The Carousel of Desire

by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt

  Then he moved away from the window, went to the computer, and gently typed in the following words:

  Fiordiligi, are you still there?

  5

  Damn!”

  Disappointed, Tom closed the book of condolences. The words and signatures entered in its tall pages during Séverine’s funeral were of no help to him in his investigation.

  “Well?” the priest asked.

  Around them, the room where children were taught catechism was decorated with bright, cheerful drawings that almost diverted attention from the dust, the dilapidated walls, and the sparse light struggling to penetrate the dirty windows.

  “There’s no evidence,” Tom said. “None of the handwriting here matches the handwriting in the anonymous letters. As for my two leads, one holds up, the other doesn’t.”

  “Which one doesn’t?”

  “The writer, Baptiste Monier. For a while, I thought he might be playing some kind of intellectual game, provoking the residents of the square just to see their reactions. I had the idea that each of the letters might be the first sentence of a chapter. An experimental novel.”

  “Sounds like fun. And?”

  “He’s right-handed, so it can’t be him.”

  “Maybe he’s ambidextrous.”

  Tom scratched his head, admitting he’d probably come to a hasty conclusion.

  The priest noticed a piece of green chalk on the platform, picked it up, and put it back in the groove of the blackboard. Then he picked up the book of condolences. “What about your other lead, Tom?”

  “It’s Orion, the florist, the nicest man in Brussels, married to the nastiest woman in the universe.”

  The priest smiled.“That’s the way it works: only a gentle soul ever gets together with a bitch.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s the only one who doesn’t know how hard it’s going to be.”

  “It feels a bit weird hearing you, a priest, call someone a bitch. It doesn’t sound very charitable.”

  “Why is it that atheists enjoy lecturing us about charity, generosity, and piety? Is it something you all lack?”

  “No. I’m just taking the opportunity to tell you that I understand your system, and I don’t think you really believe in it.”

  “In order to forgive, the subject must first have something for which he or she needs to be forgiven. Xavière seems to be an eminently forgivable person.”

  “And I reject the idea that an individual should be reduced to a thing, a character trait. In my opinion, there’s no such thing as a bitch, or a gentle soul, or, for that matter, a saint or an asshole.”

  “What about Zachary Bidermann?”

  “He’s a perfect example. He acted like an asshole the other night, but he isn’t an asshole.”

  “You refuse to judge him?”

  “I judge an act, not the man. A man is more than what he might say or do.”

  “You deny the existence of vice and virtue. And yet through habit, repetition, or temperament, an individual acquires a second nature and behaves either ‘generally well’ or ‘generally badly.’”

  “All right. But he can still shift, like sand. Show me a saint today, and I’ll prove to you that he may well sin tomorrow. The same applies to a villain: he may behave well.”

  “I see what you mean. So you, Tom, are not a homosexual?”

  “No more than you’re a priest.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It so happens that right now, you have the role of a priest—”

  “The vocation.”

  “—but you haven’t always been a priest, and maybe won’t continue to be one. Even now, you aren’t a priest every second of the day.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You aren’t a priest when you shit, when you eat, when you think about your mother, when you see a woman walk by that you like.”

  “Yes, I am!”

  “No! You’re a man who likes her, instinctively, and then the priest intervenes and tells the man to restrain himself and throw his desire in the garbage. The same for me, I can’t be reduced to a homosexual even though I sleep with men. When I think, when I teach, when I listen to music, when I talk to you, none of that has anything to do with my preferences in bed.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything, Tom.”

  “What’s that got to do with it? We were talking about Orion.”

  “You’re right, we were talking about Orion.”

  “He’s still my principal hypothesis because he omitted to sign the book of condolences. This is a man who greets everybody as if they were an absolute marvel, a man who wishes well of the whole world. He’s actually Christlike, this Orion. What do you think, Mr. Priest?”

  “I wouldn’t wish him to be Christlike, because then he’d come to a bad end, but he’s certainly evangelical. He gives love to everybody.”

  “Which is quite disturbing.”

  “Yes, it is. People wonder what he’s after, what his ulterior motive is. But he doesn’t have one. It’s just disinterested love, pure love.”

  “Consequently, they treat him like an idiot.”

  “Idiocy is what cynics ascribe to the pure.”

  Tom nodded his approval of this definition. He licked his lips, then looked at the priest. “Tell me, do you ever get carried away like this when you preach?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I should come, for that if nothing else.”

  “You’d be very welcome.”

  Tom stood up and kissed the priest on the cheek. “Thank you for the book of condolences. I’ll carry on with my investigation.”

  The priest gave a thin smile. “It’s natural I should help you, since you’re looking for Jesus.”

  Tom burst out laughing. “Now please don’t try selling me your wares.”

  They left the classroom, walked down some rickety stairs, between walls covered in pious images, then opened a dilapidated door and came out at street level.

  Outside the presbytery, Tom gave the priest an affectionate wave. “See you at Mom’s on Saturday morning?”

  “Don’t forget it’s her birthday this time.”

  “Shit! Already?”

  “Tom, why can’t you ever remember Mom’s birthday?”

  Tom made a gesture of powerlessness, then turned the corner. He and his brother had never prioritized the same things.

  As he reached Place d’Arezzo, he saw Madame Singer, looking like a sergeant major in her khaki outfit, lashing out at a reporter who was crawling up onto a branch, scaring the parrots and parakeets as he did so, in order to get his lens closer to the Bidermanns’ town house.

  Being a coward, Tom decided to get out of her way before she called him over to help her. Instead of going home, he took refuge in Nathan’s building.

  He went up to the sixth floor, used his key, and entered the apartment, which was unusually silent. Normally there would be music spreading through the rooms, or else Nathan singing from wherever he was. And yet he must be home: his keys were in the bowl by the door.

  “Nathan?”

  The silence absorbed his call.

  Rather than worry, Tom went straight to the bathroom. There was no noise from the shower. The room, with its tiled walls, was empty.

  He went to the bedroom and opened the door. There, he just had time to catch a glimpse of a shoulder diving under the comforter. Nathan’s head popped out from the other end of the mattress.

  “Oh, it’s you . . . ” he stammered uncomfortably. “I . . . I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

  He gave Tom an apologetic grin to express his remorse, but Tom wasn’t looking at him, he was staring at the shape of the body hiding under the sheets.

  He suddenly felt a coldness spreading through him. Should he move? Should he say something? He knew exa
ctly what was happening.

  “OK. Bye.”

  His abrupt tone expressed all the contempt he felt for the two men in the bed. He turned on his heels and walked out.

  He trudged wearily down the stairs. Only one word echoed in his head: Nathan. The name that up until now had evoked only happiness now meant cowardice and betrayal.

  He left the building and went over to a bench on Place d’Arezzo, just opposite the front door. From there, he’d be able to see the man escape.

  He sat down, hands deep in his jacket pockets, and stared straight ahead. What would he do? Smash his face? What would be the point in that? It wouldn’t change anything. Nathan was the guilty party. His lover, whoever he was, hadn’t betrayed anybody, hadn’t been performing a belly dance for him for three years, trying to persuade him to move in.

  He looked at the time.

  One minute. Only one minute had passed since he had rushed out onto the square, and already it felt like an eternity. How long would he have to wait? Would those pigs upstairs resume their fornicating? Would they dare? If they did, he might as well go back up and set the place on fire.

  The door moved and a man stuck his nose out. He was still finishing getting dressed, in a hurry to get away. He looked right and left, making sure that his rival wasn’t waiting to beat him up.

  Tom gave a start.

  The fugitive didn’t think to look in front of him, onto the square, and so wasn’t aware that the man he feared was right there. He disappeared down Rue Molière. Tom remained on the bench, frozen. He knew the guy. He had a Greek name . . . Nikkos! That’s right, it was Nikkos. He had slept with him the month before.

  Embarrassed, Tom looked at his hands. Should he laugh or be angry? Here he was, blaming Nathan for doing what he himself had done a few weeks earlier.

  Tom couldn’t be angry for very long. Not that he was unaware of anger, but he hated it and took care to get rid of it. Was there anything more stupid than anger? It rebels against the world and, through its intensity alone, hopes to change it. Then it hits out, insulting reality without altering it. Anger is a form of powerlessness that believes itself to be strong.

  He wiped the palms of his hands on his jeans, tried to force himself to laugh, but failed. He was disgusted by this whole business.

  Of course, Nikkos wasn’t any kind of danger. He might be a pretty boy, but he fucked in a boring way, overexcited, impatient, jerky, rushed, and he grunted a lot. Once was enough. Maybe once was too often . . . Besides, Nikkos never tried to take root or see a fleeting lover again, he always ran away once it was over. From what Tom had gathered, he liked encounters, but didn’t like people.

  Come on, laugh about it! It’s no big deal!

  He was finding it hard to overcome his sadness. The problem wasn’t Nikkos, but Nathan. Nathan was always suggesting they live together, always talking to him about love, and probably loved Tom as much as Tom loved him. So why, then, did he take advantage of a free moment to get his rocks off with a stranger?

  Nathan appeared on the sidewalk opposite, dressed in black, which didn’t suit him, making him look too solemn. Avoiding a car that zoomed past, he came toward Tom.

  “Are you angry with me?”

  Tom shrugged and looked away, furious. “No, I’m thrilled.”

  “I’m sorry, Tom, I wasn’t expecting you. We weren’t supposed to meet until tonight, because of the schoolwork you have to grade.”

  “What are you sorry for? Doing what you did? Or getting your timetable wrong?”

  Nathan assumed an outraged expression and hit the air with his hands. “Is this you, Tom, the guy who can’t keep his zipper closed, the horniest man in Brussels, preaching chastity? I can’t believe it! OK, I admit it wasn’t pleasant for you to catch me like that, and I repeat, I wish I could have spared you, but I’m not going to pretend I’m ashamed of having done it.”

  Tom wanted to retaliate in an equally outraged tone but, either because of Nathan’s comical indignation or because of what he was really thinking, he felt the onset of laughter.

  “What?” Nathan grunted, fearing he looked ridiculous.

  “Was it worth it, at least?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh?” Tom was increasingly struggling to keep a straight face.

  Nathan raised his eyes to heaven and said in a harsh tone, “Anyway, thanks to your entrance, we didn’t even go all the way.”

  “You didn’t miss anything,” Tom murmured, fighting to ward off another spasm. “With Nikkos, you just get the sound track to a porn movie, but nothing else.”

  “What?”

  “I promise.”

  “You know Nikkos?”

  “Same as you.”

  At the sight of Nathan’s bulging eyes, hilarity gained the upper hand and broke through the dam: Tom exploded with laughter.

  Thrown at first, Nathan began to understand what Tom was implying. He sat down next to him and, slowly, by fits and starts, also started laughing. Soon, the two men were doubled up.

  Once they had finally managed to stop, Nathan turned to Tom. “And you call this a fit of jealousy?”

  They immediately burst into a further fit of the giggles. After this scene, they knew this was the most fun they could ever have, sitting side by side, fellow conspirators, laughing until their bellies hurt.

  Catching his breath, Nathan took hold of Tom’s arm. “I love you, you know.”

  “I know.”

  Nathan pursed his lips. “You do realize you were supposed to answer, ‘Me too?’”

  “I’ll tell you when it comes naturally.”

  “And is that still likely?”

  “Anything can happen.”

  “Are we still together?”

  “We’re still together.”

  Tom sat up straight on the bench. “But there’s one thing that does end here: living together.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “I was about to end my lease, move my books, go through all that hassle, in order to expose myself to . . . what I just saw.”

  “You are angry with me, Tom!”

  “I fully admit that it’s hard to resist temptation—I’m the first one to give in to it—but there is one temptation I’m going to resist, trust me, and that’s the temptation to live with you. Why do you want us to live together, Nathan, when you cherish your freedom and I cherish mine? The ideal arrangement to keep that freedom isn’t a shared closet, it’s separate homes. You want to have it all: the butter, the butter dish, and the milkman’s ass! If it’s natural to have flings here and there, then the only way to bear it is for the other person not to know. I’ll love you more if I don’t catch you between the sheets with another man—or a boy! I’ll love you more if, when I’m in a foul mood, I can shut myself in my own apartment. I’ll love you more if I can decide to sleep at your place. I’ll love you more if I can invite you to come and sleep at mine. I’ll love you more if I can avoid you when you want to be with someone else. I’ll love you more if you don’t find me in the place of the one you desire. I’ll love you more if you aren’t an obligation. I’ll love you more if you aren’t a habit. I’ll love you more if you remain my choice. I’ll love you more if I can prefer you. I’ll love you more if you allow me to love you the way I want to love you. Our love is much too important for me to let it be ruined by living together.”

  Moved, Nathan nodded. Tom patted his cheek. Nathan blushed.

  “So we part in order not to break up, right?”

  “That’s right. I won’t live with you because I want our relationship to last.”

  Tom leaned slowly, very slowly, toward Nathan, and pressed his warm lips to his. Up in the branches, there was a beating of wings, like a burst of applause.

  When the kiss was over, and Nathan was finally able to catch his breath, he looked at his lover, intoxicated by his sce
nt and his desire for him. “When all’s said and done, Tom, contrary to appearances, of the two of us you’re the romantic one.”

  “Romanticism is the wisdom of the hot-blooded.”

  6

  When Patricia was left alone in the empty apartment, without either Hippolyte, who had judged it wise to leave, or her daughter, who had run out by the back stairs, she wandered dejectedly from room to room, hearing the cheerful interjections rising up from Place d’Arezzo, looking at the mess around her, counting the cost of that disastrous party . . . There was no doubt that she was the evening’s greatest loser. Her daughter was gone, and so was her boyfriend.

  There was clearing up to be done, dishes to be scrubbed.

  But she was so discouraged, she simply collapsed into an armchair. With one finger, she switched off the lights and let the semidarkness overwhelm her.

  Her life was falling apart. From the way Albane had behaved, it was clear that she wouldn’t be able to keep Hippolyte. Until now, they had met only in secret, in this apartment or in the discreet café in the Marolles. It was as if they had been living on a desert island. Well, now their Robinson Crusoe days were over! They were back in the big wide world, with its dangers and its ugly competitiveness. Albane had given her a foretaste of what would happen: women wouldn’t be able to stop themselves from coming on to Hippolyte, whether deliberately or not.

  So that was what awaited her. Uncertainty, struggle, betrayal. Not to mention ridicule: the handsome Hippolyte and Patricia the fat lump. The times she’d heard people say of someone, “What a guy like that is doing with such an ugly woman is beyond me!” Had she ever said it herself? Of course she had.

  As for Hippolyte . . . For the moment, he was playing at being the gallant knight faithful to his lady, and rejecting an underage Messalina. But, in a month or a year, how would he react to a grown-up woman who was bolder than Albane?

  She couldn’t keep a treasure like him in her arms forever.

  She breathed out.

  That very second, something broke within her. It was over. She had lost all trust. In herself and in Hippolyte. In others and in society. Her illusions were crumbling.