by Anna Gavalda
He sat down at the end of the table, at his usual place.
‘Pretty smart of me, eh? Oh, I was a smart one then … Especially because the whole thing helped me make a lot of money … I had always neglected the international side of the business a bit …’
‘Why all the cynicism?’
‘You gave a very good answer to that question yourself a little while ago …’
I leaned down to get the tea strainer.
‘In addition, it was very romantic … I would get off the plane, my heart pounding, I checked into the hotel hoping that my key wouldn’t be on its hook, I put my bags down in strange rooms, rummaging around to see if she had already been there, I went off to work, I came back in the evening praying to God she would be in my bed. Sometimes she was, sometimes not. She would join me in the middle of the night and we would lose ourselves in each other without exchanging a single word. We laughed under the covers, amazed to find each other there. At last. So far away, and so close. Sometimes, she would only arrive the next day, and I spent the night sitting at the bar, and listening for noises in the corridor. Sometimes she took another room, ordering me to come and join her in the early morning hours. Sometimes she didn’t show and I hated her. I would return to Paris in a very bad mood. At first, I really had work to do; later, I had less and less … I made up any excuse to be able to leave. Sometimes I saw something of the country, and sometimes I saw nothing but my hotel room. Sometimes we never even left the airport. It was ridiculous. There was no logic to it. Sometimes we would talk nonstop, and other times we had nothing to say to each other. True to her word, Mathilde never talked about her love life, or only during pillow talk. She talked about men and situations that drove me wild, but that was only between the sheets … I was completely at the mercy of that woman, of the mischievous little way she had of pretending to say the wrong name in the dark. I acted annoyed, but I was devastated. I took her even more forcefully, when all I wanted to do was hold her tightly in my arms.
‘When one of us joked, the other one suffered. It was completely absurd. I dreamed of catching hold of her and shaking her until all her venom was gone. Until she told me she loved me. Until she told me she loved me, damn it all. But I couldn’t, it was me that was the bastard. All of this was my fault …’
He got up to find his glass.
‘What was I thinking? That it was going to go on like that for years? For years on end? No, I didn’t believe that. We would say good-bye to each other furtively, sadly, awkwardly, without ever talking about the next time. No, it was untenable … And the more I hesitated, the more I loved her, and the more I loved her, the less I believed it. I felt overwhelmed, powerless, caught in my own web. Immobile and resigned.’
‘Resigned to what?’
‘To losing her one day …’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh yes, you do. You understand what I’m saying … What could I have possibly done? Answer me that.’
‘I can’t.’
‘No, of course you can’t answer … You’re the last person in the world who could answer that question.’
‘What exactly did you promise her?’
‘I don’t remember now … not much, I imagine, or else the unimaginable. No, not very much … I had the decency to shut my eyes when she asked me questions, and to kiss her when she waited for me to answer. I was almost fifty and I thought I was old. I thought this was the end of the road, a bright, happy ending … I said to myself: “Don’t rush into things, she’s so young, she’ll be the first to leave.” And every time I saw her again, I was amazed but also surprised. What? She’s still here? But why? I had a hard time seeing what she liked in me, and I told myself, “Why get into a mess, since she’s going to leave me?” It was inevitable, it was sure to happen. There was no reason for her to still be there the next time, no reason at all … In the end, I was practically hoping that she wouldn’t be there. Up to then, life had been so kind as to decide everything for me, why should that change now? Why? I had proved that I didn’t have the ability to take things in hand … Business, yes, that was a game and I was the best, but on the home front? I preferred to suffer; I wanted to console myself by thinking that I was the one who was suffering. I wanted to dream or regret. It’s so much simpler that way …
‘My great-aunt on my father’s side was Russian, and she used to tell me:
“You, you’re like my father, you have nostalgia for the mountains.”
“Which mountains, Mouschka?” I would ask.
“Why, the ones you’ve never seen, of course!”
‘She told you that?’
‘Yes. She said it each time I looked out the window …’
‘And what were you looking at?’
‘The bus depot!’
He laughed.
‘Another character you would have liked … Some Friday I’ll tell you about her.’
‘We’ll go to Chez Dominique, then …’
‘As I told you, wherever and whenever you want to go.’
He filled my mug with tea.
‘But what was she doing all that time?’
‘I don’t know … She was working. She had found a job at UNESCO, but had left it shortly after. She didn’t like translating their smooth talk. She couldn’t stand being cooped up day after day, mindlessly repeating politicians’ rhetoric. She preferred the business world, where the adrenaline was of a higher calibre. She travelled around, went to visit her brothers, sisters, and friends who were scattered all over the globe. She lived in Norway for a time, but she didn’t like it there either, with all those blue-eyed ayatollahs, and where she was always cold … And when she had enough of jet lag, she stayed in London translating technical manuals. She loved her nephews.’
‘But aside from work?’
‘Ah, that … that is shrouded in mystery. God knows I tried to drag it out of her … She closed up, hesitated, wriggled out of my questions. “At least leave me that,” she said. “Let me keep my dignity. The dignity of those who are discreet. Is that too much to ask?” Or she would give me a taste of my own medicine and torture me, laughing all the while. “In fact, didn’t I tell you I got married last month? How stupid of me, I wanted to show you the pictures but I forgot them. His name is Billy; he’s not very smart but he takes good care of me …”’
‘Did that make you laugh?’
‘No, not really.’
‘You loved her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Loved her how?’
‘I loved her.’
‘And what do you remember from those years?’
‘A life like a dotted line … Nothing, then something. Then nothing again. And then something. Then nothing again … It went by very quickly … When I think about it, it seems like the whole thing only lasted a season … Not even a season, the length of a single breath. A sort of mirage … We had no daily life together. That was what Mathilde suffered from the most, I think … I suspected it, mind you, but the proof came one evening after a long day of work.
‘When I came in, she was sitting at a small desk, writing something on the hotel stationery. She had already filled a dozen pages with her small, cramped handwriting.
‘Who are you writing to like that?’ I asked her, bending over her neck.
‘To you.’
‘Me?’
She’s leaving me, I thought, and at once I began to feel ill.
‘What is it? You’re completely pale. Are you all right?’
‘Why are you writing to me?’
‘Oh, I’m not really writing you a letter, I’m writing down all the things I want to do with you …’
There were pages everywhere. Around her, at her feet, on the bed. I picked one up at random:
… go for a picnic, have a nap on the bank of a river, eat peaches, shrimps, croissants, sticky rice, swim, dance, buy myself shoes, lingerie, perfume, read the paper, window-shop, take the Métro, watch time pass, push you over when you’re taking up all
the room, hang out the laundry, go to the opera, to Bayreuth, to Vienna, to the races, to the supermarket, have a barbecue, complain because you forgot the charcoal, brush my teeth at the same time as you, buy you underwear, cut the grass, read the paper over your shoulder, keep you from eating too many peanuts, visit the vineyards in the Loire, and those in Hunter Valley, act like an idiot, talk my head off, introduce you to Martha and Tino, pick blackberries, cook, go back to Vietnam, wear a sari, garden, wake you up because you’re snoring again, go to the zoo, to the flea market, to Paris, to London, to Melrose, to Piccadilly, sing you songs, stop smoking, ask you to trim my nails, buy dishes, foolish things, things that have no purpose, eat ice cream, people-watch, beat you at chess, listen to jazz, reggae, dance the mambo and the cha-cha, get bored, throw tantrums, pout, laugh, wrap you around my little finger, look for a house among the cows, fill up huge shopping trolleys, repaint a ceiling, sew curtains, spend hours around a table talking with interesting people, grab you by the goatee, cut your hair, pull up weeds, wash the car, see the sea, watch old B-movies, call you up again, say dirty words to you, learn to knit, knit you a scarf, unravel that horrible scarf, collect cats, dogs, parrots, elephants, rent bicycles, not use them, stay in a hammock, reread my grandmother’s Winnie Winkle adventures, look at Winnie’s dresses again, drink margaritas in the shade, cheat, learn to use an iron, throw the iron out of the window, sing in the rain, run away from tourists, get drunk, tell you everything, remember that some things are better left unsaid, listen to you, give you my hand, go and find the iron, listen to the words of songs, set the alarm, forget our suitcases, stop rushing off everywhere, put out the trash, ask you if you still love me, chat with the neighbour, tell you about my childhood in Bahrain, my nanny’s rings, the smell of henna and balls of amber, make toast for eggs, labels for jam jars …
It went on like that for pages. Page after page … I’m just telling you the ones that come into my head, the ones I remember. It was incredible.
“How long have you been writing that?”
“Since you left.”
“But why?”
“Because I’m bored,” she answered cheerfully. “I’m dying of boredom, if you can believe it!”
‘I picked up the whole stack and sat down on the edge of the bed to see better. I was smiling but, to tell you the truth, I was paralysed by so much desire, so much energy. But I smiled anyway. She had a way of putting things that was so amusing, so witty, and she was watching my reactions. On one page, between “start from scratch” and “paste pictures in a photo album” she had written “a baby”. Just like that, with no commentary. I continued to examine this huge list without batting an eyelid while she bit her cheeks.
“Well?” She wasn’t breathing anymore. “What do you think?”
“Who are Martha and Tino?” I asked her.
‘From the shape of her mouth, the way her shoulders slumped, how her hand dropped, I knew that I was going to lose her. Just by asking that stupid question, I had put my head on the block. She went into the bathroom and said, “Some nice people,” before shutting the door. And instead of going to her, instead of throwing myself at her feet saying yes, anything she wanted because yes, I was put on this earth to make her happy, I went out on the balcony to smoke a cigarette.’
‘And then?’
‘And then nothing. The cigarette tasted terrible. We went down to dinner. Mathilde was beautiful. More beautiful than ever, it seemed to me. Lively, vivacious. Everyone looked at her. The women turned their heads and the men smiled at me. She was … how shall I say it … she was radiant … Her skin, her face, her smile, her hair, her gestures, everything in her captured the light and gracefully reflected it back. It was a mixture of vitality and tenderness that never ceased to amaze me. “You’re beautiful,” I told her. She shrugged. “In your eyes.” “Yes,” I agreed, “in my eyes …”
‘When I think about her today, after all these years, that’s the first image that comes to mind – her long neck, her dark eyes, and her little brown dress in that Austrian dining room, shrugging her shoulders.’
‘After all, it was intentional, all of that beauty and grace. She knew very well what she was doing that evening: she was making herself unforgettable. Perhaps I’m mistaken, but I don’t think so … It was her swan song, her farewell, her white handkerchief waving at the window. She was so perceptive, she must have known it … Even her skin was softer. Was she aware of it? Was she being generous or simply cruel? Both, I think … It was both …
‘And that night, after the caresses and the sighing, she said:
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes.”
“Will you give me an answer?”
“Yes.”
I opened my eyes.
“Don’t you think that we go well together?”
I was disappointed; I was expecting a question a bit more … um … provocative.
“Yes.”
“Do you think so, too?”
“Yes.”
“I think we go well together … I like being with you because I’m never bored. Even when we’re not talking, even when we’re not touching, even when we’re not in the same room, I’m not bored. I’m never bored. I think it’s because I have confidence in you, in your thoughts. Do you understand? I love everything I see in you, and everything I don’t see. I know your faults, but as it turns out, I feel as though your faults go well with my qualities. We’re not afraid of the same things. Even our inner demons go well together! You, you’re worth more than you show, and I’m just the opposite. I need your gaze in order to have a bit more … a bit more substance? What is the word? Her French failed her. Complexity? When you want to say that someone is interesting inside?”
“Depth?”
“That’s it! I’m like a kite; unless someone holds me by the string, I fly away … And you, it’s funny … I often say to myself that you are strong enough to hold me and smart enough to let me go …”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because I want you to know.”
“Why now?”
“I don’t know … Perhaps it’s because it’s incredible to meet someone and say: with this person, I’m happy.”
“But why are you saying this to me now?”
“Because sometimes I have the feeling that you don’t understand how lucky we are …”
“Mathilde?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to leave me?”
“No.”
“You’re not happy?”
“Not very.”
And then we stopped talking.
‘The next day we went tramping around the mountains, and the day after, we each went our separate ways.’
• • •
My tea was getting cold.
‘Was that the end?’
‘Nearly.’
*
‘A few weeks later, she came to Paris and asked if I could spare her a few moments. I was both happy and annoyed. We walked for a long time, barely speaking, and then I took her to lunch on the Champs-Elysées.
‘While I was getting up the courage to take her hands in mine, she stunned me by saying:
“Pierre, I’m pregnant.”
“By whom?” I answered, growing pale.
She rose to her feet, radiant.
“No one.”
She put on her coat and pushed the chair back in place. There was a magnificent smile on her face.
“Thank you, you said the words that I was expecting. I came all this way to hear you say those two words. I took a bit of risk.”
I stuttered; I wanted to get up, but the table leg was … She made a gesture:
“Don’t move.”
Her eyes shone.
“I got what I wanted. I couldn’t bring myself to leave you. I can’t spend my life waiting for you, but I … Nothing. I needed to hear those two words. I needed to see your cowardice. To experience it up close, do you understand? No, don’t mo
ve … Don’t move, I tell you! Don’t move! I have to go now. I’m so tired … If only you knew how tired I was, Pierre … I … I can’t do this anymore …”
I stood up.
“You are going to let me leave, right? You are going to let me? You have to let me leave now, you have to let me …” Her voice caught. “You’re going to let me leave, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“But you know I love you, you know that, don’t you?” I finally managed to say.
She moved away and turned back before opening the door. She looked at me intently and shook her head from left to right.
• • •
My father-in-law got up to kill an insect on the lamp.
He emptied the last of the bottle into his glass.
‘And that was the end?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t go after her?’
‘Like in the movies?’
‘Yes. In slow motion …’
‘No. I went to bed.’
‘You went to bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘But where?’
‘At home, of course!’
‘Why?’
‘A great weakness, a great, great weariness … For several months, I had been obsessed by the image of a dead tree. At all times of the day and night, I dreamed I was climbing a dead tree and that I let myself slide down its hollow trunk. The fall was so gentle, so gentle … as if I were bouncing on the top of a parachute. I would bounce, fall farther, and then bounce again. I thought about it constantly. In meetings, at the dinner table, in my car, while I was trying to sleep. I climbed my tree and let myself fall.’
‘Was it depression?’
‘Don’t use such a big word, please, no big words … You know how it is at the Dippels’.’ He chuckled. ‘You said so a while ago. No moodiness, no bile, no spleen. No, I couldn’t allow myself to give in to that kind of whim. So I came down with hepatitis. It was more convenient. I woke up the next day and the whites of my eyes were lemon yellow. Everything tasted bad, my urine was dark, and the deed was done. A vicious case of hepatitis for someone who travelled a good deal, it was patently obvious.
