The Carousel of Desire

by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt

  Orion came back from the storeroom, his hair—or rather the crown of hair that went from one ear to the other—completely disheveled.

  Disconcerted to see her staring at him, he winked at her.

  She turned away. My God, how can I live with this?

  All at once, she walked back toward him. “Orion, when was the last time we made love?”

  He chuckled. “Don’t you remember?”

  “No, I definitely don’t remember.”

  “Two and a half months ago, after the party at the Durand-Debourgs’.”

  He lowered his eyes modestly. Realizing that he was telling the truth, Xavière shuddered: all she could recall was the beginning of that party, which had in fact been quite successful.

  “Where did we do it?”

  “Same place as usual.”

  “Same place as usual? Where’s that, Orion?”

  “In the car. Before we got home.”

  Xavière looked at him openmouthed. “Me?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Me with you?”

  He nodded in delight.

  “Oh, my God!” she sighed. “I don’t remember a damned thing!”

  “Not surprising. You were drunk.”

  “I may have drunk a little but—”

  “For years now, we’ve only ever made love when you’ve been drunk.”

  “What?”

  “I love it when you’re like that. You’re so funny, so relaxed, so sweet. The way you were when we first met.”

  That evening, Xavière set off for Knokke-le-Zoute. The flatness of Flanders struck her as interminable.

  She hadn’t said a word to Orion about her condition, informing him simply that she was going to take a little break by the sea and wanted him to mind the store. But then he never decided anything, either for her or for himself.

  The sun was setting as she entered her fisherman’s cottage. There, on two narrow floors, she had the impression of being better housed, better protected than in Brussels. The house was a refuge that represented her true identity. Decorated by her, these three rooms, with their red gingham, their ribbons, their fringes, their porcelain animals, the thick romantic novels on the white-leaded wooden shelves, revealed a charming femininity, a delicacy, a tenderness—in other words, qualities usually well buried beneath the icy persona that Xavière presented to the world. The place was a secret, the official reason—the one she told Orion—being that she didn’t want anybody to know their lifestyle, the unofficial one being that she had no desire for anyone to pay her a visit there. Recently, she had made an exception for Séverine when the latter had been able to get away for two days.

  In the refrigerator, she managed to find a few things to eat, and was surprised by her own appetite. Then she just had time to climb the narrow staircase leading to the former attic that had become her bedroom before sinking into sleep.

  The next day, as soon as she went out, the salt-laden wind cooled her face and she saw life differently. What was she complaining about? She had what she wanted, she could do whatever she liked. Although this surge of optimism surprised her, she accepted it.

  Her basket in her hand, she did her shopping in a new way: whereas she usually counted every cent coming out of her purse, she now spent extravagantly, increasing the quantities, buying enough food for two. Even though she realized it, she continued, carried away by a kind of intoxication.

  At two o’clock, she felt the pressing need to eat waffles at Marie Siska, a pleasure she usually denied herself because she was afraid of seeing people she knew there, who would be sure to ask her what she was doing in Knokke. But it was a Tuesday, and everyone would be working in Brussels; she could allow herself this treat without too much of a risk.

  Out of caution, however, she avoided the terrace and jammed herself behind the upright piano at the far end of the room with the large windows.

  As she ate her waffles, she saw a pleasant-looking couple arrive.

  They sat down on the terrace, with their backs to her, but as the man leaned over and kissed the woman, she made out their profiles and recognized Quentin Dentremont and Ève. At first, she thought that her imagination was playing a trick on her, but then she realized that it was indeed them.

  Her first reflex was to be indignant—“She’s getting them from kindergarten now!”—the second to think of the gossip she could spread from her shop about the cougar of Place d’Arezzo. Curiously, these sarcastic thoughts were drowned out by a wave of positivity. After all, what was wrong with it? They looked happy. Very happy. They exuded joy. Why should she criticize? Was she going to censure them on the pretext that when Quentin was forty, he would be living with a woman of sixty? No, that was the kind of stupid thing Séverine would have said, with her conventional view of age.

  “What a drag she is!”

  Without meaning to, Xavière had cursed out loud. The things that had attracted her in Séverine now repelled her: her willowy quality, which she had taken for evanescence, her sadness, which had proved to be a rich woman’s indifference.

  This anger reassured Xavière after the bursts of amiability she had lately been experiencing. She knew what was causing them: the enemy child inside her was changing her, messing with her hormones.

  Going back to the fisherman’s cottage, she noted that Séverine had left some dozen messages, but she made no attempt to read them.

  At five o’clock, a storm broke out, which filled Xavière with enthusiasm because she loved huddling in the warmth when the elements were unleashed, feeling no fear, only the relief of knowing herself protected, enjoying her four walls and her roof as if they were the most fabulous inventions on earth.

  This was how she would organize the rest of the day: reading Jane Austen, and then having a meal. In fact, it turned out differently: she dozed off and nibbled at food between her naps. What did it matter, as long as she was enjoying herself?

  Outside, the wind and rain were increasing, making the beams creak. The whole cottage was groaning. From time to time, to amuse herself, Xavière imagined it was going to yield to the storm.

  Night had fallen, and the storm, ever more violent, tore her away from her reading. It was a lot more romantic, more unpredictable than her novel. After each flash of lightning, she counted the seconds in order to determine how far away the lightning would fall. Whereas, at the beginning of her calculations, the lightning had hit the ground some two and a half miles away, it couldn’t be more than three hundred yards now. The center of the depression had moved to Knokke-le-Zoute.

  Xavière was just reassuring herself one last time, recalling that the neighboring church had a lightning conductor on its belfry, when a different noise made her jump.

  She stood up, trembling.

  The noise resumed, more urgent now. A knocking sound.

  She went to the door and pressed her ear to it. This time, she could clearly hear the knocker hitting the wood.

  She opened the door. There in the darkness stood Séverine, in her raincoat, buffeted by the wind.

  “Can I come in?”

  “No.”

  Séverine thought it was a joke and moved forward into the doorway.

  Xavière pushed her back roughly, out into the rain and wind beneath the threatening sky.

  “What? Aren’t you going to let me in?”

  “Did I invite you?”

  “What’s gotten into you, Xavière? With what’s happening between us—”

  “What is happening between us?”

  “We love each other.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Shocked, Séverine stared at her. Xavière, impassive, sheltering behind a shield of indifference, was denying her all access.

  “Don’t you love me anymore?” Séverine stammered.

  “I never loved you, you idiot!”

  X
avière slammed the door in her face.

  10

  At first, François-Maxime presented Séverine’s absence as unimportant. When he told the children in the evening, over dinner, he had almost believed his own explanation.

  “Your mother has gone to take a break. She didn’t tell you because she didn’t want to worry you.”

  “When is she coming back?”

  “Soon.”

  “Is she sick?”

  “No, just tired.”

  “Is she tired because of us?” Guillaume asked.

  “That’s precisely why she sneaked out, my boy: she was afraid one of you would ask that.”

  “So it’s true, then: she is tired because of us.”

  “No, it isn’t true. If you’d said that, she would have stayed just to prove it to you.”

  “I hope she’ll be back soon.”

  When he had gotten home at six o’clock, surprised not to find his wife in the house, François-Maxime had dialed her number and left an innocuous message on her answerphone. Then, going up to take a shower, he had discovered a note on the chest of drawers in their bedroom.

  I’m sorry, I’m getting away for a while. I can’t stand it anymore.

  That had puzzled him even more, and ever since, he had been calling her anxiously every ten minutes, cursing the recorded message in which Séverine’s indolent voice suggested he leave his message after the tone.

  Once the children were in bed, he contacted the people they were closest to and asked if she had taken refuge with them: a delicate exercise, because he was determined to obtain the information without admitting that she had run away. His inquiries proved fruitless.

  At midnight, judging it indecent to disturb people at that hour, he took refuge in the living room to think. Séverine was suffering from depression, that was becoming clear. Her constant melancholy, her inability to make up her mind about anything, her almost generalized indifference showed that she had lost the one thing that keeps a person going: desire. Why hadn’t he realized it earlier? Why hadn’t he intervened?

  Consulting his address book, he thought about what professional to send her to the very next day. A psychiatrist or a psychotherapist? In view of the conversation they’d had the other night, during which she had told him the story about her father, psychotherapy seemed the more sensible course. But that might drag on, like all psychological treatments . . . In order for her condition to improve quickly, it might be better to turn to a psychiatrist, who would prescribe medication. The ideal would be a psychiatrist/psychotherapist who would combine the qualities of a sprinter with those of a long-distance runner. François-Maxime vowed that at eight o’clock the following day he would contact Varnier, his colleague at the bank, a notorious hypochondriac who, in his state of constant anxiety, knew the best specialists for every disease.

  Returning to his bedroom, he didn’t bother to undress, just threw himself down on the bedspread without turning it down. Not sharing his bed with Séverine made sleep seem hostile; he hadn’t often slept alone since they’d been living in this house.

  For a long time, he stared up at the dark ceiling, illuminated briefly by distant flashes of lightning. The storm was moving away from Brussels in a northwesterly direction, leaving only a trail of dull, monotonous rain.

  Should he blame himself for his own inadequacies? Of course, he should have paid more attention, devoted more time to Séverine, less to his work or his children. But although he was ready to criticize himself, he considered himself a good husband—all the more so in that he had a secret, his furtive sexual encounters with passing men. If he hadn’t had those clandestine pleasures, he would have succumbed to the tedious routines of married love, like many husbands. As it was, returning to the marriage bed after assuaging his forbidden desires, he had to be perfect for her.

  He suddenly sat up. Could it be that Séverine had discovered his secret? His heart started racing. But then he lay down again. No, it was impossible! He took too many precautions. And if anybody had told Séverine, she would have dismissed that person out of hand.

  That meant it was a bout of depression.

  From time to time, he relaxed his vigilance and dozed off. Each time he woke, he felt bad about it: he mustn’t give in to exhaustion, he had to wait for her.

  Letting his mind wander, he thought over what she had revealed to him about her transvestite father. How could she have hidden it from him for so long? He wondered if their whole relationship wasn’t made up of enigmas, if both of them hadn’t built it on silences rather than words. What would have happened if he had immediately admitted to her that he desired men more than women, or if she had confessed the difficulty she had in trusting anybody?

  He sat up again. That was the source of her depression: she didn’t trust him. Wrongly, because he loved her and took care of her. Rightly, because she was with a husband who had one whole side that was unknown to her. Did she sense it? Did it cause her pain?

  At six in the morning, his cell phone vibrated. He grabbed hold of it. Séverine had just sent him a message: Forgive me.

  Immediately, he dialed her number, got her voicemail, and tapped in an answer: I have nothing to forgive you. I love you.

  In writing I love you, he had tears in his eyes because it was something he rarely said to her, and also because an intuition told him that he was saying it too late.

  He waited for a reply. An hour later, disappointed, he got up, determined to see to the children.

  After his shower, breakfast, and checking the satchels, he drove them to school; unlike the other days, he didn’t feel in the mood to go riding in the wood.

  He returned home thinking that he would stay there waiting for Séverine, dealing with business by telephone or e-mail.

  As he parked on Place d’Arezzo, he saw two police officers climbing the steps in front of his house. He dashed out of his car and called out to them, “Are you here to see me, gentlemen?”

  The older of the two turned. “François-Maxime de Couvigny?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Married to Séverine de Couvigny, maiden name Villemin?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “We have some bad news for you, monsieur. At 6:30 this morning, your wife threw herself off a tower. She’s dead.”

  For a long time, François-Maxime was prostrate with grief. He couldn’t think about anything, all he did was relive the scene: Séverine climbing the spiral staircase, reaching the seventh floor of the parking garage, the one that ended in a terrace; taking care to lock her car, plunging her key into the pocket of her raincoat, then climbing onto the parapet.

  Had she hesitated? Surely not. When you stop to think, you don’t jump. She had looked down to make sure there was nobody on the sidewalk where she was going to land, then had let herself fall into the void.

  François-Maxime was told that she had died instantaneously on impact.

  It’s better that way.

  He started reliving the scene on a loop. Nothing else occupied his consciousness. He was no longer himself but Séverine, trying to understand her last moments of lucidity.

  Near to him sat Varnier, his number two at the bank. Because François-Maxime, on learning the horrible news, had had but one reflex: to inform his office that he wouldn’t be coming in to work. His colleague had come running to help him, and was now keeping him company in the locked bedroom.

  Varnier grabbed his phone, frowned, and left the room.

  He came back with a woman in her forties, with a gentle, open face. “François-Maxime, I’d like to introduce Marie-Jeanne Simon, a psychiatrist specializing in traumas. As I was saying, the children must be told.”

  François-Maxime emerged from his lethargy and said, in a panic, “I can’t! I can’t!”

  The woman came to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “It’s quite natural, Monsie
ur Couvigny. Nobody brings children into this world expecting to tell them that their mother has died.”

  “Will you . . . tell them . . . how she died?”

  “When it comes to something as important as this, there’s nothing worse than lying. Your children have a right to know. They’ll rebuild their lives better on the basis of truth than on a fairy tale.”

  “Are they back?”

  “They’re having their afternoon snack in the kitchen. I’ve just seen them: they’re wondering what’s going on, they sense the tension, they’re asking for you.”

  “Please go to them, I beg you. I’ll be along later.”

  When she left the room, François-Maxime listened out for every noise: footsteps on the stairs, the sliding of the door, the babble of the children, then, suddenly, silence. She must be talking to them. Was she? What was she telling them?

  In a state of anguish, he was about to rush downstairs to interrupt the drama when he heard the children’s cries of grief.

  He put his hands over his ears, pressing his skull as if to crush it.

  Varnier returned, pale-faced. “There, it’s done,” he said in a low voice. François-Maxime turned his head away. A cold silence reigned now over the house. The cries of the children, though, continued to echo in his mind.

  “Séverine, why did you do it?”

  Moved, Varnier approached, ready to blurt out anything that might bring him solace, but François-Maxime motioned to him to keep away.

  “I’ll pull myself together before I see the children. Please go.”

  Respectfully, Varnier withdrew and closed the door.