“But fine, I really owe that to them. They’re actually flexible enough … anyway … yes, I’m telling you this … because I spoke to them about you … and everybody agreed to do exactly as you choose. If you decide to come back, you’ll be able to do it at your own pace, as you wish.”
“How nice.”
“It’s not only nice. We miss you here, really.”
“…”
“I miss you.”
He said it as he stared at her intensely. The kind of insistent look that makes you feel uncomfortable. In an eye, time can go on forever; a second becomes a discourse. To be honest, he couldn’t deny two things: he’d always been attracted to her, and his attraction was more pronounced since the death of her husband. It was difficult to admit this kind of affection. Was it a morbid affinity? No, not necessarily. It was her face. It looked as though it had been purified by her tragedy. Natalie’s sadness considerably deepened her erotic potential.
Twenty-two
Dictionary Definition of Delicacy
1. The quality or condition of being delicate, fragile, or sensitive.
2. Discretion, tact.
Twenty-three
Natalie was sitting at her desk. From the first morning of her return to work, she’d been confronted by something terrible: a block calendar. Out of respect, no one had touched her belongings. And no one had imagined how grim it would be for her to see the date of her last workday before the tragedy frozen in time on her desk. The date two days before her husband’s accident. On that page he was still alive. She picked up the calendar and began to turn pages. The days paraded by under her eyes. Each day since François’s death had felt loaded with an immense weight. And now, in a few seconds, just by turning the page for each day, she could see the trajectory concretely. All these pages, and she was still here. And now, it was today.
And then, the moment came when there was a new block calendar.
Natalie had been back to work for several months. Some thought the effort she was putting into it was excessive. Time seemed to go back to its course. Everything started again: the routine of meetings, the absurd side of files that you numbered like a series of items without the slightest importance. And then, the height of absurdity: these files would survive us. Yes, this is what she told herself as she filed documents. That all those hunks of pulp were superior to us in many respects, that they weren’t subject to illness, old age, or accident. No report would ever get run over while jogging on a Sunday.
Twenty-four
Definition of the Word Delicate,
Since Defining Delicacy Isn’t Enough for
Understanding Delicacy
1. Subtle and subdued. A delicate flavor.
2. Showing fragility. Delicate crystal.
3. Requiring sensitive or careful handling. Delicate situation.
4. Characterized by subtle judgment, deftness. Delicate chess maneuvers.
Twenty-five
Since Natalie’s return to work, Charles had been in good spirits. He even enjoyed his Swedish lessons from time to time. Something having to do with confidence and respect had been forged between them. Natalie knew the value of the luck she had working for such a benevolent man. But she wasn’t duped by it anymore; she sensed his attraction to her. She allowed him to allude to it, as long as he did so more or less subtly. He never went too far, because she’d established a distance that seemed insurmountable to him. She never took part in his game, simply because she couldn’t play. It was beyond her power. She was saving all her energy for work. On numerous occasions, he tried to invite her to dinner; each attempt was futile, dismissed by silence. She just couldn’t go out. Certainly not with a man. This seemed ridiculous to her; if she had the pluck to hold out all day, concentrating on files that had no importance, why wouldn’t she grant herself a few moments of respite? It had to have something to do with her notion of pleasure. She didn’t feel she had the right to do anything that was lighthearted. That’s how it was. She just couldn’t. She wasn’t even sure she ever could.
Tonight, things were different. She’d finally accepted, and they were going to dinner. Charles had unveiled an unbeatable strategy: they had to celebrate her promotion. Yes, it was true, she’d taken a truly envious step up the ladder and would now manage a team of six people. Although her promotion was completely justified by her competence, she wondered all the same if she’d been given it because of the pity she aroused. At first she’d wanted to say no, but not accepting a promotion was complicated. Then, perceiving Charles’s eagerness to arrange that evening, she began wondering whether he’d speeded up her career advancement just to get her to go to dinner. Anything was possible; it was useless to try to understand. She only told herself that he was right: this definitely was a good excuse to force herself to go out. Maybe she’d be able to revive a kind of nightlife nonchalance.
Twenty-six
Charles had a major stake in this dinner. He knew it would be decisive. He’d gotten ready for it with the same butterflies in the stomach he’d had for his first date as a teenager. Well, that hadn’t been such a crazy feeling. But with Natalie, he could almost imagine he was dining with a woman for the first time. It was as if she possessed the strange knack of wiping out all memories of his love life.
Charles had been careful to avoid candlelit restaurants, to keep from coming on too strongly in the romantic sense, something she might have seen as inappropriate. The first few minutes were perfect. They drank and the conversation was sparse, ending occasionally in brief silences that didn’t make them ill at ease. She was glad to be there, having a drink, and thought that she should have gone out earlier, that action led to pleasure. She even wanted to get drunk. Yet something kept her feet on the ground. She could never truly escape her condition. She could drink as much as she wanted, but it wouldn’t change anything. She was just there, in a state of complete lucidity, watching herself perform like an actress on a stage. Splitting herself in two, she was dumbfounded to see the woman she no longer was, someone who could exist in life, who could project appeal. It put all the details of her inability to exist in an even harsher light. But Charles saw nothing. He was in his element, taking things literally, trying to make her drink, to gain access to a little life with her. He was enthralled. For months, he’d experienced her as Russian. He didn’t really know what that meant, but that’s the way it was: in his mind, she had a Russian kind of strength, a Russian sadness. Therefore, her femininity had migrated from Switzerland to Russia.
“So … why the promotion?” she asked.
“Because your work is fantastic … and I find you wonderful—that’s all.”
“Really?”
“Why are you asking? You think that’s not all?”
“Me? I don’t think anything.”
“And if I put my hand there, you don’t feel anything?”
He didn’t know what had given him the nerve. He’d been telling himself that anything was conceivable tonight. How could he be so out of touch? As he placed his hand on hers, he immediately remembered the moment when he’d put it on her knee. She’d looked at him in the same way. And all he could do was withdraw it. He was tired of banging his head against a wall, of living permanently in the unspoken. He wanted to clarify things.
“You’re not attracted to me, is that it?”
“But … why are you asking me that?”
“What about you? Why these questions? Why don’t you ever answer?”
“Because I don’t know …”
“Don’t you think it’s time to move forward? I’m not asking you to forget François … but you don’t want to spend your entire life shut away … you know how much I could be there for you …”
“… But you’re married …”
Charles was startled to hear her mention his wife in that way. Maybe it seemed crazy, but he’d forgotten her. He wasn’t a married man having dinner with another woman. He was a man in the present tense. Yes, he was married. He was living in a state that he referred to as
conjugalease. His marriage was in stasis. So he was surprised, because he was being profoundly sincere about his attraction to Natalie.
“But why are you talking to me about my wife? She’s like a shadow! We just brush by each other.”
“You wouldn’t think so.”
“Because appearances are everything for her. When she comes to the office, it’s only to parade around. But if you only knew how pathetic it is, if you only knew …”
“Then leave her.”
“For you, I’d leave her on the spot.”
“Not for me … for you.”
There was a lapse in the conversation, time to take a few breaths, several sips. Natalie had been shocked by his mention of François, that he’d tried to veer onto slippery ground so quickly and with so little finesse. She ended up saying that she wanted to go home. Charles was very aware that he’d gone too far, that he’d spoiled the evening with his admissions. How could he not have seen that this wasn’t the moment? That she wasn’t ready. It had to go gently, in stages. And he’d taken off at an insane speed, trying to recapture years of desire in two minutes. All of it had been caused by the way the evening started. It was that beautiful, promising lead-in that had pushed him into the confidence of men who come on too strong.
He pulled himself together; after all, he had the right to say what he was feeling. It wasn’t a crime just to open his heart. And yes, it was true that everything was clumsy with her, that her widowed status complicated a lot of things. It occurred to him that he would have had more luck seducing her at some point if François weren’t dead. By dying, he’d set their love in stone. He’d flung them into a static eternity. How could you turn on anything at all in a woman in her condition? A woman living in an immutable world. Really, it was enough to make you ask yourself whether he’d killed himself on purpose to make their love last forever. Some people actually think that passion is bound to end tragically.
Twenty-seven
They left the restaurant. Their discomfort was getting worse and worse. Charles couldn’t find any clever remark or shaft of wit, or even any out-and-out humor that would have allowed him to make up for things a little. To relax the atmosphere slightly. There was nothing to do; they were stuck. For months Charles had been sensitive and considerate, respectful and loyal, and now all his efforts to be decent were being wiped out because he hadn’t known how to control his desire. His body had become a dismembered absurdity, each limb with its own heart. He tried to kiss Natalie on the cheek, to make it casual and friendly, but his neck stiffened. This strangled moment lasted a moment more, like a series of slow pretentious seconds.
Then suddenly, Natalie gave him a big smile. She wanted to make him understand that it all wasn’t so serious. That it was better to forget the evening, that was all. She said she wanted to walk a little and left on that pleasant note. Charles kept watching her, his eyes glued to her back. He couldn’t move, was frozen in defeat. Natalie grew farther away at the center of his field of vision, got smaller and smaller, but he was the one who was shrinking, growing smaller as he stood there.
That is when Natalie stopped.
And turned around.
Once again she walked toward him. The woman who’d been fading away in his field of vision a moment before grew larger the closer she came. What did she want? He mustn’t get carried away. Obviously she’d forgotten her keys, a scarf, or one of those many objects women love to forget. But no, that wasn’t it. You could tell by her way of walking. You sensed it had nothing to do with anything material. She was coming toward him to speak, to tell him something. She was walking in an ethereal way, like the heroine of an Italian film from 1967. He wanted to step forward, too, to go toward her. In an excess of romanticism, he imagined that it should begin raining. All the silence at the end of the meal had only been confusion. She was coming back not to speak, but to kiss him. It was extraordinary: at the moment when she’d left, he’d had the intuition that he mustn’t move, that she was going to return. Because it was obvious there was something instinctive and simple between them, something strong and fragile that had been there from the beginning. It was undeniable; you had to understand her. It wasn’t easy for her. Admitting she felt something despite the fact that her husband had just died. It was appalling, even. And yet, how could they resist? Love stories are often amoral.
She was quite close to him now, flushed, heavenly, the alluring embodiment of tragic femininity. She was there, Natalie, his love.
“I apologize for not having answered earlier … I was embarrassed …”
“Yes, I understand.”
“It’s so hard to put in words what I’m feeling.”
“I know, Natalie.”
“But I think I can give you an answer: I’m not attracted to you. And even, I think, I’m not comfortable with your method of trying to seduce me. I’m positive there’ll never be anything between us. Maybe I’m simply incapable anymore of loving someone, but if I ever consider it someday, I know it won’t be you.”
“…”
“I couldn’t go home like that. I’d rather it be said.”
“It has been said. You said it. Yes, it’s been said. If I understand, then you’ve said it. You did say it, yes.”
Natalie watched Charles as he spluttered on. Words left hanging, snapped up one by one by silence. Words like the eyes of a dying man. She made a vague gesture of fondness: a hand on the shoulder. And returned the way she’d come. Left again toward the smaller and smaller Natalie. Charles wanted to stay standing there, and it wasn’t easy. He couldn’t get over it. Especially the tone she’d used. Completely unaffected, without the slightest nastiness. He had to face facts: she wasn’t attracted to him and never would be. He wasn’t feeling any anger. It was like the sudden end of something that had made him feel alive for years. The end of a possibility. The evening had followed the voyage of the Titanic. Festive at first, then shipwrecked. Truth often had the look of an iceberg. Natalie was still in his field of vision, and he wanted to see her leave as quickly as possible. Even the tiny speck she’d become was inordinately unbearable.
Twenty-eight
Charles walked a little, until the parking lot. Once he was in his car, he smoked a cigarette. What he was feeling was a perfect match for the jarringly yellow neon. He pulled out of the parking space and turned on the radio. The announcer was talking about a strange series of ties tonight in League 1 soccer. Everything was coherent. He was like the least interesting of all the sports associations, lost in the most unexciting part of the championship games. He was married, he had a daughter, was in charge of an excellent company, but he felt an immense emptiness. Only the dream of Natalie had the ability to make him feel alive. All of it was over now, obliterated, destroyed, ruined. He could string together a list of synonyms, but it wouldn’t change anything now. Then he thought that there was something worse than being rejected by a woman you love: having to come across her every day. Ending up near her in a hallway at any moment. He was thinking of the hallway for a reason. She was beautiful in the offices, but he’d always thought that her eroticism displayed itself more powerfully in the hallways. Yes, in his mind, she was a woman of the hallways. And now he’d just realized that at the end of the hallway he was going to have to make a U-turn.
On the other hand, to get home, you must never make a U-turn. Charles’s car drove along the street he took every day. You would have thought it was the subway, to the extent that the route radiated sameness. He parked and smoked another cigarette in the lot of his building. As he opened the door to his place, he caught sight of his wife in front of the television. No one would have guessed that Laurence had once possessed a kind of furious sexual energy. Slowly but inevitably she was slipping into the prototype of the depressed bourgeoise. Strangely, Charles was affected by that image. He walked slowly up to the television and turned it off. His wife protested, without very much conviction. He walked over to her and firmly took her arm. She wanted to react, but no sound came fr
om her mouth. Deep down she’d dreamed of this moment, dreamed that her husband would touch her, that he’d stop walking past her as if she no longer existed. Their life together was a daily lesson in self-effacement. Without exchanging a word, they headed toward their bedroom. The bed was made, and suddenly it was unmade. Charles turned Laurence around and lowered her panties. Natalie’s rejection had given him the desire to have sex with his wife, even a little violently.
Twenty-nine
League 1 Soccer Scores the Evening Charles Understood
Natalie Would Never Be Attracted to Him
Auxerre–Marseille: 2-2
*
Lens–Lille: 1-1
*
Toulouse–Sochaux: 1-0
*
Paris SG–Nantes: 1-1
*
Grenoble–Le Mans: 3-3
*
Saint-Étienne–Lyon: 0-0
*
Monaco–Nice: 0-0
*
Rennes–Bordeaux: 0-1
*
Nancy–Caen: 1-1
*
Lorient–Le Havre: 2-2
Thirty
After that dinner, their relationship was no longer the same. Charles kept his distance, and Natalie understood perfectly. Rare as their exchanges were, they became strictly professional. Dealing with their respective files didn’t cause much of a problem. Since her promotion, Natalie had been managing a team of six people.d She’d changed her office, and that had been the best thing for her. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Was changing décor enough to change your state of mind? Maybe she ought to think about moving? But she’d barely imagined the possibility before she understood that she wouldn’t feel up to it. Mourning possesses a double-edged power, an uncompromising power that propels everything as much toward the necessity for change as toward the morbid temptation to stay faithful to the past. So she assigned her professional life the task of looking to the future. Her new office, on the top floor of the building, seemed to touch the sky, and she congratulated herself for not being afraid of heights. Here was one kind of rejoicing that was simple to do.
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