“No point, monsieur, I sell flowers, not gossip.”
“Please. Just some information.”
“Why should I give it to you?”
“Because you’re a kind person.”
With his unctuous voice and his pouting mouth, he was trying to win her over. She looked at him contemptuously. Kind: that was definitely not the word to use when speaking to her. There was an amused gleam in her eyes that he took for consent.
“I’m listening,” she said.
“Was Monsieur Bidermann a customer of yours?”
“His wife, Rose Bidermann, loves gorgeous bouquets. It’s not surprising she has the name of a flower.”
“No, indeed. What about him? Did you ever see him?”
“From time to time.”
“And?”
“I didn’t like him to come in here. It was because of him that I had to dismiss a number of female assistants. They claimed he’d forced them to do things . . . Well, you know what I mean . . . ”
“What? In here? That’s incredible!” The journalist’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. He was overjoyed at the thought of having a monumental scoop.
“Yes, right here among the flowerpots.”
“Incredible!”
“I didn’t believe them at the time.”
“Do you regret that now?”
“To be honest, I was more jealous than anything else. Because I thought he came here just for me. The two of us used to do it in the cold room. I don’t know why, but he was excited by the cold room, with all those bulbs and sprays around. Strange, really. Men don’t usually perform very well in the cold, but with him it was quite the opposite.”
“Incredible! Incredible!” The journalist was all agog at this revelation.
“Any more questions?” Xavière asked, smiling affably. “Was I kind enough? Is that stupid enough for your rag? If you like, I can make up other stories. How about the way he tied my husband with leather straps or sodomized my young clerk, for example?”
Realizing that she’d taken him for a ride, the journalist turned pale.
She opened the door and with her hand indicated the way out. He passed in front of her, assuming an offended air.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” she murmured as he brushed against her.
Sheepishly, he went back to the group of reporters and photographers milling about on Place d’Arezzo.
From their large dark nests built between the branches, the parrots and parakeets seemed to stand aloof, entrenched in the heights. This suspicious influx of unknown onlookers prevented them from descending onto the grass as often as they had before, and, like Xavière, they hoped the Bidermann affair would soon stop polluting their habitat.
Remaining in the doorway, slightly back from the street, she put her hands on her belly, massaged it gently, and whispered, “You see the kind of world you’re coming into? Do you find it tempting? I warn you, ninety-nine percent of the people in it are idiots. Of the one percent that are left, there are autistic geniuses you don’t associate with, artists you’ll never meet . . . and your mommy.”
She was astonished that she had uttered that word. Did it suit her? Coming out like that, without anyone around to hear, it suited her well enough.
“Yes. There will be Mommy. Just you and me, surrounded by all these imbeciles. We’ll have a good laugh.”
She felt like laughing now, but instead tears welled in her eyes.
“Damned hormones! You’d better come out of there soon, kiddo, because Mommy would like to be able to curse in peace without whining like some fan of sappy music. By the way, do you like westerns?”
Nathan crossed the street and came running toward the shop.
“Can I talk to you, Xavière?”
If it had been anyone else, she would have replied, “No, I sell flowers,” but she granted a special status to Nathan. She felt, if not friendship, at least a benevolent sympathy toward him, partly because he wasn’t like the others and she liked his extravagant dress sense, and partly because he was scathing about people—the only way he could bear mankind was to make fun of it. If she’d been a man, she would probably have behaved just like him. So they often scoffed at their contemporaries as they passionately discussed flowers and the best way to put them together.
She pointed to Nathan’s legs, which were clad in some kind of scaly material. “I love it! What are your pants made of, Nathan? Snakeskin or crocodile?”
“Plastic, darling. I don’t want animals to be killed just to make me look sexier. On the other hand, I don’t mind men being exploited to dig oil wells or the planet being trashed to create synthetic fabrics.”
She closed the door behind them. The calm of the shop contrasted admirably with the noise of the street and they felt as if the roses and the lilies were enclosing them in a kind of perfumed silence.
“Xavière, I’m not going to beat about the bush, I’ve come about Orion.”
“Oh, my God, poor Orion!” Xavière exclaimed, surprised that her wretched husband could retain anybody’s attention.
“Yes, Orion. I think it’s him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s the writer of the anonymous letters.”
Xavière raised an eyebrow. With all that had happened recently, she had forgotten all about the letters. “What makes you say that, Nathan?”
“First of all, this shop seems to me the ideal place to plot something like this. It’s a vantage point. From here, you know everybody.”
“That’s true of me too. That must make me a suspect.”
“Secondly, it has to be someone who’s full of kindness.”
“I’m not a suspect anymore.”
“Precisely. But Orion does suffer from that affliction.”
“You could say that,” she grunted.
“Does he feel goodwill toward everybody?”
“I’m afraid he’s quite capable of it. He has no sense of discrimination.”
“Do you think he actually loves everybody?”
“Who knows? He’s kind to everybody as soon as he meets them. Maybe if he saw someone killing me in front of his eyes—”
“I think we’ll spare ourselves that experiment.”
“Please.”
“So if Orion loves everybody, that throws a new light on the situation! These letters aren’t a ploy intended to lead people to the love of their life. The signature ‘you know who’ doesn’t refer to different people. He’s writing the messages in his own name. And the fact that they’re all the same means that he feels a sense of fraternity with everyone. When it comes down to it, these letters are like the times when he says hello to you as he’s crossing the road without looking.”
“Like a dog. That’s what I always tell him, that he’s as stupid as a dog. And you know what he replies? That the dog is man’s best friend.”
“Another confession!”
“You really have to be as stupid as a dog to be a friend to man.”
“To cut a long story short, Xavière, I have every reason to believe it’s Orion. All the clues point to him. There’s just one thing missing.”
“What’s that?”
“If you answer yes, we have the proof.”
“What is it?”
“Is Orion left-handed?”
“Yes, he is!”
They looked at each other triumphantly.
“What do we do now?” Xavière asked.
“Will you talk to him?”
“Leave it to me.”
“I have to go now, I’m late.”
Nathan turned to leave, but Xavière held him back by the arm. “How’s Tom?”
“That’s a good question. Thank you for not asking it.”
He walked tensely away, avoiding the onlookers and the reporters.
/> Xavière thought over Nathan’s last words with a certain pleasure. So Tom and he were going through a few problems. She was pleased. From time to time, the idea had occurred to her that only gay couples stood the test of time; learning that they went through ups and downs just like everybody else reassured her.
As she walked through the shop, she noticed that the peonies were wilting.
They won’t even have lasted three days. What a waste!
She had opened the wrong shop, it would have been better to choose an activity that didn’t demand fresh produce. For example, she would have loved to have a pharmacy, that way she could keep up to date with everyone’s ailments.
She returned to the half-darkness of the back room, collapsed into the armchair, and started thinking.
One must die so that the other may live. Those words had been haunting her for a week. Séverine’s death told her that she had to bring this child into the world. It was the only way to give any meaning to what had happened. Of course that seemed stupid, complicated, hateful, but also obvious. It was as if her lover’s death had given her the solution.
The chime rang out, and Xavière heard Orion’s voice along with that of Madame Riclouet. So he did pick her up, she’ll get her bouquet after all.
The customer Xavière had abandoned was at last able to buy her flowers and left again.
Orion, his hair sticking up around his ears, approached his wife. “How are you feeling?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked at her, wet his lips several times, scratched the back of his neck, looked away, and said, “I don’t understand why you don’t talk to me about it.”
“About what?”
“You’re pregnant.”
“No, I’m not. How do you know?”
“The doctor told me when you fainted in church.”
Xavière sighed, hoping he would think she was sighing with irritation, when it was actually relief. “All right, it’s true, I’m pregnant. But what business is it of yours?”
He gave a start, looked around him for imaginary witnesses to the fact that he had heard correctly. “It’s our child!”
She sat up, cut to the quick. “Our child?” Anger was rising inside her. She had only just accepted this child as her own, and now they were already trying to take it away from her. “How do you know it’s yours?”
“We made it together, Xavière, in the car.”
“I was drunk.”
“That makes no difference.”
“How do you know this child isn’t someone else’s? Don’t you think I might have a lover?”
He looked at her and gave her a kindly smile. “Do you have a lover, Xavière?”
At that moment, she thought of Séverine—her soft honey-colored skin, her smooth shoulders, her neck that turned red when she left kisses on it—and she burst into tears and fell back in the armchair.
“No, I don’t have a lover,” she managed to say through her sobs.
He ran to comfort her. “It’s all right, darling, it’s all right.”
He cradled her for a long time against him, which she allowed him to do because she felt genuine peace, mourning Séverine in his arms. It seemed to her that everything was returning to normal. His ugly and he’s stupid, but he’s here, he’s always here, she thought with tender contempt.
He brought her a paper handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes.
He remained there, kneeling in front of her, attentive, anxious to do the right thing.
Feeling calmer now, she said, “Do you . . . do you want to be a father?”
“I’m sure I’m quite inadequate,” Orion replied. “But the world is made up of inadequate people.”
“That’s what I think.”
“What about you? Do you feel ready to be a mother?”
What did being a mother mean? Did you have to put abnegation, self-sacrifice, and love in the mix? None of that was for her. At least it hadn’t been so far.
“Listen, Orion, why not? I was starting to get a bit bored. It was either a child or a dog.”
“Oh, a dog is good,” Orion said, totally serious. “I like dogs a lot. And dogs love me. I’ve always dreamed of having a dog. Ever since I was a kid. More often than having a son or daughter. Oh yes, much more. When it comes down to it, I’d be game for a dog. What do you think?”
“It’s going to be a child, you idiot, not a dog.”
Orion burst out laughing, and so did Xavière—in spite of her willful reluctance.
He disappeared into the cold room and came back with two bottles of champagne. “Let’s celebrate! The happy event will only be official with the first glass of champagne.”
Xavière stopped him. “No, Orion. A question first.”
“All right.”
“I want you to tell me the truth and nothing but the truth.”
“I swear.”
“Did you send those anonymous letters?”
“What anonymous letters?”
“The truth, Orion! The anonymous letters we received here on Place d’Arezzo, written on yellow paper and saying something like ‘Just a note to tell you I love you, signed: You know who.’”
“That’s awful, I didn’t receive one.”
“Stop playacting, Orion. Was it you?”
Stunned, he raised his hand as if taking an oath in court. “I swear it wasn’t.”
“What? It wasn’t you?”
“The child is mine, not the anonymous letters.”
Xavière lowered her head, disconcerted.
He was surprised. “You seem disappointed.”
“Yes. It was stupid, but it was a great idea all the same. And it caused a hell of a stir in the neighborhood. A pity!”
Orion devoted himself again to his task: uncorking a bottle.
Taking advantage of his attention being elsewhere, Xavière put her hands on her belly, stroked the bulge with both palms and murmured, “You hear that, kiddo? You mustn’t idolize your father too much. Quite apart from the fact that he took sixty years to make you, he’s not used to doing anything out of the ordinary. One last thing: he’s an alcoholic and we conceived you when we were both plastered. Will you come all the same?”
Orion turned, thinking she was talking to him. “What was that, Xavière?”
“Nothing, just daydreaming . . . ”
13
Albane!”
His cry had the sharp, nasal quality of the parrots and parakeets bustling about in the trees.
“Albane!”
He couldn’t help it. Emotion made his voice ugly, quite apart from the fact that it had recently broken and he had consequently lost all control over it.
“Albane!”
The fear of not being heard made his cries even shriller, so that they blended with the screeching of the parrots and were lost in the middle of all that cacophony. It was like one of those nightmares in which the dreamer, in spite of running as fast as he can, is caught by a monstrous giant moving in slow motion. Quentin realized that, even though he was shouting at the top of his lungs, Albane wouldn’t hear him.
So he leaped off the bench and waved his arms.
Dragged abruptly from her daydream, Albane saw him, gave a start, took fright at first, then recognized him and smiled slightly.
Hesitantly, she decided to cross the street and go to him.
As if it was the most natural thing in the world, he returned to the bench to welcome her.
“So you still come here?” she asked.
Her disconcerted tone suggested that she was surprised Quentin hadn’t noticed the changes in the world: a war had broken out.
“Of course. Every day. I’ve been waiting for you because you stopped answering my notes.”
Albane remembered that she hadn’t answered his messages. It wasn’
t that she didn’t care—on the contrary, whenever his name came up, it warmed her heart—but she kept telling herself that she would call him as soon as she felt better. Had she really been down for so long?
“What happened?”
She looked at him. He looked worried, sensibly worried. He had no idea what she had gone through . . . Luckily!
Seeing those clear blue eyes, which knew nothing about her ordeal, she felt lighter. At home, neither her mother nor Hippolyte nor Dr. Gemayel nor Marie-Jeanne Simon, the psychiatrist specializing in trauma, could ever look at her innocently.
“I’ve been ill,” she said.
“Seriously ill?” Now he did look alarmed.
She had better reassure him as quickly as possible, she didn’t want him to feel sorry for her. “No, it wasn’t a physical problem.”
“What, then?”
“It was a girl thing. Not important. It’s fine now.”
She was astonished by what she was saying. This urge to spare Quentin—or spare herself in his eyes—sounded a new note that seemed at once shocking and comforting.
At the mention of a “girl thing,” Quentin lowered his eyes. He wouldn’t investigate further: he was a young male and knew that women belonged not just to a different sex than men, but to a different species. Boys had to respect a “girl thing.” In recent years, he had realized that their bodies contained very special equipment, organs that bothered them, hurt them, stopped them from going swimming, and exempted them from classes without anyone objecting. As far as Quentin was concerned, there was no need to veil women: even naked, they remained shrouded in mystery.
He sighed and rubbed his hands. “Phew! At least it wasn’t something I did to upset you!”
Albane looked at him tenderly. He was so harmless, so delicate. How could he ever do anything to upset her? True, he related everything to himself, and yet she found his attentive, devoted egocentricity touching. In a parallel life, she could have loved him.
In relation to him, Albane had two lives that were difficult to reconcile, the old and the new. In the old, arguing with Quentin, annoying him, picking on him, flirting with him had been really important to her; in the new one, which had started with the assault, she found herself confronted with a childlike, inexperienced boy.
The Carousel of Desire Page 55