33

ALBINUS was not clear when and how he came to know these things: the time from his blithely taking that bend until now (a couple of weeks), the place where he was (a clinic at Grasse), the operation which he had undergone (trepanning), and the reason of his long period of unconsciousness (effusion of blood into the brain). A moment had arrived, however, when all these bits of information had been gathered into one—he was alive, was fully conscious and knew that Margot and a hospital nurse were close at hand. He felt that he had been dozing pleasantly and that he had just awakened. But what the time was, he did not know. Probably it was still early in the morning.

His forehead and his eyes were covered with a soft, thick bandage. But his skull was already uncovered and it was strange to feel with his fingers the bristles of the new hair on his head. In his memory he retained a picture that was, in its gaudy intensity, like a colored photograph on glass: the curve of the glossy blue road, the green and red cliff to the left, the white parapet to the right and in front of him the approaching cyclists—two dusty apes in orange-colored jerseys. A sharp jerk of the steering wheel to avoid them—and up the car dashed, mounting a pile of stones on the right, and in the next fraction of that second, a telegraph post loomed in front of the windscreen. Margot’s outstretched arm had flown across the picture—and the next moment the magic lantern went out.

This recollection had been completed by Margot. Yesterday, or the day before yesterday, or even earlier—she had told him, or rather her voice—why only her voice? Why was it so long since he had really seen her? This bandage. Probably they would soon take it off … What had Margot’s voice told him?

“… If it had not been for the telegraph post, we should have plunged over the parapet and into the precipice. It was appalling. I’ve still a huge bruise on my hip. The car turned a somersault and smashed like an egg. It cost … le car … mille … beaucoup mille marks” (this was meant, apparently, for the nurse). “Albert, what’s the French for twenty thousand?”

“Oh, what does it matter … You are alive!”

“The cyclists were very nice. They helped to gather up all the things. But they couldn’t find the tennis rackets.”

Tennis rackets? Sun on a tennis racket. Why was that so unpleasant? Oh, yes, that nightmare business at Rouginard. He with his gun in his hand. She coming in on rubber soles … Nonsense—all that had been cleared up, everything was all right.… What time was it? When would the bandage be taken off? When could he get up? Had it got into the papers—the German papers?

He turned his head this way and that; the bandage worried him. Also—the discrepancy between his senses. His ears had been absorbing so many impressions all this time, and his eyes none at all. He did not know what the room, or the nurse, or the doctor looked like. And the time? Was it morning? He had had a long, sweet sleep. Probably the window was open, for he heard the clatter of horse hoofs outside; there was also the sound of running water and the clanging note of a pail. Perhaps there was a courtyard with a well and the cool morning shade of plane trees.

He lay for some time motionless, endeavoring to transform the incoherent sound into corresponding shapes and colors. It was the opposite of trying to imagine the kind of voices which Botticelli’s angels had. Presently he heard Margot’s laugh and then that of the hospital nurse. Apparently they were sitting in the next room. She was teaching Margot to pronounce correctly in French: “Soucoupe, soucoupe”—Margot repeated several times and they both laughed softly.

Feeling that he was doing something absolutely forbidden, Albinus cautiously drew up the bandage and peeped out. But the room still remained quite dark. He could not even see the bluish glimmer of a window or those faint patches of light which come to stay with the walls at night. So it was night after all, not morning, not even early morning. A black moonless night. How deceptive sounds could be. Or were the blinds especially thick?

From the next room came a pleasant rattle of crockery: “Café aimé toujours, thé nicht toujours”

Albinus fumbled over the bedside table until he felt the little electric lamp. He pressed the switch once, a second time, but the darkness remained there, as if it were too heavy to move. Probably the plug had been taken out. He felt with his fingers for matches and actually found a box. There was only one match inside; he struck it, heard it sizzle slightly as though it had lit, but he could not see any flame. He threw it away and suddenly smelled a faint odor of sulphur. Strange.

“Margot,” he shouted suddenly, “Margot!”

A sound of rapid footsteps and of a door opening. But nothing changed. How could it be dark behind the door, if they were having coffee there?

“Turn on the light,” he said angrily. “Please, turn on the light.”

“You are a bad boy,” said Margot’s voice. He heard her approaching swiftly and surely through absolute night. “You ought not to touch that bandage.”

“What do you mean? You seem to see me,” he stammered. “How can you see me? Turn on the light, do you hear? At once!”

“Calmez-vous. Don’t excite yourself,” said the voice of the nurse.

These sounds, these footsteps and voices seemed to be moving on a different plane. He was here and they were somewhere else, but still, in some unaccountable way, close at hand. Between them and the night which enveloped him was an impenetrable wall. He rubbed his eyelids, turned his head this way and that, jerked himself about, but it was impossible to force a way through this solid darkness which was like a part of himself.

“It can’t be!” said Albinus with the emphasis of despair. “I’m going mad! Open the window, do something!”

“The window is open,” she answered softly.

“Perhaps there is no sun … Margot, perhaps I might see something in very sunny weather. The merest glimmer. Perhaps, with glasses.”

“Lie still, my dear. The sun is shining, it is a glorious morning. Albert, you hurt me.”

“I … I …” Albinus drew a deep breath which seemed to make his chest swell into some vast monstrous globe full of a whirling roar which presently he let out, lustily, steadily … And when it had all gone, he started filling up again.