She looks at herself in the small mirror above the washbasin in the café toilets. She has never asked herself too many questions about the aesthetic quality of her face. Since men are capable of desiring her, she supposes that it’s not without appeal. But neither does she receive flattering comments about it. From this, she concludes that she is somewhere around average, which is fine with her. Yet that afternoon, for no particular reason, she gets a sudden urge to know what he thinks. After the Île Saint-Louis episode, he has never again said that he finds her beautiful or pretty; nor, for that matter, has he ever complimented her on her appearance. She doubts she should read too much into it, but for the first time she’d like him to say something to her, that her eyes have a special shape, that her lips are full, that her nose isn’t too long, that her chin isn’t too pointed, even if he has to lie to do so.
When she goes back upstairs, a woman in a grey suit is standing at their table. The two of them are talking. The woman’s red lips pout sensuously every time she opens her mouth. She has one hand on her hip, the other curled around her neck. She doesn’t dare go back to the table; motionless, she stands there with her eyes fixed on them. A waiter carrying a tray asks her to move to one side. She uses the opportunity to conceal herself behind one of the columns in the room. They talk for a few more moments, then the woman leans down, kisses him on both cheeks and walks off with magnificence, brashly imposing her beauty on the world. She returns to her seat. Interrogating him about his opinion of her physical attributes now strikes her as futile. He asks her if everything is all right. Who was that? A friend of Ange’s, she lives around the corner. She feels her heart tighten. Just as well that I wasn’t with you, then. He shrugs, saying that they’ll go to a different café next time.
The thought has of course crossed her mind, several times. She imagines him imagining the roundness of her breasts, the color and size of her aureola, the color of her pubic hair. She imagines herself naked before him. His feared and precious hands upon her. She thinks an intense physical understanding might develop between them; she thinks that she can do without his body. She thinks he doesn’t want to disrupt the intimacy he shares with Ange. Then she tells herself that he doesn’t really want her, that she isn’t attractive enough to him, at least not as much as Ange. As long as there are no sexual relations between them, he can look Ange straight in the eye and swear to her that he has never been unfaithful. But as long as there are no sexual relations between them, he can’t stop anticipating them, even idealizing them. If she had given him more clues about what she wanted, he probably would have gone along, but she fears her own reactions and believes she can protect herself by following his lead. She won’t take the initiative; she won’t complain if he doesn’t make a move. As if testing him, she wants to give him as many reasons to make love to her as not to. But she also knows that if they go on seeing each other, they will soon have to go a step further to make or break themselves as a couple.
He licks off the traces of coffee lining his upper lip and assumes a grave expression. Sylvie has asked for a divorce, Maxime is devastated. She can’t help smiling. That’s hardly surprising. She said it without malice, he gives her a hard look. He obviously isn’t pleased with her response to Maxime’s tribulations. I really don’t see what’s so amusing about it. And he takes the opportunity to break off physical contact with her. Now that it is uncovered, her hand feels cold. She is about to admit that she hasn’t shown much compassion, to apologize and quickly change the subject, her opinion even. But he goes on. Sometimes you really do have strange reactions. The word is like a dart, boring straight into her chest. His first chance and already he has adopted the common opinion of her. She feels like singing. A song she heard that morning on the radio, which she would have liked to dedicate to him and which she can’t get out of her head. You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you. Only he might find her attitude inappropriate and use it as further evidence in support of his weirdness theory. She looks for another way out: a good old argument to eject him from her life. She’ll tell him that he’s just like the others, even if she doesn’t think so and doesn’t have anyone to compare him to. He’d roar back that Ange is far better and leave her to the mercy of the waiter. But instead, she makes do with biting the top of her right thumb and letting her eyes wander about, avoiding his gaze. He knocks back his coffee and shakes his head. You have to admit it’s weird that you get a kick out of it, no? His tone is cutting, almost vengeful. I don’t get a kick out of it, I just find it rather ironic. She feels the tears welling in her eyes. Then explain to me what’s so ironic about my friend’s wife walking out on him. She could spill the beans. The champagne at the Hotel Lutétia, the lowering of the zip in the taxi, the brightly colored cocktails at the private club, the immaculate, palatial apartment. She has no idea how he would react, but it would serve him right. She now realizes that it’s up to her to define the nature of the bond between them, either by speaking or keeping silent. She’s not used to justifying herself, nor does she have the heart of a snitch. But he is demanding an explanation.
One night as she was leaving the station, she had run into Maxime by chance. He hadn’t recognized her straight off, and so she had had to remind him of the circumstances of their meeting, the famous dinner party where she had passed herself off as a prostitute. Maxime had admitted to her that he hadn’t believed her story. He had invited her for a coffee, as a reward for her effort in creating such a character. Once they had found themselves a table in a local bistro, Maxime had seemed troubled. She’d asked him if he was all right, and he had started telling her about the crisis his marriage was in. She’d listened, and he had ended up telling her that he was seeing another woman. He wanted to end the relationship but his mistress wouldn’t let him. She’d wished Maxime luck, and that was the last they’d seen of each other until they all met up in the bar, where she had asked him if he’d broken it off, which had led to his angry outburst. That’s it.
He goes on staring at her in silence, looking for an expression that might allow him to verify the truthfulness of her account. You see, she concludes, if there was someone else involved, Sylvie may have found out about it. Thanks to you! She frowns, she hadn’t seen things in that light. She very much doubts that she had the slightest role in this divorce. That he should point an accusing finger at her is completely unfair. She looks down. She could stand up, tell him she’s at the wrong table, and walk off without a second thought. And yet she remains glued to her chair, her mouth twitching oddly until she is able to add, I might turn out to be responsible for your splitting up with Ange, but I’m certainly not to blame for what’s happened to Maxime. Her words appear to take him by surprise, to force him to reflect on what they are doing, as if he were suddenly required to look to his left and his right at the same time. But the problem with eyes is that they both move in the same direction. Maxime and Sylvie, he and Ange, it’s not the same, she’d better get that straight. He raised his voice; she’s starting to despise this moment, this fit of anger pouring down on her even though she has nothing to do with it. She also has to understand that he and Maxime are different; Maxime has always had a soft spot for women, whereas he is the faithful sort . . . usually. He forces himself to finish his sentence, adding the last word in order to regain his balance. Then he stops, betrayed by his own self-description. Usually, she repeats in a quiet voice. She wants to believe that he needs time to accept what is happening.
It’s night, and she is lying in bed. The city is playing softly in the background. The curtains are open, and light from her neighbors pours through the window into the room. She has always enjoyed that moment of calm when the body loosens its grip. Nothing more is asked of it. As a teenager it was at such moments, waiting for sleep to overcome her, that she would invent the perfect lover. She always met him on a beach, it was always a late afternoon in summer. She found him attractive. She never gave him any specific physical traits, but she would choose his gestures
, always the same. The imaginary scene would reach its height at the moment he kissed her. She had never kissed a boy back then and she was curious to discover what kissing with her tongue would feel like. She could imagine nothing better than kissing the boy she called, for lack of originality, her Prince Charming. She moves her arm over the portion of empty sheet next to her. His body would be there; a mass of tender warmth would envelop her completely, the smell of another person distinct from her own but so familiar she would barely notice the difference. She would have the right to caress that body, to rub her skin against his, and to repeat the same ritual every evening. She would never tire of it. She has dreamed of this repetition with him, the assurance that he would be there the following night.
Years later, when she thinks about him again, she will recall one meeting in particular. They had met at the usual place. She had arrived, her heart thumping, impatient to be with him. Once inside the café, she had lost all notion of time. There was only a great bath of liquid, and she was floating in it, borne away by amnesia and euphoria. That day, after they had religiously drunk their espressos and swapped details about the minor events that had disturbed their routines since they last met, he had announced that he wanted to go somewhere with her. Right now? Right now. He had a little time that day. He had led her to the nearest métro station. On the train, they had sat next to each other on the pull-down seats; he had slipped his hand onto her back, under the layers of fabric that covered her body, touching her bare skin. They didn’t talk. They smiled whenever they turned their heads at the same time to look at each other. It was then that she had imagined a life together for the first time. They were on that métro because they were going home, as they did every evening. Home was a small apartment somewhere in Paris, on the top floor. From the living-room windows, there was a view of the grey rooftops and the chimneys with their pointed hats. They were going home, and that familiar journey was becoming the symbol of a shared life, a life that struck her as more ideal than she had imagined for herself up till then. She was on her way back to the apartment they had chosen together; she could not ask for more.
They had got out at the Luxembourg station. Behind the railings of the park, people on metal chairs were eating, reading, breathing in the sunshine, their eyes closed. They were relaxed and unthreatening; they could be addressed without fear of being stared at with alarm. The white statues struck her as a mistake, a superfluous sophistication. He had taken her hand. They had walked along the paths in silence, with the serene slowness of those who have nowhere to go. They no longer felt anything in particular, they felt everything. She remembered thinking that the moment should never end. That only the company of this man could make things bearable. The world seemed to be in place, in line with what she would have chosen if she had been given the choice. At the same time, nothing mattered any more. When they too sat down on the metal chairs, not far from the chess players, he had rested his head on her shoulder. In her memory, they had stayed in that position for ever.
During the night, it seems that someone has blocked up her ears with cotton wool. On waking up, she finds it hard to breathe; she takes a stab at blowing her nose, but it’s as dry as cement in there. Similarly, the back of her throat appears to have hardened, to be covered with a kind of varnish. Her forehead is hot, she has trouble moving her eyes in their sockets. The world around her, by contrast, has turned soft. The floor is made from a material that looks like wood and has the consistency of rubber. The corners of the walls are no longer perfectly straight but keep changing according to the shifts in temperature. When she reaches out to take hold of an object, the object is no longer perfectly still. Its contours vibrate, ready to change shape and elude her grasp. She tells herself that it will pass. She drinks a little tea, but the idea of a simple slice of bread and butter makes her sick to her stomach. Struggling to keep her balance, she gets dressed and gathers up her things. But once she starts walking down the stairs, she has to hold on to the banister: she finds it difficult to judge the irregular, shifting distance between the steps, as if she were inching along the pleats of a giant accordion. Outside, the light crashes down on her and sears her eyes. The ride to work on the metro feels utterly impossible. She is capable of doing just one thing now, lying down. She goes back up the stairs and flops onto the couch. Just then, the telephone rings. The handset is heavier than usual. She doesn’t have enough saliva to moisten her mouth. He asks her if she’s ill. I don’t know. At that moment she is someone else whom she suddenly sees standing next to her with the telephone in her hand; an older, more assured, more sensual woman, who leads an exciting life, that glimmers in the very timbre of the voice. You don’t know? Her head is spinning, she might have a fever, it’s probably not too serious. He wants to know if she’s eaten anything. Some tea. He exhales into the phone. I feel quite sick, I’m not sure I can go to the station. But she immediately regrets what she has said, realizing that he must have phoned to set up a meeting. She doesn’t have time to correct herself before he is already saying, in that case it would be better if she stayed at home, they can see each other another time. Something contracts inside her. She wishes she could go back, to be smart enough to lie and say that she feels perfectly well. It’s no good telling herself there will be next times; she has the impression that she’s being punished for no reason. She would like to ask him why; because you’re ill, he would answer. Little black flies are floating on the surface of the wall opposite her. She doesn’t have the strength to defend herself. It’s better for you; promise me you’ll go see a doctor some time this afternoon. She agrees, fearing that a refusal would encourage him to push back their next meeting still further. Look after yourself, he says, a big kiss, I’ll call you later. At that instant, she is overcome by an enormous desire to confess how terribly she misses him, but he has already hung up. She would like the sofa, the chair, the table, something in the room to start talking to her and put her mind at rest.
She wakes up and understands that she has slept. Early afternoon, the sun is no longer shining directly into the windows of her apartment. She feels rested, but her respiratory passages are still blocked, her muscles ache. To her horror she realizes that she has forgotten to call the office. She dials the number; at the other end of the line, the phone on her boss’ desk starts to ring. She remembers the title sequence of a film in which the viewer is taken inside a telephone wire, transformed into an electronic signal and launched at great speed towards a target he can no longer avoid: the ear of the person whose number has been dialled. An authoritative male voice asks who is speaking. Mr. Merlinter. Her boss has recognized her voice and starts saying quickly that she has to understand that just because an employee is given permission to leave early is no reason for said employee to assume the right to take every kind of liberty, he is well aware that she is not the sort to cause problems, but he trusts that she’ll be able to provide him with an adequate explanation for her absence this morning. Thrown into a panic by this demand, she answers, my apartment was burgled, they took everything, I had to wait for the police. Too bad for him; if he had been nicer, she would have told him the truth. For a few seconds she hears nothing, then Mr. Merlinter continues in a much calmer voice. Well, considering the circumstances, he understands. She hangs up, then dials a second number. A woman’s voice answers mechanically, Doctor Hotaronian’s office, and gives her an appointment for five o’clock that afternoon.
Three hours later, she is sitting in a wicker armchair, in a room with beige wallpaper, in front of a low table flooded with women’s magazines. Hanging on one of the walls is a small notice sheathed in plastic with a list of the charges for weekday or weekend appointments for office visits and house calls. Classical music is playing softly through a tiny speaker. For the past twenty minutes she has been waiting her turn, like the four other people who were already there when she arrived and whom she greeted with a muffled hello, which was not met with much enthusiasm. First she had taken a look at the photographs in seve
ral magazines, not being able to read the articles because the lines kept blurring; she quickly grew tired of that. At present, she is fighting against her only real urge: to stretch out on the grey carpet at the other patients’ feet and take a nap. To pass the time, she listens to an elegant woman with red puffy eyes on the sofa to her left blow her nose. In between two drainages, the woman massages her temples and sighs. Sitting on the floor between the woman’s feet, a little girl is shaking and combing a doll with frizzy, over-blond hair. From time to time, a stout woman squeezed into a woollen coat and wedged into a wicker seat asks another stout woman squeezed into a woollen coat and wedged into a wicker seat, is everything all right, Miss? The glassy-eyed mother doesn’t stir. And then, out of the blue, a voice shouts, I’ve been waiting for an hour, for God’s sake. It’s the woman from the sofa, not addressing anyone in particular but hoping to arouse everyone’s compassion. She arches her eyebrows by way of approval; the two other women pretend not to have heard. I’m sick of being here, the little girl declares loudly in her turn while her mother murmurs that it won’t be long now. For a moment, nothing can be heard but the sound of traffic pierced by the shrill notes of a violin. Suddenly, the door to the room is opened by a finely decked-out brunette dressed in black, who announces a name. The younger of the two stout women climbs to her feet and helps the other to extract herself from her chair. They go out; the door shuts. No organization, the lady on the sofa pronounces after an ample sniff. Now that they’re a little more alone, she considers asking the lady whether she’d mind if she stretched out on the floor. But the door has just opened. A haggard adolescent boy walks in and takes possession of one of the two wicker chairs. She thinks that he looks like a leek. Out of politeness, she tries to resist the fascination exerted by his severe acne. The woman has started blowing her nose again, and the young man has taken a comic book out of his backpack. The little girl begins to study her. And because she doesn’t look away, the child gets up and comes over, brandishing the woman-shaped piece of plastic under her nose. My Barbie has a pain. She senses the mother’s watchful eyes on her but doesn’t know what the appropriate response would be. She’s not well? Yes, she has a pain right there. And the child’s finger presses the tiny chest. She could tell her that it’s lucky they’re at the doctor’s, but the little girl seems to be expecting a slightly more intelligent response from her. Heartburn, that happens sometimes, but it will pass. The little girl smiles. So it will pass for Mommy too? The mother has suddenly stopped blowing her nose. Come here and leave the lady alone. The door opens, mother and daughter go out after hearing their names. She is alone with the placid young leek, who is hunched over his album of brightly colored pictures. If she lay down on the soft carpet, he probably wouldn’t notice, but she doesn’t dare. He must be getting ready to leave his office. They could be together right now if she weren’t here, waiting for an appointment that isn’t going to reveal anything other than the fact that she’s come down with a good old dose of flu. She tries to convince herself that he was right to cancel their date. It’s true that she wouldn’t have been on top form. Even so, she can’t help imagining the possibility that he might unexpectedly come to her place later to see how she is. She picks up a Paris-Match with a torn front cover which now shows only the chins and chests of a man and woman side by side. The words Paradis- Depp appear in large letters. She leafs through several pages before putting down the magazine, unable to concentrate. The door opens, an elderly couple walks in, taking small, hesitant steps. The woman in black motions to her, shakes her hand before asking her to come this way.
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