The Invention of Morel Read online

  Watching Morel and Faustine, listening to them, I felt that something strange was happening; I did not know what it was. All I knew was that Morel infuriated me.

  "If I told you what I really wanted—"

  "Would I take offense?"

  "No, I think it would help us to understand each other better. We have only a short time left. Three days. What a pity that we cannot come to an understanding!"

  I began to realize that the words and movements of Faustine and the bearded man coincided with those of a week ago. The atrocious eternal return. But today one element was missing. My little garden, mutilated by Morel's footsteps, is a mud- hole now, with parts of dead flowers crushed into the ground.

  I felt elated. I thought I had made this discovery: that there are unexpected, constant repetitions in our behavior. The right combination of circumstances had enabled me to observe them. One seldom has the chance to be a clandestine witness of several talks between the same people. But scenes are repeated in life, just as they are in the theatre.

  After hearing Faustine and Morel speak, I turned back to the page (in my diary) where I reported their previous conversation, and I was able to verify that their words and actions were, essentially, the same (the few minor lapses I noticed were due to my own inaccuracy in reporting).

  And then I began to suspect angrily that they were merely putting on a comic performance as a joke at my expense.

  But let me explain. I never doubted for a minute the importance of trying to make Faustine realize that she and I were all that mattered (and that the bearded man had no place in our plans). I had begun to feel the desire to castigate him in some way—I played with the idea without acting upon it—to insult him by making him look ridiculous to her.

  Now I had the chance. But how could I take advantage of it? I found it hard to think because of my anger.

  I stood still, pretending to be lost in thought, waiting for the moment when I would be face to face with him. The bearded man went to get Faustine's scarf and basket. He came back shaking the sand out of them, saying (as he had said before): "Don't take my words so seriously. Sometimes I think—"

  He was only a few feet away from Faustine. I was not sure what I was going to do. Spontaneity is the mother of crudity. I pointed at the bearded man, as if I were introducing

  him to Faustine, and shouted, "La femme a barbe, Madame Faustine!"

  It was a very bad joke,- in fact, it was not even clear whether I was speaking to her or to him.

  The bearded man kept on walking toward Faustine, and if I had not moved in time he would have walked right into me. The woman did not stop asking questions; she did not interrupt her look of contentment. Her serenity still appalls me.

  Since that moment I have been miserable and ashamed, and I have felt an urge to kneel at Faustine's feet. This afternoon I could not wait until sunset. I went straight to the hill, ready to give myself up, certain that if all went well I would soon be involved in a sentimental scene with Faustine. But I was wrong. There is no explanation for what has happened. The hill is deserted now!

  When I saw that there was no one on the hill, I was afraid that this was some sort of a trap, that they were really hiding, lying in wait for me. Overcome with dread, I searched the whole museum, exercising extreme caution. But I had only to look at the furniture and the walls, which seemed to be invested with isolation, to be convinced that no one was there. What is more: to be convinced that no one was ever there. It is difficult, after an absence of almost twenty days, to be able to state positively that all the objects in a house with a great many rooms are exactly where they were when one went away,- but it seems clear that these fifteen people (and an equal number of servants) did not move a bench, a lamp, or if they did they put everything back in its place, in the exact position it occupied before. I have inspected the kitchen and the laundry room; the meal I left twenty days ago, the clothes (stolen from a closet in the museum) that I hung up to dry twenty days ago, were there; the former spoiled, the latter dry, both untouched.

  I shouted in the empty building, "Faustine! Faustine!"

  There was no reply.

  (I can think of two facts—a fact and a memory—that may be an explanation for these strange occurrences. Recently I started to experiment with new roots. I believe that in Mexico the Indians make a drink from the juice of certain roots, and—if I remember correctly—it causes a person to become delirious for several days. The conclusion, used to explain the presence of Faustine and her friends on this island, is logically admissible; but I do not seriously believe it applies in this case. Now that I have lost Faustine I should like to submit these problems to a hypothetical observer, a third person.)

  And then I remembered, incredulously, that I was a fugitive and that justice still had its infernal power. Perhaps these people were playing an outrageous trick on me. If so, I must not give up now, or weaken my powers of resistance, for a horrible catastrophe could result.

  I inspected the chapel, the basements. I decided to look at the whole island before going to bed. I went to the rocks, to the grassy part of the hill, to the beaches, the lowlands (my caution was excessive). I had to accept the fact that the intruders were not on the island.

  But when I returned to the museum it was almost dark, and I felt nervous. I wanted the brightness of the electric light. I tried many switches; there was no illumination. This seems to confirm my belief that the tides furnish the energy for the motors (by means of that hydraulic mill or water wheel I saw in the lowlands). Those people must have wasted the light. There has been a long period of calm since the last two tides. It ended this very afternoon, when I went back to the museum. I had to close all the doors and windows,-1 thought that the wind and the sea were going to destroy the island.

  In the first basement, standing alongside motors that looked enormous in the shadows, I felt very depressed. The effort needed to kill myself was superfluous now, because with Faustine gone not even the anachronous satisfaction of death remained.

  To justify my descent into the basement, I tried to make the machinery work. There were a few weak explosions and then everything was quiet again, while outside the storm raged and the branches of the cedar tree scraped against the thick glass of the skylight.

  When I came upstairs I heard the hum of a motor; with incredible speed the light touched everything and placed me in front of two men: one in white, the other in green (a cook and a manservant). They were speaking Spanish.

  "Do you know why he chose this deserted spot?"

  "He must have his reasons!"

  I listened anxiously. These were not the same people. These new ghosts were Iberian (did they exist only in my brain, tortured by the privations I had suffered, by the poisonous roots and the equatorial sun, or were they really here on this deadly island?); their words made me conclude that Faustine had not returned.

  They continued to converse in low tones, as if they had not heard my footsteps, as if I were not there.

  "I don't deny that; but how did Morel happen to think of it in the first place?"

  At this point they were interrupted by a man who said angrily, "Say, when are you coming anyway? Dinner has been ready for an hour!"

  He stared at them (so intently that I suspected he was trying to resist an urge to look at me), and then ran off shouting excitedly. He was followed by the cook; the servant hurried away in the opposite direction.

  I tried hard to control my nerves, but I was trembling. I heard a gong. In a situation like this, anyone, no matter how brave, would have been afraid, and I was no exception. Fortunately, though, I soon remembered that gong. I had seen it many times in the dining room.

  I wanted to escape, but I restrained myself, because I knew I could not really run away; that was impossible. The storm, the boat, the night: even if the storm had ended, it would have been horrible to be out at sea on that moonless night. Besides, I was certain that the boat would not be long in capsizing. And surely the lowlands were flooded. If I
ran away, where could I go? It would be better to listen; to watch the movements of these people,- to wait.

  I looked for a place to hide and chose a little room that I found under the stairway. (How stupid! If they had tried to find me, they would have looked there first!) I stayed in my hiding place for a while not daring to think, feeling slightly more relaxed but still bewildered.

  Two problems occurred to me:

  How did they get to this island? With a storm like this no captain would have dared to approach the shore; it was absurd to imagine that they had transferred to small boats while out at sea, and then used them to land on the island.

  When did they come? Their dinner had been ready for a long time; yet when I went down to inspect the motors, less than fifteen minutes ago, there was no one on the island.

  They mentioned Morel. Surely, it all had something to do with a return of the same people. It is probable, I thought tremblingly, that I shall have a chance to see Faustine again after all!

  I peered out, expecting that someone would be waiting to seize me and then my dilemma would be over.

  No one was there.

  I went up the stairs and walked along the narrow balcony,- then I stood behind one of the terracotta idols, and looked down on the dining room.

  About a dozen people were seated at the table. I took them

  for a group of tourists from New Zealand or Australia,- they appeared to be settled here, as if they did not plan to leave for some time.

  I remember it well: I saw the group; I compared these new people with the others who had been here; I discovered that they did not appear to be transients, and only then did I think of Faustine. I searched for her and found her at once. I had a pleasant surprise: the bearded man was not at her side; a precarious joy, which I could scarcely believe: the bearded man was not there (but soon afterward I saw him across the table).

  The conversation was not very animated. Morel brought up the subject of immortality. They spoke about travel, parties, diets. Faustine and a blond girl talked about different kinds of medicine. Alec, a young man, whose hair was carefully combed, an Oriental type with green eyes, tried to interest them in the subject of his wool business. He was singularly unsuccessful and soon gave up. Morel waxed enthusiastic about his plans for a ball field or tennis court for the island.

  I recognized a few more of the people from the museum. On Faustine's left was a woman—Dora?—with blond curly hair,- she smiled frequently, and her large head leaned forward slightly, making me think of a spirited horse. On Faustine's other side there was a dark young man, with bright eyes, bushy hair, and an intense look. Next to him sat a tall, flat- chested, extremely long-armed girl with an expression of disgust. Her name is Irene. On her other side was the woman who said, "This is not the proper time for ghost stories," that night when I was up on the hill. I cannot remember the others.

  When I was a little boy, I used to play a game with the pictures in my books: I looked at them for a long time and new objects would keep appearing in an endless succession. Now as I stood there, feeling thwarted, I stared at the panels by Foujita with pictures of women, tigers, or cats.

  The people filed into the assembly hall. I left the balcony, feeling terrified, for I knew my enemies were everywhere, including the basement (the servants). I went down the service stairs to the door that was concealed by a screen. The first thing I saw was a woman knitting by one of the alabaster urns and then the woman named Irene, talking to a friend. I looked again, risking the possibility of being seen, and caught a glimpse of Morel at a table with five other people, playing cards. Faustine was sitting there with her back to me. The table was small, their feet were close together, and I stood there for several minutes, perhaps longer than I realized, oblivious to the danger of being observed as I tried to see whether Morel's feet and Faustine's were touching. Then this lamentable pursuit came to an abrupt end; for I saw a red-faced, astonished servant standing there watching me. He turned and went into the assembly hall. I heard footsteps. I hurried away. I hid between the first and second rows of alabaster columns in the round room where the floor was an aquarium. Fish were swimming about beneath my feet; they were identical counterparts of the dead ones I had removed shortly after I arrived on the island.

  When I regained my composure, I moved toward the door. Faustine, Dora—her dinner companion—and Alec were coming up the stairs. Faustine walked slowly, with measured steps. As I looked at her I reflected that I was risking everything—my own peace of mind, the Universe, memories, my intense anxiety, the pleasure of learning about the tides and about more than one inoffensive root—for that ample body, those long, slender legs, that ridiculous sensuality.

  I followed them. They turned abruptly and entered a room. Across the hall I saw an open door that revealed a lighted, empty room. I entered it cautiously. Apparently the person who had been there had forgotten to turn out the light. The neatness of the bed and of the dressing table, the absence of books and clothes, and the perfect order told me that no one was living in it.

  I was uneasy when the other occupants of the museum went to their rooms. I heard their footsteps on the stairs and tried to turn out my light, but it was impossible: the switch did not work. I did not try to fix it, for it occurred to me that a light going off in an empty room would attract attention.

  If it had not been for that broken switch perhaps I would have gone to sleep immediately, because I was so tired, and because I saw the lights go out, one by one, through the cracks in the doors down the hall. (I found it reassuring to know that Dora was in Faustine's room!) I could imagine that if anyone happened to walk through the hall he would come into my room to turn out the light (the rest of the museum was in total darkness). Perhaps it was inevitable that someone would enter, but I would not be in any real danger. When he saw that the switch was broken, the person would simply go away to avoid disturbing the others. I would have to hide for only a moment.

  I was thinking about this when Dora's head appeared in the doorway. Her eyes looked through me. She went away, without trying to turn out the light.

  I felt terrified. Now, my position compromised, I began to explore the building in my imagination, to find a safe hiding place. I did not want to leave that room, for as long as I was there I could guard Faustine's door. I sat down on the bed, leaned back, and went to sleep. Soon afterward I saw Faustine in a dream. She entered the room. She came very close to me. I woke up. The light was out. I tried not to move; I tried to begin to see in the darkness, but I could not control my breathing and my terror.

  I got up, went out into the hall, and heard the silence that had followed the storm: nothing interrupted it.

  I started to walk down the hall, feeling that a door would open suddenly and a pair of rough hands would reach out and grab me, a mocking voice would taunt me. The strange world I had been living in, my conjectures and anxieties, Faustine— they all seemed like an invisible path that was leading me straight to prison and death. I went downstairs, moving cautiously through the darkness. I came to a door and tried to open it, but I could not budge it—I could not even move the latch. (I have seen latches that were stuck before; but I do not understand the windows: they have no locks and yet it is impossible to open them.) I was becoming convinced that I would never be able to get out of there, I was growing more nervous and—perhaps because of this and because of my helplessness in the dark—it seemed that even the doors in the interior of the building were impossible to open. Some footsteps on the service stairs made me hurry. I did not know how to get out of the room. I felt my way along a wall, until I came to one of the enormous alabaster urns,- with considerable effort and danger, I slid inside of it.

  For a long time I huddled nervously against the slippery alabaster surface and the fragile lamp. I wondered if Faustine had stayed alone with Alec, or if he or she had gone out with Dora when the latter left the room.

  This morning I was awakened by the sound of voices (I was very weak and too sleepy to hea
r what they were saying). Then everything was quiet.

  I wanted to get away from the museum. I started to stand up, afraid that I would fall and break the enormous light bulb, or that someone would see my head as it emerged from the urn. Very slowly, laboriously, I climbed out. I hid behind the curtains for a moment. I was so weak that I could not move them; they seemed to be rigid and heavy, like the stone curtains carved on a tomb. I could visualize, painfully, the fancy pastries and other foods that civilization had to offer: I was sure I would find such things in the pantry. I had fainting spells, the urge to laugh out loud; then I walked

  boldly toward the staircase. The door was open. No one was inside. I went into the pantry—my courage made me proud. I heard footsteps. I tried to open a door to the outside, and again I encountered one of those inexorable latches. Someone was coming down the service stairs. I ran to the entrance to the pantry. Through the open door I could see part of a wicker chair and a pair of crossed legs. I turned toward the main stairway,- I heard more footsteps. There were people in the dining room. I went into the assembly hall, noticed an open window, and, almost at the same time, I saw Irene and the woman who had spoken of ghosts, and the young man with the bushy hair; he walked toward me with an open book, reciting French poetry. I stopped short. Then I threaded my way stiffly between those people, almost touching them as I passed; I jumped out of the window and, in spite of the pain that racked my legs (it is about fifteen feet from the window to the ground below), I ran down through the ravine, stumbling and falling as I went, not daring to look back.

  I found some food, and began to wolf it down. Suddenly I stopped, for I had lost my appetite.