Delicacy (22 page)

Some Technical Details Concerning
Allergies to Fish

Allergy to fish isn’t rare. It’s one of the “Big Eight” allergies. For those who fall victim to it, the main issue is knowing whether it’s an allergy to only one kind of fish or several. Clinically, half those patients allergic to one type of fish are also allergic to others. That makes it necessary to do skin tests for allergic cross-reactivity and sometimes to do provocation tests (using the food in question) for cases in which skin tests aren’t sufficient. One might also wish to know whether certain fish are less likely to cause allergic reactions than others. To answer this question, a research team compared cross-reactivity among nine species of fish: fresh or salted cod, salmon, whiting, mackerel, tuna, herring, bass, halibut, and plaice. Results showed that the tuna and the mackerel (both belonging to the Scombridae family) are better tolerated and that halibut and plaice come in second. Contrarily, the cod, salmon, whiting, herring, and bass indicated strong cross-reactivities, meaning that if you’re allergic to one of them, you have a better chance of being allergic to the others.

Ninety-one

After the revelation about fish, the dinner was plunged into a realm of silence. Markus tried several times to revive the conversation, but in vain. Charles didn’t eat anything and contented himself with drinking. They looked like an old couple who no longer have anything to say to each other. Which gives them permission to drift into a kind of deep thought. Time passes amiably (and so, sometimes, do years).

Once outside, Markus had to rein in his boss. He couldn’t drive in that condition. He wanted him to climb into a taxi, as fast as possible. He was in a hurry to finish with the ordeal of the evening. But—bad news—the fresh air perked Charles up. He wanted to get going again, take a walk.

“Don’t leave me, Markus. I still want to talk to you.”

“But you haven’t said a word for an hour. And you’ve had too much to drink. Better to go home.”

“Oh, enough with the serious act for a while! You’re really wearing me out! We’ll have one last drink, and that’s it. That’s an order!”

Markus didn’t have a choice.

They ended up in the sort of place where people of a certain age brush against each other lasciviously. It wasn’t in the strictest sense a dance club, but it looked like one. Sitting on a pink banquette, they ordered two herbal teas. Behind them reared a hasty lithograph, kind of a
nature morte
, but one that was very dead. Charles seemed calmer now. Spiraling into a depression once again. Weariness flooded his face. When he thought about the years that had gone by, he remembered Natalie’s return to work after her tragedy. He was haunted by a vision of that damaged woman. What makes a detail, a gesture, leave such a deep mark on us, turning an insignificant moment into the central focus of a stretch of time? Natalie’s face eclipsed his memories, career, family life. He could write a book on the subject of Natalie’s knees, whereas he was incapable of citing his daughter’s favorite singer. At the time, he’d made up a reason for himself. He understood that she wasn’t ready for a new experience. But, deep down, he hadn’t stopped hoping. Today, everything seemed without interest to him: life was grim. He felt suffocated. The Swedes were tense because of the financial crisis. The country had been on the edge of bankruptcy and that had undermined quite a few certainties. He also sensed a building hate for the bosses. Like other managers, he might have to cut himself off from the next industrial dispute. And then there was his wife. She didn’t understand him. They talked about money so often that sometimes he confused her with his creditors. Everything blended into a colorless world, where even femininity itself was a vestige, and no one took the time anymore to produce the sound of spike heels. The silence of every day announced a silence of always. That is why he was losing his footing at the idea of Natalie with another man …
He brought up all of it with a lot of sincerity. Markus understood that he had to talk about Natalie. A woman’s name, and the night seemed boundless. But what could he say about her? He barely knew her. He would simply have to admit, “You’re mistaken … we aren’t really together … right now all it’s been is two, three, or four kisses … and I’m not even explaining how weird it all is …” but no sound came out of his mouth. He had trouble talking about her, he realized now. His boss had put his head on his shoulder and was pushing him into being candid. So in turn Markus forced himself to tell his version of his life with Natalie. His analysis of all his Natalian moments. Without expecting it, he was suddenly bombarded by throngs of memories. Fleeting moments that already reached far into the past, well before the impulse of the kiss.

There was the first time. He’d had his job interview with her. He’d immediately told himself, “I could never work with a woman like that.” He hadn’t come off well, but Natalie had instructions to hire a Swede. Markus was there then because of some business about a quota. He’d never known it. His first impression of her had stuck in his mind for months. Now he thought again about that way she had of pushing her locks of hair behind her ear. It was that action that had fascinated him. During team meetings he’d hoped she’d do it again, but no, it had been a single moment of magic. He also thought of other gestures, such as when she placed her files at the corner of the table, or her way of rapidly wetting her lips before drinking, or the time she took for breath between two sentences, and the way
she had of sometimes pronouncing
s
, especially at the end of the day, and her smile of politeness, or thanks, and her spike heels, oh yes her spike heels that set off her calves to such advantage. He detested the wall-to-wall carpeting at the company, and had even asked one day, “But who could have invented the wall-to-wall carpet?” And so many things, more and more. Yes, it was all coming back to him now, and Markus realized that, inside, he’d accumulated a lot of fascination for Natalie. Every day near her had been the huge but surreptitious conquest of a veritable empire of the heart.

How long had he talked about her? He didn’t know. Turning his head, he noticed that Charles had dozed off. Like a child who falls asleep listening to a story. To keep him from catching cold, with a sensitive gesture of attention, he covered him with his jacket. In the newfound silence, he studied the man about whose power he’d fantasized. Markus, who had so often felt as if he were living underwater, breathing through a snorkel, who’d so often envied others’ lives, now realized that he wasn’t the most unhappy. That even his routine pleased him. He was hoping to be with Natalie but, if that weren’t the case, he wouldn’t fall apart. Overwrought or fragile at moments as he could be, Markus had a certain strength. A sort of stability, calm. Something allowed him not to endanger his days. What good did it do to get in a flap when everything is absurd? he sometimes told himself, when he was obviously overnourished on Cioran’s writings. Life can be beautiful when you understand the inconvenience of being born. The sight of Charles asleep reinforced this feeling of assurance, which was going to become even stronger in him.
Two women about fifty approached them to try to start a conversation, but Markus made a sign telling them not to make any noise. Although this was, after all, a place with music. At any rate, Charles straightened up, surprised to be opening his eyes in this pink cocoon. He saw Markus’s face watching him and noticed the sports jacket that had been put on him. He smiled, and this slight movement of his face reminded him that he had a headache. It was time to leave. It was already early morning. And it was together that they arrived at the office. As they left the elevator, they separated with a handshake.

Ninety-two

A little later that morning, Markus headed for the coffee machine. He immediately noticed employees stepping out of his way as he walked by. He was Moses before the Red Sea. This metaphor may appear exaggerated. But it’s necessary to understand what was taking place. Markus, an employee who was as unobtrusive as he was lackluster, who’d often been worthy of the word nondescript, had ended up in less than a day going out with one of the most beautiful women in the company, if not the most beautiful (and to give full credit to such an achievement, it was a woman reputed to be stone cold when it came to flirting), and had also gone to dinner with the boss. He and the boss had even been seen arriving together that morning, which was enough to feed malicious gossip. This was a lot for one man. Everybody greeted him, hitting him up with, “How’s it goin’?” and, “Is file 114 coming along?” Suddenly they were interested in that damned file, in its slightest nuance of phrasing. So much so that Markus, by the middle of the morning, came close to being sick. Added to an all-nighter, the change was too brutal. It was as if years of unpopularity were suddenly made up for, condensed into a few minutes. Of course, all of that couldn’t be normal.
There had to be a reason, something shady. People said he was a mole working for Sweden, or the son of the biggest shareholder; they said he was gravely ill; they said he was very well known in his country as a porn actor; they said he’d been chosen to represent mankind on Mars; they also said he was a close friend of Natalie Portman.

Ninety-three

Oprah Winfrey’s Announcement
to Barbara Walters on ABC,
December 8, 2010

“I’m not even kind of a lesbian. And the reason why [the rumor] irritates me is because it means that somebody must think I’m lying.”

Ninety-four

Natalie and Markus met for lunch. He was tired, but his eyes were still wide open. She couldn’t get over hearing that the dinner had lasted all night. Maybe things always happened that way with him? Maybe nothing happened in the way it was anticipated. She would have wanted to laugh about it. But she didn’t at all like what she was seeing. She felt tense, irritated by the agitation around them. It sent her back to the meanness of some people after François’s funeral. To the inhibiting expressions of compassion. Maybe it was a half-baked comparison. But in it she saw vestiges of the times of the collaboration. As she observed certain reactions, she’d say to herself, “If there were a new war, everything would be exactly the same.” Perhaps this feeling was exaggerated, but the swiftness of rumor, allied with a certain spite, inspired disgust in her that was an echo of that dubious period.