Enough About Love

by Hervé Le Tellier

  She changed and took the elevator all the way to the covered pool perched on the hotel roof. The bay windows looked down over Oslo’s lights. The only person in the pool was swimming laps freestyle along one side. He did not pause when Louise dived in. After a few breaststrokes, she felt a bit cold and, with the first shiver, climbed out, settled on a lounge chair, and started reading the guide to Oslo. The swimmer’s rhythm was slow and regular. At the end of the pool, he would exhale noisily and turn around underwater to start the next lap. Another ten minutes and he climbed up the ladder. He had shaved his head the way young balding men do, was probably past forty. His body was hairy, solid, not as muscular as his exercise led her to expect, and he was nearsighted too, because he groped for his glasses. He seemed surprised to see Louise, smiled at her and said a few words in Norwegian. She did not understand so he started again in English.

  “Holidays?”

  Louise smiled at his pronounced French accent. “Just for three days. And you?”

  “I see … My English could do with some improvement. No, I work for Norsk Hydro.” Louise shook her head and he explained: “Oil, aluminum, magnesium. I’m in aluminum. My name’s Alain. Or Al. Like aluminum.”

  “Louise. Like Louise. Louise Blum.”

  She held out her hand. Alain was not French but Belgian, an engineer supervising the opening of a new manufacturing chain to the south of Oslo. He said a few words about what she should see: the natural history museum, its minerals collection, and the museum of Viking ships at Bygdøy. Then he apologized for leaving, he had to be up very early in the morning.

  When Louise went to bed, Romain was still not back. Half a Noctimax helped her get to sleep.

  The following morning, she declined the invitation to join the group of partners. She ventured into the city alone, with a few books in her bag, she explored the boutiques, bought herself a scarf. Following Alain’s advice, she went and admired the long ships, then the gemstones and agates, before having elk meat for lunch on the wharf. She strolled through Vigeland Park and cruised along Oslo’s fjord in a tourist boat. She returned to the hotel late in the evening, just in time for dinner, during which she was bored once again. She decided to go home to Paris. There was a flight in the morning, she would take it. Romain tried to dissuade her, but without really insisting. She was resolute: “Just say that Judith’s ill, or Maud, that I was worried. I’m going to pack, I might go for a swim. Take your time, darling.”

  She went straight up to the pool. The Belgian engineer was doing his laps. Alain greeted her cheerfully and lay down on the lounge chair next to her. She told him about her day, the long ships and the smoked elk. There was a restful serenity about Alain, they talked for a long time, like old friends. He told her about his life without painting too grim a picture of it nor dressing it up. Recently divorced, a son of nearly twenty, a job that took too much of his time, a sick father—cancer. The separation from his wife had been violent, painful, he had started drinking but stopped in time. Alain was straightforward, strong, he was like his crawl, powerful and regular. His frank gaze lingered on Louise’s legs, her stomach, her breasts. Louise did not dislike the fact that he liked her, even though she was not in the least attracted to him.

  He was about to leave the pool, his face brightened: “Look, Louise, tomorrow morning I’m taking a couple of Norwegian friends to visit the factory in Holmestrand. Would you like to come with us and watch aluminum being melted in a furnace? It’s impressive, really it is. We’re leaving at nine-fifteen, it’s only an hour away, and you’ll be back by early afternoon, after lunch in the restaurant on the dam. It’s very pure aluminum, the kind they use for the Airbus.”

  His enthusiasm was contagious. In the elevator, even though she did not find him attractive, she suddenly wanted this dumpy man to take her to his room, push her backward onto his bed, and undress her. She would have grasped his thick penis with her hand, her mouth, would probably have begged him to take her, crying out crude words as he drove deep into her. All things that were alien to her usual behavior, but miraculously authorized by the absence of love and the Norwegian night.

  She went down to her floor, put herself to bed. She turned out the light and fondled herself in the dark to the point of pleasure. When Romain came in, she was asleep.

  The following morning, she embarked on the Norwegian Air Oslo–Paris flight, an Airbus made of Alain’s aluminum. She had left a note for him at reception, apologizing for her hasty departure: Maud was not well. At the end of August, Alain left a message at her office, having found the address: he was in Paris, he wanted to see her again. He called her again twice in early September. She never got back in touch.

  STAN AND SIMON

  • • •

  “SO, DOCTOR, IS IT SERIOUS?”

  Simon’s voice bears the lighthearted imprint of a long-standing friendship. Anna’s younger brother hopes he comes across to Stan as hard, impassive, but the way he rubs his thumb against his index finger betrays anxiety. Stan is scrutinizing the two angiographies on the screen: a dull, dark patch in the middle of the left retina leaves no room for doubt. The surgeon does not answer, enlarges the image, traces the scar line. He would like to find something reassuring to say. But nothing looks more like a Fuch’s spot than another Fuch’s spot.

  Shit, Stan thinks, shit, Simon, how fucking stupid of you, how fucking stupid, you’re always trying to be the best, the alpha male, always waiting till the last minute, you should have called me earlier, should have come immediately, this left retina’s had it now, kaput, and microsurgery might have been a bit of a long shot, but I could have tried something, could have clawed back, I dunno, a couple of diopters for you, two diopters isn’t so bad, it’s better than blind, my poor brother, and what can I tell you about the right eye, because it’s not looking good, nope, not looking good at all, having that first localized hemorrhage on the left retina, and let’s have a closer look at the right retina, fuck, I can’t believe it, you’ve got slight vascular weakness on that one too, there, right next to the optic nerve, it’s a little bit too puffy, the bastard, you’ve got a one-in-four chance, let’s be generous here, let’s say one-in-eight that your other retina packs up in the next ten years, that gives us a one-in-three or -four chance you’ll be blind by the time you’re fifty, fuck, what do you want me to tell you, Simon, what do you want me to tell you, learn Braille, take up the piano again?

  Stan sits down slowly on the corner of his desk, gives Anna’s brother a wide smile: “Right … Simon … No need to panic. Look at this discolored area on your left retina: that’s called a Fuch’s spot. It’s a pretty rare problem which occurs in the very nearsighted, like you or like me: I’m minus eight, you see, almost as bad. I’ll explain: in nearsighted people the eye is too large so it exerts constant mechanical pressure on the retina, if this gets to be too much then a blood vessel can burst. That’s what’s happened. Because it was a large blood vessel—a small artery, you can see it here—the hemorrhage has damaged the macula, that’s the part of the retina where the eye focuses.”

  “A busted artery,” Simon says, adding sardonically, “alas, ’tis all in vein!”

  Stan is still looking at the screen, does not hear the pun.

  “It explains the gap in the middle of your field of vision. The good news is it won’t spread, it’s starting to cauterize. It never really spreads.”

  “Can it get better, heal up on its own?”

  “It’s healed, Simon. The eye has repaired itself. Well, as much as it can. It did it by scarring, and now the light-sensitive cells—you know, the rods and cones—that were starved of a blood supply have necrotized.”

  “But … Stan … Can you do laser treatment? Anna says you’re the best surgeon in France, you work miracles, you have patients from all over the world, New York, Buenos Aires …”

  “Oh, and why not Shanghai? Your sister really is unbelievable … Listen, it’s true, you can treat it by injecting verteporfin and then using lasers, but
that only works in the first few hours, maybe the first few days. But this has been going on for at least three weeks, the scarring is permanent … Anyway, Simon, I wouldn’t have risked laser treatment, the cure would have been worse than the complaint. Here, can you see that little fluorescent green zigzag? The vascular tear occurred two millimeters from the optic nerve. It’s so close that I’d have risked touching it with the beam.”

  “What about retinal grafts? Can’t you …”

  “Stem cells? Listen, Simon, I don’t like being pessimistic, but in my lab we follow new advances really closely: we won’t be able to rely on that for another ten or twenty years. I’ll be the first surgeon in France to know how to do it, I swear to you. What we can actually graft right now are retinal cells … in mice. But the stupid cells can’t work out how to adapt themselves to connect to the optic nerve. You could say it’s like having a new retina but the brain has no idea it’s there. You’ll have to learn to live with this. You’ll still have peripheral vision in your left eye, and even though it will be tough at first, with your right eye correcting, you’ll end up getting used to it. But Simon, the most important thing now is if you notice the slightest alteration in your field of vision, wavering, blind spots, changes in color, flashes of light, you don’t fuck around, you don’t wait two weeks before coming to see me, you call me and come to whichever hospital I’m at. And if I’m not around, because you never know, you ask for Herzog and say I sent you, he’s very good. Actually, you know what? Go and see him. For a second opinion. I won’t be upset, I can just imagine what you’re going through right now.”

  “No, Stan, I won’t disturb him, I have faith in you.”

  “No, I want you to: go and see Herzog. I really don’t want you thinking I’m being all reassuring because you’re my wife’s brother and a friend.”

  “Thanks. I understand. But I won’t go. And … isn’t there some diet I can follow? Or food supplements? To nourish the retina? What about lusein? I’ve heard that—”

  “Lutein. Avoid all those parapharmaceuticals … If you really want some lutein, you can get it from spinach, kiwi fruit, pretty much anything green … you can always fill your boots with that. For night vision, eat plenty of blueberries, like airline pilots. It works.”

  “Is there really no preventive treatment? Is there nothing I can do?”

  “Nothing. Take a rain check on strenuous sport: soccer, squash, weight lifting, anything that rapidly increases pressure in the eye. Lose a bit of weight, do some cycling, some walking, that doesn’t do anyone any harm. Anyway, you’re only thirty-five, high blood pressure’s not a problem.”

  Simon says nothing. He closes his right eye, looks in front of him, reaches out his arm and watches his hand disappear, swallowed up by the gray hole that the Fuch’s spot has carved out in the middle of his vision. He leans his head back, takes a deep breath … Stan takes him by the shoulders.

  “Simon … everything’s fine.”

  “I’ve got this heavy weight crushing my chest, it’s terrible, I can’t breathe properly … If this happens to my right eye now, I won’t be able to work anymore, or read, I won’t be able to see Nadine’s face, or the children’s, I—”

  “Don’t worry, your right retina’s absolutely fine. I know you’re just as nearsighted on both sides, but it’s pointless worrying. The risk of bilateralization—”

  “The risk of what?”

  “Of the same thing happening in the other eye … is very low.”

  “How low? I’m sorry to go on about this, Stan, but one in a hundred, in ten, in two?”

  “I promise you, it’s very rare, no one has reliable statistics. I have hundreds of patients with a Fuch’s spot in one eye, and hardly any of them are affected in both.”

  Stan is lying. Sufficient unto the day …

  “I’m going to give you a prescription. For some sedatives. I want you to take them, I haven’t known a single patient who hasn’t been depressed for a while. I’d expect it. Losing an eye is a shocking loss, these drugs are there to be used. I can even recommend a psychiatrist.”

  “No, come on.” Simon is indignant.

  Stan smiles and does not press the point. “Listen, Simon, I’ve just had an appointment canceled, let’s have a closer look at the pressure in this right eye, because you’re worried about it, and afterward we can have lunch in the hospital cafeteria. They may have some kiwis …”

  Kiwis they have. Simon eats three of them.

  That evening, Stan is on duty at Quinze-Vingts Hospital. Anna is worried, she calls him.

  “Professional secret, my darling,” Stan says, hoping he sounds casual. “It’s like I thought, vascular damage. He’s lost the central vision in his left eye.”

  “Permanently?”

  “Yes. There’s nothing I can try. But it’ll be okay. Simon’s very brave. I told him to go and see Herzog, but you know what your brother’s like, he refused. Mind you, Herzog wouldn’t have said or done anything more.”

  Anna does not reply. Stan keeps his most cheerful voice, wanting to dispel her sadness: “Are you still going out this evening, darling? Are you going to Christiane’s?”

  “Yes. My parents are here. They’re going to keep an eye on the children at home.”

  “Are you going out on your own?”

  “With Maureen. And another friend.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Yves.”

  “Beaudouin? You’re taking your manager to Christiane’s party?”

  “No. Yves Janvier. Someone Maureen knows. You don’t know him. Bye.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  Anna hangs up.

  She called Yves two days before, asking if he would like to join her for this party. Maureen served as an alibi, because Anna was not altogether lying: her cousin does know the writer, but hardly, having interviewed him a few years ago.

  When Yves picked up the phone, she immediately forgot how to behave properly and her very first sentence burst out subconsciously: “Yves? On Friday, my husband’s on duty …” Later, while they talked, Anna slipped in: “Maureen’s single at the moment.” She had a painful longing for him and Maureen to like each other so that Yves, having become Maureen’s lover, would stop being a possibility. Yves did not grasp this. He suspected her of playing matchmaker.

  Outside, Anna hears the dull clunk of the door to the elevator. She hopes it is Yves.

  YVES AND ANNA

  • • •

  YVES HAS NOT SEEN ANNA again since their first meeting. The elevator drops him off at her floor. There is only one door, and the hallway acts as storage space for children’s bicycles, scooters, a little red Ferrari with pedals. So many warning signs: Anna’s life is as cluttered as her hallway.

  He rings the bell. A little boy opens the door—Karl, Yves remembers—and stares at him.

  “Mommy, there’s a man.”

  The child runs off.

  “Come in, Yves,” Anna’s voice calls out. “Did you say hello, Karl?”

  Yves takes one step into the foyer, Anna is still invisible. Her voice comes to him along the corridor, from her bedroom, Yves presumes.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not dressed yet. My parents will keep you company.”

  Yves takes another step. It is a nice apartment with a mishmash of furniture, strongly biased toward the sixties. A woman wearing a lot of gold and pearls and with a Sephardic beauty is sitting in an armchair smoothing a little girl’s blond curls for the night. Yves recognizes Anna’s smile in hers.

  “Hello … I’m Anna’s mother. Beatrice. You know her, always late. Well, aren’t you going to say hello, Lea?”

  Lea, sulking, does not look up. Her grandmother does not push her.

  “Laurent, my husband.”

  Yves has not noticed the man with the long white hair and regal features standing by the bookshelves, leafing through a book.

  “Good evening. Laurent Stein, the father of the woman who’s late.”

  Yves shake
s his hand: “Yves Janvier.”

  “I know,” says Laurent Stein, turning over the book’s cover. Yves recognizes The Two-Leaf Clover. “It’s my reading for this evening,” Anna’s father explains. “It starts really well.”

  “Thanks. But it ends badly. Luckily it’s very short.”

  “It ends badly, it’s very short … That’s a definition of life.” Yves smiles. Anna’s father watches him, half opens the book. “Do you mind if I make a criticism? Or let’s call it just a comment.”

  “Please do.”

  “It’s about the quote from Pascal that you use as an epigraph: ‘We never love a person, but only qualities.’ ”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, but I wonder whether it’s not the exact opposite: what attracts us about another person has more to do with what makes them fragile, the chink in their armor. Love is kindled by the weakness we perceive, the flaw we get in through, wouldn’t you say?”

  Yves is disoriented, wants to argue the point. “Perhaps. But I felt Pascal used the word ‘qualities’ to mean character traits in general …”

  “I’m afraid his meaning was more prosaic. I have to admit I loathe Pascal. He’s a narrow-minded, third-rate philosopher pinioned by superstition. To be honest, I can’t think of anything more stupid than his challenge.”3

  “I’m with you on that,” Yves smiles.

  Anna interrupts, her voice amused: “I’ll be quick, Yves, or my father will corner you and then we’ll be really late. And you, daddy, stop teasing Yves. Yves, if my father’s bothering you—”

  “Not in the least, your father’s not bothering me …”

  “Are you working on a novel at the moment, Mr. Janvier?”

  “Yves. Please, Mr. Stein, call me Yves … Yes, I’ve started on something, about a relationship … Well, when I put it like that, it sounds terribly banal …”

  “No it doesn’t. Do you have a title yet?”

  “I’d like to call it The Together Theory, together as in ‘being together,’ not ‘get it together.’ Or maybe Abkhazian Dominoes, I’m not sure yet.”