Delicacy (16 page)

When she got home, she dialed his number, but hung up before it rang. She wanted him to call her. After all, she was the one who’d taken the initiative for this second date. He could have at least thanked her. Sent a message. There she was, waiting in front of the telephone, and it was the first time in so long that she’d experienced such a thing: waiting. She couldn’t sleep and poured herself a little wine. Put on some music. Alain Souchon. A song she used to love listening to with François. She couldn’t get over being able to listen to it like this without breaking down. She kept walking in circles around the living room, even danced a little, let the feeling of being high enter her with the energy of something promised.

Sixty-four

First Verse of “L’amour en fuite” (“Love on the Run”),
the Alain Souchon Song Natalie Listened to
After Her Second Evening with Markus

Loving pictures shot with cameras on my skin,
we lived it.
Tear them up and all those times we cried,
forgive it.
We’ve got all the glue and sticky tape
To put those broken hearts back into shape.

What images we formed back in those days,
cute couple.
I moved in with you and found your world,
your bubble.
Then came the broken glass that stung our smiles.
Bloody shards of glass on our new tiles.

Me, you, we just couldn’t cope.
Boohoo, those tears without hope.
Leavin’ each other, and both of us mum.
It’s love on the run,
Love on the run.

Sixty-five

Markus had walked along the precipice, with the feeling of the wind under his feet. As he went home that evening, he kept being haunted by painful images. Maybe it was all connected to Strindberg? Everyone should avoid coming into contact with the fears of his countrymen. The beauty of the moment, the beauty of Natalie, all of it he’d seen as a final destination: one of devastation. There was beauty before him, looking him straight in the eye, like a foretaste of tragedy. Wasn’t that the epigraph in Visconti’s film of
Death in Venice
, that crucial sentence: “He who contemplates beauty is destined to death?” Well, yes, Markus could seem bombastic. And even stupid for having run away. But you need to have lived years in nothingness to understand how a person can suddenly become frightened by a possibility.

He hadn’t called her. She who had loved his Eastern European side would now get the surprise of discovering once again his adherence to Swedishness. Not the least atom of Polish in him. Markus had decided to shut down and
stop playing with the fires of femininity
. Yes, such were the words cartwheeling through his mind. The first consequence was the following: he decided
never to look her in the eye again.

The next morning, as Natalie arrived at the office, she ran into Chloé. Let’s admit it on the spot: the latter was also well versed in phony coincidences. Therefore, she just happened to be walking back and forth in the hallway when she encountered her superior.
l
Blatantly gossipy, with less grace than a porcupine, she was intending to try to pry out a few little secrets.

“Well, hi, Natalie. How’re you doing?”

“Fine, I’m okay. Just a little tired.”

“Was it the play you saw last night? Was it long?”

“No, not especially …”

Chloé sensed that it would be complicated to find out more, but a chance occurrence was going to simplify everything. Markus was approaching, and he as well seemed to be in a strange mood. The young woman made sure he’d stop.

“Oh, hello, Markus, how’s it going?”

“Fine, I’m okay … how ’bout you?”

“Not bad.”

As he answered her he avoided looking at the two women. It made a very strange impression, like talking to somebody in a hurry. Which was weird because, actually, Markus didn’t seem hurried at all.

“You okay? Is something the matter with your neck?”

“No … no … I’m okay … all right, I’ve got to go.”

He walked off, leaving the two women staggered. Immediately Chloé thought, He sure is uncomfortable … they have to have slept together … I don’t see any other explanation … if not, why would he have ignored her? So she gave Natalie a big smile.

“Can I ask you a question? Did you go to the theater with Markus yesterday?”

“It has nothing to do with you.”

“Fine … it’s just that I thought we shared things, the two of us. I tell you everything.”

“But I don’t have anything to say. All right, we’d better get back to work.”

Natalie had been terse. She hadn’t been pleased by the liberty Chloé had taken. You could easily see an eager quest for gossip in her eyes. Embarrassed, Chloé stammered that she was organizing drinks for tomorrow, which was her birthday. Natalie made a vague gesture that said okay. But she wasn’t certain anymore she’d be going.

Later, in her office, she thought again about Chloé’s lack of finesse. For months, Natalie had been living with rumors in her wake. Quiet remarks about how well she was holding up, what she was doing, her way of devoting herself to her work. No matter how deeply well-meaning such surveillance was, she’d experienced it as a burden. During that time, she would have preferred not being looked at by anybody. Paradoxically, continual expressions of affection had complicated the task. She had a bitter memory of the time she’d attracted attention. Consequently, as she thought about the way Chloé had spoken, she understood
how discreet she would have to be, never mentioning anything about her affair with Markus. But is that what it was, an affair? With the death of François she’d lost all her criteria. She’d felt like an adolescent again. As if everything she knew about love had been ravaged. Her heart beat on these ruins. She didn’t understand Markus’s attitude, and his way of not looking at her anymore. What an act he was putting on! Either that, or was he nuts? Sheer lunacy was more than probable. She didn’t think: you have to really love a woman in order not to want to see her. No, that was something she didn’t think. She merely settled into a state of confusion.

Sixty-six

Three Rumors Concerning Björn Andrésen,
the Actor Who Played Tadzio
in Luchino Visconti’s
Death in Venice

He’d killed a gay actor in New York.

*

He’d died in an airplane crash in Mexico.

*

He would only eat green salad.

Sixty-seven

Markus didn’t feel like working. He stood at the window, staring into empty space. He was still filled with nostalgia—to be more precise, a ridiculous nostalgia. That illusion that says our gloomy past nevertheless has a certain charm. At that moment, as poor as his childhood had been, it seemed like a source of life to him. He thought about the details of it and found them touching, whereas previously they’d always been lamentable. He was looking for refuge, anywhere at all, as long as it would let him escape the present. However, in the last few days, he’d achieved a sort of romantic dream by going to the theater with a beautiful woman. Then why was he feeling such a strong need to backpedal? Clearly there had to be something easy to understand about it, something you could call
fear of happiness
. They say the most beautiful moments of our life pass before us right before we die. Then it seemed plausible that you could see the havoc and heartbreak of the past parade before you at the moment when happiness comes with its almost unsettling smile.

Natalie had asked him to come by her office, and he’d refused.

“I actually would like to see you,” he’d said. “But by telephone.”

“See me by telephone? Sure you’re okay?”

“I’m okay, thanks. I’m just asking you not to enter my field of vision for several days. That’s all I’m asking.”

She was getting more and more unnerved. And yet, she could still feel charmed by so much oddness. Her wondering went far afield. She considered the fact that Markus’s affectation might be a form of strategy. Or else a modern form of romantic humor. Of course, she was wrong. Markus was completely and distressingly trapped at emotional stage 1.

By the end of the day, she’d decided not to follow his instructions; she went to his office. Immediately, he averted his gaze.

“This won’t do! What’s more, you’re entering without knocking.”

“Because I want you to look at me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Are you always like this? Are you sure it’s not because of that glass of red wine?”

“In a way it is.”

“You’re doing this on purpose? To puzzle me, is that it? I must admit it’s working.”

“Natalie, I promise you there’s nothing else to understand but what I said to you. I’m protecting myself, that’s all. That’s not difficult to grasp.”

“But you’re going to get a neck ache staying like that.”

“I’d rather have a neck ache than heartache.”

She was left hanging with that last phrase, which she heard as some kind of culinary combination, like ham-’n’-eggs, or even an exotic dessert combination like bananas-’n’-cream:
necake-’n’-artake
. Then she went on, “And what if I want to see
you? And if I want to spend some time with you? And if I feel good when I’m with you. What do I do?”

“It’s not possible. It won’t ever be possible. It’s better for you to leave.”

Natalie didn’t know what to do. Should she have kissed him, slapped him, sacked him, ignored him, made a fool of him, begged him? Finally she turned the handle of the door and left.