by Ivo Fornesa
‘One night, at a dinner he organised in Vallée Bleue, it finally all made sense. There were some fifty of us altogether, and he spent the evening speaking to different women, alone or in groups. I had plenty of opportunity to observe him, and I set to work spying on him to see how he behaved with the others. That was when the scales fell from my eyes: he treated them exactly the same as me, listening with interest, giving compliments when appropriate, making a gallant gesture or naughty joke at just the right time … At a certain point he always forced some physical contact, mostly taking them by the arm, as if to prevent them from stumbling. So I concluded that if I, who was sleeping with him, hadn’t been treated the slightest bit differently from any of those other women, the most likely explanation was that he was rolling in the hay with a few more of them. I grabbed my handbag and left.
‘The next day, during the work meeting, Carlos spoke to me as if nothing had happened. Clearly, he hadn’t noticed that one of the sheep from his flock had gone missing. I asked him if I mattered to him, and his look said it all: it was as though he were thinking to himself, Oh God, another foolish girl in love! I couldn’t control myself; the tears flowed and dripped onto the blueprints. Shennan offered me a handkerchief and said, “I thought you were an adult and understood from the start that we were just having fun.” His lack of empathy was the best thing that could have happened to me, because my infatuation vanished all at once, as if it had been exorcised. “Don’t worry, Carlos,” I answered. “I’m sorry for making a scene, and I won’t cross the line again in what should be a purely professional relationship.” He was unfazed. “Wonderful, Pia, now hand me the blueprints for the cellar, I want to see if we can make it bigger.” And that’s how our short fling ended, neither happily nor ever after.’
Laurent didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m truly sorry, Pia. That must have been a hard blow. And yet, even so, on the day of the party the way you spoke made it seem you’d also had some sort of professional row with Carlos.’
‘Yes, now I remember. The day of the party, he repeatedly congratulated me on my work. He was radiant, receiving praise from everyone, and perhaps because of the euphoria, he seemed to suffer from emotional amnesia – he got a bit handsy, you understand. Yet even though he’d spoken to me on several occasions about having me do his summer home in Corsica, that very day I learnt he’d hired a very cute but very inexperienced architect for the job. And that’s when I finally told him to go to hell.’
‘That must have happened before the two of us spoke in the park, right?’ Laurent interrupted her. ‘I assume you didn’t see him again, because you told me you were going to work on another project somewhere else.’
Pia gave him a piercing stare. ‘Given that you’re looking for a culprit for Carlos’s death, it’s not very smart of me to tell you what I’m about to tell you. But I don’t care: as I was heading to the exit, I saw Shennan from afar, as he was saying goodbye to some guests. I felt awful, I had an unpleasant sour feeling in my gut, and I couldn’t help myself. I walked over to him. I was wearing a very pretty gold watch with emeralds that Carlos had given me – perhaps you noticed when we spoke. In any case, I walked up to Shennan, and when I saw him greet me with that look of amiable indifference, I said nothing: I just took off the watch, dropped it into his cocktail and left.’
The end of the story was met with applause by Laurent. The architect smiled as she raised the back of her hand to dry a little tear struggling to well up.
‘The truth is, you were right, Laurent. It feels good to vent. Do you need anything else? I’m meeting my mother to go shopping, and …’
Laurent took hold of the armrest to hoist himself out of the chair. In designer furniture like that, aesthetics always took priority over comfort.
‘Don’t worry, I appreciate your time. If you’re interested, I’ll keep you posted on what I find out. And buck up, a woman like you can’t let a man get her down.’
‘Thank you, Laurent. If you come through Paris again, don’t hesitate to call, I’d be delighted to see you.’ When she said goodbye at the door, she gave him a kiss on each cheek. As Laurent descended the marble staircase, he thought to himself that he’d just met someone quite different from what he’d imagined – and not for the first time in these last few days.
Pia came across as a tiger, but was a wounded gazelle; Solange seemed like a little white hare, when in truth she was a hawk; Cathy pretended to be a praying mantis, when in fact she was just a purring cat. And Madame Mayumi … she remained unclassifiable.
YAEL GOLANI
Laurent planned to interview Yael the next morning, so he decided to spend the night in Paris, an occasion he always took to stay in a cheap Ibis hotel on the boulevard near the Druot Auction House, which he always visited when he found himself in the city. He never intended to buy anything, and all he knew about antiques was that he liked them, but he made up for his ignorance with enthusiasm for attending the heated bidding sessions.
But on that occasion, the hotel’s location was doubly convenient, since from there the walk to the Marais, where he had news that Yael now worked, made for an interesting route, both architecturally and for the shops he could find on his way.
He sat in on a new bidding session, dined reasonably well and slept in the hotel, and the next day, straight after breakfast, he decided not to postpone the encounter any longer and headed straight for the Judaica shop where, from what he’d heard, the woman he’d once thought he was in love with might be working. He couldn’t help wondering why Yael was taking refuge or hiding in that neighbourhood. The woman he’d met months ago in Saint-Chartier didn’t go on about her ethnic heritage, much less display any remotely religious beliefs.
As he approached the Marais, Laurent saw more kosher restaurants and more kippahs on men’s heads. All of a sudden he felt transported to a nineteenth-century ghetto in Galicia or Chełm. Laurent saw men in shtreimels with long earlocks waving in the wind, with baggy trousers, white or black socks and kaftans tied with a sash. The most outwardly pious wore their phylacteries tied to their forearms, while many women carried enormous handbags and wore crude wigs or headscarves with designs from the Caucasus. Buildings showed their mezuzahs at the entrance, and although the Hebrew script mostly alternated with French, some posters also advertised events or theatre performances in Yiddish.
Laurent was so absorbed observing the people filling the streets that when he reached Yael’s shop he realised he’d arrived too early. Luckily, across the street was a cafe for devotees of the Singing Rabbi, Shlomo Carlebach. There were few customers inside, so he managed to get a table with a view of Yael’s shop.
An ageing blonde waitress with a friendly demeanour and an American accent asked him in Hebrew what he wanted, and Laurent replied in English, ordering a strong coffee and a sesame pretzel.
The pretzel came fresh from the oven and would have earned the blessing of the Grand Rabbi of Krakow. He dipped it in the coffee and took a bite as he looked out of the window and tried to see into the storefront across the way. This was no easy task, as the shop window was crammed with objects: seven- and nine-candle menorahs for the Sabbath, bookstands for the reading of holy scripture in Yeshivas, silver placeholders for books, amulets with the Star of David, framed photos of men with mane-like beards and round glasses, along with anything else one might find in a Judaica shop. It was a world not wholly unknown to him, since Chile has a large Jewish community, and one of his great loves had been Judith, a beauty with devilish green eyes who was flexible and liberal in her everyday life but had surprising fits of religious observance. Sometimes, after a session of lovemaking, she’d tell him about the significance of the festival of Purim or Rosh Hashanah, and Laurent would listen rapt as he stroked her breasts; at other times, however, she turned away from his attention and caresses, complaining that Laurent wouldn’t get circumcised as proof of his love.
As his mind wandered back to those memories, Laurent almost failed to notice the shop door open
as an old bearded man with the air and manner of a rabbi made his way outside. The woman holding the door open was Yael.
Laurent couldn’t believe his eyes. There she was, in a long dress, a blouse like those worn by the devout, and her hair hidden under a headscarf. The man stood in the street saying something, and she leant against the door, arms crossed over her chest and looking down at the ground, nodding at what the old man said.
Laurent knew that her modest attire covered a sculpted body with cinnamon skin, that her headscarf concealed a cascade of jet-black curls, and that he – he himself – had made love to her. That’s why he couldn’t get over the shock of seeing her now as some kind of religious prude, nor could he make sense of her transformation. He simply couldn’t fathom what could have caused such a drastic change.
The last time he’d seen her, she had just slapped Shennan and was heading for the château gate. She was sensually dressed in a long gown with cut-outs on the front that revealed her legs, and from behind showed off the rhythmic swaying of her taut buttocks. But now he had trouble gathering the strength to go into the shop and walk up casually to her, even though that was the purpose of his visit: he was afraid of how Yael might react, since she was so unpredictable. And he was afraid of how he might react too.
Fortunately, he’d let his beard grow, and thinking ahead, he’d put on a black beret and sunglasses. He had a studious air he hoped would let him escape notice in the apparently large shop, where he intended to slink about and spy on her. Suddenly it occurred to him that if there was no one else in the shop, the employees might pounce on him and try to sell him on an edition of the Mishnah, so he decided to wait until he saw someone else go in.
He was in luck: ten minutes later a group of Talmudic students led by their teacher entered the shop, and he took the opportunity to leave the cafe, march across the street and follow them in.
The shop turned out to be enormous, and his impression from outside was mistaken: it was full of people, many more than he expected. They weren’t easy customers, he noticed: they studied each object as if their lives depended on it, completely focused, even checking to see whether the branches of a menorah were aligned, or whether the leather in the phylacteries was of good quality. Laurent stopped in front of a display case and pretended to be interested in a tallit. From there he spotted Yael, speaking to a hunched old woman. Her unflattering clothes were unable to conceal her beauty, and Laurent couldn’t help grimacing as he saw her struggling with an unruly curl and forcing it back into its confinement.
Behind her was a bookshelf, and he slowly moved toward it, trying not to be seen. He placed himself practically beside Yael’s back and stood there, looking over the books as he listened to her speak to the woman in Hebrew.
Who was that woman, really? In Saint-Chartier she’d lived as a modern, liberated artist, and in the Marais she was a prim standard bearer of the Lion of Judah. He studied her out of the corner of his eye and saw her lift her head and wrinkle her nose, as though sniffing the air, and then look around, disconcerted. Finally she seemed to dismiss a thought and turn her attention back to the old woman, who was taking her hand tenderly.
Laurent knew Yael thought she’d recognised his scent, since the cologne he put on after showering was by a little-known brand with a very particular fragrance. Then he heard her call over another shop assistant, who she asked to help her find something he didn’t understand.
He couldn’t delay any longer. He turned to Yael and in a polite voice asked, ‘Could you help me find a book on spirituality? Specifically I’m looking for something about helping women repent after they’ve strayed from the true faith and rolled around in the mud of carnal sin with men like me.’
Yael gave a start but instantly recovered her composure. Her face did not betray the slightest excitement or joy at seeing him.
‘I wasn’t mistaken. That was your scent. What are you doing here? I hope you have a very good reason for coming to disturb me at work. Besides, you’re a goy, you can’t touch these objects, you have no right.’
At this point Laurent was in no mood to take lessons from anyone, least of all Mademoiselle Yael Golani.
‘I’m moved by your warm welcome.’ He stepped dangerously close to her. ‘I’m here because I want to talk to you, and don’t you tell me what I can or can’t touch, after you jerked me around with your lectures, stories and lies.’
She gave him an icy look. ‘If you don’t leave, I’ll have them call the police.’
Laurent raised his eyebrows sarcastically. He had just about closed the door on his former passion for Yael, but this stupid reaction of hers was the perfect way to bolt the lock.
‘Ha. If you don’t calm down this instant and ask for a break, saying I’m your cousin and we’re going to get coffee across the way, I’ll start yelling that you’re the whore of Babylon. And believe me, I know enough about Judaism to come up with such a story that afterward you won’t even find work as a cleaning lady at a bris.’
She studied him, and for the first time since he’d met her he could see she was hesitating.
‘And if I do go with you, what do you want to talk to me about?’
Laurent’s bluff had worked, and he could tell that Yael had lost the match, but he still wanted to make sure. ‘We’ll talk about whatever I want to talk about, because I deserve it. And I want to explain some things and hear your opinion about them. If I don’t get the answers I expect, I’ll come back here and go through with my initial plan. Café. Now.’
The American from the cafe met him with a smile.
‘I knew you’d like our place. What can I get you?’ She looked at Yael, and added, ‘You look like you’re a Yemenite. So is our cook, and he makes some very good Yemeni pastries. Why don’t I bring you some, along with some anise and cardamom tea?’
Laurent had to admire the server’s business acumen. If Le Juanch had a waitress like that he’d be rich.
‘Sounds perfect,’ he said. ‘The same for you, Yael?’ She gave a nod, and Laurent held up two fingers.
After a short silence, he decided to begin.
‘Look, Yael, I don’t know what sort of mystical sect you’re mixed up in, and I don’t give a damn. I don’t think I treated you so badly to deserve such a shitty, threatening welcome, nor to have you suddenly vanish from Saint-Chartier. Besides, maybe you’re unaware, but after Shennan’s death I was the only idiot hauled in for interrogation, while you, my one-time neighbour and lover, didn’t have the decency to speak up on my behalf. Imagine how grateful I am. How does it look to you? But what a silly question! As if I didn’t know you’d gone there with a plan, and that I was nothing more than an extra in your show.’
Yael seemed to be slowly regaining her calm. ‘Finished with your tantrum? Ask me whatever you want. The sooner I get out of here, the better.’
But Laurent was in no mood to let her off easily, and he decided to make his second bluff. ‘No, my dear, I haven’t even started. Don’t think you’re so pretty or untouchable, because guess what: I was nice enough not to mention the story of how you yelled at Shennan and slapped him in the face just before he died. But as I suppose you know, the case has been reopened, and since I don’t want to go through that inferno again, I won’t hesitate to spill everything. Maybe that way you can experience what I did. You’re a smart girl; you’ll have guessed I’m not joking. I’m sick of being the “collateral damage”, as you once called me.’
Yael seemed to evaluate the situation. ‘Fine, you’re right. I didn’t treat you well. I’ll tell you whatever I can, and I’m sorry for what you went through. You may not believe me, but I swear I left town right after Shennan died, and since I wasn’t in contact with anyone, I had no idea you were a suspect.’
‘No one ever knew that I was the scapegoat, it seems! Let me rephrase the question. If you had known, would that have even slightly altered your plans? Have the decency not to lie to me.’ Laurent stared her straight in the face.
She closed
her eyes, then lowered them. ‘No, I don’t think that would have changed my plans.’
‘Such a shame, Yael.’ He looked ruefully out onto the street. ‘I was genuinely in love with you, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t have done for you. But silly me, I’m just a goy. In short: throwaway material.’
This confession did seem to reach her sensitive fibres.
‘Don’t say that,’ said Yael, placing her hand beside his. ‘And I do feel sorry, as much as I’m able to.’
Laurent withdrew his hand. He wasn’t about to lose his dignity for such an insignificant gesture of affection that for all he knew might have been feigned.
‘You’re as sensitive as a fossilised amoeba, Yael. It doesn’t matter; let’s get down to business. Have your pastries and listen.’ Laurent once again explained what he’d told everyone else on the list. To his surprise, she found the whole thing extremely interesting.
‘So the Monattis also saw me slap him? Strange that they didn’t tell the police, but then of course they weren’t interrogated, and they risked having their theft discovered. From what you’ve said, it sounds like no one was involved in Shennan’s death, so maybe the police theory is right. And I don’t understand how I can help, since you told me yourself you saw me leave before anything happened to Shennan.’
‘Look,’ said Laurent, licking his fingers after devouring the last pastry. ‘What I want is for you to tell me the truth about your story, in this order: what were you doing in Saint-Chartier? Why did you have sex with me? Why were you so furious at Shennan? And finally – and I admit, this is what really gets me – what on earth are you doing dressed like that?’