Crush (11 page)

—My lover has just come in. I told him that there was no way I could see him, since I was with my husband.

—Well! That’s some mix-up!

—Let me explain . . . Amélie went on. What I’m asking you is simple. I’d like you to behave as though you were my husband.

—A while back you certainly produced an expurgated version of your love life! Serge was enjoying his irony.

—A while back I had no reason to tell you about my romantic complications. I hardly know you. Beside, “a while back” I was playing the dope.

—What do you mean?

—I was trying to be as dim-witted and boring as possible.

She gave Serge, overcome with a fit of uncontrollable laughter, a sharp dressing-down, explaining how indelicate it would be to convey the impression of conjugal closeness.

— Amélie, you’re delightful! Fine, make use of me as a husband.

David noticed them. He was surprised to feel an intense annoyance. Hadn’t he come to this restaurant sniffing Amélie’s
trail, hoping to find her odor between these walls? He hadn’t expected to discover her in an intimate tête-à-tête with her husband. Up to now, relegated to a parenthetical existence in Amélie’s stories, that man had no definition beyond that of his function: a father role, the title of spouse, in short an abstract, variable, slightly bothersome presence. There he was in the flesh, inexplicably familiar-looking, endowed with substance like the jinni of Aladdin’s lamp, but, unlike that supernatural being, unpleasantly menacing. Moreover, he was handsome. Looking him over, he wanted to bash his head in.

Amélie had an odd look. His arrival in the restaurant must have shaken her up. However, he wasn’t up to empathizing with her. She was having lunch with her husband within the sanctuary of their illicit meetings, shamelessly undermining the magic of this place. Her unconcern offended him, filled him with doubt: Were Amélie and her husband having fun before his arrival?

Serge asked for the bill. Amélie was pondering the kind of look she ought to throw in David’s direction before exiting. It had to be discreet, without seeming furtive, tender yet not saturated with love, since she was contemplating breaking off.

—Don’t worry, Serge told her, noticing how tense she looked. You’re merely leaving a bistro with your husband.

—All right, she sighed.

They got up to leave. David looked at them with a defiant air, and a shade of irony that made her uncomfortable. She returned his look, her eyes conveying contradictory emotions. Her only hope was that he’d select the one he needed.

Serge and Amélie walked off in the direction of their apartment building. Bothered by David’s hostility, she kept silent.

Serge observed her closely. Her confusion aroused him, awakening fantasies of caresses stolen with impunity, as though from a defenseless sot. He envisioned a tactical movement whereby he’d seduce her by keeping her off guard. Then he pulled himself together, ashamed of this questionable thrill, not unlike that of a pervert taking advantage of the rush hour to feel up a subway passenger. Taking leave of her, he tried to be unambiguously affable.

—Don’t hesitate to call on me. I can play your husband anytime. After all, I’m an actor.

—Really? Thank you. I’ll call you next week about the leak . . . , she answered absentmindedly with a worried look.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A
t the end of the meal, David and his son parted company. David walked away from the restaurant, obsessed by the image of his mistress’s conjugal life. Then he had a vision of himself, ambling aimlessly, all alone. He felt excluded, rejected; he took pity on himself.

He had another look at the portrait he was painting in his mind, retouched to make it even more desolate. It was the sketch of a pale, poignant man, back bent, fully deserving of pity. It lasted only one moment. He stopped short when he realized he was aping sadness. What did he need this pathetic attitude for? In no way did this pretentiousness soften his confusion. It only made him ridiculous.

Back home, he walked through the house in search of projects, longings. He recalled his plan to wax the small stand in the living room, to weed his garden. But despite these good
intentions, every object of his daily life seemed slip-covered. He remained aloof, indifferent, as detached as an abstentionist on election night.

—Let’s look at things squarely, he told himself. His discomfort was as tenacious as sticky paper. There was no setting it aside.

Running into Amélie had proved unsettling. However, no important event had occurred. Amélie’s family status had been established from the start. There was no reason to grow disheartened on account of the scene he had witnessed. As to the choice of a restaurant, he didn’t hold exclusive rights to all the bistros of the rue de Tournon!

—A cup of coffee, a good cigar, and it’ll be water under the bridge, he told himself, settling down to examine a pile of scenarios.

Far be it from him to let a crush crush him.

A
mélie pulled her door shut, and sank into the living room sofa. Her affair with David had run aground, beached like some flummoxed whale. “It’s the end,” people say at the bedside of the dying. Had they reached this point?

—Darn! she exclaimed, trying to shake off her austere lucidity.

In the meanwhile, by running with the hare and hunting with the hounds, she behaved like a real bitch. She had no idea what to do next. Should she apologize to David, explain her embarrassment, or keep her cool as if nothing were the matter? She might make use of this chance incident to convince him that, under the circumstances, she had managed as best she could. To
rush to the phone would only lend a melodramatic overtone to this episode. She’d call later that evening . . . . She had the whole afternoon to arrive at a decision.

D
avid found it hard to concentrate on his reading: the story of a minor government administrator in love with a dishonest civil servant working under her. It would have to be resolved in the space of ninety minutes, scheduled for the 20:50 slot on channel 2. Nothing to get elated about, but it was high time to get back to work.

Who’d be good for the role of the female administrator? Why not Marlène Daillant? She hadn’t been in movies for a long time, and would no doubt accept the offer of a telefilm assignment. For the male lead, someone unknown would do. He reached for his directory of actors and musicians. Unconsulted for the past two years, it was out of date. No matter! He might at least get an idea.

He began to leaf through the dramatic-artist category, under
M
for men. The order was alphabetical. David lingered on every page, looking over calling cards illustrated by photos. There were profile and three-quarter views, but most of the actors were full face, their heads slightly inclined as though questioning him.

Some of these candidates were chatty, eager to convince. They spelled out their professional experience: such and such a drama school . . . films directed by . . . a vita in due form, complete with a list of available foreign languages (foreign accents if necessary), sports, acrobatics, pantomime; driver s license. Some declared their willingness to act in commercials. Others (famous actors or timid beginners) simply listed
their names, that of their agent, an address and telephone number.

Serge Munz was one of the latter. His face under the letter
M
pierced David like the blade of a knife. A deep, unexpected gash opened in his being, exceeding anything associated with the consciousness of pain. Nor did he realize at once that he had suffered a mortal wound. He forced himself to go back to the photo, examine it again, the better to feel the oozing of the cut. He grasped the phone, dialed a number. The agency was closed. The answering machine advised: If you can’t get through, try 01-12-00-32.

—Hello! The person in charge assured David that he did not disturb him in the least. It was a pleasure to speak to a man whose films he admired. A ninety-minute for channel 2? He could certainly help . . . . Mr. Munz? Very good choice, a pro. Handsome without being a lover-type, charming but not a charmer. He had a lot of success with women . . . perfect for the part. Oh, you want to think things over? As you wish. At any rate, he would be available if David wanted to pursue matters further.

David put down the receiver. So this was the man Amélie had had lunch with: a miserable actor without talent or reputation. “He must be her lover,” he concluded, boiling with rage. And this idea, once expressed, astounded him.

—Her lover, he said out loud, as though testing a film’s dialogue to make sure it sounded right.

The utterances he produced began to acquire meaning. They possessed an autonomous existence seeking its base of support in his memory. “He must be her lover,” which explains why she hadn’t mentioned his existence, whereas she enjoyed describing her circle of friends.

This line of reasoning bounced off the partitions enclosing his mind. David remained unconvinced. Amélie knew lots of people she never mentioned. This fellow might be some kind of cousin, a pal of her husband . . . It didn’t mean anything.

Anesthetized by this confusion, David began to hope again. But a fusillade of questions assailed him soon: Why had she lied to him? Would she have mentioned a family lunch if she planned to join a simple acquaintance? And then there was her obvious discomfort when they happened to run into each other. And her conjugal lunch scene?

There was only one coherent explanation: This fellow was her
lover.
David immersed himself in the substance of this word, filled himself with its meaning, its import and consequence. He was trapped in the net of images he had woven: Amélie making love with Serge under his very eyes. Her undulating image became blurred, rose like a vapor as he tried to approach it. In her place he found a cold, dangerous stranger, unleashing within him a tumult of feelings.

—But why? he roared. The sound of his own voice frightened him.

T
he ring of the telephone startled Amélie.

—Oh, it’s you! she said, even before grasping that David was calling her at home on a Saturday afternoon, in defiance of all their conventions.

— Amélie, don’t you have anything to tell me? he asked in a sepulchral voice.

Taken aback, she stammered:

—No . . . perhaps . . . I’m so sorry about what happened. I hadn’t planned lunch at our restaurant . . . Forgive me . . . Seeing you took me by surprise, and embarrassed me.

There was a silence. Amélie had nothing else to say, and since David didn’t seem inclined to break this pause, she got angry with him. Wasn’t it just like him, this heavy awkwardness! In his place, she’d feel hurt, keep a grudge perhaps, but after his apologies, she’d claim she understood, even at the risk of throwing it back in his face ten years hence. “After all, we can’t spend the whole day on this nonsense,” she thought, getting hot under the collar.

—David, what’s the matter? What else d’you want me to say?

—You might begin by telling me with whom you were having lunch today? he hissed.

Amélie panicked.

—You wouldn’t believe me if I did tell you.

—Then I’ll be the one to tell. His name is Serge Munz. He’s thirty-four, entered the Conservatoire in ‘79, after a stint at the rue Blanche drama school. He acted in three commercials, had two minor roles in soaps. He lives from one measly job to the next, mostly dubbings and postsynchronizations.

Stunned for a moment by this detailed report, Amélie kept silent. The worst had happened. She couldn’t fall into the soup, she was already in it up to her neck. Then her curiosity returned. How had this inquiry been conducted, and to what end? Hardly the time to ask him to account for his research, she thought ironically . . .

—Now you’re going to explain, David said threateningly.

Amélie quickly concocted her nervous response. “The head in the noose never speaks,” she’d often remind herself.
She concluded early in life that admitting to a fib cast discredit upon the most straightforward declaration. David wouldn’t believe her story of her encounter with her neighbor unless she stuck to the scenario of a family weekend. She’d lie a bit longer before serving up the truth. Taking a beat, she launched into her tale:

—Well, here’s the story! This morning, Paul took the girls to the zoo. I didn’t call you because I had no idea how long it would take. I was home alone . . .

—You must be joking. I’m not asking you for your morning timetable. You can’t tell me you need hours of time to give me a call, he exploded.

No sooner had he completed this sentence than David felt sure Amélie was lying. He perceived how she had unrolled a screen of scrupulous precision in order to project her candid explanation. Of course she’d spent the morning with Serge Munz. Otherwise why insist on depicting herself as alone? Why else wouldn’t she call him?

—Good Lord, let me finish! If I tell you all this, there’s a reason! I never set eyes on Serge Munz before this morning, and I’m going to tell you how I met him.

—You’re very clever, Amélie. I’m really curious to hear the rest of your story. So, how did you meet him? At the bakery, or the newsstand? Go on! I can tell I’m going to enjoy it.

The arm Amélie raised to emphasize her plea fell down. Certain now she wouldn’t succeed, particularly in convincing David, she was ready to quit. However, her silence did nothing but inflame the scene David was making:

—Listen, David, this fellow is my neighbor. He lives right above me, and he flooded my living room when drawing a bath . . .

—Hats off! Well done! That’s a lucky find, all right! And so, to celebrate your mutual mop action, you went out to lunch! Then, when I arrived, you chose to pass him for your husband rather than introduce him to me.

—Well, if that’s how you’re going to take it, Amélie said in a weary voice, if you don’t believe me, it’s your problem!

—My problem, he howled, don’t you think it’s also yours?

Then his attitude softened. Amélie was releasing her hold; he’d lose the match:

— Amélie, if you love me, if you ever loved me, listen. I was ready to accept anything coming from you. Jealous and vain as I am, I was willing to share you with your husband. You could have told me anything: that you met someone . . . no longer wanted me! I would have vanished from your life without a word, without trying to see you again. Rather die!

—But David, I swear . . . , Amélie mumbled, unwilling to admit to a fictitious affair.

—No, spare me! Haven’t you taken me for enough of a ride?

This accusation opened the floodgates of Amélie’s bad conscience. A brief review of her subterfuges, dodges, her reticence in regard to David, convinced her.

—Yes, you’re right!

—Ah, you see! he clamored triumphantly, before savoring the bitterness of his perspicacity. It’s not even hard to say! Sounds rather good: “
I’ve got to tell you, David, Serge Munz is my lover
. . .” Or:
“Look David, I found another lover . . .”

—But . . . , Amélie ventured weakly, out of politeness.

—Do you prefer a solemn tone: “
David, I owe it to myself to tell you that Serge Munz is my lover
. . .” Come on, Amélie,
some guts! I want to hear it from your lips! David’s glibness gave him a high.

—All right, David, if this is what you want, Serge Munz is my lover.

She couldn’t get over the ease with which she uttered this dreadful statement. David lashed her with his tongue:

—Is that all? Nothing to add?

—No, nothing.

—Then I believe we have nothing more to say to one another, David said in a choking voice.

He hung up.

A
mélie was no longer comforted by her innocence, now that David’s accusations had come to an end. Her scruples sank into silence. Suddenly she was disgusted with herself.

—Great! she mumbled. What a pathetic way to end an affair!

She could have told herself that this grotesque lie had spared him a cruel truth. Rubbish! She’d been afraid; afraid of telling him she no longer loved him; afraid of his reaction; afraid of suffering. She had taken refuge in imposture. David’s jealousy was groundless, she couldn’t reach it.

She was wondering what David was doing. Was he feeling remorse, a remnant of love? He must feel lost. Was he sad or angry? Was he trying to puzzle out the reasons for their quarrel, or getting drunk? Pain was lying in wait for him. It was his turn now to eat shit.

How ridiculous! she scolded herself. She was like a child at the movies, covering her eyes with her fingers, then spreading
them open to find out what was happening. She’d just broken with David, yet was ready to call him to find out how he was, to comfort him.

It was over. The evening they’d met, she’d felt desire and concern, then her impulse had worn away, torn to shreds by the brambles growing all along love’s path. All that was left was to draw a lesson from this, she mused, repressing a nostalgia for her erstwhile fervor. Why fall in love if falling out of love was inevitable?

The telephone rang.

David! she thought, taken aback. Was he considering making up with her, or did he wish to elicit additional details about her liaison with Serge Munz? Perhaps he simply wanted to insult her?

—Hello? she said, her voice full of apprehension.

—Serge Munz. Her neighbor announced himself in the tone of one resolved not to be timid.