Читаем Lust for Life полностью

He sipped the sour red wine slowly. There were few people in the shop. Opposite him sat a labourer of some sort. In the corner near the bar sat a couple, the woman in gaudy clothes. At the table next to him was a woman alone. He did not look at her.

The waiter came by and said to the woman roughly, “More wine?”

“Haven’t a sou,” she replied.

Vincent turned. “Won’t you have a glass with me?” he asked.

The woman looked at him for an instant. “Sure.”

The waiter brought the glass of wine, took the twenty centimes and went away. The tables were close together.

“Thanks,” said the woman.

Vincent surveyed her closely. She was not young, not beautiful, slightly faded, one over whom life had passed. Her figure was slender but well formed. He noticed her hand as it clasped the glass of wine; it was not a lady’s hand like Kay’s, but the hand of one who worked much. She reminded him, in the half light, of some curious figure by Chardin or Jan Steen. She had a crooked nose that bulged in the middle, and a shadowy moustache on her upper lip. Her eyes were melancholy but there was, none the less, a touch of spirit in them.

“Not at all,” he replied. “I’m grateful for your company.”

“My name is Christine,” she said. “What’s yours?”

“Vincent.”

“Do you work here at The Hague?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a painter.”

“Oh. That’s a hell of a life too, ain’t it?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’m a laundress. When I have strength enough to work. But that ain’t always.”

“What do you do then?”

“I was on the streets for a long time. I go back to it when I’m too sick to work.”

“Is it hard to be a laundress?”

“Yes. They work us twelve hours. And they don’t pay nothing. Sometimes, after I washed all day, I got to find a man to earn food for the kids.”

“How many children have you, Christine?”

“Five. I’m carrying another one now.”

“Your husband is dead?”

“I got them all from strangers.”

“That made it difficult, didn’t it?”

She shrugged. “Jesus Christ. A miner can’t refuse to go down because he might get killed, can he?”

“No. Do you know who any of the fathers are?”

“Only the first son of a bitch. I never even knew their names.”

“What about the one you’re carrying now?”

“Well, I can’t be sure. I was too sick to wash then, so I was on the streets a lot. But it don’t matter.”

“Will you have another glass of wine?”

“Make it gin and bitters.” She reached into her purse, took out the butt of a rough, black cigar and lit it. “You don’t look prosperous,” she said. “Do you sell any paintings?”

“No, I’m just beginning.”

“You look pretty old to be beginning.”

“I’m thirty.”

“You look forty. How do you live then?”

“My brother sends me a little money.”

“Well, it’s no goddam worse than being a laundress.”

“With whom do you stay, Christine?”

“We’re all at my mother’s.”

“Does she know you go on the streets?”

The woman laughed uproariously but without mirth. “Christ yes! She sent me there. That’s what she did all her life. It’s how she got me and my brother.”

“What does your brother do?”

“He’s got a woman at the house. He pimps for her.”

“That can’t be very good for your five children.”

“It don’t matter. They’ll all be doing the same some day.”

“It’s all a rum go, isn’t it, Christine?”

“Ain’t no good crying about it. Can I have another glass of gin and bitters? What did you do to your hand? You got a big black sore.”

“I burned it.”

“Oh, that must have hurt awful.” She picked up his hand tenderly.

“No, Christine, it was all right. I wanted to.”

She dropped his hand. “Why did you come in here all alone? Ain’t you got no friends?”

“No. My brother, but he’s in Paris.”

“Makes a guy feel lonesome, don’t it?”

“Yes, Christine, horribly.”

“I get like that, too. There’s all the kids at home, and my mother and brother. And all the men I pick up. But you live alone anyhow, don’t you? It ain’t people that count. It’s having someone you really like.”

“Hasn’t there ever been anyone you cared for, Christine?”

“The first fellow. I was sixteen. He was rich. Couldn’t marry me ’count of his family. But he paid for the baby. Then he died, and I was left without a centime.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-two. Too old to have kids. The doctor at the free ward said this one will kill me.”

“It won’t if you have proper medical attention.”

“Where in hell am I going to get it? I ain’t got nothing saved up. The doctors at the free ward don’t care; they got too many sick women.”

“Have you no way at all of getting a little money?”

“Sure. If I stay on the streets all night for a couple of months. But that’ll kill me quicker than the kid.”

They were silent for several moments. “Where are you going when you leave here, Christine?”

“I been at the tubs all day and I come in here to get a glass because I’m dead. They were supposed to pay me a franc and a half, but they put me off ’till Saturday. I got to get two francs for food. I thought I’d rest before I found a man.”

“Will you let me come with you, Christine? I’m very much alone. I’d like to.”

“Sure. Saves me the trouble. Besides, you’re kind of nice.”