Delicacy

by David Foenkinos

  “I’d like to thank you … for the present.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Can I buy you a drink this evening?”

  Markus nodded, thinking, I’m in love with her, and she’s always the one who takes the initiative for our get-togethers. Above all, he decided he shouldn’t be afraid anymore, that he’d been silly to withdraw like that, to protect himself. You should never be stingy about a potential torment. Once again, he kept thinking, even answering her, although she’d already left several minutes ago. He still believed that all of it could lead to suffering, disappointment, the most terrifying emotional impasse that exists. But he wanted to go there. He wanted to leave for an unknown destination. Nothing was tragic. He knew there were ferries between the isle of suffering and that of forgetfulness, and one that was even farther away, hope.

  Natalie had suggested they meet at the café. It was better to be discreet after sneaking away the previous day. And she also hadn’t forgotten Chloé’s questions. This was okay with him, even if, deep down, he could have organized a press conference trumpeting every date with Natalie. He got there first and decided to sit where he could be easily seen. A strategic place designed to prevent anyone from missing the production of the arrival of the beautiful woman with whom he had a date. It was an important act, which certainly shouldn’t have been considered superficial. In any case, it had nothing to do with male vanity. Something else that was much more important should have been seen in it: a first achievement of self-acceptance.

  That morning, for the first time in a long time, he’d forgotten to take a book with him when he left home. Natalie had told him that she’d come as quickly as possible to the café, but he hadn’t ruled out that he’d have to wait for a while. Markus got up to get one of the free papers, and he dove into a reading of it. Soon he was fascinated by a story. He was deeply absorbed in the article when Natalie appeared.

  “It’s okay? I’m not disturbing you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You looked like you were really concentrating.”

  “Yes, I was reading an article … on mozzarella trafficking.”

  This sent Natalie into gales of laughter, the kind you can have when you’re tired. She couldn’t stop. Markus understood how it could be funny and began to laugh as well. Inanity got a hold of them. All he’d done was answer without a second thought. And now she was laughing nonstop. It was an absolutely insane sight for Markus. Like looking at a fish with legs (to each his similes). For years, in hundreds of meetings, he’d seen a woman who was serious; sweet, yes, but always serious. He’d seen her smile, of course, and he’d even made her laugh before—but not like this. It was the first time that she laughed with such intensity. For her, it was all there: a moment that offered crystal-clear proof of what she liked experiencing with Markus. A man sitting in a café who gives you a big smile when you arrive and seriously announces he’s reading an article on mozzarella trafficking.

  Seventy-three

  Article from the Newspaper Métro, Entitled

  “Mozzarella Racket Busted”

  Five people were placed in police custody yesterday and the day before during a raid in Bondoufle (Essonne) targeting traffickers of “high-quality” mozzarella. According to Pierre Chuchkoff, the Évry squadron chief in charge of the investigation, “between 60 and 70 truck-bed pallets, totaling 33 tons, were stockpiled in two years” and resold in areas as far away as Villejuif (Val-de-Marne). This trafficking is not insignificant, considering the loss is estimated at 280,000 euros. The investigation, which began in June 2008 in response to a complaint from the Stef Group, was able to follow a trace that led to, among others, the managers of two pizzerias, one of which, located in Palaiseau, served as the hub. Police still have not discovered who was in charge of the operation or where the ill-gotten mozzarella gains have gone.

  V.M.

  Seventy-four

  During the course of a love affair, alcohol accompanies two opposing moments: finding the other and the need to talk about it; and the time when there’s no longer anything more to say to each other. They were in stage one. The stage where you don’t notice time passing, where you recreate the story, especially the kissing scene. Natalie had thought the kiss had been motivated by a chance impulse. But maybe not? Maybe chance doesn’t exist. And all of it had only been the unconscious evolution of an intuition. The impression that she’d feel right with this man. This made her happy, then serious, then happy again. Swinging unremittingly from elation to sadness. And now the journey was leading her outside. To the cold. Natalie didn’t feel very well. She’d caught cold with her goings and comings the night before. Where were she and Markus going? A kind of long walk was coming, because neither dared go to the other’s place yet, and they certainly didn’t want to separate. They let the feeling of indecision go on and on. And it’s even more powerful at night.

  “Can I kiss you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know … I’m starting to get a cold.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m ready to be sick with you. Can I kiss you?”

  Natalie had been so happy that he asked her the question. It was a form of sensitivity. Each moment with him went beyond the ordinary. After what she’d been through, how could she have imagined ever again entering a magical realm? There was something unique about the man.

  She said yes with a movement of her head.

  Seventy-five

  Dialogue from Woody Allen’s Celebrity

  That Inspired Markus’s Reply

  CHARLIZE THERON: You’re not afraid of catching germs? And you know, I’m coming down with a cold and everything …

  KENNETH BRANAGH: From you I’d be willing to catch terminal cancer.

  Seventy-six

  Evenings can be extraordinary, nights unforgettable, and yet they always lead to mornings like all the others. Natalie was taking the elevator to her office. She hated ending up with someone in this cramped space, having to smile and exchange polite remarks, so she had waited for an empty car. She liked those several seconds as she rose toward her day, in that cage that transforms us into ants in a tunnel. She got out and found herself face to face with her boss. This is no idiom: they literally collided with each other.

  “How surprising … I was telling myself that we don’t see much of each other these days … and boom, there you are! If I’d known I had such power, I would have sent out another wish …”

  “Clever of you.”

  “But seriously, I have to talk to you. Can you stop by and see me in a bit?”

  Lately, Natalie had almost forgotten that Charles existed. He was like an old telephone number, an element that no longer jibes with the times. He was like a pneumatic mail tube, and they hadn’t existed in Paris since 1983. She found it strange to have to go back to his office. How long ago had she stopped going there? She wasn’t sure, exactly. The past was beginning to warp, to get diluted in hesitations, to hide under blotches of forgetfulness. And that was the happy proof that the present was resuming its role. She let most of the morning go by, then made up her mind.

  Seventy-seven

  Examples of Telephone Numbers from

  Another Century

  Odéon 32-40

  *

  Passy 22-12

  *

  Clichy 12-14

  Seventy-eight

  Natalie walked into Charles’s office. She immediately noticed that the shutters were less open than usual; it felt like an attempt to plunge the morning into darkness.

  “It’s true that it’s been a long time since I’ve been here,” she said as she walked in …

  “Yes, a long time …”

  “You must have read some dictionary definitions in the meantime …”

  “Oh, that … no. I stopped. I’m sick of definitions. Frankly, can you tell me what use there is in knowing the meaning of words?”

  “You wanted to see me to ask that?”

  “No … no … we spend our time walking p
ast each other … and I just wanted to know how you’re doing … how it’s going these days …”

  He’d practically stammered these last words. Face to face with such a woman, he was a train derailed. He didn’t understand why she had such an effect on him. She was beautiful, of course, had a way of dovetailing with his idea of the sublime, but still: was that enough? He was a powerful man, and sometimes redheaded secretaries tittered as he went by. He could have had women, he could have spent every day from five to seven in five-star hotels. Then why hadn’t he? He had no answer. He was a slave to his first impression. It had to be that. The moment he’d seen her face on her résumé, when he’d said, let me do the interview with her. Then she’d appeared, young and married, pale and indecisive, and a few seconds after, he’d offered her some Krisprolls. Could he have fallen in love with a photo? Because nothing wears you out more than living under the sensual dictates of beauty set in stone. He kept studying her. She didn’t want to sit down. She walked around the office, touching things, smiling at some trifle: an intense incarnation of femininity. Finally, she walked around his desk and stood behind him.

  “What … are you doing?”

  “I’m looking at your head.”

  “But why?”

  “I’m looking behind your head. Because I think you have an idea at the back of your mind.”

  That’s all he needed: some humor on her part. Charles was no longer at all in control of the situation. She was behind him, amused. For the first time, the past seemed really past. He’d been in the dress circle during the dark days. He’d spent nights thinking that she might commit suicide, and there she was now, behind him, extremely alive.

  “Come and sit down, please,” he said calmly.

  “All right.”

  “You seem happy. And it makes you look beautiful.”

  Natalie didn’t answer. She was hoping that he hadn’t asked her to come so he could make some new admission. He went on, “You have nothing to tell me?”

  “No, you’re the one who wanted to see me.”

  “Everything is going well with your team?”

  “Yes, I think so. Actually, you know better than I do. You have the figures.”

  “And with … Markus?”

  So that was the idea in the back of his mind. He wanted to talk about Markus. How could she not have thought of it before?”

  “I’ve heard you go out to dinner with him a lot.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Everything gets out in this place.”

  “So what? That’s my private life. What’s it have to do with you?” Suddenly Natalie stopped. Her face changed color. She looked at Charles, at how shabby he seemed, hanging on her words, lying in wait for an explanation, hoping more than anything for a denial. She kept watching him for a long time, without knowing what to do. Finally she decided to leave the office, without adding another word. She left her boss in his uncertainty, in his fine frustration. She hadn’t been able to stand the gossip, people talking behind her back. She detested the entire routine: notions in the backs of their minds, words behind her back, shooting below the belt. It was the phrase “everything gets out” in particular that had bothered her. Now that she thought about it again, she could see it was true: yes, she’d sensed something in the eyes of others. Somebody having seen them at the restaurant, or simply leaving together, was enough to make the entire company go into action. Why was she getting excited? She’d answered curtly that it was her life. She could have easily said to Charles, “Yes, I can see us becoming a man and a woman.” With conviction. But no, she didn’t want to label the situation, and it was out of the question for anyone at all to push her into doing so. As she headed back to her office, she passed some coworkers and noticed the change. The looks of compassion and sympathy were being eaten away by something else. But she still couldn’t imagine what was going to happen.

  Seventy-nine

  Release Date of the Claude Lelouch Film

  A Man and a Woman

  With Anouk Aimée and Jean-Louis Trintignant

  July 12, 1966

  Eighty

  After Natalie left, Charles kept still for a long period of time. He understood perfectly how poorly he’d conducted that conversation. He’d been clumsy. In particular, he’d been incapable of telling her what he was really feeling, of saying, “Yes, it does have something to do with me. You didn’t want to go out with me, because you didn’t want to be with any man again. So, yes, I have the right to know what you’re feeling. I have the right to know what you like about him, and what you don’t like about me. You know very well how in love with you I was, how difficult it was for me. You owe me an explanation, that’s all I’m asking.” That’s about what he would have wanted to say. But it’s never like that: you’re always five minutes behind when it comes to having a conversation about love.

  He couldn’t concentrate the rest of the day. When he’d set matters straight with Natalie, on that evening of so many ties in championship soccer, he’d come to terms with things. By some strange sexual logic, it had even led to reconnecting with his wife. They’d made love for weeks, finding each other through the medium of their bodies. You could even have called it a magnificent time. There can be a lot more emotion in the rediscovery of love than there is in its mere discovery. And then, the agony had slowly resumed its course, like snickering; how could they have believed they loved each other again? It had been a passage, a parenthesis in the form of masked despair, a patch of level terrain between two mountains of pathos.

  Charles felt worn out, exhausted. He was sick of Sweden and the Swedish. Of their taxing habit of always trying to stay calm. Never shouting on the telephone. Their way of being Zen, providing employee massages. All this well-being was beginning to grate on him. He missed Mediterranean hysteria, and he sometimes dreamed of doing business with carpet salesmen. This was his frame of mind when he got the information about Natalie’s private life. Since then, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about this Markus person. How had someone with such an idiotic first name been able to attract Natalie? He hadn’t wanted to believe it. He was in a good enough position to know that her heart was sort of like the mirage of an oasis; as soon as you got closer, it vanished. But this time was different. Her extravagant, disproportionate reaction seemed to confirm the rumor. Oh no, it couldn’t be. He’d never be able to bear it. “How did it happen?” Charles kept repeating. The Swede must have cast a spell on her, or something like that. Put her under, hypnotized her, given her a potion to drink. It could only have been that. She’d seemed so different. Yes, maybe that’s what had hurt him the most: she wasn’t his Natalie anymore. Something had changed. A bona fide modification. There was only one solution, then: call in this Markus and see what he was made of. Discover his secret.

  Eighty-one

  Number of Languages, Including Swedish,

  in Which You Can Read

  Michel Butor’s La Modification (Second Thoughts),

  Prix Renaudot, 1957

  Eighty-two

  Markus had been raised with the notion that you must never make waves. That wherever you went, you must keep being discreet. Life was supposed to be like a passageway. So, when called in by the director, he was bound to panic. He could be a man, he could have a sense of humor and a sense of responsibility, he could be counted on; but as soon as it was a matter of relating to authority, he found himself becoming a child again. He was in turmoil, assailed by a host of questions. Why does he want to see me? What have I done? Did I do a bad job negotiating the insurance part of file 114? Have I gone to the dentist too often lately? Guilt besieged him from all sides. And maybe that was his true nature. The absurd feeling of punishment to come, hanging permanently over him like a sword of Damocles.

  He knocked on the door his way, always with two fingers. Charles told him to enter.

  “Hello, I’m here to see you … since you asked for …”

  “I don’t have the time right now … I have
a meeting.”

  “Oh, fine then.”

  “… “

  “Good, I’ll leave then. I’ll stop by later.”

  Charles dismissed the employee, because he didn’t have time to see him. He was waiting for the famous Markus, without imagining for a second that he’d just seen him. The bastard had snared Natalie’s heart, and now he had the nerve not to show up when he was called. What kind of rebel could he be? It wasn’t going to happen like this. Who did he think he was? Charles telephoned his secretary.

  “I asked a Markus Lundell to come and see me, and he still isn’t here. Can you see what’s going on?”

  “But you asked him to leave.”

  “No, he didn’t come.”

  “Yes, he did. I just saw him leaving your office.”

  Then Charles’s mind went blank, as if wind had suddenly blown through his body. The wind of the north, undoubtedly. He almost fainted. He asked his secretary to call him back. Markus, who’d barely sat down on his chair, had to get up again. He wondered if his boss was having some fun with him. Perhaps he was irritated with the Swedish shareholders and was getting even using one of the employees who came from that country. Markus didn’t want to be a yo-yo. If this kept up, he really was going to give in to pressure from Jean-Pierre, the union representative on the second floor.