by Jean Echenoz
A young woman then appeared, whom he had all the more difficulty recognizing in that she had changed since Rue du 4-Septembre: she was now wearing a blue tank top with rust-colored stripes and a high-slit skirt of a more sustained blue. And flat shoes. And one shoulder strap of the tank top had a tendency to slip off. Still, she was as un-made-up as before. When, after several seconds of confusion, he finally identified her, Ferrer did not feel presentable in his pajamas: he made an automatic gesture to comb his dirty hair that was weighed down, in slabs, by conductive solution from the routine electroencephalogram performed when he was admitted.
Despite the shoulder strap, regardless of the high slit, and even though this woman’s bearing was very much of a sort to put ideas in your head, Ferrer felt from the start that nothing would ever happen between them. As much as he could look at the nurses, from the depths of his weakness and with half-closed eyes, and speculate on the presence or not of other textile elements under their blouses, so this woman inspired in him no more emotion than a Visitant—indeed, there was something almost religious about her lack of makeup. Unless he unconsciously felt that she was too good for the likes of him, such things do happen—but no, he’s not really that type.
She wouldn’t stay more than five or ten minutes, in any case, explaining that she had gotten the name of the hospital from the firemen, that she’d just wanted to see how he was doing.
“Oh, well, I’m doing okay, as you can see,” said Ferrer for lack of better, smiling thinly, indicating with a vague wave of the hand the breathing tube and the perfusion.
After which nothing more of substance was said between them; she seemed like the sort who speaks little, hovering near the door as if constantly on the point of leaving. Before she did leave, she offered to come back and see how he was doing again, if he wished. He agreed, but as if against his will: deep down, he didn’t really give a shit about this girl, couldn’t make out the reasons for her visit, didn’t understand what it was she wanted from him.
For the three days that Ferrer had to spend in the intensive care ward, then, the young woman came to visit, always at the same hour of the afternoon, never for more than fifteen minutes at a stretch. The first time, she sat in the heavy armchair with pale and seemingly dirty plastic straps that she pulled close to the bed. Then, having gotten up, she stood for a moment near the window that still framed the distant tree—from which, through the open panes, drifted the song of a bird that briefly made the emerald shimmer and vibrate. And the second and third days, she sat at the foot of the bed that was way too tightly made: the entire time of her visit, Ferrer didn’t dare move his wedged extremities, insteps arched, toes curled by the sheet stretched taut as a tent.
But even so, on the third day, before she left, he asked her what her name was. Hélène. Hélène, okay. Not bad, as names go. And what did she do in life? She paused a moment before answering.
25
Meanwhile, Baumgartner is trying to park his automobile in front of a large seaside hotel located in Mimizan-Plage, in the northwest part of the Pyrénées-Atlantiques, on the fringes of the territory that he usually crisscrosses these days. The hotel doesn’t look too grand, but it’s not easy finding something in this season, and moreover even this establishment is booked up: its vast parking lot disgorges nonnative license plates; Baumgartner was smart to reserve ahead.
He drives slowly, then, up and down the lanes of the parking lot, passing by couples and families dressed in shorts and brightly colored effects, in forced march toward a dip in the ocean. The sun beats down on the panorama, the asphalt is burning, and the barefoot children hop and complain. Every parking spot is taken, none opens up, the whole process drags on; Baumgartner could get exasperated but he has all the time in the world, and looking for a space allows him to occupy this time. He carefully avoids parking his car on places where a mark on the ground, the pictogram of a wheelchair, indicates that they are reserved for the disabled. Not that Baumgartner is especially civic-minded or particularly sensitive to the fate of such persons: no, confusedly it’s just a matter of not becoming disabled himself by a backlash of who knows what, the effect of God knows what contagion.
The parking issue finally resolved, Baumgartner pulls his suitcase from the trunk of the Fiat and heads toward the hotel entrance. The facade must have been repainted not so long ago; milky constellations spread discreetly in a few of its corners and the foyer bathes in an odor of whitewash, sour and fresh like curdled milk. Around the building one can still spot a few traces of the recent scaffolding, shreds of dirty plastic stuffed into containers placed in the limbo of the parking lot, planks encrusted with cement haphazardly piled in a hidden corner. Enameled with red blotches on his forehead, the receptionist feverishly scratches his right shoulder while verifying Baumgartner’s reservation on his register.
The room is dark and not very inviting; the fragile, wobbly furniture seems fake like theater props, the bed offers a mattress curved in like a hammock, and the dimensions of the drawn curtains do not match those of the window. Above a hard and desperate couch, a crappy lithograph offers up a few zinnias, but Baumgartner pays it no attention: he walks directly to the telephone, dropping his luggage on the way, and dials a number. The line must be busy, since Baumgartner grimaces, hangs up, removes his jacket, and paces around his suitcase without opening it.
Several minutes later, when he goes into the bathroom to wash his hands, the opening and closing of the faucets unleash seismic shock waves in the plumbing throughout the building; then Baumgartner skids on the slippery tiles. Back in his room, he pulls open the curtains and posts himself in front of the window to discover that it overlooks a pit, a dark air shaft, a choking chimney of pitiful diameter with a filthy glassed-in top. It’s too much: bathed in sweat, Baumgartner grabs the phone again, calls the reception desk, and demands a room change. Scratching himself, the receptionist gives him the number of the only other available room, one floor above, but no one from the decidedly casual hotel staff comes to take his bags, which he carries up the stairs himself.
And one floor up, the same scene plays out point for point: Baumgartner again tries to telephone but it’s still busy. He seems once more on the verge of exasperation but he calms down, opens his suitcase, and arranges his belongings in the tenebrous closet and the pitch-pine chest of drawers. Then he inspects his new room, which is the exact double of the first, save for the lithograph above the sorry couch: crocuses have replaced the zinnias. And if the window looks out indifferently on the parking lot, at least it lets in a little sunlight. At least from there Baumgartner can keep an eye on his car.
26
“Doctor, as a matter of fact,” Hélène then answered after a pause, “but not exactly. And anyway, not anymore. I mean, I don’t practice anymore.” On top of which, she had never treated anyone, disdaining repetitive patients for basic research, which an inheritance then a pension had in any case allowed her to abandon two years ago. Her last position had been at the Salpêtrière, in immunology. “I looked for antibodies, checked to see if there were any, calculated their quality, tried to see what they looked like. I studied their activity, you see?”
“Of course, or at least I think so,” hesitated Ferrer, for whom, like Baumgartner, and in keeping with Sarradon’s instructions, it was time to change rooms two days later but two floors down.
This new room was fairly similar to the last, but one and a half times as large, since it was made for three beds. It was cluttered up with less medical machinery; the walls this time were pale yellow and the windows looked out not onto a tree but onto a mediocre brick building. Felix Ferrer’s neighbors were, to his left, a solid fellow from Ariège, built like a pillar, seemingly in tip-top shape, and about whom Ferrer would never understand what he was doing there; to his right, a skinny Breton who looked like a far-sighted atomic scientist, who kept his face buried in a magazine and was suffering from arrhythmia. It wasn’t often that anyone came to visit them: twice the mother of the ar
rhythmic (inaudible whispered colloquy, no information), once the brother of the Ariégois (very loud commentary on a great ballgame, very little information). The rest of the time, Ferrer’s dealings with them were limited to negotiations over the TV channel and volume level.
Though Hélène visited daily, Ferrer continued to act not especially welcoming toward her, didn’t show the slightest happiness when she opened the door to his room. Not that he had anything against her, but his thoughts were elsewhere. As of the young woman’s first appearance, on the other hand, the roommates had been visibly impressed. Then, in the days that followed, they looked at her each time more covetously, each in his own way—frontal and talkative in Ariège, allusively oblique in the Morbihan. But even his neighbors’ appetency did not act mimetically on him, as is sometimes the case. You know what I’m talking about: you don’t particularly desire a person, but then a second person, desiring her in your stead, gives you the idea, even the authorization, even the obligation to begin desiring her yourself. Such things happen at times, such things have been seen before; but no, not here; here they were not seen.
At the same time, it can be fairly handy to have someone who wants to take care of you, who can run a few errands, bring you the daily papers unbidden, which you then hand over to the Breton. If flowers had been permitted in the ward, perhaps she’d have brought some of those as well. On each of her visits, Hélène checked on Ferrer’s condition, examining the curves and diagrams hanging from the head of his bed with a professional eye, but the terrain of their conversation did not go beyond this clinical horizon. Apart from her former professional activities, she never let slip a single word about her past. The notions evoked earlier of an inheritance and pension, though potentially rich in biographical terms, were never subsequently developed. It never again happened, either, that Ferrer felt any desire to tell her about his life, which these days did not strike him as especially noteworthy or enviable.
At first, then, Hélène came every day as if it were her job, a charitable mission she’d been entrusted with, and when Ferrer began wondering what exactly it was she wanted, he naturally didn’t have the nerve to ask. She was neutral and almost cold, and although she seemed perfectly available, she left no openings for anything. All the more so in that availability isn’t everything; it doesn’t necessarily arouse desire. And in any case, Ferrer, tired, dreading his ruin above all, less afraid of his doctors than of his bankers, found himself in a floating anxiety that was not conducive to seduction. Of course he wasn’t blind, of course he saw that Hélène was a beautiful woman, but he always regarded her as if through a bullet-proof, impulse-proof window. Their exchanges were rather abstract or totally concrete, leaving no place for affect, locking down sentiment. It was a little frustrating, and at the same time fairly restful. Soon she must have admitted as much herself, for she began spacing out her visits, coming by only once every two or three days.
Still, at the end of three weeks, when the time came for Ferrer to go home, as promised Hélène offered to handle the formalities. That was on a Tuesday just before noon; Ferrer felt a little weak and unsteady on his legs, standing with his little bag in his hand. She arrived; they took a taxi. And here he was again, incorrigible, despite the silent company of Hélène in the backseat, already starting to look at girls on the street again through the taxi windows until he arrived home, or more precisely in front of his home. Hélène did not come in. But wasn’t it the least he could do to invite her for dinner tomorrow or the next day, later that week, I don’t know, it seemed the right thing to do. Ferrer thought so. So let’s say tomorrow, might as well get it over with as soon as possible, and then we have to think of a restaurant to meet in: after a few hesitations, Ferrer suggested one that had recently opened near Rue du Louvre, right next to Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois, I don’t know if you know it. She knew it. So, tomorrow night, then?
27
But first, the next morning, Ferrer took up his old activities. Elisabeth, who had reopened the gallery two days before, told him of the few things that had happened in his absence: not many arrivals of new works and little mail, no phone messages, not one fax, zero e-mails. Normal stagnation for the off-season. The usual collectors hadn’t yet shown their faces. All of them must still have been on vacation, except for Réparaz who had just called to announce his visit and, well well, the door opens and here he is again, old Réparaz, dressed as always in navy blue flannel from head to toe with his little initials embroidered on the pocket of his shirt. A while since we saw him last.
He arrived, shook hands, exclaiming how happy he was with the Martinov he’d bought earlier that year, you remember, the big yellow Martinov.
“Of course,” said Ferrer. “Anyway, they’re all yellow to some degree.”
“And have you gotten in any new pieces since?” worried the businessman.
“Of course,” said Ferrer, “a few little things, but I haven’t had time to hang them all yet, you understand, I’ve only just reopened. Most of what’s here you’ve already seen.”
“I think I’ll take a look around all the same,” declared Réparaz.
The collector circled around the gallery with a suspicious look, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose or nibbling their stems while walking quickly past most of the works. He finally came to a halt in front of a 60” x 80” oil on backed canvas depicting a gang rape, hung earlier that year in a heavy frame made of thick barbed wire. After twenty seconds, Ferrer went to join him.
“I thought this one would appeal to you,” he said. “There’s something about it, eh?”
“This one, yes, perhaps,” Réparaz went pensively. “This one I could easily see hanging in my house. Of course it’s a tad big, but what worries me more is the frame. Couldn’t we change the frame?”
“Now hold on,” said Ferrer. “You can see that the image is a little violent, I mean you agree it’s a bit brutal. The artist had that frame made especially for this, you understand, because it’s part of the entire picture. It’s absolutely part of the picture.”
“If you say so,” said the collector.
“Obviously,” said Ferrer. “And besides, it’s not expensive.”
“Let me think about it,” said Réparaz. “I’ll talk to my wife. It’s also that the subject, you see, is a bit touchy. Since after all it’s a little—I wouldn’t want her to—”
“I understand completely,” said Ferrer. “Think about it. Talk to her.”
After Réparaz left, no one else entered the gallery until closing time, which he and Elisabeth agreed to move forward. A little later, Ferrer went to meet Hélène at the appointed restaurant, a vast, dark room spangled with small round tables shrouded in white tablecloths, topped with intimate copper lamps and small studied bouquets, where one is lissomely served by beautiful exotic creatures. Ferrer often saw people he knew there without necessarily greeting them, but he always enjoyed chatting up the creatures. In that regard, this evening, manners would dictate that he behave himself even at the cost of being a little bored by Hélène, who was still not overly talkative and was now dressed in a light-gray tailored suit with white pinstripes. If this suit, alas, was not excessively low-cut, Ferrer could nonetheless observe that around the young woman’s neck, held by a thin platinum chain, an arrow-shaped pendant clearly indicated which direction her breasts were in: that’s something that holds your attention; that’s something that keeps you looking.
Whether innocently or by design, Hélène still spoke little, but at least she knew how to listen, to restart her interlocutor with a well-placed monosyllable, skirt around awkward silences by asking just the right question at just the right moment. Constantly redirecting his glance toward the little arrow to buck himself up but definitely without managing, any more than in the hospital, to give birth and substance to any lust for her—and that I really can’t figure out, I who am here to tell you that Hélène is highly desirable—Ferrer thus supplied most of the conversation by speaking about his trade:
art market (fairly quiet at the moment), current trends (it’s a bit complicated, somewhat scattered, one could go back as far as Duchamp, actually), and ongoing debates (as you can well imagine, Hélène, the moment art and money come in contact, sparks inevitably fly), collectors (more and more cautious, which I perfectly understand), artists (less and less engaged, which I completely understand), and models (there aren’t any more in the classical sense of the word, which I find totally understandable). Preferring not to make himself look ridiculous, he abstained from relating his journey to the Great North and what had regrettably followed. But, superficial as they were and even though belaboring the obvious, his statements did not seem to bore Hélène, to whom, force of habit, Ferrer suggested going to have a nightcap after dinner.
Now often in such conditions—leaving the restaurant together, last drink—a man who has taken care not to ingest garlic, red cabbage, or too many last drinks tries to kiss a woman. It’s the way things are, it’s how they’re done, and yet, here again, no such thing occurred. And still no way of knowing if Ferrer is intimidated, if he’s afraid of rejection, or if it’s just that he doesn’t give a damn. It is not impossible, Feldman would say—Feldman who started off in psychiatry before shifting to cardiology—not impossible that the heart attack, then the hospitalization, might have provoked a temporary libidinal insufficiency—not a complete psychological breakdown, don’t get me wrong, but possibly the source of some minor inhibitions. Libidinal insufficiency my ass, Ferrer would have replied—Ferrer who, shying away from the embrace, nonetheless suggested to Hélène, since all this seemed to interest her, that she come by the gallery one of these days.