All right, that might exaggerate – but for me, the influx of phone calls on that Saturday morning was quite high.
The first was from Maman, who wanted to know if it would be all right if they stayed a few more days in Honfleur. It was so pretty up there, and the weekend trains were always so full. Without asking, she then handed me over to Aunt Carole, who raved at length about a fish soup containing tiny, live baby fish which she had eaten the evening before in a harbour tavern. At the words ‘baby fish’, my stomach lurched. It wasn’t even ten o’clock yet, and since I’m not exactly a child of the Atlantic, the thought of living proteins from the ocean didn’t possess even the slightest appeal at this time of day. The most protein I can stomach at breakfast is two fried eggs.
Arthur was the last one on the phone. He giggled secretively and told me that he was going to bring something back for me.
‘You will be as happy as . . . an elephant,’ he declared proudly.
I have no idea how happy elephants are, but I admired my child’s fancies.
‘I’ll be as happy as an elephant when you get back home,’ I said with a smile.
‘Can’t wait, Papa! Hugs and kisses!’ He blew two kisses before hanging up.
Feeling a little emotional, I turned back to Le Figaro, but then the phone rang again. This time it was Alexandre, who wanted to make sure that I was still coming to his spring exhibition.
‘Everything still on for tonight?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely,’ I replied.
‘Gabrielle is bringing her sister along. She’s single, too.’
I groaned. ‘Alexandre, stop trying to set me up.’
‘Her name’s Elsa, and she also writes. Just like you,’ he added extraneously. ‘You’ll have something to talk about. Gabrielle has told her all about you. She’s looking forward to meeting you.’
I had no desire to meet this Elsa.
The reality is that no writer really wants to spend time with other writers. That is why the author evenings some publishers organise end up being so tedious.
‘What does she write?’ I asked sceptically.
‘Poetry, I think.’ My friend laughed cluelessly.
‘And her name is really Elsa?’
‘Yes, no, don’t know . . . Who cares? Elsa or Else. It might be her pen name. She always signs her autographs as Elsa L. or something like that.’
I instantly envisioned an exalted creature in palazzo pants and a garish scarf knotted around her forehead, who frequented literary circles and who believed herself to be an Egyptian prince, just like her role model.
All the same, the poet was Gabrielle’s sister, and she was unique too.
I could already imagine standing beside Elsa L. in L’éspace des rêveurs.
‘With whom do I have the honour of speaking?’
‘Prince Yussuf.’
‘You’re Elsa L.?’
‘That’s what they used to call me, but now I am Prince Yussuf. I would like to welcome you to Thebes, the city where I am prince.’
It would be grand.
‘And does she also look like Else Lasker-Schüler?’ I asked.
‘Like who?’
‘Forget it.’
‘Julien, what are you blabbering about? She looks fantastic, otherwise I wouldn’t have invited her. Besides, maybe she’ll write a few new verses for my poetry chains. So, I’ll see you tonight, my friend. Don’t you dare bail on me!’
The third call was from Cathérine. She was back from Le Havre and wanted to thank me for taking such good care of her cat.
‘I’m out running a few errands,’ she said, obviously in a breezy mood. ‘May I drop by later to get the key?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
*
The hours ticked by, as my anticipation for the approaching evening dwindled. I pottered around the apartment, stretched out on the couch after lunch to read, and postponed the moment I had to leave the house to meet Prince Yussuf.
Alexandre’s invitation had mentioned seven o’clock as the starting time, but there was no reason to be one of the first guests. Around 6.45 I finally tossed my book in the corner, and went with a sigh into the bathroom to take a shower. I was just towelling off my hair when another bell rang – this time the doorbell. I wrapped the towel around my waist and padded over to the door, my feet still damp. One look through the peephole revealed that it was Cathérine who was standing at the door. She waited a moment before ringing again.
The key, she wanted the key back! Where had I put it? I rummaged through the bowl sitting on the chest in the hallway, but it wasn’t there.
I opened the door a crack and saw that she was holding a wine bottle.
‘Salut, Cathérine,’ I called. ‘I’m just getting out of the shower. I’ll bring the key down in a few minutes, all right?’
Without waiting for her answer, I shut the door.
When I rang her doorbell about fifteen minutes later, dressed in shirt, trousers and jacket, Cathérine pulled the door open all the way, as if she’d been waiting on me. Behind her, Zazie threw herself on the floor and rolled around, purring.
‘Ah, Julien, there you are!’ Cathérine smiled brightly, and something was different about her.
Her skin was tanned, and her slender arms extended from a blues-triped spring dress. Her eyes glittered, as small turquoise-coloured teardrops dangled from her pretty ears, which I was noticing for the first time because her hair was pulled back.
‘Come in!’
The delicate scent of lily-of-the-valley wafted toward me.
I shook my head and held out her key.
‘I don’t have time. I’ve been invited to an exhibition.’
‘That’s all right! Just come in for a minute,’ she insisted, leading the way into the living room.
I followed her hesitantly. As I walked past the kitchen, I caught the smell of thyme and spicy meat.
The table was set, and an opened bottle of wine and two glasses stood on the sideboard.
Before I could protest, Cathérine poured some wine into the glasses and handed me one of them.
‘Thank you so very much for taking such good care of Zazie,’ she said effusively. ‘Try it. It’s good. I brought you a bottle as a little thank you.’
‘But that isn’t necessary, Cathérine,’ I protested. ‘I live right here.’
‘Yes, it’s nice that you live right here. That makes me really happy sometimes.’
I pointed at the table. ‘Are you expecting company?’
‘Yes and no,’ she replied. ‘My friend just cancelled on me. Stomach bug.’
‘Oh no, how awful.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded, and then gave me another strange smile. ‘And now, here I am with my Tuscan-style lasagne . . . I don’t really want to have Madame Grenouille over to eat . . . I’m sure she’d have the time, but . . . ’
Her eyes sparkled, and I sensed where all this was going.
‘Sorry about your evening,’ I said, setting down my glass. ‘But I really have to go now. I’m late as it is.’
I glanced at the clock. It was already seven-thirty.
I don’t know how she did it, but suddenly she was standing right in front of me in her blue dress, blocking my path and gazing at me with her pleading Julie Delpy eyes.
‘Please stay a little while, Julien! You could eat a little lasagne with me and still make it to your exhibition.’ Her cheeks were flushed.
I shook my head in confusion: ‘But Cathérine, I . . . ’
‘Please!’ She stared at me unwaveringly. ‘Didn’t you know today’s my birthday?’
No, I hadn’t. Hélène had always taken care of the birthdays.
‘Oh, dear,’ I said.
What else could I have done? I stayed with her, since after all I wasn’t an utter monster. You couldn’t just up and leave a young woman who had not only lost her best friend, but whose plans had come apart on her thirty-second birthday.
Besides, Cathérine’s homemade lasagne was bou
nd to be quite a bit better than whatever appetisers Alexandre had arranged for his exhibition. The stunning Elsa L. was going to have to find someone else to talk to.
And just like that, I opened the door to fate.
That evening, my wife’s friend experienced her shining hour. She was so grateful that I stayed with her that she mobilised all of her wit and charm to keep me entertained. I must admit that it didn’t take too long for me to feel quite at ease, due to the delicious meal, the good, slightly heavy red wine with which Cathérine kept refilling my glass, the subdued music, and the candles she had lit.
‘I’m really sorry I forgot your birthday,’ I said at some point.
After opening the second bottle of wine, we had relocated to her beige linen sofas, which faced each other across a glass coffee table. I had realised long before this point that I wouldn’t be going to Alexandre’s exhibition, although we had discussed it early on. While we were eating, I had even suggested that Cathérine come along with me, if she didn’t want to stay home alone.
A floor lamp was burning in the corner, suffusing the room with a soft glow. The table was still cluttered with the uncleared dishes and the candles that were gradually burning low.
My head spun a little from the wine. Zazie had curled into a ball on the cushion next to me, and I felt almost as sluggish as a full cat.
Cathérine was scraping the last bit of tiramisu from her bowl and staring absently at the candles flickering on the dining table.
‘These birthdays,’ she said, setting her bowl down next to mine. ‘For my thirtieth birthday two years ago, we celebrated together at the Vieux Colombier. Remember?’
I nodded pensively. I still recalled in detail the small, cosy brasserie close to the Church of Saint-Sulpice and the countless glasses of red wine we had drunk together to Cathérine’s good health. Hélène, Cathérine and I had been the last ones to leave, swaying and laughing. We didn’t have far to walk.
Two Aprils ago, the world had still been in order. But by June of that year, the first cracks in the surface were beginning to show, and the chasm was gaping beneath them.
I sighed, overwhelmed by a feeling of deep melancholy.
Cathérine also sighed, and as if she had read my thoughts, she said sadly: ‘Hélène was still here.’ She fell silent for a moment. ‘She never forgot a birthday,’ she resumed. ‘She always wrote me the best birthday cards . . . I . . . I still have all of them, and sometimes . . . ’
She broke off abruptly and covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes shimmering. ‘I miss her so much,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know what to do with all of it.’ She gazed at me unhappily. ‘Oh, Julien!’
‘Oh, Cathérine,’ I murmured. ‘I miss her too.’
‘What are we supposed to do? What are we supposed to do now?’
She uttered the question twice, and each time, it felt like a dagger thrust into my heart. Because the answer would always be the same.
Nothing. There was nothing we could do.
I stood up heavily from the couch.
‘I think it’s time for us to say goodnight, Cathérine,’ I said gently. ‘Thank you again for the meal.’
She got to her feet, swaying slightly. ‘Thank you for staying with me, Julien.’
I walked over to the door, and she followed me into the narrow entryway.
‘Well, sweet dreams,’ I said helplessly.
She nodded and attempted a smile. ‘Thanks, you too.’
I turned the knob and looked back one more time.
I shouldn’t have done that.
Cathérine’s face had crumpled into misery. She was wringing her hands, and tears were rolling down her cheeks. She let out a hiccuping sob, and her despair dissolved the floor beneath my feet.
‘Oh no, Cathérine . . . Cathérine, no, please don’t,’ I begged, releasing the doorknob.
‘Could you please hold me?’
She was sobbing bitterly, and I was now crying too, so I wrapped my arms around her. We stood there for a long time in the narrow, dark hallway, clinging to each other like we were drowning. Until the despair suddenly turned into an overpowering longing. For comfort, for closeness, for human touch.
Enveloped by her lily-of-the-valley perfume, our hands began to move. I found Cathérine’s mouth, soft and swollen from crying. She tasted like tiramisu. And for the first time after all the sad weeks and months, I was once again holding a woman in my arms – a warm, affectionate, living creature who drew me to herself. I lurched after her into the bedroom as after a promise.
We were both emotionally battered, and we had both drunk far too much wine. And I knew that we were on the brink of a precipice. This was exactly the kind of thing that happened in the middle of the night when you were standing at a precipice. However, that didn’t stop me from slipping Cathérine’s dress off her shoulders. I heard her quiet sigh, and buried my face between her breasts.
10
Lost certainties
Early in the morning, I crept out of Cathérine’s apartment like a thief in the night.
She’d still been asleep when I woke up. I was momentarily confused when I opened my eyes in a strange bedroom, and then I was overcome by a feeling of great unease. I looked at Cathérine’s quietly slumbering face with its smears of mascara, and gently moved her bare arm from where it was resting heavily on my shoulder.
What had I done? What had we done?
My skull was pounding as I slipped out of the bed, striving to be quiet in the dim light as I gathered up my clothes from the floor. Shoes in hand, I tiptoed to the door. It felt like a scene from a farce.
From her cat basket, Zazie’s shimmering eyes followed me, and she mewed softly. Fortunately, she was the only witness of that night-time incident, which had at least occurred in Cathérine’s apartment and not in mine. What would have happened if Cathérine had brought her wine and her loneliness up to me, and Arthur had been back and had stood at the bed, wide-eyed, and then asked in his bright child’s voice: ‘Is Cathérine now sleeping in Maman’s bed?’ I felt sick at the very thought.
I quietly pulled the apartment door shut behind me and was about to put my shoes on when the door across the hallway opened.
In shock, I spun around. It was only a few minutes after six. Who in the world was up at this hour on a Sunday?
Madame Grenouille assessed the situation in a single glance. To be honest, that wasn’t particularly difficult. My guilty conscience was written all over my face. The old woman inhaled indignantly and shook her head disapprovingly before she gasped:
‘Un-be-liev-a-ble!’
I hurried past her and up the stairs in my socks, her malicious eyes in my back. I could imagine her airing her outrage in the small boulangerie on Rue Jacob, where I always bought my baguettes.
‘Just imagine it, Madame. His poor wife only in the ground for six months, and he’s already consoling himself with her friend. All I can say is, isn’t that just like a man?!’
And then she would take her bag of croissants and say ‘Unbelievable!’ again. The friendly clerk, the one who always had a few kind words for me in the morning – me, the unfortunate widower – would nod and then just stare at me next time, as if I were a callous monster.
And it was unbelievable, I agreed, as I measured much too much ground coffee into the silver espresso maker. I needed to clear my mind.
Cathérine of all people!
The scent of lily-of-the-valley still seemed to cling to me.
I took a shower while the coffee bubbled over the gas flame. As the water splashed down my back, I reviewed what had happened the previous evening.
It had been both bewildering and wonderful to hold Cathérine in my arms, to kiss her and to feel alive again. I couldn’t dispute that. There hadn’t been a single second in which I’d felt that uncomfortable feeling that immediately arises whenever two bodies aren’t in harmony. Her loyalty, her warmth, I had taken pleasure in all that – intoxicated by the wine and by my longing to f
ill the horrible void that was threatening to consume me. However, when I woke up and saw her next to me, I immediately felt that I’d made a huge mistake. I’d let myself get carried away, and on top of that, I felt as if I had betrayed Hélène twice over.
My wife’s friend – that had been so banal, so shameful, maybe a little too easy. And I already suspected that everything would now become terribly complicated.
Cathérine was like a sister to me – or better said, a distant cousin – but would she also see it that way?
I turned off the water and wrapped a towel around me.
My cellphone was sitting on the kitchen table, and it was buzzing. It was Cathérine, who had obviously noticed my disappearance already.
I didn’t answer, but turned on the radio instead.
A woman was singing a sad song, and when she reached the words Don’t you wish that we could forget that kiss, and see this for what it is, that we’re not in love, I cut the radio back off.
The coffee was so strong that after the first sip, I couldn’t keep my hand steady. I didn’t mind. I pulled out an old package of cookies from the cabinet and dunked them in the black brew.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was Alexandre, and I answered.
‘Where were you yesterday? I can’t believe you blew me off,’ he snarled. ‘I always knew you weren’t going to come.’
‘It’s not what you think,’ I said.
‘You can’t be serious! What kind of effing shit was that?!’ Alexandre hollered when I told him about the night with Cathérine.
Although he makes delicate goldwork, my friend can sometimes swear like a harbour worker from Marseille. And yet even the worst profanity somehow comes out of his mouth sounding civilised. ‘You hooked up with Cathérine?’
‘That might not be the right phrase in this instance,’ I quickly interjected. ‘We were both really sentimental last night – and it just kind of happened.’
‘And now?’
‘Ask me something easier.’
‘You should’ve come to my exhibition.’
I didn’t reply and took a sip from my lethal concoction. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.
Love Letters from Montmartre Page 9
