Delicacy (26 page)

One Hundred Nine

Perhaps because they’ve experienced the war, grandmothers always have something for their granddaughters to eat when they show up in the middle of the evening with a Swede.

“I hope you haven’t eaten. I made some soup.”

“Oh, really? What kind?” asked Markus.

“It’s Friday soup. I can’t explain it to you. This is Friday, so it’s Friday soup.”

“It’s soup without a tie,” Markus concluded.

Then Natalie came up to him. “Granny, sometimes he says weird things. You mustn’t worry.”

“Oh, me, you know, I haven’t worried since 1945. So I’m fine. Come on, sit down.”

Madeleine was full of vitality. There was a real discrepancy between the energy she displayed preparing dinner and the initial sight of that old woman sitting in front of the fire. This visit was giving her an enthusiasm for movement. She was busy in the kitchen, definitely not wanting any help. Natalie and Markus were disarmed by this little lady’s excitement. Everything seemed so far away now: Paris, the firm, the files. Time as well was slipping away: the beginning of the afternoon at the
office was a black-and-white memory. Only the name of the soup—“Friday”—still rooted them to a small extent in the concrete reality of their days.

Dinner went by easily. In silence. With grandparents, the rapt happiness of seeing their grandchildren definitely needs no spiels. You wonder if things are going all right, and very quickly you relax into the simple pleasure of being together. After dinner, Natalie helped her grandmother do the dishes. She wondered, Why did I forget how pleasant it is to be here? It was as if all the happiness she’d enjoyed had been suddenly sentenced to amnesia. She knew that she had the strength to hold onto it now.

Markus was smoking a cigar in the living room. He may have barely been able to stand cigarettes, but he wanted to please Madeleine. “She loves men to smoke a cigar after the meal. Don’t try to understand. You’re pleasing her, that’s all,” Natalie had whispered at the moment when Markus had to answer an invitation to blow smoke rings. So he expressed a strong desire for a cigar, overplaying his enthusiasm rather artlessly; but Madeleine fell for his smoke-and-mirrors act. Thus, Markus played at being the boss in a Norman household. One thing surprised him: he didn’t have a headache. Worse, he was beginning to appreciate the taste of the cigar. Virility took its place inside him, hardly surprised at being there. He was experiencing that paradoxical feeling of taking life not by the horns but by hot air. With this cigar, he was Markus the Magnificent.

Madeleine was happy to see her granddaughter smiling. Natalie had wept so much when François died; not a single day went by without her thinking about it. Madeleine had seen a lot of tragedy in her life, but this one had been the worst. She knew you had to go forward, that life was principally about going on living. So this moment offered her profound relief. In order not to spoil anything, she felt a genuine instinctive sympathy for this Swede.

“He’s a good person at heart.”

“Oh, really, how can you see that?”

“I sense it. Instinct. Down deep he’s fantastic.”

Natalie kissed her grandmother again. It was time to go to bed. Markus put out his cigar as he said to Madeleine, “Sleep is a path that leads to tomorrow’s soup.”

Madeleine slept on the first floor, because climbing the stairs had become hard for her. The other bedrooms were on the floor above. Natalie looked at Markus. “She can’t disturb us, the way it is.” The sentence could have meant anything, could have been a sexual reference or a simple pragmatic fact, meaning, tomorrow morning we can sleep peacefully. Markus didn’t want to think about it. Was he going to sleep with her: yes or no? Certainly he wanted to, but he understood they had to climb the stairs without even thinking about it. Once he was up there, he was struck again by the narrowness. After the path the car had taken, then the second path around the house, here was a third time in which he felt cramped. In that strange hallway, there were several doors, as many as there were rooms. Natalie went back and forth, without saying anything. There wasn’t any electricity
on this floor. She lit two candles that were on a small table. Her face was orange, but more of a sunrise orange than the sunset kind. She was hesitating, too, really hesitating. She knew that it was up to her to take the initiative. She looked at the fire, right in the eye. Then she opened the door.

One Hundred Ten

Charles closed the door. He was spaced out, and might as well have been in outer space because of the great distance he felt from his body. His face hurt from being punched that day. He was perfectly aware that he’d been shabby, and that he was putting his head on the block if it got to high places in Sweden that he’d wanted to transfer an employee for personal advantage. But really, there was very little chance that anyone would know. He was certain he’d never see them again. Their running away felt definitive. And that was really what hurt him more than anything. Never to see Natalie again. It was all his fault. What he’d done was insane, and he blamed himself horribly. He just wanted to see her for a second, try to be forgiven, try to stop seeming pathetic. He wanted to find the words he’d tried so hard to find. To live in a world where there was still a chance to win her affection, a world of emotional amnesia where he could meet her again for the first time.

Now he was going into his living room. And found himself in front of an ineradicable sight: his wife on the couch. This evening scene was a museum with a single painting.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“Yes, I am. What about you?”

“You weren’t worried?”

“Why?”

“Well, because of that night.”

“Um, no … what happened that night?”

Laurence had barely turned her head. Charles had spoken to the back of his wife’s neck. He’d just understood that she hadn’t even noticed his absence the night before. That there was no difference between him and empty space. It was unfathomable. He wanted to hit her: balance the account for the attacks of that day, give her at least one of the slaps he’d received; but his hand stopped midway for a moment. He began to study it. There it was, his hand, in midair, forsaken. Suddenly he understood that he couldn’t stand not having love anymore, that he was suffocating by living in a desiccated world. No one took him in her arms, no one showed the slightest sign of affection when it came to him. Why was it that way? He’d forgotten the existence of kindness. He was excluded from sensitivity, from delicacy.

His hand moved down again slowly, and he placed it on his wife’s hair. He felt moved, truly moved, without really knowing why such an emotion was rising in him like this. He told himself that his wife had beautiful hair. Maybe that was it. He moved his hand further down, to touch the back of her neck. Certain ducts on his skin absorbed the vestige of past kisses. Memories of his ardor. He wanted to make the back of his wife’s neck the point of departure for the entire reconquest of her body. He walked around the couch until he was in front of her. He fell to his knees and tried to kiss her.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a thick voice.

“I want you.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“You’re catching me off guard.”

“Come on. I’ve got to ask for an appointment in order to kiss you?”

“No … don’t be stupid.”

“And you know what would be great also?”

“No?”

“For us to go to Venice. Yes, I’m going to organize it … we’ll go away for the weekend … the two of us … it’ll do us some good …”

“… You know that I get seasick.”

“So? That isn’t serious … We’ll go to Venice by plane.”

“I’m talking about the gondolas. It’s no good if you can’t do the gondolas. Don’t you think?”

One Hundred Eleven

Thought of a Second Polish Philosopher

Only candles know the secret of dying slowly.

One Hundred Twelve

Natalie entered the room where she was used to sleeping. She moved forward by the light of the candles but would very well have been able to make her way through the dark because of how well she knew the slightest nook or cranny in this room. She guided Markus, who was following her, holding her by the hips. It was the most radiant darkness of his life. He was afraid that his joy would become so intense that he’d lose all of his know-how. It’s not unusual for an excess of excitement to incapacitate. He mustn’t think about it, must just let himself be carried along by each second. Each breath of air a world. Natalie placed the candles on the bedside table. They met each other face to face in the poignant motion of the shadows.

She put her head on his shoulder, he caressed her hair. They could have stayed that way. It was like sleeping standing up. But he was so cold. It was also the cold of absence; no one came here anymore. It was like a place that needed to be reconquered, where memory needed to be added to memory. They lay down under the covers. Markus kept caressing Natalie’s hair untiringly. He loved it so much, he wanted to know it strand by
strand, understand the history and thought of each. He wanted to take a voyage in her hair. It was his sensitivity, his care not to rush the situation that made Natalie feel good. Even so, he was proactive. Currently he was undressing her, and his heart was beating with a strange force.

She was naked now, pressed against him. The emotions he felt were so powerful that his movements slowed. A slowness that almost took the form of a retreat. He was letting immense apprehension eat away at him, was beginning to muddle it. She loved these moments when he was clumsy, when he hesitated. She understood that she’d wanted that more than anything, to rediscover men through a man who was not at all a frequenter of women. So that together they could rediscover the handbook of affection. There was something restful about being with him. Perhaps it was arrogant or shallow to say so, but it seemed to her that this man would always be happy to be with her. She had the feeling that their relationship as a couple would enjoy extreme stability. That nothing could happen. That their physical equation was an antidote to death. All of it she thought in snatches, without being very certain. She only knew that this was the moment, and that in such situations it’s always the body that decides. He was on top of her now. She clung to him tightly.