He hasn’t slept a wink, he tells me. He took two Valiums, which had absolutely no effect on him, then he played solitaire for hours on his phone, finally stopping at sunrise. “I brought some firewood in,” he adds.
I touch his cheek tenderly. I yawn. I went to see Patrick at about midnight and I could use a few more hours of sleep, but I have no regrets.
“What’s going to happen when Rébecca gets back?” I asked him.
He brushed away a lock of hair matted with sweat to my forehead and, smiling, answered that he’ll probably get a hotel room for a while. “Like our friend Robert,” he added, laughing—though I’m the only one who can truly appreciate the irony of the remark. He says Rébecca is going to stop in Lourdes on her way back and wonders—only half joking—if she might take a detour through Jerusalem or Bugarach or something. I’m sort of on a cloud—or rather inside a cloud—and so nothing can really hit me, at best things sort of kiss up against me. We did it in his garage this time, on the hood of his car, and I know that doesn’t help me to get my feet back on the ground, but this won’t—can’t—go on. We’re going to have to clear this whole thing up, very soon. In the next few days.
Vincent made breakfast. “Great. Thank you, Vincent. But now sit down and don’t do anything else. Rest. Unwind.”
“I’ve got the jitters. I busted my ass, you know what I mean?”
“You can relax. People will come. There will be food and drink. It will all go fine.”
“I couldn’t get through to her all night, she didn’t answer.”
“Of course not, Vincent. She sleeps at night. Normal people do that, you know?”
He has gotten the eggs ready, I need only cook them.
“Look, Vincent, I don’t think this is the right way about it, you know? Harassing her. I see her as the type who will answer every blow a hundred times over.”
He grumbles unintelligibly. I feel sorry for him. I would be so glad if he would forget all about Josie and her child, if he just let them go on with a life they embarked upon without him—jumping on board a moving vehicle is always hard and implies some acrobatic efforts. All he would need to do is let go, just go out and get good and drunk and it would all be over. But I steadfastly avoid giving him my opinion. I don’t want to take any risks, only hours away from a party that already has him tied up in knots.
No one knows about my affair with Patrick, but he is now in our circle of acquaintances and on our guest list. He’s going to give me a lift because I’m letting Vincent have the car. Really starting to get worried, he wants to go take a look for himself.
Vincent has only just left when Patrick shows up and we can hear the motor purring. He looks at me, smiling. I quickly let him know what’s going on and I can see his expression change. Now I smile. “Don’t even think about it,” I tell him. “Don’t force me to pepper-spray you.”
“You’re tempting me, Michèle.”
I touch his arm. “We won’t come home late,” I say, shamelessly squeezing his arm. “I promise you,” I add, staring him right in the eyes and pouting.
“You’re torturing me,” he says breathily, close to my neck.
“I certainly hope so, Patrick.”
I had forgotten how good it is to have a new lover, how every instant together is filled with surprise, freshness, explosiveness, at least for the first three weeks. How good it feels to play around, to hide, to keep a secret, to joke. He tells me I’m fabulous as we walk out into the cold night. Now that’s what I like to hear, I think to myself, that’s the most powerful drug in the world.
Blocks of ice come floating and shimmering along the Seine and slide up against the black hull of the houseboat.
Richard isn’t up to speed on the persistent difficulties between Josie and his son, which gives me a chance to tell him he must learn to better manage his time, instead of giving nine-tenths of it to Hélène, if he hopes to still have a clue about the world around him. He lets out a nervous laugh. I heard that Hélène got Hexagone to read his screenplay—something I have always failed to do, he must have immediately thought—and I imagine that the remaining tenth has been spent burning candles for her. “In any event, he hasn’t heard a peep from her since yesterday. Not a good sign. Give him some attention. Talk to him.”
He hands me a glass of champagne and nods. The houseboat pitches slightly as a horrid bateau-mouche goes by. Usually, he would respond by saying I’m one to talk or something along those lines. That combative mind-set he used to have with me is starting to disappear just as the snow will start to melt on the first warm days. The paradox is, this lack of hostility is hurtful. Richard and I have had time to say three words together and already there are three men talking to her and he is keeping watch out of the corner of his eye and frowning weakly.
Anna joins me at the bar. She wants to compliment Vincent because everything is going so smoothly, but she can’t find him. She knits her eyebrows when I tell her why he isn’t there. She says nothing. She clenches her fists. I don’t point it out, but this unabashed dislike of Josie—though it’s quite mutual—is at the root of the conflict between Josie and Vincent, and this is what happens. But I take her in my arms because this party is thanks to her. Twenty-five years ago we met in a hospital room and we started all this going and I hold her close for a minute, until some start to whistle and call out in encouragement.
Anna rides the mood, speaking of her emotion, her pride, thanking all of AV Productions’ friends and partners from the bottom of her heart—they have been at our side throughout these twenty-five years and blah blah blah, then everyone applauds. A few writers are drunk. The champagne is excellent. Vincent has indeed done a fine job. I wonder what he’s up to. I make sure some petits fours are put aside for him. Now and then, I run into Patrick and we exchange a few banalities, as any passing acquaintances might, and this turns out to be fairly amusing because we are thinking of only one thing—our next encounter—and feigning indifference under those circumstances takes on an uncommon flavor. So much so that Anna whispers in my ear, speaking of Patrick, that she still can’t fathom how I haven’t fallen for my charming neighbor. I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Don’t you think he’s a little bland? Sort of ordinary?” I ask.
Vincent finally shows up, but he’s alone. And he is white as a ghost. Generous and charitable, I go out and meet him on the dock. “She’s not there. There’s nobody home. She fucking split!”
I take his arm as we turn back toward the gangway. “No way. Are you sure?”
“I waited an hour. Then the guy downstairs told me he saw her leaving, with a suitcase.”
“Is that all?”
“What? Isn’t that enough?”
I lead him inside so he can admire his work, so he can feel gratified about having pulled the whole thing off without a hitch, start to finish. Anna comes over and leads him away. I give Richard the news. “Where does he think she’s going with a suitcase and a baby in her arms?” he wonders, shrugging his shoulders. “She can’t have gotten very far.” I agree with him, and I wouldn’t worry anymore about what happened to Josie if only Vincent would relax a little and lose that frown he’s been wearing since he got here, unwaveringly constant. I ask Richard to go reassure him if he can, as they say only a father can, and I see in his eyes as he darts a sorry look at Hélène, still very much the center of attention in her bright red spike heels, that he feels like a guy who parked his Aston Martin in the dead of night on a block where you wouldn’t leave your bicycle or your beat-up old scooter.
He finally nods.
“You’re a good father,” I tell him.
He keeps nodding, lost in thought.
“Richard,” I say, “if she is going to get swept away the first time you have your back turned, then I advise you to get rid of her quickly. You’ll only make yourself bitter and disappointed.” He’s one of a new race of men, with whom we have lived and live no longer, and who against all expectations remain endearing in a certain light a
nd in moderate doses.
The cake is the size of a Ping-Pong table, thick as a brick, with a white and blue cream marbled icing, topped by a nougatine figure honoring AV Productions’ twenty-fifth anniversary. I let Anna preside after blowing out the candles and playing diva to the laudatory applause and whistles from our fellow professionals. She takes legitimate pleasure in it and has a word or two in confidence with certain guests as she hands them their cake. I give her a wink and she returns it with a big smile. I see Richard thread his way through the armchairs and over to Vincent, then put a hand on his shoulder. I find Patrick at the bar—this particular Patrick is a mixture of them both, a rather unfortunate overlapping of his two faces, which makes him at once attractive and repulsive, and not far from resembling my father. I make good and sure I don’t get too close to him. “Everything okay?” I ask. “You’re not bored?”
It seems he has run into some acquaintances and invites me to come have a drink with them. I can see from a distance which people he’s talking about—a horrible Frenchwoman who has a gallery in Soho—and I immediately bow out, saying Vincent and I have to work something out quickly, regarding the car. For a second he looks hurt but he quickly pulls it together. To congratulate him, I secretly brush his hand.
I am glad to see some old acquaintances again, in particular one couple who worked with us on portraits of artists and who came with their eighteen-year-old daughter, Aliette, who I never knew existed and who is seven and a half months pregnant, radiant, beaming, even though, if I understood correctly, the father is nowhere to be found. I also have a couple of drinks with some writers who have a wonderful story—I listen to them, smiling, not understanding a word because of the general noise level, the laughter, the voices calling out, the background music. Anna and I take a walk through the coffee tables, exchanging a few words with this person and that, as the night wears on, and I have a great evening on this houseboat. Everyone does. We all have an excellent evening on this houseboat, still on the water, except for my son. Who has just received an awful message. It’s getting pretty late and I don’t understand why that girl isn’t sleeping at one in the morning when it’s hardly been a day since I held her out as an example. I mean, doesn’t she have anything better to do than to fire bullets directly at Vincent with her goddamn text messages?
“Don’t try to reach me.” The message is clear. I hand him back his phone. I look him straight in the eyes, but he lowers his head.
“If she sees you’re trying to hang on, you’re through,” I tell him. I sit there next to him for a second, stroke his back, then I get up because I have come to the conclusion that there’s nothing better I can do.
Later, when I think he’s in the bathroom—Josie’s disappearance might well make him sick to his stomach, he has implied—he calls me to say he is staking out his apartment and he would like to keep the car. “She has to come by at some point,” he says, “and when she does, I’ll be here.”
“Look, Vincent, I don’t know. You might be right. Well, I mean it’s absolutely freezing out tonight, don’t catch cold. But you know, one day you’ll have to explain to me why you have to make things so complicated.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious.”
One hour later, the party is still going great guns but I’m ready to go home and I can guess by the look of impatience in Patrick’s eyes that I’m not the only one. I rush through it as quickly as I can, but I can’t just walk out, I can’t afford to be impolite with the five or six influential people whom Anna and I must pamper like rare treasures, lest we forfeit their indispensable support. You can’t win if you don’t play, right?
The delay has upset Patrick and he is already waiting in his car when I get outside. Richard detained me a good ten minutes more so I could give him the lowdown on the latest twists in the story and he tells me he spent an hour explaining to Vincent that he was better off doing nothing and waiting for Josie to make the first move because, as he may have noticed, she’s not exactly easygoing and she might not like being boxed into a corner.
“I didn’t take too long, did I?” I ask, as Patrick drives away without a word. Another little boy, I think to myself, though the physical differences are instantly apparent.
I take a good look at his profile, his lips. “Are you the brooding type, Patrick?”
I’m slightly drunk, but not drunk enough to get into an argument with him. I haven’t forgotten the promise I made earlier and the very thought of it conjures a dark desire in me. With anyone else, it might be easy to make things better with a kiss or a caress, but Patrick is different. There’s nothing I can do for him unless it’s staged the way he likes it.
I don’t want to think about that right now. I’m so ashamed that I sometimes wake up, breathless, and my thoughts just freeze when I try to imagine an acceptable resolution to an affair that has been so demeaning. A sigh rises in my breast but I keep silent. I would like it to be like some disease I caught, germs I picked up because I didn’t wash my hands thoroughly, some virus for which I had no defenses, but I can’t quite bring it off, I can’t quite convince myself.
“Yeah, well, you certainly ditched me,” he finally blurts as we drive past the miserable abandoned buildings that were once the Samaritaine department store.
“Oh, I did not, of course not,” I say, “but I do have certain obligations, certain duties. You understand that, don’t you? Anyway, it wasn’t you, it was that woman, that gallery owner from Soho. I happen to know her, you see. I can’t stand her, I avoid her. Whatever. She’s going to bust the buttons on that fuchsia suit soon, don’t you think?”
A little later, he suggests we stop and do it in the woods because he can’t stand to wait any longer. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. But I immediately burst his balloon when I tell him the temperature outside. “I’m just as impatient as you, Patrick. But not here.” He gives me a predatory grin and guns the engine.
He’s very excited. A little before we arrive, he leans over and opens the glove compartment, removing his ski mask, which he has the good taste to stick in my face. I raise my eyes to heaven and he lets go a sardonic laugh. Dawn seems to shimmer on the horizon. He’s so excited in fact that he reaches over to caress my hair and suddenly grabs it to have me at his mercy, and veers wildly around a curve. We finally get to the house. The living room windowpanes still glow a dim red from the remaining embers in the fireplace.
Seeing us come in, Marty withdraws upstairs—my screaming frightens him.
I know that screaming is convincing. It expresses the very real rage that wells from deep inside me, drowns me, overwhelms me like some conquering army, yet I know that it also springs from the terrible pleasure I get when I’m with him.
I’m ashamed to play this game, but shame is not a strong enough sentiment to prevent anything at all.
I ask him if he wants a drink before we get into our roles, adding that I for one could do with a little foreplay for a change, but he doesn’t bother to answer, thumps me good, sends me sprawling on the floor.
I hadn’t expected it and it is the surprise that stuns me more than the blow itself. I kick out and send a chair flying into his feet while he slips his ski mask on. He jumps out of the way and the man now standing over me is nothing less than the devil incarnate. He rips my dress. I scream. He tries to grab my hands or my feet. I push him away. He catches me. I scream. He falls on top of me. I get my teeth into his arm. He breaks away and tries to get his penis between my legs, struggling like mad, and when he finally manages, when I’m wet and screaming louder and louder, I see Vincent standing behind him and I hear Patrick’s skull crack under the pressure of the log with which my son has just sent him to meet his maker before I could say boo.
I AM THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS THE TRUTH. I’m the only one who knows that scene was staged and I will carry the secret to my grave. For Vincent, it’s infinitely better that way. If he ever learned that he killed a man who was only engaging in the same perverse s
ex play as his own mother, his currently positive attitude toward me would take a hit. I’m sure of it. I water the flowers in the garden with my mind at ease on that score. They’re thirsty. We have had some very warm days. It’s only mid-June and it feels like midsummer already and even at this hour with the cool water from the hose the setting sun burns my cheeks.
Soon the bees will all be gone—despite the promise I made to Irène at her grave—but I can spot a few buzzing around my hydrangeas and I glance at the mosquito netting covering Édouard. He’s still asleep and Vincent and Josie have gone for a walk in the woods in the meantime.
I put some cream on my arms and legs. I was watching Josie do just that a few minutes ago and I was once again struck by what a transformation she has undergone in only a few months. She is another woman, plain and simple.
She is accommodating with me, though to say I am wary of her would be a gross understatement—and that, at least, is one thing that Anna and I still share. I think Josie hates us all, actually, because we didn’t welcome her with open arms and her freshly minted beauty is above all a demonstration of her power.
The house where Patrick and Rébecca lived is shown twice in the afternoon and I watch as the agency manager closes the shutters before she leaves. She is having trouble selling it—“People know! That poor young woman, it’s awful.” And for an instant I think she’s speaking of me.
I smoke a cigarette, making sure that the smoke doesn’t take a sudden unfortunate detour over the baby carriage. When he wakes up and starts whining, I stick one foot over the side of my deck chair and rock him gently with my toes, while I go on reading a short story by John Cheever—only an earthquake could tear me away from it.
On their way out, when he’s kissing me goodbye, Vincent mentions that he’s found a job at the QuickBurger and I congratulate him.
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