Betty

  Georges Simenon

  * * *

  BETTY

  Translated by ROS SCHWARTZ

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  About the Author

  Georges Simenon was born in Liège, Belgium, in 1903 and died in 1989 in Lausanne, Switzerland, where he had lived for the latter part of his life. He wrote Betty in 1960 on his return from a few weeks’ convalescence in Versailles.

  PENGUIN CLASSICS

  Betty

  ‘I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of Chekhov’

  – William Faulkner

  ‘A truly wonderful writer … marvellously readable – lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the world he creates’

  – Muriel Spark

  ‘Few writers have ever conveyed with such a sure touch, the bleakness of human life’

  – A. N. Wilson

  ‘One of the greatest writers of the twentieth century … Simenon was unequalled at making us look inside, though the ability was masked by his brilliance at absorbing us obsessively in his stories’

  – Guardian

  ‘A novelist who entered his fictional world as if he were part of it’

  – Peter Ackroyd

  ‘The greatest of all, the most genuine novelist we have had in literature’

  – André Gide

  ‘Superb … The most addictive of writers … A unique teller of tales’

  – Observer

  ‘The mysteries of the human personality are revealed in all their disconcerting complexity’

  – Anita Brookner

  ‘A writer who, more than any other crime novelist, combined a high literary reputation with popular appeal’

  – P. D. James

  ‘A supreme writer … Unforgettable vividness’

  – Independent

  ‘Compelling, remorseless, brilliant’

  – John Gray

  ‘Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth century’

  – John Banville

  1

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’

  She shook her head. The voice sounded unnatural, as if someone were speaking to her through a windowpane.

  ‘Mind you, when I say something to eat, that means rabbit because, as you can see from looking around, today is rabbit day. Too bad if you don’t like it. When it’s cod day, there’s only cod …’

  It was strange hearing the syllables follow on from one another, connecting, forming words, sentences, rather like yarn that gradually transforms itself into lace, or wool into a knitted sock.

  That image of a knitted sock, half-finished, dangling from its three needles, made her smile. It was surprising to think of such a common object here, opposite a man who visibly prided himself on his sophistication and who constructed his sentences so meticulously. He was dressed in grey. He was all grey: his eyes, his hair, his skin, even his tie and shirt. There wasn’t a dash of colour. And, listening to him, she had just imagined a sock, not grey but black, because she had only ever seen black socks being knitted, a very long time ago, in the Vendée, when she was not yet fourteen. And now she was twenty-eight …

  ‘One gets used to it.’

  She almost asked him:

  ‘Used to what?’

  Because her mind was wandering in several directions at once. She couldn’t grasp the connection between what one needed to get used to and the woollen sock, forgetting that the sock was in her memory and not in that of her companion. All the same, the man must have been able to read the question on her face because he continued undeterred, with touching diligence:

  ‘Liking or not liking.’

  Liking what? She had forgotten the rabbit and the cod. Once again, her eyes met those of an American officer sitting on a stool at the bar. He kept staring at her and she wondered where she had seen him before.

  ‘Wednesday is cassoulet day, although it would be more accurate to say cassoulet night.’

  From her companion’s wan smile she guessed that there was a subtle distinction and she wished she could comprehend what he meant.

  ‘Are you partial to it?’

  Partial? This conversation, which she no longer understood at all, was becoming increasingly absurd. Everything was confused. But too bad. She said solemnly:

  ‘Yes.’

  She had no idea what he was talking about exactly, but she didn’t wish to be rude. She didn’t know this overdressed man with a fascinatingly penetrating gaze. She wasn’t aware of his name. Even so, she was actually closer to him than she had ever been to anyone else, because, apart from him, there was nothing left in the world.

  Unbelievable as it seemed, that was the way things were. This would last as long as it would last – an hour or a night, or longer. And that thought made her smile. A smile which, for the time being, was without bitterness. He was very polite. In the car, he hadn’t tried to fondle her and he hadn’t asked her a single question.

  Because she remembered the car, the soft, cool leather of the seats and the rain on the windscreen, and the misted-up windows on which she idly drew pictures with her fingertips. In the city, she recalled the lights concentrated into each drop of water, then the headlamps on the motorway. She could have described in the minutest detail everything that had happened since, as if before an investigating magistrate or a doctor …

  Since when? Since the bar in Rue de Ponthieu, in any case. Casting her mind back further was too unpleasant and she refused to do so. She didn’t want to ruin something that had been so difficult to achieve and was even more difficult to hold on to: that state of precise balance, or rather of perfect vacillation, which was hers for the time being, a pleasant floating feeling, relaxing, almost blissful.

  Not blissful in the usual sense of the word, naturally. She didn’t feel like laughing or dancing or telling stories. The thrilling thing was that she knew nothing, nothing of what would come next, not that night, or tomorrow or the following days, and she didn’t care one bit.

  ‘I’m surprised that people who eat animals every day don’t wonder …’

  She listened, gazing at the face of the man, which she saw as if through a magnifying glass, but, despite her efforts, other thoughts were going round inside her head.

  Before leaving Rue de Ponthieu, she should have asked her companion to wait for her for a moment so she could go down to the toilet, where the attendant would probably have had a pair of stockings to sell her. Most of them do.

  It upset her to have a ladder on each leg. For the first time in her life, she hadn’t changed her stockings for ages. Two days? Three days? She would rather not be reminded. Nor had she taken a bath, which would bother her later. Would there be a bathtub, and would he let her use it?

  She glimpsed faces, close up or far away, hair, eyes, noses, mouths moving, and she could hear voices that didn’t always come from those mouths. She tried to fathom, without much success, what kind of place she was in. Without thinking, she grabbed her glass of whisky:

  ‘Cheers!’

  There was a blonde woman, a barmaid with big breasts like she had so desperately wanted when she was a little girl. There was also an African in a white hat who would appear, smiling, sometimes through one door, sometimes through the other, whom everyone seemed to know. There was the American officer propped up at the bar, clutching his glass and still staring at her.

  Some people were eating and others were simply drinking, some in groups, others alone, staring straight ahead in silence.

  ‘Has it never occurred to you that, as a result, we are full of animals?’

  She was conscious that she was
drunk. She had been drunk for a long time but, for now, she was taking advantage of a promising punter. She didn’t feel unwell, nor did she feel like vomiting or crying. Was her companion drunk too? Had he already been drinking before they met at Le Ponthieu?

  He had simply walked in from the dark street, with raindrops on the tweed of his clothes. There too, he was a regular: you could tell from the way he looked around and greeted the bartender with a wave.

  She’d been sitting on a stool and he asked permission to sit next to her.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  His hands were long and white, very dry, and he fiddled with them all the time as if they were foreign objects.

  He didn’t know where she had come from or what she had drunk beforehand. Maybe he hadn’t noticed the ladders in her stockings? At all events, he couldn’t guess that she hadn’t taken a bath, that she hadn’t even been able to wash after the man that afternoon.

  They weren’t in Rue de Ponthieu any more. She didn’t know where they were. She had only recognized Avenue de Versailles, where she’d half glimpsed her mother’s house, then they’d taken the motorway and turned right on to a muddy track. On alighting from the car, she caught the smell of wet leaves and jumped over a puddle. She still had water in her left shoe.

  They were in a restaurant, because people were eating. It was also a bar. There was muffled music from a turntable that no one was listening to. And yet she had the impression that this wasn’t an establishment like any other and that everyone was staring at her.

  All those people, including the American officer, seemed to know one another, even though, and especially, because they weren’t conversing, and the owner was going from one table to the next, sitting down for a moment, he too keeping his eyes on her. Her hair wasn’t dishevelled. She didn’t have a smudge on her nose. Her suit was more than decent. Her stockings weren’t, but that happened to all women.

  Maybe she should have been introduced, approved? Or maybe she had to pass some test?

  ‘Everything all right, doctor?’

  The owner, this time, but remaining on his feet, was addressing her companion, who batted his eyelids without bothering to reply and glanced again at his hands placed flat on the table. Then he began methodically to scratch the skin between his fingers.

  ‘You’re not listening to me …’

  He was talking to her, because the owner had already moved off.

  ‘I assure you I’m listening.’

  ‘What was I saying?’

  ‘That as a result of eating animals …’

  He stared fixedly at her and she wondered if that was the correct answer. She must have annoyed him, because he rose to his feet, mumbling:

  ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’

  He strode towards one of the doors. The owner took the opportunity to come over and collect the two empty glasses.

  ‘The same again?’

  She had the feeling she’d seen him before as well. It was a fixation, this evening. Not only when it came to people, but also things. All this reminded her of something. But when? Where?

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve been to Le Trou?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She didn’t know that this place was called Le Trou and she wondered whether naming it ‘the pit’ was a prank, or a trap, and whether she’d been wrong to reply seriously.

  ‘Have you known the doctor long?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you not wish to eat?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Make yourself at home. Everyone’s at home here.’

  She smiled to thank him for speaking to her and, for appearance’s sake, drank half of her glass, opened her bag and powdered her nose. Her face was puffy. She preferred not to study it in the mirror of her compact, which at the same time reflected a very dark-haired, and above all very tall, woman sitting behind her.

  ‘When you know the place better, you won’t be able to stay away.’

  Her companion, looking strangely intense, had resumed his seat opposite her.

  ‘Forgive me for leaving you on your own.’

  She tried, without any success, to hear what the people behind her were saying, convinced they were talking about her. She in turn rose, murmuring:

  ‘Would you excuse me?’

  On reaching the toilet, she found herself face to face with the African, who stared at her and laughed a great silent laugh, as if it were funny meeting her suddenly in a narrow passage. He didn’t do anything to her, however, and stepped aside, laughing even harder. She glimpsed a filthy, messy kitchen. A door that didn’t close properly divided it from the toilet, whose skylight had a view over the countryside.

  She was beginning to feel impatient, for no particular reason. Perhaps also a little afraid. It was time for another drink to keep herself afloat, before she was overwhelmed by anxiety or sadness.

  When she went back into the restaurant, before even sitting down, she downed the rest of her whisky.

  ‘I’m thirsty!’ she sighed.

  Her companion called:

  ‘Joseph! Bring madame a drink.’

  ‘Same again?’

  She said yes.

  ‘For you too, doctor?’

  ‘If you like.’

  Once more, she wanted things to move fast, wanted to be lying down, alone or otherwise, anywhere, and to close her eyes. She found the music and the din exhausting. She had had enough of seeing faces, eyes staring at her as if she were a freak or an interloper.

  ‘Why do you keep scratching?’

  She was definitely one step behind.

  ‘Me?’ she asked in surprise, after what felt like an age.

  Perhaps she’d scratched the back of her hand without realizing. But the man seized her hand with a contained eagerness and his face suddenly lit up with childlike jubilation.

  ‘It’s here, isn’t it?’

  He pointed to an invisible spot.

  ‘Yes … I suppose …’

  ‘Under your skin?’

  Now he was frightening her and again she replied yes, so as not to vex him.

  ‘Does it crawl?’

  ‘Does what crawl?’

  ‘Does it move around on the surface or deep down? It’s very important, because they all have their own characteristics. I know some that …’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Worms.’

  ‘What worms?’

  ‘So you’re not aware that you have worms under your skin, all sorts of worms, tiny ones and huge ones, fat and thin, wriggly and docile? You probably have other little creatures that are much more inconspicuous. I’ll show them to you and explain their nature …’

  She could see close up the thin, pallid face, the smooth grey hair and the eyes almost the same grey, and it suddenly dawned on her that there was something abnormal about him. She wanted to withdraw her hand; she tried, but he was gripping it firmly.

  ‘You’re going to see how I hunt down these creatures that torment us so diabolically …’

  With his free hand, he took from his pocket a gold toothpick with a sharp point.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. I’ve had a lot of practice.’

  A voice said:

  ‘Leave her alone, doctor.’

  He still tried to prick her skin.

  ‘I told you to leave her alone.’

  ‘I’m just going to remove a little worm that’s bothering her and …’

  The owner took another step forward and placed an amiable hand on the doctor’s shoulder.

  ‘Come with me for a moment.’

  ‘In a minute. She asked me—’

  ‘Come.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A private message.’

  The grey man looked up, hesitant.

  ‘Are you afraid I’ll hurt her? You’re forgetting that I …’

  His smile was bitter, resigned, even though he was tall and the owner short and stocky. A second later, he was on his feet, too
thpick in hand and, humiliated, he allowed himself to be nudged towards the back door.

  Perturbed and anxious, Betty looked at her hand, drained her glass, then, with a shrug, that of her companion too. She still didn’t know who he was. She knew nothing. She no longer knew anything and was beginning to feel panic-stricken. The American officer at the bar was watching her, unsmiling, morose.

  ‘Waiter!’

  ‘Yes, madame.’

  ‘Give me a drink.’

  This time, he didn’t ask her if she wanted the same again. She wanted it fast. The faster the better. The images became fuzzy. There was ginger hair, for example, which might have been very close to her or at the back of the room, and she didn’t know if it belonged to a woman or to a man. She struggled to focus her eyes and then she saw frozen, indifferent faces that could have been wax figures.

  People resented her but she couldn’t understand why.

  She must have done something wrong, broken the rules of the establishment.

  How could she have done otherwise, since she didn’t know what those rules were?

  Why didn’t anyone explain them to her?

  It wasn’t her drinking that was causing offence. The proof was that the owner himself had called Joseph the first time, and others were drinking as much if not more than her. A young woman with mousey hair on the corner of a banquette was deathly pale, her head lolling back, and her companion, who was holding her hand romantically, did not appear to be paying any attention to her.

  What would happen if Betty began to shout? She was tempted to do so, to find out, to stir things up, so that someone would take notice of her, not just stare at her.

  And supposing she blurted out everything she’d done over the past three days? Would those faces finally take on a human expression? Would there be compassion, or simply a flicker of interest, in all those fish eyes?

  Her hand trembled as she rummaged in her bag.

  ‘Waiter!’

  ‘Yes, madame. The same again?’

  Which proved once more that it wasn’t the drinking that was the problem!

  ‘Do you have any cigarettes?’