and drink a tall, cool anisette. The sky, the pink laurel bushes, Djerba’s violent waters, the gay talk of idle nights, and especially the freshness and excitement of the mornings – these were things he had come here to recapture. Why hadn’t he recaptured that burning, sweet taste his life had once had? He had wanted so much to take this trip; for days he had thought of nothing else, for days he had dreamed of lying on the sand under the sun. And now he was here, stretched out on a sandy beach, beneath a hot sun. Only something was missing, missing from inside himself. Happiness, pleasure – he was no longer quite sure what those old, familiar words really meant. We have only five senses, and they become satiated so quickly. Even now his eyes were growing weary of looking out on that endless blue which never ceased being blue. He felt like ripping apart that smooth, satiny surface, felt like tearing Nadine’s tender skin.
‘It’s getting cool,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she replied. Suddenly she pressed her whole body tight against him, and through his shirt he could feel her naked young breasts against his chest. ‘Warm me,’ she said.
He gently pushed her away. ‘Get dressed. Let’s get back to the village.’
‘Afraid someone will see us?’ Nadine’s eyes were gleaming, her cheeks were slightly flushed. But he knew her mouth would still be cold. ‘What do you think they’d do to us? Do you think they’d stone us?’ she asked, as if the prospect appealed to her.
‘Get up. It’s time to start back now.’
She pressed the whole weight of her body against him; he was barely able to resist the desire that was sweeping through him, numbing his arms and legs. He liked her young breasts, her limpid skin; if only she would let herself be gently lulled by pleasure instead of romping about in bed with determined shamelessness … She looked at him, her eyes half closed, and her hand crept down his linen trousers.
‘Let me … won’t you let me?’
Her mouth and hands were adroit, but he hated that look of triumphant assurance he saw in her eyes every time he gave in to her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, not here. Not like this.’
He freed himself and stood up. Nadine’s blouse was lying on the sand; he threw it over her shoulders.
‘Why not?’ she asked resentfully. ‘Maybe it would be a bit more fun out here in the open,’ she added languidly.
He dusted the sand off his clothes. ‘I wonder if you’ll ever grow up to be a woman,’ he murmured in a falsely indulgent voice.
‘I’ll bet there isn’t one woman in a hundred who enjoys getting laid. Most of them are just putting on an act, trying to be sophisticated.’
‘Let’s go; let’s not argue,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘Come on, we’ll buy you some cakes and chocolate to eat in the car.’
‘You’re treating me like a child,’ she said.
‘No, I know you’re not a child. I understand you a lot better than you think.’
She looked at him suspiciously, and then a little smile formed on her lips. ‘You know, I don’t always hate you,’ she said.
He squeezed her arm a little harder, and they walked silently together towards the village. The light of day was growing soft; boats were returning to the port and oxen were pulling them towards the beach. The villagers, standing or sitting together in small groups, watched silently. The men’s shirts and the women’s full skirts were brightly checkered, but the joyousness of those vivid colours was congealed in dismal immobility. Their stony faces were framed by black kerchiefs; their eyes, staring blankly at the horizon, were drained of hope. Not a gesture, nor a word; it was as if a curse had withered all their tongues.
‘They make me want to scream,’ Nadine said.
‘I doubt if they’d even hear you.’
‘What are they waiting for?’
‘Nothing. And they know they’re waiting for nothing.’
In the main square, life sputtered feebly. The widows of fishermen who had drowned at sea were sitting at the edge of the sidewalk, begging; children were bawling noisily. At first Henri and Nadine had detested those rich women with their thick furs, whose majestic reply to all beggars was a curt, ‘Have patience!’ But now, they, too, fled like thieves when the hands were held out to them; there were just too many.
‘Buy yourself something,’ Henri said, stopping before a pastry shop.
She went in. Two children with shaven heads were pressing their noses against the window pane. When she came out again, her arms laden with paper bags, the children began squalling. She stopped.
‘What are they saying?’
Henri hesitated. ‘They say you’re lucky to be able to eat when you’re hungry.’
‘Oh!’
With a furious gesture, she threw the swollen bags in their arms.
‘No, I’ll give them some money instead,’ Henri said.
She pulled him away. ‘Forget it; I’ve lost my appetite. Those filthy urchins!’
‘But you said you were hungry.’
‘I told you I lost my appetite.’
They got into the car and drove for a while in silence. Then, ‘We should have gone to some other country,’ Nadine muttered in a choked-up voice.
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. But you must know.’
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t know,’ he replied.
‘Well, there must be some country in the world where people live decently,’ she said.
Suddenly, Nadine burst into tears. Henri looked at her incredulously; Paula’s tears were as natural as rain, but to see Nadine weeping was as disturbing as if he had stumbled on Dubreuilh sobbing. He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close to him.
‘Don’t cry,’ he said, stroking her rough hair. ‘Don’t cry.’ Why had he been unable to make her smile? Why was his heart so heavy?
Nadine wiped her eyes and noisily blew her nose. ‘Were you happy when you were young?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I was happy.’
‘You see.’
‘Some day you’ll be happy, too,’ he said.
He should have held her tightly, should have told her: ‘I’ll make you happy, Nadine.’ At that instant, he felt like saying it – a momentary desire to pledge her his whole life. But he said nothing. ‘The past doesn’t repeat itself; the past won’t repeat itself,’ he thought.
‘Vincent!’ Nadine cried out, racing towards the exit.
Clad in his war correspondent’s uniform, Vincent was waving his hand and smiling broadly. Nadine slipped
