Footnotes to Sex

by Mia Farlane

  ‘Peut-être.’ And perhaps not.

  Francine handed her the book. ‘L’Ange et les pervers.’ She announced the title. ‘Nineteen thirty-four. Out of print, quite obviously. You will return it to me on your next visit.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ May carefully opened the precious edition.

  ‘Show it to your supervisor. She will know her.’

  ‘Yes.’ May shrugged. ‘I imagine. Yes, she’s sure to. I don’t know.’

  ‘If she’s supervising a thesis on cross-dressing in French lesbian literature, one would hope so.’

  May put the book into her bag. ‘Well, yes,’ she said, ‘in that case, she will know her. That’s good.’ As she didn’t have a supervisor, she wanted to get off the subject.

  ‘One would expect,’ Francine continued. ‘What is your supervisor’s name? I know her perhaps.’

  ‘I can’t quite remember now – Pattrick or Fitzpattrick?’ May invented. ‘I haven’t actually met her yet. She’s been very busy. I’ve been more or less working on my own…’

  ‘But she must expect you to send her your work? She ought to be commenting on what you’ve written. It’s her job to do that! You should complain. (In your position, I certainly would.) You must send her a short letter or an e-mail – to this Pattrick-Fitzpattrick character – telling her you expect to meet her at least once a month. You haven’t met her yet? It’s farcical!’

  May decided now to mention her fears about doing the PhD.

  After some discussion on the subject of courage, ability, perspiration and perseverance, Francine came to her conclusion: ‘It’s true you aren’t an intellectual, but after all you don’t have to be one in order to write a thesis.’ Francine, direct as always, weeded out May’s unnecessary obsessions.

  Later that afternoon, May, clearly not an intellectual, walked back to the hotel Henri IV, taking in the knowledge. She crossed the Pont-Neuf. Paris at dusk. She felt relieved. Much like how she had felt when ‘Purgatory’ (as she now referred to her ex) had left her for another student at university. Aching in the same way as one might ache after having nerves removed from under a tooth. In dulled pain, she had gone out and chosen a sea-green jacket with buttons not one alike, to celebrate the event. Purgatory would not have liked the jacket; May had bought it. And this release from being an intellectual, the latest ‘surgical removal’, would free up a considerable amount of headspace. If she had told Jansen she was not intellectual material, Jansen would not have laughed – she was too kind; she would have replied, ‘But you could be if you really wanted to be.’ May might have wanted to be an intellectual if she had been capable of it, but she wasn’t. Anyway, intellectuals don’t go around wondering if they are intellectuals or not. They have more pressing matters to ponder over. Thirty-one, and she was just realizing that ever since primary school, she had been hoping that, somewhere inside herself, she was a latent intellectual, that one day it would all come out. But she was not an intellectual. It hurt.

  ‘If I’m not an intellectual, can I still be intelligent?’ she had asked Francine as she left her apartment.

  ‘Of course! What did they teach you in school?’

  May didn’t understand. She cried.

  6

  Head to Head

  Jansen wasn’t working on Sunday evening, so she met May at the Eurostar terminal, Waterloo, and drove her, in their orange Skoda, D reg, to a ‘very special restaurant’, which specialized in seafood, and where there was live music; one of her passengers had told her about it, she said, and she wanted to take May there, as an early Valentine’s present.

  The tiny restaurant was in the basement of a four- or five-storeyed house in Chelsea. There was just one remaining free table, next to a wooden platform with an upright piano on it. The waiter lit their table’s candle, and left them to peruse the menus.

  May considered hers. ‘I don’t mind at all if we don’t eat here,’ she reassured Jansen.

  ‘You’re not paying for this, May. You can just enjoy it.’ That sounded like an order. Jansen was pre-menstrual perhaps.

  ‘I’ll only have a main then – and a cappuccino perhaps.’ Even that was expensive.

  ‘Have anything you like – this is on me. I’m going to have a main and a pudding,’ Jansen said.

  May looked at the desserts. ‘Perhaps we could share a pudding? That would be romantic.’

  ‘I might want one of my own.’

  Jansen would want the crème caramel.

  Someone dimmed the lights slightly.

  ‘That’s better.’ May smiled. ‘Now we can all look beautiful.’

  Jansen laughed. ‘I like the way you’ve done your hair, on the side like that,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit different.’

  ‘And you really don’t think it’s too short?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t. It works.’

  ‘Francine thinks it’s too short.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘It could be a bit longer. It could be that I’m conforming to a certain dress code, was what she thought; although I don’t think so. I hope not.’

  Jansen went back to studying the menu.

  ‘But you think it’s okay?’ May asked.

  ‘I’ve just said that, yes.’

  ‘You suit your hair,’ May said. ‘It’s a bit longer at the moment, but it looks good. I like your hair long, and I like it short, too.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jansen acknowledged the compliment.

  Presently, the waiter returned. May said she’d ‘go for the “pan-tossed freshwater trout with rocket and potato salad drizzled with balsamic vinegar and olive oil”, please’, and Jansen chose a ‘fillet of wild turbot and an aubergine, chilli and chive flatbread’. After that, a man in an evening suit stepped up onto the wooden platform, and started playing ‘Moonlight Serenade’. Jansen smiled at May. Then she clearly decided the timing was right and she mentioned Tamsin. ‘She’s coming down to London for an interview at the end of the month. I thought we could invite her to dinner. Perhaps she could even stay at our place – I haven’t said anything to her yet…’

  May thought silence might express better than words how she felt about that idea.

  Jansen expressed other thoughts, also using silence.

  ‘I can’t mind-read,’ May said.

  ‘Neither can I. Could you please tell me how you would feel about her staying? And I’d appreciate it if you’d give it some thought, before you say no. You did invite Francine to stay.’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha.’ That was obviously different; Francine was so obviously not going to accept the invitation.

  ‘No, “ha-ha-ha” nothing. You invited her without asking me.’ Jansen picked up the jug of iced water that was placed on the table between them, and filled their glasses. ‘At the very least, I’d like to invite her round to dinner. You didn’t see her last time she came to London.’

  ‘You haven’t even met Francine yet.’

  ‘If you’d like me to come to Paris with you next time, that would be fine.’

  May let the suggestion waft past.

  The pianist came to the end of his first piece, a few people clapped, he played the opening notes of ‘My Funny Valentine’, paused for the amused laughter, smiled, and went on.

  ‘Maybe you and Tamsin could go to Saint James’s Piccadilly together, and hear a truly provoking sermon.’ May shared her thought.

  Jansen ignored the thought.

  ‘No, maybe you could: it’s not a bad church, as far as I know; it’s not all eternal smiling; they deal with the real world.’

  ‘Is that an attack on Tamsin? Because if so, it isn’t amusing – or accurate.’

  ‘I wasn’t attacking her; I was coming up with an idea – not that I’d be interested in accompanying you though.’ May took a sip of the water. It was so cold it made her teeth hurt.

  ‘So, if you could think seriously about her staying. I need to know before Friday. You’ve got a whole week.’

  After a while, the waiter came back to thei
r table with two very large – ‘careful; very hot’ – dishes, a minimalist arrangement. May set her face into an expression of impressed appreciation. Jansen thanked him, and he went away.

  ‘I’ve got another article from Francine to read, something she wrote in Canada.’

  Jansen made no comment.

  ‘And a book.’

  ‘I may as well not have spoken,’ Jansen said.

  May sighed.

  ‘I don’t know whether you do it deliberately…’

  The pianist moved on to some light jazz.

  ‘Do you have any idea that you’re doing it?’ Jansen persisted.

  ‘You said I’ve got a week to think about it.’

  ‘Mm-hmm. I’d like some sign that you’ve heard what I’ve said. I think that’s a reasonable expectation.’

  ‘“How was your weekend in Paris, May? How was it with Francine?”’ May decided to go on the counter-offensive.

  Jansen began to eat her flatbread.

  ‘Bon appétit.’

  ‘When is it you’re going to Paris again?’ Jansen pursued the subject.

  ‘I thought I’d go there in a couple of weeks. That’d give me time to read the article and the book she gave me. I’m supposed to give her a ring, once I’ve decided on the date. But I think two weeks, rather than three.’

  Jansen nodded. ‘Right. So you’re thinking of going to Paris the very weekend Tamsin would be here?’

  ‘What evening would she be coming to dinner?’ May asked. ‘I’d be back by Sunday evening – not that I’ll be feeling like socializing…’

  ‘I guess we could make it Sunday. I think she’s got her interview on Friday though. I’ll need to talk to her about it.’

  ‘She wouldn’t stay the weekend though, would she? In the bedsit?’

  ‘You don’t want her to. Quite clearly.’

  ‘Where would she sleep?’

  ‘On the sofa bed. Like Elizabeth.’

  ‘Yes, but Elizabeth’s my sister.’

  ‘If you don’t want Tamsin to stay in the bedsit while you’re away, I won’t ask her.’

  ‘Thank you. Can I talk about my time with Francine now? Can we talk about something else?’

  Jansen said nothing.

  ‘I can’t? What?’

  ‘You’re unbelievable,’ Jansen said.

  ‘We’ve arranged the dinner with Tamsin, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes, we have.’

  ‘“I look forward to seeing her”,’ May said. ‘Is that what I’m supposed to say? And, “I’m so happy for you that she’s moving to London.”’

  Jansen scratched the back of her neck. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anyway, thank you for this lovely meal.’ May had another sip of her water. ‘I’m sorry that we’re having an argument and ruining the evening.’

  ‘We’re not having an argument; we’re having a discussion. And we are not ruining the evening.’

  ‘I’m worried about the PhD.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And I didn’t tell Francine I’ve deferred.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Jansen topped up their water.

  7

  The Angel and the Perverts

  Jansen started her four-day shift the next morning. She set the alarm early because she had to go out to the ‘bin’ and swap the Skoda for a company car. May decided to call in sick with a migraine.

  ‘I’ve got my book to read!’ she defended herself as she climbed back into bed.

  Jansen nodded. ‘Would you please make dinner then, since you’ve decided to take the day off?’ She tucked her teddy bear into bed.

  ‘If I’m going to Paris in two weeks,’ May continued, ‘I have to spend a bit of extra time preparing for it. I’m going to sleep, and then I’m going to spend the rest of the day reading. L’Ange et les pervers, Francine’s said it’s of interest – on the subject of cross-dressing.’

  ‘I thought you decided you definitely weren’t interested in doing the PhD.’

  ‘Until I’ve told Francine I’ve deferred I have to keep working on it, don’t I?’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’ Jansen gave that some thought.

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, I was just wondering… I’m just curious. The thing is: you’ve got the ideal situation, where you can actually meet up with the person you want to do your PhD on, and she’s even willing to help you: she keeps lending you books and articles; she asks you when you’re next going to visit. That’s rare.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  Jansen said nothing.

  ‘What are you saying?’ This was annoying. ‘If you’re going to start an idea, can you finish it?’

  ‘It has to be your decision, May. I don’t want to tell you what to do.’

  ‘You’ve started telling me, so just tell me!’

  ‘You’ll say no straight away.’

  ‘You think I ought to do the PhD.’ May guessed the obvious.

  ‘Have you ever thought of asking her if she’d mind looking at your proposal?’

  ‘I haven’t got a proposal!’ And Jansen knew that.

  ‘You’ve made lots of notes for one though, haven’t you?’

  ‘Notes, yes.’ Which meant nothing.

  ‘She could have some advice. That’s all. Now that’s she’s back in Paris she might even be able to help you get started, help you with the exact wording…’

  May laughed. ‘No, Francine is not like that. No.’

  ‘Well, I knew you’d say that.’ Jansen put on her chauffeur’s blazer, and picked up her bag.

  ‘No, because I’m the one who has to do it. “Oh, please write my proposal for me”: no, that’s not acceptable. Anyway she already has helped me with it: I’m doing “cross-dressing”.’

  ‘All right. I knew you’d reject my idea; but I just thought, if you’re now changing your mind and you’re thinking again about doing the PhD, maybe you could ask her for some specific help.’

  ‘I’d have to write the proposal first, wouldn’t I? I’d have to make some attempt. Obviously.’

  ‘Yes, you would – darling, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘And why would I be asking for feedback on my proposal, if I’d already submitted it last September? I’m doing the PhD, remember! I’m in the middle of it!’

  ‘Yeah. You’d have to let her know you hadn’t started it yet.’ Jansen kissed May on the cheek. ‘Anything simple: you could do pasta with pesto sauce, and you could do a salad. Sleep well. Do you want me to turn off the light?’

  * * *

  Some time later May woke up; it was twelve o’clock: she’d wasted the morning. Her brain kicked straight back into gear, nagging her to do something with her life. Someone with a more positive way of phrasing things might have called it a ‘yearning desire’, but she felt it like a pain in her heart and throat: a daily pressure to come a little closer to her real path. In the meantime, she had the day off work and should be using it. There was the article from Francine; and the novel to read – first, she should read it first: because it would help her understand the article, or it should do; but then, of course, reading the article would help her understand the book; it should do, or it might not. Why, when she had the time, did she have to turn everything into a long drawn-out problem? She had been the same at university, leaving essays until the night before they were due in, until the anxiety had built up into an unbearable pressure:

  ‘Hello, it’s May.’ She’d rung her lecturer once, after bingeing on a packet of chocolate biscuits and arriving at the desperate crazy point.

  ‘Hello, how are you?’ Madame Sacquin puffed out her aitches.

  ‘I can’t write this essay.’ She stated it like a diver waiting to go off a high-diving board.

  ‘Have you read the book?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you understood it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you understand the question?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then, you just have to answer the que
stion. You start at the beginning. You decide what you are going to cover, you say what you are going to do and you do it, and then you conclude.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘It is always the most capable who worry the most,’ Madame Sacquin had told her. ‘I could tell you not to worry, but I know you will worry: because you have a fine mind.’

  A fine mind. You have a fine mind. I know you will worry, because you have a fine mind. For a while – a bit like a placebo – it had worked: May had completed her degree; a Masters; then, at twenty-two, she had scrawled out a proposal for a PhD, moved her ‘fine mind’ with its enormous potential to Lille; and within six months she had given up on her studies; because, despite her promising tendency to worry, she hadn’t believed she could do it.

  And ever since then she’d been unable to do nothing – which was what she had gone on and done – without worrying all the time about what she ought to have been doing, with her ‘fine mind’.

  Which was why it was so important, now, that she finally do something perhaps.

  May got up, and opened the curtains. It was raining. She’d stay in bed – she’d made her decision – and read the book. She sat up with her earplugs still in, pulled the duvet over her knees, and opened at the beginning of L’Ange et les pervers:

  Il a rêvé souvent que sa mère, (He often dreamed that his mother,)

  ou plutôt la bête aveugle (or rather the blind beast)

  qui agit en nous (that acts in us)

  indépendamment de notre esprit, (independently of our spirit,)

  a dû, (must have,)

  lorsqu’elle le portait, (when she was carrying him,)

  préméditer des jumeaux, (premeditated twins,)

  car, (for,)

  depuis l’âge (since the age)

  où l’humain entre dans (when the human enters into)

  l’angoisse de l’âme, (the anxiety of the soul,)

  son instinct lui a fait sentir (his instinct had made him feel/made him aware of)

  à ses côtés (at his side)

  un mystérieux second lui-même. (a mysterious second self.)

  Outside, behind the barred windows, the sycamore in the back garden waved a branch at her. Perhaps she should read the article first? May pencilled a fifth question mark into her notebook. It didn’t help that there was now – despite the earplugs – a throbbing in her head; it was coming from the upstairs flat: the guitar-player. It seemed as if he was having a temper tantrum with his loudspeakers; he was demanding attention from the whole house. She would ignore him. Page two… (if she could just concentrate). Three question marks into page three she took out her earplugs, and dropped the book onto the carpet. It sounded as if he was whacking a mallet on the floor in time to the bass-techno-thud. May found the landlord’s number: