Delicacy (7 page)

2. Showing fragility.
Delicate crystal
.

3. Requiring sensitive or careful handling.
Delicate situation
.

4. Characterized by subtle judgment, deftness.
Delicate chess maneuvers
.

Twenty-five

Since Natalie’s return to work, Charles had been in good spirits. He even enjoyed his Swedish lessons from time to time. Something having to do with confidence and respect had been forged between them. Natalie knew the value of the luck she had working for such a benevolent man. But she wasn’t duped by it anymore; she sensed his attraction to her. She allowed him to allude to it, as long as he did so more or less subtly. He never went too far, because she’d established a distance that seemed insurmountable to him. She never took part in his game, simply because she couldn’t play. It was beyond her power. She was saving all her energy for work. On numerous occasions, he tried to invite her to dinner; each attempt was futile, dismissed by silence. She just couldn’t go out. Certainly not with a man. This seemed ridiculous to her; if she had the pluck to hold out all day, concentrating on files that had no importance, why wouldn’t she grant herself a few moments of respite? It had to have something to do with her notion of pleasure. She didn’t feel she had the right to do anything that was lighthearted. That’s how it was. She just couldn’t. She wasn’t even sure she ever could.

Tonight, things were different. She’d finally accepted, and they were going to dinner. Charles had unveiled an unbeatable strategy: they had to celebrate her promotion. Yes, it was true, she’d taken a truly envious step up the ladder and would now manage a team of six people. Although her promotion was completely justified by her competence, she wondered all the same if she’d been given it because of the pity she aroused. At first she’d wanted to say no, but not accepting a promotion was complicated. Then, perceiving Charles’s eagerness to arrange that evening, she began wondering whether he’d speeded up her career advancement just to get her to go to dinner. Anything was possible; it was useless to try to understand. She only told herself that he was right: this definitely was a good excuse to force herself to go out. Maybe she’d be able to revive a kind of nightlife nonchalance.

Twenty-six

Charles had a major stake in this dinner. He knew it would be decisive. He’d gotten ready for it with the same butterflies in the stomach he’d had for his first date as a teenager. Well, that hadn’t been such a crazy feeling. But with Natalie, he could almost imagine he was dining with a woman for the first time. It was as if she possessed the strange knack of wiping out all memories of his love life.

Charles had been careful to avoid candlelit restaurants, to keep from coming on too strongly in the romantic sense, something she might have seen as inappropriate. The first few minutes were perfect. They drank and the conversation was sparse, ending occasionally in brief silences that didn’t make them ill at ease. She was glad to be there, having a drink, and thought that she should have gone out earlier, that action led to pleasure. She even wanted to get drunk. Yet something kept her feet on the ground. She could never truly escape her condition. She could drink as much as she wanted, but it wouldn’t change anything. She was just there, in a state of complete lucidity, watching herself perform like an actress on a stage. Splitting herself in two, she was dumbfounded
to see the woman she no longer was, someone who could exist in life, who could project appeal. It put all the details of her inability to exist in an even harsher light. But Charles saw nothing. He was in his element, taking things literally, trying to make her drink, to gain access to a little life with her. He was enthralled. For months, he’d experienced her as Russian. He didn’t really know what that meant, but that’s the way it was: in his mind, she had a Russian kind of strength, a Russian sadness. Therefore, her femininity had migrated from Switzerland to Russia.

“So … why the promotion?” she asked.

“Because your work is fantastic … and I find you wonderful—that’s all.”

“Really?”

“Why are you asking? You think that’s not all?”

“Me? I don’t think anything.”

“And if I put my hand there, you don’t feel anything?”

He didn’t know what had given him the nerve. He’d been telling himself that anything was conceivable tonight. How could he be so out of touch? As he placed his hand on hers, he immediately remembered the moment when he’d put it on her knee. She’d looked at him in the same way. And all he could do was withdraw it. He was tired of banging his head against a wall, of living permanently in the unspoken. He wanted to clarify things.

“You’re not attracted to me, is that it?”

“But … why are you asking me that?”

“What about you? Why these questions? Why don’t you ever answer?”

“Because I don’t know …”

“Don’t you think it’s time to move forward? I’m not asking you to forget François … but you don’t want to spend your entire life shut away … you know how much I could be there for you …”

“… But you’re married …”

Charles was startled to hear her mention his wife in that way. Maybe it seemed crazy, but he’d forgotten her. He wasn’t a married man having dinner with another woman. He was a man in the present tense. Yes, he was married. He was living in a state that he referred to as
conjugalease
. His marriage was in stasis. So he was surprised, because he was being profoundly sincere about his attraction to Natalie.

“But why are you talking to me about my wife? She’s like a shadow! We just brush by each other.”

“You wouldn’t think so.”

“Because appearances are everything for her. When she comes to the office, it’s only to parade around. But if you only knew how pathetic it is, if you only knew …”

“Then leave her.”

“For you, I’d leave her on the spot.”

“Not for me … for you.”

There was a lapse in the conversation, time to take a few breaths, several sips. Natalie had been shocked by his mention of François, that he’d tried to veer onto slippery ground so quickly and with so little finesse. She ended up saying that she wanted to go home. Charles was very aware that he’d gone too far, that he’d spoiled the evening with his admissions. How could he not have
seen that this wasn’t the moment? That she wasn’t ready. It had to go gently, in stages. And he’d taken off at an insane speed, trying to recapture years of desire in two minutes. All of it had been caused by the way the evening started. It was that beautiful, promising lead-in that had pushed him into the confidence of men who come on too strong.

He pulled himself together; after all, he had the right to say what he was feeling. It wasn’t a crime just to open his heart. And yes, it was true that everything was clumsy with her, that her widowed status complicated a lot of things. It occurred to him that he would have had more luck seducing her at some point if François weren’t dead. By dying, he’d set their love in stone. He’d flung them into a static eternity. How could you turn on anything at all in a woman in her condition? A woman living in an immutable world. Really, it was enough to make you ask yourself whether he’d killed himself on purpose to make their love last forever. Some people actually think that passion is bound to end tragically.

Twenty-seven

They left the restaurant. Their discomfort was getting worse and worse. Charles couldn’t find any clever remark or shaft of wit, or even any out-and-out humor that would have allowed him to make up for things a little. To relax the atmosphere slightly. There was nothing to do; they were stuck. For months Charles had been sensitive and considerate, respectful and loyal, and now all his efforts to be decent were being wiped out because he hadn’t known how to control his desire. His body had become a dismembered absurdity, each limb with its own heart. He tried to kiss Natalie on the cheek, to make it casual and friendly, but his neck stiffened. This strangled moment lasted a moment more, like a series of slow pretentious seconds.

Then suddenly, Natalie gave him a big smile. She wanted to make him understand that it all wasn’t so serious. That it was better to forget the evening, that was all. She said she wanted to walk a little and left on that pleasant note. Charles kept watching her, his eyes glued to her back. He couldn’t move, was frozen in defeat. Natalie grew farther away at the center of his field
of vision, got smaller and smaller, but he was the one who was shrinking, growing smaller as he stood there.

That is when Natalie stopped.

And turned around.

Once again she walked toward him. The woman who’d been fading away in his field of vision a moment before grew larger the closer she came. What did she want? He mustn’t get carried away. Obviously she’d forgotten her keys, a scarf, or one of those many objects women love to forget. But no, that wasn’t it. You could tell by her way of walking. You sensed it had nothing to do with anything material. She was coming toward him to speak, to tell him something. She was walking in an ethereal way, like the heroine of an Italian film from 1967. He wanted to step forward, too, to go toward her. In an excess of romanticism, he imagined that it should begin raining. All the silence at the end of the meal had only been confusion. She was coming back not to speak, but to kiss him. It was extraordinary: at the moment when she’d left, he’d had the intuition that he mustn’t move, that she was going to return. Because it was obvious there was something instinctive and simple between them, something strong and fragile that had been there from the beginning. It was undeniable; you had to understand her. It wasn’t easy for her. Admitting she felt something despite the fact that her husband had just died. It was appalling, even. And yet, how could they resist? Love stories are often amoral.

She was quite close to him now, flushed, heavenly, the alluring embodiment of tragic femininity. She was there, Natalie, his love.

“I apologize for not having answered earlier … I was embarrassed …”

“Yes, I understand.”

“It’s so hard to put in words what I’m feeling.”

“I know, Natalie.”

“But I think I can give you an answer: I’m not attracted to you. And even, I think, I’m not comfortable with your method of trying to seduce me. I’m positive there’ll never be anything between us. Maybe I’m simply incapable anymore of loving someone, but if I ever consider it someday, I know it won’t be you.”