Enough About Love (3 page)

Yves gave her his latest book, with the unusual title
The Two-Leaf Clover
, and wrote the most anodyne of dedications in it. The book, which is very short, relates with ferocious intensity an emotional disaster, a restrained and clinical dissection of a lover’s fantasy: a story as old as time itself about an older man who, having become infatuated with a young woman and having seduced her a bit, but not enough, decides to go and join her in Ireland—which explains the title—where he collides head-on with her withering indifference in the most magnificent
fiasco. The irony with which it is told made her laugh, and she thought: this man’s an expert. She also found it reassuring that she liked his style, his lightness of touch. She is an attentive reader, critical and perceptive, she would have hated him to disappoint her, for him to write like someone who churned out novels, but she was probably in no state to be disappointed. She liked the fact that he could talk about love like that. But something in the way she says “talk about love” this morning makes it sound like an actual character. Thomas writes a note.

Because Thomas is paying close attention, meticulous attention even, it is one of those morning sessions when he will hardly say anything, when he will only ask Anna Stein to repeat a few sentences so that she realizes later that those were the exact sentences she spoke. He jots them down, classifies them, organizes them. If she were to forget them, he would make a point of sending them back to her, like a good baseline player on the tennis court. Years of experience have convinced him of the key role language plays, but he is wary of interpreting things too literally.

Thomas is interested in Yves: surely he himself is this older man who becomes infatuated with a younger woman? Maybe he will read one of his books, why not the very one that seduced Anna Stein? An attentive reader will always learn more, and more quickly, from good authors than from life. Perhaps because there is a strong analogy between psychoanalysis and writing. Like the analyst, the writer wants to be heard, recognized, and is afraid of being swallowed up in thought and words. Most likely Thomas also sees Yves as his own double. Perhaps Anna Stein is aware of this possible reading, of this turning point in her analysis. He is suddenly worried that his own situation might insinuate itself between them. In all the momentum drawing him toward Louise Blum, Anna Stein’s words have particular resonance. He must be sure to keep his distance.

T
HE SESSION ENDS
when the screen of his Mac flashes discreetly. The name and surname appear in dark blue: Louise Blum. She has replied, already. Thomas feels his breathing quicken, finds this irritating. He sees Anna to the door, says goodbye with measured poise, better than that, slow-motion poise. He watches her walk away, thinks her buttocks really are pleasingly defined. To the individual in treatment, the psychoanalyst may never be completely a person, but then Thomas has always had trouble seeing Anna Stein as an invisible woman.

Then he closes the door and goes back to the computer. His feigned composure is in proportion to his impatience. He waits a few moments, as if delaying reading the e-mail could influence its contents. He is annoyed with himself for this relic of magical thinking, but has long been resigned to the fact that he will never shake it off altogether. He clicks at last. The message is warm, very, and yet does not quite satisfy
his hopes. Louise mentions the “very friendly” party and envisions having dinner “really soon” with their mutual friends. Thomas is suddenly afraid he misread her, that she will introduce him to her husband and children, that he will be relegated to the status of a friend or, worse, a friend of theirs. He replies, politely, cautiously, saying he would be delighted to see her again, but for lunch instead, perhaps. Lunch always keeps partners out of the equation. He hopes she gets it. Her answer comes back almost immediately: “Lunch, yes. I’m free tomorrow. Otherwise, not till next week,” the message says. Thomas smiles, writes “Where tomorrow?” He clicks. Gust of wind. Barely a minute and the reply comes: “Tomorrow, 1 pm, Café Zimmer at Châtelet.”

Then he risks one last e-mail.

“Okay for tomorrow. Do you know, I watched Truffaut’s
Stolen Kisses
again yesterday. I’d forgotten the last scene: Claude Jade and Jean-Pierre Léaud are having breakfast after a night spent in each other’s arms. They’re buttering toast and drinking coffee. He asks for a notebook and a pencil, she gives them to him: he writes a couple of words, tears the page out, folds it and hands it to her. She reads it, takes the notebook, writes something herself, tears the page out like him, folds it and hands it to him. They exchange five or six pages like this, no more, and the audience has no idea what they say. Léaud suddenly takes a bottle opener from the drawer in the table and slips the girl’s finger into the circle you fit over the bottle top, as if putting a ring on her. It’s one of the loveliest marriage proposals on film. Do you remember that scene? Don’t you think it anticipates the miracle of e-mail?”

Gust of wind. The dormant shy guy within him rapidly regrets what he has done. A few minutes later, Louise’s reply
arrives: “Yes, I do remember that scene from Truffaut. But no relationship with me, I’m already married.”

No relationship with me, I’m already married … Thomas rereads the sentence, intrigued. All at once the double meaning jumps out at him. The psychoanalyst laughs out loud.

J
ACQUES
C
HIRAC HAS JUST TAKEN OVER
from François Mitterrand as president of France, the UN Security Council has adopted Resolution 986, known as “Oil for Food,” on Iraq, and Louise Blum, attorney at law, has turned twenty-five. A tall young woman who is afraid of nothing and certainly not of having to defend in front of her peers the case which goes by the absurd title “So What’s with the Concierge, Why Is She on the Stairs?”

The Berryer Conference is a test of eloquence set up by the Paris bar. In front of a caricature of a chairman and guest of honor (a writer on this occasion), and confronted with implacably fierce examiners, young lawyers have to come up with something injected with humor and virtuosity. It is a feat of mental agility. Places in the competition are highly sought after and only a rare few are selected: Louise is one of them. She was given her subject—by drawing lots—half an hour earlier; she quickly devised a plan, traced her own logic, made a note of some expressions to slip
into her improvisation. The twelve examiners are only too ready to call her out, she has to make it hard for them: Louise wants to conclude on a more serious note (which is traditional), by evoking the vast tower block that is life itself. Because the guest is a writer by profession, she will quote from Georges Perec; mention the tower block in
Life: A User’s Manual;
construct an elegant parallel between the stairs, which link the various floors, and law, a house that all men share; establish the connection between domestic and civic order, between the concierge who is the caretaker of a building and the caretaker of the nation’s laws.

But first she must get them to laugh. She knows how to do it.

“Mr. Chairman, members of the jury, I know it’s something of a national pastime joking about concierges, how surly, lazy, and pathologically inquisitive they are, but I don’t want to fall down the elevator shaft of cheap humor at their expense, I mean my father, mother, and sister are in the room. I’m afraid so, Mr. Chairman, as the concierge—her again—would say, I’m still tied to my mother’s apron strings. No, I’ll be caretaker of my jokes or this concierge will be putting me out with the trash and so will you. What’s her name, anyway, Janet or something?”

She makes use of bad puns and a succession of verbal pirouettes, the audience applauds, they drum their feet and whistle. Louise’s friends nudge each other: she is off to a good start, at the top of her game.

And she is. Louise holds out like this for a good three minutes. To change tack and win a bit of time, she gives a dramatic flourish of her arms and repeats the question: “Yes, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, what
is
with the concierge, why
is
she on the stairs?”

Then she stops. The tightly calibrated time of the Berryer is punctuated by a pause. The silence lengthens, her friends look at her, start to feel anxious. She has only a few minutes left.

Louise seems to be somewhere else. Her cheeks have gone pale, her blue eyes drained of life. Something is happening, the silence digs even deeper, an uncomfortable feeling settles in the room, this is not a show anymore.

“Yes, of course I know why she is on the stairs.”

Her voice has changed, shrugged off any affectation. Louise does not consult her notes, the verve of a defense speech has given way to pure tension. Louise is breathing more quickly, no longer aware of the room:

 … It is 1942. The concierge is on the stairs and there are two police officers in kepis climbing up behind her

because she’s on the stairs, the little sign hanging from the door handle of her room says that the concierge is on the stairs

and they say, Hello ma’am, please could you tell us which floor the Blums live on? Blum as in Leon Blum

and she says, the concierge says, Fourth floor on the left, the Blums live on the left on the fourth floor

yes, that’s what the concierge tells them, of course

and it’s true that they live on the fourth floor, these Blums

when you’re a concierge you answer if a police officer asks you a question, you don’t resist

so, sure enough, the police officers ring at the Blums’ door

Blum, as everybody knows, is a German word, it means flower

flower as in the Marlene Dietrich song “Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind,” where have all the flowers gone?

and that’s just what the officers do with the Blums, they pick them like flowers

Good morning, ma’am, good morning, sir

French police

You need to come with us

Yes, it’s very early but you’d better bring your stuff, we don’t know, this could take a while

so the Blums get ready

Hurry please

and the Blums go down the stairs, all four floors with the children

the children

Sarah is seven, Georges ten

Come on, kids, we’re going on a journey, don’t worry, hey, Georges, you could help your mother with her suitcase, it’s too heavy

and hey presto we’re on the bus

bus S. It could be S for summer or seaside or sandcastle, but not this time because this one is really bus SS, isn’t it

and on the seats next to the Blums are the Sterns and the Cohens, office workers and tailors and barbers, but this wasn’t some barber shop quartet, oh no, they were all there. I guess here were some lawyers and magistrates too

forgive me,
former
lawyers and
former
magistrates

that’s right, the Blums are now seen in terms of the status hat was enacted in 1940

and the judges apply that status, they apply it willingly

a magistrate is like a concierge on the stairs, you just have to ask him and he tells you which floor, straight out. I mean the law’s the law

Next case please. Right, let’s see what this is. Oh, the Fofana case, yet another one without any papers but does he at least have a lawyer? So sorry, Mr. Fofana, you know what they say, justice may be free but it’s not compulsory, ha ha ha

and on to
dura lex sed lex

through the corridors of the law courts, and let’s just have a look at those impressive corridors because at the time they were
Judenfrei
, yes
Judenfrei
, free of Jews, free of Blums

and of course everyone had sworn an oath to Maréchal Pétain
actually that’s not true: everyone except Judge Didier. I always forget poor Judge Didier, a legend. Now he was not a concierge, this Judge Didier, he said, No, no, I’m sorry, I won’t swear an oath, it’s beyond me

he was the only one

but it turns out, ladies and gentlemen, that he made a sacrifice of himself, it was symbolic apparently, there were plenty of others who put up resistance

there really were, really

let’s agree on that, can we?

Anyway, in the end everything has one

an end, I mean

and one fine day it all comes to a stop

the good win and the bad lose and that’s it, the war’s over and everything’s just like before, everything, really everything

look

lawyers are back pleading their cases in the law courts and the judges are back judging in the law courts too and they’re even judging Pétain, the old Maréchal, even him

true, he’s old but he still has to be judged to make the point, and who do they come up with to judge him? who do they come up with? nothing but magistrates who swore an oath to him five years earlier. Dear me, that’s not pretty, but then
dura lex
once again

and Pétain is condemned to death and then he’s granted a pardon

and what about the two police officers you ask. Well, the two police officers are still at the station and one of them, the shorter one, was even made a sergeant. Good morning, Sergeant, oh dear, doesn’t anyone salute anymore?

and the bus, that bus S, or SS in fact, it’s gone back to the depot and they’ve repaired the tire because it was giving off smoke, ha! smoke, ha! that’s right

and the concierge, she’s still on the stairs, yep

but now the Lamberts live on the fourth floor on the left. Yes, well, the apartment was empty, wasn’t it?

you have to understand the Lamberts have been living there since ’43, on the fourth floor

water and gas on every floor

yes, we know where they all are

the bus, the concierge, the police officers, but tell me, where are the Blums

where are they

Louise is almost screeching, her voice cracks and she stops talking but stays standing. There is absolute silence and the creak of chairs makes it all the more tangible.