Balloons | Page 5

when I was little, the colossal effort of
blowing up the dark red, floppy India rubber until it got brighter and
brighter and more and more transparent, though it always stayed

opaque enough to hold the promise of still greater bigness. And then
the crucial moment when ambition demanded an extra puff and a
catastrophe became ever more imminent.
And now, when I suddenly see a huge bunch of wonderful bloated
tropical grapes, overpowering some old woman in the street, I feel so
happy! In Paris, of course, they are quite different--balloons have much
too much flavour to be international--they are smaller and lighter in
colour and gayer and more reckless--they always look as if they were
out on a spree, just waiting to break loose from the long string by
which they are tied, in a huge multi-coloured sunshade, to a stick.
There is something very independent about French balloons--you feel
you couldn't make a pet of one.
But I am telling you things you know already, instead of getting on
with my story.
It was the sort of spring day when all the buds look like feathers and
the sun has been bathing in milk. I was walking down the Champs
Elysées, sniffing secret violets in the air and feeling as joyous as if the
world were entirely full of primroses and larks and light-hearted
passers-by whom I would never see again. In the distance a barrel
organ became more and more distinct and as I drew nearer and the
noise grew louder, I wanted to dance and sing. It was in tune with my
mood. A symbol of the crescendo of living.
And then, in the distance, I saw Cousin Emily crawling towards me like
a black beetle with her half-shut eyes that see everything except beauty
and innocence. Though I avoided her and the day was as lovely as ever,
I had become conscious that the world was inhabited and that there
were people who didn't whistle--or want to whistle--in the streets.
I tried to think of larks and primroses, but my thoughts were dragged
back to thick, half-drawn red curtains, black woolen shawls and silver
photograph frames. Then I had an idea. "I will buy a balloon," I thought.
My spirits rose and my heart leapt. Should I buy a green one like a bad
emerald, or a red one like wine and water, or a thick bright yellow one?
White was charming too, and sailed up into the sky like a tight, round

cloud--
I reached the Galleries Lafayette.
"Des ballons, s'il vous plait. Joujoux," I added. I was told to go straight
on, to turn to the right and the left, to go up three steps and down three
steps--but my mind wandered as it always does when I am listening to
directions that I have to follow. By an unseemly scramble I got into an
over-crowded lift. I seemed to be treading on children and reclining on
tight, upholstered bosoms. At random, I chose the third floor and found
myself among a forest of lamps. Desperately determined not to risk
another struggle for the lift, I tried to find the staircase. At last, after
endless enquiries and--it seemed--going back five steps for every three
I had gone forward, I reached the toy department. Breathless,
bedraggled, hot and exhausted, I clutched the arm of the first
saleswoman I saw. "Des ballons, Madame," I gasped.
She looked at me with contempt, "Les ballons, ca ne se vend pas, ca se
donne."
For a moment I was awed by the aristocratic magnificence of balloons.
How superb, how reckless! Very humbly I appealed to her,
"Pouvez-vous, voulez-vous me donner un ballon?"
"Les ballons, ca ne se donne pas apres cinq heures," she said.
I didn't press her. How could I? By how many thousands of years of
tradition might not the habits of balloons have been fixed? Their lives
were evidently strangely and remotely unlike our lives. Wearily I
walked downstairs, not snubbed but humbled and a little awed.
* * * * *
Half an hour later I was walking down the Champ Elysées sniffing at
the secret violets in the air. I had forgotten Cousin Emily and the world
was full of primroses and larks and light-hearted passers-by. Suddenly,
at the other side of the street I saw a bursting sunshade of balloons,

emerald and ruby, transparent white and thick, solid yellow, a birthday
bouquet from a Titan to his lady. Reverently, lovingly, I looked at them,
my heart full of joy, but I did not cross the street.

III
COURTSHIP
"I do love yachting," she said, "to see the sea change from aquamarines
and diamonds to sapphires and emeralds, with thick unexpected streaks
of turquoise. To sail away into the unknown, away from your own