The Blue Flowers by Raymond Queneau

Author:Raymond Queneau
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 978-0-8112-2085-9
Publisher: New Directions
Published: 1965-10-24T16:00:00+00:00

XII

Cidrolin opened his eyes; someone was talking gently into his ear. It was Lalix, who was telling him that lunch was ready.

‘Well,’ she added, ‘you’ve had a hell of a kip. So you’ve skipped your breakfast, but I couldn’t let you sleep all day and I’ve got a nice meal ready for you.’

Cidrolin looked at her absent-mindedly: this was a recent memory, so he didn’t recognise it very well yet.

‘I’ve been having such dreams,’ he murmured to himself.

‘Mustn’t tell them.’

‘And why not?’ asked Cidrolin, interested.

‘It’s not done.’

‘But why?’

She contented herself with answering:

‘Lunch is ready.’

The weather was still quite warm, the table had been taken out on deck. It was laid for one.

‘Have you had your lunch?’ asked Cidrolin.

‘Yes, m’sieu.’

‘Next time, you can wait for me, and lay for two.’

‘Snice of you. Thank you, M’sieu.’

Cidrolin made for the store-room. Lalix swooped down on him.

‘Do you want something?’

‘The essence of fennel.’

‘Are you going to have an essence of fennel before lunch?’

‘I always do.’

‘It’s bad for your health.’

Cidrolin laughs gently.

‘It’s true,’ Lalix goes on. ‘It’s very bad for your health.’

‘If you want to go and pack your bag,’ says Gdrolin, ‘I’m not stopping you. I’ll even give you a month’s wages, if you’ve blown within the hour.’

‘I don’t specially want you to waste your money,’ says Lalix.

Cidrolin goes and gets the bottle of essence of fennel and pours himself out a quarter of a glass, which he tops up with still water. While he drinks, he vaguely watches a rowing eight in training.

When his glass is empty, Lalix says:

‘Can I dish up?’

‘Go ahead.’

She brings some butter and a tin of fillets of tunny in pure vegetable oil. She watches Cidrolin eat.

‘It gets on my nerves when you watch me like that,’ says Cidrolin, ‘Sit down and tell me a story.’

‘You take me for Scheherazade,’ says Lalix.

‘Heh heh,’ says Cidrolin. ‘So wecre educated.’

‘That doesnct spoil anything. Don’t you think?’

‘I entirely agree.’

‘Ah,’ says Lalix, looking pleased.

‘You’re educated,’ says Cidrolin, ‘and you’ve got principles, too: not to drink essence of fennel before lunch, and not to tell your dreams. In point of fact, why shouldn’t people tell their dreams?’

‘It’s bad manners,’ says Lalix.

‘First time I’ve heard that,’ says Cidrolin.

‘People,’ Lalix continues, ‘they think they’re so bloody wonderful, everything they do, everything they are. They make out they’re so important… So if, on top of all that, you had to put up with listening to their dreams, there’d never be an end to it.’

‘My dreams are uncommonly interesting,’ says Cidrolin.

‘That’s what they all think. There’s nothing to prove it, though, seeing that you can’t compare them.’

‘Mine,’ says Cidrolin, ‘if I were to write them down, they’d make a real novel.’

‘And don’t you think there’re enough novels as it is?’

‘Don’t be afraid,’ says Cidrolin. ‘I’m not a writing-room worker.’

‘Oh, but I’m not afraid of anything.’

‘You see,’ says Cidrolin, ‘when you said that people shouldn’t tell their dreams, I thought it was because of psychoanalysis and the psychoanalysts.’

‘Because of what?’

‘Psychoanalysis. Don’t you know what it is?’

‘No.’

‘And I thought you were educated.

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