Interference

by Amélie Antoine

  Emma nods gently.

  EMMA

  I hear barking as soon as I ring the doorbell, far away at first, then getting closer. I step back.

  Gabriel cracks the door as he holds the golden retriever with one hand to keep him from darting out.

  “Please, come in.”

  I walk down the hallway and stop at the entrance to the living room. Gabriel gestures to the couch and I notice a pile of albums on the coffee table. We spend an hour going through the pages together, watching as eight years fly by. Gabriel doesn’t talk much, simply stops me from time to time to show me a picture or tell a story. Sometimes he decides to take a photo from its black page, gently running his index finger under each of the four corners to remove the one he’s chosen.

  When we’re done, he places eight pictures on the coffee table.

  A close-up of Chloé that must date back to the beginning of their relationship; she looks like she’s in her early twenties. She’s smiling, her head resting on her shoulder.

  A photo of the two of them that Gabriel must have taken himself, his arm outstretched. He’s looking at the camera, his face serious. Chloé’s laughing and kissing his cheek.

  A shot of Chloé walking on the beach in the distance, her feet in the water. I can’t help but notice how well it’s framed. She’s on the right, the waves slipping away on the left.

  Chloé blowing out her birthday candles: twenty-five twinkling little sticks on a huge three-tiered cake.

  Another close-up of her making a face for the camera. Her hair is in her face, and she’s crossing her eyes and sticking her front teeth out like a squirrel. A bit blurry.

  A photo of Chloé drenched in sweat, apparently after a race. She’s wearing a black tank top with neon-yellow stripes, and her hair is up in a ponytail. I can tell she’s out of breath. She’s holding her hand out toward the camera, trying to avoid being photographed.

  Chloé in her wedding dress, of course. A strapless dress that complements her tanned shoulders and chest. She’s concentrating, studying herself in a full-length mirror, fixing a runaway strand of hair. The last private moment before the ceremony, probably captured by the wedding photographer.

  And finally, a picture of her sleeping. A stolen moment. Her long hair flows over the pillow and her face is just barely visible.

  I feel like an intruder.

  Gabriel looks at the pictures one last time with a satisfied expression on his face, then hands them to me.

  “Could you turn it into a black-and-white series? Really heighten the contrast?”

  I agree and tell him it shouldn’t take long for me to scan them and make the changes. I stand up, put the photos into my bag, and get ready to leave.

  “It’s almost twelve thirty. We could order sushi if you want. I mean, if you like sushi, obviously. Otherwise we could do pizza? I’d like to be distracted for a while . . .”

  “Sushi sounds good. But if we’re going to have lunch together, we should probably be on a first-name basis, don’t you think?”

  Gabriel smiles.

  Forty-five minutes later we’re sitting at the table in his open kitchen on old bar stools they probably bought at a garage sale. Gabriel asks me if I’ve been living in Saint-Malo for long, and I tell him about my move from Arles.

  He shares all the things he loves about Brittany, the region where he grew up. The dramatic countryside, the raging winds so strong you’re sometimes convinced you’re really going to fly away, solitary moments on the beach with a kite.

  I listen to him talk, simply nodding in encouragement. Lucky is lying on the tile floor next to his master. He also seems to know he shouldn’t disturb this happy moment.

  Gabriel doesn’t say Chloé’s name at all, not even once.

  CHAPTER 7

  AUGUST 2013

  CHLOÉ

  That dog is really starting to make himself at home. At first he obediently slept in the dog bed Gabriel had put in the kitchen for him. He’d even covered it in an old blanket so it would be nice and cozy for the sweet little doggy.

  But now that he’s gotten comfortable, the rascal climbs onto the couch whenever Gabriel’s watching television. He even goes upstairs. Before long, he’ll be sleeping in our bed. And he sheds everywhere, which Gabriel doesn’t seem to mind a bit.

  “Lucky.” What a joke!

  If I could strangle Geoffrey for his stupid idea, I would—gleefully.

  “I know you’ve always wanted a dog!”

  Whatever. Gabriel never dreamed of having a dog. I would have known, after all. If we’d ever talked about the subject, I would remember.

  We had bigger dreams than walking a Labrador every evening and cleaning dog hair off the couch.

  Once, early on in the relationship, we made a list of everything we wanted to do before we turned thirty. Our short- and medium-term plans. We spent the whole night on it, with Indian takeout for sustenance.

  Having a dog was not on the list.

  If I remember right, it went like this: buy an apartment in the Paris metro area (though a few years later we ended up with a rented house in Saint-Malo instead); visit New York City (our honeymoon); and have the most beautiful wedding at a castle with a pond (the pond was optional).

  Gabriel hesitantly brought up the possibility of adding a baby to the list, but I laughed and said, “Before we turn thirty? We’ll have plenty of time for kids later! There are so many things to experience before then!”

  “Yeah, of course. You’re right,” replied Gabriel. And we never talked about it again. What a crazy idea.

  I added skydiving. With or without Gabriel. And, of course, having enough money for finances to never be an obstacle to our plans.

  Actually, in just a few years, we managed to accomplish most of our goals. Except for getting rich, but that was more a dream than an actual plan. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

  I’m thirty years old today. Happy birthday, Chloé.

  I’m starting to get a little tired of watching Gabriel get on with his life while I’m stuck here. Waiting, always waiting. It’s no way to live—or die, for that matter.

  It’s probably in poor taste, but the thing I miss most is swimming in the ocean. Concentrating on my regular breathing, the rhythm of the waves, my heartbeat echoing under the water.

  And running. Putting in my headphones, cranking the volume all the way up on my MP3 player, and letting my legs rack up mile after mile. Sprinting to Stromae, slowing down to Radiohead, keeping myself going with Christine and the Queens. Passing occasional joggers and nodding knowingly to serious runners. Feeling the soothing ache in my muscles after an hour.

  Exercise has always helped me focus, and now, without it, I don’t know what to do. I want to leave here, leave my body, and feel the fresh air on my face.

  I feel like a lion trapped in a cage.

  Gabriel has just left for work.

  Lucky climbs slowly up the stairs in our house and saunters over to our room. Without a second of hesitation, he climbs into our unmade bed. He turns around to get comfortable, then curls up into a ball huddled amid the piles of covers.

  I swear that mutt is mocking me.

  GABRIEL

  “Salomé, come back here this instant! This won’t turn out well for you if I have to come get you!”

  The mother sighs, clearly at the end of her rope. A little girl of about three walks past the bench Gabriel is sitting on. Two blonde pigtails bob up and down to the rhythm of her tiny sandal-clad feet, moving fast to keep from getting caught.

  “Do you hear me, Salomé? I won’t bring you to play on the slide anymore . . .”

  The young brunette leaves her stroller just long enough to grab her daughter by the arm. The girl whines, visibly unhappy to be leaving. The two figures move away from the playground.

  “Have you been waiting long?” Emma asks as she sits down on the bench. She puts down the black bag she’s always carrying and greets Gabriel with friendly kisses on both cheeks.

/>   “No, I don’t think so. I’ve gotten used to being alone, you know. I often sit here and watch the kids play. I find it soothing.”

  “You think screaming kids are soothing?” jokes Emma.

  Gabriel doesn’t answer. He likes watching children play, yell, fall, get up, and climb around without ever taking a breather. Other people’s children.

  The idea of having his own child to play with on the slide, push on the swings, and comfort after a fall disappeared when Chloé died. He waited patiently for years for his wife to share his desire to have kids. Without becoming bitter or resentful. He knew it took two to make a baby, and since he loved Chloé more than anything, he could wait. He was patient. He was confident in their future.

  But now . . . Look where that’s gotten him.

  The caterer he’d hired for his wife’s thirtieth birthday knocked on his door yesterday afternoon and left Gabriel with a full buffet for forty people. He’d paid the balance on everything at the beginning of the year, and though he had let the guests know and canceled the DJ a month ago, he had totally forgotten about the caterer. The mountains of smoked salmon, sliced roast beef, pasta salad with scallops, tabbouleh, and more were intimidating. He put a tiny part of it in his freezer, then took some to his parents—his father would be thrilled to eat the same thing all week.

  Then he called Geoffrey, but he was off on a weekend getaway with some recent conquest he’d probably met on a dating site.

  He turned to Lucky, but he was no help.

  So he called Emma and invited her to hang out with him for the evening. The young woman explained that she hadn’t eaten a thing all day because she’d been following a troupe of girls around, shooting a never-ending bachelorette party: brunch, followed by a scavenger hunt through the city, lap-dance lessons, cocktail-making lessons, and spa treatments in the late afternoon—none of which Emma actually got to enjoy, of course. Gabriel laughed at Emma’s description of her day as a rented photojournalist, and told her that she was in luck because he had enough food to feed an army. Emma didn’t ask any questions about where the gargantuan amounts of food had come from. That’s one of the things he likes about her: her tact.

  They’ve seen each other several times since she came over to help him choose pictures of Chloé a little over a month ago, and much to Gabriel’s surprise—he’s always been reserved and even shy—he’s come to consider Emma a friend. A confidante, even. He’s shown her his favorite places in and around Saint-Malo: the rock sculptures in Rothéneuf, the fort on Petit Bé Island just off the coast, the ramparts and their amazing view of the port. Emma followed him to each site as if she were seeing the places for the first time. She didn’t tell him that she had already photographed every inch of the city for the tourism office.

  Emma takes a few spontaneous shots of children on the merry-go-round. Click, click. She freezes their movement on camera.

  “So, what do you want to do?”

  “I thought I’d take you out for some crêpes in the best crêperie in the city.”

  “Simple as that, huh?”

  “Simple as that,” answers Gabriel with a smile.

  EMMA

  Am I falling in love with Gabriel? I have no idea. I’m not even sure I really want to ask myself the question.

  Do I like him? Of course. We understand one another, and have since the beginning. Everything’s easy. It’s like we were made to get along, like we’ve been reunited. We have similar taste and the same sense of humor. He likes the simple things in life, and I’m hardly complicated. I love to decide things last minute and he’s all for the unpredictable. He could be a great friend—my best friend, even.

  Do I find him attractive? He’s definitely handsome. Especially since he doesn’t seem to realize it and makes no effort at all to be seductive. And his vulnerability is touching, it’s true . . . He sometimes makes me think of the sparrows that used to accidentally bang into the sliding glass door at my parents’ house. I would gently pick up their unconscious bodies and carefully place them in old shoe boxes lined with cotton balls. Then I’d watch over them until they started to stir, until they worked up enough strength to fly away again. I know Gabriel won’t stay in the box for long. He’s been seriously injured, it’s true, but his will to live is strong.

  Am I getting attached to him? More than I intended when I decided to move here for just a few months.

  Does this mean my plans are history? Not at all. Our “relationship” will only last a few months anyway, then I’ll leave this country forever. I need broader horizons to fulfil my dreams.

  As for him, I have no idea how he feels about me or what he expects of me, of us. I don’t feel like a buoy he’s simply using to get through the mourning period. I think I’m more than that. He likes spending time with me, though I’ve noticed that he freezes up from time to time, probably overwhelmed by a memory that suddenly surfaces. I almost never talk about his wife, and he mentions her only rarely outside of the group therapy sessions.

  We take long walks with Lucky, go out for dinner, and study all the different species of crabs at the market together, fascinated but feigning disgust as they writhe on the tables. We sit on the sandy beach amid the hordes of tourists and entertain ourselves by imagining what their lives are like.

  “The lady in the fuchsia bathing suit won’t go into the water with her husband because she’s never worked up the courage to tell him she doesn’t know how to swim,” I muse.

  “Or maybe she just doesn’t like the cold water. She’s always dreamed of spending their summer vacation on the Mediterranean coast, but since his parents live in Saint-Malo, he won’t even entertain the idea of going anywhere else,” Gabriel counters.

  “Or maybe they partied all night long. She danced until dawn, drinking glass after glass of champagne, and now she has a terrible hangover.”

  “Could be. That would explain the sunglasses. Oh wait, maybe that’s just because it’s sunny . . .”

  “Honestly, that seems much less likely!” I tease, an overly skeptical look on my face.

  Gabriel laughs and throws his hands up in defeat. Then he starts eagerly hunting through the crowd to find a new subject for our little game. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, thrilled to see him behaving so lightheartedly.

  I know having me around lessens his load, that I’m helping him make his way back to the light, but he’s still bogged down in memories and nostalgia. I know I can’t rush him; we have to take things a day at a time. I know I can’t save him. All I can do is be there for him and support him, without getting preoccupied by my own growing feelings.

  Today he’s accompanying me to the wedding I have to photograph. He didn’t have anything planned for the weekend, and when I jokingly asked him to come, he jumped at the chance. I’ve lent him my spare camera and given him a crash course on framing. When I introduce him to the couple as my intern, nobody seems the least bit surprised.

  We both follow the bride as she gets ready with her bridesmaids, and I explain to Gabriel in a whisper that the most important thing is to be so unobtrusive that they forget you’re there, so you can get the most spontaneous pictures possible. It’s not about taking as many photos as you can in the hope of getting one or two good ones, but about discreetly capturing the right moment.

  The bride comes down the stairs of her family’s home to her eager groom, waiting for her in a white suit on the porch. I take a few pictures as they kiss. Gabriel stands next to me, motionless.

  “Why aren’t you shooting?”

  “Shooting what? The couple posing with stiff smiles? The clearly premeditated kiss?” Gabriel asks with a bewildered look. He doesn’t understand that these conventional poses are exactly what my clients hire me to capture.

  After that it’s the usual ceremonies, first civil, then religious. The signing of the official ledger at the town hall, then the grand exit from the little Breton church under a cloud of bubbles instead of the frankly less agreeable, more traditional handfuls o
f rice. During the cocktail reception, with Gabriel right behind me, I try to take portraits of each guest, as well as a giant group photo. There are at least two hundred guests, and corralling all of them is a real challenge. I somehow manage to climb up the wall that surrounds the private garden where the festivities are being held, because I have to take the picture from above to get everyone in the frame. I give Gabriel the thankless task of getting them to pose together on the grass below, with the young newlyweds in the middle obviously. He enthusiastically heads off to let each of the little groups—all of them chatting with a glass of champagne in hand—know what we need from them. In less than ten minutes, he’s succeeded in getting all two hundred people into the frame for the photo I want to take.

  I’m impressed. I give him a thumbs-up, and he just raises an eyebrow as if to say, “That wasn’t so hard!”

  “Hands up, everyone. Ready, one, two, threeee!”

  Glad that’s done. The guests immediately head off toward the hors d’oeuvre table. The experience seems to have left them famished.

  Gabriel holds out his hand to help me down from the wall without damaging my camera. When my palm meets his, I feel butterflies in my stomach.

  CHAPTER 8

  SEPTEMBER 2013

  CHLOÉ

  Gabriel seems to be doing better. He’s stopped crying and playing depressing music on repeat, and he doesn’t spend hours sitting on the couch anymore. The change took time, but the results are there. He’s not lost anymore.

  Could he have already forgotten me? Could he possibly have gotten over the loss of the woman he shared his life with for eight years in just four months?

  He’s always out all weekend and often comes home late during the week. Sometimes he even sings in the shower in the morning. Even the dog seems surprised. Could Gabriel be thinking about someone other than me? Has he confused getting on with his life with moving on to the next thing?

  I refuse to believe that the photographer woman who sometimes comes by the house is behind this change. She can’t be my rival. She doesn’t look anything like me.