“Can I sit down next to you?”
“The bench doesn’t belong to me.”
“Is that a yes?”
Every now and again, the muffled but fierce beating of wings bore witness to the sexual and territorial wars that were being waged in the branches.
“Please forgive me, Albane.”
“For what?”
“For not coming to see you lately. You got my note, I hope, the one where I said not to worry, that I wasn’t sick, that I’d soon be back?”
“ . . . ”
“Were you . . . Were you here, these last few days?”
“Yes.”
“Waiting for me?”
A parakeet rose angrily into the air and flew around the square crying out his rage.
Albane was hesitating between crying and losing her temper. She opted for a third solution: sarcasm. “You’d have liked it, wouldn’t you, me waiting around like an idiot when you didn’t come?”
“Albane . . . ”
“Well, I did come here, but only because I’m used to it, not for you. Why should I wait for you? We aren’t married. We aren’t engaged. We aren’t even together.”
“We are together. At least, we were . . . ”
“What does that mean to you, being together? Disappearing without letting me know where you are? Coming back like a stranger greeting a stranger? You and I will never understand each other.”
Quentin was surprised. However morose, unfair, touchy, and irritating she was, Albane still attracted him. He should have left, called her a pain in the neck—which she was—especially as he would never get from her what he had gotten from Ève, but there he stayed, awkward, weighed down with his new secrets, hypnotized by that pretty, animated face, knowing that he was going to say the wrong things again and cause further misunderstandings.
Confident that he was listening to her, Albane launched into her lament. “I don’t know who you are, Quentin Dentremont. The other day, your last note said, ‘I’d like to sleep with you,’ and then on Saturday, at Knokke-le-Zoute, you ran away when Servane and I arrived at the party.”
“I didn’t run away because of you.”
“Oh, come on! You were the only reason I went to Knokke. I felt so humiliated! You made me lose face. In Knokke, just like in Brussels, people know we’re together. I was the laughingstock of the party.”
“Albane, I swear I wasn’t trying to avoid you. It was just that . . . I had to be somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“ . . . ”
“Who with?”
“ . . . ”
The parrots fell silent as a huge unidentified bird passed slowly and threateningly over the square with a terrifying drone.
“Don’t you have anything to tell me, Quentin Dentremont?”
“I have nothing against you, Albane, I don’t think anything bad about you. On the contrary.”
The helicopter disappeared westward, behind the rooftops, and the parrots resumed their arguments at a lower volume.
“You have nothing against me? I must be dreaming. You behave like a pig and you tell me you have nothing against me? The world has turned upside down . . . What a nerve!”
Quentin grabbed her by the wrist. “I love you, Albane.”
She felt like crying for help. Now that she was finally receiving the words she had longed to hear, she shook her head, dismissing them. That declaration disgusted her. There was no question of accepting his love. Quentin was bringing her nothing but torment.
“That’s bullshit!”
“I swear it, Albane.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because, before, I wasn’t mature.”
“What’s matured you since Saturday?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m stupid, is that it?”
“No, you’re young and you’re a girl.”
Albane tore herself from his embrace, turned to face him head-on, her brow furrowed, eyes popping out of their sockets. “Oh yes, much better to be sixteen and a boy!”
“No.”
“Frankly, this is an eye-opener. I never knew you were such a pompous male chauvinist.”
“Albane, it’s not what I meant to say!”
“That’s just it! You don’t want to say anything, and when you do say something it’s not what you mean. ‘Pompous male chauvinist,’ no, that’s way off the mark. I should add ‘moron.’”
The angrier Albane became, the calmer Quentin felt. He was so touched by her rage that he felt like laughing. He could feel his heart melt in the face of such fury. His passion was growing.
“Albane, the reason I left . . . was to come back a better person. I know who I am now.”
“You’re making a fool of me!”
“Not at all.”
“You needed to leave in order to come back a better person! And I’m supposed to just accept that? Do I really want a guy who invites me to a party seventy miles from where I live and then runs away when I get there? It’s one thing being in love, but I’m not going to be made a fool of, and I’m not going to be a victim, oh, no!”
Quentin burst out laughing, as if he were watching a comedy act. Sure of himself, certain of his feelings, more in love than ever, he didn’t realize that Albane thought he was just being cynical.
“So now you’re laughing?”
Looking at her tortured face, he laughed even more, laughed until he couldn’t breathe. How cute she looked when she was angry! He was amused by her rage the way we are sometimes amused by a child moaning about something or a household pet unable to comprehend a situation: he was laughing with genuine tenderness.
“You are a real monster!”
When tears welled up in Albane’s eyes, Quentin saw them only as the culmination of the comic scene he had been watching: he had no idea that he was humiliating the girl.
“Goodbye! I never want to see you again!”
With a furious stamping of her feet, she walked off without turning around. Quentin hit himself in the stomach to tone down his hilarity and called after her, “Come back, Albane, I love you!”
“Liar!”
“I’ve never loved you so much!”
“Too late!”
“Albane, I swear I love you!”
“Fuck off, you bastard!
Her last words were like a slap in the face. Albane wasn’t usually vulgar. Shocked, he gave up the idea of running after her and sat for a few moments longer on the bench.
She disappeared from sight.
His laughter returned. Now it was a laugh of relief. What a wonderful thing! How happy he was to discover both Albane’s depth of feeling and the extent of his own affection for her! Since the episode with Ève, he had dreaded the thought of seeing her again; but his reunion with her had confirmed to him that he had matured and that she was dearer to him than anyone else . . . Had this discovery given him such satisfaction that he had disregarded her distress and neglected to see how upset she was?
Three parakeets pursued a cockatoo through the tree trunks, brushing against Quentin as they did so, making him lower his head.
I love you. Too late. Why didn’t you tell me before? The words echoed in his head. Even though he was too happy to dwell at length on the subject, it struck Quentin that in love everybody utters the same phrases, but seldom at the right time. Life is a mediocre writer: the words are there, and so are the feelings, but in the wrong order. Someone ought to write the story and make sure it’s worked out properly. We ought to hear the words “I love you” at the moment we need them, “I want you” should reach ears ready to receive them, deserts should be crossed together, oases discovered simultaneously, instead of expecting what doesn’t come and getting what we weren’t expecting. A harmonious love story is basic
ally a story well told, in which time and circumstances have conspired together to produce the desired effect.
Quentin rubbed his hands, trying to let calm take root in him. True, he had made a hash of his reunion with Albane, but tomorrow was another day. He would make up for it. He would make up with her. Hadn’t they done nothing but quarrel from the start?
From now on, confidence would nourish him, the confidence of a man in love, the confidence of a body that, at last knowing physical love, no longer prevented him from thinking clearly. Quentin counted on time to do the rest.
A limp noise on his left caught him by surprise. A putty-colored lump of bird shit had just landed on his shoulder.
He looked up and yelled, “That’s it, go on, shit on me!”
There was a sniggering sound from the branches.
“Bunch of idiots!”
With the help of a handkerchief, he cleaned the blue threads of his sweater, which had quickly absorbed the dropping.
“A good thing it didn’t happen earlier,” he muttered to himself.
At this thought, he started laughing again.
Perched on a nearby branch, a red macaw, surprised, squawked something at him.
Quentin nodded. “Thanks for waiting, guys. And at least it was me, not her. Because you know something? The girl you saw just now, well, I can tell you this: one day, she’s going to be my wife.”
One leg in the air, the macaw tilted its head to the right, motionless, intrigued.
13
Is happiness bearable? Sluggish and satiated, Patricia rubbed her nose on her bare arms, which still had Hippolyte’s smell on them. She closed her eyes, freeing the sensations trapped in that scent; she felt Hippolyte’s hands running over her shoulders, gentle hands so used to flowers that they caressed her like a petal; she tasted the sweet, salty sweat she had gathered, like dew, from his feverish neck as he penetrated her; she lightly touched Hippolyte’s silky cock with her lips, then kneaded his powerful, dappled buttocks with her palms; she heard again his rich, intoxicating voice accompanying their lovemaking, because, when he made love, Hippolyte talked, a phenomenon she hadn’t encountered before. Patricia had let herself be overwhelmed, body and soul, by her Apollo, agreeing to give herself to him whenever he wanted, however he wanted, for as long as he wanted. He would often worry about her passivity and ask her guiltily to dictate her preferences; she would reply without a shade of hypocrisy that she had no preferences, except a preference for him. Far from wanting to be in control, she would abandon herself; that was the way for her to reach the heights. Giving herself was not the same as forgetting herself, it was finding herself at last in the other person’s eyes.
Hippolyte had just left her to go home. Breathing in the gentle night air that bathed Place d’Arezzo, Patricia wondered if her happiness wasn’t too intense. She wished she could die, there and then, on a high, because there was no guarantee that tomorrow would be as good as today. If she passed away tonight, her life would have been a success, and she would leave this world in glory. Why wait for impending decay?
Ah, the ambiguity of satisfaction . . . Contentment is both victory and surrender: it represents the fulfillment of desire but also its death. Having reached the apex of sexual pleasure, drunk with sensuality, worn out by orgasms, Patricia felt as if she would never want to make love again. She was tingling all over. She kept quivering, probably as a way to revive Hippolyte’s imprint on her flesh.
In a flash, she thought of his navel, like a little lock on his hard, slim belly, a lock she so wanted to open so that she could penetrate him entirely, curl up inside him . . .
When it came down to it, she was going to live. First, because the power of inertia, weak as it was, stopped her from doing anything dangerous. And second because—she remembered—pleasure didn’t kill desire: she would want Hippolyte again. My problem is that I can’t just accept happiness. I think too much, whereas being happy consists in not thinking anymore.
Indulgently, she sighed with joy and went back into the apartment.
Albane had come back an hour earlier—two or three hours before the time she’d said she would! Patricia had shuddered when she’d heard the bolts pulled back on the front door: Hippolyte was still there, his head resting on her shoulder, and she had been scared her daughter would knock on her bedroom door, but, luckily, the girl had shut herself in her own room. So Patricia had asked Hippolyte to leave quietly, then had changed into something less provocative. Now she was lounging in a hostess gown, as if she had spent a normal evening.
Walking down the corridor, she heard unusual noises behind Albane’s door. “Are you all right, darling?”
Albane did not reply; the noises continued.
“Albane, what’s the matter? Albane . . . ”
Patricia pressed her ear to the wooden door. A kind of shrill moan came from the room. She knocked. “Albane, open the door, please.”
No reaction. She grabbed the handle. To her surprise, it turned, and the door opened. What was going on? Normally, Albane locked herself in.
Patricia saw Albane writhing with pain on the bed, her hands clutching her stomach. Rushing to her, she saw that her daughter wasn’t bleeding but, with her face sallow and her eyes close, was clearly feeling faint.
“Don’t fall asleep, my darling, hang in there, Mommy’s here. I’m calling the doctor.”
Twenty minutes later, Dr. Gemayel came out of the room where he had just spoken with Albane and given her an injection.
Anxiously, Patricia approached Gemayel. “Well?”
“Let’s go somewhere private, Patricia.”
They went to the living room and sat down. Patricia had switched on only the night-lights, so the room had a gloomy atmosphere, and the only bright light came from the square with the parrots.
“Your daughter tried to kill herself.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, there are two pieces of good news. First, she didn’t succeed, and second, she didn’t mean to succeed, or she would have locked her door and used a different method.”
“What did she do?”
Dr. Gemayel stood up and helped himself to a drink, because Patricia was so distraught, she had forgotten to be a hostess. He drank a large glass of water and turned to her. “Suicide by Nutella.”
“Excuse me?”
“Albane ate fifteen jars of Nutella and somehow managed not to throw up. As a result, she has really bad indigestion. She won’t be spending time in the grave, but on the toilet seat.” He helped himself to another drink.
“That’s . . . that’s ridiculous,” Patricia said in a choked voice, trying to make sense of the situation.
“Definitely ridiculous, but not stupid. Your daughter’s an intelligent young woman, Patricia. She wanted to attract attention. No point in endangering her life for that. I’ve known people who drank bleach, or liquid for unblocking sinks, and didn’t recover. Amateurism doesn’t always preclude success. In the case of Albane, she failed in her suicide attempt beautifully, let’s give her that.”
“Who is she calling for help?”
“She didn’t tell me.”
“Me?”
“She mentioned she was having romantic difficulties.”
“Oh, so it’s an unhappy love affair . . . ” For a reason she couldn’t fathom, Patricia’s cheeks turned red and feverish, and her heart started racing.
“Unless the unhappy love affair is a cover for other problems,” Dr. Gemayel continued. “Albane is clearly trying to tell us something. What do you think of her boyfriend? Or her ex-boyfriend?”
Patricia rubbed her forehead, annoyed at the fact that she couldn’t remember. “Well . . . I don’t really know . . . Albane has a new boyfriend every couple of months. I must confess I’ve stopped paying attention.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
Panic
king now, Patricia realized she had been neglecting Albane. Yes, for several weeks now, obsessed with Hippolyte, she had been colossally selfish, speaking to her daughter only to make sure she wouldn’t be around when Hippolyte came over, listening to her talk about her boyfriend only in order to replace him with the image of Hippolyte.
“Oh, my God . . . ”
A sense of guilt rose inside her. Her daughter had tried to kill herself, and she hadn’t noticed a thing. She burst into tears.
Dr. Gemayel rushed to her. “Now, now, Patricia, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t say it was your fault.”
Patricia plunged into a pit of despair. There it was, the answer to her earlier question: while she might be able to bear her happiness, her daughter wasn’t. She had no right to happiness. Did that mean she had to give up Hippolyte?
The following day, she went back to being an attentive, devoted mother, and dedicated herself to caring for the sick girl. Albane made no protest at being looked after, which was a good sign, she thought. Still, Patricia sensed that she was expecting some kind of gesture.
“What is it you want, my darling?”
“Nothing.”
“I think you want something.”
Her daughter stared at her, surprised by how perceptive she was.
“Is it something I can give you?”
Albane took time to think in order to answer honestly. “You can help me.”
“How?”
“You could tell Quentin what I did.”
A silence ensued. Patricia placed a kiss on her daughter’s forehead and murmured, “Was it because of him?”
Albane bowed her head as a sign of the affirmative.
Patricia took a deep breath. Maybe she wouldn’t have to dump Hippolyte after all. “Do you love him?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why you love him?”
“No.”
“When you know why you love someone, it means you don’t love him.”
Albane raised an eyebrow, surprised by her mother’s expertise on the subject.
“My darling, I’m going to take advantage of our time together to tell you the truth about what’s going on with me.”
The Carousel of Desire Page 37