Crush (10 page)

Their liaison was nearing its end. Instead of coming to terms with it, she resorted to therapeutic obstinacy. She applied gaiety like a balm upon the whole stretch of their meetings. She kept on deceiving herself with these successive distractions, alternating treatments and dosages.

By refusing to acknowledge she was making alterations to their affair’s story, treating it like a badly cut garment, she wouldn’t admit it was she who botched the pattern. She was always evasive, to avoid being at the mercy of her feelings. She wouldn’t give their liaison the slightest chance to acquire substance. Wallowing in David’s foibles, she questioned his intelligence, his propensity to really listen. Mortally afraid of becoming the slave of her desires, she had failed to voice them. Sidetracking the issue by the offer of a sham exchange, she managed to keep aloof.

In a way it was a master stroke. David shared with her idyllic moments, but he did not know her. He believed her to be whimsical and vulnerable, tried to reassure her by lavishing declarations of love, sound advice, and offers of money, were she short of it.

He had no idea of what he had to give: his body and the way he dwelled in it. Humbly trustful in regard to sensations, David made of his flesh his soul’s lining, his fervor’s tool. He had no clear notion of his talents, but he taught her abandon. Reborn from his desire to pleasure her, she slipped into her own body as into a new garment.

For David, who refused to believe she wouldn’t divorce, despite her categorical nays, their differences seemed of no consequence. Yet it was upsetting.

She couldn’t lie to herself, or dream of living with him after their Moroccan escapade. But she hadn’t yet reached the hoped-for state of apathy or detachment. Trapped by her affection, she kept on accumulating memorable moments spent together, so that time had conferred upon their affair the fullness she feared. She no longer knew whether she could exist without this amorous fiction, rooted in her flesh, in every one of her reflexes.

She wondered what it would be like to live without him. Assessing days filled with thoughts of David, weeks illuminated by the beacons of their meetings, their conversations, she experienced a retiree’s disorientation. What would she do without this double life, its constant hurry, anxiety, pressure? She’d have to get used to the forgotten rhythm of tranquility and routine. Resuming a simple existence was a terrifying prospect, a void that one associates with taking up golf.

Like the clerk casting a final glance upon his desk, his check-room hook, Amélie surveyed the presently useless tools of her affair: the safe-deposit box in the bank for his letters and the extravagant pieces of jewelry he had given her; the direct telephone line to her office, reserved for him alone; and all the memories accumulated in her mind, where they would surface from now on, grinning like an old hag.

To break with him would lead to silence, as surely as death does. In the days following their separation, there would still be some milestones along the road. David saw his son every second Saturday, visited his barber on rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and he was planning a holiday in Sardinia
after the Venice Mostra. It wasn’t possible to numb people before leaving them, so as to catch up with them in one’s thoughts, or require letters, friendly meetings, if you wished to be forgotten. David would alter his habits, get a new phone number. He’d move. Lost forever. How could she face never to hear again the voice of a man she confided in every day?

Amélie kept for the end the most shameful of all her thoughts, much as a hostess does when she places the least brilliant of her visitors at the end of the table, in the hope that the rigor of protocol would serve to mitigate the guest’s mediocrity: Would she still feel beautiful without David, who couldn’t conceive of her falling asleep without having reached orgasm, any more than he believed a man could remain indifferent to her ass, her voice? How could she get along without his stubborn desire, immediately detected by other men who followed her as dogs sniff a bitch in heat.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A
mélie had not yet reached a decision, but she was relieved at the thought that a veil had been lifted off ideas relegated to a corner of her conscience, which plagued her like a persistent stitch in her side. She got dressed quickly.

Saturday was chores day: bills, social security forms, telephone calls . . . The pace set on those days was that of a treasure hunt. Checkbook in hand, Amélie followed an itinerary whose logic she alone could fathom, including the stops along the way in the paper-cluttered zones of her apartment.

She walked over to the fireplace, where still-unpaid bills were resting in a prominent position, retrieved her mail between the kitchen toaster and the breakfast baguette, and, crouching under the living room table, went through papers piled helter-skelter in an attempt to convey to her husband the illusory impression of orderliness.

The telephone answering machine was her journey s important port of call, with its memory joggers, and intrusive messages accompanied by incomprehensible names and telephone numbers. She found her notes, cockled and wet, at the bottom of a puddle, utterly illegible. Her ceiling, with its humid corona, dripped like a nose afflicted by a winter catarrh. It was the kind of bothersome occurrence, devoid of panache and significance, that nevertheless inflicts its pressures, much as a bureau chief coerces his personnel into submitting to his pettiness.

Annoyed, she made a mental list of the round of cares awaiting her attention. The floor above her apartment was made up of fifteen maids’ rooms. With her paltry sense of direction, and complete ignorance of plumbing, she felt incapable of locating the source of this leakage.

Ten in the morning on a Saturday. The tenants must have gone out. She couldn’t count on the concierge, busy with house-cleaning jobs in the neighborhood to make ends meet.

Driven to some kind of action, she stepped out on the landing. The back stairs, reflecting the style of the service quarters of a previous era, were putty-colored and egg-shell white. Amélie climbed the narrow staircase, hemmed in by heavily painted walls.

Judging by the presence of a toilet on the landing, the dimly lit hallway could lead only to makeshift hovels. She felt sorry for those living there but preferred these simple maids’ rooms to the fake renovations made by professional decorators: stucco moldings, mausoleum-like marble, the wooden panels inspired by Swedish saunas.

Nor did she rejoice in the so-called improvements in her neighborhood: modest cafés turned overnight into garishly
neon-lighted, bay-windowed Tex-Mex establishments; the new bakeries’ displays of breakfast rolls, jelly doughnuts, and chocolate Danish presented on tablets framed by gilded brass fixtures, as though this daily fare were rare pieces of jewelry.

Lured by gospel music, so out of place in such a French corridor, she set out on her inspection tour. She had to knock on the door repeatedly before getting a response.

—Just a minute! shouted an angry male voice.

The man who opened the door had a telephone propped by his head in the hollow of his shoulder. He had hastily girded his loins with a bath sheet.

Disconcerted, Amélie feared the badly secured towel might fall, putting her in an even more embarrassing situation than the present one. Definitely ungracious, he raised his eyes and chin in a mute address signifying “What’s it about?”

Amélie stammered:

—Am I disturbing you? I’m your neighbor from below. There’s a leak in my apartment . . .

—I’ll call you back, he growled into the phone, with a curtness clearly directed at Amélie.

She was always thrown by aggressiveness. She remained speechless. After hanging up, he merely tossed out in her direction:

—Yes?

She could feel herself blush. She didn’t know where to begin, how to explain her problem to this man who didn’t seem inclined to help her, particularly since he most probably had nothing to do with the flood in her place. Bewildered, she stared at him: tall, slender, beardless, he looked like a movie romantic lead.

The cad was interrupted by the light-switch timer, which plunged the corridor in darkness. Seeing her standing at his doorstep, looking lost in the dark, he softened his tone:

—Please come in.

His studio was a good size, obviously carved from two or three maids’ rooms. He introduced himself:

—Serge Munz. I’m an oaf. Sorry.

Amélie introduced herself. She resumed her tale of woe calmly. He was examining her offhandedly, but his look made her self-conscious. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, encumbered by her arms like a gawky adolescent. The music stopped. They were both taken aback by the sudden silence that threaded its way between them, revealing their separateness. They had nothing in common, except the music. It had held them briefly, as though caught in gelatin.

All of a sudden Serge desired this distant stranger. She froze. It happened in a fraction of a second. Serge fantasized about holding her in his arms. Amélie thought of running from this indecent tête-à-tête.

From the next room one could hear running water. Serge turned his head in that direction, on the lookout, as though hearing with his eyes.

—Merde! my bath!

He dashed, flinging a door open:

—Oh, no! Merde!

Amélie heard him sloshing through water, turning off creaky, rusty faucets. A mean, triumphant smile appeared on her face. She was pleased that the situation had reversed itself, even more than in having solved the enigma of the water damage. Embarrassment and unease were about to shift camp. Her
presence in this man’s apartment had become legitimate. Thanks to this discovery, she felt confident, on top of the situation. She drew closer.

Moving on all fours, Serge Munz was busy mopping the floor with a piece of sacking. Dripping with perspiration, he didn’t cut a fine figure. She took in this scene, feasting on it like a boa ingesting its prey. Then sated, she inquired magnanimously:

—Can I help?

—You don’t think that on top of it all I’ll ask you to mop my bathroom! Sit down and I’ll be right there . . .

Amélie surveyed the whole room. This was the right moment to satisfy her curiosity, awakened by this peculiar man in his forties, a kind of eternal student, eternally broke, elegant in demeanor but with unpleasant manners.

She saw he was a kind of collector. The walls of his room were covered with shelves crowded with brightly colored plastic figurines, giveaway toys from McDonald’s meals. The ubiquitous Mickey Mouse came in all sizes and forms: watches, telephones, alarm clocks. There were lead cartoon characters from
Tintin, Spirou,
and
Blake and Mortimer.
Obviously he had not grown into adulthood. His rumpled bed, covered with a feather comforter rolled up in a ball, suggested fitful sleep or messy habits. A couple of books, dramatic texts, were scattered on the night table.

Serge materialized by Amélie’s side:

—Well, one thing is certain. I’m the guilty party. What are we going to do now?

—I have no idea, answered Amélie.

They burst out laughing. Serge suggested:

—What if I were to make amends by taking you out? It’s close to lunch time . . . I’m starving.

—Me too, Amélie answered, realizing she hadn’t had anything to eat all day. She added: It’s only eleven-thirty . . .

—We don’t give a damn, do we?

T
he weather was cold and dry. The oblique rays of the sun fashioned in the asphalt a dazzling anthracite trail, like a mountain slope. Amélie smiled, fascinated by this mirage of altitude created by the reverberation.

A fatalist and a shirker, she welcomed an unexpected holiday from responsibility. Since she couldn’t contact her insurance company before the weekend ran out, why not forget the tedious chores of Saturday and leave the rest to destiny?

Serge was watching her from the corner of his eye. He liked tall, cold, haughty women. She wasn’t his type. But she was pert, attractive despite her shortness and transparent skin, which revealed an alluring network of veins.

She winced when, going up rue de Tournon, Serge stopped in front of the Chinese restaurant where David frequently took her. The door was open, the place empty: not a single waiter. All the tables were available, none seemed desirable. They shilly-shallied before deciding to call on someone. The echo of their hesitation rebounded off the bistro’s walls, like a bat’s sonar, returning to their ears without having been stopped by the obstacle of any company.

They finally sat down for fear of showing a ludicrous irresolution. No sooner done than they regretted their choice, as though, yielding to a headwaiter’s impatience, they had
ordered an unwanted special of the day. Pretending to be satisfied, they started an innocuous conversation to avoid losing face, as the Chinese would say.

Timidly, they applied themselves to becoming acquainted. The restaurant owner, a fat Chinese matron, stepped out of the kitchen to greet with deference the day’s first clients. Her reserved attitude in regard to Amélie was unusual. Surprised to see her with a man other than David, she pretended not to recognize her.

Usually, after shaking hands, she would launch into a description of how hard it was for her to stick to a diet, since she’d yield in the middle of the night to irresistible desires for vanilla ice cream. Imitating her accent, Amélie gave Serge a sample of the discourse he wouldn’t hear now that he was with her. He laughed.

“Here I go again!” she thought. “First I make him laugh, and in five minutes I’ll be flirting!”

Subject to fits of despondency, Amélie tried hard to introduce gaiety into her life. She methodically cultivated her
joie de vivre
so as not to sink into despair. She joked with shopkeepers, smiled at strangers who whistled as she passed, held conversations with train-conductors, waiters, and old ladies sitting on public benches. The world then became as safe as a village square where one can mollify a cop to avoid paying a ticket, or elicit a smile from the postal clerk.

Seduction was a reflex she couldn’t drop. Bitter experience taught her that most of her interlocutors would prove disappointing. She never derived as much fun from their company as from her pleasure in charming them.

A curious mixture of vanity and lack of self-confidence propelled her to act this way. Far from underrating the people
she met, she conferred upon them qualities she’d been seeking for a long time before giving up hope of finding them. But she had doubts about her own worth, taking the initiative of gaiety to avoid facing the indifference she assumed she would arouse.

“There are limits to everything,” she thought. After all, she wasn’t doomed to seducing a neighbor responsible for flooding her apartment. He might possibly be able to engineer a fun lunch without doing the work for him. “Too bad if he turns out to be a bore,” she reflected. She could always cut the lunch short.

So when he said: Tell me about yourself, it was the perfect opportunity to drop her flirtatious attitude. Like giving up smoking, it had to be cut short at once. With him she’d practice being insignificant. At least, she wouldn’t waste her time. She had the impression of granting an interview to a reporter of the yellow press.

She weighed every word, delivered the official version of her life, keeping a strict watch over herself so as to avoid sallies or any witty remarks. She pretended all was divulged in the strictest confidence, as she piled one platitude upon the next. At last, pleased with her performance, she fell silent, careful not to restart the conversation and see what would happen next.

There was an embarrassing silence broken by the entrance of the waiter bearing imperial pâtés and a plate of steamed dim sum. Amélie had to bite her lips to stop herself from laughing. Ceremoniously, she applied herself to steady the mint and fried egg roll resting upon the ridge of a lettuce leaf. A perplexed Serge Munz gave the void a searching look. She was having a wonderful time.

—It’s good, isn’t it? he ventured as a last resort.

—Yes, was her answer.

She was delighted at the spareness of their exchange.

The restaurant was filling up. Most of the tables were taken. Serge Munz was silently chewing his food. Amélie realized that, in his company, she didn’t fret over running into an acquaintance. They were too obviously bored with one another for their tête-à-tête to be compromising.

They were like those couples who, when eating out, never open their mouths except to ingest food. She always watched them from the corner of her eye, certain they took advantage of a heedless moment to secretly exchange a sentence on the sly, like naughty schoolchildren awaiting their chance to indulge in a bit of clowning.

Serge was about to say something when Amélie caught sight of David coming in. He was in the company of a young man, undoubtedly his son. He didn’t seem to notice her presence.

—What’s the matter? Serge inquired, seeing her grow pale.

—I’ve got a problem, she said in a whisper.

—What problem?

Amélie thought it over. She was supposed to be spending the weekend in Paris with Paul . . . . Had David ever seen her husband? No . . . Their paths had not crossed, and when David asked to see photographs of her daughters, she carefully removed those with Paul in them. So, this Serge Munz would do fine . . . . So far, so good . . . Of course, when David would catch sight of her, he’d realize how disturbed she was . . . . A normal reaction when you are peacefully ensconced in a restaurant with your husband, and your lover makes an unexpected
appearance. Whew! All that was left to do was to transform into a husband the clod sitting before her.

Serge was furious. Not only was Amélie a self-satisfied bore, but she expected him to show interest in her little problems. And when, to be polite, he feigned concern, she couldn’t even be bothered to answer him.

Amélie looked at Serge. He looked like a man at the end of his rope: jutting jaw, flaring nostrils, eyes shining with a metallic glow. He was about to raise his voice. She had to cajole him at once so as to avoid a scandal she couldn’t pass off as a family quarrel. No time to finesse.