Delicacy

by David Foenkinos

  Then came the broken glass that stung our smiles.

  Bloody shards of glass on our new tiles.

  Me, you, we just couldn’t cope.

  Boohoo, those tears without hope.

  Leavin’ each other, and both of us mum.

  It’s love on the run,

  Love on the run.

  Sixty-five

  Markus had walked along the precipice, with the feeling of the wind under his feet. As he went home that evening, he kept being haunted by painful images. Maybe it was all connected to Strindberg? Everyone should avoid coming into contact with the fears of his countrymen. The beauty of the moment, the beauty of Natalie, all of it he’d seen as a final destination: one of devastation. There was beauty before him, looking him straight in the eye, like a foretaste of tragedy. Wasn’t that the epigraph in Visconti’s film of Death in Venice, that crucial sentence: “He who contemplates beauty is destined to death?” Well, yes, Markus could seem bombastic. And even stupid for having run away. But you need to have lived years in nothingness to understand how a person can suddenly become frightened by a possibility.

  He hadn’t called her. She who had loved his Eastern European side would now get the surprise of discovering once again his adherence to Swedishness. Not the least atom of Polish in him. Markus had decided to shut down and stop playing with the fires of femininity. Yes, such were the words cartwheeling through his mind. The first consequence was the following: he decided never to look her in the eye again.

  The next morning, as Natalie arrived at the office, she ran into Chloé. Let’s admit it on the spot: the latter was also well versed in phony coincidences. Therefore, she just happened to be walking back and forth in the hallway when she encountered her superior.l Blatantly gossipy, with less grace than a porcupine, she was intending to try to pry out a few little secrets.

  “Well, hi, Natalie. How’re you doing?”

  “Fine, I’m okay. Just a little tired.”

  “Was it the play you saw last night? Was it long?”

  “No, not especially …”

  Chloé sensed that it would be complicated to find out more, but a chance occurrence was going to simplify everything. Markus was approaching, and he as well seemed to be in a strange mood. The young woman made sure he’d stop.

  “Oh, hello, Markus, how’s it going?”

  “Fine, I’m okay … how ’bout you?”

  “Not bad.”

  As he answered her he avoided looking at the two women. It made a very strange impression, like talking to somebody in a hurry. Which was weird because, actually, Markus didn’t seem hurried at all.

  “You okay? Is something the matter with your neck?”

  “No … no … I’m okay … all right, I’ve got to go.”

  He walked off, leaving the two women staggered. Immediately Chloé thought, He sure is uncomfortable … they have to have slept together … I don’t see any other explanation … if not, why would he have ignored her? So she gave Natalie a big smile.

  “Can I ask you a question? Did you go to the theater with Markus yesterday?”

  “It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Fine … it’s just that I thought we shared things, the two of us. I tell you everything.”

  “But I don’t have anything to say. All right, we’d better get back to work.”

  Natalie had been terse. She hadn’t been pleased by the liberty Chloé had taken. You could easily see an eager quest for gossip in her eyes. Embarrassed, Chloé stammered that she was organizing drinks for tomorrow, which was her birthday. Natalie made a vague gesture that said okay. But she wasn’t certain anymore she’d be going.

  Later, in her office, she thought again about Chloé’s lack of finesse. For months, Natalie had been living with rumors in her wake. Quiet remarks about how well she was holding up, what she was doing, her way of devoting herself to her work. No matter how deeply well-meaning such surveillance was, she’d experienced it as a burden. During that time, she would have preferred not being looked at by anybody. Paradoxically, continual expressions of affection had complicated the task. She had a bitter memory of the time she’d attracted attention. Consequently, as she thought about the way Chloé had spoken, she understood how discreet she would have to be, never mentioning anything about her affair with Markus. But is that what it was, an affair? With the death of François she’d lost all her criteria. She’d felt like an adolescent again. As if everything she knew about love had been ravaged. Her heart beat on these ruins. She didn’t understand Markus’s attitude, and his way of not looking at her anymore. What an act he was putting on! Either that, or was he nuts? Sheer lunacy was more than probable. She didn’t think: you have to really love a woman in order not to want to see her. No, that was something she didn’t think. She merely settled into a state of confusion.

  Sixty-six

  Three Rumors Concerning Björn Andrésen,

  the Actor Who Played Tadzio

  in Luchino Visconti’s Death in Venice

  He’d killed a gay actor in New York.

  *

  He’d died in an airplane crash in Mexico.

  *

  He would only eat green salad.

  Sixty-seven

  Markus didn’t feel like working. He stood at the window, staring into empty space. He was still filled with nostalgia—to be more precise, a ridiculous nostalgia. That illusion that says our gloomy past nevertheless has a certain charm. At that moment, as poor as his childhood had been, it seemed like a source of life to him. He thought about the details of it and found them touching, whereas previously they’d always been lamentable. He was looking for refuge, anywhere at all, as long as it would let him escape the present. However, in the last few days, he’d achieved a sort of romantic dream by going to the theater with a beautiful woman. Then why was he feeling such a strong need to backpedal? Clearly there had to be something easy to understand about it, something you could call fear of happiness. They say the most beautiful moments of our life pass before us right before we die. Then it seemed plausible that you could see the havoc and heartbreak of the past parade before you at the moment when happiness comes with its almost unsettling smile.

  Natalie had asked him to come by her office, and he’d refused.

  “I actually would like to see you,” he’d said. “But by telephone.”

  “See me by telephone? Sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay, thanks. I’m just asking you not to enter my field of vision for several days. That’s all I’m asking.”

  She was getting more and more unnerved. And yet, she could still feel charmed by so much oddness. Her wondering went far afield. She considered the fact that Markus’s affectation might be a form of strategy. Or else a modern form of romantic humor. Of course, she was wrong. Markus was completely and distressingly trapped at emotional stage 1.

  By the end of the day, she’d decided not to follow his instructions; she went to his office. Immediately, he averted his gaze.

  “This won’t do! What’s more, you’re entering without knocking.”

  “Because I want you to look at me.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Are you always like this? Are you sure it’s not because of that glass of red wine?”

  “In a way it is.”

  “You’re doing this on purpose? To puzzle me, is that it? I must admit it’s working.”

  “Natalie, I promise you there’s nothing else to understand but what I said to you. I’m protecting myself, that’s all. That’s not difficult to grasp.”

  “But you’re going to get a neck ache staying like that.”

  “I’d rather have a neck ache than heartache.”

  She was left hanging with that last phrase, which she heard as some kind of culinary combination, like ham-’n’-eggs, or even an exotic dessert combination like bananas-’n’-cream: necake-’n’-artake. Then she went on, “And what if I want to see you? And if I want to spend some time with you? And if I f
eel good when I’m with you. What do I do?”

  “It’s not possible. It won’t ever be possible. It’s better for you to leave.”

  Natalie didn’t know what to do. Should she have kissed him, slapped him, sacked him, ignored him, made a fool of him, begged him? Finally she turned the handle of the door and left.

  Sixty-eight

  At the end of the next day, Chloé celebrated her birthday in the office. She couldn’t stand people forgetting it. In a few years, obviously, the opposite would be true. You could appreciate her energy, her way of making a gloomy environment exuberant, her way of pushing the employees who were there into feigned good humor. Practically everyone who worked on the floor was there, and Chloé, who was surrounded by them, was drinking a glass of champagne. Waiting for her gifts. There was something touching, almost charming, in her ridiculously exaggerated display of narcissism.

  The room wasn’t very big; even so, Markus and Natalie did their best to stay as far away from each other as possible. She’d finally given in to his demand and was trying her best not to appear in his field of vision. Chloé, who was following their little game, wasn’t duped. They have a way of not speaking to each other that speaks volumes, is what she thought. Quite perceptive. Well, fine, but she didn’t want to become too preoccupied by this affair; making her birthday toast a success, that was obviously the important thing. All the employees, the Benoîts and Bénédictes, standing there listlessly in suits with glasses in hand and that controlled art of conviviality. Markus studied the small enthusiasms of each and found them grotesque. But for him, the grotesque had a profoundly human aspect. He, too, wanted to be a part of this collective rhythm. He’d felt the need to do things right. Late in the afternoon, he’d ordered white roses by telephone. It was an immense bouquet that was way out of proportion to his relationship with Chloé. Like a need to cling to white. To the immensity of white. A white that made amends for red. Markus had come down when the young woman who was delivering the flowers arrived at reception. An astonishing image: Markus taking hold of a gigantic bouquet in that functional, soulless lobby.

  Holding the bouquet, he walked toward Chloé, preceded by a sublime mass of white. She saw him coming and asked, “Is that for me?”

  “Yes. Happy birthday, Chloé.”

  She was embarrassed. Instinctively, she turned her head toward Natalie. Chloé didn’t know what to say to Markus. There was a white space between them: their own white on white. Everybody was looking at them. Or rather, what could be seen of their faces, those particles that escaped from the white. Chloé sensed that she had to say something, but what? Finally, “You shouldn’t have. It’s too much.”

  “Yes, I know. But I felt like having some white.”

  Another coworker came up holding a present, and Markus took advantage of this by backing away.

  Natalie had watched what happened from a distance. She’d wanted to respect Markus’s rules, but since she was deeply upset by what she’d seen, she decided to come up to him and speak.

  “Why did you give her that kind of bouquet?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Listen … I’m starting to get fed up with your autistic puton … you don’t want to look at me … you don’t want to explain things to me.”

  “I promise you that I don’t know. I’m the one who’s the most upset. I realize that it’s all out of proportion. But that’s the way it is. When I ordered flowers, I asked for an immense bouquet of white roses.”

  “So you’re in love with her?”

  “Are you jealous or what?”

  “I’m not jealous. But I’m beginning to wonder whether there might be a womanizer hiding under your depressive-drops-in-from-Sweden routine.”

  “And you’re … an expert in male psyches, no doubt.”

  “That’s completely ridiculous.”

  “What’s ridiculous is that I also have a present for you … and that I haven’t given it to you.”

  They studied each other. And Markus said to himself, How could I have thought that I couldn’t see her anymore? He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Time again for the waltz of smiles. Amazing how you sometimes make resolutions, tell yourself everything will be a certain way from now on, and then all it takes is a tiny movement of the lips to shatter your confidence in a certainty that seemed eternal. All of Markus’s will power had just crumbled when faced with the evidence of Natalie’s face. It was a tired face, clouded by incomprehension, but still Natalie’s face. Without a word they discreetly left the party and met in Markus’s office.

  Sixty-nine

  It was a narrow space. The relief they both felt was enough to fill the room. They were happy to be alone together. Markus studied Natalie, and the hesitation that he read in her eyes went to the depths of him.

  “What about this present?” she asked.

  “I’ll give it to you, but you have to promise me not to open it before you get home.”

  “All right.”

  Markus held out a small package, and Natalie put it in her bag. They stayed that way for a moment, the kind of moment that Albert Cohen called a moment that is still going on. Markus didn’t feel he had to speak, to fill the void. They were relaxed, happy to be together again. After a moment, Natalie said, “Maybe we should go back. It will look strange if we don’t.”

  “You’re right.”

  They left the office and made their way down the hall. Once they got back to where the party was, they had a surprise. No one was there anymore. The party was over, and everything had been put back in place. They began to wonder how much time they’d spent in the office.

  Sitting on her couch after she got home, Natalie opened the package. Inside it was a Pez dispenser. She couldn’t get over it; you can’t find them in France. She was deeply touched by the gesture. She put her coat back on and went out again. With a movement of her arm (a gesture that suddenly seemed simple), she flagged down a taxi.

  Seventy

  Wikipedia Article About Pez

  The name Pez was derived from … the German word for peppermint, Pfefferminz, the first Pez flavor. Pez was originally introduced in Austria … and eventually became available worldwide. The Pez dispenser is one of the characteristics of the brand. Its great variety makes it an object that is highly collectible.

  Seventy-one

  Once she got to the door, she hesitated for a moment. It was so late. But she’d already come this far; it would be ridiculous to turn around and go back. She rang once, then a second time. Nothing. She began knocking. After a minute, she heard footsteps.

  “Who’s there?” asked an anxious voice.

  “It’s me,” she answered.

  The door opened, and Natalie was disconcerted by what she saw. Her father’s hair was disheveled, his eyes haggard. He seemed stunned, a little as if he’d been robbed. Actually, it was probably because he’d had his sleep stolen.

  “What are you doing here? Is there a problem?”

  “No … I’m okay … I wanted to see you.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Yes, it was urgent.”

  Natalie walked into her parents’ home.

  “Your mother’s sleeping, you know. The world could end, and she’d still be sleeping.”

  “I knew it was you I was waking up.”

  “You want something to drink? Herbal tea?”

  Natalie accepted, and her father went into the kitchen. There was something comforting about the way they related. Now that the surprise was over, her father had recovered his attitude of calm. It felt like he was going to take things in hand. However, at that time of night, Natalie thought to herself that he’d aged. She’d seen it just in his way of walking with slippers. She’d told herself, This is a man who’s been awoken in the middle of the night, but he takes the time to put on his slippers to go see what’s going on. Such caution about his feet was touching. He came back into the living room.

  “So what’s happening? What is it that can’t wait?” />
  “I wanted to show you this.”

  She took the Pez dispenser out of her pocket, and immediately, father experienced the same emotion as daughter. The little object sent them back to the same summer. All of a sudden, his daughter was eight. So she came up to her father and gently put her head on his shoulder. All the affection of the past was in the Pez, everything that had been squandered with the passage of time, too, not suddenly, but here and then there. The Pez held the time before unhappiness, when fragility amounted to a fall, a scratch. The idea of her father was in the Pez, the man she loved to run toward as a child, leaping into his arms; and once she felt him against her, she could think about the future with an extraordinary assurance. The two of them remained in a state of wonder, contemplating the toy, an insignificant, silly little object that was nevertheless so moving, containing as it did all the gradations of life.

  Then Natalie began to weep. Deeply. The tears of that suffering she’d held back in her father’s presence. She didn’t know why, but she’d never let go in front of him. Was it because she was an only child? Was it maybe because she’d had to play the role of a boy, too? The one who doesn’t weep. But she was a little girl, a child who’d lost her husband. So, after all this time, in the playful aura of the Pez, she began to weep in the arms of her father. To let herself drift into the hope of consolation.

  Seventy-two

  The next day, when Natalie arrived at the office, she was a little sick. She’d ended up sleeping at her parents’. Early in the morning, just before her mother woke up, she’d come back to her own home. Memory of the all-nighters of her youth, those nights when she could party until dawn, change her clothes, and go directly to class. She was experiencing one of the paradoxes of the body: a state of exhaustion that makes you feel awake. She went to see Markus and was surprised to find that he was in exactly the same state of mind as the day before. A sort of calm strength that was exactly the same. The thought of it reassured her, even made her feel relieved.