Julien left the station at eleven forty-five precisely – grey and sad, the
station. Just like this were those that had preceded it in Julien's memory.
Then it was as if a stage set was unrolled before his eyes: Venice, La
Serenissima, sumptuously arrayed in tatters of fire, was waiting for him.
Jostled by a stream of impatient tourists he stopped for a few seconds, his
heart in turmoil. He was going to see Christine; he would find her again
here in Venice.
The Grand Canal also invited him to take a cruise. Swept on by a second wave
of tourists mounting their attack with even more determination, Julien
allowed himself to be carried away, apparently vanquished.
In the vaporetto he could not take his eyes off the liquid mass, bathed in
the gold of the palaces. The triviality of other people no longer existed.
He would see Christine again, right here in Venice ...
“Let's meet in Venice, at the Florian, in that city before which you will
soon be captivated, like me ...”
She would have preferred, she wrote, to send a simple letter on that blue
paper that Julien was fond of, and not a postcard that would “falsify the
real Venice, make it banal ...”
Julien had chosen to arrive one day before, so that he could master by
himself the reflection of the city discovered by Christine. Their reunion
would consecrate the fusion of these two visions, an identity reestablished.
He would follow, he was already following in the footsteps of his friend
Christine Delahaye, a talented and well-known journalist, had had the idea
of writing an article on Venice. She had decided to entitle her article:
“Art in Venice. Art and Venice”. Already six months had passed since they
had first met. With the help of Love, Christine hoped to craft an article,
no, the article on the city. If necessary Julien, a professor of literature
and a writer, would be able to encourage her.
Julien returned sharply to reality. He had reached San Marco station: the
cameras were on display, as were their owners.
“OK old chap, are you getting off, or what ...?”
Julien did not bother to reply, he smiled absently, clutching his travel
bag. In Venice he could not be affected by any vulgarity.
Christine had given him a list of small pensions where he would find a room.
Tomorrow they would both go to his girl's room.
Julien imagined her wandering through the little streets and the bridges,
perhaps with a pen in her hand to note down her fleeting impressions. “First
of all you must write down everything that come into your mind” she said
feverishly, “without reflection – everything can be organised later.” He
wondered how she had been able to plan this article: The Tintoret? Saint
Mark's church? Or quite simply the play of light and shade on the water and
the stonework ...?
After several attempts he managed to unearth a little pension, not far from
the church of Santa Maria Formosa. Julien was happy, thinking vaguely of the
lines he would dedicate to Venice, Venezia, Venezia ... Julien repeated
this word several times in a low voice, his eyes closed.
He lunched quickly. This afternoon he had decided to wander round Venice,
with no plan, as a dilettante idler.
Towards two thirty he went to the Florian where his friend was to have left
him a message. He went in; the mob of tourists was swirling about outside
....
One of the waiters approached quickly:
“A coffee, please.”
Christine worked in the Florian every day, and had finally struck up
conversation a with the staff.
“You don't have a message for me from Christine Delahaye?”
“Cristina ...Christine Delahaye, the French journalist?No, I am sorry sir,
we have not seen her for two or three days ...”
“Do you have her address?”
The waiter seemed very embarrassed: “I am sorry, Sir, but that sort of thing
....”
He apologised again, embarrassed. Of course the question was stupid. But why
had Christine not left any message for Julien, as they had agreed?
“I think she was going to the San Michele cemetery, that is all I know.
Excuse me.
The waiter went off to other customers, obviously in a hurry to be finished
with this curious foreigner and his indiscreet questions.
Julien suddenly had a strong desire to cry. He did not dare to look about
him – all eyes must be focussed on him.
He paid and left quickly without looking round. Bewildered he wandered
hither and thither. Unease and soon anxiety dominated him. Where was
Christine? Why had she not left any message? Silently he cursed himself. He
should have asked her her address ... Why this peculiar rendezvous? He would
have been able to meet her at her pension ...
Christine ... Christine ... For no good reason he had the feeling that he
would never see her again, caught up by this city that he now hated.
Julien tried to think calmly: a hitch of some kind, it must be. She would be
at the rendezvous tomorrow, yes, tomorrow ...
He opened his eyes on the world outside. His steps had brought him to the
landing stage, Fondamenta nuove ... The waiter had mentioned the cemetery of
San Michele,so he would go there, like Christine. He was sure he would find
there some evidence of her presence.
Many time Julien had heard of this cemetery, the only one, perhaps, that is
approached by water.
His eyes wandered over the displays of flowers before which the Venetians
lingered. No shadow of a tourist here, so there!
Suddenly he found himself next to a flower seller who, with an interrogative
eye, asked him what he wanted.
“Some ... let's see ... some carnations ...”
“You are French?”
“Yes, in Venice for a few days. I would like some red carnations.”
The flower-seller eyed him closely: “The French like red carnations?”
“Yes ... no ... why?”
“I sold a dozen two days ago to a French lady who wanted to put flowers on
the grave of a musician and of an American poet, over there ...”
Christine! Julien almost shouted out her name. He got control of himself:
“A lady? What was she like?”
“About your height, blonde ... now then, about the carnations, should I give
you a dozen?”
Christine! She – he was sure! For the girl, who was smiling at his
questions, he forced a smile, looking her in the eye: “Give me twelve red
carnations please.”
She was not smiling now. Julien had a fleeting impression that her eyes had
dimmed.With a dull voice she said: “Twelve carnations, very well Sir.”
Turning away brusquely he walked decisively to the next vaporetto.
“San Michele?”
”Si, si! Il cimitero...” The man was laughing as he pointed out a tiny
sparkling rectangle to which Julien had paid no attention and could be seen
in the lights - sparkling over there on the horizon ...The cemetery of San
Michele ...
The young man could not take his eyes off the vision conjured up by the
sailor. He was about to cross the Styx to enter Hell. Julien smiled;
certainly the symbol and the mythology opened the way for him! It is true
that the symbolism was troubling! What Cerberus would bar his access ...?
The carnations, Christine's carnations! He was impatient to arrive and lay
flowers on the tomb of Igor Stravinsky and Ezra Pound, as the young woman
had done!
A slight bump ... His precious carnations in his hand, Julien walked towards
the cemetery, preceded by several women, their arms loaded with flowers. The
vaporetto was departing already, presumably for Murano.
Julien walked on quickly, buoyed up by a conviction: in the cemetery he
would find proof of Christine's visit – the sign.
Julien feverishly crossed a small cloister and hurried along borders
perfumed by pink and white hyacinths ... Christine's favourite flower,
hooray! He was not wrong.Perhaps he would see her? His heart was beating ...
After several attempts Julien discovered the two tombs.
He then understood what had fascinated the young woman: the similarity of
the two Monuments in their bareness leapt out to the eye. Stravinsky's tomb
was there to be seen: very sober and modern in conception, it resembled
certain tombs that he had often seen. That of Ezra Pound, a simple slab at
ground level, much more modest, almost anonymous, was decorated with the
first name and surname of the poet, with no mention of a date. Hidden by the
undergrowth, framed in lusty ivy, it could be discovered only with
difficulty.
Before each tomb Julien, full of emotion, bent over the sign he was looking
for: six red carnations on one, six on the other. He accepted the gift and
offered his own in its place. The twelve carnations, fresh and bright, were
divided into two equal bouquets and replaced Christine's ...
He had gone back in time. With the faded bunch of carnations in his hand,
Julien went back to the exit. He seemed to be walking at Christine's side,
his hand clutching the Sign that she had left for him. “I have exchanged my
present for his past so that the future shall be ours”, he whispered,
ecstatically. His decision was taken. Tomorrow he would wait all morning at
the Florian until she came. He had been stupid to doubt; since Christine had
not left any message with the waiters at the café, the time of their
rendezvous remained unchanged: half past ten, as her letter indicated.
The passengers on the vaporetto leaving for Venice were amazed to see a man
of about thirty, blue shirt and grey velvet trousers, arrive humming a tune.
One after the other he kissed several faded flowers that he was holding
tightly,whispering inaudible words. The people turned away. The young man
did not notice anything, the same word came ceaselessly from his lips.
Julien went back to his pension and quickly fell asleep without having
eaten, towards eight o'clock,after having several times got lost in the maze
of Venice where no sign of Christine showed him the way.
On the next day, by nine o'clock, Julien went towards St. Mark's Square,
almost deserted at this time of day, dominated by a strange glow that
converted the Palace of the Doges and Saint Mark's Church into shadow and
blue-grey light. While waiting for the Florian to open he took several steps
on the breakwater, facing the church of San-Giorgio Maggiore. This was the
day when he and Christine were to meet up again. Little by little the light
took over the shadow; suddenly it became brilliant and he noticed that the
Florian was opening: the waiter was putting out chairs outside the café.
This time Julien sat down outside the Florian, where another waiter was
polishing the windows. Striking these, the light sprinkled them with tiny
rays of fire that dazzled Julien. He closed his eyes. Tiny globes of
unbearable orange filled his iris for several seconds.
Julien drank mechanically a mouthful of coffee and a mouthful of water
without any sign that this mixture of cold and hot would bring him out of
his lethargy. Christine would arrive at ten thirty, Christine would arrive
....
St. Mark's Square began to fill up ... His throat tightened at the idea that
in a few hours it would be covered with multicoloured stains that would
trample all over it.
It was nearly ten o'clock ... Julien's heart was beating. He so badly needed
to see her again! The memory of his arrival at Venice made him tremble,
without understanding why. And if Christine did not come?
The waiter who had served him the previous day passed by, keeping his eyes
averted. Julien made a gesture, he wanted to ask him ... He did not dare. He
felt very vulnerable, suddenly; alone, Christine ...
Julien looked at his watch: ten twenty, a few more minutes and this torture
would come to an end – Christine was extremely punctual for meetings.
However he was afraid she would not come.
At ten thirty-five anguish, panic took over. He paid quickly, took several
steps outside the café. The hands on his watch moved forward inexorably, his
worries increased. At midday he had no more hope, and was now concentrating
on his fate: he was alone, a prisoner of Venice.
Julien did not even look at his watch now. The passage of time betrayed him
and made him even more isolated.
He walked at random. The alleys gripped him. Their coolness did him good. He
rested his forehead covered in sweat against a wall. His clothes were also
soaked. His decision was sudden. He would to back to Fondamenta Nuove, ready
to embark again for the Country of the Dead. Julien walked feverishly
through the alleys ...and finally managed to see where he was. Over there,
over there he would find a sign from Christine, the Sign.
Tears and sweat flowed copiously down his cheeks; he ran in the growing heat
without managing to regain his calm. He wanted to shout out her name ...
The flower-seller looked carefully at him, bewildered, her eyes wide. With
his twelve carnations in his hand Julien ran towards the first vaporetto,
jostling passers-by as if they would refuse him entry.
It was not very busy at this time. Everyone clasped their flowers in their
hands and avoided his eye. The coolness of the sea calmed him a little. He
had to reach Hades.His red carnations in his hand, one of the first, Julien
jumped on to the bank. He crossed the cemetery with rapid steps. Even the
hyacinths could not hold him back. At last! Pound's tomb was close by. At
the noise he made reaching it a woman dressed in black started in fright and
rushed to another tomb. She had just put some white carnations on the poet's
tomb!
He cried out: “Christine! Christine!! in a strangled voice. She turned
round, her face half masked by the light: her hair, long like Christine's,
was black ...
Julien walked towards her, holding out his hands, his features distorted ...
she let out a cry and fled, stumbling at every step.
Stravinsky's tomb was similarly polluted: white carnations! In a rage Julien
trampled on the flowers.
Running with sweat, his eyes wandering, he began to scream. Everything
collapsed.Julien turned on himself, his red carnations in his hand like
wounds ... The advance of time made him dizzy; everything wobbled while he
wagged his head, his eyes half-closed, like a dislocated spinning top...
He was still trampling on the white flowers when the men in uniform
approached. There were four who advanced towards him, silently. The seemed
not to be touching the earth ...
Julien let himself be taken, exhausted, haggard. It was only when one of the
men wanted to take his flowers so that he could tie his hands that Julien
let out a roar and leapt at the throat of the aggressor. The four men had
great difficulty in overcoming him, and then took him away quickly; a dozen
people had gathered a little way off to discuss the incident.