8
ALEJO CARPENTIER
(Paris-Lyon-Méditerranée) eternally at a standstill, with two wheels and a little ladder leading up to it, in a passage that always smelled—I don’t know by means of what ingenious device—of the breath of locomotives. I didn’t have time to try all the possible combinations of cushions and mats in the Japanese house; nor the cabin on the Titanic, realistically reconstructed from documents, and seeming as if branded with the imminence of the drama. (Vas-y vite, mon chéri, avant que n’arrive l’ice-berg . . . Le voilà . . . Le voilà . . . Vite, mon chéri . . . C’est le naufrage . . . Nous coulons. Nous coulons . . . Vas-y . . .) The rustic attic of a Norman farm, smelling of apples, with bottles of cider within reach; and the Bridal Suite, where Gaby, dressed in white and crowned with orange blossom, was deflowered four or five times a night if she wasn’t on the day shift—“on duty,” it was called—because one or two friends of the house, in spite of their grey hairs and the Legion of Honour, still enjoyed from time to time the glory of Victor Hugo’s triumphant awakenings. As for the Palace of Mirrors, it had so often subjected my image to lengthenings and foreshortenings, distortions and grimaces, that all my physical proportions were imprinted on my memory, just as an album of family photographs catalogues the gestures, attitudes, and clothes of the best days of one’s life. I understood very well why King Edward VII had kept a private bath for himself there, and even an armchair—today a historic object, put in a place of honour—made by a skilful and discreet cabinetmaker, so that it allowed him to submit to delicate caresses which might be hindered by his capacious abdomen. Last night’s spree had been very good fun. However—because of the amount I’d drunk—I was left with a sort of fear lest my sacrilegious amusements with the little Sister of Saint Vincent de Paul (another time, Paulette had presented herself to me as an English schoolgirl, armed with tennis rackets and riding