her, her back to the stairs, Sophie places her hands on her shoulders and pushes so hard that the old woman seems to soar, her feet do not even touch the first steps, it is as though she had just had a shotgun blast in the chest.
“Have you met a lot of women, René?” Sophie says, leaning towards him.
“You’re the first,” he says, as though this is some kind of achievement.
“Well, take your time deciding . . .”
*
Sophieput the birth certificate into a transparent plastic folder. She is afraid of mislaying it as she has mislaid so many important things, terrified of losing it. Every night, before she goes to work, she picks up the folder and says aloud:
“I open the wardrobe.”
She closes her eyes, visualises the gesture, her hand, the wardrobe and repeats: “I have opened the wardrobe.”
“I pull out the right-hand drawer; I have pulled out the right-hand drawer . . .”
She repeats each gesture several times, trying, by sheer force of will, to fuse the words to the actions. As soon as she comes home, before she even undresses, she rushes to the wardrobe to check that the folder is still there. Then she sticks it to the fridge door with a magnet until she has to go out again.
Perhaps she could kill him one day, this husband she is trying to find? No. When she is finally safe, she will go back and see someone like Doctor Brevet. She will keep two notebooks, three if she has to, she will start writing everything down, and this time, nothing will distract her. It is like a child’s resolution: if she pulls through, she will never again let madness engulf her.
18
Fivedates later, Sophie is no further forward. Theoretically, the agency is supposed to introduce her to potential partners who meet her criteria, but the woman at Odyssée, like an estate agent who shows you properties that have nothing to do with what you are looking for, is sending her everyone she has. First, there was a dull-witted soldier proud to have risen to the lowly rank of
sergent-chef
, next a depressive draughtsman who, she discovered after three hours of tedious conversation, had an ex-wife and two children and a poorly negotiated alimony settlement that ate up three-quarters of his unemployment benefit.
She had stumbled out of a tea room, crushed by boredom, having spent a couple of interminable hours listening to a former priest whose finger bore the mark of a wedding ring he had clearly taken off an hour earlier, probably in an attempt to spice up his bleak sex life. And then there was the tall, self-confident guy who proposed a marriage of convenience for 6,000 euros.
Time seems to be passing ever faster. However much Sophie tells herself that she is not looking for a husband (she is recruiting a candidate), the fact remains that they will have to marry, tosleep together, to live together. In a few weeks, in a few days, she will no longer have the luxury of choosing, she will have to make do with whatever she can find.
Time passes and with it her opportunity to be free, and this is something to which she cannot reconcile herself.
19
Sophieis on the bus. Go faster. She stares vacantly ahead. What can she do to make it go faster? She checks her watch: she just has time to get home, catch two or three hours’ sleep. She is shattered. She slips her hands into her pockets. It is curious how they tremble at times and not at others. She stares out of the window. Madagascar. She turns and, for a fleeting instant, looks at the poster that caught her eye. A travel agency. She cannot be certain. But she stands up, presses the button, ready to get off at the next stop. It feels as though she has travelled kilometres before the bus finally comes to a halt. She trudges back up the boulevard, moving like a wind-up toy, as always. As it turns out, it is not far. The image on the poster is of a young black woman with an innocent, beguiling smile. She is wearing a kind of turban, the sort of thing with a name you would find in a
“Have you met a lot of women, René?” Sophie says, leaning towards him.
“You’re the first,” he says, as though this is some kind of achievement.
“Well, take your time deciding . . .”
*
Sophieput the birth certificate into a transparent plastic folder. She is afraid of mislaying it as she has mislaid so many important things, terrified of losing it. Every night, before she goes to work, she picks up the folder and says aloud:
“I open the wardrobe.”
She closes her eyes, visualises the gesture, her hand, the wardrobe and repeats: “I have opened the wardrobe.”
“I pull out the right-hand drawer; I have pulled out the right-hand drawer . . .”
She repeats each gesture several times, trying, by sheer force of will, to fuse the words to the actions. As soon as she comes home, before she even undresses, she rushes to the wardrobe to check that the folder is still there. Then she sticks it to the fridge door with a magnet until she has to go out again.
Perhaps she could kill him one day, this husband she is trying to find? No. When she is finally safe, she will go back and see someone like Doctor Brevet. She will keep two notebooks, three if she has to, she will start writing everything down, and this time, nothing will distract her. It is like a child’s resolution: if she pulls through, she will never again let madness engulf her.
18
Fivedates later, Sophie is no further forward. Theoretically, the agency is supposed to introduce her to potential partners who meet her criteria, but the woman at Odyssée, like an estate agent who shows you properties that have nothing to do with what you are looking for, is sending her everyone she has. First, there was a dull-witted soldier proud to have risen to the lowly rank of
sergent-chef
, next a depressive draughtsman who, she discovered after three hours of tedious conversation, had an ex-wife and two children and a poorly negotiated alimony settlement that ate up three-quarters of his unemployment benefit.
She had stumbled out of a tea room, crushed by boredom, having spent a couple of interminable hours listening to a former priest whose finger bore the mark of a wedding ring he had clearly taken off an hour earlier, probably in an attempt to spice up his bleak sex life. And then there was the tall, self-confident guy who proposed a marriage of convenience for 6,000 euros.
Time seems to be passing ever faster. However much Sophie tells herself that she is not looking for a husband (she is recruiting a candidate), the fact remains that they will have to marry, tosleep together, to live together. In a few weeks, in a few days, she will no longer have the luxury of choosing, she will have to make do with whatever she can find.
Time passes and with it her opportunity to be free, and this is something to which she cannot reconcile herself.
19
Sophieis on the bus. Go faster. She stares vacantly ahead. What can she do to make it go faster? She checks her watch: she just has time to get home, catch two or three hours’ sleep. She is shattered. She slips her hands into her pockets. It is curious how they tremble at times and not at others. She stares out of the window. Madagascar. She turns and, for a fleeting instant, looks at the poster that caught her eye. A travel agency. She cannot be certain. But she stands up, presses the button, ready to get off at the next stop. It feels as though she has travelled kilometres before the bus finally comes to a halt. She trudges back up the boulevard, moving like a wind-up toy, as always. As it turns out, it is not far. The image on the poster is of a young black woman with an innocent, beguiling smile. She is wearing a kind of turban, the sort of thing with a name you would find in a
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