with tears in his eyes. And there he stood, broader, darker, smiling. Suddenly she felt as though she had recovered her entire family all at once, her whole past, to say nothing of finding her own self again. She began to laugh.

"Bernard, Bernard ... how wonderful to see you! What are you doing in New York?"

"My book has come out here. You know, I've been awarded a prize -- at last."

"And now you take yourself rather seriously?"

"Very seriously, and I'm in the money, too, and a womanizer. You know, the man of letters who has just produced a masterpiece."

"A masterpiece?"

"No, just a best seller, but I never admit it and seldom give it a thought. Let's go and have a drink."

He took her to a bar. She looked at him and smiled as he talked about Paris, their friends, his success, and once more she recognized the mixture of gaiety and bitterness she had always liked so much in him. She had always thought of him as a sort of brother. This was not what he wanted and once very briefly she had tried to fall in with his desires but that was long, long ago. Meanwhile, there had been Alan. She frowned, and he paused.

"What about you? Your husband? He's American?"

"Yes."

"Nice, honest, quiet, adoring?"

"I used to think so."

"Vicious, unbalanced, unscrupulous, cruel, brutal?"

"He's not that either."

Bernard began laughing.

"Now listen, Josée, I've painted two typical portraits for you. I'm not surprised that you should have found something special, but do explain."

"Well," she said, "he..."

And suddenly she burst out sobbing.

She cried for a long time on Bernard's shoulder, a distressed, embarrassed Bernard. She cried for a long time over Alan and herself and over what they had meant to each other and over what had ended or was about to end. For this meeting had made her realize what she had refused to face for the last six months: that she had made a mistake. And she set herself too high a standard, she was too proud to be able to fool herself any longer. The far too tender nightmare was over.

Meanwhile, Bernard wiped her face with his handkerchief, in all directions, muttering indistinct remarks and threats concerning the dirty, lowdown bum, etc....

"I'm going to leave him," she said at last.

"Do you love him?"

"No."

"Then stop crying. Don't talk: have a drink or you'll be completely dehydrated. You're much prettier, you know."

She began laughing, then took his hand in hers.

"When do you go back?"

"In 10 days. Are you going back with me?"

"Yes. Don't let me out of your sight for the next 10 days, or at least, as little as possible."

"I've got to fit in a broadcast, between two advertisements for shoes, but that's my only engagement. I was thinking of taking it easy. You can show me New York."

"Fine. Come and have a drink this evening. You'll see Alan. You can tell him that this can't go on any longer. Perhaps he'll listen to you, and..."

Bernard jumped.

"You're as crazy as ever. It's up to you to talk to him."

"I can't."

"Now listen, divorce isn't a very serious business in America."

Then she tried to talk to him about Alan, but Bernard, with his logical French mind, talked about common sense, psychopathology and an immediate divorce.

"I'm all he has," she said despairingly.

"That's a silly remark," began Bernard, then stopped, and after a moment continued:

"Sorry, there must still be some remnants of jealousy left in me. I'll see you this evening. And don't worry, I'm with you."

His last remark would have made her smile two years earlier, but now it reassured her. There was no doubt that success, whether he believed in it or not, had steadied Bernard. And also, she had asked him to protect her and he had found her as attractive as ever. They parted, mutually impressed.

• • •

Alan stood before the mirror putting on his tie, surprisingly handsome in his dark suit. She was ready first and was waiting for him. It was one of Alan's manias to watch her dress and make up, to get in her way, to hinder her under the guise of helping her, then narcis-sistically to change his own clothes while she watched him. Once again she admired the bronze torso, narrow hips, sturdy neck, thinking that very soon they would no longer belong to her and wondering with a sort of shame if she would not miss all this beauty as much as everything else.

"Where shall we have dinner?"

"Wherever you like."

"Oh, I forgot to tell you that I met one of my old friends from France, Bernard Palig. He writes novels, and his latest book has come out here. I asked him to dinner."

There was a short silence. She wondered why Alan's reactions should seem important to her since she was going to leave him in 10 days. But looking at him the fact seemed as impossible as it had seemed inevitable a couple of hours earlier.

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I'd forgotten all about it."

"Isn't he one of your old loves?"

"No."

"There's never been anything between you? What's the matter with him? Is he one-eyed or something?"

She held her breath for a second. She could feel a noose of anger tightening and gathering inside her, and she (continued on page 128) Wonderful Clouds (Continued from page 44) counted the pulsations of the artery in her throat, which had suddenly started to pound. She just prevented herself saying, "I'm getting a divorce," in a flat, decisive tone of voice. Then she remembered that you don't walk out on someone through spite and that she was going to hurt Alan quite enough as it was.

"He's not one-eyed," she replied; "he's very sweet and I know you'll like him."

Alan stood motionless, holding his clumsily knotted tie between his fingers. He raised his eyes to hers in the mirror, astonished by the gentleness in her voice.

"Forgive me," he said. "It's already sad enough that jealousy should make me stupid, but it's quite inexcusable that it should make me so rude."

"Don't become human," thought Josée, "don't start to change, don't disarm me or take away my reasons for leaving you. Don't do that to me." Then perhaps she would no longer have the courage to leave him, and leave him she must. She positively must. Now that her mind was made up, that she had a taste of life without him, she lived in a state of complete dizziness that wanted to spill over into words. So long as those words had not been spoken, nothing was settled, her decision did not really exist.

"In fact, I did have an affair with him. It lasted three days."

"Ah!" said Alan, "he's the writer from the provinces. I forget his name."

"Bernard Palig."

"You told me about it one evening. You went to see him to tell him his wife needed him, and stayed on at the hotel. Isn't that the one?"

"Yes," she answered, "that's the one."

She suddenly had a picture of the grayish square at Poitiers, the shabby paper on the walls of the room and, again, breathed in the smell of the provinces. She smiled. All that was to be hers again: the gentle hills of the Äle-de-France, the neat little gardens, the old houses, the air of Paris streets, the golden Mediterranean, all the images that crowded her memory.

"I didn't remember that I'd told you."

"You've told me lots and lots of things. The only things I don't know about you are what you have forgotten yourself. I've dragged everything out of you."

He turned toward her. It seemed years since she had seen him dressed in a suit, and this man in dark blue, these hard eyes in a child's face, were suddenly alien to her. "Alan," a voice said inside her, but she did not move.

"It's impossible to drag anything out of anyone," she said. "Don't worry. And please be kind enough not to insult Bernard."

"Your friends are my friends."

They did not take their eyes off each other. She began laughing.

"Hostile...That's what we've become. Hostile to one another."

"Yes, but I love you," said Alan in a polite voice. "Come, we'll go and wait for your friend in the library."

He took her arm and involuntarily she leaned on him. How long had she been leaning on that arm? A year? Two years? She no longer remembered and suddenly felt frightened that her arm might miss his, that she might never know again where to lay her hand. Security...ironically enough, this neurotic man was her security.

Bernard arrived punctually and they had cocktails and talked politely about New York. Josée had imagined she was about to witness the impact of two worlds, of her two worlds, but as it turned out, she was simply drinking a martini with two men of about the same build, equally well mannered, who had once had, or who still had, a strong feeling for her. Alan smiled, and Bernard's expression, which had been rather condescending when he arrived, quickly changed to one of annoyance. She tended to forget how unusually good-looking Alan was and felt an odd pride in the fact. So much so that she neglected to keep her eye on the cocktail shaker, and it was only when she caught an expressive signal from Bernard that she turned around to see what Alan was up to. He was fumbling with a package of cigarettes in an attempt to get one out.

"Shall we go and have dinner?" she said.

"One last drink," suggested Alan pleasantly, and he turned to Bernard, who refused.

"But I insist," Alan continued. "But I insist." The atmosphere had suddenly become tense. "I really insist." Bernard got up.

"No, thanks. I'd much rather go and eat."

"Not until you've drunk a toast with me," said Alan. "You can't refuse."

"If Bernard doesn't want to," began Josée, but Alan interrupted her.

"Well, Bernard?"

They stood and faced each other. "Alan is more athletic, but he's drunk," thought Josée swiftly. "And anyway, I can't remember if Bernard is tough or not. But it's scarcely the moment for a study in comparative anatomy." She took the glass from Alan's hand.

"I'll drink with you. And so will Bernard. What to?"

"To Poitiers," said Alan, and drained his glass at a gulp.

Bernard raised his glass.

"To Key Largo," he said. "One kind thought deserves another."

"To this charming gathering," said Josée, and burst out laughing.

All three returned at dawn from Harlem. The skyscrapers stood out sharply against the mist rising from Central Park, and in the cold air the yellow leaves seemed to have found a fresh vigor.

"What a beautiful city!" said Bernard under his breath.

Josée nodded. She sat sandwiched with one on each side, as she had the entire evening. They had settled her between them, danced with her one after the other, like automatons. For once, Alan drank in moderation and made no further allusions to awkward subjects. Bernard seemed a little less tense, but she could not recall having spoken directly to him -- or he to her. "It's a dog's life," she thought, "a real dog's life. And a life that people might possibly envy me." Alan let down a window to throw away a cigarette, and cold air swept into the taxi.

"It's cold," he said. "It's cold everywhere."

"Except in Florida," she said.

"Even in Florida." He turned so suddenly toward him that Bernard started. "My dear Bernard," he said, "let's forget the young woman sitting between us for a second. I'll forget you're a logical Frenchman and you'll forget I belong to the privileged class."

Bernard shrugged his shoulders. "How strange," thought Josée, "he knows I'm leaving Alan and going back to Paris when he does and he's the one who looks annoyed."

"There," said Alan, "everything has been forgotten and now we can talk a little. Driver!" he cried, "find a bar, anywhere you can."

"I'm sleepy," said Josée.

"You can be sleepy later. Now I've got to talk to my friend Bernard, who has the Latin idea of love and can throw some light on our ménage. Besides, I'm thirsty."

They found themselves in a small, deserted bar on Broadway, The Boccage, and the name with its spelling mistake made Josée smile. And what idea could the proprietor possibly have of the wooded downlands of Normandy called bocage? Was it merely the sound of these two syllables which had caught his fancy? Alan ordered three glasses of brandy and threatened to drink all three if they took anything else.

"So now we've forgotten Josée," he said. "I don't know you, I'm just a drunk you've picked up in a bar who's been boring you stiff with his life story. Suppose I call you Jean, that's a typical French name."

"All right, call me Jean," said Bernard.

He was ready to drop with sleep.

"What are your views on love, my dear Jean?"

"I have none," said Bernard, "absolutely none."

"That's not true, Jean. I've read your work or at least one volume of it. You have a wealth of ideas about love. Well, I'm in love. With a woman. With my wife. I lover her with a sadistic, devouring passion. What must I do? She is thinking of leaving me."

Josée looked at him, looked at Bernard, who was waking up.

"If she's leaving and you know why, I can't see what there is for me to say."

"Let me explain what I believe. Love is something that has to be sought for. People look for it in pairs, and it usually happens that only one of the pair gets hold of it. In this case, it was me. My wife was delighted. She came up to me like a doe to eat this tender, inexhaustible fruit out of my hand. She was the only doe that I could bear to feed."

He swallowed his drink at a gulp, smiled at Josée.

"You must excuse such comparisons, my dear Jean. Americans are apt to become poetical. Anyway, my wife gorged herself, my wife now wants something else or won't stand being forcibly fed. And yet, I still have that fruit, it weighs heavy in my hand and I want to give it to her. What am I to do?"

"You might imagine that she also has a fruit in her hand and that ... those comparisons of yours get on my nerves, anyway. Instead of always insisting on being the one to give, you might have thought that she had something to give, too, you might have tried to understand her, how should I know ..."

"You're married, aren't you, my dear Jean?"

"Yes," said Bernard, and stiffened.

"And your wife loves you and feeds you. And you do not leave her, although she bores you."

"You seem very well informed."

"And you do not leave her because of what you call pity, isn't that it?"

"That's none of your business," said Bernard. "It's you we're talking about."

"I'm talking about love," said Alan. "That calls for a celebration. Barman ..."

"Stop drinking," said Josée in a low voice.

She felt ill. It was true that she had fed on Alan's love, had found in it a reason for living -- or a means of passing the time, she thought furtively. It was also true that she was worn out, that she no longer wanted to be "forcibly fed," as he expressed it. Alan continued:

"And so you are bored with your wife, my dear Jean. Long ago you loved Josée, or at least you thought you did, and she gave in to you and you two played a sentimental and melancholy duet in the same key. For your violins are perfectly attuned, that is, in a minor key."

"If you like," said Bernard.

He looked at Josée, and neither of them smiled. At that moment, she would have given anything to have loved him passionately, in order to have some defense against Alan's remarks. Bernard seemed to understand, and blushed.

"What about you, Alan? What have you done? You've loved a woman, and poisoned her life."

"Well, that's something, anyway. Do you suppose somebody else could fill it?"

They turned to her. She got up slowly.

"This discussion fascinates me. Go on with it, since you've forgotten all about me. I'm going to bed."

She was outside the bar before they could rise to their feet, and found a taxi at once. She gave the driver the address of a hotel she had once heard of.

"It's late," murmured the driver with the air of a connoisseur, "it's too late to go to bed."

"Yes," she agreed, "it's much too late."

And suddenly, she saw herself running away in a taxi, at 27, leaving a husband who loved her, crossing New York at dawn and saying very gravely: "It's too late." She told herself that as long as she lived, she would never be able to resist rehearsing situations, staging them, "seeing herself" from the outside. She told herself that she should have been weeping in the taxi or becoming panic-stricken instead of vaguely wondering if the driver's name -- fastened to the seat according to regulations -- were really Silvius Marcus.

It was only after ordering a plane ticket for Paris, a toothbrush and some toothpaste, all to be delivered that afternoon -- it was only when she lay curled up in bed, daylight vaguely stealing into the anonymous room, that she began shivering with cold, fatigue and loneliness. She was used to sleeping by Alan, and during the half-hour it took her to fall asleep she saw her own life as a huge disaster.

This is the first part of Françoise Sagan's novel "The Wonderful Clouds." It will be concluded in May.