The Carousel of Desire

by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt

  As expected, Hubert protested. “What? That walking skeleton! Even if I were on a desert island, I wouldn’t . . . You’re a thousand times better than she is. It’s absurd to think such nonsense. Why put yourself down? Look at these little love melons I’m so fond of . . . ”

  She let him caress her. When she sensed that he soon wouldn’t be able to break free of her, she moaned, “Oh, darling, you’re going to get me all hot and bothered, then abandon me and go to your board meeting.”

  He forced himself to stop.

  She put her robe back on, heaved a sigh, and walked him to the door. “See you on Monday.”

  “See you on Monday,” he echoed, appalled at the prospect of having to endure the company of his wife.

  She had succeeded: he left relaxed but frustrated, filled with the urge to see her again.

  Alone now in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror, she felt the weight of her breasts with pride. The fact was, she adored them and was happy for men to be crazy about them. After a cold shower to tone her skin, she rubbed in expensive creams designed to firm up her flesh. For the time being, she didn’t look her age—thirty-eight—but she was already considering cosmetic surgery and noting down the names and addresses of reputable doctors.

  The telephone rang. Ève blushed with pleasure. Frequent calls were proof that she was loved.

  “Hello, Ève, it’s your Roudoudou,” said a very deep voice.

  “Hello, Philippe.”

  “Am I disturbing you?”

  “I’m naked in front of the mirror, looking at my breasts.”

  “Bad girl, saying that to me, you know I love your breasts.”

  “You love them, really? I don’t believe you . . . ”

  “And, naturally, I imagine you find fault with them.”

  “Oh, you know me . . . ”

  “I’m kissing your breasts now, kneading them with my hands. I’m really aroused . . . ”

  “Be careful, Roudoudou, don’t get too excited. Your wife will arrive and wonder what’s going on.”

  His voice grew hoarse, and he started breathing more quickly. “When can we all get together, your breasts, you, and me?”

  “What a question! It’s not up to me. I’m not the one who’s married. I just sit here all day waiting, getting bored, getting all dried up.”

  She had to say this to Philippe Dentremont because he paid for the bulk of her lifestyle, the apartment, the car, the furniture. The head of an industrial empire, he had left Lyons for Brussels, moved to Avenue Molière with his wife and children, and found a home for his mistress a hundred yards away.

  “Er . . . I can make it . . . at around six.”

  She already knew that, because they almost never met at any other time; she also knew she would agree, so she spiced up the game by exclaiming, “What about tonight?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes, tonight. I’d like nothing better than a long evening with you.”

  “Bad girl . . . ”

  “So tonight, then, my Roudoudou?”

  “No, not tonight. It’s my eldest son’s birthday.”

  She was fully aware that Philippe’s three children shared the strange characteristic of each having about ten birthdays a year; not flagging up this absurdity, she got her own back in a different way, “Oh, yes, Quentin! The really handsome one . . . ”

  “A little shit who can’t seem to do well at school!”

  “Well, he has his father’s looks, even if he didn’t inherit his intelligence. That’s already something . . . Especially as he’s going to be a multimillionaire.”

  “Also thanks to his father! But that won’t be for a while yet. I have no intention of stepping down.”

  “How old will he be tonight?”

  “Seventeen, the idiot. So, your Roudoudou will come over at around six?”

  “Let’s meet at Bois d’Ébène first, you know, the furniture shop on Avenue Louise? I found the couch I wanted and you did promise.”

  “Of course, my sweetheart, I’ll buy you your couch . . . except that—”

  “It’ll only take five minutes. And it’s so close to home.”

  She assumed he would be so horny, he wouldn’t argue about the price of the couch.

  “All right.”

  “I’ll make you some tea,” she added in a honeyed voice.

  “I don’t give a shit about your tea! See you later!”

  He hung up. Ève burst out laughing: she loved to hear men express their desire for her so fiercely.

  What would she do tonight?

  She looked in her diary. Nobody had as many season tickets to the theater, the opera, or concerts as she did. Judging by her schedule, anyone would have thought there was no woman in Brussels more in love with the arts. In truth, given that all her evenings were free—since Philippe had a family life—she often went out, just to substantiate her fidelity by telling him about the many shows she went to see in his absence. Of course, she did sometimes spend evenings with other men, but rarely, with a mixture of moderation and caution.

  The telephone rang. She recognized the number and grimaced. “Yes?”

  It was the real estate agency she was managing. They were asking if she could show a mansion to Rose Bidermann, her famous neighbor. Glad to add this acquaintance to her address book, she grunted a yes, just so that she could seem like an unpleasant boss.

  Suddenly, her thoughts coalesced on a scene: she imagined the birthday of Philippe’s eldest, Quentin.

  “Seventeen! My God, he could be my son . . . ”

  She blushed. Last Monday, when she had passed him in the street, he hadn’t looked at her as if she could have been his mother. Far from it. He had given her an indecent wink. The incident had upset her: firstly because Quentin wasn’t aware of the intimate relationship between her and his father; secondly because she had seen Philippe in him, but a Philippe who was slimmer, lighter, purer, stronger, better toned, smoother; and finally because she saw in his eyes the same urgent appetite, the same hungry virility. For five seconds, she had felt like the woman par excellence, the absolute woman, the universal woman, the one all men lust after, whatever generation they belong to. This feeling had filled her with pride and she had breathed in vigorously. The young man had taken her emotion as a sign of consent and had followed her. She had loved the fact that he trailed her as far as her building, and that he had then stood gallantly on the square, his feet planted firmly on the ground, looking up at the façade, eager to find out which floor she lived on. And she hadn’t hidden it from him, but had appeared at her window, pretending to feed the birds, acting as if she didn’t see him, taking her time to breathe in the fresh air then, at the very last second, disappearing with the hint of a smile.

  Ève noticed a letter under the door.

  “Oh, look, what could that be?”

  She was surprised, since she received very little mail: the address she generally gave out was that of her agency. Nobody except her gentlemen callers or her female friends ever sent her messages here.

  She unsealed the canary-colored envelope.

  Just a note to tell you I love you. Signed: You know who.

  She immediately pressed the paper to her breasts.

  “At last!”

  She had no doubt that the sender was the very person she had been trying not to think about: Quentin, the son of her protector Philippe.

  5

  I want a dog.”

  “Now you’re being pathetic.”

  Albane looked harshly at her mother Patricia, who lay slumped, or rather, sprawled on the couch, wrapped in an oversized robe, looking more like a heap of dirty laundry than a human form.

  This morning, a cushion under her back, feet crossed over the armrest, hands on her belly, Patricia was rather enjoying complaining; she groused at just about e
verything, and wallowed in it. But glancing at Albane’s young, tense, hostile body, she sensed the pent-up aggressiveness in it, and didn’t insist.

  For a minute, they listened to the parrots and parakeets cackling fiercely out on the square.

  Patricia wished she could cry out that she missed tender loving care. Nobody caressed her anymore. Not a man, not even her daughter. On the pretext that, for some time now, she had been seeing boys, Albane shunned physical contact with her mother. Did one love banish another? . . . When your hormones change, do you also relinquish any filial urges? Where did it say that you can’t think about your boyfriends and still kiss your mother on the cheek? Who’d written that rule?

  Old age begins when people don’t touch you anymore, Patricia decided. She shrugged. No, that’s an understatement. It’s actually more serious than that: not only does nobody touch me anymore, nobody looks at me with love.

  “A dog . . . ”

  The word stuck in her throat. Yes, a dog would show her affection. A dog would love her unconditionally. A dog never stared at its mistress the way Albane looked her mother up and down.

  “A dog’s not going to make you more beautiful,” Albane said.

  “Nothing can make me more beautiful, my darling.”

  These words scared Albane, and brought relief to her mother. Albane protested irritably against this fatalism. “Beauty has nothing to do with youth.”

  “Only a young person would say that.”

  “Mom, I have friends whose mothers don’t show their age.”

  Patricia perked up, delighted that she could contradict her daughter. “Listen to what you’ve just said. You’re admitting that beauty is about being young, or giving the illusion of being young.”

  “I could list dozens of actresses who are forty-five and still turn on my male friends.”

  “That’s their job, my darling. It’s the professional activity of actresses to seduce. Don’t be naïve. You sound just like your father. Every summer, he got upset that the champions of the Tour de France could pedal faster than him.”

  Albane turned crimson. With all the energy of her fifteen years, she hated the idea of giving up and needed to believe that she would be attractive her whole life. Although devoid of malice, Patricia enjoyed tormenting her by taking away her illusions.

  “Mom, what color is your hair?”

  “What? Come on, my darling, you know that.”

  “What color is your hair?”

  “Auburn.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s always been auburn.”

  “Really?”

  “And my hairdresser gets that auburn exactly right. She’s finally discovered the right formula.”

  “Oh, really?” Albane grabbed a mirror from the chest of drawers and held it out to her mother. “You find me anything that’s auburn on your head.”

  Offended, Patricia took the mirror with an authority that said to her daughter, You’ll see. She held the mirror above her and thought at first there must be a mistake: limp, anemic white, gray and black hairs wound over her pale skin, their tips soiled with a kind of redness that looked more the result of a burn than of coloring. No, that minefield couldn’t be her . . . She shook the mirror, as though that would reset it, then looked again. Nothing had changed. When did I last go to Maryse’s? It was recently, in November . . . It’s April now, so it’s been . . . Oh, my God, it’s been six months!

  She lowered the mirror, discouraged, angry, seething with bad faith, still hoping that what she had just seen was incorrect.

  At her side, her chin jutting triumphantly, her eyes cold, Albane was like a judge; no, worse, like the statue of a judge. “Mom, you’re neglecting yourself.”

  Patricia nearly answered, “Since everybody else is neglecting me, why shouldn’t I?” just to carry on complaining, but then retreated, aware that such a riposte would have been pointless, just words responding to words but doing nothing to alter the facts.

  “What do you suggest I do, darling?”

  The question threw Albane, who, expecting a denial, had been hoping for a yelling match and was preparing to trade insults.

  “That’s right,” Patricia went on. “What should I do?”

  Albane sat down and let out a sullen sigh. “Go to your hairdresser.”

  “I’ll definitely go tomorrow.”

  “Then start a diet.”

  “All right.”

  “A real diet.”

  “I understand. How many pounds?”

  “Start by losing twenty. Then we can tweak it.”

  “All right, my darling,” Patricia said meekly. “What else?”

  “Well, we’ll go buy you some new clothes, avoiding baggy dresses that look like sails.”

  “Really? You’ll come with me to the shops and help me choose?”

  Patricia was begging for love like a child. The scene was taking an unpleasant turn: having become her mother’s mother, Albane was forced to be kind even though she wanted to lash out.

  “Yes, I’ll help you. But lose some weight first.”

  Patricia nodded in agreement, and as her flesh rubbed her neck she realized she had a double chin.

  Desolate, crushed, the two women listened to the parakeets on the square and wondered what those silly birds could possibly be talking about.

  Patricia was drained. Now that she had capitulated to her daughter, she felt ready to give up on something else: what was the point of forcing herself to change? If time had already started destroying her body, didn’t wisdom suggest she should just accept it? If not wisdom, then at least laziness. It’s horrible, how tempted I am to do nothing.

  “Why should I start doing all that?” she said aloud.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “There’s nothing more trying than a diet. It’s hard to break your habits. And what’s the point anyway?”

  “It’s for your own sake.”

  “My sake? I don’t give a damn. In fact, I choose not to give a damn.”

  “Are you serious? Neglecting yourself is like having no self-respect. Besides, you’ll also be making the effort for me.”

  “Are you ashamed of me?”

  Of course Albane was ashamed of her mother, but knew it would be too cruel to admit it.

  “I’m not ashamed of you. But if you get a grip on yourself, I might actually be proud of you. All right?” Relaxing her jaw, Albane congratulated herself on her performance. Drunk on her success, she went on, “And this way, who knows, you might even meet a man.”

  The words triggered no reaction in Patricia.

  Failing to decipher her impassive expression, Albane drove the point home. “But it’s true! Why should your life be over?”

  “My life?”

  “Your romantic life . . . Your love life . . . ”

  She didn’t dare add, “Your sex life,” because she hated speaking crudely, and the only way she knew to speak about sex was crudely.

  So that’s my daughter’s definition of happiness: clinging to a man! Patricia thought. What conformity! What terrible lack of ambition! Tormenting yourself, tying yourself in knots, forcing yourself to make sacrifices, all in order to throw yourself into the arms of a man. Pitiful . . .

  But she merely muttered plaintively, “Oh, a man . . . at my age . . . ”

  Albane flared up, suddenly convinced she was right. “There are plenty of people who change their lives after the age of forty-five. You wouldn’t be the first widow who remarries.”

  This time, Patricia gave her daughter a disapproving look.

  Noticing it, Albane stammered, “Well, I don’t mean you have to get married . . . The important thing is not to be on your own anymore, to be happy . . . ”

  Amazing . . . To think she plays at being a rebel, and assumes she’s being original . . .
Unless what she means about being happy is marrying her mother off so that she doesn’t have to deal with her anymore. Yes, that must be it.

  “Don’t you have school this morning, darling?”

  Albane hesitated, wondering if her mother was just putting on a veneer of friendliness in order to kick her out. But seeing her downcast expression, her victimlike humility, she dismissed her suspicions and admitted that she was going to be late. “See you later, Mom. I’m glad we had this chat.”

  “Me, too,” Patricia replied in a faint voice. It had been quite a useful conversation.

  Albane stood before her mother, squirming in embarrassment in her ballet shoes. Patricia realized she wanted to kiss her. No way! First she lays into me and then she demands a kiss! Get lost! Pretending to be despondent, she settled comfortably against the back of the couch and turned away from Albane to avoid any display of emotion.

  “Hurry up, darling. Your old mom’s going to think about how she can be young again.”

  Her eyes closed, her senses alert, Patricia waited until Albane had walked away, left the room, and slammed the apartment door.

  Then she leaped off the couch, rushed to her bedroom, took out the dresses hanging in her wardrobe, and pushed away the armchair so that she could stand at the right distance from the stand-up mirror.

  The mirror reflected the image of a person who had nothing whatsoever to do with her. This reflection told a different story than the one she was living. She might feel impetuous and impish, but what she saw was a solemn-looking middle-aged woman. Her body had changed volume, making her face much smaller. Even though she’d always had a short, round chin, in the past the regal manner in which she held her head used to guarantee a certain bearing; now, she had become so chunky that her jaw rested on a stump.

  For a few seconds, she pummeled her stomach, waist, and chest with her hands, trying to mold them back into their old shape. But in vain. Only her breasts seemed more graceful, because they were rounder and softer. But who saw that, apart from her?

  She went closer to the mirror, avoided looking at the disastrous state of her hair, and examined her skin. The texture struck her as looser and coarser, and there were red splotches on her cheeks. Yes, she looked like what she was, a depressed woman of forty-five who neglects herself.