Despite the short distance between the buildings, it was hard to tell whether there was an interior wall between the two main windows. I thought there wasn’t, but I couldn’t be sure; and this uncertainty, in a matter apparently quite trivial, gave me no rest. For the possession of two rooms implied a great deal.
In those days, because of the housing shortage, a certain number of square feet was assigned per person; if one had no special privileges, one was condemned to the existence of a bee in a hive. If, for one reason or another (for instance, because someone had died), there was a bit more space, the other family members lived in perpetual fear that one fine day an eviction notice would come through the letterbox and send them off to a smaller flat, since their own now exceeded the permitted norms. Every square foot of extra space also cost a fortune in rent (a means of exerting additional pressure on tenants), and few people could afford this. So it rarely happened that a single person had more than a so-called a-1 (a studio) or at best an a-2 (a kitchen-cum-bedsit).
So if the flat I was now straining to glimpse, mentally and visually, from the third-floor landing of the building opposite had two rooms, its tenant either shared it with someone, or enjoyed special privileges, or paid a king’s ransom in rent. Of these three possibilities I would have preferred the second, which also seemed the likeliest; and I wouldn’t have minded the third. The first, although perfectly possible, was more disturbing. But why should it be? After all, if she lived with someone and I found out, sooner or later, who that someone was (a family member? a male friend?), I would have some good material for my ‘siege’.
Then, in one moment, all this conjecture was dispelled, for dusk was falling; it fell early in the autumn. A light came on in the flat above hers, and it lit up the entire space behind the two windows, clearly showing that there was no wall between them. This was further confirmed when the tall figure of a man appeared at one window to draw the curtains and reappeared to perform the same action at the other literally no more than a second after disappearing from view at the first.
I breathed a sigh of relief. So it was one room after all! A large one, certainly, but only one. Such a humble, unobtrusive little detail, but so uplifting! It improved her reputation (she may still have privileges, but more modest ones); it eliminated once and for all the possibility of a flatmate; and it radically reduced the rent she paid for extra space, or perhaps cancelled it altogether.
In my excitement I forgot all about the debacle with the Viper and the prospect, looming darkly on the horizon and bristling with traps for the unwary, of being grilled about the anatomy of the rabbit. Ebullient, I walked along the dark streets and summed up my achievements for the day.
Although there was nothing very remarkable about the knowledge I had acquired, it brought things into sharper focus. Within less than two hours I had reduced the distance between us by light-years. From a tiny point, flickering somewhere in the vastness of the cosmos with a mysterious, pale-blue light, she had become a solar disc seen from a nearby planet. I was no longer just one among dozens of her pupils, kept at a businesslike distance; I had become a singular kind of acquaintance. I knew where and how she lived; I could phone her; I could send her a letter, and on the envelope, after her name, I could put the academic title I had found in the phone book.
And then the significance of that title, or rather of its presence in the phone book, hit me. Of course, it was there as an additional distinguishing feature, in case someone else shared both her names. But the possessor of such a title must be able to produce the document establishing his right to use it – in this case an MA certificate. Which meant she had been to university and had finished her degree. It seemed so simple, and yet it had taken me so long to think of it.
Today’s Subject: All Saints’ Day
The conversations with which Madame began her lessons were always on some topic of current interest: a headline event, something to do with the life of the school, the approaching holidays, things of that kind. It turned out, accordingly, that the topic of our next lesson was All Saints’ Day, which was drawing near. The conversation was funereal: tombstones, coffins, wreaths, candles, obituaries and gravediggers – the point being, as always, to familiarise us with some of the vocabulary connected with a given subject.
This was inconvenient for me. Nevertheless, when my turn came I stuck to my plan, and began as follows: ‘Quant à moi, je n’ai pas encore de morts dans ma famille, no one in my own family has died. But,’ I continued, ‘I still intend to go to the cemetery with a group of other pupils, to tend to the neglected graves of some university professors.’
‘C’est bien louable,’ she observed. Commendable. But instead of elaborating on her compliment or at least asking me about my plans, which is what I’d been counting on to help with the next step in my vertiginous climb, she said, ‘The graves are mossy, and ivy covers the crosses.’
One could only agree with this observation. It did not, however, get me very far. I made another attempt. ‘Oui, en effet,’ I conceded, a tinge of melancholy in my voice. ‘Unfortunately it also covers the names on the gravestones. That’s why we’re going to clear it away.’
She seemed quite indifferent to this. ‘Les tombeaux où rampent les lierres sont souvent beaux,’ she went on. ‘Ivy-covered gravestones have a certain beauty. You must make sure you don’t spoil anything.’
What extraordinary taste the woman had! The dubious beauty of a grave was more important to her than the person buried there. She was inhuman.
‘Naturally,’ I agreed and then, not wanting to get stuck on this shoal, rushed on: ‘But perhaps you know of some neglected grave we could tend? We’d be glad to do it.’
She considered this for a moment. ‘Non, rien ne me vient à l’esprit.’
Nothing occurred to her?
‘Tous vos professeurs sont toujours en vie?’ I hazarded, unable to keep the disappointment from my voice. Surely all her teachers couldn’t still be alive?
‘A vrai dire, je n’en sais rien; I’ve no idea,’ she replied coldly, impenetrable as a slab of granite.
I looked about desperately for some crack in this smooth surface, anything that would give me a handhold, for I felt in danger of falling off at any moment. ‘Well, then, perhaps you remember some names, at least? Maybe some of the older ones?’ I blurted out. ‘We could check where their graves are, or try to find them.’
This wasn’t the most felicitous of remarks, and I wasn’t surprised when she riposted by dismissing my enthusiasm as morbid. ‘Tout cet intérêt pour les morts me paraît quelque peu exagéré.’
Exaggerated? ‘Mais pas du tout!’ I said indignantly. Feeling this was my last chance, I launched a frontal attack: ‘It’s for my friends. They asked me to find out, so that’s what I’m doing. It occurred to me that you might know.’
‘Me?’ She shrugged in puzzled inquiry. ‘Why should I know anything about it?’
But her position was now hopeless: ‘Didn’t you get your degree at Warsaw University?’
‘Si, bien sûr. Where else?’ She had given up a pawn – she had said what I wanted to hear. And yet her voice still vibrated with a kind of regal petulance.
‘Well then!’ Emboldened by my triumph, I plunged on: ‘C’était quand, si je peux me permettre?’
But asking what year she had earned her degree was of course
