little straw suitcase is swinging with telltale lightness in her hand, while in front of all the other cars stand spanking-new and metallically gleaming tank turrets of wardrobe trunks, seemingly straight from the store window, splendid towers among the colorful cubes and prisms of luxurious Russian calf, alligator, snakeskin, and smooth glacé kid. The distance between those people and herself must be glaringly obvious. Shame grips her. Quick, some lie! The rest of her luggage will be along later, she says. So then we can be off, announces the majestically liveried porter (thank goodness without surprise or disdain), opening the car door.
Once shame touches your being at any point, even the most distant nerve is implicated, whether you know it or not; any fleeting encounter or random thought will rake up the anguish and add to it. This first blow marks the end of Christine’s unselfconsciousness. She climbs uncertainly into the dull black hotel limousine and involuntarily recoils when she sees she’s not alone. But it’s too late to go back. She has to move through a cloud of sweet perfume and pungent Russian leather, past knees reluctantly swung out of the way—she does this timidly, shoulders hunched as though with cold, eyes downcast—to get to a seat in the back. She murmurs a quick embarrassed hello as she passes each pair of knees, as if this courtesy might excuse her presence. But no one answers. She must have failed the sixteen inspections, or else the passengers, Romanian aristocrats speaking a harsh, vehement French, are having such a good time that they haven’t noticed the slender specter of poverty shyly and silently perched in the farthest corner. With the straw suitcase across her knees (she doesn’t dare to set it down in an empty spot), she slumps over for fear that these no doubt snooty people might take notice of her, doesn’t dare lift her eyes even once during the entire trip; she looks down, seeing only what’s under the bench. But the ladies’ luxurious footwear only makes her conscious of the plainness of her own. She looks with chagrin at the women’s legs with their arrogant poise, pertly crossed beneath summer ermines, and the boldly styled ski socks of the men. This netherworld of opulence is enough to drive waves of shame into her cheeks. How can she hold her own next to this undreamed-of elegance? Each timid glance brings a new pang. A seventeen-year-old girl across from her holds a whining Pekinese lazily sprawled in her lap; its felt-trimmed coat bears a monogram, and the small hand scratching it is rosily manicured and sparkles with a precocious diamond. Even the golf clubs leaning in the corner have elegant new grips of smooth cream-colored leather; each of the umbrellas casually tossed there hasa different exquisite and extravagant handle. Without thinking she quickly moves her hand to cover up her own umbrella’s handle, made of cheap fake horn. If only no one looks, no one notices what’s only now become clear to her! She cringes further in alarm, and with each eruption of laughter anxiety runs up and down her hunched spine. But she doesn’t dare look up to see if she is the joke.
Release from this torment finally comes when the car crunches into the graveled forecourt of the hotel. A clang like a railway-crossing bell summons a colorful squadron of porters and bellhops out to the car. Behind them stands the reception manager, dressed in a black frock coat to make a distinguished impression, his hair parted with geometric precision. First out the open car door is the Pekinese: it leaps out, jingling and shaking itself. Next come the women, who hike up their summer furs over athletically muscled legs and descend easily, chattering loudly all the while; the perfume billowing after them is almost stupefying. It would undoubtedly be good manners for the gentlemen to allow the young woman now timidly getting up to go first, but either they’ve come to the correct conclusion