Madame

by Antoni Libera

  ‘Now we’ll see if you’re a real man or not,’ she said, reaching for the bottle. ‘This is going to sting, I’m warning you!’ With which words she set about alternately spraying the cut and rubbing it with the cotton wool.

  Indeed, it was not a partie de plaisir; it stung dreadfully. But I gritted my teeth and bore the pain in silence. I had a harder time controlling the chaos in my head.

  For here it was at last, the thing I hadn’t even dared to dream of, a situation that even in my wildest fantasies I hadn’t envisaged as possible. I was actually alone with her, here in the quiet of her office, and she, with her own hands, was dressing my wound with Chanel No. 5, holding my hand and uttering remarks full (albeit unintentionally) of suggestion and ambiguity. And in a sense she was dependent on me: it was now in her interests to help me.

  To me, corrupted as I was by literature and with my propensity to fantasise, the situation bordered on the perverse. The blood, the cotton wool, the tight grip on my hand, the inflicting of pain (for my own good) – all with no expression of sympathy or concern, yet with a strange excitement and curiosity – it felt like some perverse sexual encounter. She was humiliating me, eagerly and violently; hurting me, testing my powers of self-control to the limits, and seeming to derive pleasure, or at least excitement, from doing so.

  You’re not reacting, I imagined her thinking wildly. Why? Not a quiver, not even a gasp of pain . . . very well: I’ll intensify the torture. Let’s see how much you can take . . . I want to break you, force you to yield . . . hear you groan, just once! I won’t stop until you do. You can’t win with me; no one ever wins with Victoire! Go on, scream! Cry out! I can’t bear it any longer!

  But I didn’t cry out. I didn’t even flinch. I only closed my eyes, the more intensely to feel her touch and more distinctly to hear my own thoughts. They came in a breathless jumble, teeming with a rich variety of words, phrases and whole sentences I could now use to fulfil my dream of the Great Game – the game of words through which I could experience what was happening as something quite different. Through the magic of language I could change the water of first-aid to the wine of ecstasy. I could create by naming; through the Word I could transform reality.

  But I didn’t want to. I saw no point in it; the game had come to seem empty and futile. I wanted something else: the real thing, the truth. I wanted to make the Word flesh or the Word made flesh. Yet I feared it.

  ‘Why have you gone so quiet?’ she said suddenly. ‘Cat got your tongue? You, who are always so eloquent . . . you’re not going to faint on me, are you?’ She raised her voice slightly. ‘Open your eyes! Look at me! Don’t leave me alone.’

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that,’ I replied sleepily, paraphrasing Aschenbach’s memorable unspoken remark in response to Tadzio’s Narcissus-like smile.

  ‘Like what?’ she asked. ‘What do you mean? And why?’ She gave me another squirt of Chanel. ‘Did I say something unsuitable?’

  ‘To talk to me like that,’ I began, my voice full of suffering, ‘you’d have to . . . you’d have to have some . . . you’d have to have the right,’ I trailed off, unable to articulate my thoughts more precisely.

  ‘The right? What are you talking about? I can’t understand a word of what you’re saying. You’re clearer when you speak in French.’

  ‘It’s easier in a foreign language. Hans Castorp did it, too, when he wanted to –’

  ‘Who?’ she broke in, frowning.

  She hadn’t read it! How awful!

  ‘This character in a novel. Un boche. In the Alps.’

  ‘Ah, La Montagne magique! Oui, oui, bien sûr que je l’ai lu.’

  I breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  ‘Well, when he wanted to . . . what?’

  ‘When he wanted to say something important. He used a foreign language.’

  ‘You want to speak French? Vas-y! Ça me ferait plaisir!’

  ‘I’m not sure. Unless –’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless you liked my essay about the stars. A propos, I’ve been meaning to ask you what you did with my notebook. Why didn’t you return it to me?’

  ‘Was I supposed to?’ She smiled. ‘I thought it was a gift. You don’t return gifts.’

  I was speechless. ‘That’s true,’ I stammered finally, ‘but you’re supposed to do something in acknowledgement. To say something, at least . . . make some allusion to it . . . some sort of comment.’

  ‘Didn’t you get an A?’ she asked, with feigned outrage. ‘The only A in the whole school! Doesn’t that count? Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Of course it’s not enough,’ I replied, sounding offended, like a hurt lover. ‘Not nearly enough! Not for someone who dreams and writes. Someone like that doesn’t care about marks.’

  ‘Then what do you care about?’ she asked with a little pout, and began delicately blowing on the wound. ‘What does he dream about, this writer? Fame and recognition, I suppose?’

  ‘Not only that, and not mainly. Certainly not at the stage I’m at.’

  ‘C’est à dire?’

  ‘The educational stage. I’m just taking my first steps. At this stage one needs something quite different.’

  ‘Quoi? What does one need? J’aimerais le savoir.’

  ‘Guidance. A helping hand.’

  ‘Am I not guiding you? Teaching you? Helping you?’ She applied a larger piece of cotton wool to the cut and pressed it firmly to staunch the flow of blood.

  ‘Not in the way that a lover of language and belles-lettres would like. The way the physics teacher does with Roz Goltz, for instance.’

  ‘And what exactly is it that he does with him, and how does he do it?’ she asked with mock horror in her voice.

  ‘You know perfectly well!’ I shot back. ‘He does the second-year university course with him. Quantum mechanics and relativity theory. He stays behind with him after school. They meet at home, too. And they go to conferences together, and national competitions, and things like that.’

  ‘I’m afraid there are no national competitions in Romance languages. I can’t help that.’

  ‘But there is quite a bit of literature one could talk about. And read together . . . like Paolo and Francesca,’ I added in a low voice.

  ‘Like who?’ She made a movement with her head.

  ‘These two characters. Un couple. Centuries ago, in Italy.’

  ‘I don’t know who you mean.’

  ‘Dante talks about them.’

  ‘Ah, La Divine Comédie! I’ve never read it all the way through, only the Inferno and Purgatorio. These two sound as if they’re in Paradiso.’

  ‘Unfortunately not. They’re in the second circle . . . la Cité dolante.’

  ‘So that’s what you’re proposing?!’ she laughed teasingly, taking a folded white handkerchief from her bag. ‘That I should find myself in hell?’

  ‘On dit que “l’enfer, c’est les autres” . . . there’s no escaping it.’

  She gave a brief snort of laughter. ‘You see: you know everything!’ She spread out the handkerchief, folded it into a triangle and rolled it up carefully to form a narrow strip with pointed ends. ‘What more could I teach you? What could I . . . read with you?’ She took my hand and began to bandage it with the handkerchief.

  ‘Oh, there’s no lack of books,’ I said, smiling sadly. ‘Lancelot, for instance.’

  ‘Ah, Lancelot! Oui, oui: le Chevalier à la charrette. Chrétien de Troyes.’

  ‘Correct,’ I said, and realised with horror that I was beginning to talk like Freddy.

  ‘Why that in particular? A medieval legend? Do you know how difficult it is?’

  ‘Yes, I do. That’s precisely why –’

  ‘You want my help.’

  ‘Vous l’avez dit, Madame.’

  ‘Assuredly you overestimate me.’ She tied the ends of the handkerchief together and made the knot secure. ‘I only teach language. I am, as your friend so amusingly put it, seulement une lectrice de fran
çais. By the way, I had the distinct impression you were prompting him.’ She gave me a provocative look.

  ‘So did you go to that Picasso exhibition in the end?’ I shot back, unruffled.

  ‘Why in the end? I went at the very beginning.’

  ‘But you said –’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘You said, Je n’y suis pas allée.’

  ‘And that was the truth.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that I went to the opening but didn’t see the drawings. That’s what you’re really interested in, isn’t it?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Your friend, then,’ she corrected, in mock concession.

  ‘Forgive me, but there’s something here I still don’t quite understand.’

  ‘Yes? What is it?’ The ironic little smile hovering on her lips made her look even more enchanting.

  ‘How could you go to the opening and not look at the drawings?’

  ‘What’s so extraordinary about it?’ She shrugged. ‘It’s perfectly normal. When you’ve lived a bit longer you’ll understand.’

  ‘But then why go?’

  ‘There can be all sorts of reasons.’

  I felt a cold shiver go through me. I had it on the tip of my tongue to say, ‘The happy fate of Cleopatra, perhaps?’ but I restrained myself.

  ‘Besides,’ she added, after a pause, ‘I don’t really like Picasso.’

  That was a relief, at least. ‘To tell you the truth, neither do I,’ I admitted, seeking common ground.

  ‘There, you see? That’s one thing we agree on!’

  ‘And who do you like?’ I asked. Then, succumbing to temptation, I decided on a riskier move and added, ‘I like Bernard Buffet.’

  She didn’t even blink.

  ‘Especially those still, steel-grey views of Paris,’ I went on calmly. ‘Do you know his work?’

  ‘Of course! It’s very well known.’

  ‘And?’ I looked into her eyes. ‘Do you share my taste?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not great art,’ she said, ‘but I admit it has a certain charm.’

  I was tempted to go a step further (‘and what about that view of the church of St-Germain-des-Prés? Is that just charming, too?’) but didn’t, for a better idea occurred to me. ‘You know who else I especially like?’ I said.

  ‘We’re still talking about artists, I take it.’

  ‘Yes.’ I smiled.

  ‘Well? Tell me.’

  ‘Alberto Giacometti,’ I announced, letting my smile fade. ‘What do you think of him?’

  ‘Interesting,’ she conceded with a nod. ‘Mysterious . . . subtle.’

  ‘I’m told he’s enormously popular now. Everyone’s talking about him.’

  She shrugged. ‘Je ne suis pas au courant.’

  ‘I read about it in the papers,’ I lied smoothly. ‘And I also heard that there’s some mention of him in some . . . melodrama.’

  ‘In a melodrama?’

  ‘Yes, a film by that director, what’s his name . . .’ I pretended to be suffering from a temporary memory block, ‘you know . . . the one they call l’enfant prodige du cinéma français,’ I added, quoting the subtitle of the interview in Arts.

  ‘You mean Lelouch?’

  ‘Voilà! Exactly,’ I said, and looked into her eyes again.

  She tilted back her head slightly and narrowed her eyes. Then she gave a snort of laughter and said with a pitying smile, ‘Possibly . . . but how ridiculous!’ She shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘I’m sorry, what’s ridiculous?’ I asked, feigning incomprehension.

  ‘To see his films as expressing a current trend.’

  ‘Have you seen it, then?’ I asked, incredulous.

  ‘Yes, I have, as a matter of fact,’ she replied indifferently.

  ‘But where? When? How? It hasn’t been released here yet!’

  ‘No, it hasn’t. But I’ve seen it.’

  ‘And?!’ This time my curiosity was genuine.

  ‘What is it, exactly, that you’re asking?’

  ‘Well, just your general impression.’

  ‘A melodrama – as you just said.’

  ‘But do you agree with that view?’

  ‘What view? About which genre it belongs to?’

  ‘Opinions differ,’ I said more confidently, regaining some of my aplomb. ‘Some people seem to think it’s a reply to the philosophy of negation – an answer to existentialism: to all that nihilism, alienation and frustration . . .’

  She laughed her pearly laugh.

  ‘So, you don’t agree with that!’ I couldn’t prevent a note of hope from creeping into my voice.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean . . . what is your opinion of the film?’

  She shrugged. ‘Light entertainment. Silly. Harmless.’

  ‘Harmless?’ I burst out.

  ‘I don’t see anything to condemn in it. It’s just a bit of fluff. Des belles images. A bit of social flirting. A fairytale.’

  Blood was seeping through the handkerchief wrapped around my hand. I lifted my arm slightly and held it out to her in a ‘look-at-that’ gesture.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ I asked with exaggerated concern. ‘Such a pretty handkerchief.’

  ‘You can keep it,’ she replied with a smile. ‘Tit-for-tat. In exchange for your notebook.’

  ‘That’s nice of you.’ I drew back my hand and added, again looking into her eyes, ‘I trust it’s not from some Othello.’

  ‘And not from an Antony, either,’ she said coyly. Then she rose, approached the small table with the telephone, picked up the receiver and pressed the red button that connected her to the office.

  She told the secretary to get a taxi. Someone was to go to the taxi stand and bring one round. To the main entrance. Quickly.

  Again I felt my heart pound. Who is it for? I thought with trepidation. For me? For her? For both of us? Does she intend to take me home in it? To the hospital casualty department, perhaps?

  Whatever her intentions, one thing was certain: my time was running out. The small red flag on the face of the watch that had ticked on silently throughout this office game was almost at its zenith, and would soon begin its descent. I applied myself hastily to working out a strategy for the endgame.

  Everything that had happened during this encounter – the dressing of my hand, the verbal sparring, the conversation which provided answers to so many vital questions – far exceeded the scope of my dreams, not to speak of my actual plans. Even the exquisite dialogues I had composed that day when, lying on my bed, I had fantasised about her reactions to my essay (‘What then, my lad? What then?’), those subtle, impossibly splendid conversations, which at the time had seemed doomed to remain forever confined to the sphere of my imagination, paled by comparison to the one now taking place in reality.

  And yet, although I had soared higher than I had imagined possible, I still felt unsatisfied. This new side to her nature which my predicament had somehow disclosed – cheerful and natural, at once tender and masculine, full of playfulness, wit, charm – awoke a raging thirst for . . . well, for what? What did I really want? How could my longings be satisfied? Where could I find fulfilment?

  Then it came to me.

  I should take her king with mine! Move her . . . touch her . . . use the familiar form of address. And then stop speaking; then . . . ‘read no more.’ That was the consolation I sought. It would be a kind of fulfilment.

  I launched myself.

  ‘Have you seen Phèdre?’ I asked. ‘The Comédie Française?’ (First move.)

  ‘Of course I have.’ (I breathed another silent sigh of relief.) ‘I wouldn’t have missed something like that!’

  ‘Which performance did you go to, the first or the second?’

  ‘The first. Opening night.’

  ‘Unfortunately I went to the second,’ I lied, in order not to frighten her off.

  ‘Why u
nfortunately?’

  ‘Well, an opening night is always special.’

  ‘I don’t think it can have made any difference in this case.’

  I advanced my king. ‘It was fantastic, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it was well done,’ she agreed, rummaging in her handbag again.

  ‘Those people! The way they looked . . . the way they spoke . . . the rhythm!’ I gushed. ‘Those frozen tableaux! I couldn’t sleep afterwards. I still can’t stop thinking about it.’

  ‘Your susceptibility to the charms of art is excessive,’ she remarked without looking up. ‘A bit of moderation would not go amiss. A little distance.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ I conceded, crestfallen. ‘Still, can you think of anything else so worthy of it?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Heartfelt admiration. Wonder. Love.’

  She looked up from her rummaging. ‘Yes. The theatre of life. Life,’ she repeated, sliding her right hand, closed in a fist as if she were hiding something in it, into her pocket. Then she perched herself on the table like the silver-haired Marianne.

  ‘Yes, all right,’ I replied and, riding a wave of inspiration, went on, ‘that’s true, but on condition that some sort of form is imposed upon it. And only art – l’art – can do that. What would the theatre of life be without its masks and costumes, without the charm of words and song, without the magic that only the artist can give it? Just a bleak, flat, desert landscape, boring and grey. Or kitsch.’

  ‘You exaggerate. Highly,’ she replied, looking down at me with friendly condescension.

  ‘Exaggerate? Then think, just think of what we would be – no, forget us, that’s too easy – think of what they, the characters in Phèdre, would be reduced to, what their tragedy would look like, if you took away all that their creators, the artists, from the ancients to Racine, endowed them with! Without culture, custom or taboo, and especially without language, without the subtle art of speech, Hippolytus would be nothing but a male animal raging with lust, and Phaedra . . . Phaedra just a bitch in heat. But this way, this way you have Michelangelo’s Adam and his Creator, and a subtle allegory about human unfulfilment . . . and since we’re on the subject,’ I rushed on, time running out, ‘which scene made the greatest impression on you? Hippolytus’s confession or Phaedra’s?’