A Bit of a Dreamer, a Bit of a Fool

He walked out onto the terrace and took possession of his solitude again: the dunes, the ocean, the thousands of dead birds on the sand, a dinghy, the rusty shreds of a net, and occasionally a few new signs: the carcass of a stranded whale, footprints, a string of fishing smacks in the distance, out where the guano islands rose like white ghosts above the horizon toward a gray sky. The café stood on wooden stilts among the dunes; the Lima highway passed a few hundred yards away. A plank drawbridge led down to the beach; he pulled it up each night, ever since two convicts who had escaped from the Santa Cruz jail had clubbed him in his sleep: in the morning he had found them dead drunk in the bar. Now he leaned against the railing and smoked his first cigarette, staring at the birds that had fallen on the sand during the night: some were still quivering. No one had ever been able to explain why they left the islands to die here on this beach: they never went farther north, farther south, but right to this narrow strip of sand exactly three kilometers long. Perhaps it was a sacred burial place for them, something like Benares in India, where the faithful come to give up the ghost: the birds left their carcasses here before flying away forever. Or perhaps they simply flew straight from the guano islands, which were cold and barren rocks, whereas the sand was soft and warm when they felt their hour coming and their blood began to chill and they longed for warmth and had just enough strength left to attempt the crossing. There was always a scientific explanation for everything. Of course, a man can always take refuge in poetry, make friends with the ocean, listen to its voice, continue to believe in the mysteries of nature. A bit of a poet, a bit of a dreamer ... He had come to this beach in Peru, at the foot of the Andes, because it was time to give up: after having fought in Spain, in the French underground, in Cuba, at 47 he had learned his lesson at last and no longer expected anything from noble causes or from women: it was time to settle for a beautiful landscape. Landscapes seldom let you down. A bit of a poet, a bit of a ... Poetry, too, will soon be explained scientifically, studied as a simple secretion of the ductless glands. Science advances triumphantly upon humanity from all sides. A man comes here to run a café on the dunes of the Peruvian coast, with only the ocean for company, but there's an explanation for that, too: isn't the ocean the promise of a beyond, of an eternal life, a reassurance of survival, an ultimate consolation? Let's hope the human soul doesn't exist: that will be its only chance of not getting caught. Soon the scientists will be calculating its exact mass, density, its speed of ascent ... When you think of all the billions of souls that have mounted to heaven since the beginning of time, there's really something to think about: a tremendous source of energy – wasted: by building dams to trap the souls at the moment of their ascent, there would be enough power to light up the whole earth. Man will soon be entirely utilizable. Already his most magnificent dreams have been taken away from him and made into wars and prisons. Down on the sand, some birds were still standing: the newcomers. They faced toward the islands. The islands, out there, were covered with guano: a very profitable industry, and the guano a cormorant produces during its existence can keep a whole family alive over the same period of time. Having thus fulfilled their mission on earth, the birds came here to die. All things considered, he could say that he, too, had fulfilled his mission: the last time, in the Sierra Maestra, with Castro. The idealism a noble soul produces can keep a police state alive over the same period of time. A bit of a poet, a bit of a dreamer. Soon men would be going to the moon, and there would be no moon left. He flicked his cigarette into the sand. A great love can still take care of that, of course, he thought mockingly, with a strong wish to join the dead birds on the beach. Solitude came over him like that each morning, and almost always, the bad solitude: the one that crushes you instead of freeing you from others. He leaned over toward the pulley, lowered the plank and went in to shave, staring with astonishment at his face in the mirror, as he did every morning: "That's not what I wanted!" he wryly assured himself, like Kaiser Wilhelm after the defeat. With all that gray hair, these wrinkles, in a year or two, adolescence will be definitely over. Or will it? With idealists, you can never tell. The face was long, thin, with tired eyes and an ironic smile that did what it could. He no longer wrote to anyone, received no letters, knew no one: he had broken off with others, as a man always does when he vainly tries to break off with himself.

He could hear the cries of the sea birds grow more piercing: a school of fish must have been passing near the shore. The sky was all white now, the islands, out to sea, were beginning to fade, the green ocean emerged from its sleep, the seals were barking near the old broken-down jetty behind the dunes.

He put the coffee on and went back out onto the terrace. For the first time he noticed at the foot of the dune, to the right, what looked like a human skeleton collapsed face down on the sand with a bottle in one hand: next to the skeleton lay the body of a man wearing nothing but trunks and painted blue, red and yellow from head to foot; the third member of the party was a gigantic Negro asleep on his back. He was dressed in a white Louis XV peruke and blue court coat, with white silk trousers, but barefoot: the last wave of Mardi gras had washed them up on this beach. Extras, he decided: the municipality gave them the costumes and paid them 50 sols a night. He looked to the left, toward the cormorants soaring like a column of gray and white smoke above the school of fish, and saw her. She was wearing an emerald-green gown, holding a green scarf in one hand, and walking toward the breakers, trailing the scarf in the water, head thrown back, her long dark hair hanging loose over her bare shoulders. The water was up to her waist now, and she stumbled occasionally when the ocean came too close: the waves were breaking scarcely 20 yards in front of her, the game was beginning to be a dangerous one. He waited a second longer, but she kept walking farther out, and the ocean was already rising slowly in a feline movement, both heavy and supple: one leap and it would all be over. He dashed down the plank and ran shouting toward her, feeling an occasional bird under his feet, but most of them were already dead, they always died during the night. He thought he would be too late: one wave stronger than the others and his troubles would begin – telephoning the police, answering questions. Finally he reached her, grabbed her arm: she turned her face toward him, and for a moment the water covered them both. He kept her wrist clutched firmly in his hand, and began to draw her toward the beach. She yielded, and he walked up the sand for a moment without turning toward her, then stopped and looked at her for the first time. A delicate, childlike face, very pale, with huge, grave eyes, among the pearls of water that suited them perfectly. She was wearing a diamond necklace, earrings, rings, bracelets, and still holding her green scarf in one hand. He wondered what she was doing here, where she came from, in her evening gown, with her gold and diamonds and emeralds, standing at six in the morning on a forsaken beach among the dead birds.

"You should have left me there," she said in English.

Her throat had a warm glow and a purity of line that made the stones of her necklace look heavy and lusterless. He was still holding her wrist.

"Do you understand me? I don't speak Spanish."

"Another few yards, and the undertow would have carried you out. It's very strong here."

She shrugged her shoulders. She had a child's voice and a pale, pathetic face in which the green eyes took up all the room. An unhappy love affair, he decided. It was always an unhappy love affair.

"Where do all these birds come from?" she asked.

"There are islands out there. Guano islands. They live there and come to die here."

"Why?"

"I don't know. People give all kinds of reasons."

"And you? Why did you come here?"

"I run this cafe. I live here."

"You should have left me. I wanted to die."

She looked at the dead birds at her feet.

He couldn't tell if she was crying, or if it was only the drops of sea water that were running down her cheeks. She was still staring at the birds on the sand.

"There must be an explanation," she said. "There always is."

She turned her eyes toward the dune where the skeleton, the blue, red and yellow savage and the wigged, grotesque Negro lay motionless on the sand.

"Mardi gras," he said.

"I know."

"Where did you leave your shoes?"

She looked down.

"I don't remember ... I don't want to think about it ... Why did you save me?"

"One is supposed to do this sort of thing, you know. Come on."

He left her alone on the terrace a moment, then returned with a cup of steaming coffee and a bottle of brandy. She sat down at a table opposite him, studying his face with an extreme attention, lingering thoughtfully over each feature, and he smiled at her reassuringly.

"It will be all right, you'll see."

"You should have left me."

She began to cry. He touched her shoulder, more to comfort himself than to help her.

"You'll get over it."

"Sometimes I can't bear it anymore. I can't take it. 1 can't go on like this ..."

"Aren't you cold? Don't you want to change?"

"No, thank you."

The ocean was beginning to grow (continued overleaf) noisy: there was no surf, but the undertow grew more insistent at this hour. She raised her eyes.

"You live here alone?"

"Alone."

"Could I stay? Only a little while ..."

"Stay as long as you like."

"I can't stand it anymore. I don't know what to do ... I hate myself so ..."

She was sobbing. It was at this moment that what he called his invincible stupidity conquered him again, and although he was quite aware of it, although he was used to seeing everything crumble in his hands, something inside him always refused to give up. The heart: there was nothing you could do about it. The foolish heart, that had never learned its lesson. A kind of sacred, stubborn stupidity, a power of self-delusion and of hope that had taken him from the battlefields of Spain to the maquis of Vercors and the Sierra Maestra of Cuba, and to the two or three women who always turn up to start a man again at the great moments of renunciation, just when everything seems finally lost. And she was so young, so helpless, she looked at him with such trust, and he had seen so many birds come to die on these dunes that the confused hope of saving one of them, the loveliest of all, of protecting it, of keeping it for himself, here, at the end of the world, and of achieving one victory after all, sparked once more all that romantic naïveté his ironic smile still struggled to conceal. A bit of a poet, a bit of a fool. And it had taken so little: she had raised her eyes toward him and said in a child's voice, with an imploring gaze which the last tears made still brighter:

"I'd like to stay here, if you'll let me."

Yet he was used to it: it was only the ninth wave of solitude, the strongest, the one that comes from far out, from the open sea, that throws you back and drags you to the bottom and then suddenly releases you, just in time to let you rise to the surface again, clutching for the first straw of hope you can find. The only temptation no one has ever managed to overcome: the temptation of hope. He nodded, stupefied by this extraordinary persistence of adolescence within him: approaching 50, his case seemed really desperate.

"Stay, by all means."

He was holding her hand. For the first time he noticed that she was naked under her dress. He opened his mouth to ask her where she came from, who she was, what she was doing here, why she had wanted to die, why she was naked under her evening gown with a diamond necklace around her neck, her hands covered with gold and emeralds: this was the only bird that could tell him why it had foundered on these dunes.

There must be a simple, logical explanation, there is always one. But it is always much better not to know. Science explains the universe, psychology explains the mind, but a man has to know how to protect himself, not let his last crumbs of illusion be wrested from him. The beach, the ocean and the sky were rapidly filling with a diffused light, for the only sign of the invisible sun was that incandescent glow of ever-increasing whiteness. Her breasts were completely visible under the wet thin dress, and there was something so lost about her, such a vulnerability, such innocence in her pale, fixed eyes, such a fragility in each movement of her shoulder, that the world around him suddenly seemed lighter, easier to bear, as if it were finally becoming possible to take it in one's arms and carry it to a better shore. You'll never change, Jacques Rainier, he thought mockingly. A bit of a dreamer, a bit of a fool.

"I'm so cold," she said. "I often feel I'm going to freeze to death."

"Come with me."

His room was behind the bar, its windows overlooking the dunes and the ocean. She stopped a moment in front of the bay window, and he saw her glance furtively to the right; he turned his head in the same direction: the skeleton was crouching at the foot of the dune, drinking from the bottle, the Negro in the Louis XV dress was still sleeping under the white peruke that had slipped over his eyes, the man with the painted body was sitting cross-legged, staring fixedly at a pair of high-heeled evening slippers he was holding in one hand. He said something and began to laugh. The skeleton stopped drinking, held out one hand, picked up a black brassiere from the sand, raised it high, then threw it into the ocean.

"You should have let me die," she said. "It's so awful ..."

She hid her face in her hands.

"I don't know how it happened," she said. "I was in the street, in the Mardi gras crowd, they forced me into the car and brought me here, and then ... and then ... all three of them ..."

So that's it, he thought. There's always an explanation: even the birds don't fall out of the sky for no reason. Right. He went to look for a bathrobe while she undressed. Through the bay window he watched the three men at the foot of the dune. There was a gun in the drawer of his bedside table, but he managed to resist the temptation: sooner or later, they would die all by themselves, and with a little luck it would be much more painful. The painted man was still holding the slippers in one hand: he seemed to be addressing them. The skeleton was laughing. The Negro was still sleeping, his white wig pulled over his eyes. They had brought her here, thrown her at the foot of the dune, facing the ocean, among the thousands of dead birds. She must have screamed, struggled, pleaded, called for help, and he had heard nothing. Yet he was a light sleeper: the impact of a sea swallow against the roof was enough to waken him. But the sound of the ocean must have drowned out her voice. The cormorants circled over the waves with shrill cries and sometimes fell like stones into the school of fish. The islands out to sea rose straight above the horizon, white as chalk. They had not taken her diamond necklace, nor her rings – that was not what they were after. Perhaps he should kill them anyway, to remind them a little, at least, of what they had taken. How old could she be: 21, 22? She hadn't come to Lima alone: was there a father, a husband? The three men didn't seem in any hurry to leave. Nor did they seem to be afraid of the police – they were simply exchanging impressions at the seaside, the last debris of a Mardi gras that had satisfied them entirely. When he returned, she was standing in the middle of the room, struggling with her sopping dress. He helped her get it off, helped her into the robe, felt her tremble a moment and shudder in his arms. The jewels sparkled on her naked flesh.

"I should never have left the hotel," she said. "I should have locked myself in my room."

"They haven't taken your jewelry," he remarked. He almost said: "You're lucky," but merely asked, "Do you want me to get in touch with anyone?"

She didn't seem to hear. "I don't know what to do," she said. "No, really. I don't know ... Maybe I better see a doctor first."

"We'll take care of that. Lie down. Get under the blanket. You're shivering."

"I'm not cold. Let me stay here."

She had stretched out on the bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin, shivering, staring at him.

"You're not mad at me, are you?"

He smiled, sat on the bed and caressed her hair.

"Really," he said, "why should I be ...?"

She seized his hand and pressed it against her cheek like a child, then against her lips. Her pupils were dilated. Infinite, liquid, strangely fixed eyes, with greenish reflections, like the ocean.

"If you knew ..."

"Don't think about it anymore."

She closed her eyes, rested her cheek on his hand.

"I wanted to end it, I had to. I can't live like this anymore. I can't stand it. I want to get rid of my body."

Her eyes were still closed. Her lips were trembling a little. He had never seen a face so pure. Then she opened her eyes and looked up at him, as (continued on page 169) Bit of a Dreamer (continued from page 70)though begging for charity.

"I don't disgust you? Please tell me the truth."

He leaned down and kissed her lips.

He had seen children walking along the beach looking for birds that were still palpitating, and then finishing them off with a stamp of a heel. He had beaten such boys when he could catch them, but now he himself was yielding to the appeal of this wounded fragility, now he was finishing her off, now he was bending over her breasts, pressing his lips against hers. He felt her arms around his shoulders.

"I don't disgust you," she said solemnly.

He tried to get hold of himself. It was merely the ninth wave of solitude that had just broken over him, and it was carrying him away. All he wanted was to stay like this forever, his face pressed against her neck, his eyes closed.

"Yes, please," she murmured. "Help me forget. Help me."

She wanted to stay with him. She wanted to stay with him forever in this empty café at the end of the world. Her voice was so convincing, there was such longing in her eyes, such promise in her delicate arms that clutched his shoulders that he suddenly felt as if he had achieved his goal in life after all, at the last moment. He held her close, sometimes gently raising her head in his hands, while the decades of solitude were falling with crushing weight upon his shoulders and the ninth wave knocked him down and swept him out to sea.

"Yes," she murmured. "Yes, do it ...I want you to."

When the wave withdrew and he found himself on the shore again, he saw that she was crying. He let her sob without opening his eyes and without raising his forehead, which he kept pressed against her cheek, and he felt both her tears flowing and her heart beating violently against his chest. Then he heard voices and a noise on the terrace. He thought of the three men on the dune, and leaped up to get his gun. Someone was walking on the terrace, the seals were barking in the distance, the sea birds shrieked between sky and water, a breaker crashed on the beach, drowned out all these voices, then withdrew, leaving behind it only a short, sad laugh and a voice that said in English:

"Hell and damnation, old boy, hell and damnation, that's what it is. I've had it. This is the last time I travel around the world with her. The world is definitely overpopulated."

He opened the door. A man dressed in a tuxedo, about 50, was standing beside the table, leaning on a cane. He was playing with the green scarf she had left beside her cup. He had a little gray mustache, confetti on his shoulders, trembling hands, watery blue eyes, a drunkard's complexion, tiny, vague features which fatigue blurred still more in an expression that was either distinguished or corrupt, dyed hair that looked like a wig: he caught sight of Rainier in the half-open door and smiled ironically, glanced at the scarf, then looked up at him again and his smirk broadened, mocking, sad and bitter. Beside him, a handsome young man in a matador costume, his hair black and smooth, looked down with a sullen expression, leaning against the pulley, a cigarette in one hand. A little farther off, on the steps, one hand on the rail, stood a chauffeur in a gray uniform and cap, a woman's coat over his arm. Rainier put the gun down on a chair and went out onto the terrace.

"A bottle of Scotch, please," said the man in the tuxedo, laying the scarf on the table, "por favor ..."

"The bar isn't open yet," Rainier said in English.

"Well, some coffee, then. Some coffee, while we wait for Madame to finish dressing."

He shot Rainier a resentful glance, straightened a little, leaning on his cane, his face livid in the pale light, the features frozen in a sulky expression of meanness and rancor, while a hew breaker made the café shudder on its stilts.

"The breakers, the ocean, the forces of nature ... You're French, aren't you? She's retracing her steps, then. Yet we lived in France almost two years, they didn't help a bit – another undeserved reputation. As for Italy ... My secretary, whom you see here, is an Italian ... He didn't help a bit, either. Latin lovers are definitely overrated."

The matador stared glumly at his feet. The Englishman turned toward the dune: the skeleton was lying, arms outstretched, face up, on the sand; the blue, red and yellow man was sitting on the sand with his head back, the neck of the bottle raised to his lips; the Negro in the white wig and court dress, standing with his feet in the water, had unbuttoned his white silk pants and was urinating into the ocean.

"I'm sure they didn't help a bit, either," the Englishman said, gesturing with his cane toward the dune. "On this earth there are certain feats that exceed the powers of a man. Of three men, I should say ... I hope they didn't steal her jewelry. A fortune, and the insurance people won't pay. They'd accuse her of carelessness. Someday one of them will wring her neck. By the way, can you tell me where all these dead birds come from? There must be thousands of them. I've heard of the elephants' graveyard, but not the birds' ... Could it be an epidemic? There must be some explanation, after all."

He heard the door open behind him, but didn't stir.

"Ah, there you are!" the Englishman said, bowing slightly. "I was beginning to worry, my dear. We've been cooling our heels over four hours in the car, waiting until it was over, and we're really out in the middle of nowhere here ... An accident happens so quickly."

"Let me alone. Go away. Shut up. Please, let me alone. Why did you come?"

"My dear, a quite natural apprehension ..."

"I hate you. You disgust me. Why are you following me? You promised ..."

"The next time, my dear, please leave the jewels at the hotel. It's safer."

"Why are you always trying to humiliate me?"

"I'm the humiliated one, my dear. At least, according to the usual conventions. We're quite above that, of course: we happy few ... But this time you've really gone a bit too far. I'm not speaking of myself. I'm ready to accept anything, as you know. I love you. I've proved that sufficiently often. But after all, something might have happened to you ... They could've killed you ... in an excess of zeal. We don't want to lose you, do we, Mario? All I ask is a little more prudence. And a little more ... discrimination."

"And you're drunk. You're still drunk."

"Merely out of sheer despair, my darling ... nymph. Four hours in the car, all kinds of thoughts ... You'll admit that I'm not the happiest husband on earth."

"Shut up. Oh, my God, shut up!"

She was sobbing. Rainier wasn't looking at her, but he was sure she was rubbing her eyes with her fists: they were a child's sobs. He tried not to think, not to understand. All he wanted to hear was the barking of the seals, the cries of the sea birds, the murmur of the ocean. He stood motionless among them, looking down, and felt frozen. An icy, merciless cold. Or perhaps he merely had goose flesh.

"Why did you save me?" she screamed. "You should have left me there. One wave and it would all have been over. I wanted to put an end to it. I can't stand it. I can't go on like this. You should have left me."

"Monsieur," the Englishman said deliberately, "how can I express my gratitude to you? Our gratitude, I should say. Permit me, in behalf of all of us ... We shall all be eternally grateful to you ... Come, my dear, it's high time ... I assure you, I'm not suffering anymore ... As for the rest ... We'll consult Professor Guzman, in Montevideo. It appears he's obtained almost miraculous cures. Isn't that so, Mario?"

The matador shrugged.

"Professor Guzman is a very great man. A disciple of Freud, a true healer ... Science has not yet spoken its last word. It's all in his book, isn't it, my little ... nymph?"

"Oh, shut up," the matador said.

"Remember the society woman who could only make it with jockeys weighing exactly one hundred pounds? No more, no less ... And the charming lady who had to have someone knock on the door, at the right moment? Three short knocks, and one long. The human soul is unfathomable. And the banker's wife who needed to hear the burglar alarm of the safe go off before she could go off herself, which put her in an impossible situation, since that always woke up the husband?"

"That's enough, Roger," the matador said. "It's not funny. You're drunk."

"And the case of the blasé lady who obtained interesting results only whenher partner pressed a revolver to her temple at the right time? Professor Guzman has cured them all. He tells all about it in his book. They've all made it in the end, my dear. All of them. There's no reason to feel discouraged."

She walked past him without a glance. The chauffeur respectfully draped the coat over her shoulders.

"And besides, you know, Messalina was like that, too. She never stopped searching and trying. And she was an empress."

"Roger, that's enough," the toreador said.

"It's true that psychoanalysis didn't exist at the time. Professor Guzman would certainly have helped her. There, there, my little queen, don't look at me like that. Mario, remember the rather sulky young woman who couldn't get anywhere until she heard a lion's roar? And the one whose husband had to keep playing The Afternoon of a Faun with one hand? I'm prepared for anything, my dear. My love and understanding have no limits. And the gracious lady who always stayed at the Ritz so she could look at the Vendôme Column at the crucial moment? Unfathomable are the mysteries of the human soul. And the very young woman who had spent her childhood at Marrakech and couldn't do, couldn't do at all without the muezzin's chant? Very poetic. And that bride in London during the blitz, who afterward always asked her husband to imitate the whistling of a bomb? They've all become excellent wives and mothers, my dear."

The young man in the matador costume went over to the Englishman and slapped him. The Englishman was crying.

"I can't take it anymore," he said. "I can't."

She walked down the drawbridge. He saw her walking barefoot on the beach, among the dead birds. The green scarf was trailing behind her in her hand. She held her head very high and her profile had a purity to which neither man's hand nor God's could have added anything.

"All right, Roger, calm down," the secretary said.

The Englishman took the glass of brandy she had left on the table and drank it off in one swallow. He put down the glass. He took a bill from his wallet and laid it in the saucer. Then he stared moodily at the dunes and sighed.

"All these dead birds," he said. "There must be an explanation."

They went away. At the top of the dune, before disappearing, she stopped, hesitated, then turned around suddenly. But he was no longer there. No one was there. The café was empty.