the bearing of the two of them, which isn’t, obviously, the most reassuring of images.
Markus left Natalie and walked out of the café. The moment had turned perfect, and he had to escape. She didn’t understand his attitude. She’d been having a nice evening, and now, she held this against him. Without realizing it, Markus had acted brilliantly. He’d reawakened Natalie. He’d pushed her into asking herself some questions. He’d said that he wanted to kiss her. Then was that all it was? Did she want to? No, she didn’t think so. She didn’t find him particularly … but that wasn’t really important … then, why not … she thought he had something … and he was fun, too … then why had he left? What an idiot. Now everything was spoiled. She was deeply annoyed … what an idiot he was, yes, what an idiot, she kept repeating while the customers in the café studied her. Such a beautiful woman dumped by a second-rate guy like that. She didn’t even notice their glances. She stood there frustrated and annoyed about not having mastered the situation, not having known how to hold him back, how to understand him. There was no reason toblame herself; she wouldn’t have been able to do anything. In his eyes, she was much too desirable to be near.
When she got home, she dialed his number, but hung up before it rang. She wanted him to call her. After all, she was the one who’d taken the initiative for this second date. He could have at least thanked her. Sent a message. There she was, waiting in front of the telephone, and it was the first time in so long that she’d experienced such a thing: waiting. She couldn’t sleep and poured herself a little wine. Put on some music. Alain Souchon. A song she used to love listening to with François. She couldn’t get over being able to listen to it like this without breaking down. She kept walking in circles around the living room, even danced a little, let the feeling of being high enter her with the energy of something promised.
Sixty-four
First Verse of “L’amour en fuite” (“Love on the Run”),
the Alain Souchon Song Natalie Listened to
After Her Second Evening with Markus
Loving pictures shot with cameras on my skin,
we lived it.
Tear them up and all those times we cried,
forgive it.
We’ve got all the glue and sticky tape
To put those broken hearts back into shape.
What images we formed back in those days,
cute couple.
I moved in with you and found your world,
your bubble.
Then came the broken glass that stung our smiles.
Bloody shards of glass on our new tiles.
Me, you, we just couldn’t cope.
Boohoo, those tears without hope.
Leavin’ each other, and both of us mum.
It’s love on the run,
Love on the run.
Sixty-five
Markus had walked along the precipice, with the feeling of the wind under his feet. As he went home that evening, he kept being haunted by painful images. Maybe it was all connected to Strindberg? Everyone should avoid coming into contact with the fears of his countrymen. The beauty of the moment, the beauty of Natalie, all of it he’d seen as a final destination: one of devastation. There was beauty before him, looking him straight in the eye, like a foretaste of tragedy. Wasn’t that the epigraph in Visconti’s film of Death in Venice , that crucial sentence: “He who contemplates beauty is destined to death?” Well, yes, Markus could seem bombastic. And even stupid for having run away. But you need to have lived years in nothingness to understand how a person can suddenly become frightened by a possibility.
He hadn’t called her. She who had loved his Eastern European side would now get the surprise of discovering once again his adherence to Swedishness. Not the least atom of Polish in him. Markus had decided to shut down and stop playing with the fires of femininity . Yes, such were the words cartwheeling through his mind. The first consequence was the following: he decidednever to look her in the eye again.
The next morning,
Markus left Natalie and walked out of the café. The moment had turned perfect, and he had to escape. She didn’t understand his attitude. She’d been having a nice evening, and now, she held this against him. Without realizing it, Markus had acted brilliantly. He’d reawakened Natalie. He’d pushed her into asking herself some questions. He’d said that he wanted to kiss her. Then was that all it was? Did she want to? No, she didn’t think so. She didn’t find him particularly … but that wasn’t really important … then, why not … she thought he had something … and he was fun, too … then why had he left? What an idiot. Now everything was spoiled. She was deeply annoyed … what an idiot he was, yes, what an idiot, she kept repeating while the customers in the café studied her. Such a beautiful woman dumped by a second-rate guy like that. She didn’t even notice their glances. She stood there frustrated and annoyed about not having mastered the situation, not having known how to hold him back, how to understand him. There was no reason toblame herself; she wouldn’t have been able to do anything. In his eyes, she was much too desirable to be near.
When she got home, she dialed his number, but hung up before it rang. She wanted him to call her. After all, she was the one who’d taken the initiative for this second date. He could have at least thanked her. Sent a message. There she was, waiting in front of the telephone, and it was the first time in so long that she’d experienced such a thing: waiting. She couldn’t sleep and poured herself a little wine. Put on some music. Alain Souchon. A song she used to love listening to with François. She couldn’t get over being able to listen to it like this without breaking down. She kept walking in circles around the living room, even danced a little, let the feeling of being high enter her with the energy of something promised.
Sixty-four
First Verse of “L’amour en fuite” (“Love on the Run”),
the Alain Souchon Song Natalie Listened to
After Her Second Evening with Markus
Loving pictures shot with cameras on my skin,
we lived it.
Tear them up and all those times we cried,
forgive it.
We’ve got all the glue and sticky tape
To put those broken hearts back into shape.
What images we formed back in those days,
cute couple.
I moved in with you and found your world,
your bubble.
Then came the broken glass that stung our smiles.
Bloody shards of glass on our new tiles.
Me, you, we just couldn’t cope.
Boohoo, those tears without hope.
Leavin’ each other, and both of us mum.
It’s love on the run,
Love on the run.
Sixty-five
Markus had walked along the precipice, with the feeling of the wind under his feet. As he went home that evening, he kept being haunted by painful images. Maybe it was all connected to Strindberg? Everyone should avoid coming into contact with the fears of his countrymen. The beauty of the moment, the beauty of Natalie, all of it he’d seen as a final destination: one of devastation. There was beauty before him, looking him straight in the eye, like a foretaste of tragedy. Wasn’t that the epigraph in Visconti’s film of Death in Venice , that crucial sentence: “He who contemplates beauty is destined to death?” Well, yes, Markus could seem bombastic. And even stupid for having run away. But you need to have lived years in nothingness to understand how a person can suddenly become frightened by a possibility.
He hadn’t called her. She who had loved his Eastern European side would now get the surprise of discovering once again his adherence to Swedishness. Not the least atom of Polish in him. Markus had decided to shut down and stop playing with the fires of femininity . Yes, such were the words cartwheeling through his mind. The first consequence was the following: he decidednever to look her in the eye again.
The next morning,
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