She eventually finds some matches in her bag. Her hands tremble slightly, the wind keeps blowing out the matches, and she has to make several attempts. The taste of the tobacco makes her feel sick, her head spins, and yet smoking seems the most sensible thing she can do. She walks around the giant head slumbering in the palm of a stone hand, the only sculpture in the city she has ever liked. She wonders if a woman posed for it or if the sculptor preferred to model a face that belonged to no one. Out of the corner of her eye, a tiny shadow has appeared, growing rapidly before she has time to identify it. The man is in front of her, blocking her way. Gimme your cigarette. She observes the hulking beanpole with the scarlet face, hunched over, talking hoarsely into his chest. The tiny incandescent stick in her hand has become her sole worldly possession, the one thing she is ready to fight for. No, she replies, knowing already that she should have said yes. Gimme your cigarette, bitch. She takes a step to the right, he moves with her; a step to the left, which the scary mime is quick to match. The dwindling cigarette is starting to burn her fingers, yet she refuses to let go of it. She sees the man brandish a bottle that no longer has a label on it. He is going to hit her over the head or else smash the bottle and come at her with the jagged glass. A few yards away three people are walking by, deep in conversation. Make the most of it. She moves sideways, tries to rush forward to catch up and mingle with the group, who in the meantime have begun to quicken their pace. The man appears before her again, the bottle held out in front of him like a knife. A wave of hot and cold washes over her. Fear. She sees them in the bar, still around the table, engaged in an animated conversation after having let her leave without going after her. What will he think when she’s found the next morning, sprawled out at the foot of the stone face, her mouth full of blood? Or maybe there would just be a slash across her cheek. She and the man are frozen in place, barely breathing. The hoarse voice again. You gonna hand that butt over? The bottle has come a few inches closer, a motorbike has stopped at the corner of the street. Two helmeted figures dismount and look up at the lit window of a nearby apartment building. They are so close; she has to get to them, it’s now or never. She makes a run for it, thinking that the distance must be enormous, but already, in full flight, she is crashing into their gigantic bodies. Taken aback, the four metal-encased eyes look her over. Her potential saviors could decide to take it out on her. She says, I’m sorry, trying hard to stifle the tremor in her voice. Soften them up, don’t let them sense her panic. She has only a few seconds to win them over and make them want to defend her. The man hasn’t dared to come any closer. He has stopped in a doorway nearby. She explains the situation to the two bikers, gesturing with her chin at the shadowy figure lying in wait for her. One of them takes off his helmet, he seems harmless; no doubt he thinks she’s exaggerating. They still haven’t said a word. She asks if she can stay with them a bit longer. They exchange a look then start watching the shadow in the doorway with her. It shrinks back but doesn’t leave. They must think she’s making a mountain out of a molehill. She isn’t even sure they believe her, and they hardly seem overjoyed to be acting as chaperones. Lucky for me you were here, she ends up saying, to add a little credibility to her story and encourage them in the task she has given them. The street is calm, nothing is happening, they’re not talking, he’s not going away, she doesn’t dare make any more suggestions. The ochre cigarette filter has remained between her fingers, crushed by her fear, almost weightless, insignificant now. After wanting to hold on to it at any cost, she lets it fall to the ground, getting rid of it since it serves no purpose any longer. The two bikers are getting impatient. Where does she live? Not far, just around the corner, it’s up the street. No answer. The shadow has straightened up and goes to lean against a streetlamp. She sees no sign of the bottle. The man without the helmet turns to her; he looks her over for a few seconds. She makes herself smile so he’ll think she’s cute. She must have passed the test because he says to the other guy, all right, you stay here, I’ll take her home. She wishes she could just leave them there, the two idiots. He puts his helmet back on and points to the back of the motorbike, telling her to watch out for the exhaust pipe. She doesn’t dare admit to him that she has never been on a motorbike. Clumsily lifting her leg, she slides onto the leather seat and straightens up. They set off at once. Her hands are in the way. She puts them flat on her thighs, but at the first curb she instinctively grabs hold of the leather jacket in front of her. They pass close by the man with the bottle, who doesn’t bat an eyelid, but gives her a look filled with hatred. What if I had said yes? The driver accelerates to avoid a red light. She feels good, rescued, out of harm’s way, on that powerful speedy machine. She wishes someone would take her on a tour of Paris like that; she wishes she could press her cheek against the back of the man just a few inches from her face and squeeze him so tightly in her arms that this stranger would experience the same fear she had. But she is already on familiar ground. Thanks, this is it. He tells her he is just going to park the bike; it would be a shame if something happened to her now. She gets off, holding on to his arm. Thank you, really, I’ll be fine. He has removed his helmet; the engine is still running. She wouldn’t want to be ungrateful. He looks at her, fireworks gleaming in his eyes. If he were a bit bolder, he would jump on top of her. Thanks again. She takes several steps, then turns. He adjusts his helmet and violently revs the engine. As soon as he has disappeared, she turns down a narrow side street. She doesn’t realize straight away that someone is outside the door of her apartment building.
Her heart begins to beat; her lungs begin to breathe. She slows down, he comes towards her, they’re already face to face. She thinks of logical reasons that would explain why he is outside her building. Maxime had called the police, Sylvie had had a fit, Ange had sent him to bring her back and explain herself. I was getting a bit worried, he says, and gives her a wink. After Maxime’s confused explanation, he and Ange had gone home. He’d sat down in front of the TV; Ange had taken a shower before going to bed. When he had gone into the bedroom a quarter of an hour later, she was asleep. He had lingered on the threshold for a moment, then closed the door again, put on his shoes and coat, and left the apartment. He had taken a taxi to get here. She’s surprised that he’s telling her all this, as though he were expecting her to analyze his motives and give him instructions on what to do next. She just wants to say thank you but has lost the power of speech. There is only one way she can express herself now. And when her lips touch his, she feels that she has been set free at last.
On the terrace of the café, a lone man sits hunched over a notebook. Now and then, he brings the tip of a ballpoint pen close to the page, makes a few tiny circles just above the surface without ever touching it, then puts his hands together and slides them between his knees.
She arrives slightly out of breath. She came as quickly as she could, but she’s late. She feels hot. She takes off her jacket and sits down opposite him. Not bad, he says admiringly. She imagines that he’s referring to her dress. A black, low-cut dress, of a kind she has never worn before, bought in a shop that sells designer clothing at factory-outlet prices. She blushes, because it’s the first time he has ever said anything like that. He pushes his hand forwards. The waiter comes over to greet them and take their order. How are you, Christophe, he replies, as he always does, and she wonders, as she always does, if Christophe also knows Ange. He squeezes her fingers. The pressure sends an enormous charge of energy coursing through her body. Her cheeks are aflame, she could rise into the air like a helium balloon. He asks her if the espresso is good. She nods, all the while trying to maintain the most pleasant expression on her face. She’s afraid of doing anything that might upset him or uncover a reality other than the one she believes she is living. From time to time he glances at his watch, casts a quick eye over the customers, then retracts his hand and lifts his cup. She shifts her knees forward to touch his, not sure if he can tell the difference. This is nice, he says, and she lowers her eyes
to hide the emotion his words create in her. An hour later, he asks for the bill and refuses to let her pay. Then he kisses her out on the pavement—proof, as she sees it, that he is not afraid to show his affection in public. The texture of his tongue and the paths it likes to take inside her mouth have become familiar to her. Each one of his kisses gives her a sensation of intense sweetness, something she has never known before. As he climbs into the taxi, he gives her a little wave. She responds with an enthusiastic wave of her own.
For two months they have been seeing each other like this, in the same place, in the late afternoon, once or twice a week, depending on when he is free. He calls her in the morning before she leaves the apartment and arranges to meet her after work, at a time that varies according to his schedule. Occasionally, she has to ask her office for permission to leave early. As she has always been punctual and is rarely absent, permission is granted, along with a knowing look that aims to get her to talk about the reasons for her early departure. But little more is given than a cordial thank you. At the café, they order two espressos and two glasses of water. They spend the time available to them searching each other out with their fingertips or knees, laughing at their timorous adolescent behavior. Sometimes they discuss the weather forecast, or the film on television they watched separately at home, or the places they have never been to, or the odd look of a passer-by. He tells her the stories of novels she has never read, describes the house he’d like to buy near the sea, somewhere between La Rochelle and Royan, makes fun of his bosses whom he can no longer stand, extols the beauty of his favorite sport, horse riding. She finds him wilful, admires his marked taste for very particular things. Never has a man told her so much about himself, and she has trouble taking it all in. But she likes listening to him talk; his confidences show that he wants to involve her in his life, even if he doesn’t ask her many questions. She actually prefers it that way: to unburden herself about the past or even the present would be a dangerous undertaking, and she feels she has no talent for it. Whenever she starts to wonder why he keeps coming back to see her, her only conclusion is that she doesn’t know what she expects of him either.
She has fallen into the habit of looking at the ground whenever she turns the corner of her street. She walks along staring at her shoes, trying hard not to think about him, and then, a few yards from the door to her building, she looks up imagining that he’s there, on the lookout, impatient for her return. But in spite of her efforts to stage this scene, he never appears at that moment.
Back home after their meetings, she feels that she has finally taken on the proper dimensions, that she fits into the mass of things around her. She has no desire to go out, for time passes more quickly inside the confined space of her office and her apartment. Simple, immediate household chores consume a certain chunk of it; talking into the microphone requires enough concentration to occupy her for long stretches. The unpredictable nature of a night-time outing, on the other hand, would be more likely to slow the passing of the hours. When she travels between her apartment and the station, she discovers that she has points in common with every person she sees. Everything, from the cellular organization of the body to the functioning of human beings, seems perfect to her. She tells herself that in others as well such a feeling must reflect their level of satisfaction. She concludes that her future will be a delicious, never-ending repetition of their meetings. As for her past, she hardly gives it a thought. When she does, the rite of passage strikes her as an anecdote from a part of her life that no longer needs to be remembered. She feels strong enough to accomplish whatever she wants. She is happy, and nothing can go against her any more.
After refusing at first, he now agrees to answer her when she asks for news of Ange. But his comments remain terse and never refer to Ange directly but rather to the state of their relationship. We had a row yesterday, she bought me a new shirt, she wants us to move, we had a pleasant evening. Afterwards, she never knows if she has the right to go on asking questions in order to find out more about a particular subject. She is curious to learn about the ups and downs that occur when a man and a woman live together, which is something she has never experienced. But the idea that she might be jealous of Ange never crosses her mind.
On the night she was almost mugged, he held her in his arms for a while and told her that he couldn’t stay because there was a chance Ange might wake up. He just wanted to make sure that she was all right. I almost got my face slashed for a cigarette. He had frowned, and she had told him the story. Why hadn’t she given him the cigarette? She could have, but she kept thinking that she really didn’t have a choice. And besides, it was impossible to predict how the man would have reacted if she had given him what he wanted. As she talked, she was searching for a valid excuse to keep him there. In the end, she had to resign herself to going back up to her apartment and exulting in her joy alone. When he returned to his place, Ange must have still been asleep. She pictured him sitting at the kitchen table under the ceiling light, half-listening to the nocturnal rumblings of the building. Coldly, staring into space, he must have tried to figure out the reasons for what he had just done. He was not unhappy with Ange, she was the woman he needed, that’s what he must have thought. So what was wrong with his life? Was he bored? Were there any minor problems in their relationship which they had failed to detect? Giving in to sleep, she worried that without any clear answers he might decide to distance himself from her in order to make his questions go away. Three days later, he called to see how she was doing and to ask if she wanted to meet him for a coffee.
She doesn’t have a single photograph of him. One evening, feeling at loose ends, she takes a few blank sheets of paper and a pencil from a drawer, and tries to draw him from memory. She was never very good at drawing. In her first sketch, he looks like a wizened old man whose eyes, nose, and mouth are in the wrong place. In the second, which she chooses to simplify, he is transformed into a fellow with vacant eyes, expressionless lips, and too much hair on his head. She thinks back to the drawings of Ivan’s patients and tells herself that they were much better at it than she is. For the third drawing, she decides to close her eyes and let her hand trace the image that is forming on the inner wall of her eyelids. When she is finished, the page is covered with a jumble of lines that contains bits of faces here and there, some of them spread out, others overlapping. This last portrait strikes her as the best, and that is the one she keeps.
She hesitates for a long time before making a decision. She’s thinking about an article of clothing but isn’t sure what he likes. She goes to several men’s shops. She runs her fingers along the edges of perfectly folded shirts, piled up according to colors, like unique, precious objects. Sales assistants glide over to her in silence and show her the best-selling items of the season. With practiced gestures, they ask what size she’s looking for. She shrugs, embarrassed at taking on a role she suddenly realizes isn’t hers, and leaves, saying she’ll think it over. She considers buying a novel. She goes into bookshops, where she feels lost amongst the billions of pages set out along dozens of aisles of shelving. She doesn’t remember the names of the authors he’s mentioned to her. She pulls down books at random, reads in a low voice titles that ring no bells, studies their front and back covers, and returns them to the shelf, biting her lip. She looks for customers who remind her of him and sneaks a glance at what they are buying. But at the last minute, she doubts whether their selections are the correct ones.
At the café the next day, she proudly presents him with a house plant wrapped in a large sheet of cellophane paper, with a length of frizzy ribbon stapled to the top. He scarcely glances at it, and she has to say to him, it’s for you, so he understands that she has just given him his first gift. He stares in disbelief at the packaged greenery before him. Eventually he tells her, with an apologetic look, that he won’t be able to take it home. Ange will think I bought it for her. She replies that it doesn’t matter, as long as he keeps it in his apartment. He still refuses o
n the pretext that offering plants to people is not his style. Reluctantly, she puts the pot down on the floor. When the meeting is over, she deliberately leaves it behind.
A few weeks ago, I went to the gare du Nord during my lunch break. My gare du Nord? Her use of the possessive seems to amuse him. Yes, he’d had a coffee in a paper cup leaning against the counter of one of those fast-food stands. You came to the station to drink a coffee? Wait. He spent a good fifteen minutes wondering what had possessed him to come. Then he recognized her voice, amplified and projected on all sides through the loud-speakers. It was odd, I felt moved, I wasn’t expecting that. She’s not sure that she follows. He found her voice deep and assured, as though it belonged to a woman who was older and—at first he can’t find the right word—more confident. After listening to about ten of her announcements, he tried to figure out what had led her to choose that line of work. He must say that he feels a certain pride in knowing the person who addresses that enormous crush of people, as proud as he would be if he were a close friend of someone famous. That’s going a bit far, she’ll begin to think he’s making fun of her. Not at all, he went there to listen to her and came away with the impression that he knew a little more about her. She now feels touched by his declarations. All the same, she can’t understand why he hadn’t let her know he was coming.
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