Then, while he took his bath, I shampooed myself.
It was possibly our last night together, so to speak. In warm water with iridescent bubbles, I recalled everything we had lived. The times he came to see me, eaten up with anxiety, staying sometimes until dawn to share his anger with me. When he told me about his loves with Hélène or another diva who “fucks well, yes, that’s how one should say it, little Laura, you’re old-fashioned with your ‘make love.’” The nights when, laughing, I had to repulse his advances, his phony advances, something to make me react, for he never insisted. Except for the famous evening of La Traviata.
It was twelve thirty at night in France when I got out of the bath, yet I didn’t want to go to sleep. I took out a T-shirt, jogging pants, and terrycloth slippers offered by “Mr. Pierre.” I didn’t put my watch back on; I went to see where my favorite tenor was.
There was no light in his room, which was beginning to fill with darkness. In pajamas and bathrobe, he was sitting on the edge of his bed like a sad little boy who was waiting for his mother to come to wish him good night. My heart melted with tenderness.
“Laura?”
“I’m here, Claudio.”
He held out his hand in my direction. I went to join him.
“Stay,” he implored quietly.
“Of course.”
I sat down next to him. He leaned toward me to breathe me in.
“You smell nice.”
“It’s an eau de toilette called Her,” I said with a smile. “I think it smells a little like Christmas.”
I put my head on his shoulder. His arm immediately clasped me.
“Oh, Laura, Laura…”
When his mouth searched for my face, when it moved on my cheeks, a little here, a little there, pizzicato, I stayed. His beard was silky and tickled me. My first bearded man.
There’s a first time for everything.
His lips slid toward mine, carefully, hesitantly, and I opened mine to receive his, kissing them as I had so often dreamed of, and I had the impression of sinking, as one slides slowly into an abyss of delights. And when his hands covered my breasts through the T-shirt fabric, I stayed.
“So slender,” he said. “A firm, high roundness.”
His hands moved under my T-shirt. I heard myself sigh. I closed my eyes, and while he caressed me, I made a note of everything: his caresses, his shortened breath, his hoarse voice. I wrote it in my memory, in tight sentences that only I could read, as in my journal of long ago when I was afraid that Agatha the beautiful would discover it, because I hid nothing. I had had to wait for this American night to write my most beautiful, most burning sentences: a chapter that I would not have enough time in my life to reread.
“Get up, my dear.”
I wrote my dear, I got up to place myself between his spread legs and saw that he, too, desired me.
He took off my T-shirt, lowered my jogging pants, under which I wore nothing, and he read my hips, my belly, my thighs with his hands, without, for a moment, going further.
“It’s really true, a very small model,” he noted, and we laughed together with a heavy laugh that portended storms.
A little later, he got up to undress and I loved the fleece of his chest, his flat belly, his strong legs, I loved everything. It was my turn to caress him, and very quickly, I went further.
On the big bed where we fell intertwined, there was no longer the little sister, nor the guide, nor the sparrow, only a woman who burned and called for him to finally make himself a prisoner, to capture him, to make him mine, to make him us.
“How you squeeze me,” he groaned as he moved inside me. “How you surround me. Oh, but you’re lovely to love.”
They were the body’s words, the ephemeral declarations of orgasm. Taking his hand and weaving my fingers through his before he could carry me off, I replied with words from the soul.
And too bad for those who don’t like those kinds of words.
Afterward, I made myself very small, very discreet in my corner of the bed so that he kept me close to him and let me keep him.
Until tomorrow.
22.
“Well, something has changed my girl!” exclaimed the tender, grumpy voice of my father. “Since when is she awake at six o’clock in the morning?”
“The girl didn’t want to go to sleep and she wanted to speak to someone. And who is one certain not to awaken at dawn but the baker?”
Six o’clock at the bakery; midnight at the Bel Air clinic.
My father laughed with pleasure. On the threshold of the bathroom where I took refuge for telephoning without waking Claudio, I could see his calmed face. He had been so nervous all day that the anesthesiologist had prescribed a sedative so he could sleep. My cot was made and next to his.
“What’s the weather like there?” Daddy asked.
“Rather bad. And over there?”
“Rather beautiful. It’s Normandy, what do you expect?”
We laughed. I asked, “What’s cooking? It smells delicious.”
“Something new: bread with different grains. For those who like crisp bread, it’s crisp.”
“I’ll have a little for my breakfast.”
“Why don’t you come? Two hours by car; it’s not an ocean to drink.”
Yes, Dad, it is an ocean to drink, or at least an ocean to cross. And hearing his voice so close, so far, was like beautiful music: it made me feel good and bad at the same time.
The day that just ended was difficult, with all of its highs and lows.
The highs: Dr. Miller’s visit, his confidence, his enthusiastic description of the cornea, beautiful and transparent, that Claudio was going to get.
“And who is giving me this marvel?”
“We don’t have the right to tell you, but, if the family wishes, you will be able to write to them to thank them. The letter will be relayed to them. And it’s you who will write it, my friend.”
Claudio’s smile trembled.
More highs: his fingers entwined with mine to remind me for an instant of the complete union to which neither of us has alluded: the white crows flew off if you made too much noise.
The low: the tests that Claudio had to take—eye tests, electrocardiogram, blood test. He didn’t want to ride around everywhere in a wheelchair.
He threatened several times to leave us there.
You’ll have to accompany him to the door of the operating theater, Dr. Leblond had warned me.
As the decisive moment approached, I would have said that he would have preferred renouncing hope to arm himself against a possible failure.
“And do people like that new, crusty bread, Dad?”
“There are a few who say it reminds them of the war, when there was no wheat and people put anything in the flour. But hot, with a good slab of Red Riding Hood’s fresh butter, I’m sure you’ll tell me it’s delicious.”
“And without the risk of being eaten by a wolf.”
His words kissed my cheeks and I died of pleasure.
“And do you have something nice to do today, my girl?” he asked.
I look at Claudio’s dark hair on the pillow: sleep, my love.
“The girl is looking after her singer. You remember what he said? Bread and music.”
“Bread before music…Hold on. It seems something is moving upstairs. Your mother is awake. Do you want to have a word with her?”
“No, thanks, Daddy, I wanted to speak with you.”
Claudio turned in his bed, his hand groping the sheet.
“I’m going to let you go now. Forgive me for disturbing you, but a father is important.”
“A daughter is important. And you still don’t know that you never disturb me?”
I returned to my singer and took his hand. He soon calmed down. Music and bread, the indispensable foods for life. For one instant, I’d had both at the same time.
At seven thirty, a nurse came to give Claudio a small blue pill meant to relax him before the operation.
We had been awake for a long time: one thirty in Paris. Again I didn’t stop looking at my watch. Claudio had taken a shower and shaved. Outside, a new white day of squirrels and skaters dawned.
The nurse returned an hour later, equipped with a blue shirt that closed at the back with laces, shoes of the same color, and a hairnet. Claudio put on everything. He complained of being thirsty, but he couldn’t drink until later. After. The nurse attached a ribbon with his name written on it to his right wrist, like they put on newborns so as not to confuse them.
I held back a laugh. With his new outfit, Claudio didn’t have a chance as a seducer: a fat, bearded baby worthy of the Marx Brothers.
The chariot came for my love, my lover of one night, at nine thirty, driven by a tall black man with a winning smile. He pulled a blanket up to his patient’s chin and we left to take down the moon.
We strode down the long corridor. From time to time, red lights forbade entry into the operating rooms: silence, we’re working. The light of the double-hung door near where we stopped was dim.
Here we are. Behind this door, the magician would try to restore light to Claudio’s face. My role ended here. And, mission accomplished, I felt like a runner fallen, exhausted, on the finish line. Even under torture, no one could ever make me travel such a Way of the Cross again.
At this moment, a little blue pill to relax me would have been very useful.
A nurse put some drops into Claudio’s right eye. The anesthesiologist, a very gentle Japanese man whom we had seen several times the day before, came over to us, ready for combat.
“Everything all right?”
There was no point in replying.
I looked away when he put the needle for the anesthetic into Claudio’s left wrist. I’d always hated shots.
“In a few minutes,” he warned.
Then he turned toward me.
“After the operation, Mr. Roman will go to the recovery room. You’ll find him in his room about two hours from now.”
In a Cartland novel, this operation would be a perfect success. And both eyes would be operated on. When the bandage was removed, the hero of the story would finally discover the person who had accompanied him during the long and painful voyage toward deliverance. It would be dazzling. They would speak words of love. Love that they would not have made yet. Wasn’t there the rest of life for that?
We weren’t in a Cartland novel, but in the Bel Air clinic.
The doors to the operating theater opened. Inside I saw Dr. Miller. He made a friendly gesture toward me. Claudio had turned his face toward me. He said my name. I leaned over and brushed his lips with mine.
“You will be Alfredo,” I promised.
The curtain fell.
PART II
Him
I search for you, now, full of sadness.
And I can’t find you.
Mozart, Lied
23.
The odor.
A hospital odor.
Miller…the operation.
With difficulty, and in a thick fog, Claudio extended his hand.
“Laura.”
Emptiness.
“Laura?”
This time he had shouted, but the sound hadn’t come out. The wall was too high to clear.
He raised his hand with pain and grazed the bandage over his eye. He didn’t feel bad; it was just an annoyance.
“Laura.”
Someone entered the room and a hand took his; a large, thick hand, not Laura’s hand.
“Everything’s fine, sir. You had an operation. You’re in your room,” said a female voice.
“Laura.”
“The young lady is not here. She’s going to come back. Don’t upset yourself like that. Everything went well.”
She’s going to come back…
The woman made a telephone call. He heard, “Quick! Quick!” He lifted his left eyelid: whiteness. The door opened again and quick steps came toward his bed.
“Mr. Roman. All is well. Very, very well. The operation succeeded perfectly.”
This time, it was the anesthesiologist’s voice. A Japanese voice. He had mimicked it and Laura had laughed. God, he was tired, groggy.
“What time is it?”
“Twelve-thirty.”
“Where is Laura?”
“I don’t know, sir, but Dr. Miller will tell you. Miss Vincent saw him after the operation.”
Miss Vincent saw him…Laura liked Dr. Miller a lot. She trusted him.
Another step. Dr. Miller’s hand, fine, nervous, on his.
“Claudio…” Miller called him Claudio now? “Everything went perfectly. We’ll remove your bandage early tomorrow.”
Tomorrow?
“I want Laura,” he shouted. “Immediately! Go get her for me.”
Robert Miller looked at his patient’s face, deformed with anxiety. If only he could have replied. But he had been very surprised when he couldn’t find the young woman who accompanied Claudio so closely.
She had insisted that she speak with him immediately after the operation. When he told her that the operation had been a complete success, she had melted in tears.
“You’re sure, Doctor? You’re sure? He’s going to see again?”
“As you and me,” he had assured, and he had advised her to go wait for Claudio in his room and sleep a little there, since she seemed exhausted.
Where had she gone? Certainly not far.
“We’ll find her, Claudio. Don’t do anything.”
“Now.”
He tried to sit up, but hands compelled him to return to his pillow.
“Relax, sir.”
Why did Miller shut him up? What was he hiding?
“Laura.”
He brought his hand to his eye.
“No, sir, please don’t touch the bandage. Relax.”
A little farther away, someone was speaking softly: Miller and the Japanese man. They didn’t seem to agree about something.
“A crisis of nerves,” Miller declared. “Let’s go.”
The hand returned to his.
“We’re going to do something that’s not very…how do you say it in France? Not very ‘catholique,’ that’s it. We’re going to remove your bandage for several seconds just to prove to you that you can see. Then you will be absolutely reassured.”
Claudio wanted to say no: not without her, not without Laura. But Miller had already loosened the bandage, removing the cotton with great care. Warm water ran down his cheek; he was paralyzed with panic. A complete, terrifying silence filled his room.
Miller’s fingers lifted his eyelid.
“Look, Claudio. Look. Don’t be afraid.”
In a pinkish fog, he made out a hand moving in front of him. He distinguished the white face of a man. A tornado of happiness swept through him, and he allowed himself to be carried away.
What time was it? They had replaced his bandage. They had helped him into pajamas, helped him sit up in bed, helped him drink some hot broth.
He had seen. He did see. He would see again. He didn’t stop conjugating the magic verb in all its tenses. Happiness had teeth: it bit his chest.
He was thirsty, his throat like cardboard. He asked for something to drink. Someone held a glass to his lips. A woman was lying on the cot next to his bed. Not Laura. He called out for Laura. He ordered the woman to call the Pierre.
“But it’s nighttime, sir. It’s two o’clock in the morning. You will call your wife tomorrow.”
She said your wife. Two o’clock in the morning? Before, no matter what time it was, all he had to do was extend his hand and there was Laura. I’m here, Claudio.
He felt better, more lucid. What was she up to? I won’t leave you. I’ll stay with you until the end. She had made this promise, she had even kissed his hand, so what the hell was happening? Did she believe in prom
ises or not? Tomorrow, the nurse had said. Tomorrow, he would have a big talk with her. Yes, she was going to hear him out. She was going to see. See! Tomorrow.
“The big moment, Mr. Roman,” said Dr. Miller.
“You no longer call me Claudio?”
It was “tomorrow,” seven thirty in the morning. He had been helped to sit up and wash in order to receive the great master and his court.
He was still afraid, but less so. During this long dawn, he had been making plans. He wanted them to be realized. He squeezed his lips.
Miller’s hand removed the ocular disk. His eyelid seemed to be soldered shut; he couldn’t raise it.
“Your eyelashes are sticking,” the doctor reassured him. “We’ll take care of that.”
He gently cleaned the prison door. Claudio heard breathing but not one word. The moment of the miracle, he thought.
“I’m going to look at my work with the help of a little flashlight,” Miller said. “Don’t be surprised if it dazzles you a little.”
The hand lifted his eyelid.
“This graft is a marvel. I wish you could see it.”
“Doctor,” said Claudio with a tremor in his voice, “you never told me you wore glasses.”
24.
He ate his breakfast and everything was a miracle. To go right to the handle of the cup, butter the bread and spread jam on it. The name of the jam was too small for him to read, but whether it was strawberry or raspberry or gooseberry, he didn’t care. He could see that it was red fruit and that was sufficient.
He also saw the blue of the sky behind the glass of his window. He saw the two paintings that ornamented the walls of his room. Oh, they were nothing to write home about, they were fuzzy, a little like looking through a badly washed window, but on one of the paintings he could see a seascape and, on the other, a bouquet of flowers.
They left his door open to keep an eye on him. To keep an eye on…The expression made him smile. Sometimes faces passed by. “Everything OK, Mr. Roman?”
Everything would be OK, magnificent, terrific, if Laura were here.
He didn’t understand. It would soon be twenty-four hours since she disappeared. Why? How?
Love Story Page 10