Ring Roads Read Online Free PDF

the others went on whispering, they seemed to have forgotten us. He, too, ignored my presence despite the fact that several times I cleared my throat, and so we stood there for a long time, my father crafting smoke rings and I admiring their perfection.
    We retired to the drawing-room, taking the French windows that led off the veranda. It was a large room furnished in colonial style. On the far wall, a wallpaper in delicate shades showed (Murraille explained to me later) a scene from
Paul et Virginie
. A rocking-chair, small tables, and cane armchairs. Pouffes here and there. (Marcheret, I learned, had brought them back from Bouss-Bir when he left the Legion.) Three Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling spread a wavering light. On a whatnot, I saw some opium pipes . . . The whole weird and faded collection was reminiscent of Tonkin, of the plantations of South Carolina, the French concession of Shanghai or Lyautey’s Morocco, and I clearly failed to conceal my surprise because Murraille, in an embarrassed voice, said: ‘Guy chose the furnishings.’ I sat down, keeping in the background. Sitting around a tray of liqueurs, they were talking in low voices. The uneasiness I had felt since the beginning of the evening increased and I wondered whether it might be better if I left at once. But I was completely unable to move, as in a nightmares when you try to run from a looming danger and your legs refuse to function. All through dinner, the half-light had given their words, gestures, faces a hazy, unreal character; and now, in the mean glow cast by the drawing-room lamps, everything became even more indistinct. I thought my uneasiness was that of a man groping in the dark, fumbling vainly for a light-switch. Suddenly I shook with nervous laughter, which the others – luckily – didn’t notice. They continued their whispered conversation, of which I couldn’t hear a word. They were dressed in the normal outfits of well-heeled Parisians down for a few days in the country. Murraille wore a tweed jacket; Marcheret a sweater – cashmere, no doubt – in a choice shade of brown; my father a grey-flannel suit. Their collars were open to reveal immaculately knotted silk cravats. Sylviane Quimphe’s riding-breeches added a note of sporting elegance to the whole.
    But it was all glaringly at odds with this room where one expected to see people in linen suits and pith helmets.
    ‘You’re all alone?’ Murraille asked me. ‘It’s my fault. I’m a terrible host.’
    ‘My dear Monsieur Alexandre, you haven’t tried this excellent brandy yet.’ And Marcheret handed me a glass with a peremptory gesture. ‘Drink up!’
    I forced it down, my stomach heaving.
    ‘Do you like the room?’ he asked. ‘Exotic, isn’t it? I’ll show you my bedroom. I had a mosquito net installed.’
    ‘Guy suffers from a nostalgia for the colonies,’ Murraille said.
    ‘Vile places,’ said Marcheret. Dreamily: ‘But if I was asked to, I’d re-enlist.’
    He was silent, as though no one could possibly understand all that he’d like to say on the subject. My father nodded. There was a long, pregnant pause. Sylviane Quimphe stroked her boots absent-mindedly. Murraille followed with his eyes the flight of a butterfly which had alighted on one of the Chinese lanterns. My father had fallen into a state of prostration that worried me. His chin was almost on his chest, drops of sweat beaded on his forehead. I wished that a ‘boy’ could come with shuffling steps to clear the table and extinguish the lights.
    Marcheret put a record on the gramophone. A sweet melody. I think it was called ‘Soir de septembre’.
    ‘Do you dance?’ Sylviane Quimphe asked me.
    She didn’t wait for an answer, and in an instant we’re dancing. My head is spinning. Every time I wheel and turn, I see my father.
    ‘You ought to ride,’ she says. ‘If you like, I’ll take you to the stables tomorrow.’
    Had he dozed off? I hadn’t forgotten that he often closed