The Chain of Love

by CATHERINE CLIFF

I was at the end of my rope, really at the end.

No money, no more work, not even a bed to sleep in. I was thinking the Seine would be a good place to finish it off, a good ending for a little actress out of work. A producer would just happen to be driving by in his Cadillac convertible; he’d see me and fish me out. Overcome by my sparkling personality, he’d hold a press conference for me. Publicity, flashbulbs, big parts. It happens to actresses all the time—in the illustrated magazines.

The streets were quiet.

I didn’t know where I was any more, and I didn’t care. This neighborhood or another one, this street or another—what did it matter? I walked. That’s all; I walked. That street led me into another one, and the second into a third, and I’d keep on walking like this for days, weeks. . . .

A voice asked, “Tired?” and I realized I had been hearing footsteps behind me for several minutes. I turned around, ready to give him a hard answer. I was not a sociable type, and nothing about this evening was making me more sociable. Then I saw his face. First I saw his eyes, so deep and brilliant. So strangely deep and brilliant. Then I noticed the way he was dressed. He was not of this Earth.

Funny! Millions of people that belonged to my own race in this town, tonight, and the first one to ask me a really human question was this creature from outer space.

They had landed a few years ago—from what distant planet, we didn’t know. For a long time there was nothing else on the front pages. Then the excitement died down. We got used to them, the same way we did to anything. Sure, we were used to these strange creatures from somewhere else— maybe because they weren’t all that strange, they looked too much like us.

There weren’t many of them. After a month, they could talk our language a little; after a year, they spoke it fluently. Nothing strange there, either. They acted like tourists. You saw them strolling around, looking at the sights. When they talked to you, they were very charming, but always with a kind of subtle reserve that kept you from getting too familiar.

“Tired?” he asked again.

I was about to turn my back on him, but at the same time I didn’t want to. I was beginning to feel a little less desperate—not so lost, and at the same time less aggressive. There was an indescribable gentleness in the way he reached out to smooth the hair away from my cheek.

“Hungry?”

I murmured, “Yes.”

He took my hand and led me into a grocery shop. He asked me what I’d like to eat. He bought some ham, butter, a bottle of milk, and a jar of jam.

He smiled. “Coffee?”

I smiled back, delighted. I hadn’t tasted coffee for four days.

Then we left. He bought some bread a little farther down— a nice brown loaf.

He lived in a little private house; right away, I loved its smell of old wood. He fixed the food, and I helped him. Just for a moment, I had the feeling that he was watching me, my movements, my gestures—watching gently, without any particular curiosity.

I ate my ham and drank my coffee. He served himself some foods I had never seen before. I looked curiously at his plate. After a moment, laughing, he picked it up and held it under my nose. I was laughing too; I tried to compare the smell of that food with something familiar. Vegetables, meat, or what? I couldn’t tell. He put a little on my plate, and it was good. It didn’t remind me of anything, but it was good.

Later, he ran me a bath. When I came out of the bathroom, he called me upstairs. I found him in one of the rooms, making the bed. He seemed a little awkward, tangling himself up in the sheets and blankets. For a minute he was about to put a blanket on before the sheets; then he thought about it and started over.

I helped him with the bed, and he laughed; he seemed to be enjoying himself. He was nice when he laughed.

Before he left, he touched my hair—gently, amiably.

Next morning when I left, he said to me, “Come back tonight. Come back every night, as long as you like or whenever you need to.”

I looked at him, a long time. He was so simple and honest. I knew I couldn’t ever come back, and I was sorry.

* * * *

Just the same, I did come back.

That night, and other nights. Sometimes I got there before he did, and waited for him in front of the house. He was happy to see me, really happy. One time, I was standing in the doorway, in the shadow. He came up and stopped a moment, glancing around; he seemed to be looking for something. He was looking for me; I knew it. I could tell by his smile when he saw me.

He always brought me food, and that seemed natural. I ate his kind of food, too, more and more often. He ran my bath every night. Then he’d take me up to my room, stroke my hair, and leave me.

It never once occurred to me, not even for an instant, that I was sponging on him. It seemed natural, strangely natural.

Then, little by little, I began to have a feeling that I couldn’t explain at first. During the day, I lived the way I always had, these last years, trying to get bit parts, a little money. But all the time I’d be feeling anxious, lonesome, as if I were missing something. Before long, I caught myself watching the clock, and at night I’d run toward his house as if I were starving.

After dinner, I watched him read. I stared at him, studied him. Every now and then he’d look up at me with his strange, brilliant eyes, and smile. He was so simple, so honest. And yet he was so much like an ordinary man. I could never put my finger on the difference. But I knew there was one.

He loved me. I was becoming certain of it. Anyhow, it didn’t take brains to see that he did. He never tried to hide anything. I could see it in the tenderness of his smiles, his voice.

He never asked me any questions, and I never asked him any. But it was because I didn’t dare. He awed me somehow; I couldn’t figure out why, but it was true.

One morning I was combing my hair. He came up and took the comb out of my hand. He began arranging my hair, gently, carefully; he parted it in a different way and studied the result. He said, “You’re growing very pretty. You needed to put on some weight.”

I felt awful when we separated in the morning. And all day long, the desire to be with him—desire, sharper and sharper, more demanding, to be with him, near him, breathe the air he breathed.

He was always calm, always the same.

Sometimes we played with a ball in the garden. It hurt me, almost, to see how quickly and precisely he moved. There was something unbearable, crushing, about the grace of his body. At the end of every game, he kissed me gently on the cheek.

One night, he came into my room. When I saw him, I was stunned by the joy I felt.

He came up to the bed, tucked in my covers, and smiled. He said, “Tomorrow, I’ll get you some proper sheets.”

When he stroked my face, I took his hand in mine, caressed it with my lips, nipped it with the points of my teeth. He began talking to me gently, in little tender words that I didn’t understand. Then he drew my hand away, put the light out, and left.

How many days, how many months went by?

I stopped thinking, stopped asking myself questions. I submitted. The power of his nearness became stronger and stronger; I couldn’t do without it. When it occurred to me that I would have given my life for him, right away, without stopping to think, I believe I was short of the truth.

I spent whole evenings sitting on the floor, leaning against his legs, my face between his knees, almost fainting with pleasure. Sometimes he would talk to me, and his voice went right through my body. I would rub my cheek against his legs, press myself tighter against him, into his warmth.

One morning he said to me, “We’re going to spend the day together.”

He took me out to the woods in the afternoon. He was enjoying himself, he laughed and the brilliance of his eyes was almost more than I could bear. We sat down on a bench, and after a moment I noticed he was paying attention to the man next to him. I heard the man say, “We love animals here. This little dog has been my only friend for years. Whatever affection you give them, you get it back five times over. An animal is faithful forever.”

I heard him answer, “We love animals very much, too.”

I leaned over to look at the man. I saw his little dog, a very pretty dog with intelligent eyes, light brown fur, a collar and chain. She was sitting at her master’s feet, her muzzle against his legs.

And suddenly, but with absolute sureness, I understood.

At that instant, he turned to look at me. I blinked; I could not look into his eyes. I knew.

I knew, but it was much too late.

He got up, said good-bye to the man, took my hand in his; and I followed him obediently.