The Carousel of Desire
Page 7
Mademoiselle Beauvert appreciated the fact that Marcelle was paying her this sincere compliment. She shared her opinion, thinking herself reasonably beautiful. And reasonably well preserved at the age of fifty-five.
Reassured about her charms, she resumed the course of her anxieties. “Well, men do sometimes find me attractive, but do I find them attractive? That’s the question.”
Marcelle made a knowing face. “Ah, you’re a lesbian!”
Mademoiselle Beauvert shuddered. “No, not at all!”
Given her chronic spinsterhood, some did indeed assume she preferred women to men.
“Absolutely not! What a strange notion!”
“You’ve just admitted you don’t find men attractive. So I assumed you’re a lesbian.”
“No, I’m not attracted to women.”
Seeing that Mademoiselle Beauvert was bursting with indignation, her temples scarlet, her eyes cold, Marcelle looked away, glanced around the room, saw Copernicus scratching his neck, and almost said, “Only attracted to parrots.” But coarse as she was, she knew that would hurt her.
“Actually, I’m suspicious of the men who get close to me,” Mademoiselle Beauvert continued.
“Now that’s something I find amazing.”
“I can’t help assuming they have an ulterior motive.”
“What?”
“Money, of course!”
Mademoiselle Beauvert had whispered these words, as if they were dangerous.
Marcelle nodded. There was a legend in the neighborhood that Mademoiselle Beauvert was much wealthier than her apartment or lifestyle suggested, that she was a billionaire who took great care to appear merely well-off. This sudden confidence confirmed the rumor spread by those in the know.
Marcelle trembled with emotion. With those few words, her employer had grown in her eyes: of the two revelations, the one about her first love and the one about her fortune, it was the second that impressed her more.
“How can I tell if they want me for my money? If I were poor, I’d gladly trust them.”
Marcelle nodded, then exclaimed, “If I had money, it wouldn’t bother me that men were even more attracted to me.”
Mademoiselle Beauvert gave her a sarcastic smile that meant: You don’t really know what you’re talking about.
Marcelle didn’t insist. She went back to the kitchen where she diligently performed her morning chores.
When she brought Mademoiselle Beauvert her stack of letters, the parrot cawed, “Mail!”
Marcelle gave him a black look.
“All right then, I’ll leave you, Mademoiselle. I’ll come by again this afternoon.”
“Very well, my dear Marcelle. See you later.”
As soon as she crossed the room, Copernicus cawed, “Goodbye, my dear Marcelle, goodbye.”
Marcelle untied her apron with an angry gesture and stopped at the door. “I wouldn’t like to live with an animal that’s more intelligent than we are.”
Mademoiselle Beauvert looked up from her bills, delighted. “Copernicus isn’t more intelligent than we are.”
Marcelle shrugged. “Well, he is, isn’t he?”
“No, he’s not.”
“Can you guess what other people are thinking?”
“No, but—”
“Well, then!”
And with that, Marcelle left the apartment.
She closed the door just as Mademoiselle Beauvert was opening an envelope containing a sheet folded in half, on which two lines were written:
Just a note to tell you I love you. Signed: You know who.
She hated this kind of advertising, which created a mystery and maintained it just to attract people’s attention: a number of messages would follow until they finally revealed the good they wanted you to buy. Irritably, she threw the letter into her waste drawer, so that she could reuse the paper. She shook herself and once again bent attentively over her accounts, a literature she much preferred.
Meanwhile, Marcelle was descending the stairs, a cloth in her hand, wiping the banister as she went.
Pushing open the glass door of her lodge, with its net curtains, she saw her Afghan slumped on the couch, listening to the news of his country on a tiny radio. For a second, she wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if he’d been out looking for a job, but then, observing him, so manly that he looked closer to forty than thirty, she thought how lucky she was, at the age of fifty-five, to have attracted such a young, vigorous lover, and something inside her quivered: from her conversation with Mademoiselle Beauvert, she had concluded that her Afghan must love her, a penniless concierge, without any ulterior motives.
She opened the only letter she had received:
Just a note to tell you I love you. Signed: You know who.
Heavy and tired, Marcelle sat down and rubbed her forehead as she examined the envelope.
Who had written this message? Her son? Was he trying to beg forgiveness for the two hundred and forty-two euros and the night table she’d probably have a long wait for? Or was it a boyfriend? An old boyfriend? Paul? Rudy? The assistant at the pharmacy?
Never mind. Whoever it was, it made no difference.
It’s over, she concluded. No more room. Last year, yes, but now it’s too late: I have my Afghan.
She raised her head, looked at her lover, and affectionately yelled at him to take his feet off the cushions.
8
This is outrageous!”
“ . . . ”
“Honestly, you should have warned me.”
“ . . . ”
“I was worried.”
“ . . . ”
“Very worried.”
“You needn’t have been.”
“It’s the way I am: I worry. We didn’t see much of each other last week as it was, and on Saturday you go out without me.”
“I can do what I like.”
“Of course.”
“We’re not married!”
“No, but—”
“So I can go out with my friends on Saturday night if I like.”
“All right, you’re free. But you could still have warned me.”
“Warned you about what?”
“That you were going out with your friends.”
“And why is that?”
“Why?”
“That’s right, why?”
“Because I was expecting to go out with you on Saturday.”
“I didn’t promise you. Did I promise? Did I say, ‘Albane, I’m going out with you Saturday night’?”
“Er . . . no.”
“There you go.”
“You didn’t tell me because it went without saying.”
“What?”
“Well, yes, given what there is between us . . . ”
“In what there is between us, is there an obligation that I devote all my Saturdays to you for the rest of my days?”
“Are you joking?”
“No.”
“I’m unhappy when you’re not here. I feel like jumping out of the window.”
“Albane, may I remind you that until four weeks ago, we didn’t even know each other.”
“It was love at first sight! That does exist, you know!”
There was a sudden silence over Place d’Arezzo. Only the parrots and parakeets on the upper floors continued their rapid chatter, indifferent to human woes.
The two teenagers were sitting on a bench, slumped forward, avoiding each other’s eyes, passionate and at the same time overwhelmed by the complications brought on by their recent relationship. Albane had shouted the final words of her declaration with more exasperation than love. As for Quentin, he had withdrawn into himself; his huge new body, not yet proportionate—his long, wide feet were an oversized base for such a narrow body—had curled
into a hostile ball; all he needed were the spikes of a hedgehog.
Overcome with nervous tics, Albane vaguely understood that she was being unfair. “Anyway, I was expecting to go out on Saturday night . . . I hadn’t made other plans. As a matter of course, I wouldn’t make a commitment on a Saturday without telling you first.”
“I can’t believe this!”
“Yes, it’s true. I’d never do that.”
“Well, you’re you and I’m me. All right?”
“Didn’t you think our Saturday nights were nice, the other times?”
“Sure, but we don’t have to do the same thing again.”
“Why, are you getting bored with me?”
“Albane . . . ”
“All right, say it. Say it. There: you’ve said it.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Then say the opposite.”
“How can I say the opposite of something I haven’t said?”
“I’m fed up with guys! I’m ready to give everything, everything, and you just give a crumb.”
“Guys? Who do you mean by guys? How many of us are there?”
“One.”
“Oh, yes?”
“There’s only you.”
“Really?”
“Only you!”
“Are you sure?”
“I swear it on my mother. Oh, Quentin, I spent Saturday night crying. That’s right, just crying.”
“You shouldn’t have . . . ”
“Well, I did. Because I love you.”
“Right away, the big words!”
“Exactly, I love you. Even if you don’t give a damn, I love you. Whether you like it or not, I love you.”
Above the bench, as an echo to the young girl’s outburst, a parrot let out a hoarse, sharp, ugly croak.
Albane bit her lip. Once again, her love had assumed an angry tone. Why could she only ever express her feelings with exasperation, like a pan hissing steam?
“Who was there on Saturday night?”
“My friends.”
“Which ones?”
“What do you care?”
“I care about everything that concerns you. Was Franck there?”
“Pierre, Rafaël, Thomas . . . the usual gang.”
“Who else?”
“ . . . ”
“Girls?”
“Are you jealous?”
“No, I just want to know.”
“You are jealous!”
“Tell me who was there and I’ll see if I have any reason to be.”
“There weren’t any girls.”
“Oh, really? Did you go to a gay club, then?”
“There weren’t any girls you know.”
“Whereas you know them very well!”
“Albane, we met four weeks ago, so yes, naturally, I ran into people I used to hang out with before you.”
“Girls you see again! Girls you maybe never left!”
“Shit, you’re such a pain in the ass!”
“Oh, I’m a pain in the ass, am I?”
“Yes. And clingy!”
“Clingy?”
“You’re getting on my nerves with your questions. ‘What did you do? Who with?’ For fuck’s sake, leave me alone. It’s weird, you didn’t talk so much before.”
“Before when?”
“Before we were together.”
Another silence.
Albane felt as if she was about to faint: Quentin had just spelled out something that was very important to her—they were “together”—but he had mixed this admission with a reproach. What should she answer? Should she say anything at all? She talked too much, she talked badly, uncontrollably. In a way, she didn’t talk, she barked. He was right, she was a “pain in the ass.” If she couldn’t stand herself, how could others stand her? Albane decided that her life verged on disaster.
“Don’t cry, Albane.”
“I’ll cry if I want to.”
“Stop!”
“What do you care, if I’m such a clingy pain in the ass?”
“Albane . . . ”
“What are you doing here, anyway? You don’t care about a clingy pain in the ass.”
“Stop crying, I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I said it because you wound me up. It’s not what I meant to say.”
Albane saw a gleam of hope: Quentin’s voice had changed, and he was giving off placatory vibrations. Best to be quiet from now on. Let him come to her. Don’t ruin everything with a caustic remark.
“Albane, we’re together, you and I.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes, we’re together.”
“Really?”
“We’re together! Don’t you think we’re together?”
“Yes, we’re together. So why do you go out without me, Quentin?”
“It’s a habit . . . a habit from before . . . Nobody can change overnight . . . ”
Albane was so unused to admitting her own faults that she immediately felt overwhelming admiration for Quentin. He certainly did have humility and courage.
“I love you, Quentin! Oh, yes, it’s crazy how much I love you.”
“OK”
“I love only you.”
“OK”
“I’d do anything, defend you against anyone.”
“It’s OK, Albane, I don’t need an assistant, I can fight my own fights.”
He had said that mockingly, in the tone of a self-satisfied male. Albane thought he was being contemptuous of her, knowing she was hopeless at sports—a subject she hated. Instead of taking advantage of the respite, she responded with a touch of bile. “I meant I’d defend you against criticism.”
“What criticism? Do people criticize me?”
“No, it’s nothing.”
“Who criticizes me? Who?”
“I’d best keep quiet, since you always tell me I talk too much.”
“That’s just it! You talk about stuff I don’t care about and keep quiet when it’s something that concerns me.”
“I’m trying to protect you. If you heard what they say about you, you’d be hurt.”
“Albane, who criticizes me? Tell me, so I can smash his face.”
In his emotion, Quentin forgot that his voice had broken the previous year; it regressed, becoming inconsistent, hollow, jolting from high to low. Albane was delighted that she had this power over him.
“Nobody . . . Nobody in particular . . . It’s just a general thing . . . Just a rumor . . . ”
“A rumor?”
“They say you enjoy it when girls like you . . . and that they like you very much.”
“That’s not a criticism, that’s a reputation. A nice reputation.”
He stretched his long legs in front of him and crossed his arms over his chest, smug and triumphant. At that moment, he wished that the gardener, who was working nearby and whose presence bothered him when Albane was sniveling like this, could hear what she had just said.
“And they also say you seduce girls then dump them,” Albane went on, “that you use them like paper handkerchiefs. Isn’t that a criticism?”
“Not really . . . Among us boys, it shows character.”
“Among us girls, it means you’re a bastard.”
“A bastard? What would you prefer? A hypocrite? A guy who says things without believing a word of them? A guy who cries, ‘You’re the love of my life,’ and then goes and sleeps with another girl?”
“That’s a horrible thing to say.”
“No, it’s honest. You seem to prefer a smoothtalker, not someone who tells the truth.”
“And do you tell the truth?”
“Always.”
“Really?”
“Do you swear?”
“Yes, I swear.”
“OK! So then you’re going to tell me the truth?”
“Absolutely.”
“Right now?”
“Absolutely.”
“All right then, tell me the truth. Do you love me?”
“Why does it always have to be about you?”
“What concerns me is us. Answer me, since you swore to tell the truth. Do you love me?”
“You’re so stubborn!”
“All right, I’m stubborn, but do you love me?”
“You’re very, very, very stubborn!”
“Do you love me?”
“Shit, you really are stubborn!”
Once again, silence fell between them.
They had never felt so far apart since they had been glued to this bench. The conversation was taking unexpected turns, turns they couldn’t control. They had met to make out, to enjoy a shared moment together, and instead they were just bickering endlessly. They were both unwittingly awkward and tactless and blamed their muddled thinking on each other’s behavior.
“Quentin, have you ever said it?”
“What?”
“Have you ever said ‘I love you’ to anyone?”
“No. It’s not the kind of thing I say.”
“Have you ever thought it?”
“Stop it. That’s my business.”
“Answer me, because you swore to tell the truth. Have you ever loved anyone?”
“Before you?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“And since then?”
“Since when?”
“Since me, have you loved anyone?”
“Somebody else apart from you?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“And me?”
Eyes lowered, temples bright red, he grabbed her wrist, asking his hands to say what his lips could not utter.
Albane, her body quivering, let herself be convinced. “I’m happy,” she said.
“You were crying earlier on.”
“Of course. For the same reason that I’m happy now.”
“What’s that?”
“Because of what you’ve just said. Or rather what you’ve just not said.”
They laughed, he from embarrassment, she with satisfaction.